She turned. The road was small and unpaved; the snow was piling up quickly.
“We can’t go far,” she said. “Too much snow. I should try to turn back.”
“Never mind,” said the young man. “Just get out. Leave the key and get out.
“Wait,” she tried.
“Out,” he shouted and Vera got out.
Her hope now was that this madman would simply abandon her and take the car. It had been a long while since they passed anything that looked like a house, and it was possible that any house she found now would not have a phone, but still it would mean safety. Her hope was short-lived. The young man stepped out of the back of the car, closing it behind him.
“You are going to leave me here?” Vera said firmly.
“Yes,” he said, stepping toward her in the thick snow at the side of the road.
“Then I’ll start walking,” she said, backing away.
The white snow now mixed into the hair of the young man and stuck to his eyebrows and face. His head was nodding slowly.
“You’ll tell the police,” he said. “I can’t have that.”
“Why should I tell the police?” Vera said, taking another step back and almost falling.
“Because you would be a fool not to,” he said reasonably.
“Now, wait…” Vera began taking a step toward Ilyusha with her hands out as if she were going to plead with him. He put his hands to his sides to let her come near, and shifted the scissors in his grip. The handle was cold and solid. He was ready, but not for what happened. Vera Alleyenovskya did not plead or beg or whimper. It was simply not in her to do so. Instead she threw her one hundred thirty pounds at the young man with her hands extended. He slid in the snow and stumbled backward against the car, and she turned to run toward a clump of fir trees about fifty yards away across an open field. She could hear him get up behind her as she moved against the resistance of the accumulated snow, and after twenty yards she knew he was coming. Twenty yards further he had narrowed the gap, and just as she was about to touch the first birch tree, she could clearly hear two things: the heavy close footsteps of the man behind her and the opening of her car door.
She kept going, and heard the steps stop abruptly behind her. Panting, the cold air burning her lungs, she leaned against a tree and looked back. The young man was racing back across the field. Through the snow she could see the young girl standing indecisively next to the car, unsure of which way to run. She took a step back down the road and then considered going the other way. It was clear to Vera that the girl had neither the stamina nor will to get away from the young man, but she herself was now confident of survival. She took a deep, cold breath, warmed her mittened hands under her armpits and plunged through the trees.
Ilyusha caught Natasha Granovsky no more than ten feet from the car. He had to hold her for five minutes before he could either catch his breath or speak. Only then did he force her back into the car. He drove slowly, the girl at his side, the scissors in his hand as he gripped the steering wheel. In five minutes, he could drive no further. The road was too little and the snow too much.
“Out,” he ordered. She was wearing boots, coat, and a warm hat and he a jacket. He pulled his scarf from his neck and tied it over his head and ears.
“That way,” he ordered, pointing down the road with his scissors.
In ten minutes, the snow stopped and the moon came out. They walked. As steadily as the moon would guide him, they walked along the side of the road through the trees. Ilyusha led the way, feeling the chill patiently taking over his body. Behind him he could hear the light steps of the girl, who walked on numbly, allowing herself an occasional sob.
In Ilyusha’s mind was a crude map almost eighteen years old. He had no idea whether he would reach his goal, or die in the snow.
They were a pitiful sight against the sky, the one lean figure in front, a scarf around his head, and a thin figure in back, stumbling. Ilyusha was muttering and lurched forward, step after step, the scissors clinking open and closed in his hand and echoing through the trees.
When they broke through the woods into an open field, Natasha sagged against a birch tree, and Ilyusha was forced to abandon his reverie and turn his attention to the girl.
“I think we’re getting near,” he told her. “We’ll find a place to sleep.”
Ilyusha led the way again for twenty minutes until they found a small, darkened farm. They crept to a low barn and crawled through a wooden door. A cow snorted and rustled, ignoring the two intruders who fell heavily against the cold stone wall.
Ilyusha’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he could make out the cow, the walls, a small window, and finally the girl, who lay next to him with eyes open, afraid to sleep. She looked feverish to Ilyusha.
“You’re sick,” he whispered.
“Because of you,” she cried.
“I’m doing what I must,” he said. “
In the morning maybe I’ll milk the cow for you. Sleep. I won’t hurt you.”
Inside Ilyusha, vying with the bloody face of the cab driver on Petro street, was the vision of himself and the girl making their way to his destination. He would steal something to eat in the morning early and get going. Ilyusha fought down the image of his wife Marie dangling in their apartment, her face…
Suddenly, he did not want to die. He sat up quickly and looked around, afraid. The small barn threatened to grow large. He could kill the girl, that might stop the barn from growing, but then he would be alone and he did not want to be alone. The sound of the cow and the steady breathing of the girl soothed and blanketed his thoughts. He lay back and slept but did not dream.
With first light, the barn door flew open and so did Ilyusha’s eyes. The boy who looked at him was frightened, and for a moment Ilyusha did not know where he was. He had the feeling that the boy was himself eighteen years’ earlier, that he was looking at himself.
The boy stopped and turned.
“My name is Ilyusha,” Ilyusha shouted, and Natasha sat up suddenly. “This is my sister. Our automobile got stuck on the road last night, and we wandered in here.”
The boy stood about a step outside, framed in the sunlight and snow. Ilyusha made no move to rise and frighten him. He tucked the scissors carefully into his pocket and kept his hand on it. The boy’s black eyes were curious and traveled from the voice in the darkness of the small bam to the safety of his own house behind him.
“My sister is ill,” Ilyusha said softly. “We would be grateful for some water and maybe some bread.”
The boy turned and ran into the house. Ilyusha reached down and forced the girl up. She was dazed and ill, a weight without thought.
“Say nothing or you die,” he whispered. “You know I’ll do it.”
Ilyusha prodded her toward the door and looked back at the cow. The cow, he could see, had some kind of growth near its udder and Ilyusha shuddered, thinking that he had considered touching and taking milk from the animal. The world was indeed rotten.
The madman and the girl stood stiffly in the morning cold and sun. They turned to face the house and the voices inside. From the farmhouse, a one-story mud and wood building tilted slightly to the west from age, the boy and a man came out. The man held an axe. He was lean and wearing a cowhide jacket. His face was bearded and dark, and he did not squint into the sun.
“We’re from Moscow,” Ilyusha explained. “We’re on our way to visit relatives.”
“Come into the house,” the man said nodding his head. The little boy stepped back and allowed Ilyusha and Natasha to step in ahead of him. The lean man held tightly to his axe as he followed, watching them. The girl stumbled and Ilyusha led her to a chair where he took a position behind her.
The room was dark in spite of the windows letting in the morning light. A bed stood in the middle of the room against the wall, and on the bed lay a thin woman looking at them. Next to the bed was a set of crutches.