City of Fate (19 page)

Peter wanted to make his own contribution, insisting on collecting more stones to make walls and fences, to keep all his ‘animals’ safe, including the insects he also collected. However, the centipedes and beetles would make their escape as soon as he stepped away from them, forcing him to
spend most of every morning scrabbling around in the dirt for replacements, new recruits for his ‘farm’.

‘You need to find us some sheep,’ said Yuri, as he
rebuttoned
Peter’s coat, this time pushing the right button into the right hole. Peter pretended not to notice, wanting him to work more before he would give into Yuri’s cheerfulness. Pulling his hat firmly down over his ears, Yuri added, ‘And keep an eye out for stuff we can use to make a farm house, you know, like a cardboard box, or even a tin of some sort.’ There was no way Peter would come across a cardboard box in this weather, but he didn’t know that.

Eventually, Peter allowed himself to speak, ‘What about the cows?’ His words were slightly muffled by his scarf, as Yuri wound it around his neck and chin. Mrs Karmanova was busy doing the same thing for herself.

‘The cows?’ repeated Yuri, trying to make sense of what the small boy meant, and not waste this chance to be friends again.

‘Yes,’ Peter gulped mournfully. ‘The farmer has to milk them.’

‘Oh, right,’ Yuri grinned. ‘Of course, well, try and find some grass for them and we’ll help the farmer milk them when you come home. Okay?’

‘Okay!’ Peter was smiling now, all was forgiven.

To Yuri’s surprise, Peter suddenly flung himself at him, a bundle of mismatched clothing that smelled of dampness and sweat.

Mrs Karmanova rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed. ‘You two! Come on then, Peter, if you’re coming. I’m
leaving
right this instant.’

Yuri experienced some relief as he watched them go. What he didn’t hear was Peter whispering to Mrs Karmanova that he knew where to get food. If he’d heard Peter’s plan, Yuri might have stopped them, although he probably wouldn’t have taken the boy seriously. Yuri just wanted to lie back down again and, just maybe when he woke up Mrs
Karmanova
would have performed a miracle and there would be something to eat, like a crispy potato, bread covered in jam or, better again, cake.

His stomach yawned noisily with the hunger. There was a horrible taste in his mouth from going so long without eating. Peter’s breath smelled as bad as his though Yuri would never say that to him. His young companion could be so sensitive about the silliest little things. When Yuri’d joked about his dirty fingernails, a few days ago, Peter had ignored him for three hours, forcing Yuri to answer his own
questions
as if he was putting on a play based on the two of them.

Yuri drifted off to sleep once more. There was a goofy smile on his face as he dozily pondered the idea that when Peter was grown-up he would be worse than his Aunt Sarah. She once stayed away from his mother’s house for two months because his stepfather made fun of her hat.

All was quiet when he opened his eyes, except that from
somewhere outside he thought he could hear the heavy toll of a church bell. He shook his head to wake himself up. There were no bells left in the city so he must still be dreaming. It suddenly occurred to him to ask God to do just one thing, kill Hitler –
surely that would be the answer to everything.

Since there was no need to move, he stayed beneath the blankets. His feet and hands were numb with cold. The
sensible
thing to do would be to get up and move around. He promised himself that he would do just that in a few minutes. In the meantime, he wanted to try and find his dream again so that he could add to it while he was awake, take charge of it and pump it up until it was a proper story with a happy ending: Tanya, Peter and him living together as a family. Mrs Karmanova was there too, living in a flat he had built
especially
for her. He and Tanya enjoyed perfect days together, beneath a cloudless blue sky and golden, yellow sun. They swam together in the Volga, he trying not to stare at her in her black … no, blue swimming costume, her dark hair
trailing
behind her in the water as she does her best to catch up with him, but he is much too fast and too strong a swimmer. He only stops when he hears her crying out in laughing defeat, ‘Oh Yuri! Come back!’ He had been waiting for this very moment to turn around and splash his way back to her. Then, just before he reaches her, he dives underwater.
Grabbing
her ankles, he pretends he is about to pull her down, but he would never do that; he would never frighten her like
that. At the last moment he springs up, drenching her while she screams his name over and over again, ‘Yuri! Yuri!’

Yuri blinked in confusion, checking that he was awake. He was, so how could it be that he could still hear her calling him. ‘Yuri! Get up!’ And why did he suddenly feel terribly afraid? The basement was dark and still, as if waiting, like him, in dread of the explanation.

Tanya’s voice grew shriller, ‘Are you in there, Yuri? Come quick, it’s Peter!’

No!
he thought.
No, it’s not,
and didn’t move.

GERMANS IN PAVLOV'S HOUSE

‘I
t's too quiet. Something is up.' Sergeant Pavlov sniffed the air, hungry for information. He asked Vlad what time it was.

‘Coming up to midday, sir.'

‘They're on the prowl. I feel it in my bones.'

His men didn't doubt him for a second.

‘Anton, I …,' began the sergeant but, for now, his order would remain unsaid as a sudden bang from downstairs brought everyone to their feet.

In the few seconds that it took the Germans to climb the broken staircase Vlad transported himself back to the desk in his bedroom. He sat himself down on the hard but familiar
chair and gazed out the window, seeing, in his mind's eye, next door's dog peeing against the lamp post, while old Mrs Smidt shuffled up the road, looking as downcast as ever. The ordinariness of the scene overwhelmed him with its beauty. ‘I want to go home!' Had he said that aloud? It didn't matter since nobody heard him. He stood, transfixed by all the
frenzied
activity around him.

To his right, Leo butted a burly soldier in the face with his head, before punching him in the throat. The German fell down, leaving Leo his gun to use as he wished.

Sergeant Pavlov was trying to take a rifle from his attacker. In the twisting and turning the gun went off, shooting another German soldier in the leg. The man yelped in
bewildered
annoyance.

Anton, whose passion for fighting was – unfortunately – not matched by his talent, was struggling to knock his man out. The German, sensing a clumsy, inexperienced oaf, who was growing more and more desperate, took his time to dodge the flailing punches, tipping Anton almost playfully in the nose with his weapon. Anton's blood flowed, startling him with the intensity of its sweet smell. Anton was in
trouble
. And then, just like that, the German collapsed to the floor, blood running out of a hole that Vlad had made, in his temple, with nothing more than the little penknife he used to open the letters from home.

Anton's face was a mixture of embarrassment and relief.
Nodding a curt thanks, he threw himself on top of the
nearest
German, determined not to need any help this time.

Vlad barely had time to think about what he had done. He had killed a man.
Could he tell his mother this? Would she and Father be proud?
Spotting a bigger knife strapped to the dead soldier's belt, Vlad leant over him to wrench it out, spinning around to see what he could do next.

Two Germans came at him together, stumbling slightly when bullets spat too closely to them. Vlad steadied himself for the storm ahead. In that split second, when they checked they hadn't been shot, he kicked the man on the left between his legs, causing him to roar out in shock and pain.

The fallen man rolled from side to side on the ground, his hands clutching at the painful area as if trying to prevent the pain from travelling anywhere else. Had he opened his eyes, he could have watched Vlad plunge that fierce Nazi dagger deep into his friend's throat and then yank it back out again, unwilling to let the choking man keep his new treasure. It was a horrible way to die, slow and agonising.

Vlad knelt over the fallen man, who was now wide-eyed and horribly aware that lying flat on his back was the worst position to be in when your opponent is crouching over you, armed with a knife. Not that the German had given up yet. In fact, he did the most sensible thing in a situation like this, which was to grab Vlad's wrist with his left hand while punching him in the face with the right. Such a cliché, but
Vlad saw stars, millions of them, dashing in front of his eyes as the blood trickled from his stunned nose.

The German kept his grip on Vlad's wrist and brought his left leg up so that he might kick Vlad full in the face – proper payback, to be sure, for the cruel kick that caused him to be lying on the dirty ground. And he did just that, sending Vlad crashing into the wall behind him, dropping his new knife as he bounced off the bricks, his face a mosaic of different shades of red. The German dived for the fallen weapon, taking his eyes off Vlad for a second as his trembling hand grabbed the wrong end of the knife, the blade gashing his palm. He didn't feel a thing, though he was dismayed, all the same, at the sight of his own blood. Vlad saw all of this, as if watching a film with no idea what was going to happen next and only one pure thought in his head:
I must kill him or I am dead.

As Vlad slammed into the wall, chunks of rock had spilled by his foot onto a dull shard of glass. There was barely time to snatch it from the ground. Meanwhile, the German held the knife before him, his blue eyes shining with relief. Taking aim, Vlad sent the glass skimming through the air to pierce the man's neck. It was a direct hit. The screaming soldier raised his hands, to pull the glass shard out but then stopped, unsure how to do just that. After all, what does one do with a triangular piece of window hanging from one's neck? His hand dangled stupidly in front of his face
while he tried to think.

As the man deliberated, Vlad's entire being throbbed with the necessity to win this duel. There was only life or death; nothing in between. Three steps brought him in front of the German, who was watching Vlad's every move. At the same time, Vlad refused to meet his opponent's eye until the man somehow managed to whisper, ‘Nein!' Now they both looked at one another. Vlad felt trapped:
it's not my fault we're here!
He reached for the glass, pleading silently with the German –
I have to, you know I do.
The stricken man shook his head, still hoping to change the boy's mind. However, Vlad took hold of the glass spear and pushed it hard into the German's neck. It was over.

When Vlad looked up from the men he had killed, he saw that it was just him and his fellow soldiers again. The rest of the Germans had retreated back down the staircase,
abandoning
their dead colleagues to the winners of this particular battle.

Sergeant Pavlov ordered them to pick up the bodies and drape them all the way down the stairs, where they could help the Russians by getting in the way of the next German attack.

‘Are you crying?' Naturally, Anton did not say this quietly.

Vlad stood frozen while the others sneaked brief glances at his face.

Only Leo stared honestly at him, nodding quickly before
grabbing the corpse nearest to him.

‘Get to work, Anton!' Sergeant Pavlov's tone was sharp, sending Anton, red-faced, to help Leo who allowed him to help, for Vlad's sake.

The sergeant approached Vlad and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, saying, ‘You should be proud of yourself, soldier.'

Vlad was pale and wide-eyed. ‘Should I?' He looked down at the men he had murdered so cleverly, whispering, ‘I did that?'

Sergeant Pavlov's reply was instant, ‘You did your job, nothing more and nothing less. Just like the rest of us.' He fished out a battered box of precious cigarette stubs, picking two of the bigger ones and handing one to Vlad who barely realised he had accepted it.

His sergeant struck a match and offered Vlad the flame. ‘Just put it in your mouth, son. Don't think about it.'

This was easy enough to do, apart from having to ignore the dirtiness of the second-hand fag and its sour smell. Vlad needed not to have to think. Sergeant Pavlov smiled as he watched Vlad gingerly place the cigarette butt between his lips, ‘Is this your first one?'

Vlad shook his head. He had smoked one or two
cigarettes
before but had not enjoyed them much. Nevertheless, he obediently sucked on the stub, doing his best to hide his shaking hands from the man who had already noticed them.

The sergeant sighed, and leant against the wall, looking
for all the world like he was standing on a street corner, on an ordinary day, leading an ordinary life. ‘You can't think too much about this stuff, you know. For the time being this is all there is. Those soldiers are here to take our country away from us and the only ones who can stop them are us.'

Vlad felt a sudden rush of dizziness and was tempted to close his eyes until it passed.

Sergeant Pavlov continued, ‘It's all we have, all any man has, our own country, our homes. It is something to fight for, the one thing worth fighting for … and killing for.'

Vlad was grateful for the man's comforting tone, even if he was slightly unsure about how much he agreed with his words. Fighting was one thing, but actual killing seemed a different thing altogether.

‘Look, if it helps, try to see it this way,' said the sergeant, ‘Don't think about how many you have to kill; instead think about how many Russians you are going to save.'

There was no doubting that it sounded a lot better when put like that. Something struck Vlad, the one truth about everything, from this moment on. ‘There is no turning back.'

Sergeant Pavlov heard what he said but chose to pretend otherwise. There was no need to say anything else. In any case, Vlad had nothing further to add since he was too busy vomiting his guts up onto the floor, the ugly stub plopped into the middle of it.

‘Good lad!' said the sergeant, as if Vlad had accomplished
exactly what he had meant him to. ‘Go help the others when you're done.'

By the time that Vlad was ready to deal with the last
soldier
, Leo had appeared beside him to help. Neither boy so much as glanced at one another, but Leo felt his friend's gratitude. Vlad took the feet as Leo placed his hands under the shoulders, taking care not to look at the glass in his neck. The German was heavier than he looked. As they lifted him off the floor, a sheet of paper fell out of his trouser pocket.

Nervously, Vlad turned it over with his foot to find a drawing on the other side. It was clearly the work of a young child. The boy in the picture was holding a man's hand, presumably the man whose feet were now in Vlad's hands. Beneath the two figures were words written in
different
colour crayons: ‘
Ich liebe dich, Papa'.
Vlad knew what that meant: ‘I love you, Daddy'.

Leo shrugged helplessly at his friend's face, as if to say, what did you expect? Of course we have to kill fathers who have children back home in Germany, impatient to see them again. They're human just like us. Realising he needed to say something, Leo murmured, ‘If he wasn't lying here between us, I'd be sitting down to write a letter to your parents, describing how you died a hero's death.'

Working furiously to fight more tears, Vlad begged his friend, ‘Tell me this is all going to end soon and we can go back home.'

‘Nothing lasts forever.' It was hard to know if Leo's
statement
gave either of them any comfort, especially when Vlad muttered, without thinking, ‘Except guilt!'

Anton heard the commotion first. He was still getting over his shock at annoying Sergeant Pavlov and the awful
discovery
that he was not the excellent fighter he had believed himself to be. Poor Anton. Even now, it did not occur to him that all those fights he had won were thanks to his gang of followers, who did his fighting for him. No, it would have taken a lot more than this for Anton to understand that. Yet, he did feel ready for a change.

Hearing the screams of a woman, something he had not heard in ages, he carefully looked out the nearest window. He saw her immediately; it would have been hard not to. She looked quite mad, like a wild animal whose baby is being threatened, as she screamed at a group of German soldiers, ‘Leave him alone! He's just a child!' It was hard to see who she was screaming about, until a gap appeared in the crowd of soldiers and he saw, for a few seconds, the small figure of a boy. As far as Anton could make out, the boy was
neither
crying nor shouting, only standing perfectly still, hardly reaching the hips of the Germans beside him. Something flickered within Anton's heart, something new. The child was so small and absolutely defenceless.

A tank stood behind the group, watching the scene. It was chilling how it seemed to be waiting for the right moment
to do something. Forgetting about snipers, Anton moved closer to the window, to get a better understanding of what he was looking at. He jumped a little when Leo hissed at him, ‘What are you doing? Get away from that window!'

Anton hissed back, ‘They've got a little kid down there!'

Leo and Vlad wasted no time in joining him, glancing
outside
to check that Anton wasn't imagining things. They saw the child immediately and then moved back into the
shadows
again, Leo urging his friends, ‘Just listen and see what is going on.'

The old Anton might have sneered that he had been about to do just that. For a second or two all they could hear was the sound of their own breathing. Then, someone ordered the woman to calm herself or she would be shot too.

She shrieked, ‘Kill me then! You dirty cowards! You like killing old women and children. Well, go ahead!'