Authors: Paul Dowswell
‘Silence,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘I will kill the next prisoner to make a sound.’
One at a time, the group were dragged away to their fate. Some of them cried out to Jesus or Stalin just before they were shot; others died without a sound. When he could bear to steal a glance over to the execution spot, Misha saw they were stacking the lifeless bodies in a neat pile on the trolley. His legs began to shake violently and he wondered how much longer he could stand without collapsing. His head began to swim and his legs lost their strength. He couldn’t help himself and fell to the ground. As he lay there, he became dimly aware of someone shouting, ‘All of you, down. Sit on the ground.’ Valya put her hand around his shoulder to support him and he held her hard, surprised at the warmth of her body on this cold autumn night.
The group of prisoners was dwindling. All at once Misha felt a boot nudging him. ‘You,’ said a harsh voice.
‘I love you,’ he whispered to Valya, and she kissed him fleetingly on the side of the head as she gave him a final desperate hug.
‘Let him go, comrade,’ said one of the soldiers. He didn’t have the heart to hit her.
Another guard grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
The pattern was the same. Two guards held him tightly on each side. Misha’s feet dragged behind him, scuffing the grass on the lawn, and then the gravel that formed a wide path around the square sides of the courtyard.
Misha expected his life to flash before him, but all he could sense was the flickering shadows of the fires, the acrid smell of burning, and the sparks and embers that floated in the air around them. Wispy streams of hot breath escaped from his mouth into the cold autumn sky. He looked up and caught a final glimpse of the moon and the stars – diamond points of light and a luminous creamy orb. The night sky had never looked more beautiful.
The man in the apron approached him. ‘Kneel to face the wall, comrade. This will be very brief.’ Even in his fear, Misha was struck by the calmness in his voice. He had spoken to him so matter-of-factly. Like a dentist about to carry out an unpleasant procedure. He kneeled close to the wall, the gravel sharp on his knees. He felt every breath, sensed every heartbeat, wondering which would be his last. He flinched as the cold barrel of the gun touched the back of his neck and steeled himself to stay still, so the man would not have to shoot him twice.
There was a click, followed by cursing, and the executioner called for another weapon. Misha let out an anguished sob. He was still there. His agony was not yet over. ‘Hurry, comrade, I cannot bear to kneel much longer,’ he said.
A strange whistling filled his ears, getting louder by the second. He breathed again, wondering why the shot had still not been fired, then a shattering explosion enveloped him like a great wave.
That was it. He was dead. But he was still thinking. He could hear Valya’s voice. She was pleading, harsh, desperate. ‘Misha, run. Run like hell.’
There was smoke, brick dust, debris everywhere. A brace of bombs had blown a hole in the wall and left the building devastated.
Misha and Valya fled, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. Misha sensed others fleeing with them. One or two shots flew past them, but there were urgent cries too, inside the courtyard. The guards who had survived had other things to worry about.
Misha and Valya ran until they could run no more and stopped to catch their breath as a nearby clock struck the three-quarter hour. The chimes faded into the night as cold wind howled down the narrow street. Both of them were wearing only the flimsy clothes they had been arrested in.
‘Misha, what are we going to do?’
‘We can’t go home . . .’
Misha choked up when he said that. They were barely ten minutes away from their cosy apartments. Both of them knew, without a shadow of doubt, that they would never see those familiar rooms again. There was a long silence as the towering awfulness of their predicament sank in.
They sheltered in the doorway of an abandoned shop. Valya was the first to speak. ‘We’ve got no money, we’re going to freeze to death before the dawn, and if we show our faces back home we’ll be shot.’ She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it. Then she laughed a cold, graveyard laugh. ‘We might as well jump into the Moskva and get it over with.’
Misha shivered at the thought. ‘There must be somewhere we can go to, Valya?’ Misha was trying to be brave. ‘Who can we trust?’
‘Could we go to Nikolay?’ she said. ‘What are his parents like?’
‘They’re nice people but they’re very staunch Party members,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think we can trust them.’
‘We have to think quickly,’ she said. ‘The all-clear will sound soon and when it starts to get light there will be more people about. We must look suspicious like this.’
‘We could try my Aunt Mila, but she’s over in the Sparrow Hills. And there’s Grandma Olya, she’s barely ten minutes away.’
‘They’re the first people the NKVD would go to, to look for you,’ Valya said. ‘And if they found us with either of them they would be punished too. Anyway, your Aunt Mila’s too far away. We’d be spotted by Militia or die of exposure before we got halfway there.’
Then Misha remembered something. ‘What about that woman you helped, on the day the war broke out? Do you remember where she lived?’
‘Misha, that’s it.’ She hugged him. ‘That’s a brilliant idea. We must go at once. I can’t remember the way exactly. And I can’t quite remember her name either.’
Misha shook his head. ‘Me neither. We’ll just have to try to find our way as best we can.’
They hurried through the dark streets. ‘It’s so difficult to recognise where we are in this blackout,’ said Valya. But they both knew this was their best chance. Their only chance. If they could find the old lady before dawn, then maybe she would be able to help them.
‘She had a place overlooking a big square,’ said Valya, as she panted for breath.
‘It was one of those great old apartment buildings from before the Revolution. She lived on the top floor – a big apartment, not a
kommunalka
.’
‘Hush a second,’ said Valya, and held up her hand. ‘There’s someone coming.’
There were footsteps, two people at least. ‘It’s probably a Militia patrol. Quickly, we have to hide.’
They dived behind some shrubbery in the alcove of a small building. The footsteps came closer. Misha tried to control his breathing. He could not bear to look and closed his eyes. He felt dizzy with fear. It was as if he were standing on the parapet of a very high building. Then they heard the rattling of a key in a lock. A door opened and shut, and all was quiet again.
‘It’s round here somewhere, I’m sure of it,’ said Valya. She peered round a corner and immediately froze. ‘Oh no! Just up the street. Two Militia men.’
‘That’s just what we need.’
‘And they’re both carrying submachine guns.’
‘Are they coming this way?’
She looked terrified and put a finger to her lips to shush him.
They could hear voices close by now. Coarse, ugly voices.
‘Something going on up ahead.’
‘Put your torch on.’
Valya grabbed Misha, turned his back to the wall, and began to kiss him hard, placing his hand on the small of her back.
Misha was so astonished he froze. She stopped for a moment and hissed, ‘Rub your hands up and down my back. Quickly!’
He did as he was instructed. Even in his blind panic, he still noticed how warm she was despite the freezing cold night and how slender the curve of her back.
The torch flashed its light into the shrubbery.
They heard coarse laughter. ‘You dirty bastards,’ one of the men said. They laughed again and walked away.
Misha continued to kiss her, but Valya immediately broke away and whispered, ‘Sorry, Misha, I couldn’t think of anything else to do.’
They waited for the footsteps to recede, still holding each other tight. Misha felt her warmth and wondered if he would ever kiss her again.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We must be near . . .’
They darted between the shadows, peering into the gloom at the names of side streets.
‘It’s just round here, I’m sure of it,’ Valya said.
They came out into a big tree-lined square. ‘Strastnoy Boulevard – this is it. I remember now.’
Most of the buildings here were pre-Revolution and it was difficult remembering which one they had gone to.
Misha spotted a distinctive doorway. ‘Look, it’s here. There’s the door, with the great stone archway.’
They looked up. The building was eight storeys high with a short flight of stairs leading to the main entrance. Valya tried the door. It was locked.
‘What do we do?’ said Misha.
‘Wait for someone to come out . . . and then nip in. Sometimes these doors catch on the lock if you don’t close them properly.’
‘It might work.’
The all-clear siren sounded. That was usually the signal for the streets to fill with people as they flooded out of the air-raid shelters, but not any more. Recently one of the public shelters had been bombed. Hundreds of people had been killed, so now many Muscovites had decided it was just as safe staying in their own apartments. And your home was less likely to be looted that way too.
They hid in the shadows of the apartment stairway shivering with the autumn cold. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, they heard the door open and a man dashed out and hurried up the street. As soon as he was a safe distance away, they vaulted up the stairs. Valya pressed against the door. Much to their relief it creaked open.
There was a light on in the hallway – a dim bulb – and they could see the little concierge’s kiosk. There was a light on there too. Neither of them dared to speak. They approached the staircase gingerly, expecting to be challenged at any moment. Valya looked at Misha and shrugged. They kept walking up the stairs as quietly as possible.
Halfway up the first flight of stairs Misha looked back at the concierge’s kiosk. He could see the top of a bald head. Whoever was in there was flat out, resting on the desk. There was a small bottle of vodka next to him, lying on its side with the cork out.
It took several minutes to quietly climb the creaking stairs and reach the top of the building. Five solid wooden doors faced them in the gloom. They peered anxiously at each door, looking for a name plate they recognised.
Antonina Ovechkin
That was her, they were sure of it.
‘She asked you to call her Baba Nina, do you remember?’
They could see a light under the door.
Valya knocked gently. The last thing she wanted was other people coming out to see who was there at that time of night. They listened hard, straining to hear a sound.
There was no answer. ‘Maybe she likes to sleep with the light on?’ said Misha.
They knocked again, a little louder.
Misha leaned down and put a finger in the letterbox.
Valya pulled him away. ‘You’ll frighten her.’
There was a movement inside. They heard coughing, then a shuffling of feet. A cat let out an inquisitive miaow.
They stood back, so she could see them through the spyhole in the door.
Antonina Ovechkin opened the door swiftly. Misha noticed there was no sound at all as it swung open. She was someone who knew the value of not having a creaking door.
‘I know you two,’ she said quietly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘Tell me where I have met you.’
They were both surprised at her attitude. They thought she would be indignant or at least want to know what they thought they were doing, coming to see her at this hour of the day.
But Antonina Ovechkin did not seem remotely flustered or surprised. She beckoned them in.
‘Come on then,
devotchka
,’ she said to Valya, taking her hand. ‘Where have I seen you before?’
‘We met you in Gorky Street, after Molotov’s speech, when war broke out,’ said Valya.
‘I remember. You both came here for coffee.’ She turned to Misha and took his hand. ‘You helped me out, didn’t you?’
A silence fell between them, broken only by Antonina Ovechkin’s coughing. Then she said, ‘You don’t need to tell me you are in trouble. Coming here without so much as a jacket or coat. I shall make you tea and you can tell me all about it. When did you last eat?’
‘We’ve been arrested. We managed to escape in the bombing.’
‘Well, you have been both very unfortunate and fortunate then. But I shall help you. When I last saw you, I thought,
There are two young people who are going to get into trouble
. And sadly, I was right.’
She beckoned for them to sit on the couch in her living room and left them. Valya could barely keep the grin from her face. ‘I can’t believe we got here safely,’ she whispered to Misha.
They could hear Baba Nina bustling around in her small kitchen and she returned with a tray crammed with two cups of tea, with black bread and butter and jam. It was delicious. Misha realised at once that Baba Nina had some very useful contacts. It was hard enough to get butter in the Kremlin at the moment, and here she was handing it out to strangers.