Most of the women were huddled at each end where the stoves gave out a trickle of heat, not enough to keep the ice off the inside of the grimy window panes but sufficient to give the illusion of warmth. Others lay silent on their beds. The hut contained ten three-storey bunk beds, nudged tight against each other down both sides of the room, with every bed made of a hard board that was meant for two people but was packed with five each night. At times it was impossible to turn over in bed or do anything but lie rigidly on one’s side – hip bones soon developed sores, and there was a pecking order that settled the strongest and the fittest on the top boards. This evening by lamplight some of the women were playing cards they’d made out of scraps of paper and one group was bickering loudly on a top bunk as they bargained with each other for
makhorka and salt.
‘Your soul’s not worth seven hundred grams of chleb.’
Anna looked up, startled. The voice came from Sofia, the girl who had helped her. Anna was sitting on the edge of her bed board on the bottom bunk near the draughts of the door, attempting to mend a hole in her glove. The needle she’d created from a splinter of wood and the thread she’d unravelled from her blanket, and it was going well despite the dismal light from the kerosene lamps.
‘My soul,’ Anna said firmly, ‘is worth a good breakfast. And I don’t mean the filthy
kasha
slop we’re given every morning.’
The blue eyes of the tall young woman scrutinised her carefully, as though she were a newly discovered specimen under a microscope lens. Sofia was leaning against the upright of Anna’s bed and she looked tired, her shoulders wrapped in a dark brown blanket that made her silver-blonde hair look brighter by comparison. It was cropped short, as was all the women’s hair, the authority’s compulsory solution to the problem of head lice. Her skin possessed the grey ashy tinge of malnutrition, but she had no sores or lesions and her teeth were astonishingly white.
‘I mean,’ Anna continued, ‘a breakfast of three fried eggs, yolks yellow as suns on the plate and whites as fluffy as summer clouds, and a thick slice of pork, pink and succulent with a fine grain to it and a slender curve of yellow fat that melts on the tongue like…’
‘Go on, go on.’
It was the Ukrainian
babushka
who spoke, tapping a bony hand on Anna’s back. She was lying on her tiny bed space behind Anna, who had thought her asleep because for once she wasn’t coughing, but the mention of food had even broken through to her dreams.
‘The bread,’ the old woman whispered, ‘tell me about the bread to go with the eggs and the pork.’
‘The bread will be white, fresh from the oven, bread so light and moist that it soaks up the egg yolk like a sponge and tastes like heaven in the mouth.’
‘And the coffee? Will there be coffee as well?’
‘Ah yes.’ Anna closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure, letting it unfurl inside her like a delicate fan that she’d almost forgotten how to open. ‘The coffee will be so black and strong that just the aroma of it…’ she and the old woman both inhaled deeply in an attempt to catch its fragrance, ‘will make your-’
‘Stop it.’
Anna opened her eyes.
‘Stop it.’ It was Sofia. Her eyes were full of dark rage. ‘Why torture yourself?’
‘One day I’ll taste those eggs and that coffee again. I swear I will,’ Anna said fiercely.
‘
Dura!
You’re a fool,’ Sofia retorted and strode away to the far end of the hut.
Anna watched her. Saw her climb up on to her top bunk and pull the brown blanket over her head, burrowing deep into it like an animal into its nest.
The bony finger dug again into Anna. ‘And apples? Sliced up and sprinkled with cinnamon?’
‘Yes,’ Anna answered. ‘And a pot of damson jam, deep purple and glistening with syrup.’
‘You know,
malishka
, I’d honestly sell my God-fearing soul for a breakfast like that before I die.’
Anna swivelled round and smiled at the old woman, whose body was riddled with sores. She stroked the skin of the babushka’s hand, very gently because it was so paper-thin that the slightest touch could leave behind bruises like ink stains.
‘So would I,’ she whispered.
The woman struggled to sit up, her bird-like chest straining against the first rumblings of a coughing fit, and closed her eyes.
‘Hell couldn’t be any worse than this place,’ Anna murmured. ‘Could it?’
The next day one of the guards called out to her. ‘You! Come here.’
The evening ordeal was finally over. The poverka, the roll-call and counting of heads, was a process that dragged on and on sometimes for hours, even though the prisoners could barely stand after a hard day’s labour in the forest. It went on until the numbers that were lined up in rigid rows in the Zone tallied with the numbers on the lists in front of the Commandant. The procedure was repeated rigorously every morning and every night, and every morning and every night somebody died. The German Shepherd dogs on chain leashes watched with gaping jaws for any movement in the rows.
‘You.’ The guard called to her now. ‘Number 1498. Come here.’
When a guard chose to summon you out of the pack, it meant nothing but trouble. Anna tugged her scarf tighter round her ears to shut out the sound of his arrogant command and concentrated on keeping moving. She folded herself into the back of a group of prisoners as they shuffled their way at last towards the shelter of the huts, out of the biting wind that froze the breath on their lungs. The night sky was a vast velvety cat-black expanse overhead, spangled with stars and lit by a full moon that painted the faces beneath it with ugly colourless shadows. It transformed the long huts into coffins.
Anna heard the rattle of a rifle as a bullet was loaded into the breach. She swung round and faced the guard. He was young. Barely shaving. She’d caught him watching her before, his gaze crawling greedily over her skin, worse than the lice. He swaggered over to her across the icy ground, his rifle tucked snugly under his arm, its tip pointed straight at the spot between her legs to which his eyes kept sliding, even though she was bundled up under a skirt and a padded jacket.
‘Number 1498.’
‘Yes.’ She stared at the black patch of ground at his feet and linked her hands behind her back, as was required of prisoners when addressed by guards.
‘I hear you are willing to sell your soul.’
Her heart thudded. Her eyes leapt to his face.
‘Is that so?’ he asked, a sly smile tilting his mouth.
‘It was a joke, nothing more. I was hungry.’
Loathsome informers, the
stukachs
. Like the yellow-toothed rats, they were everywhere, swapping a scrap of information for a scrap of bread. No one could be trusted. Survival in the camp came at a high price.
The guard stroked the barrel of his rifle against her cheek, scraping one of the lesions and forcing her to turn her face aside while he pressed the muzzle under the knot of her scarf at her throat. The metal was brutally cold on her skin. She could feel her pulse slowing at its touch.
‘Are you hungry now?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I think you are lying, prisoner 1498.’
He smiled at her and licked his chapped lips. His back was to the nearest floodlight, which cut a yellow swathe through the darkness of the Zone so that his eyes appeared as deep black holes in his head. Anna wanted to push her fingers into them.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I don’t want your soul.’
‘I didn’t think you did.’
‘So will you sell your body instead, in exchange for a good breakfast?’
From the depths of his greatcoat pocket he drew a package wrapped in brown greaseproof paper. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he unwrapped the packet and held it out to her. The wind tried to snatch it away, making the paper’s folds crackle and snap. It contained two speckled eggs and a thin sliver of pork. Anna almost sobbed with desire. Her eyes feasted lovingly on the sight of the eggs, on their plump brownness, on the delicacy of the speckles in greys and whites and liver-browns, on the perfection of the curve of the shells. She didn’t even dare look at the meat.
‘So will you?’
He had moved. He was standing beside her now, his breath coming fast and forming small dense clouds of desire in the moonlight. Saliva rushed into Anna’s mouth. There were women in the camp, she knew, who took favours from a guard, who sought one out for protection. Such women did not have lesions on their face or death in their eyes and they worked in the camp kitchen or in the camp laundry, instead of in the killing fields of the forest. Was it so bad? To want to live?
Reluctantly she dragged her eyes from the beauty of the eggs and stared at the guard’s expression. Now she could see clearly the look of loneliness in his young face, the need for something that felt like love even if it wasn’t. He was trapped here the same as she was, about the same age as herself, cut off from all he knew and cared for. Russia had robbed them both and he was desperate for something more. A little human contact. A stamping of self on a blank faceless world. It could help them both survive. Her famished body swayed imperceptibly towards his strong young frame.
‘A good breakfast?’ he whispered temptingly.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ she snapped and swept away into the darkness.
19
Tivil July 1933
That night, Tivil was stripped naked and raw. That’s how it seemed to Pyotr.
‘Stay indoors, Pyotr. And keep the house locked.’
Those were Papa’s words. With a frown he lit himself a cigarette, ruffled Pyotr’s hair and was about to disappear back out into the chaotic night when he stopped abruptly. He looked across at Sofia Morozova, assessing her. Mikhail Pashin had kept a firm grip on her arm, as well as on Pyotr’s, when they left the assembly hall and had marched them both straight to the safety of his own home. Now he was leaving them.
‘Will you do something for me?’ he asked her. ‘Take care of my son tonight?’
‘Of course. I’ll guard him well.’
Pyotr wanted to die of shame but his father nodded, satisfied, and stepped out into the road. A cold drizzle was falling as he pulled the door closed behind him and Pyotr could see the raindrops like diamonds in his father’s dark hair. He tried not to be frightened for him. They were left standing in the tiny porch where boots were kept, the fugitive and himself, just the two of them alone in the house, eyeing each other warily. Pyotr picked up the oil lamp that Papa had lit on the shelf by the door and walked into the living room with it. He was hoping she wouldn’t follow, but she did. Right on his heels.
Neither spoke. He placed the lamp on the table and headed straight for the kitchen. There he poured himself a cup of water, drank it down slowly, counted to fifty in his head and went back into the living room. She was still there. She was leaning over the half-constructed model of a bridge on the table, one of the tiny slivers of wood between her fingers. Dozens of them were scattered over the surface, little lightweight girders.
‘Don’t touch,’ he said quickly.
‘It must take a lot of patience to make.’
‘Papa is building it.’ He shuffled nearer. ‘I help.’
She gazed at it, very serious. ‘It’s beautiful.’
He stared at one of the elegant wooden towers. Said nothing.
‘What bridge is it?’
‘The Forth Bridge in Scotland,’ he lied.
‘I see,’ she nodded.
‘Don’t touch,’ he repeated.
She put down the piece of wood and looked round the room.
‘You have a nice house,’ she said at last.
He wouldn’t look at her. Of course it was a nice house, the nicest in the village. A huge
pechka
stove provided the heart of the
izba
, which had good-sized rooms, a large kitchen and a handsome samovar decorated in Hohloma style. The house was light and airy and the furniture was smart and factory-bought, not hand-hewn. He glanced around proudly. It was a house fit for the director of a factory, with the best wool runners on the brown-painted floor and curtains from the Levitsky factory’s own machines. Only now did it occur to Pyotr that it might seem rather untidy to an outside eye.
‘May I have a drink?’ she asked.
He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink. Maybe she was hot. He didn’t want to give her a drink, he wanted her to go, to leave him alone but…
‘A drink?’ she repeated.
He scuttled back into the kitchen just as the cuckoo clock struck ten, and quickly he poured her a few drops of water in the bottom of the same cup he’d used. He didn’t bother washing it. But when he hurried back into the living room she was crouched down in front of the three-cornered cupboard where Papa kept his private things. In one hand was an unopened bottle of vodka, a shot glass in the other.
‘That’s Papa’s.’
‘I didn’t think it was yours.’
‘Put it back.’
She smiled at him, a very small curl of her lips. Pyotr watched her unscrew the cap and pour into the glass some of the liquid that looked like water but wasn’t. He didn’t know what to say. She carried the bottle and the untouched vodka over to the armchair and sat down in it. She raised her glass to him.
‘
Za zdorovie!
’ she said solemnly.
‘That’s Papa’s chair.’
‘I know.’
‘How can you know?’
‘There are lots of things I know about your father.’
She tipped her head back and threw the shot of vodka down her throat. Her blue eyes widened and she murmured something.
‘I’m going to tell,’ he said quickly.
‘Tell what?’
‘Tell Chairman Fomenko that you’re a fugitive.’
‘I see.’
She poured herself another shot of vodka and drank it straight off. She closed her eyes and licked her lips, breathing lightly. Her eyelashes lay like threads of moonlight on her cheeks.