A heated blade twists into my skull, jarring my thoughts, splitting them apart and sending me to my knees. She stands over me with a laser-guided glower.
“I think you forget too easily, Yulia Andreevna, that this is not a summer camp. A fancy academy. You are the property of the Soviet Union, and when I tell you these things, when I permit you to see your family, it is a privilege and not a right.” Her weepy-gypsy song scrapes me raw like a dull razor. “Remember your place. Who you are speaking to. Remember your purpose.” She laughs, more to herself than me. “Because there are far worse things you could endure.”
*
We are not permitted to access the third-floor observation deck, mostly because it is too dilapidated and dangerous, but tonight is New Year’s Eve and I don’t want to drink champagne and vodka downstairs with the rest. Valentin and the twins are on a mission for Rostov at one of the Party celebrations; Larissa is still in mourning; and I can’t bear the blear of disappointment in Sergei’s eyes because I don’t long for the same Russian life as him. I would rather fall through the ceiling or freeze to death than endure all of that.
The air out on the observation deck is prickly on my cheeks; heavy winter clouds in the night sky are green and black like a bruise, bloated with the reflection of city lights. The Moskva is solid ice below the cliffs, and weeks-old snow crowns the buildings in the distance, mottled and dirty. Filth and squalor. I tuck my knees under my chin and the centuries-old plaster under me creaks.
Nineteen sixty-four is dawning. We are throwing men and metal at the stars and placing nuclear missiles around the globe. Soon, we’ll head to Berlin to witness the launch of the Veter 1, on its way to circle the moon, while we try to stop the American spies from stealing its secrets for themselves. And I will attempt one last time to run—toward what, I’ll have to see.
I should be welcoming the new year, but looking out at Moscow feels like a goodbye. I want to never again look at the skyline and see Stalin and Lenin looking back, standing atop the backs of the workers who made them gods.
Fireworks erupt over the Kremlin, illuminating its star-crowned towers with red and gold. In Novodevichy Monastery to my left, a solemn bell clangs. But the rest of the city, the city of workers and laborers, stays silent. For them, tomorrow is just another day.
Yulias of the world, unite. It’s time to set you free.
CHAPTER 35
LARISSA GROANS FROM UNDER her hibernation nest of blankets on the cot. “Yeah, I’ve been to the vault. What about it?”
“Valya needs your help with something,” I say.
She unravels her nest enough to stare at me for a few moments, blue eyes searching. Then she burrows back down. “It won’t work.”
I grit my teeth. “Is that just your guess, or a vision you had?”
“It’s me trying to be left alone.”
“Lara! This is serious.” I swat at her thick swaddling. “What was it you told me? No point in looking at the past, might as well move forward? You’ve been looking in the past for weeks now.”
The blankets quiver as she groans. “Next time I feel like giving you sage advice, I’ll look ahead to see if you’re going to use it against me.”
“Just think about it,” I tell her. “You know where I’ll be.”
*
Valentin’s new jazz record trickles down the path to the vault—Miles Davis, the album sleeve says. The music is slow, but creeping, like at any moment it might jump out at you. It’s a good sort of uncomfortable. I want to stay on edge.
“No Larissa?” Valentin asks. “It would’ve been nice to have her help. But I suppose it’s one less person who could slip up.”
“I’m not sure I can keep the secret myself.” I settle next to him on the floor. Heat blooms across my arms so close to his, but I try to ignore it. There’ll be plenty of time to run my fingers along his skin when we’re free. Plenty of time to taste and hear my Valentin with no one to tell us what to do or to turn us against each other, against our fellow Russians for daring to aspire toward more …
“Valya, I need to ask you something.” I trace a circle on the top of his hand. “A favor for me, once we’re free.”
He tilts his head to one side. “Of course. Anything.”
“I think there are gaps in my memory.” I wince and pull my hand back from him. Without meaning to, the crackly sounds of his scrubber ability is humming along his skin. “I don’t know if it’s something Rostov has done to me, or…”
Valya’s eyes tighten behind his glasses. “You want me to try to restore whatever you’re missing.” He draws his shoulders inward, curling into the rising jazz melody. “Yul, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I wouldn’t feel right tinkering with your brain—I mean, what if I did something wrong? I’d never forgive myself—”