‘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
Yuri 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.