Child Thief (3 page)

Outside, I dragged the sled around to the small barn behind the house. The sky was heavy with cloud, the moon failing to do much more than break the odd patch, but the ground was white and reflected what little light there was.

Pulling the barn doors wide, the smell of animals came out on
a waft of warm air, and I hauled the sled inside. The cow watched from its stall, its dark eyes like glass.

I studied the tarpaulin, seeing its shape, knowing what was beneath the ice-encrusted material.

‘I can help,' Viktor said, surprising me.

‘I didn't hear you coming. You better close the doors,' I told him.

While Viktor pulled the doors shut, I lit a lamp and hung it from a nail on one of the supports. ‘You spoke to the others,' I said.

Viktor came back and pulled down his scarf. ‘They wanted to see him, but I told them to wait until tomorrow.'

‘And they listened to you?'

‘Of course.'

I showed my son a rueful smile. ‘They listen to you. It's good.'

Viktor gestured in the direction of the sled. ‘What are you going to do?'

I replied by taking the clothes from beneath my coat. ‘I need to cover her.'

‘You want me to do it?' Viktor asked.

‘We'll do it together.'

Viktor hesitated before reaching down to take the corner of the tarpaulin and peel it back. I took the corner nearest to me and did the same, both of us moving the length of the sled so we could draw back the covering and whip it off.

I had to force myself to look at what lay beneath.

4

The low light was a blessing; it cast a gentler hue on what we were seeing. The sled was packed with the man's few belongings. A bale of clothes, rolled and tied with rope. A couple of waterproof coverings. A leather satchel and a Mosin-Nagant rifle like the one Viktor had been carrying on the steppe. There was also a wooden case for a Mauser pistol.

And there were the two bodies. A boy and a girl.

It wasn't so easy to make it out in the incomplete darkness, but I had seen the boy's face when we were on the hillside, I had seen the precise laceration on the naked girl's leg, and I saw those things now, just as clearly in my mind.

Looking at the two bodies lying in shadow, I closed my eyes and thanked God I couldn't see better in the dark.

‘We have to cover her,' I said. ‘Give her some dignity. And nobody else needs to see this. You understand that, don't you? People have enough to scare them. They hide in their homes and pray for deliverance, and something like this …'

‘I understand, ‘Viktor said. ‘But how do we keep it from them?'

‘We'll bury them tomorrow. In the right place.'

‘The graveyard? People will see.'

‘We'll go early.'

‘They'll see where we've been digging.'

‘By then it won't matter. We'll tell them something they'll believe.'

Viktor reached out to take the clothes, but I tightened my grip. Viktor tugged once. ‘Let me.'

‘No.' I pulled them back and opened them out, laying them beside the girl.

I gritted my teeth and leaned down to slip the trousers over her feet. My hands were dumb inside thick gloves, and I fumbled and failed. I shifted, straightened the trousers once more, and tried again, but her feet were at right angles to her ankles and they refused to slide into the legs of the material. I cursed and breathed out hard, preparing myself for another attempt, this time jamming the child's feet in the trousers so hard I had to tug to remove them for another try.

‘Damn it.' I put the trousers aside, knowing I'd have to break the joints.

‘I'll do it,' Viktor said, but his voice was weak, almost a whisper.

‘No.' I took off my gloves and stuffed them into my pockets. I put my left hand on the girl's frozen shin and looked up at the ceiling of the barn.

My hands were still warm from having been inside the gloves, but I felt the heat draining away when I touched the girl. Her skin was smooth and cold as stone.

I put my right hand on her foot and squeezed my eyes tight before I leaned all my weight down and felt the ankle crack. And as it did, a lump rose to my throat and I fought hard to retain my composure in front of my son. Our world was not a world for weakness. It was a world for strength and survival. Those were the most important lessons I could teach my son. And yet I couldn't bring myself to look at the girl as I felt for her other foot and prepared to do the same the thing again.

With the second crack, I turned away and bent over, putting my hands on my knees and breathing hard. I fought the urge to vomit, swallowing hard, drawing on all my reserves of strength. ‘Damn.' I punched my own leg. ‘Damn, damn, damn.'

I had been in terrible places and I had seen terrible things. As a
soldier I had been responsible for many deaths, and in my life as a farmer I slaughtered animals and I butchered them. I had broken bones many times over, but nothing had ever sickened me like this. The sound was close to that of snapping away a lamb's leg, and I knew I would never be able to do that again without thinking of this moment.

‘Let me finish,' Viktor said, putting his hand on my back.

I straightened and looked my son in the eye. ‘No, I—'

‘You don't have to do it all yourself.'

I wanted to tell him how much that meant. ‘Dry that. It'll freeze.'

‘Hm?'

I pointed at my son's face and Viktor rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm, taking away the tear. ‘I'll do the rest,' he said.

I let him take the trousers, and I watched him slip them over the girl's loose feet and pull them over the wound on her thigh. I tried not to think of my own daughter.

When he was finished, we stood side by side and looked down at the two small bodies on the sled.

‘You think we should have left them up there?' Viktor asked.

‘On the hill?'

‘Not just on the hill, but out of sight, somewhere—'

‘For the wolves? Or for the crows to take their eyes?'

‘No, I just meant—'

‘This is someone's daughter. Someone's son.'

‘I didn't mean that.'

‘Then what
did
you mean?' It wasn't Viktor's fault, but I could feel anger building anyway. I'd gone out this morning to find something to eat to keep my family alive as long as possible in this hateful, murderous weather, but I'd come down with the bodies of two children and a man who was no use to anyone.

‘I just meant it would have been easier. No, not easier.
Better
. Maybe it would have been better. We wouldn't have had to do this. People don't need another thing to worry about. This will scare them. It scares
me
.'

I swallowed my anger, forcing it away, battling it back inside me to feed and grow. ‘That's why we have to keep it to ourselves.'

‘We shouldn't have him in the house.'

‘We don't know he's done anything wrong.'

‘Does it matter? Is it worth the risk?'

‘Of course it matters,' I said, trying to feel my own humanity; trying to find my own compassion. ‘We're still human. Whatever we do, whatever we see, whatever's happening to this country, we have to remember that. We're still human. We always have to remember that. Because once we forget
that
, it will all be over.'

Coming back to the house, we stopped at the front door. ‘Viktor …' I pursed my lips, wanting the right words to come.

My son looked at me. ‘I know,' he said. ‘You're welcome.'

I nodded and reached out to rub his shoulder. ‘You're a good boy.'

We went in and removed our coats and boots, stamping the snow off by the door.

The stranger was lying in front of the fire with a blanket over him, but if anyone had walked in, they would've thought him nothing more than a pile of rags. Petro was sitting in the far corner, settled into one of the old chairs, a rifle propped against the wall beside him. The room was lit only by the fire that burned in the grate, and three half-burned candles wedged into a chipped clay holder on the table.

‘Has he said anything?' I asked.

‘Nothing.' Petro blinked hard as if he'd been falling asleep. ‘Not even moved.'

‘But he's alive?' I went to the man, my knees popping when I crouched, and put my fingers to his neck. ‘Yes. He's alive.'

‘You think he's an activist?' Petro asked.

‘No.' I glanced at Viktor, letting our knowledge of the man's cargo remain a secret between us.

‘From a
kolkhoz
, then?' Petro pushed himself out of the chair and came closer. ‘You think he's from a collective, running from the OGPU? Maybe they'll follow him here.'

‘It's possible,' I said, opening the flap in the wooden case I'd taken from the sled. ‘But unlikely.' I tipped it so the pistol slipped out. ‘I don't know. There's something about him.' I turned the pistol over in my hands, looking at the number nine burned into the handle and painted red.

‘Some kind of mark?' asked Petro. ‘Does the number mean something?'

‘To remind you what ammunition to use,' I told him. ‘It means this weapon belonged to a German.'

‘He's German?'

‘Or he took it from someone who is. Was.' I slipped the pistol back and put the case on the shelf. I left the boys talking and went to where Natalia was standing over the stove. Lara was sitting at the table, playing with a piece of wool. I tousled the top of her hair and sat down beside her, watching her smile as she twisted the wool.

‘Hungry?' Natalia asked, without turning around.

‘Starving.'

She banged a metal spoon against the rim of an iron cooking pot and laid it on the worktop beside her. ‘Lara, put that away now.'

Lara groaned and rolled her eyes at me, but did as she was asked, winding the wool into a ball as she pushed back her chair and called to Viktor and Petro.

‘Is everything all right?' Natalia asked as soon as Lara had turned her back. ‘You want to tell me about it?'

‘Not now.'

She glanced at Lara, then lowered her voice further. ‘That man's been shot, Luka, who the hell is he?'

‘Shot?'

‘Right through here.' She put a finger to her abdomen, just below her last rib. ‘Straight through. Someone's dressed it -maybe he even did it himself, I don't know, but he's lucky to have lived
this
long. I don't think he'll last much longer.' She put her hand on mine. ‘I'm scared. We can't keep him here.'

‘What else can we do with him? We can't leave him to die.'

‘He'll probably die anyway; he must've lost so much blood. There's some infection too, I think. And he looks like he hasn't eaten for days.'

‘Then we have to help him.'

‘We can't, Luka. What if he's being followed? What if someone finds him here—'

‘You'd want someone to do the same for me. For one of our sons.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘He stays here for now.'

‘You know what they do to people who help enemies of the state. They'll call us counter-revolutionaries.'

‘Who says he's an enemy of the state? And if they come here, they'll call us kulaks and take everything anyway. But at least we'll still have our humanity.'

Natalia made a sound of disapproval and turned away, reaching up to take bowls from the cupboard. She stared at me as she put them on the table, placing them harder than she needed to. ‘I've left his things for you to look at,' she said.

‘Where?'

‘In the basket by his clothes.'

I started to stand, but she stopped me, saying, ‘Later. Food's ready.'

Natalia ladled rabbit stew into the bowls, putting only a little into each. It was bulked out with some of the few potatoes and beets we had left, and we ate it with dented spoons and we drank water from dented cups.

‘When will he wake up?' Lara asked. She was excited to see someone new. Vyriv was small and isolated. Newcomers were a rarity and it was better that way but, in Lara, the advent of a stranger stirred curiosity and adventure.

‘Soon, I hope.' I looked across the table at my daughter and couldn't help but see the image of the mutilated girl in my mind. I tried to ignore it, but it fought against my better thoughts, tainting them and forcing them aside so I saw the cold white face,
half hidden by matted hair. I saw her blue lips, her tiny limbs, and the whiteness of the bone in her leg.

I put down my spoon and pushed the bowl away with the back of my hand.

Natalia turned to watch me. ‘Not hungry?'

‘I lost my appetite.'

After we'd eaten, my sons turned in and Natalia chased Lara to bed. When they were gone, I blew out the candles and took the pistol from the shelf. I collected the basket containing the man's belongings and went to sit by the fire, stretching my legs so my feet were close to the man's head and I could feel the warmth of the fire.

The man lay still, as if he were already dead, and I had to watch him for a long time before I detected the slightest indication he was breathing.

There was little to speak of in the basket. A small piece of sausage wrapped in cloth. A knife, a handful of cartridges of different calibres, and a heavy revolver. I opened the revolver and pulled out a single spent cartridge, turning it over in my fingers before replacing it with a fresh one. I set the revolver back in the basket and put it down, turning my attention to the pistol that had been on the sled.

Once again I took the German pistol from its wooden case, but this time I set the case on the floor and checked the weapon. It was in good condition, and when I drew back the slide I could see it was loaded. I ran a fingertip around the red number nine and remembered how I had looked into the barrel of a similar weapon, in the days after we were betrayed by the Red Army.