Under a blood red sky, p.42
Under a Blood Red Sky, page 42
The aircraft was coming in for its final landing of the day, its engines drowning out the chorus of cheers hailing its return.
‘They’re hunting for you, my love. The perimeters are well guarded, identity papers are being checked. Our best chance of hiding you safely is in the middle of the crowd where you can keep on the move, until you—’
‘Mikhail, Pyotr idealises the Party. Don’t blame him.’
‘I do, Sofia. I blame him, and I blame myself.’ He looked at her, noticed her change of clothes, and the anger in his eyes softened. Gently he cupped her cheek in his palm and she tipped her head sideways into it.
‘Well, what have we here?’ An officer in khaki uniform was standing beside the front wing of the truck, staring at them. He looked just as surprised as they were.
‘Comrade,’ Sofia smiled and slid an arm around Mikhail’s waist, ‘you wouldn’t deny us five minutes away from the sharp eyes of my friend’s wife, would you?’
The soldier laughed. His trousers were already half unbuttoned and it was obvious he’d come to relieve himself behind the truck. His face was broad and good-natured but his nose ran in a crooked line, as though it had been involved in one fight too many.
‘Don’t mind me, comrades,’ he said easily. But just as easily the Tokarev pistol flew from the holster on his hip into his hand, its business end pointed straight at Sofia. ‘Just show me your papers first.’ He said it with a grin to emphasise that he intended no harm, just being cautious.
‘Of course, comrade.’
Sofia made a show of rummaging in her pocket for her papers but instead her hand touched the cool surface of the stone and instantly she cleared her mind, stilled her breath. She moved forward towards the soldat, her eyes locked tight on his, and she saw him frown and glance down at the gun in his hand with sudden confusion
That was when Mikhail struck. Two strides and the edge of his hand to the man’s throat, followed by a sharp blow to his jaw that sent the soldier’s head snapping back against the side of the truck with a loud metallic thud. The body crumpled on to the grass. They took no chances. In seconds Sofia had the soldier’s belt off and Mikhail had used it to truss his hands and feet together behind his back, then they stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth and pocketed his gun.
‘Now,’ Mikhail said. ‘Time to leave.’
As soon as the Krokodil touched down, everything happened fast. The two crewmen and their two assistants bundled projection equipment and cardboard boxes back on to the plane, while final but mercifully brief speeches were made and the band struck up the Internationale for the last time. White clouds began to drift across the sun like curtains drawing a performance to a close. The mood in the field was one of exhilaration, as noisy huddles of men started to gather round bottles of kvass and vodka.
But none of it stopped those in uniform going about their job efficiently, and every blonde young woman was ordered to show identity papers. Sofia dodged several, but time was running out. Any moment now the soldier behind the truck would be found, but Mikhail had gone once more in search of Pyotr.
‘Don’t attempt to leave until I return,’ he’d said sternly.
She’d kissed him farewell, a light brush of the lips, and with it everything cracked inside her. She breathed, but only because she had to, not because she wanted to. She stood in the middle of a dense gathering close to the aeroplane and became aware of the tall figure of the blacksmith, Pokrovsky, on her right, and Elizaveta Lishnikova over to her left. They were keeping watch, extra eyes seeking out danger, and Sofia was certain it was Rafik who had told them to guard her. She was just edging in Pokrovsky’s direction to apologise for her outburst in the smithy, when the teacher shouted a warning and the next moment a hand fell on Sofia’s shoulder. She spun round.
It was a khaki uniform but not the one from the truck. This man was older, alert eyes under heavy bristled brows.
‘Dokumenti,’ he ordered.
Four men in uniform stood around her, like wolves, and from the corner of her eye she saw Pokrovsky pushing his way through the crowd towards her. No, don’t come near. She willed him to keep away because she didn’t want him hurt too. It would be a bullet in the back for her if she ran, but a bullet in the brain if they saw the name they were searching for on her papers. Back or brain, the choice wasn’t hard. Time slowed down as she reached into her pocket and slid out her residency permit. Anna, forgive me. Forgive me, my friend, forgive me for failing.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Mikhail’s hand suddenly slotted under her elbow, almost jerking her off her feet. Pyotr was pressed close to her other side, his brown eyes dark with misery.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘It’s all right, Pyotr, you did what you believed was right.’ Gently she touched his hand and felt his fingers cling to hers.
‘Your papers?’ The soldier raised his voice.
‘Comrade,’ Mikhail said sharply, ‘this woman is with the crew of the—’
But already the soldier was reaching forward to pull her from Mikhail’s grasp. Rifles rattled around her.
‘Stop that at once.’
Sofia swung round and was astonished to find herself staring into the face of Aleksei Fomenko. He gave her no more than a fleeting nod, then flashed some identity in front of the uniformed officer. A space immediately cleared around her.
‘I can vouch for this woman,’ he said brusquely. ‘What the hell are you and your men doing wasting your time here when you should be out there,’ he flung a dismissive arm towards the rest of the field, ‘searching for the fugitive?’
The space around Sofia grew even larger as the soldiers backed off and she felt Mikhail’s grip tighten on her arm.
‘This woman and I are to leave with the aeroplane crew,’ Mikhail protested angrily.
‘I’ll need to see proof of that,’ the officer responded, but already the aggression had waned and his manner was hesitant.
Fomenko put himself between Sofia and the uniform, his authority taking easy control. ‘Don’t be bloody foolish, soldat. The cloud base is lowering every minute, so they need to leave right now, or shall I report you for causing delays, too—’
‘No, Comrade Chairman, that won’t be necessary.’
Sofia felt Mikhail jerk her into action. Her feet remembered to move as, heart hammering, she was propelled forward and into the aeroplane. The flimsy corrugated door closed behind her, the body of the Krokodil shuddered and rumbled, making noises that sounded like contentment.
Sofia breathed. Because she wanted to.
Rivers meandered lazily below as the aircraft flew due north. The threads criss-crossed through a vast water-filled landscape, emptied of all colour by mists that shrouded them in secrecy. The M-17 engines throbbed and as Mikhail sat in the passenger cabin he could feel every beat of the pistons, driving his blood through his veins. They powered a wonderful sense of being cut free from the earth.
It was a long time since he’d felt like this, as good as this. Which was crazy because he knew he was in serious trouble whichever way he looked, but somehow that all faded into insignificance up here. He was with Sofia and he was flying again, and he was determined to find Anna Fedorina. Reality on the ground seemed a long way down.
‘Are you all right?’
Sofia turned her face from the window and gave him a smile, that crooked little curve of her lips that he loved.
‘Not nervous on your first flight?’
‘No, I love it. How high are we?’
‘Around three thousand metres.’
She nodded but looked tense. He put out a hand across the narrow aisle that divided them and stroked her arm, soothing her.
‘It’s the continuous juddering,’ he said. ‘It sets nerves on edge if you’re not accustomed to it.’
She nodded again, a little dip of her chin. They hadn’t spoken much on the plane, because in the small cabin every word could be overheard. There
‘How far will we fly?’ she asked in a low tone.
‘The Krokodil ’s range without refuelling is seven hundred kilometres. ’
‘We’ll go that distance?’
Her eyes changed as they stared at him in disbelief. Then she tipped back her long throat and released a silent shout of joy.
‘I thought,’ she said in a voice that struggled to sound casual, ‘that we would just be taken . . . out of that field and put down somewhere nearby.’
‘No,’ he laughed for the benefit of listening ears, ‘the Captain is taking us on quite a little jaunt. He wants me to give my professional assessment of how these propaganda trips are working out. As my secretary, you must take notes.’
‘Of course,’ she responded in a demure secretarial kind of voice, but she rolled her eyes dramatically and mimed typing in the air, so that Mikhail had to bite his tongue to stop a laugh. As the shadows of the clouds chased each other over the flatlands below, she asked, ‘Did you arrange this?’
She nodded and was silent for a while, gazing intently out of the small window. Eventually she turned to him again. ‘Mikhail, what about Pyotr?’
‘He’ll be all right. Zenia is going to take care of him while I’m away.’
Her eyelids flickered but he couldn’t tell why. Was it anger at the boy?
‘I didn’t expect that from Fomenko,’ she murmured.
He gave her a long look. Chyort! Was that man still in her mind? He put his head back and shut his eyes. Concentrate on Anna Fedorina, he told himself, this is your one chance. Concentrate on her.
The Krokodil touched down. The surface of the landing field gave them a bumpy ride but the plane rolled quickly to a stop and they climbed out. From the air the town of Novgorki was an unpleasant black scab on the landscape, but on the ground it looked worse, drabber and darker. After hours of almost nothing but forests of massed pine trees and silver shimmering waterways with an occasional fragile village clinging to the banks, the dirt and squalor of the streets of the northern town of Novgorki came as a sharp reminder of how easily people could make a place ugly.
It was a purpose-built town dedicated to minerals, with belching chimney stacks that soared into the grey sky, thickening the air with chemicals. Yet oddly Mikhail liked it. It was an unpretentious place - he could sense an undercurrent of wildness as strong as the stink of the sulphur, a town on the very edge of civilisation. That suited him just fine.
He thanked the pilot of the Krokodil, a handshake was enough. Sofia observed them with a thoughtful expression but passed no comment, just kissed the pilot’s cheek, which made him blush to the roots of his gingery hair.
Mikhail was glad of the walk into town as it gave them time to discuss what lay ahead. It was evening when they reached the centre of Novgorki, but in July the days were long and the nights no more than a darker shade of white. The main road was called Lenin Street, as was usual, and held a crush of shabby concrete buildings. All the same monotonous shade of grey, they stood alongside squat wooden shops that had a greater air of permanence than the concrete. Rain-filled potholes littered the road - even at this hour it was busy with trucks and cars making the most of daylight hours.
‘What now?’ Sofia was looking round warily.
‘A bed and a meal.’
Groups of men stood around on street corners, cigarettes hanging from their lips and bottles in their pockets. Mikhail approached one man with a thick Stalin moustache who leered at Sofia but directed them politely enough to a workers’ dormitory, a bleak building where they showed their identity papers and paid a few roubles in advance. They were allotted a couple of camp beds and soiled quilts, in separate communal sleeping areas.
‘It’s better than nothing,’ Mikhail pointed out.
Sofia raised a doubtful eyebrow at him.
‘Have you noticed,’ she asked when they walked back out on to the street, ‘how few women are here?’
‘That’s why we have to take extra care of you.’
They walked up the main street, aware of eyes watching them.
‘More of Stalin’s economic boom times,’ Sofia muttered under her breath, with an ironic nod towards the empty shop windows.
Even at this hour many of the shops were still open and they chose a prosperous-looking hardware shop for their purpose. It smelled of pine resin and dust inside, where a short man with a broad northern face and well padded cheeks greeted them from behind the counter. His eyes crawled over Sofia.
‘Good evening,’ Mikhail said and let his gaze roam the shop. ‘Busy, I see.’
The place was empty of other customers but did at least have a few goods on display. A sack of nails and screws, a box of hinges, some kerosene cans and paint brushes - but no paint, of course. Lengths of matting and a range of second-hand tools lay in a jumble around the walls, while zinc pans hung from the roof beams, low enough to crack a careless skull wandering beneath them. But behind the shopkeeper’s head were shelves holding a row of cardboard boxes, unlabelled, and Mikhail suspected they contained the better stuff for the better customers. He picked up a roll of canvas and tossed it on to the counter. Beside him Sofia stood silent.
‘Is that all?’ the shopkeeper asked, scratching his armpit with relish.
‘I have something to sell.’
The storeman’s eyes brightened and slid to Sofia.
‘Not me,’ she said fiercely.
The man shrugged. ‘It happens sometimes.’
Mikhail placed a fist on the counter between them. ‘Who in this town might want to buy an object of value?’
‘What kind of object?’
‘One that is worth real money, not . . .’ he gazed disdainfully round the shop, ‘not Novgorki kopecks.’
The man squinted at Mikhail, his tobacco-stained teeth chewing on his lower lip. ‘Very well,’ he said, pointing to a curtained doorway at the back of the shop. ‘You, comrade, come with me. You,’ he pointed at Sofia, ‘wait here.’
Before the storekeeper could draw breath Mikhail had leapt over the counter and pinned him against his boxes, a hand crushing his throat. He could feel the man’s windpipe fighting for air.
‘Don’t mistake me, comrade,’ Mikhail hissed in his face. ‘I am not one of your peasant fools. I do not walk blindly into your backroom to be ambushed and robbed while my woman is stolen. Understand me?’
‘Da.’ The man’s voice was a gasp, his eyes popping in his head.
Mikhail removed his hand and let him breathe. The rasping scrape of it sounded loud in the silence of the musty store.
‘Now,’ Mikhail said, keeping the man jammed against his shelves, ‘tomorrow morning I will return here at eight o’clock for no more than five minutes. If you know a buyer for a jewel worth more than you’ll earn in ten lifetimes, bring him here. Got that?’
The man blinked his understanding.
‘Do zavtra. Till tomorrow,’ Mikhail snapped, picking up the roll of canvas. He gripped Sofia by her upper arm and strode out of the shop.
‘So you’re not just a handsome face after all,’ Sofia said.
She was teasing him, he knew that, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘I had to do it, Sofia. It was the only way of showing that man I’m serious. This is a hard town, my love, danger is what they breathe out here. Don’t look so reproachful.’
‘He might have pulled a gun on you.’
Mikhail patted the loaded pistol hidden under her slender waistband, the one he’d stolen from the officer behind the Gaz truck. ‘Then you’d have shot him,’ he said and kissed her nose.
‘Don’t,’ she said angrily. ‘Don’t take risks.’
He burst out laughing and felt her fist smack into his chest. He caught it in his hand and pulled her tight to him. ‘This is all one huge risk, my sweet love, so what’s an extra little one or two along the way?’
‘Don’t die,’ she whispered.
‘I intend to live till I’m a hundred, as long as you promise to live to a hundred with me.’
‘To darn your socks and cook your meals?’ she teased.
‘No, my precious, to warm my bed and let me kiss your sweet neck.’
She nestled her lips in the hollow of his throat. ‘I’ll warm your bed and let you kiss my neck,’ she crooned, ‘if you darn my socks and cook my meals for a hundred years.’
‘Agreed,’ he laughed.
‘No, Mikhail, we do this together. We agreed.’
They were standing in the street and heavy rain was lashing down, soaking them to the skin and turning the road into a muddy torrent. A stray yellow hound crouched shivering in the gutter, its mournful eyes following their every move.
Mikhail pushed open the door to the hardware store and Sofia positioned herself silently just inside the entrance, leaning against the timber wall where she casually laid one hand on the gun at her waistband. Her eyes followed Mikhail as he approached the stranger who was waiting next to the counter with folded arms. The man was built like a series of boxes balanced on top of each other: square hat, square head, square shoulders, a sharp square suit. His face displayed the broken veins of a drinker and the shrewd eyes of a man in authority - a man who knows how to use it. The shopkeeper hovered in the background, as brown and dusty as his boxes.
‘So, comrade, what have you brought for me to see?’ the square man said without preliminaries. ‘It had better not be shit. No gavno.’
Mikhail took his time, eyeing the stranger up and down in a manner that was meant to insult, and which brought Sofia’s heart to her throat. He didn’t speak, just took a small piece of green material from his back pocket and opened it on his palm. The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed to half shut like a lizard’s, because even in the dim light of the hardware shop the diamond on the green cloth winked at him. He drew a loud intake of breath.
by Kate Furnivall / Historical Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes