I can’t hide …
But I need more. Rostov is howling his wordless rage in my head, but he’s still in control of the Hound.
You’ll have to knock him out to break his link with Rostov.
I look up. Sergei?
The pile of rocks behind you.
I nod, just barely, and snatch the largest chunk I can.
One crack isn’t enough. The Hound bucks wildly, swinging me on his shoulder. I strike him again, again. Rostov’s acid thoughts scour at the periphery of my mind as the Hound claws frantically at me. One last chance—I bash him in the temple, just above his ears, his ears that jut out like his mother’s. He totters back and forth as Rostov’s screaming fades.
He falls to the ground like an avalanche, pinning me under his unconscious weight.
“Valentin?” An iron band constricts my chest as I scan for him in the darkness. I worm my way out of the Hound’s grasp, each movement shooting pain through muscles I didn’t know I had, but my legs are still trapped. “Valya, are you okay?”
He’ll live, Sergei says.
I swallow hard. But what about you?
In the distance, I hear the whine of unoiled brakes.
I know how to handle Rostov. Don’t worry about me.
I pry my good leg free, but my shattered ankle—I have to slide it out one agonizing centimeter at a time. Why help me? I thought you said running away was foolish. That I should be a real Russian woman and live the life I’m dealt.
I was wrong. You make a terrible Russian. I can almost see his boyish smirk. My foot finally pops free; I swing myself onto my good leg. And if you’re crazy enough to run from Rostov twice—toward the American scrubber, no less—well, then you deserve what you get.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
You can thank me by never getting me caught in one of your schemes again. I don’t want to hurt you, Yulia, but I will not always be able to avoid it. And he is gone.
Valya groans as I approach him, and the iron band eases up on my chest. I rush toward him, swallowing down a yelp of pain, and kneel at his side.
“Yul…”
“Come on. We have to go.” I swipe at my eyes. Blood trickles from his nose and ears; his glasses are askew. “Please, Valya, come with me…”
His eyes open and his hand gropes before him. I lace my fingers in his. If I can force rage upon Rostov and the Hound, surely I can infuse Valya with peace. The strength we need. I close my eyes and show him my very favorite memory.
Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand … I wanna hold your hand.
CHAPTER 44
THE HOLE IN THE TUNNEL opens onto a field that ends against the hulking wall. Stubborn, fierce little weeds peek through the layers of ice and slush. We’re fifty meters from the checkpoint, lit up like Red Square—only fifty meters separate us from West Berlin. Guards perch in a tower above the wall; their spotlight sweeps across the field and pins us. The razor wire coiled around the tower looks alive, like a great python. I hold Valya firm.
“It’ll be all right,” Valya says, wincing into the harsh glare. “We can do this.”
One precarious step after the next. A massive sign announces “You are now leaving the Russian sector” in Russian, German, English, and French. The East German and Russian soldiers at the gate watch our lopsided approach.
“Declare yourselves.” The first guard walks toward us as we exit the field, his AK at the ready.
“We have the Americans’ permission to cross,” Valya says.
“You do not yet have mine. Your papers, please.”
I glance toward the guard box in the middle lane of the road. The man inside reaches for his radio. “Valya, look out—”
Valya throws out his hand and the guards on the roadside, the man in the box, even the men in the tower all snap into a salute. The guard in front of us doubles over, clutching his head.
“I have your papers right here.”
A light like the sun crests on the other side of the red-and-white-striped gate. Slowly, the glow dims into Papa, striding forward with a thick sheathe of documents raised. He is brightness and warmth, and just looking at him, I feel my heart sing. He turns toward me: his scruffy black hair and his lopsided grin as he puffs on an unfiltered cigarette.
“Of course, comrade. My mistake.” The guard falls back. As Valya and I limp past him, I hold him tight, keeping the song between us alive.
We step across the border into West Berlin.
“You look like death,” Papa says. He pulls me into his arms. He smells clean, even under a film of cigarette smoke. He’s my Papa, just as I remember him, but stripped down, polished, disinfected. I don’t care. He feels like home.