City of Fate (6 page)

FAREWELL TO MR BELOV

N
ot for the first time, Vlad found himself admiring the plain cheek of his classmate, Anton Vasiliev. Leo echoed his thoughts. ‘It’s as if he has been a soldier for years.’

They were on their way, by train, to Stalingrad, following a few days of training. Their carriage was packed solid with soldiers, with just a handful of foolhardy citizens throughout the crowd of uniformed boys and men. Vlad, Leo and Misha were standing together, slightly over-awed by what lay ahead of them, while Anton had squeezed himself onto a narrow seat. Spreading himself out, he lit a cigarette, lazily blowing smoke into the face of the old man who was sitting next to him until the man gave in and shifted a few inches away from him, allowing Anton to spread himself out even
further
. Raising his eyebrows at Vlad, Anton offered what little
space there was left to sit on, but Vlad shook his head,
preferring
the company of his two friends. Anton shrugged and unfolded a crumpled newspaper he’d found in the carriage.

Leo smirked. ‘When did
he
start reading the newspaper?’

Misha, however, was surprised for another reason. ‘When did he start smoking?’

The old man smiled at Vlad, Leo and Misha, seeming to guess that they were different from the rude young man taking up over half his seat. ‘Are you boys off to do battle in Stalingrad?’ he asked.

Leo answered him as the other two nodded agreeably, ‘Yes, sir!’

The man cocked his head to one side and said, ‘I thought as much.’

Anton yawned noisily, forcing the man to wait it out before he could continue, ‘You’ll have quite an adventure, I dare say. If I wasn’t so old I would love to be going with you.’

The others shrugged politely by way of reply. There
followed
a silence and it seemed like the elderly gentleman forgot he was in conversation. He looked out the window and confided in his reflection, ‘I tell you, it’s no fun getting old. No fun at all.’

After a brief exchange of glances, the three boys made the unanimous decision to leave the man to his own thoughts. Anton rolled his eyes, but nobody responded to him.

Out of the three of them Misha seemed the most unsure
of himself. His uniform hung pathetically from his skinny frame and when he remembered to unclench his hands, you could see that his fingernails were bitten right down to almost nothing. He took his cue from Vlad and Leo, never taking a single step unless they were leading the way. If the two boys had been older or wiser, they might have
worried
how Misha would cope once they reached Stalingrad. Instead they were barely aware of the fact that Misha’s
constant
nervousness and obvious need to always have one or either of them beside him made them feel a little braver.

Misha asked his friends, ‘Do you think that Mr Belov has been allowed home by now?’

Leo and Vlad exchanged an anxious look, Vlad leaving Leo to say quietly, ‘I hope so.’

However, Misha needed something more definite than that. ‘But how could he be blamed for what happened? It wasn’t his fault.’

Vlad nudged him, not unkindly. ‘Keep your voice down.’

Not one of them had the slightest idea what had
happened
after they’d signed the papers that declared them to be proper soldiers of Stalin; and maybe that was just as well. It certainly would not have done the three boys any good to know that their favourite teacher would never go home again.

The officials at the registrar office were frighteningly business-like. Mr Belov presented his boys, adding that a couple of them had been too ill to make the journey. His explanation was ignored. The class was counted, names taken and directions issued as to where to go next. Their teacher was led off to an empty office where he was left to think about himself for more than a few hours.

His eventual interview, with a different man, took far longer than he could ever have imagined. After maybe an hour or so of chat, where Mr Belov was invited to discuss his upbringing, his family and his wife, Mr Petrov slid into the real business of the day.

‘Comrade Belov, you do know why you’re here, don’t you?’ The interviewer spoke in a friendly tone, with a limp smile that failed to hide the seriousness of the turn in
conversation
.

Mr Belov hesitated in his answer; he already felt drained from the long hours sitting on a hard chair in this drab, grey room that was barely lit by a dingy light bulb.

‘Are you refusing to answer my question, comrade?’ It was the way the man’s thin lips curled, ever so slightly, around the word ‘comrade’ that made Mr Belov’s spine shiver
momentarily
.

‘No, please forgive me. I’m an old man and my mind wanders. Could I could trouble you for some water?’

Mr Petrov nodded in pretence. ‘Yes, yes. There will be
plenty of time for that later.’

This most casual refusal confirmed for the teacher what had been the vaguest of fears up until now.

‘Yes, sir, I think I know why I’m here.’

The interviewer displayed his crooked teeth, before
summarising
the facts of Mr Belov’s situation. ‘You were ordered to bring your entire class here to be signed up to defend the Motherland. Is that not so?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A look of exaggerated confusion passed from one side of Mr Petrov’s face to the other. ‘Hmmm. And how many boys are in your
entire
class?’

There was no point in hiding; indeed there was nowhere to hide. Mr Belov knew that.

‘A total of thirty boys.’

Mr Petrov, in order to appear to be helpful, held up a sheet of paper containing a list. ‘Ah, yes. We have the names here, all thirty of them. You have known the boys for a long time, I’m sure?’

‘Yes, sir. They are like sons to me.’ The teacher felt like he was pleading for something, he just wasn’t quite sure what it was yet.

‘I have two boys myself, Mr Belov, so I know what
children
can be like.’ Here Mr Petrov paused to see if the teacher wished to agree with him. After a moment’s silence, he continued, ‘Children. They are so precious, are they not?
Of course, they are the future. Our country’s fate will be their responsibility one day, which is why discipline is so, so important. When you think about it, comrade, your
generation
and my generation, we are all teachers. It is up to us to lead the young people on the right path, and insist that they do all that is required of them.’ He paused again, pressing his hands together beneath his chin.

Without meaning to, Mr Belov pictured those hands around his neck, imagining that they might feel damp and cold.

‘Forgive me, comrade, but remind me again. How many boys did you bring to us today?’

Mr Belov thought to himself,
he is like a cat about to pounce on a defenceless bird,
as he answered, ‘Fifteen.’

He felt like a character in a play. All he had to do was merely sit there and supply a little bit of dialogue. His answers were part of a script that had already been written out by Mr Petrov. It was chilling to know that nothing he would say was going to make a difference, one way or the other. He had already guessed the ending and could only assume that Mr Petrov knew this but was determined, for the sake of protocol, to do everything by the book.

‘Where are the other fifteen … that is, the rest of your students?’

Mr Belov attempted to choose his words with care since he didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone else, though it did
seem to him that his explanation was an obvious one: ‘Surely, it is natural for mothers to protect … to want to protect their children, and, well, I suppose, you know how some can be braver than others.’

The eyes of the other man narrowed. ‘Are you telling me that there are mothers, Russian mothers, who would prefer to hold on to their sons, preventing them from carrying out their patriotic duty?’

Having no idea how to answer this question, Mr Belov remained silent.

‘And as for braver boys than others, you are their teacher. They were following you. It was your responsibility to bring all thirty in as you were instructed.’

Certainly Mr Belov was guilty, or, at least, had not been surprised to find himself with a smaller group of boys than he had set out with. He was neither blind nor deaf to the boys who had tiptoed away, or who had hung back to tie shoe laces, or who had said they were going to answer the call of Mother Nature behind a tree that was just out of sight. The forest soaked them up and their teacher did nothing to stop them from leaving.

‘I’m an old man, with an old heart, Mr Petrov. If you are asking me why I didn’t run after them to drag them back with my bare hands, it’s because I simply couldn’t.’

‘Oh, but that’s not my point at all, comrade, no, not at all. You see, it really should never have come to that: boys running
away from fighting for their country and encouraged to do so by selfish women. You are the one with the knowledge, Mr Belov. The thirty of them should have marched in here after you explained what was required of them and why. It was all down to you. So, when you manage somehow to lose fifteen boys, we have to question if they may have felt there was an alternative to following our orders. It is most
disturbing
indeed.’

Feeling thoroughly defeated, Mr Belov did not interrupt or attempt to debate what was being said.

‘Do you understand that Russia is under attack, and that the eyes of the world are upon us?’

Again, Mr Belov did not utter a word.

‘There cannot be any confusion, comrade. A teacher ought to know best, because he is such an important link in the chain. We asked you to bring us thirty soldiers, but you brought us only fifteen. Perhaps they picked up something in your attitude, in your politics that misled the other fifteen into committing treason?’

Mr Petrov flipped back to another page of his notes. ‘Tell me, comrade, do you recognise these words: “Do you want me to tell you all to die?”’

Oh Anton,
thought Mr Belov sadly. He quickly realised that while he had been sitting there, for all those hours, the fifteen warriors would have been approached, one by one, for their opinion of him and his teachings. Not one of them
would have known the power of their words and, yes, maybe that was his fault too.

‘Comrade Belov, is this how you described their
immediate
future to them? You did not mention duty, love of Russia and our great leader, Stalin? Perhaps you feel that we should just extend a helping hand to Hitler and his army to stamp all over us, and the country that has given us life? We should be selfish and only think about ourselves, as individuals who want to indulge our fear of dying?’

In spite of himself, Mr Belov ventured once more, ‘I love my country but these boys, I have known them since they were children. I mean, they still are children. Some of them are only sixteen. I just felt they didn’t … they weren’t ready …’

Mr Petrov revealed himself at long last. He slammed an open hand on the desk, making the teacher jump. ‘But,
comrade
, it is not about what
you
want, what
you
feel. How dare you! You think you are more important than our country, than our esteemed leader? You think you were asked to bring as many boys as you liked and the rest you were free to scare away?’ Here the flushed interviewer took out a pristine handkerchief, to wipe the spit from his dry lips, and deliver a cold, bitter stare. ‘To think, that you have been allowed to teach our children for over thirty years. It is simply shocking.’

That’s it, then,
thought Mr Belov.
No doubt my death warrant was signed the minute they counted the boys. I hope someone will be good enough to let Clara know
.

PETER HELPS OUT

Y
uri and Peter bumped into Tanya again, on her way to work, and Yuri was delighted to note that she said his name before Peter’s.

‘Yuri! Peter! Hello again.’

Plus she seemed glad to see them. In fact, she said, ‘I was hoping to bump into you.’

Yuri shamelessly pushed her further, ‘You mean you’ve been looking for us?’

She laughed, giving Peter a quick hug. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

They ducked into the remains of a doorway to talk. There was a rotten smell which usually only meant one thing, a body, though there was often more than one. They were a common feature now, part of any war-torn landscape;
there were so many dead and not enough time nor space to bury them. Yuri did his best not to see them. Peter hardly noticed them at all, preferring to watch insects in the dirt, making their way around a human-shaped obstacle. Other times Yuri saw bodies everywhere, even when there were none to see. For instance, what he assumed to be a burnt corpse turned out to be a burnt tree trunk or even a hill of scorched earth that had fallen that way after a bomb exploded nearby. It was amazing how, from a distance, a pile of ladled dark earth could perfectly resemble a body lying stretched out on the ground.

In school Yuri had studied photographs of the remains of the ancient city of Pompeii. On a bright summer’s day, on 23 August, AD79, a huge volcano called Mount Vesuvius had erupted. Hot ash, flaming lava and poisonous gases had engulfed the busy town at the foot of the volcano. As they tried to flee, people were encased in the molten lava. Their bodies were preserved, like statues, only to be discovered nearly two thousand years later by archaeologists unearthing this once vibrant city.

When the planes came to bomb
his
city of Stalingrad, on 24 August, Yuri found himself thinking about Pompeii a lot. In the Russian streets hundreds of fires stewed the air while
sheets of ash and cinder fell from the cooked buildings like dirty snow. All the same he was sure that the heat he felt was nothing compared to the torture of lava on his skin. Although, he did remember his teacher saying that some of the people in Pompeii probably died of a heart-attack before the lava could reach them.

His Aunt Sophie had died of a heart attack. She had been making dinner for her husband when she’d dropped a plate, the sound shattering Yuri’s uncle’s reading hour. He’d shouted from the living room, asking if she was alright, and when she hadn’t answered he’d run to the kitchen door, only to find he couldn’t open it because something had been blocking it – his wife’s body no less, her already dulled eyes staring at the ceiling, with a pot of dumplings bubbling away on the stove.

Imagine that; one second you’re doing something normal, like cooking, and the very next second you’re dead on the floor.

The day of the Pompeii lesson, Yuri had come home and had told his stepfather what he’d been studying, and had asked him what would happen if someone cracked open one of the lava bodies with a hammer, ‘Would the skeleton fall out?’

His stepfather had looked at him as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Yuri, those bodies are thousands of years old. The bones are long gone, there would only be dust, nothing more.’

That had been disappointing. ‘Really? The whole person would be just gone?’

His stepfather had picked up his pen and had nodded. ‘Yes, completely. Now, close the door behind you, I have work to do.’

His stepfather had always had work to do in the evenings. He was a science professor in the university and had given his students a lot of homework that he would have to spend hours and hours correcting. Though, of course, that had been before the war. His stepfather had been one of the first to be called away for the army. Yuri had thought it was very exciting and had wished he could go with him. His mother, however, had not been pleased at all. Yuri hadn’t been able to understand why. She’d treated it like it was something to be ashamed of. One night he’d heard her tell his stepfather that ‘they’ were finally getting him out of the way. According to the bits of her sentences he had managed to make out, she’d believed that his stepfather’s boss wanted to give his job to another man. To his relief, his stepfather had completely disagreed with this, telling her she was wrong, that he was needed by his country because he could help make new weapons.

He’d left four weeks before Stalingrad was attacked and Yuri’d realised that his mother was furious with her husband for abandoning his family.

One time, in between the attacks, when they’d sat pressed
together in the coal cellar, appreciating the blessed silence, listening to each other breathe, she’d blurted out, ‘He should be here with us!’

Yuri, torn between wanting his stepfather beside him but also wanting to defend his absence, had waited a few minutes and then had said, ‘But he had to go, Mama. He didn’t have a choice.’

Obviously regretting her outburst, she’d immediately agreed, saying quietly, ‘You’re right, Yuri, none of us do.’

‘Yuri! Are you listening to me?’ Tanya was clicking her fingers in front of his nose.

‘What? Oh, sorry!’ He felt his face grow warm.

Both Tanya and Peter were staring at him, Peter giggling louder than necessary. She laughed, ‘What on earth were you thinking about?’

‘My parents,’ he replied, looking everywhere except at her.

She didn’t say anything to this for which he was grateful. He certainly didn’t want her to think he was a ‘mummy’s boy’, though maybe it was worse to be the sort of person who didn’t mention his family at all, at a time like this.
Everyone
probably behaved very differently in war time.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I have something to ask you. I’m pretty sure that Peter will say yes, but it will only work out if you
agree to do it too. In other words, you have to say “yes”!’

He gulped back that very word, knowing he should at least wait for her question or he would look as desperate as his five-year-old charge. How could she know that he was incapable of ever saying the opposite to her?

She continued on, ‘The thing is, Mother is getting worse instead of better. So much so, that I don’t like leaving her alone.’

Yuri nodded expectantly, wondering if she wanted him to bring her mother out for walks with Peter.

Tanya sighed. ‘It’s just that I’m needed to work more hours at the factory.’

‘Would they take me on?’

His question surprised them both. Raising her eyebrows, she said slowly, ‘Well, now, I’m not sure. We’re probably too busy to train in anyone new.’

He blushed. At least she didn’t tell him he was too young.

‘And, anyway,’ she continued, ‘what would Peter do?’

Yuri blushed even deeper; it cannot have looked good that he could forget all about her former neighbour, the
neighbour
who was now regarding him with a worried look. Yuri sighed. ‘It’s alright, Peter, I’m not going anywhere.’

Tanya seemed to understand his ego was a little crushed. ‘But I’ll let you know, if they change their mind.’

Yuri nodded and thanked her for her kindness, if
nothing
else. He knew she must have noticed his limp and he
felt ashamed. Maybe she thought him too weak for physical work.

In actual fact, Tanya had paid no attention to Yuri’s legs, being much too absorbed in finding a solution to her own problem. ‘Now,’ she began again, ‘the reason I was looking for you is that I’ve been thinking about Mother, and it seems to me that the only sensible thing to do is have you and Peter come live with us. That way I know Mother has company, leaving me free to do what I have to do.’

Peter gasped a breathless, ‘Yes!’ While Yuri had to stop himself from leaping into the air. Hoping to come across as mature and calm, he kept his face serious and asked, ‘Are you sure? I mean, won’t your mother mind?’ He didn’t hear her answers, but she must have said ‘yes’ followed by ‘no’, because then she said that they should meet her when she finished her shift and go back with her that very evening.

‘There’s no point in waiting any longer. I presume you’ve no suitcases or furniture to bring with you. I hope not,’ she grinned, ‘because there won’t be much room for much else when the four of us are home together.’

Home! Yuri hadn’t heard that word in so long.

They arranged to meet her at the doorway a little after 7pm and said goodbye. Now all the boys had to do was keep busy and stay safe until then. It was the first time in ages that they had something to do at a particular time and, for some reason, it made the day even longer than usual. As they
walked, Peter, who was normally happy enough to be
without
a particular destination in mind, asked where they were going, as if there were plenty of choices in the matter.

Yuri, feeling wonderfully cheerful, asked him in return, ‘Where would you like to go … and don’t say the statue of the dancing children?’

The way Peter pursed his lips made Yuri believe that he had guessed exactly what he had been about to say.

Hearing shouts in the distance, they veered off in another direction. ‘What did you do before the war, Peter? You can’t have looked at the statue every single day.’

The child was quiet for a few minutes and then said, ‘I went to school and then Larissa and me would go to her house to play. She let me go on her bike and then Mama would collect me for my dinner.’

It was the most Yuri had ever heard him say in one go.

‘Who’s Larissa?’

Peter looked bashful and tried not to smile, which made Yuri laugh.

‘Is she your girlfriend?’

Peter shrugged a baby shrug, ‘Yes.’

Yuri was in a giddy mood. ‘Are you going to marry her?’

Not appreciating that Yuri was getting so much fun out of what he was saying, Peter frowned a little as he said, ‘Yes, and we’re going to live on a farm, with lots of horses and dogs. And I’m going to drive a tractor.’

It sounded like a wonderful plan to Yuri, and he said as much, though he didn’t think that Peter believed he was sincere. They walked on in silence for a while until Peter’s curiosity forced him to ask, ‘Are you going to get married?’

Yuri guffawed, ‘You’re the first person ever to ask me that.’

The young boy looked pleased with himself, taking this as a compliment.

Yuri rubbed his nose. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it, but I suppose I will, one day.’

Peter asked an obvious question, ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

Yuri detected a hint of smugness in his tone; that even though he was the oldest Peter had something he didn’t have. It was his turn to frown as he said somewhat gruffly, ‘Not yet!’ This sounded a lot better than just saying a plain ‘No!’ Then Yuri thought of another question: ‘Er … does Tanya have a boyfriend?’

The look the five-year-old gave him made him feel quite small and quite, quite silly.

‘Oy! You two!’ It wasn’t a shout, more like a loud whisper.

Yuri stopped suddenly; it was bewildering to hear a voice come out of nowhere. Holding out his hand for Peter to take, he was horribly aware of just how exposed they were, standing in the middle of what used to be a street.