Red Shadow (2 page)

‘And has he pinched you?’ asked Misha, trying to keep a smile from his face.

‘Certainly not. I am neither rude nor ungrateful,’ Galina said indignantly. ‘But I have found out more about Domovoj in one of Papa’s encyclopedias. He gets angry if a house is not cleaned properly. So I told Lydia to polish every surface so there is not a speck of dust.’

Misha smiled to himself. Lydia had been outwitted. Galina was going to grow up to be the kind of girl that terrified him.

Once they had dropped her off at her school, Misha said, ‘Did you see his hand?’ Valya nodded. She looked as shocked as he was.

At that point they emerged on to a main street making further discussion of the subject too dangerous. Thousands of people jostled along the pavements, like cattle being herded into pens. There were streams and counter-streams, like cross-currents at a river confluence. It was an odd experience. Misha was sure Moscow hadn’t always been this crowded. But every year it seemed that more and more people flooded in from the countryside to find work here and a roof over their heads. New factories were being opened all the time and the city was alive with the whirr of machine tools and the tang of white-hot metal. There was a constant, sticky, acrid smell of hot tar too. Everywhere you went they were digging up roads, laying drains or cables.

The streets in central Moscow at most times of the day were almost as bad as travelling by tram, but at least you were outdoors, away from the concentrated smell of humanity. Misha was struck by how shabby most people in the street looked. After four years living in the Kremlin, he had grown used to the finely tailored suits of the political elite and the cashmere silk and pearls of their wives. Most people outside the Kremlin bought clothes second- or third-hand on the market. And no one ever seemed to smile. The newspapers said no one smiled in capitalist countries. In contrast the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union who appeared in the newsreels were bright and full of enthusiasm for their lives and the advances of the Revolution. Misha was beginning to realise not everything he read was to be taken at face value.

A hundred metres ahead there was a sudden screeching of brakes and a piercing scream which cut through the afternoon chaos. In the distance they could see a lorry reversed halfway out of a side road. Pedestrians continued to hurry by.

As they got nearer, they saw that a boy was lying sprawled on the pavement. Only the lorry driver was kneeling beside him, trying to revive him. No one wanted to get involved. Getting involved meant talking to the Militia – the Moscow police. Talking to them laid you open to all sorts of awkward questions.

Valya grabbed Misha by the arm. ‘We must help.’ They arrived, slightly out of breath. The old driver looked terrified.

‘The poor child,’ he said. Then he started to admonish the unconscious boy, half in anger, half in anguish. ‘Why didn’t you look where you were going, you silly boy? What are they going to tell your mother?’

The boy’s left leg was sticking out at an odd angle, but more worrying were the flecks of blood around his mouth.

‘Don’t move him,’ said Valya. ‘We need to wait for an ambulance. He may have broken his back.’

A harsh voice startled them all. ‘You, girl, did you see what happened?’ Two Militia men had arrived.

‘No, comrade. We have just got here.’

‘Then what is your business here, citizens?’ said the taller of the two officers. He sounded more reasonable.

‘We are just trying to help,’ said Misha.

‘You shut your mouth,’ said the smaller Militia man. ‘My comrade was talking to the girl.’

The driver spoke up. ‘I was reversing into the side street here, and the boy just walked into the road.’

‘You two,’ said the shorter one to Misha and Valya. ‘Passes.’

They fumbled through layers of clothes and produced their identity papers.

The taller officer stepped forward and took them. He nodded and said, ‘All is in order, citizens. Be on your way.’

Out of earshot, Misha mumbled, ‘No wonder people don’t like to stop and help if that’s all the thanks they get.’

The afternoon had started unhappily. He wondered if it would get worse.

Chapter 2

The incident had shaken them both and for a while they walked in silence.

They passed a large billboard, plastered on the side of a building, showing the hero pilot Shura Kuvshinova in her flying helmet and heavy overalls. Her perfect teeth were gleaming white and she was advertising toothpaste.

Seeking to lighten the mood, Valya nudged him. ‘That reminds me, I have an exam today. Wish me luck.’

‘Aeronautics?’ guessed Misha. She had told him about this before.

Valya was good at maths and science. She could work out algebra and trigonometry in her head, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do when she’d finished school. Like Shura Kuvshinova, Valya wanted to be a pilot and she already spent most Rest Days at the Pioneer Young Pilots Club in Vnukovo, taking enthralled young boys and girls on glider flights.

‘I need to pass this for Moscow University, Misha. I need a high mark too – there’s a lot of people who want to get on that course. And no matter what Comrade Stalin and the other Politburo comrades say about the equality of women, you still need to be better than the boys to be taken seriously.’

‘But what a waste of your life. You’re such a good cook,’ teased Misha. ‘And so handy with a needle and thread.’

‘Misha,
you
are a block of wood.’ She tapped his head. ‘And in here is hollow!’

Ten minutes later they said goodbye at the gates of School 107 and Misha took a deep breath and headed for his classroom. Today was going to be a chore. Day Two in the school week always was – trigonometry, evolutionary theory, chemistry. Misha was not much of a scientist, although he tried as hard as he could. His real interest lay in plays and novels: Chekhov, Tolstoy and, most of all, Shakespeare. He liked words and what they did to your imagination. He was good at writing too, so much so that his classmates said he should edit
The Pioneer
, School 107’s newspaper. He was flattered and said he could be persuaded. But he was beginning to regret that. Barikada Kozlov was the current editor, and he would be a powerful enemy to make. Barikada’s father worked for the NKVD, just like Galina’s father, Kapitan Zhiglov. Misha wondered if they knew each other, but he was shrewd enough not to ask. A question like that could get you denounced as a spy. Sometimes he wondered if Barikada had found out about his mama. The boy looked at him occasionally with a knowing smirk.

And besides,
The Pioneer
’s monthly diet of the school’s sporting achievements, the necessity of ‘world revolution’ and the perils of ‘anti-Soviet conversations’ didn’t really appeal to Misha. He had already realised it would be dangerous to produce a more interesting magazine.

As Misha walked into his first-floor classroom, he was greeted by a hail of catcalls from Sergey and Nikolay, who had been watching through the window as he and Valya arrived. ‘A bit out of your league, isn’t she, Mikhail?’

‘Has she let you kiss her yet?’

‘Get lost!’ said Misha, but he could feel himself beginning to blush.

Yelena was there too, sitting by the window, her blonde bob glowing in the spring sunshine.

She gave him a broad smile when he came to sit next to her, and whispered, ‘They couldn’t get a girl to look at them if they were the last two boys in Moscow!’

‘She’s just a friend,’ he said, feeling a bit flustered. ‘We just live near each other.’ She looked surprised and for a second Misha thought he saw a flash of relief in her eyes.

She was working on an embroidery of Lenin for the school sewing circle. She had told him about it before in rather more detail than he wanted to hear – a series of vignettes showing the life of the leader of the Revolution from his birth in 1870 to his death in 1924.

‘A fine likeness, Yelena,’ he said, looking at the embroidery. ‘You’ve got his steely gaze just right.’

She blushed now, and wondered if he was teasing her, which he was.

They talked a little about the volunteer teaching they both did as part of their
Komsomol
duties. Like any ambitious Soviet youths, they were both in the
Komsomol
– the communist youth group for aspiring Party members. Yelena had recently begun to give reading classes to peasant children just arrived in Moscow. She was shocked to discover many were completely illiterate.

And every Day One Misha also went out before school to teach literature to workers in their lunch break, over at the Stalin Automobile Plant. He was so good at it the students had asked him to do an early evening class as well. School had agreed to that – letting him go two hours early every Day Four. Teaching was definitely the career for him, and he loved the enthusiasm of the workers he taught. He could see a genuine interest in their faces, quite unlike the obligatory displays of zeal required for political speeches and parades. Recently Stalin’s daughter Svetlana had even sought him out at the Kremlin to help her with her literature homework. Misha kept quiet about that though. A good
Komsomol
cadet did not boast. Only his father and Valya knew.

Yelena said, ‘Will you be going to the meeting this breaktime? It would be nice to walk there with you.’

‘I was thinking of going,’ said Misha, as if a member of the
Komsomol
could do anything else. ‘Remind me what it’s about.’

‘It’s Barikada again. The need to unmask class enemies.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t like him but I do think he gives the comrades a good moral lead.’

Misha liked Yelena but she irritated him too. She was too eager to please, always spouting the Party line straight from
Pravda
. They all believed in the Soviet cause, but Yelena spoke of her duty as a communist with a religious reverence that made Misha uncomfortable. She had given a breaktime talk last month on ‘Comrade Stalin – the greatest genius of all times and all people’, which had made Misha’s toes curl with embarrassment. But that was the problem with living in the Kremlin. He’d seen Stalin in the flesh. His greying hair, pockmarked face and terrifying piercing stare were quite different from the friendly figure they read about in the magazines.

Misha’s afternoon chemistry class was interminable and he even began to look forward to the break at 6.00, and Barikada’s speech. He walked over to the canteen with Yelena and they sat down on the sill of a large window. His friend Nikolay came over to join them.

He and Nikolay had known each other since they were ten and Nikolay had been one of the few friends who hadn’t greeted his move to the Kremlin with sour envy.

Barikada’s subject was one that Misha was wearily familiar with – ‘class enemies’, such as landlords, priests and nobles, who ‘lurked’ in factories and schools, hiding under false proletarian identities. Such ‘former people’, Barikada assured them, were intent on sabotaging the achievements of the Revolution and betraying the country to foreign enemies.

Misha’s attention began to drift until he heard his name and anxiety twisted his guts. He realised everyone was looking at him. ‘And what I have to tell you, comrades, is that
Komsomol
cadet Mikhail Petrov was seen last Rest Day emerging from a church.’

There were audible gasps around the room but Misha relaxed a little. This was serious but it wasn’t about his mother. He felt Yelena’s hand on his arm.

‘Comrade Kozlov,’ he said indignantly, ‘can you substantiate this accusation?’

Misha wasn’t going to deny it but he would like to find out who had denounced him.

‘Comrade Petrov, you must know that a good communist would never reveal the name of the citizen who has done his duty to the Party in reporting this serious misdemeanour.’

Misha shook his head. Before he could speak Barikada said, ‘I have spoken about this matter to the school Komsorg, and propose that Comrade Petrov be immediately deprived of his
Komsomol
membership.’

A murmur of discontent went around the room.

This was much more serious. The Komsorg was a sour young official with a tough peasant face, named Leonid Gribkov. Misha guessed he was about thirty. He oversaw the activities of all
Komsomol
members in the school. Misha disliked him as much as he disliked Barikada; they were two of a kind. He wondered how much Gribkov knew about his family.

With these two ranged against him, he knew he needed a convincing defence.

‘Comrades, you all know I have no respect for religion. Only last month I wrote a piece for
The Pioneer
in support of the Union of the Godless. But my grandmother, like many older people, is still in thrall to the backward practices and beliefs of the old regime. As she can barely walk on her own, I went there to take her home.’

The class cheered and Misha realised with relief that their discontent was directed at Barikada, not him. He felt his confidence growing. ‘Surely, comrades, we can show humanity towards those unlucky enough to be born before the Revolution, and who have not had the benefit of a sound, scientific education.’