Lodzia lifted the knife and beheaded the carp as if she were decapitating Sczefczuk. She threw their heads into the soup pan and enriched it with pearl barley, before placing the carp into another container to simmer. ‘He can stick his reindeer meat. We have carp – and noodles, thanks to Sasha here.’
We all made appreciative noises. Dried noodles were a rarity.
Sasha was just grateful she could contribute something to the evening and was thankful when Mother invited her to join us.
‘Marishu, take this soup next door and put it on my stove to cook,’ Lodzia said, and I obliged. Stefan and I were spending Christmas Eve apart – he shared Wigilia with his own family, but I would have him all to myself tomorrow, and I couldn’t wait.
There was no room around the tiny table, and we sat eating our meal from plates on our laps. What we lacked in food and space, we made up for with memories of past Wigilia’s when food was plentiful, the cherry vodka flowed and St. Nicholas had already left his gifts for the children beneath their pillows on the 6th December.
Poor little Ella. I realised she hasn’t received a single gift. We have nothing to give her. However, I was wrong; Mother had one last treat – a small packet of Halva for Ella, and another to share between us all.
‘This is from Boris and Roza. They gave it to me when I sold them my clock, but only if I promised them, I would save it for Christmas.’
The New Year roared in on a blizzard, the two days of Christmas already a distant memory – one best forgotten. Karol was back at the camp in Volosne, and Gerhard left for the forest at five o’clock each morning. They were now the sole breadwinners.
I should also have been out there working, but I inspected my leg ulcers, and while they were no better – neither were they any worse. Perhaps the candle wax was working after all. Hmm, perhaps the quack wasn’t such a charlatan.
‘Don’t even think it, Marishu,’ Mother read my thoughts. ‘We’ll manage somehow.’
I didn’t see how we could. God, I was depressed. Suddenly the Soviet tenet of, ‘He who does not work, does not eat’, began to clang. I had to resume work. Tatta was still coughing, his lungs rasping with phlegm, and he was deathly thin. The quack pronounced him unfit to work, but at least he was now recognisable as Ignacy Glenz.
Standing in the queue with Lodzia to collect bread and soup this morning, I wondered how much longer we could exist like this. Back home there was always a chicken for the pot; a pig to slaughter; cured meats from its proceeds and plenty of fruit and vegetables. Oh, and the eggs and the milk, so rich and creamy. I hadn’t tasted milk since last year in Boris and Roza’s shack, and all I could do was live on the memories.
This bloody snow, this bloody place; this constant queuing; everything irritated me today to the point I could scream. Not only was there barely anything to eat, but the worst of it was that the Soviets had deprived us of the only thing we had left in this world – hope. Tatta kept repeating his mantra of, ‘Have hope child, have hope; something always turns up’, to the point I thought, yeah, yeah whatever. How could I hope – and for what? I neither believed in miracles nor in fairy tales. The irrefutable fact was that we had been brought here to die – and that day was drawing nearer, given the huge numbers who had already perished. Their make-shift graves beside the shacks where they once lived were a poignant reminder lest we tried to forget.
Returning with our rations three hours later, I found my father sat at the table, its top strewn with the contents of his shoe-making paraphernalia box. Mother was boiling woollen cloth in the pan on the stove, prodding it with the handle of her wooden spoon.
‘Novak sent a customer for a pair of boots. He reckons there may be more. He said people’s feet are in a pathetic state; their valenki are worn out.’
I sat down beside him. ‘Will you have enough felt, Tatta?’
‘At the moment, yes. This customer brought a blanket for Mama to boil down. But I can see it becoming a problem if the word spreads and we get a rush of orders – unless they all do the same. I still have plenty of everything else I need.’
‘Will he pay you?’
‘I suppose I shall have to make a small charge to cover my costs – and we have to live – but I don’t want to fleece anyone.’
‘No Tatta, you must charge a reasonable price. If Stefan’s father said there might be more, you have to look at it as a business. They need boots to be able to work and earn money; we need money to buy food. Simple as that.’
I saw admiration in the way he stared at me, and the traces of a smile played about his lips. ‘When did you develop such a business brain? I never knew you had it in you.’
Neither did I. ‘Look, Tatta, we could make a go of this. I could help you. Stefan always said that we could have a good thing going. It beats chopping down their blessed trees. You thought I made a good job of those three pairs I made when we first arrived, didn’t you?’
‘I did indeed, child. I couldn’t fault them.’
Word spread, and the orders for valenki multiplied to the point where my father began to worry there might not be enough tar and hogs’ hair to coat the twine. People didn’t seem to care; all they wanted was a pair of boots that would protect their feet and keep them warm.
My hands were stained again from coating the hogs’ hair with tar and stitching the soles, but there was too much work for my father to manage alone. We were not out to make a fortune, but every rouble went into the family coffers, and we no longer had to worry about meeting ‘norms’. Spring was on its way, Mother was able to afford an extra bag of flour, and the odd piece of Halva that appeared in the shop.
When the orders dried up, my father went to help Novak in the Artel and earned a few more roubles.
In truth, we were destitute, but rich beyond belief because unlike some families; we had each other. Best of all I had Stefan. Without him, this place would have been hell on earth. However, when there was nothing in the shop left to buy, we fell back on the soup rations from the cantina and starved for the rest of the time.
Sometimes I used to stop mid-stitch, to gaze out of the window and imagine that Stefan and I were not people at all, but flamingos. We were happy and well-nourished, soaring and whirling in an infinite sky, while below us thousands of kilometres of forest carpeted the earth.
Searching for food, we might have swooped lower, and now the mighty Northern Dvina came into view, its estuary a cacophony of birds feasting on the abundant marine life. However, we were looking for more than just food; we were searching for suitable habitat, somewhere to nest, to rear our young where flora and fauna were beautiful, where there was plenty to eat, and we were safe; somewhere we could live out our days in love, peace and harmony.
Flying over Kholmogorki, we altered direction as a dense band of green on the horizon beckoned. Reaching the forest edge, we swooped and whirled over endless kilometres of woodland, where little light penetrated the thick canopy of trees. Coming to rest on the uppermost branches of a larch, we could now see the forest floor where, because of the gloom, only ferns and a few herbaceous plants grew. Mosses, liverworts and lichens grew on tree trunks and their branches, and sable, ermines and martens scurried around at their leisure.
Having found our Shangri-La, we soared and dipped once more, flying higher and higher until – wait a minute, what was that in the clearing below beside the Vaymuga River?
It was a camp full of misery where people were toiling. No, they were not people, they were walking skeletons. How did they get there? Surely no one could have known they were there; otherwise, they would have rescued them. Their unblinking eyes were staring ahead; exhaustion etched into their haggard faces. No one smiled. This was not the happy place we birds thought it was. Alarmed, we circled over the camp once more, before flying away as fast as we could, leaving the forgotten people of Vodopad to their fate, thankful we were birds and not human beings.