Pyotr was stung. ‘I bet I know more about enemies in Tivil than you do.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Yes, I do.’
They stopped in the middle of the field and glared at each other. Not far away the band struck up a marching tune but neither boy wished to set off again.
‘Name one,’ Yuri challenged.
‘I could if I wanted.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Tell me.’
Pyotr shook his head firmly. ‘No.’
‘I knew it. You don’t know.’ He gave Pyotr’s shoulder a scornful shove.
It was the shove that did it, as if Pyotr were a stupid child to be pushed around. His cheeks darkened and he gave Yuri’s chest a thump with his fist. Not hard, but hard enough to show he was serious.
‘I’ll tell you only if you promise to keep it secret.’
Yuri’s eyes gleamed. ‘Go on, tell me,’ he urged. But he didn’t promise.
Pyotr was desperate to find Sofia. He had to talk to her, to warn her. His heart was squeezed tight inside his chest as he scoured the field, trying to catch a glimpse of white-blonde hair and a cornflower dress. He zigzagged behind the tents and with every step he swallowed hard, attempting to swallow the shame.
How could he have done it? Betrayed her, just because he was annoyed with Yuri? He scuffed his shoe furiously in the dusty soil and wanted to burrow down into a hole under the ground and stay there. His skin was sticky with sweat because he knew he had to face her. And quickly.
He raced past a group of men tossing iron horseshoes on to pegs, and was relieved to spot Yuri among them. Maybe he wouldn’t actually tell… Then Pyotr saw her down the side of one of the large tents, easy to recognise in that dress because it was the prettiest on the field. She’d know what was best to do. He started to run towards her but skidded to a halt when he saw she was talking to someone. With a funny twist in his stomach he recognised her companion. It was Deputy Stirkhov, the one who had given the address at the meeting, Deputy Chairman of the whole raion. Deputy Stirkhov was a man of the Party, a man who knew right from wrong.
Sofia was handing him something small wrapped in material and Pyotr’s heart skipped a beat. He knew without even looking what was inside it. It would be the diamond ring or maybe the pearls. It didn’t matter which but it would definitely be a piece of jewellery. Stirkhov stuffed it deep in his trouser pocket, then leaned forward and tried to kiss Sofia’s mouth. Pyotr was shocked. What had Sofia done to the man? She was corrupting Stirkhov, too.
Up in the bright blue sky a thin trail of noise like a distant buzz-saw started to drill into his mind. He recognised it as the Krokodil approaching. He wiped his palms on his shorts, his mind spinning. He’d been right all along. Sofia wasn’t just a fugitive, she really was an Enemy of the People. That realisation sent a dart of sorrow into his heart because he loved her now and, more importantly, Papa loved her.
Papa, he must find Papa and speak with him. He started to run.
54
Dagorsk July 1933
‘She’s beautiful.’
Mikhail’s eyes shone with pleasure as he squinted up at the aeroplane’s wings glinting in the midday sun. ‘Just the sight of her so close makes my hands itch to touch her.’
‘It’s a brilliant propaganda weapon,’ Sofia admitted, shielding her eyes with her hand.
The high-winged silver-skinned aeroplane swooped down from the sky like a giant bird of prey. On each side of the makeshift runway Sofia could see the Young Pioneers lining up, backs stiff as soldiers’. Behind them stood the real soldiers, the ones with rifles to keep the spectators away from the plane.
‘The Krokodil is one of the Maksim Gorky Agitprop Squadron,’ Mikhail informed her, ‘designed to fly from town to town across Russia. It distributes pamphlets and gives film shows to demonstrate what great strides Communism is making. It shows off Stalin’s grandest projects, like the building of the White Sea Canal.’
‘You’ve already told me all that. Tell me something new.’
‘Have I mentioned that it was named after the Krokodil magazine and differs from other ANT-9s by having aerodynamic fairings over the wheels and struts?’
‘Interesting. But what about its engines?’
‘Well, it has two M-17 engines instead of the original three Gnome et Rhône Titans which gave it…’ He dragged his gaze away from the plane, looked at her and grinned. She loved his grin. ‘You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what else shall I tell you? How Stalin intends that Russia will soon outstrip the West or…’ his mouth twitched with mischief, ‘that you have the most beautiful eyes on earth and that I want to kiss your lips?’
‘Hmm, let me think. That’s a hard one to choose.’
She stepped closer, leaning in towards him. At that moment the guttural growl of the twin engines roared across the field.
‘Look!’ He pointed over the heads of the crowd. ‘Look at its teeth!’
Sofia would rather look at Mikhail’s strong white teeth with their small telltale chip, but she wasn’t going to argue. The plane dropped down on to the grass where, as it rolled and bounced to a stop, the crowd broke into cheers, the Young Pioneers saluted and the brass band struck up the Internationale.
‘It’s smiling,’ Sofia laughed in astonishment.
Painted on the long reptilian plywood nose that designer Vadim Shavrov had specially added were the jaws and sharp teeth of a crocodile, curved into a disarming smile. Down the spine of the fuselage a row of bumps rose like the scaly ridges of a crocodile’s back.
‘It’s inspired,’ Mikhail exclaimed. ‘The most famous aeroplane in the country.’
‘It makes me proud to be Russian,’ Sofia said solemnly.
‘You’re teasing me again.’
‘No, Mikhail. I mean it. I am proud of Russia and I am proud of being Russian.’
He gave her a wide smile. ‘Then let’s go and inspect the Krokodil.’
He took her hand in his, led her across the field through the milling throng with a long energetic stride, but the look in his eyes was so serious and so determined, it didn’t match the smile on his lips. It made her uneasy.
‘Sofia, have you seen Yuri?’ Mikhail asked.
The afternoon was measured by how many times the propellers swung into action. They were watching the Krokodil take off once more. A collective intake of breath from the crowd whispered on the hot summer breeze as the aircraft shook off its lumbering attachment to the ground. It soared up into the air and at once, in its natural element, it possessed all the grace of a dancer. It dipped one wing and banked smoothly into a circle above the field, climbing higher and higher with each circuit.
‘Yes, I saw him in the film projection tent earlier.’
‘Not since?’
‘No. The races are about to start, so he’s probably over there by the flags.’
Mikhail’s gaze scanned the sea of faces on the field. ‘I can’t see him.’
Sofia rested a hand lightly on his forearm. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled well back because of the heat of the day and she could feel that the muscle underneath was tense.
‘What is it, Mikhail? What’s the matter?’
‘Pyotr came to see me.’ He released a harsh breath. ‘He said things about you to Yuri that he shouldn’t have said, and he’s frightened that Yuri will go to Stirkhov with it.’
Despite the warmth of the sun, Sofia’s face froze.
The voices and the laughter all around them, the band’s incessant drumming and the throb of the heavy M-17 engines, all faded to nothing. Silence seemed to fill the whole wide arc of sky.
Mikhail stared at her, grim-faced. ‘It’s time to leave.’