Child Thief (28 page)

The thumping grew louder.

I froze, calculating the possibilities, considering options, trying to identify the sound, all at the same time. Rhythmic. Steady. As it grew louder, closer, the sound faltered, became irregular, as if there were two sounds competing, crossing over one another, falling in and out of step with each other, and I knew what it was. And with that realisation came the knowledge that I was trapped. There was nowhere for me to go. The road was too open at either side, the forest too far for me to reach. I cursed my luck. If I'd stayed just a few minutes longer in the trees, I would have been safe.

Behind, the sound stopped and I turned to see two riders in the road, both of them with rifles raised. For a second I wondered if I could unsling my rifle and kill those two men, shoot them right off their horses before they could react. They wouldn't expect it. They would expect me to stand down.

From where I was, I could see they were young, probably inexperienced. They wouldn't have seen much action and they would be nervous – as surprised to see me as I was to see them. But their youth would give them quick reactions. And they would not be tired and hungry like I was.

‘Stay where you are,' one of them called out. ‘Stand still. If you move, I'll shoot you.' The words he used were spoken in Russian.

I put my hands out to the sides and glanced at the place where
I'd emerged from the forest, trying to guess where Viktor and Petro might be. When I'd entered the woods, they'd been at the crest of the hill, which meant they hadn't been too far behind. If they'd moved more quickly than I had, perhaps they were already through the forest. They might even be there now, watching, wondering what to do, crouched in the shadow with their sights trained on the two men.

The soldier who had called out, spoke to his comrade without taking his eyes off me. His comrade nodded and shifted in his saddle as if to find a more comfortable shooting position, then the other one took the reins of his horse with one hand, keeping his heavy rifle held at waist height. He nudged his ride forwards and came closer.

‘Put the rifle on the ground,' he said, pointing his weapon down at me.

I stepped back and took the rifle from my shoulder. I bent to lay it on the ground, then straightened and looked the soldier in the eye. A young man in his early twenties, he was wearing the uniform of a Red Army soldier – tunic and trousers, a heavy long coat. His leather boots almost reaching his knees, the earflaps of his
budenovka
broadcloth helmet unfurled and fastened together under his chin. The red star sewn onto the front was clean. He had the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip, but it was soft and boyish.

‘Please,' I said. ‘I'm looking for my—'

‘Speak Russian.'

I hadn't used my own language for a long time. I barely even used it in my thoughts any more. ‘I'm looking for my daughter,' I said, thinking the man would be more sympathetic if he thought I had lost my own child.

‘Where did you get that?' The soldier shifted his eyes to glance at my rifle. ‘You steal it?'

‘No. I'm looking for a little—'

‘Answer my question. Where did you get the rifle?'

‘I took it from a German soldier.'

‘When?'

‘
When
?'

‘It's not an unreasonable question. Where are these German soldiers?'

‘No. It was a long time ago. In Galicia. But please, I'm looking for a little girl. My daughter.'

The young man paused, looking me up and down. ‘You're a soldier?'

‘I was.'

‘Ownership is restricted.'

I nodded, biting my lip.

‘It's a crime to own a rifle.'

‘I'm a soldier. It's unnatural for me not to have a weapon.'

‘Which army?'

‘Which army was I in?'

‘Yes.'

‘I've been in many armies. The Imperial Army …'

The young soldier made a tutting sound, sucking his tongue against his teeth. ‘Tsarist.'

‘… and the Red Army,' I continued. ‘I fought against the central powers for your safety and then I fought a civil war for our revolution. I am a communist, not a tsarist.'

‘Don't be petulant.' He took a deep breath. Beneath him the horse shifted impatiently, shaking its head and blowing out into the cold. ‘So you're Russian?'

‘I am.'

‘Then what are you doing in this shit hole?'

I looked around, wondering what would make a man describe this beautiful land as a shit hole. But of course the soldier saw nothing of the land. He was blind to the forests and the steppe and the mountains and the fields. He saw only the villages that he moved into. He saw only the squalor and desperation of people whose belongings are taken from them; whose families are ripped apart; whose lives are invaded by greed and malice and poison. He saw men begging for their livelihood, women crying for their lost sons, streets filled with the walking dead.

I held on to my anger, fought the desire to reach out for the barrel of his rifle and pull him from his horse. ‘This is my home now,' I said. ‘I live here. And I'm looking for my daughter. Please, I need to—'

‘Take off your satchel and put it beside the rifle.'

I hesitated, once more allowing myself a quick glance to the treeline, before doing as he instructed. The young man shifted as his horse moved and he spoke soothing words to calm it. Then he hardened his look. ‘You're not from Sushne. I would know you. I'd remember. Not from Uroz either. What village are you from?'

‘I don't live in any village,' I said.

‘You have to live somewhere.'

‘In the hills.' I inclined my head towards the line of trees, the hills beyond. ‘I have a small hut.' It was a risk. If they made me show them, they'd find the body of the child thief, but I couldn't betray my own village; my own wife and daughter. They'd find it eventually, but not yet. And not by my word.

‘What do you grow?'

‘Grow?' I forced a smile. ‘I don't grow anything. I sometimes work, but I don't grow anything. I'm not a farmer. I have nothing.'

‘But you have a rifle.'

‘For hunting. I shoot rabbits, sometimes deer or wolf. You're a soldier; you understand I need a rifle.'

‘Take off your coat.'

‘What?'

‘Take off your coat.'

‘In this cold? I'll freeze.'

The soldier lifted his rifle so it was pointed directly at my face. ‘I could shoot you right here. Your choice.'

I nodded and started to unbutton my coat.

Without taking his eyes off me, the soldier raised his voice and called to the second man. ‘Andrei, get over here and take this man's coat.'

Andrei lowered his weapon and trotted his horse over. When
he reached us, he swung his leg over and dismounted, coming close, waiting for me to remove the coat and hold it out. Without looking me in the eye, without speaking, Andrei took it and put his hands into the pockets. He pulled out the revolver and held it up for the other man to see.

‘You're well armed.' The first soldier kept his rifle pointed at me.

I shrugged, feeling the cold circling.

‘What are you doing out here?'

‘That's what I've been trying to tell you. I'm looking for my daughter. I need to go after her, she's very young and she … Look.' I pointed at the tracks. ‘You can see where she's gone. I have to follow her.'

The mounted soldier leaned down to take the revolver from Andrei, sitting straight in the saddle again, inspecting it. ‘Search him.'

Andrei ran his hands over my shirt and trousers, turning to shake his head when he found nothing.

‘Have you seen a young woman and an old man?' The first soldier asked.

‘I've seen no one.'

The young man stuck the revolver into his belt and sniffed. He put his fingers under the peak of his
budenovka
to scratch his head and stared down at me. ‘They were supposed to be coming this way; coming to report to the commander in Sushne. We were following their tracks along the road and then … and then no tracks.' He reached into a pocket and took out a packet of
papirosa
cigarettes, his rifle waving in my face as he steadied it with one hand. He pinched the tube and put it into his mouth. ‘What do you make of that?'

I shook my head.

‘But what would
you
think? If their tracks just stopped?'

‘I wouldn't know what to think.' I could feel the cold air around me. I'd been warm under the coat, had even sweated a little from the exertion of trying to move quickly, the adrenalin
from confronting the child thief, and now the sweat was cooling in the wind that blew along the road.

‘It was like they just vanished,' the soldier said.

I glanced over to the trees again, wondering if my sons were there yet.

The young soldier followed my gaze. ‘Something there?' he asked. ‘Or are you thinking you can make it to the trees?'

‘What? No. I told you, I'm looking for my daughter.'

The second soldier, Andrei, glanced out towards the trees. ‘How old is she?'

‘Eight years old,' I said, trying to catch his eye. ‘Her name is Dariya. Let me go after her.'

‘How long has she been missing?'

‘A few hours. Please. She's just a little girl and she's lost out here in the cold.'

‘Only eight years old?' He studied me, pursing his lips, as if considering my plea.

‘What does it matter?' said the first soldier, making his comrade look up at him. ‘One less kulak.'

‘No, we're not kulaks, we're—'

‘You're all kulaks,' he said. ‘All trying to keep your wealth to yourselves. Hide it from those that have nothing; people who are willing to work.'

‘
We
have nothing.' I spoke to the man standing beside me. I could feel he was more sympathetic. Perhaps he might be able to influence his comrade. ‘Please, I need to find her. Look.' I pointed again. ‘You can see her tracks. She went along the road. Please. Just let me follow her. Come with me.'

The mounted soldier shook his head. ‘All you ever do is lie. You're all enemies of the people.'

‘I'm telling the truth.'

‘Maybe we should follow these tracks now,' Andrei said. ‘We're going that way anyway.'

‘He's trying to trick us. Trick us so he can run.' The mounted soldier stared down at me. ‘You think you can run?'

‘No. No, I'm just looking for—'

‘Take off your boots.'

‘My boots?'

‘There
are
tracks, Yakov.' Andrei said. ‘And they
are
small. Maybe he's telling the truth.'

‘Shut up.'

‘We could follow them.' He turned to look along the road. ‘If he's lying, we'll arrest him – it doesn't make any difference.'

Yakov turned to look down at his comrade, contempt in his eyes and on his lips. ‘You're right about
that
– it makes no difference. Lying or not, we're going to arrest him.' He turned back to me. ‘Take off your boots.'

‘Let him keep them,' said Andrei. ‘He's done nothing wrong.'

‘He's a kulak. Take them off.'

I hesitated, looking first at Andrei, then up at Yakov. I wondered if I was quick enough to overpower these two young men, but my question was answered by a vicious and powerful blow. The man on horseback thrust the barrel of his rifle hard into the place where my neck met my collarbone, a sharp and sudden pain which took me by surprise and dropped me to my knees, gasping for breath.

‘Take off your boots or I'll kill you right here.'

I coughed, putting a hand to the place where Yakov had hit me, and I sucked air into my lungs before looking up at him, wanting to drag him from his horse and beat him for what he'd done.

‘Take them off.' Yakov pointed the rifle at my face, and I had no doubt he would use it if I didn't do as he instructed.

I nodded and pulled the boots off, leaving them in the snow.

‘All right,' Yakov said. ‘Now there's no running away. Now there's only walking.' He motioned ahead of him with the barrel of his rifle. ‘Go on, tsarist. Start walking.'

Andrei collected my satchel and rifle, putting them across his back before he picked up my boots. He looked at me, but only caught my eye by accident, and there was something like shame in his expression. He was not comfortable; this was not what
he wanted; he was doing his job. Yakov, though, was enjoying himself.

‘I'm no tsarist,' I said.

‘You're whatever I say you are. Go on. Walk.'

22

It was only a matter of minutes before my feet were numb and I felt nothing of the ground upon which I walked. I might have been walking on a bed of feathers or a field of the sharpest nails, it wouldn't have mattered. And as the sun dropped from the sky, the temperature fell with it and the cold wind plucked at my clothes, finding its way through. I stayed upright, head straight, eyes ahead. I was a soldier. I had marched in the cold before. But I was older and my age punished me as if it were scornful of what I'd become. My steps were laboured. I was exhausted, hungry, and with no feeling in my feet I couldn't help stumbling from time to time. And every time I fell to my knees, the riders stopped behind me and waited for me to stand and begin walking again. If I took too long, Yakov would edge forward and prod me with the barrel of his rifle, digging at my ribs, my spine, the back of my head. He had learned to poke at the places where the bone was close to the skin.

Ignoring the pain, I focused on the footprints ahead. The only prints on the road. Dariya's small feet leading the way; her amazing, resilient little feet that had endured so much walking and so much horror and yet walked on. I stared at those prints and kept my mind away from the cold and the snow and the riders behind. I thought of Natalia at home, sitting with Lara, wondering when I would return with the boys. And I thought about my sons following, wondering when I would hear their first shot, waiting for the moment when they would shoot these two men from their horses and come for me.