Duck appeared just as Petr reached the riverbank. The big dog leaped on Petr in his excitement and knocked them both tumbling down the bank and onto the ice. If the ice had been thin, the fall would have been disastrous; neither Petr nor Duck could have survived getting wet in this cold. But the river was frozen solid, despite its swift current. Petr ruffled Duck’s fur and ran, half crouching, straight down the middle of the river, using it like a road, slipping and sliding and losing his balance on the ice but somehow keeping his feet. The river’s steep banks rising on either side hid him from the Germans’ view.
Petr and Duck reached a stone bridge that arched over them. That gave Petr pause because he didn’t remember passing a stone bridge on the way to the village. He must be running in the wrong direction, away from the Russian lines and into the German ones. Then he heard the roar of automobile engines and saw a column of German troop-transport trucks driving toward the bridge, rushing soldiers to reinforce the attack on the village. Petr grabbed Duck, pulled him under the bridge, and plastered himself against the stonework in the shadow of the bridge’s arch. The vibration of the heavy trucks rumbling overhead ran through him. He held Duck tight and quiet, waiting for the trucks to pass. There must have been a dozen of them. But he realized he had a better chance of surviving here than trying to pass back through the village, even if he was heading straight to Berlin. When the rumble of the last truck faded into the distance, Petr let go of Duck, and they continued on their way.
The thunder of the tanks and the crackle of the machine guns gradually grew more distant. Poplar and birch trees lined the riverbank. Petr hoisted himself up out of the river by grabbing the trees’ bare branches and roots.
He ran away from the river now, deeper into the taiga. At any sign of civilization, he automatically turned in the opposite direction. If he was behind German lines, villages would be held by the Wehrmacht and the roads patrolled. He grew exhausted, but he didn’t feel its full effect until the sun sank low against the horizon. He collapsed against a thick tree trunk, welcoming the darkness. It would hide him, protect him from German patrols. He didn’t know where he was, but for the moment at least he was safe. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of Duck’s body curled up against his own.
Petr didn’t sleep. He wasn’t that kind of tired. He was fatigued. His muscles ached from the tension of the battle and the duration of his run. He lay there waiting for the lactic acid to seep slowly out of his muscles, for the pain of the fatigue to give way to stiffness. He had to get up before he lost feeling in his extremities. He’d escaped the Germans, but the cold could still kill him.
His back cracked as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He twisted his spine to loosen his muscles, but it did little good. He glanced down at Duck and noticed that the dog was chewing his paws, digging ice out from where it had lodged between his toes. Petr ruffled the fur on the dog’s head, muttered “Good boy,” and stood.
They plunged deeper into the woods. He couldn’t tell which direction he was moving in, but the night sky was slightly brighter in one direction. That might be a sign of the aurora borealis, or it might be the glow of Leningrad’s lights. Either way, that was north, and north offered Petr the best chance of escape.
As Petr would later learn, he was partially correct. The sky was reflecting the glow of Leningrad, but the light came from Leningrad’s burning fires. Petr knew the Germans had surrounded Leningrad and held the city in a tight blockade. He wasn’t aware of the true desperation, starvation, and privation of every citizen caught within the city. He didn’t know that the electricity had been cut. He didn’t know that the gas lines didn’t work. He didn’t know that the water-pumping stations had broken down. And he didn’t know that thousands of people were starving to death every day. The Soviet government didn’t want people to know what was happening in Leningrad, because it didn’t want anyone, especially not soldiers, to know how close they were to losing the war with Germany. So the officials and bureaucrats and commissars carefully controlled all information coming out of the city. The NKVD opened and read all mail. Refugees who managed to escape and began to describe what was really happening were arrested and warned to keep quiet.
No one outside of Leningrad knew how bad it truly was in the city. Everyone believed the citizens were courageously and patriotically holding out against the Germans, waiting for the glorious moment when they would finally be liberated by the Second Shock Army. That, the Soviet leaders believed, was best for morale.
No one outside the city knew it was a death trap.
So Petr headed toward Leningrad, believing that, since he was behind enemy lines, the besieged city offered him the best chance of safety. If he could only reach the guns and trenches of Leningrad, he would be safe.
CHAPTER 14
THE CELLIST
The NKVD man looked well fed. Everyone here did. That was all Karen could think of while she stared at the man across the big wooden table. She could even smell the food. It was somewhere in here, a commissary perhaps, feeding important Communist officials, high-ranking military officers, and their families. She could smell boiled cabbage. When was the last time she’d eaten vegetables? She could only vaguely remember. She briefly considered stealing some on her way out. But that was her stomach thinking, and she knew such thoughts were unwise. She reminded herself to concentrate. She was playing a dangerous game—a game at which men like the NKVD officer were masters. If Karen lost, she knew she would never leave this building alive.
The NKVD man read from his notes. “You met Sasha Portnov in the Young Pioneers?”
Karen blinked. Sasha Portnov? What did he have to do with her crimes? Sasha had been a true believer, a Communist, a patriot. He had nothing to do with the black market. “Why are you asking about Sasha?”
The NKVD man’s expression didn’t change. “I will ask the questions here. Did you or did you not meet Sasha Portnov in the Young Pioneers?”
“I did not.”
The NKVD man looked up from his notes and peered at Karen across the table with the expression of a strict schoolmaster. “It is important that you understand. I know when you are lying. I will let this first lie go unpunished. But next time there will be consequences.”
“I am not lying.”
“Do you enjoy pain?”
“Of course not.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I am.”
The NKVD man sighed, then pushed back his chair and stood. “Don’t you think we have records from the Young Pioneers?” he asked as he walked around the table toward her. “Don’t you think we have official documents proving that you and Sasha Portnov served together in the same group?” He took her wrist in both hands. “Why are you pretending not to have met him?”
“I’m not pretending—” Karen’s words caught in her throat as the NKVD man twisted her wrist. The pain was excruciating. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t even see. She could only feel the pain and wonder what he was doing to her, wonder if it would ever stop. And then it did.
“I know everything about you,” the man warned her. “I have investigated your father and your sister. I have even searched your apartment.”
Karen’s head swam. For a moment she couldn’t speak. She wanted desperately never to feel that pain again. But some part of her mind told her there was something worse than pain. You could recover from pain. The only thing you couldn’t recover from was death. “My apologies, Comrade,” she forced herself to say. “But you misunderstood. I don’t claim never to have met Sasha Portnov. But I did not meet him in the Young Pioneers. I met him before that. I joined the Young Pioneers so that I could be with him. I will try to be more clear in the future.”