Child Thief (37 page)

Behind me both soldiers still had their rifles over their shoulders. They had made no attempt to make their weapons ready; they saw no threat from whatever had stopped the column of prisoners. I took another step out from the line, moving back just
a touch, thinking I would overpower the one closest to me. If I could get to him before he could react, there was a chance I'd be able to take his weapon from him. In the forest, armed, the three remaining soldiers would be no threat to me. Horses or not.

I moved out further until I could see the two mounted soldiers at the head of the line. They were inching forward, the flanks of their horses almost touching, their bodies alert, leaning forward in the saddle. Yakov had kept his rifle over his shoulder, but he had drawn and cocked his revolver.

A few metres in front of the column a muddled shape lay in the centre of the road. From where I was standing, I was sure the shape was a body. Dark and out of place, a light dusting of snow across it as if it had been there for some time.

Yakov spoke to Andrei. There was a pause and then Andrei nodded and dismounted. He took the rifle from his shoulder, but there was inexperience in the way he held it, muzzle to the ground, as he approached the body. The line of prisoners was silent. Watching. Even from the back, I could hear the squeak of the soldier's boots in the snow.

When he was close to the shape, Andrei stopped. ‘Who is it?' he asked. His voice was alien in this place. Muffled, as if the land wanted to quieten it, smother it. As if this place of calm and peace was not meant for humans.

‘Are you all right?' he asked, but still there was no reply. No movement.

I felt a surge of concern for Andrei but I knew this was my chance. There might not be another opportunity to escape. And yet I was transfixed by what was happening. I couldn't tear my eyes away as Andrei stepped closer and put out his foot, touching the toe of his boot to the bundle and nudging it. I couldn't help but watch as I saw a slight resistance in the shape, as if it were not completely frozen.

I saw Andrei turn to Yakov, lifting his arms in question, in anticipation of his next order, but as he did, the shape moved. Like a forest wraith, rising from a pile of clothes, materialising
and making itself whole, the shape shifted and grew. It moved with speed, the dusting of snow showering and falling from it as it stood tall and wrapped itself around the young soldier.

But this was no wraith, this dark shape that now rose from the road. This was a man, wrapped well against the cold. He wore a full coat and a fur hat, his face covered with scarves that were bound tight. Only his hands were not gloved. He rose up and grabbed the soldier, pinning his rifle arm to his side as he embraced him from behind, making the cumbersome weapon useless and using Andrei's body as a shield. The attacker's other hand rose up to point at Yakov, still astride his horse, and extending from that fist I could see the slim barrel of a pistol.

But it was Yakov who discharged his weapon first. Whether he did so because he was inexperienced and taken by surprise, or whether his actions were calculated, I don't know, but Yakov's revolver kicked hard in his hand, the first shot hitting the human shield. Before he could thumb back the hammer to fire again, his horse reared, lifting its front hooves from the ground, twisting to the left. Yakov pulled tight on the reins, but he was forced to lean hard to counter the movement of his ride. His aim was disturbed and his second shot went wide, thumping into the trees beyond. The man who had materialised from the dark shape on the road released his grip on Andrei and, as the body collapsed at his feet, he took aim and fired three quick shots, knocking Yakov from his horse.

And then the attacker was moving. Hurrying through the snow, the hem of his coat thumping against his boots, until he was standing over Yakov, his pistol pointing down at him. He fired again.

The attack had come with such speed and ferocity that I barely had time to react, and I suspected the same was true of the two guards behind me. When I turned to look at them, neither had even had time to unsling his rifle. Both soldiers were standing with their hands out in front of them, each with a gun barrel to his back. And behind them were tracks on either side of the road
where two more men had come from the forest. But when they gripped their scarves and pulled them down to reveal their faces, I could see they weren't two men at all. One of them was my son Petro, and the other was Aleksandra, the girl from Uroz.

29

I didn't go to my sons straight away. Instead, I went to Andrei, the soldier who had waited for me to take the old man's coat. When I'd looked at him earlier, I had seen something of my own sons in him. He was young like them, inexperienced like them. Out of his depth like them. And now he was lying in the snow, shot by his own comrade.

He was still alive, but the life was leaving him quickly, spilling inside him somewhere; there was little sign of it in the snow. His chest barely moved, nothing more than a slight rise and fall. Erratic and laboured. His eyes were glazed and unseeing. His mouth open, his lips dry, his tongue just visible.

I pulled my hand from Dariya's and crouched beside him, putting it to his face. ‘I'm sorry,' I told him.

A blink was the only acknowledgement he could make. His chest continued to hitch with each failing breath.

It's Andrei?'

Again just a blink.

I removed the boy's glove so that my skin could touch his, and I watched him. I looked into his eyes as his life left him, so that he was not alone and he was not any more afraid than he had to be. And when he was gone I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see Dariya beside me, looking down at the dead man.

I stood, taking her hand again, and turned to my sons and the
zeks
gathered there.

The huddle of prisoners remained silent. They didn't know what to say. They didn't know what sound to make. The women
didn't gasp, the men didn't cheer, the children didn't cry. They just stood and watched. No one knew if this was a good thing or a bad thing. For now they had been spared the Stolypin cars, the endless journey in crowded wagons without food or water. They had escaped, for now, the prospect of a short life of forced labour in a distant forest or mine. But they couldn't see a future in which they all walked away from this. From the shooting of a Red Army soldier. They couldn't see a future at all.

But I saw one. In the eyes of my son I saw myself returning home. I saw myself with my family once again, and I pushed movement into my legs, forcing one step after another, going to where my son stood.

‘You came,' I said.

Petro nodded. He managed something close to a smile and looked down at Dariya. ‘You found her.'

‘Yes.'

And then Petro seemed to shake himself, remind himself what he was doing here, what his plan was. He prodded the soldier and told him to move to the front of the column. The prisoners were beginning to mutter a few words now. There was an increase in the volume of their voices. Above all of them I heard a man say, ‘Bless you.'

I went with Petro and Aleksandra, going to where Yakov's body lay. And there, at the head of the column, Viktor stood holding the reins of the two horses in one hand. In his other hand he held the pistol which I had taken from the sled of the man who had come to Vyriv just a few days ago.

‘Papa.'

‘Viktor.'

He passed the reins to Aleksandra, and we stripped the soldiers of their rifles, laying them across Yakov's body to keep them out of the snow. When that was done, Viktor pushed the first of the soldiers away from him, then the other. ‘Go on,' he ordered them. ‘Into the trees.'

I felt Petro tense. ‘No, wait.'

Viktor turned to his brother. ‘It's the only way.'

I glanced at the small group of
zeks
. Evgeni and Dimitri had stepped away from them, coming closer to where we stood. I could see in their faces what I knew I would see in my own if I were to look in a mirror.

‘Viktor is right,' I said to Petro. ‘It's the only way.'

‘We can tie them,' he said. ‘Leave them here for—'

‘They'd die from the cold,' I told him.

‘Then let them walk back to the village.'

‘For them to send help?'

‘They'll send people to search for them anyway. As soon as they don't reach wherever they're supposed to be.'

‘Not until tomorrow.' I went to my son and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you already know this, Petro. You knew it would have to be this way.'

Petro looked at the ground and I put both arms around him.

‘Please, Papa,' Petro said, his voice muffled against my cheek. ‘We're not barbarians.'

I released him and put my hands on either side of his face, looking into his eyes, seeing something that reminded me who I was. I wasn't just the man who had been arrested for no reason and thrown into a dark room. I wasn't just the man beaten by a policeman who had lost his soul somewhere in the darkness of our times. I was the soldier who had deserted his army because he refused to force young men to dig their own graves, and because he turned his back on shooting uniformed boys who ran scared in the face of a fierce and experienced enemy. I was a husband and a father, and I was the man who had made a promise to find a stolen child. I had killed in the name of freedom and defence and protection and what I believed to be right, but I was not a murderer. I had never been a murderer.

I took a deep breath and nodded. ‘You're right. This isn't even a war.' I turned to Viktor. ‘Not any more.'

‘So what do we do?' asked Viktor. ‘We let them run for help?'

I stepped back from Petro and looked around. The
zeks
were watching. Expecting.

‘I think he's right,' Evgeni said. ‘You should shoot them. It's too much of a risk. What if they come after us?'

‘They're just boys,' I said. ‘You think they'll come after us without rifles?'

‘They'll get help.' Evgeni came close and lowered his voice. ‘These people are angry. After everything that's been done to them, they want to see some justice.'

‘I'm not sure shooting these boys would be any kind of justice.'

‘They killed my brother.' He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘And you think killing these boys will avenge that? It will make you feel better?'

‘Yes.'

‘You really think so?' I bent at the knees and put a hand in the snow to retrieve the pistol Yakov had dropped. The steel was icy cold, but I gripped it hard and took it to Evgeni, putting it into his hand and curling his fingers around the handle. ‘Then you should kill them. It'll make the revenge even better.'

Evgeni looked at the weapon in his hand.

‘Shoot,' I said. ‘Why not shoot?' I held Evgeni's hand in my own and lifted it to point at the two soldiers, making Viktor step aside, moving away from us.

‘Into the trees,' Evgeni said.

The soldiers both raised their hands in useless defence, shaking their heads. ‘No.'

‘Why not right here?' I said. ‘Where everyone can see.'

I thumbed back the hammer for Evgeni, pulled it back until it clicked and forced the cylinder forwards to create the gas seal. ‘Shoot them.'

I felt Evgeni take the weight of the pistol. I sensed the contraction in the muscles of Evgeni's arm as he steadied the gun himself.

‘But before you do,' I said, ‘let me ask them something.'

I went to stand beside the guards, feeling the panic coming off them. Their faces set tight, their eyes wide, the almost imperceptible shaking of their heads. Their throats contracted, tightening in anticipation.

‘What's your name?' I asked the first of them.

‘Sasha.' His words were laboured, his tongue lazy with fear.

‘How old are you, Sasha?'

‘Nineteen.'

‘Where are you from?'

‘Kharkiv.'

‘And why did you join the army?'

He looked at me as if I'd said something that didn't make sense.

‘Why did you join?' I asked again.

‘I had to.'

‘No choice?'

‘No choice.'

‘And you?' I asked the second of them. ‘Your name?'

‘Anatoly.'

‘And your age?'

‘Twenty-one.'

‘You had to join too?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you have a family?'

‘A wife. Irina.'

‘Children?'

He shook his head.

‘Good. That should make it easier for Evgeni.'

‘Please. We had only a short time together before I had to join the army,' Anatoly said. ‘I don't even have a photograph. I can hardly remember what she looks like.'

I stayed with them a moment, looking at them, studying their faces, then I walked back to Evgeni and stood beside him. ‘OK, now you can shoot them. Shoot Sasha and Anatoly.'

Evgeni remained as he was, arm outstretched, weapon cocked.

‘What's the matter?' I asked him.

Evgeni released his breath and looked to one side as he lowered the pistol until it was hanging by his side.

‘That's right,' I said. ‘You can't.' I took the pistol from him and eased down the hammer. ‘Because you know it's wrong. When it's
right, you know it's right. But when it's wrong, Evgeni, the trigger is a heavy thing to pull. These men don't need to die. My son Petro is right. We're not barbarians.'

‘Then what
do
we do with them?' Viktor asked.

‘We let them go,' I said, looking down at Yakov lying close to my feet. He was on his back, one arm outstretched, the other twisted under his body as if it had broken when he fell. There was blood across one side of his face where one of Viktor's bullets had caught him in the neck. He had leaked into the snow, and already the blood had started to thicken and freeze. His eyes were wide open, staring at the few wisps of cloud.