Under a Blood Red Sky (52 page)

Fomenko straightened his shoulders and gave a harsh cough, as though trying to spit something out. ‘Yes, of course, it’s all arranged.’ With a brisk nod of his head he moved back into the house and shut the door.

Sofia stood there while the boys raced away down the road, skipping over the ruts and yelling their excitement. The sky had darkened and a solitary bat swooped low overhead. She watched a yellow glow spring to life in Fomenko’s
izba
as he lit the oil lamp inside, but outside, Sofia felt no glow. Just the pain behind her right eye.

The night was unbearable without her. Mikhail spent the dark hours with his own demons and wrestled with the knowledge Sofia had given him.

Aleksei Fomenko. The name was branded into his brain. Fomenko was Vasily Dyuzheyev, the killer of his father. Yet at the same time Fomenko was the son of Svetlana Dyuzheyeva, the woman Mikhail himself had killed in cold blood.

They were bound together, Fomenko and himself, bound in some macabre dance of death. Both servants of the State and both sent to the same peasant
raion
to drag it into the twentieth century. So similar, yet so different. Mikhail hated him as much as he hated himself. And he hated the hold that Fomenko – as Vasily – seemed to have on Sofia. The image of her beautiful lithe body and proud mind, with its unshakeable loyalty to those she loved, swamped his thoughts as he paced through the hours of the night.

‘Sofia,’ he said, as the moon slipped out from behind the clouds, its light trickling into his bedroom, ‘don’t think I will let you go so easily.’

His decisions started to harden. He owed Fomenko, an eye for an eye. He owed Anna, a life for a life. But most of all, he owed himself.

Just before dawn she came to him. Slid into his bed, her feet chill on his and her heart beating as fast as a bird’s.

She smelled so strongly of forest secrets that he almost asked her where she’d been and what she’d been doing, but he remembered Rafik and said nothing. Instead he enfolded her in his arms. They lay like that, bodies moulded to each other, silent and still until the first fingers of daylight touched her hair and painted a blush on her cheek. She kissed his throat, a soft possessive brush of her lips.

‘You’re not Anna’s,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m not Anna’s.’

‘Wake up, you lazy toad. Rise and shine.’

Pyotr burrowed deeper into his pillow and ignored his father’s urging, but the bedcover was whisked away and a hand lifted him bodily from the bed.

‘Papa!’ he moaned. ‘It’s vikhodnoy, a holiday.’

‘We have a busy day ahead of us. Get dressed,’ his father said and strode from the room. ‘Don’t forget your friend Yuri will be here soon.’

Of course. Pyotr started to hurry, but suddenly he remembered the jewels they’d found yesterday and his heart gave a kind of hiccup inside his chest. He wanted desperately to tell Yuri about them but knew he couldn’t. It was a secret, not even to be shared with his best friend. When he’d stared into the casket at the fiery jewels, he’d felt their power in a way he never expected, so strong it made him nervous. He’d cradled an emerald ring in his hand, unwilling to let it go, and it shocked him, that feeling.

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.

Sofia was handing him something small wrapped in material and Pyotr’s heart skipped a beat. He knew without even looking what was inside it. It would be the diamond ring or maybe the pearls. It didn’t matter which but it would definitely be a piece of jewellery. Stirkhov stuffed it deep in his trouser pocket, then leaned forward and tried to kiss Sofia’s mouth. Pyotr was shocked. What had Sofia done to the man? She was corrupting Stirkhov, too.

Up in the bright blue sky a thin trail of noise like a distant buzz-saw started to drill into his mind. He recognised it as the
Krokodil
approaching. He wiped his palms on his shorts, his mind spinning. He’d been right all along. Sofia wasn’t just a fugitive, she really was an Enemy of the People. That realisation sent a dart of sorrow into his heart because he loved her now and, more importantly, Papa loved her.

Papa, he must find Papa and speak with him. He started to run.

Dagorsk July 1933

‘She’s beautiful.’

Mikhail’s eyes shone with pleasure as he squinted up at the aeroplane’s wings glinting in the midday sun. ‘Just the sight of her so close makes my hands itch to touch her.’

‘It’s a brilliant propaganda weapon,’ Sofia admitted, shielding her eyes with her hand.

The high-winged silver-skinned aeroplane swooped down from the sky like a giant bird of prey. On each side of the makeshift runway Sofia could see the Young Pioneers lining up, backs stiff as soldiers’. Behind them stood the real soldiers, the ones with rifles to keep the spectators away from the plane.

‘The
Krokodil
is one of the Maksim Gorky Agitprop Squadron,’ Mikhail informed her, ‘designed to fly from town to town across Russia. It distributes pamphlets and gives film shows to demonstrate what great strides Communism is making. It shows off Stalin’s grandest projects, like the building of the White Sea Canal.’

‘You’ve already told me all that. Tell me something new.’

‘Have I mentioned that it was named after the
Krokodil
magazine and differs from other ANT-9s by having aerodynamic fairings over the wheels and struts?’

‘Interesting. But what about its engines?’

‘Well, it has two M-17 engines instead of the original three
Gnome et Rhône
Titans which gave it…’ He dragged his gaze away from the plane, looked at her and grinned. She loved his grin. ‘You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what else shall I tell you? How Stalin intends that Russia will soon outstrip the West or…’ his mouth twitched with mischief, ‘that you have the most beautiful eyes on earth and that I want to kiss your lips?’

‘Hmm, let me think. That’s a hard one to choose.’

She stepped closer, leaning in towards him. At that moment the guttural growl of the twin engines roared across the field.