Lene Kaaberbol - Death of a Nightingale

But that was over now too.

STOMP, STOMP.

Olga knew that she would be able to see their house now if she raised her head. Once home, she and Oxana would be responsible for building a fire in the oven, collecting water at the well if it wasn’t frozen over, or melting snow on the stove if it was. Mother wouldn’t be home until the pigs were fed for the last time that day.

She placed one felt boot in front of the other and tried to calculate how many steps were left. Probably about a hundred steps to the Petrenkos’ house and from there another twenty to their garden fence. She fought the desire to look up. And then it came anyway, the sound she had feared since Comrade Semienova had closed the school door behind them.

Running feet in the snow.

Coming from behind, from the shortcut by the shoemaker’s house.

The next second Olga felt the first hard blow against her shoulder. Little Sergej had caught up to them and now ran right behind them, buzzing like a wasp around rotten plums. Olga tried to slap him, which made Sergej laugh hilariously.

“Oxana,” he said, “you’re so good in school, you must also know that Noah had three sons. What was it they were called, Oxana?”

Now Pjotr and Vitja had arrived and were blocking their path. Olga also saw Jana’s big brother Vanja and felt a new prick of terror. Vanja was seventeen and as broad-shouldered as a grown man.

“Come on, Oxana. What were they called? Sing for us.”

Sergej yanked Oxana’s kerchief down around her shoulders so she stood with her head bared. A lock of blonde hair had been torn from the tight braid at her neck and flapped across her face. Her eyes flashed angrily at Sergej and the other boys. Her mouth was a narrow black line in her pale face.

“Leave us alone,” she said and tried to push her way past Pjotr. “Or I’ll report you to the GPU. You have no right to bother me and Olga.”

Vitja hit Oxana so hard across the mouth that her lip split and blood dripped down into the snow. Olga halted as if paralyzed.

“What were Noah’s sons called, Oxana? Answer!”

Oxana pressed her felt glove to her lip and glared furiously at Vitja. “Every idiot knows that Noah’s sons were called Sem, Kam and Jafet,” she said finally.

Sergej’s little pockmarked face contorted in a sneaky grimace that revolted Olga. If only he had died of pox or hunger typhus or something even worse. It seemed to her that cruelty almost radiated out from his small, skinny body.

“Then I must be an idiot,” yelled Sergej triumphantly. “I thought Noah’s sons were called Sem, Kam and Judas. ” He hit himself across the forehead. “But you know that better than I do, Oxana. Thank you.”

Sergej’s words seemed to hit harder than Vitja’s fist, because now Oxana blushed, and for the first time, she lowered her eyes. The loose strands of wheaten hair blew in the wind. Vitja gave her a vicious shove, so that Oxana lost her balance and had to fight to remain standing.

“Leave us alone,” screamed Olga. She was afraid now. This wasn’t like the other times, when ice chunks and rocks had hit them from secret hiding places. This time they were standing in the middle of the street. Two workers from the kolkhoz walked by, and Olga knew who they were and wanted to turn to them for help, but it was as if they looked right through her. They were talking and smoking and continued on without stopping. Now she noticed cousin Fyodor and Uncle Grachev a bit farther up the road, standing with parted legs and folded arms.

“Shut up,” screamed Petjr. “Just shut your mouth.”

He brought his fist down on Olga, but she managed to turn away from him so he hit her shoulder instead of her face. Then he grabbed hold of both kerchief and hair and yanked her head back hard. She fell. Pjotr dragged her across the trampled, hard-packed snow of the road and didn’t let her go until she lay in the frozen sewage gutter with her face pressed against the ice. She could hear the sound of blows against Oxana’s body, some hushed by overcoat and mittens, others clearer as they hit her face and other exposed bits of skin, but Olga didn’t dare look up. She just stayed where she was like a coward hunched in the snow until she heard Vitja swear faintly; he was out of breath.

“Damn. We better get out of here,” he said.

Olga lifted her head in time to see little Sergej kick Oxana in the stomach one last time before he set off running down Shoemaker Alley with the others. Farther down the road she could see the reason for their sudden departure: two riders down by the sawmill wearing the easily recognizable uniforms of the GPU, rifles over their shoulders.

Olga got up. The snow had crept in under her jacket and kerchief and now ran in small, cold rivulets down her neck and chest. Oxana lay a little distance off. In her overcoat and thick felt boots, she looked like a lifeless pile of clothes in the middle of the road, but she finally moved, stuck a leg out to one side, steadied herself with her hands and raised herself into a sitting position. They hadn’t killed her.

Oxana brushed the snow off her pummeled face. One of her eyebrows was bleeding, as was her nose, and her cheeks were as red as poppies from the cold and the many blows.

“What are you staring at?” she said. “Help me up.”

The area around the children’s barrack was still closed off, and plywood covered the place where the glass wall had been. That was just last night, thought Nina. Less than twelve hours ago.

She walked over to the policeman who stood at the barrier. “Excuse me,” she said, “I just wanted to know … How is your colleague doing?”

He looked at her with a measured gaze. He was older than the plainclothes men from the Mondeo brigade, which she at first perceived as odd, perhaps from a vague impression that seniority was supposed to get you out of uniform at some point.

“I can’t say,” he said formally.

She’d have to ask Søren, then. Or even the cud-chewer with the iPad that wasn’t an iPad.

She walked across the old parade ground to the clinic. Oddly, the door was locked. Officially, the clinic was closed on Sundays, it was true, but it was rarely possible to adhere to the scheduled hours. When 400 traumatized people were crowded together in sixteen barracks, there was almost always someone with a medical need. But apparently not right now.

She went in and unlocked the medicine cabinet, found the little blue plastic box labeled Rina Dmytrenko and put the Bricanyl and Spirocort in her pocket.

On the shelf below stood another little blue box with another name on the label. Nina knew it contained a ten-pill foil pack of Valium. And she knew the pack would not be used because the Somali woman for whom it was intended was no longer in the camp.

She closed her eyes for a moment. One small pale blue pill. Ten milligrams. That was all she needed to make her anxiety go away. And no one would notice that there was one pill missing from the packet next time the cabinet was put in order.

But she had to go back to Søren’s house. She had to be able to drive. To function. After a traumatic night, and less than three hours of sleep … no. No pill.

She was a bit calmer now. She had only checked her watch three times in twenty minutes, which was close to normal. It had helped to move, as if driving eased certain ancient fight-or-flight instincts.

She locked up the clinic again. When she passed the guard in the gatehouse, little more than a shed, she waved casually. He nodded briefly and raised the barrier. He knew her and wasn’t surprised to see her on a Sunday.

It had started to snow again. All that snow, all that ice. It would probably be late March before they saw the end of it. She drove slowly to give the Micra a chance to handle the curves. The wipers squeaked across the windshield, struggling to push the heavy flakes aside. She should probably have cleared the car of snow again before she started, but it hadn’t had time to cool down completely while she collected the medicine, and the problem would be solved within a few minutes.