Kate Furnivall - Under a Blood Red Sky

So where had it come from, this greed squirming inside him? Chairman Fomenko had been released and Pyotr knew for certain it was because of the power of the pearls. That meant corruption. So he should speak out, loud and clear. It was his duty. Speak out about the existence of these corrupting jewels, that’s what Yuri would say.

But how could he without denouncing Papa and Sofia? And without putting Chairman Fomenko’s freedom at risk? What was right and what was wrong?

He pulled on his shorts roughly. Life was too confusing. He shook his head and, in a flash, his thoughts shifted to the arrival of the Krokodil aeroplane today. Instantly his mood changed and excitement surged through him, whooshing up from his toes and setting his scalp tingling. Quickly he yanked on his shirt. He’d worry about the jewels tomorrow.

The wide green meadow stretched out, lazy in the sunshine on the far side of Dagorsk. From every direction carts and wagons and rattling bicycles were descending on it, tents springing up all over its surface like mushrooms. Men in red armbands were running around blowing whistles, shouting orders and waving batons, but nothing could subdue the spirit and energy of the crowd that surged into the field.

Pyotr loved every single second of it. Even the journey in the ramshackle old wagon had been fun. It was packed with villagers from Tivil and he’d sat squashed close to Yuri at the back, legs dangling over the tailboard. Dust swirled up from the track into their mouths, coating their tongues, but everyone sang to the playing of an accordion, loud and boisterous. It was like going to a party. Somewhere up ahead in the first wagon were Papa and Sofia and Zenia, but the children of the village were bundled into the second one with their teacher. Even Comrade Lishnikova was laughing and wearing a bright red flowered shawl instead of her usual grey one. Today was going to be special. At the meadow they tumbled from the wagon in a flurry of pushing and shoving and high-pitched squeals.

‘The aircraft isn’t due for another half hour,’ Elizaveta Lishnikova announced.

‘Can we look inside the film tent?’ Pyotr asked.

‘Yes, you may go and explore first, but when I blow my whistle I expect you all to line up just the way we practised.’

‘A guard of honour,’ Yuri whooped.

She smiled and her long face creased in amusement. ‘That’s right.’ She seized the hand of a tiny child who was about to wander off. ‘And I’m relying on you Young Pioneers to do it right and show the little ones the way. In front of all the other brigades from the raion, I want you to make me proud of you.’

‘We will! For our Great Leader!’ Pyotr shouted, and everyone gave the Pioneer salute, eyes shining. ‘Bud gotov, vsegda gotov!’ Be ready, always ready!

The schoolteacher looked fondly down at her thin-faced flock but didn’t join in the salute. ‘Here,’ she said, and from her bag drew a leather purse. ‘Line up.’

The twenty-two children shuffled quickly into an obedient single file and into each eager hand she placed a rouble. Never before had she done such a thing.

‘ Spasibo .’

‘Go and buy yourselves some biscuits.’

They were off and running like mice in a cornfield, skipping and skittering between the groups of women in flower-printed dresses and the kolkhoznik men from other villages in their flat caps, as well as the older, more disdainful youths from Dagorsk’s factories.

‘This way!’ Pyotr yelled.

He dragged Yuri over to a stall that sold konfetki and they spent a delicious ten minutes deciding which sweets to buy. Yuri chose a sugar chicken on a stick but Pyotr bought one of the petushki , a boiled pine cone, and started to pop the seeds in his mouth. Scattered among the crowds were other Young Pioneers from other brigades, also in white shirts and scarlet triangular scarves, and they eyed each other with interested rivalry. Later there would be races.

‘You’ll beat them,’ Yuri said confidently. ‘Easy.’

‘ Da , of course I will, ’ Pyotr agreed and put a swagger in his step, though in his heart he was far from certain.

Together they headed for the largest of the tents. ‘Come on!’ Yuri yelled and broke into a run.

‘I’m going to be a fighter pilot,’ Pyotr announced as he and Yuri emerged from the film show. They had just sat wide-eyed through the footage of the May Day Parade in Red Square for the third time and their pulses were still beating to the powerful rhythm of the martial music. Pyotr began to swing his arms in imitation of the soldiers on screen, his legs striding out in a stiffkneed goose step.

Yuri giggled and copied his military bearing, puffing out his chest and grinning. ‘I want to become a tank driver when I leave school. Did you see those machines? Aren’t they massive? They’ll stomp all over Germany in no time if they give us any more trouble.’

The boys marched round the field in unison, swerving to avoid a bald man with a tattoo on his arm rolling a wooden cask over to one of the tents. Yuri was clutching a pamphlet in his hand and on the front of it was printed in big red letters: Beware of Enemies of the People Among You.

‘I wonder,’ Yuri said, flapping the pamphlet as he marched, ‘who are the enemies in Tivil.’

Pyotr missed his step. His cheeks flushed. ‘Maybe there aren’t any,’ he said quickly.

‘Of course there are. Have you forgotten that our Great Comrade Stalin tells us they are everywhere, hiding among us. Most of them employed by Foreign Powers to-’

‘Why on earth would a Foreign Power be interested in what goes on in our village?’

‘Because we provide the food to feed the factory workers, stupid,’ Yuri scoffed.

Pyotr was stung. ‘I bet I know more about enemies in Tivil than you do.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Yes, I do.’

They stopped in the middle of the field and glared at each other. Not far away the band struck up a marching tune but neither boy wished to set off again.

‘Name one,’ Yuri challenged.

‘I could if I wanted.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Tell me.’

Pyotr shook his head firmly. ‘No.’

‘I knew it. You don’t know.’ He gave Pyotr’s shoulder a scornful shove.

It was the shove that did it, as if Pyotr were a stupid child to be pushed around. His cheeks darkened and he gave Yuri’s chest a thump with his fist. Not hard, but hard enough to show he was serious.

‘I’ll tell you only if you promise to keep it secret.’

Yuri’s eyes gleamed. ‘Go on, tell me,’ he urged. But he didn’t promise.

Pyotr was desperate to find Sofia. He had to talk to her, to warn her. His heart was squeezed tight inside his chest as he scoured the field, trying to catch a glimpse of white-blonde hair and a cornflower dress. He zigzagged behind the tents and with every step he swallowed hard, attempting to swallow the shame.

How could he have done it? Betrayed her, just because he was annoyed with Yuri? He scuffed his shoe furiously in the dusty soil and wanted to burrow down into a hole under the ground and stay there. His skin was sticky with sweat because he knew he had to face her. And quickly.

He raced past a group of men tossing iron horseshoes on to pegs, and was relieved to spot Yuri among them. Maybe he wouldn’t actually tell… Then Pyotr saw her down the side of one of the large tents, easy to recognise in that dress because it was the prettiest on the field. She’d know what was best to do. He started to run towards her but skidded to a halt when he saw she was talking to someone. With a funny twist in his stomach he recognised her companion. It was Deputy Stirkhov, the one who had given the address at the meeting, Deputy Chairman of the whole raion . Deputy Stirkhov was a man of the Party, a man who knew right from wrong.