Sergei flinches; his gaze roves anxiously, unsettled. I step away from him, not liking the sudden darkness I sense on his skin.
“Death would be a mercy,” he says. “For you and your family both.”
CHAPTER 6
MAJOR KRUZENKO TEARS open the balcony door, and as she squeezes between Sergei and me, her arm touching mine, I glimpse what Sergei’s talking about. Her head is full of bees. She buzzes with panic—with the sound of a shadow peering over her shoulder.
And then, just as abruptly, the panic dissolves into a soft melody.
“I said a quick tour, Seryozha.” She waggles her finger at Sergei, who rolls his eyes. “I just spoke with Comrade Rostov. They are ready for you to resume your training exercise.” That buzzing sound around her again when she leans in close—and then it’s gone.
“Then I’d better not disappoint.” Sergei sets his mouth in a grim line and slips out the door.
I start to follow him, but Kruzenko catches my shoulder. “A minute, Yulia, if I may.”
I squeeze my escape plans to the back of my mind, with no clue whether it will do me any good. Pay attention, Yulia. You must first learn the rules.
“Masha tells me you are planning to escape,” Kruzenko says.
Adrenaline burns through me. I need a quick excuse. “She has it out for me. She thinks I—”
Kruzenko holds up one finger. “No, no, it is all right. I know this is all new to you; it is very difficult to accept. So I will make you an offer.” Her voice is softer than in the interrogation room, maternal even. It’s too easy to trust her when she’s unintimidating this way. “Follow your studies diligently and work hard for a few months, and I will let you see your family.”
My effort to focus my thoughts is lost in a deluge of rage. Who is she, to act so damned generous when offering me what I should already have? I want to reach out and slap her. She flinches, either because she read it in my thoughts, or in the way my shoulders draw tight and my fists cock. I step back. My skin is boiling in the crisp winter air. I take a deep breath, but nothing fills the ache in my lungs.
“I’m only doing this for them as it is. Don’t turn my family into a reward. A treat for obedience.”
“I am permitted to do whatever the State authorizes me to do, if it means your cooperation. Don’t forget this.” She matches the chill in my voice, but she’s perfectly motionless, eyes as unflinching as a photograph. No rage prickles through her like it does in me. I’m sure it’s standard KGB training. I’ll have to sever emotions if I’m going to outsmart her.
“Now, then. I am not angry at you for having such thoughts, though I am sure I don’t have to tell you how foolish an escape attempt would be, for you and your family both.”
I say nothing and watch the treetops below us ripple in the wind. She won’t make the same offer to see my family again; it will be chiseled away and forgotten like the imperial sigil over the front door.
“But your classmates cannot be blamed for believing you might try. So let me teach you a little technique. It’s how we shield our thoughts from intruders.”
I stand up straighter. “Intruders like you?” I ask.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You aren’t that strong.” She smiles, patronizing, and clears her throat. “I am speaking of enemy agents. Your fellow classmates—at least in casual passing. Your thoughts and feelings flow far too freely. You fling them at me when I’m not even trying to peer inside.”
I look away, trying not to think how much I hate her, so of course it’s foremost in my mind.
“Yes, always troublesome, that. Someone tells you not to think about elephants, and you can do nothing but.” She bares her ragged teeth in a grin. They remind me of the metal tank traps along the Moskva River that held back the fascists. “But there’s a simple way to guard them. It’s easy enough to understand, but takes a lot of effort to master. Try peering into my thoughts.” Major Kruzenko steps closer to me and reaches for my wrists. I instinctively yank my hand back. “Come now, I know it’s easiest for you when you’re making physical contact. Tell me what you hear,” she says.
I rest two fingers on her arm, close my eyes, and listen. The river flowing beneath us—fluid, glassy, not raging today. The wind whispering through the birch trees and rustling the occasional sparrow from its roost. Cars sputtering on a faraway road.
Then I hear that melody: catgut balalaika strings and a mournful, keening voice. Notes with hooks in them to yank out your heart and make you bawl. A gypsy song, one that sprouted from the dark Russian earth long before the Communist Party took root.
Not so far away from here, the River Volga flows
Among the ripe and golden wheat, among the pure white snow
The River Volga flows past me, when I am but a child