Novel "The Perron"
Nikolay Matvienko

Annotation

In November 2025, Nikolay Matvienko presents a large-scale historical love novel, "The Perron," set in the steppe Ukrainian city of Nikopol. This city is filled with light and energy. The author transforms Nikopol into a Dnipro version of García Márquez's Macondo—a city where reality intertwines with mysticism, and the past speaks to the present in the language of forgotten things.

At the heart of the narrative is the stone Perron of the Nikopol railway station. The stone Perron is the main character and a silent witness, the keeper of the main family secret. Over almost 150 years (from 1877 to 2030), six generations of the Jewish Kop family leave their invisible marks here.

According to the tradition of matrilineal descent, the story unfolds through the destinies of women—from the great-great-grandmother to the great-great-granddaughter.

Each of them loses a tiny particle of her life on the Perron:
— a hairpin;
— a dress bead;
— a handcuff key;
— a ticket to the unknown;
— a lock of hair;
— a fragment of a vinyl record;
— a cherished coin.

These items, having rolled into the cracks between the Perron's stones, become direct participants in a grand family saga.

The investigation of this centuries-old family case falls not to a human, but to a super-modern detective bot named Vector. It is with his purring on the Perron that the novel begins, and the text ends with the same robot's grumbling.

Vector, like an archaeologist-investigator, not only cleans but also revives the dust of history, scanning and analyzing each find, trying to reconstruct the full picture of events with the help of artificial intelligence.

But is artificial intelligence capable of comprehending the full complexity of human feelings? And most importantly—can it uncover the secret hidden after 1970, leaving the reader with the question: "And what happened next?"

A cliffhanger from the bot robot Vector and from the author puts a full stop in the unfinished plot on the last page of the novel, so that the reader themselves can complete the saga of the Kop family history after 1970.

The novel is constructed like an elegant Möbius strip, where past and future meet on the Perron of Nikopol. Here, at the intersection of eras, a love story unfolds, clashing with the harsh dogmas of the orthodox Jewish community. Feelings between characters of different faiths become a test of strength, reflecting the eternal conflict between personal choice and religious foundations.

"The Perron" is not only about love but also a deep exploration of faith, the voice of conscience, and the search for self in a world full of persecution and oppression by the authorities. The author creates atmospheric prose where subtle observation combines with linguistic richness. The reader literally feels the roughness of the stone underfoot, hears the growing rumble of wheels, and feels the hearts of the lovers—thump-thump-thump-thump—beating in the rhythm of the universe, in the melody of the wheels on the platform of Nikopol station. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

This is a mystery novel, a research novel, and a mood novel that will remain in memory for a long time, making one ponder the invisible threads connecting us to the past and the objects and traces we leave for the future.

 

Dedication

This novel is a restrained promise.

The novel is dedicated to the first and most important editor my words have ever known—my mother, Olga Andreevna Vantsa.

If she were next to me now, her wise eyes would follow every line of this story about the Perron —the very story she told me, her son, during long, quiet winter evenings by the stove. While her knitting needles clicked in a measured rhythm, knitting warm socks and scarves for the grandchildren from woolen threads, with the same loving patience she wove the complex fabric of the future novel. She knitted warmth for the body; for me, she wove a world of memories and dreams, a family history that took root in my soul.

Now she rests with my father in the peaceful fields of Parma Cemetery in Rochester, N.Y. However, stories do not end. My parents left this earth and found their home in Parma, but they live on these pages. I promised to give form to the fleeting power of her words, to erect a prosaic monument, as eternal as the amphibolite stone of the Nikopol platform. This book is a fulfilled vow. It is the last, woven pattern from the threads she placed in my hands, a story as warm and eternal as the love she put into every stitch.

Synopsis of the novel "The Perron "

...The express train of the Kyiv rapid transit metro made a short technical stop at the Nikopol railway junction. The year is 2030.

On the Nikopol Perron, robots amiably distribute fresh water to passengers and announce the remaining time until the departure of the Kyiv-Tavrida express. Another twenty whole minutes. An elderly gray-haired man with a drone-cane strides importantly along the platform, accompanied by his daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter.

Suddenly, one of the robots rolls up to the old man and says.
— Gena. I know you. You were seen off here for Army service in 1970.
— And what's your name?
— Vector. I help passengers with navigation and give them a great mood.
— I'll call you Victor. Come on, dear, let's go to that Perron stone over there, and I'll see if that's where Tanya kissed me for the last time on the Perron.
— Which Tanya? — asked the daughter. — Mom?
— No. This is a different Tanya.
— Dad, you never mentioned another Tanya. Tell us...

But suddenly the robot Vector began telling the bored passengers instead of the old man with the cane.

...Young ladies in muslin dresses met their gentlemen at the station in Yekaterinoslav, which you passed half an hour ago. Our travel speed is 240 kilometers per hour. The Yekaterinoslav station was built in 1884 in the Neo-Russian style. In the waiting room—wooden benches with carved backs, bronze urns, train schedules on slate boards. The smell—a mixture of coal dust, lavender eau de cologne, and fresh buns from the buffet.

Olesya in a dress with a fashionable hairstyle. On the Perron —puddles of molten tar from the heat, cries of porters "make way!"

Olesya radiated happiness and inspiration before meeting her beloved Taras. They hadn't seen each other for four whole months. She powdered her face, rouged her cheeks. She looked on the platform like a high-society lady in this fashionable dress and new-fashioned heels.
— Ah, it's you? — gasping with happiness, she drowned in Taras's embrace.

Taras picked up his bride's limp body and carried her weightlessly in his arms to a bench. With hot steam from the locomotive, they wanted to dissolve in the ether of time to the sound of the wheels thump-thump-thump-thump-thump... Quietly gaining speed, dark green wooden carriages with yellow trim flashed by. Through the window, benches with woven seats are visible. Smoke rises from the stove heating. It smells of creosote and coal. The engine driver looks out in a cap with a cockade, a double-breasted uniform, and boots. Conductors in waistcoats with brass buttons and pocket watches on chains glance at the loving Jewish couple. Thump-thump go Olesya's heels. Thump-thump go the wheels. Thump-thump beats the rhythm of the universe…            

…1916. Artem, heading to his new duty station in Nikopol, finds himself in a first-class carriage, where velvet sofas and porcelain washbasins contrast with the wooden benches of third class. Here, among impoverished merchants and ladies in lace, he notices Yulia-Yael—a local resident returning from Yekaterinoslav. Their acquaintance begins with an awkward conversation by the window, when the locomotive brakes sharply during shunting due to a strike by railway workers somewhere at a halt. Smoke and cheap tobacco fly through the slightly open window. But Yulia's perfume with notes of rosemary makes Artem's head spin.

Third-class carriages—wooden, with separate compartments (curtains instead of doors). First class—mahogany, velvet sofas, porcelain washbasins. Conductresses in long skirts, white blouses, and caps. Engine drivers—in leather jackets and "conserves" goggles against coal dust. Outside the window, leaflets for "War Loans," trampled by soldiers' boots, flash by.

 In third-class compartments, RSDLP agitators whisper with workers, and conductresses in caps nervously adjust the curtains instead of doors. Yulia, somewhat embarrassed and making excuses, tells Artem how the local Nikopol newspaper "Voice of Labor" calls to "down with the Tsar," and how dissatisfied officers are already gathering in Nikopol's clubs. The screech of carriage wheels, cries of vendors "Fresh issue of the 'Nikopol Herald'", locomotive whistles.

At the station, they are met by chaos: a crowd of artisans chanting slogans, gendarmes pushing them back towards the freight cars. Yulia, who knows every corner of the city, takes Artem by the arm and leads him through a side exit—past shops where dealers of stolen army uniforms trade. She whispers that even in the noble assembly they now talk of "changes."
On the way to Yulia-Yael's house, Artem learns that her family—once wealthy merchants—is now barely making ends meet. She shows him the old park where balls were once held, but where underground circles now gather.

— Everything here breathes rebellion, — she laughs, — even the lanterns burn dimly, as if in protest.
Before parting, Yulia gives Artem an issue of a banned newspaper. He feels that this city, which smells of coal and apples, and of Yulia (Ah, that rosemary), will become a crossroads of fate for him. And tomorrow—a new workplace, new faces, and somewhere in the crowd red bows are already flashing...

...1939. Nikopol station. Above the main entrance—a banner "Let's achieve the five-year plan in 4 years". Inside—a bust of Stalin, a stand with the newspaper "Pravda" and leaflets about the Stakhanovite movement. Sounds—a loudspeaker with the march "Aviator" and the clicking of a Morse telegraph apparatus.

A young engineer from the Nikopol workshops with a bouquet of spring flowers meets his beloved Maya, a senior student at a music college, at the Nikopol station. His smart suit betrays him as a local intellectual engineer. But his eyes darted over the passengers' faces like sunbeams jumping on the Dnipro waves.
— Why are you all covered in blood? — the fiancé asked his admirer.
— There wasn't a single assistant midwife in the whole train. The conductress ran through the carriages shouting—a woman in labor is giving birth there. A midwife is needed. And I volunteered as an assistant to the woman in labor. The blood on Maya's coat is scarlet, like the banner on the station flagpole. In the corner—a poster "Thank you Comrade Stalin for a happy childhood!" with pioneers.
— And so?
— Everything's fine. Like all women in labor, she mixed up the timing of the birth in her mind. Whether by accident or on purpose. A boy. Full-term. He cried like all boys—I want to eat.
— Let's first wipe the blood off you everywhere. You need new clothes. They disappeared into the mother and child room.

...1970, heat, July. A neon sign "Nikopol" on the facade, in the ticket hall—soda machines for 3 kopecks with syrup. The smell—shoe polish, bleach, and fried pies. On the walls—posters "Lenin is more alive than all the living" and route maps of the Dnipro Railway.

Metal carriages of blue and yellow coloring. Inside—leatherette shelves, aluminum cup holders. Conductresses in orange vests and woolen skirts. Characteristic sound—the clang of brake shoes and shouts "Citizens. No smoking in the vestibule."

On the Perron, a young man Gena, an eighth-grader, examines the passengers. His mother saw him off and gave him medicine for his father at the Dnepropetrovsk clinic. At the station and in the carriage vestibule—the smell of "Krasnaya Moskva" perfume and moonshine. His mother's instruction still echoes in his ears.
— I have no time. You need to visit your father in the hospital, — she said in a hurry, as her younger sisters needed her care. Mother passed asthma medicine through Gena to his father at the Dnepropetrovsk regional clinic. And Gena, with curiosity and a sense of freedom, walked around the Nikopol station Perron like he owned the place.

A Jewish girl dressed like all Jewish girls was walking towards him, and Gena was very glad about this. "I've seen and known her somewhere," he was sure.
— Oh, if only she would enter my carriage.

She not only entered the carriage but also sat down next to Gena. Tanya was going to her own aunt Zhana in Dnepropetrovsk after the ninth grade.

And for the first time in his life, he regretted not taking the Bible on the trip. It turned out they attended the same religious Jewish school at the synagogue, but according to Jewish custom, girls separately—boys separately. And here they sat side by side, so close that her beautiful eyes were visible and you could see her chest rising with her magical breath.

Her Biblical knowledge was better, broader, and deeper than Gena's. And he was embarrassed by this. The two hours on the way to Dnepropetrovsk flew by like one second—they discussed King David and the prophet Moses. And the rare passengers were very surprised by the topic of their conversation.

Of course, she gave him her address in Nikopol.

It's a romantic story—described thousands of times in love novels. There is nothing new under the sun. Gena sang serenades to Tanya in English with a guitar, and Tanya sighed... And got married. Six months into his service, she wrote to him...

...2025. Nikopol. On the electronic board—the "DNR-express" train is delayed by 14 hours. The sound of an air raid siren. Young widow Nina meets Yan's body at the station. But she does not cry. Nina is in a black cloak without signs of mourning. This is her second husband. She lost the first one five years ago—drowned in the Dnipro. While drunk.

Dove in and didn't come up. Found on the second day in a backwater by divers. And this Yan didn't want to fight. He was caught, arrested, and sent to the front. Two months after he was sent, she received a death notice. And she stands here on the platform in Nikopol, and there is not a single tear in her eyes. Only hatred for the authorities and for the military commissariat TCC (Territorial Center for Recruitment)—for what they did to her life...

...2030. Nikopol shines in summer and winter. Cladding made of polyamides with nano-carbon coating. In the carriages—seats with biometric adjustment, window-displays with views of Crimea.

Robot "Vector" in a white composite body, with a holographic interface on its chest. Sensory pillars with QR codes of the station's history, cleaning drones. Smells of ozone and "sea breeze" air freshener. Staff uniform—light-reflective overalls with health sensors, helmets with AI assistants.

Robot Vector tells the gathered passengers funny stories from the past and announces.
— I ask passengers to take their seats. The train departs in three minutes.
— And leave your phone, — asks the gray-haired old man with the cane.
— Give a token and take the phone number.
— Daughter, give him a token.

The daughter pressed her wrist to the robot. A click.
— Thank you, — said Vector. He winked and sang an old-fashioned song. "I'll put on a new hat, I'll go to the city of Anapa..."
— I'll call you, — shouted the old man from the departing train through the window to Vector.
— We are closing the windows, said the conductor. — And slammed the window shut tightly.

Thump-thump-thump-thump went the wheels of the high-speed train of the Kyiv metro Kyiv-Tavrida... The quiet hum of anti-gravity pads under the carriage is audible.

          *Platform - (French Perron) "perron" literally means "a platform paved with stone.

 

Chapter 1. Olesya from Horodyshche rides a stagecoach along

a dirt road to meet Taras at the Nikopol station

 

Olesya is an orphan, raised by her uncle Rabe. His clothes and manners show that Rabe is a merchant of the second guild.

Olesya was one year old when an antisemitic pogrom happened, sparked by a spontaneous brawl between the Cossacks of Horodyshche and Nikopol. This is a local, age-old rivalry between Nikopol and Horodyshche over everything: strength, wealth, daring, the beauty of women, hatred of Jews. One of the drunken brawlers with a Cossack scalp-lock shouted 'Beat the Yids, save Russia!' and the senseless pogroms began.

The murder of Jews was punishable by hard labor. The gendarmerie suppressed pogroms in the south of the empire. But they reacted slowly. So that the hot-blooded southern people would vent their negativity on the Jews, and not on the Tsarist power.

Because the Cossacks from the Zaporizhian and Dnipro Cossack hosts are a free people. In that pogrom, Olesya's mother was accidentally killed, and her father disappeared without a trace after the pogrom.

Searches and inquiries were unsuccessful, and Rabe, as Olesya's father's own brother, received a certificate from the gendarmerie office stating 'Missing in Action' after three years.

But Olesya doesn't know she is an orphan. She is sure that Rabe is her father. She was only one year old when this misfortune happened. Rabe had to give her a different name. She was born as Leya - לאה, and her sister was born a year before her. And at birth, her sister was Yehudit - יהודית (Judith). But they named her Yulia, so as not to provoke the daring lads with scalp-locks to new pogroms and antisemitism in the Yekaterinoslav Governorate. After the pogrom, Yulia was taken to Yekaterinoslav by Aunt Ruth. And the sisters did not know of each other's existence. Only Rabe and Aunt Ruth, who was Rabe's cousin, knew.

Olesya is riding in a stagecoach from Horodyshche to Nikopol with three fellow travelers, and a conversation among the travelers inevitably starts. Luckily, it's not far – twenty-three versts. They'll get there in a flash – five hours. She got up at four in the morning to make it to the first postal stagecoach at six at the Horodyshche post station.

The trip from Horodyshche to Nikopol by stagecoach was a typical but exhausting journey along a muddy October road. Wealthy travelers could afford a carriage with leather springs, an upholstered interior, and even curtains on the windows to protect against mud. But Olesya was traveling by postal stagecoach. And this trip cost her a whole ruble. She could have taken a simpler option – a britzka or a kibithka – a cart with a covered top. But she is not a simple peasant girl. She is the daughter of the second-guild merchant Rabe. She took two travel bags with secret contents, even from her father. She mentally recalled what was where: 'Flerdorang', 'Montpensier', a thin glass vial with a rubber bulb-sprayer, 'Metamorphosis' cream, 'Mont Blanc'. And something else. She blushed at the thought of that 'something else'.

Olesya was riding in a stagecoach with curtains that were faded and hadn't been washed for an eternity. Her fellow travelers were a chatty middle-aged merchant's wife, Olga; a junior-ranking military officer, Boris, in a summer field-style uniform; and a clergyman, either a missionary or a proselyte, because on the road he spoke about the decline of morals among modern youth.

The junior officer was discussing news from the newspapers 'Yekaterinoslav Provincial Gazette' and 'Yuzhny Rabochiy' with the merchant's wife. This was news about the Government's Manifesto*. The officer took both newspapers from his knapsack, but gave the Gazette to the merchant's wife Olga Stanislavovna to read, while he himself read the banned, semi-legal workers' newspaper.

— Here, take a look. What am I serving for? For these freethinkers? For these Black Hundreds? No. Well, tell me. Olesya. How can I defend them? How? Here's what they write in the Manifesto*.
— On the improvement of the state order. On the All-Russian October political strike. Civil liberties. Inviolability of the person, freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and unions. The creation of a legislative State Duma, without whose approval no law could come into force.
— No. Just look at this manifesto. Am I supposed to defend this outrage?

— You are not defending them, but the Tsar, and your property, and mine, and hers, — the merchant's wife gestured with her palm towards Olesya.

— And why defend her? Her fiancé will defend her. Look how her cheeks flushed crimson at the word 'fiancé'.

— No, Your Honor. She needs to be defended. Because if there's another pogrom, she will definitely become a complete orphan. But as it is, she's only half an orphan.

— That's not true, Olga Stanislavovna. I am not an orphan. My papa Rabe says...

— He's not your papa, — you were orphaned when the pogrom happened in Horodyshche under the previous elder.

— You're all lying to confuse me...

— Or maybe I am lying, to bring this wretched one to his senses. So that he wears his uniform with honor and doesn't read this Black Hundred newspaper. And so he doesn't read manifestos.

— You don't need to shut my mouth, — the officer retorted.

The coachman listened to these conversations and started arguing with his traveler clients himself.

— We are all orphans here, abandoned. Unneeded by the Tsar-Father, unneeded by the government. There's neither enough fodder for the horses, nor a good road. — He stroked his gray beard with his left hand. And his entire appearance, in a gray homespun coat, belted with a gray sash, in a gray hat, was exactly like the dusty road of the same color. The same fadedness, weariness, and hopelessness.

Along the way, they encountered slanted black-and-white verst poles, indicating the distance to Nikopol. Some had the governorate's coat of arms carved on them.

The route ran along a dirt road that turned into a dusty rut in dry weather and a muddy quagmire after rain. At the stops, they were met by stationmasters – lower-ranking officials, often former soldiers, who supervised the change of horses. Some, out of habit, saluted the passenger in the stagecoach. They could be somewhat rude, but if a passenger gave a tip, services for the travelers were rendered faster.

The merchant's wife started a conversation about the harvest. That year was not the most fruitful due to lack of rain, so the topic was relevant for all the fellow travelers. From the steppe farmsteads along the road to Nikopol, peasants came out and sold fresh bread and kumys to travelers. Because there was only one post station – with tea shops where one could buy kvass or herring. And even there, it wasn't always possible to find a place for hungry travelers to rest and have a snack.

The travelers complained about the jolting and the October mud. But as they approached the city outskirts, the road improved. The suburb and the last versts before the city stirred excitement among the travelers.

The stagecoach, bouncing on potholes, slowly enters the city limits of Nikopol. The boggy October road had softened from the dampness, and the passengers kept protecting themselves as best they could from clods of mud flying from under the wheels. The road, which until recently had run through endless steppes, was now lined on one side by low peasant huts. Walls made of clay mixed with straw, roofs covered with cheap reeds, browned by the sun. Here and there, wattle fences were visible, behind which chickens scurried, and by the wells, women with buckets stood, lazily looking over the passers-by from under their hands, which were shading their brows. There is no sun in October, but it's a habit of the local women to look at the whole world with a hand shading their brow, to comprehend the essence of what is happening not only to herself but to the whole country.

And then, amidst this wretched idyll with women and hands on brows, richer houses begin to appear – built of slabstone and shell rock, with thick walls and tiny windows. These are the yards of prosperous townsfolk or retired soldiers who settled on the city outskirts. And further on – the first signs of the city: two-story houses with carved window frames, whitewashed shutters, here and there even iron roofs, gleaming in the sun. The fellow travelers, tired from the long journey, perk up:
— Look, the young lady is all flushed, — the officer laughs, winking at Olesya.
— I bet the fiancé is a handsome fellow? — the merchant's wife chimes in.

Olesya, indeed all crimson, hides her face in a handkerchief, but her eyes are shining. She is going to the station, where her fiancé – a young graduate from the Vladimir Gymnasium in Kyiv – is supposed to arrive by train.

— The station is new now, with columns. And a stone platform. The buffet is excellent, — the officer remarks importantly.
— Well, yes, progress, — sighs the proselyte-missionary. — Now there's a telegraph, and trains run, but people still drag themselves along on horses the old-fashioned way.

The travelers, almost exhausted from the dampness and mud, sigh with relief in the last minutes before entering the suburb.

The road becomes smoother, the mud doesn't fly from under the wheels as much – it's clear that they sprinkle sand on the mud here. On the sides now are shops, inns, tea houses. There flashed a sign 'Shultz's Beer Hall', there a Jewish tavern with a sign in Yiddish, and there – a cobblestone pavement.

And finally, in the distance, beyond a palisade of carts and wagons, the station building appears – new, with tall windows, smoking chimneys, and bustle around it: cabbies, traders, gendarmes in blue uniforms checking documents.

— Well, young lady, we've arrived, — the coachman turns around, grinning. — Just make sure your fiancé hasn't left while we were crawling along here.

Olesya, all atremble, adjusts her hat and steps out, looking around for a familiar face. But looking at the station clock, she realizes the train is still a long way off. Olesya waits for her fiancé at the Nikopol station for a full two hours.

The majestic station building amazes her with its beauty and size. It was she who begged her papa to let her go. He didn't want to. He threatened to lock her up and didn't want to listen to his Olesya's whims. But she knew how to influence him. She quietly approached from behind – put her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek to his beard, and whispered:
— Papa, I love you so much. So very much. Let me go to the station.

He couldn't refuse her, even though it cost him a pretty penny. Forty rubles: travel expenses, tips, the stagecoach, baggage. You see, she took a change of clothes. Traveling clothes and formal clothes. Ah, these girlish antics and the bride's viewing will ruin me.

Olesya, stepping out of the carriage, froze for a moment, struck by the view of the station.

No wonder she begged her papa to let her go to the city to see the new station. And she promised her papa to tell him all about it in detail. So she memorized everything down to the smallest details. To tell all her girlfriends in Horodyshche and her papa.

The station building's roof was covered with iron. Large windows and elements of brick decor framed the door and window openings. Inside the station: wooden paneling, wrought-iron elements, ticket halls. In the passenger hall: ceramic floor tiles, wooden benches, stone and metal details.

Above the central entrance, the governorate's coat of arms was displayed, and under the roof – electric lanterns on ornate cast-iron posts. She froze in delight. She didn't expect to see such a thing. For the first time in her eighteen years, she had gone to the city unaccompanied by a nanny or her papa.

The cabbies at the entrance, exchanging jokes, watched her with their eyes:
— The young lady, seems, is waiting for her fiancé. Look, she's fluffed up her hair like a peacock.
— Probably picked up fashions from St. Petersburg.

Olesya, embarrassed, adjusted her hair and headed inside, where the luxury and bustle made her head spin.

Entering the first-class hall, she found herself in a room with oak paneling, windows, and soft sofas. On one wall, a mirror; on others, paintings with views of Paris and St. Petersburg. In the corner, a string quartet, assembled from local musicians for the entertainment of passengers, was playing softly.

It was not very crowded here. Officials in uniforms with orders were discussing the new Government Manifesto*. A merchant family with children was drinking tea from porcelain sets. A young officer was writing something in a notebook, glancing stealthily at Olesya.

She quickly freshened up in the ladies' room, feeling the layers of road grime disappear from her excited face, and she relievedly sprayed herself with rose water.

She began to notice the details of station life. Olesya had a whole hour before the train arrived, and she decided to look around. The first-class buffet offered Viennese coffee and 'Napoleon' pastries. The prices were steep – 30 kopecks for a cup of coffee – but she allowed herself a lemon syrup with ice. It wasn't for nothing that her papa had given her rubles for the journey. The station was greedily devouring her papa's rubles.

The telegraph in the adjacent hall chattered incessantly – someone was sending urgent dispatches to Kryvyi Rih and Odesa about Jewish pogroms. Olesya grew worried. How was her fiancé Toviy faring in light of this Manifesto*?

Through the window, she saw a freight train with coal from Donbas entering the platform. Workers in tattered shirts were shouting something in an incomprehensible language – either Ukrainian or Greek. But it was clear that hatred for capital and for the Jewish faith was in their eyes. Many Greek settlers from Crimea lived in Nikopol. And many Jews. In Horodyshche, Olesya and Rabe were the only ones in the entire backwater, with the only pharmacy for one and a half thousand households.

Her fiancé Taras - Toviy טוֹהַר (Tohar), was coming from Kyiv, where he had finished a four-month accounting course and was coming to Nikopol for a new position in the river shipping company. In Kyiv, he also attended synagogue and didn't miss a single morning prayer. He headed an informal 'mutual aid society for law students'. Secretly attended the 'Union of Torah Students'. At night, he had nightmares about being expelled for praying too diligently.

When there were only ten minutes left until the train's arrival, Olesya went out almost to the very edge of the platform. Under the canopy, a crowd of greeters was already gathering. Porters in blue jackets with badges were loading luggage onto carts, and gendarmes were checking the documents of suspicious individuals.

In the distance, a puff of smoke appeared – it was the mail-passenger train from Kryvyi Rih with carriages of classes I–III. Olesya's heart beat faster. Somewhere there, behind the windows of one of those carriages, sat her fiancé Toviy.

She began to carefully examine the platform. And to examine her slender legs in autumn shoes, which she had washed clean of the October mud in the ladies' room. She slightly lifted the hem of her dress and admired her ankles in cognac-colored stockings. 'Taras will appreciate this.'

She stood on a high platform – about one meter above the rails.

— Go away. What are you looking at? — she shooed away a ragamuffin who was peeking at her legs in stockings from below, from the tracks. And Olesya, like a statue on a pedestal, looked down. — The gendarme will come now.

— The ragamuffin disappeared from view. She turned her attention to the structure of iron and steel, so she could tell her friends from Marhanets all the details precisely. The platform of the Nikopol station was a reinforced platform, parallel to the railway tracks. Its frame included steel beams and columns – to support the canopy over the platform. The canopies were ornate, with forged elements.

And Olesya's summer shoes clicked on the platform in time with the arriving train, thump-thump-thump-thump. Olesya's heels clicked. And the train in rhythm with her. Thump-Thump. The cast-iron lampposts – with electric lamps – gleamed.

She bent and lowered her head to get a closer look at the paving and the platform's surface. Black and red granite amphibolite from a local quarry, polished to half its shine, but not slippery. If you looked closely, you could see your reflection as in a mirror. Olesya's heels tapped on the granite polish of the platform. And they were joined by the heels of other young ladies meeting the train.

Thump-thump-thump. Legs with heels flickered. And the train was almost here. Just a little bit more. She studied it again like a tracker, to tell her papa about the public, about the iron rails. This mirror-like platform of polished amphibolite was favored by the local Nikopol street urchins. If you stood next to a lady in a skirt and looked at her reflection, you could see such things. Such things. Such things that made the boys' eyes go round as saucers and their lungs fill with air...

...Nothing escapes her field of vision. Water supply – cast-iron pipes leading to the station building and columns for refueling steam locomotives. Sewerage – brick collectors for draining wastewater from toilets and buffets. She marvels at the progress, as if she had landed in the distant future.

The pipes are small and thick. A tangle of pipes, like a spider's web. She imagines distant countries, Paris, and herself as a high-society lady strolling through a luxurious city with mirrored shop windows (and mirrored floors where everything is visible) and men admiring her, looking into the mirrored floor, in which is reflected, is reflected... Oh. What am I thinking about?...

And then, in the distance, the silhouette of the long-awaited locomotive appeared. The crowd stirred, the porters bustled, the ragamuffins perked up. And Olesya trembled all over...

...The October air of the station in Nikopol carried the smell of coal dust, burnt oil, and the sweetish aroma of freshly cut steppe grass.

1905 – this is not only the year of revolution and rebellions in Mother Russia. It is also progress, expressed in steel rails and thundering trains that had already reached this provincial Dnipro, southern Ukrainian town.

With a hiss and a rumble, the train from Kyiv came to a halt at the platform. One of the first to flutter out of the third-class carriage was him – Toviy. Like a large, clumsy bird: arms too long, the plump cheeks of an intellectual who hadn't seen the sun for all four months of study, and a thick cap of black, jet-black curls, provocatively contrasting with his pale skin. His glasses in thick frames had slid to the tip of his nose, and he nervously adjusted them, peering into the crowd of greeters.

He was returning as a promising young twenty-seven-year-old specialist, having completed advanced training courses in 'Transport Logistics', 'Accounting and Storage'. His brain was overflowing with formulas for the accounting of freight transportation.

He is smart, talented, and… a fiancé. The son of a rich Jewish merchant. And he is an ideal match for any Jewish bride in the status of 'marriageable'. Toviy understood perfectly well that his marriage was part of a big game, a subtle calculation by their parents, who knew how to combine the uncombinable and pretend to love the unlovable.

And here he was, this 'uncombinable' element, standing on the platform, clutching the handle of his suitcase with the cherished diplomas.

On the stone platform of black-red amphibolite stands she. Leya. His complete opposite, the living embodiment of a Parisian engraving come to life from the yellowed pages of 'Journal des Demoiselles'. Laced into a tight corset, she curved in an elegant, fashionable letter S.

A light dress of the latest cut, a tiny fashionable hat, a reticule in her hands to match. A bright, almost unreal spot against the backdrop of the tired faces of the common folk and those meeting on the platform.

On the entire platform, there was no couple more contrasting than these two. It seemed to him that everyone saw this difference as sharply as he did through his 'minus three' glasses. But there wasn't a shadow of embarrassment on her face. She was waiting for her Toviy. Rich, clumsy, absurd, bespectacled.

He approached, slightly stooping, as if apologizing for his appearance.

— Leya, you… you look stunning.
— Toviy. Finally, — her voice chimed like a little bell. — I missed you so much.

At that moment, looking into her shining eyes, Toviy was absolutely certain. Certain that this was his own, voluntary choice. Not his parents', not Leya's father's, with whom his father had a joint business combining capital and wharves in the river port of Nikopol.

This was his choice. His. Only his. A sincere smile touched his lips. He believed in this game, believed that this frilly beauty could sincerely be waiting for him, specifically.

And she, taking his arm, was already chattering about the upcoming wedding, throwing him loving glances that he blindly believed. It seemed to them that this was love. And that was enough. At least on this platform, on this sunny day.

Olesya melted from the kisses of the clumsy Toviy.

The lovers didn't dare to travel by horse to Horodyshche after four in the afternoon, as they would have had to travel half the way in the dark. And they said that gangs of escaped criminals, robbing travelers and chumaks, roamed the route.

Now Toviy decided to use his right as a fiancé and guardian, taking the reins of managing Olesya's mood into his own hands. Here he 'misbehaved' a little – they could have reached his house in Kamenka in three hours, but he was impatient to 'cuddle' his bride in private.

— My good man, — take us to the furnished rooms? — he shouted to an available cab driver in a open carriage.
— Well, where to?
— To the fairground square. To the port, — Taras shouted cheerfully and jauntily to the smiling Olesya. — Although she was betrothed to Toviy, Jewish morals did not permit sleeping with one's intended before marriage. And they took a room at the 'Slavianskaya' hotel, but with two beds and a screen...

*The Manifesto of October 17th exposed the deep-seated ailments of Russian society: legal nihilism, antisemitism, the weakness of state institutions. The publication of the Manifesto led to a surge of violence: in October 1905, 690 pogroms occurred in 660 localities. According to various estimates, between 1,600 and 3,000 people were killed, thousands were wounded.

 

Chapter 2
Toviy, a Prayer, Olesya, Feminine Accessories

Toviy retreats from Olesya behind a screen and reads a prayer. He is with her, yet not with her. He is torn between his bride and his faith. The temptation to be desired, and the habit of reading the evening prayer, tear his flesh and soul apart. Leya watches the praying Toviy for a long time. She calls him by a double name. In public, Taras. In private, Toviy. And her fiancé calls her Olesya in public, but in the synagogue and with his parents, Leya-Leah.

Leya sees in Toviy's strict rituals a barrier not only to knowledge but also to simple human happiness. Twilight thickens over the Dnipro, and the lights of steamships are lit. Leya steps out onto the balcony, leans on the railing, and gazes thoughtfully at the wide river. Toviy finishes his evening prayer and comes out to his bride. He stands beside her, nervously fingering the fringes of his tzitzit. She speaks, tormented by doubts and passions, with heartfelt pain.

— Look at them, Toviy. The steamships. They go to Kherson, to Odesa. And from Odesa – to Marseille, to Naples, to Alexandria. The whole world is open. And we sit here, in our shtetl. And the main debate of our century is whether one can eat peas on Passover if they were cooked in a pot of a goy.

 You spend the whole day in the synagogue. In the evening – studying the Gemara. In the morning – prayer. When are you with me? When will we just talk? Not about what is permitted and what is forbidden, but about us? About what is in my soul?

— It's not about the peas, Leya. It's about the Law. About purity. The pea is just a grain of sand. But if you start removing grains of sand, the whole wall will collapse. The wall that has protected us for two thousand years. From pogroms, from crusades, from assimilation. What will remain of a Jew who ceases to be a Jew?

He won't become Russian, certainly not German. He will become nobody. Without roots, without a past, without a covenant with God. Leya, my soul. I am doing all this for you. To earn the blessing of the Almighty on our marriage. To be worthy of you. Prayer is a conversation about the most important things.

— And who said that being a Jew is only about praying three times a day and using a separate knife for dairy? Were Ibn Gabirol, Maimonides, Spinoza less Jewish because they knew mathematics and philosophy and thought freely? They brought glory to our people. And what are we doing? We are burying ourselves alive within these walls, as if in a coffin.

No, Toviy. That is a conversation with God. But I need a conversation with you. With a living person. I need your eyes turned towards me, not towards a prayer book. I need you to walk with me along the embankment in the evenings, when everyone is walking, not run to the evening prayer.

— Spinoza was an apostate and a heretic. He was put in cherem. You want to look up to him? Your 'progressive' ideas lead straight to godlessness. You no longer cover your hair as a betrothed girl should. There, where you are rushing, there is no place for Shabbat, for kashrut. Minyan... duty... I cannot let the community down. And you must not speak like this. It is a sin to place the pleasures of this world above service.

— What pleasures?! I am talking about love. About simple human attention. Are your laws more important than me? Answer.

— Leya... Do not utter such things... Do not make me choose. It is not I who choose. It is the path given to us from above. How can you, a daughter of Israel, speak like this? The Laws of Moses are our life. Our blood. Our protection.

— I will find a place for the law. I can observe Shabbat in my own way. Not extinguishing a fire – that's a medieval superstition. Today there is gas, there is electricity. Why must I sit in the dark when the whole world is reading, studying, communicating? Why can't I go to the park or a concert with a Christian friend? Why should that break my friendship?

The rituals and laws are suffocating my life. I feel sick, Toviy, understand? Like a stone on my chest. I look at those women in their wigs and headscarves, at their humble gaze, and I want to scream. I don't want such a fate. I want to dress in beautiful dresses, like in the magazines. I want you to see my hair and say it is beautiful. I want to board a steamship with you and leave.

— Be silent. For God's sake, be silent. It is the spirit of Asmodeus, the spirit of rebellion and heresy, speaking through your lips. Wake up, Leya. Remember who you are. One cannot be friends with Christian women. Because they are goyim. Their world is not our world. 'Train a youth according to his way; he will not swerve from it even in old age.' This is the way of our fathers. I want my children, our children, to walk this path. And you are offering them to walk on the edge of an abyss.

— I don't know who I am. I know that I am suffocating. I need air, Toviy. Air. Wind. I want to go to Odesa. To see a big city, the sea, people... To leave this place. Come with me. I beg you. Let's go to Odesa. At least for a week. For our honeymoon. Let's save our love, or it will die here, within these four walls of law.

Toviy looks at her. He sees her tear-stained face, transformed by suffering. He sees how she is trembling. His own anger and horror recede before one single feeling – he could lose her. Now and forever. Love proves stronger than fear.

— I propose we breathe the air of freedom, Toviy. I propose that we be not only Jews, but also people of the new century. Doctors, engineers, scientists. Not just melameds and merchants. You speak of children. And I want my daughter to be able to read not only Tehillim, but also Pushkin and Tolstoy. I want our daughter to see in the mirror not just a creature that must be hidden from foreign eyes, but a person.

— Pushkin and Tolstoy will lead her to assimilation, to mixed marriages. They will poison her soul. The Torah is the only book that gives true life. Everything else is vanity and a chasing after the wind.

— But the world has changed, Toviy. Look around. Steamships, telegraph, newspapers. To ignore this is to doom our people to backwardness and poverty. We can take the best from this world without renouncing our faith. We can be modern and believing.

— One cannot serve two masters. One cannot be a little enlightened and a little observant. It is a slippery slope. First you will allow yourself not to cover your hair, then you will want to eat in a non-kosher canteen so as 'not to stand out', and then... then you will abolish the Sabbath for the sake of an exam. No. It's either-or.

A heavy silence falls. He looks out the window – downstream, a large steamship with lights is sailing.

Leya quietly, almost in a whisper.
— So, you don't need me. You need an obedient shadow who will sit silently in the women's section of the synagogue and bear your children. And me?... Her voice breaks.
— And I need a life. A full, complex, perhaps sinful... but a life.

Toviy turns pale.
— Leya... What are you saying...

— I am saying that I cannot be who you want me to be. And you cannot be the one I am waiting for. We love each other, but we fell in love with images, not real people. You – the image of a pious husband from the past. And I... I am probably the image of a rebellious soul from some future that does not yet exist.

— So, you are breaking the engagement? Because of these ideas?

Leya looks at the receding lights of the huge steamship. And in her thoughts, she sails away with that steamship from Toviy, saying goodbye to her beloved.
— No. Not because of ideas. Because of the right to my own life. Forgive me, Toviy.

Leya turns and leaves the balcony for the room. Toviy remains alone, clenching the fringes of his tzitzit in helpless anger. He looks at the wide, free Dnipro, flowing away into the dark distance, which frightens him with its uncertainty and attracts him.

In his pocket is an invitation from the Yekaterinoslav Governor for the position of Deputy Chief of the Nikopol Shipping Company. He has such plans for reorganizing the port. And then there's Olesya. Shipping is stagnant and not developing on the Dnipro: Yekaterinoslav – Nikopol – Odesa.

And the main obstacle is the Dnipro Rapids. They have to transfer cargo from large ships to small ones, then again to large ones. The cost of the cargo almost doubles. This must be stopped. And the Governor insists on it. And he gives Toviy an unlimited budget. He has a plan in his head and on paper.

The topic of his diploma for the four-month course was "Legal and Economic Reforms of Dnipro River Shipping at the Dnipro Rapids and Improving the Efficiency of Yekaterinoslav-Nikopol-Odesa Navigation". He will have to reform the entire local river fleet: lighters, tugboats, steamships, local transport, salikis.

Toviy, for some reason, remembered the barge haulers on the Dnipro from his childhood and smiled at his barge haulers from that distant childhood. From Nikopol, via the Dnipro through Kherson to Odesa and further for export, a huge amount of wheat and barley grown on the fertile lands of the district was shipped. This was handled mainly by large merchants, many of whom were Jews. He himself was from a family of a first-guild merchant.

The river route was long: down the Dnipro to Kherson, and then along the Black Sea coast to the port of Odesa. This was a key trade channel connecting the agricultural hinterland with the empire's largest international port. Through it, Nikopol was integrated into the world economy. The Dnipro River was not just a geographical feature, but the source of life for his Toviy, his family, his future with Olesya. And his children and grandchildren.

And Olesya pines over her feminine toiletries, moving them from one travel bag to another. Here is an elegant porcelain powder compact with a puff. Here are cakes of slightly pink rouge. Paper napkins of natural red pigment.

And these are tweezers and an eyelash brush. Scented 'Fleur d'Oranger' water. Should she throw all this away now? 'Montpensier' and a thin glass vial with a rubber bulb-sprayer. 'Metamorphosis' cream and 'Mont Blanc'. Toilet soap. Is none of this needed now? A necessaire of saffian leather, lined inside with velvet and silk.

And throw this away too? A brush of natural bristle and a tortoiseshell comb. Hairpins, bobby pins. Hair ribbons. A newfangled metal nail file, scissors, cuticle nippers. A corset, lingerie, stockings, a bodice. Does Toviy need none of this?

Tears stream down her cheeks.
— What is all this for? He doesn't love me. I am a fool. — She sobs, her shoulders shaking.

Toviy looks at her and her shoulders shaking with sobs. He sees her tear-stained face, transformed by suffering. He sees how she is trembling. His own anger and horror recede before one single feeling – he could lose her. Now and forever. Love proves stronger than fear.

Toviy. His voice is hollow, halting, as if the words are torn out against his will.
— Alright.

Leya freezes, not believing her ears. She interrupts her sobs.
— What?

Toviy looks away, clenching his fists. He is speaking not to her, but as if to himself, trying to find justification.
— There is a large synagogue in Odesa. And kosher canteens. And I can find a minyan... Perhaps... A change of scenery will do us good.

He doesn't finish. He cannot say the main thing: "I am doing this for you. For us. I will break everything so as not to lose you."

Leya throws herself at him, wraps her arms around his neck, crying and laughing at the same time.
— Really? Are you telling the truth? We will go? Thank you. Thank you, my dear, my beloved.

She kisses his cheek, his lips. Toviy freezes. His body is tense. He does not embrace her in return. He stares somewhere over her head, into the approaching darkness. In his eyes is not joy, but a terrible, all-consuming anxiety.

He has just agreed to what for him is tantamount to sin. He has taken the first step from the firm, settled ground of the Law of Moses into the unstable, dangerous world of love and passion, where the wind of change rules.

And he does not know if they will ever be able to return. He and his Leya. But love is stronger than his convictions, it wins. Love is stronger than laws.

Chapter 3
Yael's Temptation

The living room in the Reicher house. The electric lamp with a glass shade in the living room was an object of pride for the mistress, Ruth. And for Shimon Reicher, an object of pride for the past six months has been an oak sideboard with carving, delivered from craftsmen in Kyiv.

The sideboard's legs at the bottom were in the shape of lion's paws, the plinth had a wide pull-out drawer, the panels and frames were skillfully carved. The capital and pilasters supported the cornice and pediment with a crown.
Behind the glass doors, traditional Jewish scrolls, the Sefer Torah, were stored. Next to the oak sideboard – a massive silver seven-branched Hanukkah menorah, its gaze turned towards the Mizrach.
The air was fragrant with coffee, mixed with the smell of fresh baking. Shimon Reicher was examining some ledger. Ruth was embroidering. The radiant Yael burst into the room, trying to contain her emotions.

— Mamenka. Papenka. I passed. All the exams. And Mrs. Krasnozhon herself said that I have an exceptional aptitude for numbers and that I could even teach.

Ruth, setting aside her embroidery, her face lit up with a warm but restrained smile.
— We never doubted you, my girl. You were always diligent. Come here, let me kiss you. You must be hungry, I told Mirle to bring you some cherry pie.

Shimon looked up from the ledger and the corners of his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile.
— Teach? No, indeed. We have other plans. They are all masters at praising. But I paid tuition money not for praise, but for knowledge. Did you get your diploma?

Yael approaches her mother, allows herself to be kissed on the forehead, then turns to her father, trying to speak seriously.
— I did, Papenka. I can handle double-entry bookkeeping, prepare reports for a joint-stock company, and calculate the cost of stone down to the kopeck. I find it interesting.

Shimon finally sets the ledger aside and looks at her over his glasses.
— Interesting? Numbers are not for interest. Numbers are honesty. Or a lie. They hold the whole truth about a business, and about a person. Have you understood that? A hired accountant counts my money and thinks about his salary. You will count your family's money. Do you understand the difference?

— I understand, Papenka. It's trust. And an honor for me.

Ruth strokes Yael's hand.
— Shimon, don't frighten the child. She understands everything anyway. Yael, my child, you are an educated girl now. But don't forget whose daughter you are. Your knowledge is not for flaunting in front of some course attendees and nihilists. They are for the family business. For our well-being.

— I haven't forgotten, Mamenka. But on the courses, everyone talks about changes. There's unrest in the city. They say everything could change soon, that women can now…

Shimon cuts her off with a sharp gesture.
— The city talks a lot of nonsense. They are troublemakers without kin or tribe who want to break everything. And what will they build? Nothing. Only pogroms and ruin. Our affairs are our home, our community, our business.

That is what we built with our labor. Not their ideas, for which they are ready to sacrifice other people's lives. Have you heard what happened in Odesa? In Kyiv? No? Then I'll tell you: blood and tears. And mostly – our tears. And our pain.

After a second of heavy silence, Ruth says quietly.
— Shimon is right. The world is full of dangers. Our task is to protect our world from pernicious influence. Your father doesn't trust outsiders not because he is greedy, but because he is cautious. Caution has preserved our lineage for centuries. Your studies are also caution. And great wisdom.

Shimon softens and smiles.
— Tomorrow you will come with me to the office at Tokovka. I will show you the account books. You will start small. And no one. Hear me, no one among the staff should know that you are the one keeping the accounts. To everyone, you are my daughter, helping her father sort the mail. Understood?

Yael nods, her initial exhilaration somewhat dimmed, replaced by a feeling of enormous responsibility and slight fear. — Understood, Papenka.
— And on the Sabbath, no numbers. On Shabbat, no ink. Your books can wait until Sunday. First – faith, then – business. That is our strength. Not in their constitutions.
— I remember.

Ruth rises from her embroidery.
— Go, wash up, rest. We'll light the candles soon. And don't think about sad things. You have made us very happy. You are our support. Our clever girl.

Yael nods and leaves the living room. Her gait is no longer as flying as when she entered. She felt on her shoulders the entire burden of her family's responsibility, fears, and hopes.

After her courses, Yael had matured, and now ordinary objects in their house began to seem archaic and unprogressive to her: the drawing-room, kerosene lamps, the old stove and primus. The toilets at the Maria Krasnozhon Gymnasium were cast iron, enameled white, with running water and sewage.

 But at home, even in winter, one had to run to the outhouses in the yard. She longed for freedom, for open space, and she persuaded her father to take her to the Tokov Quarry the next day.

The air in the office of the Tokov quarry was thick with the smell of dust, old paper, and the sharp scent of ink. Yael timidly crossed the threshold, introduced herself to the clerk sent by her father, and sat down at a high clerk's desk where piles of ledgers and folders with invoices already awaited her. Numbers danced before her eyes, but her attention was distracted by a persistent, grating, metallic screech coming from outside. It was like the song of a giant cricket, drowning out all other sounds.

Her heart pounded with curiosity. Her father had told her to sit in the office, but she couldn't resist. Telling the clerk she was stepping out for a minute to get some air, she headed towards the source of the sound.

Rounding the office building, she froze, stunned.

Before her opened the stone processing workshop – a huge canopy under which noise and movement reigned. But it wasn't chaos; it was a powerful, ordered rhythm of labor. And the main thing – stone. Stone everywhere. Huge, rough blocks of black, dark-gray stone, which she now knew were called gabbro-amphibolite.

 They lay like sleeping ancient animals. Others, already sawn into giant slabs of various sizes, awaited further cutting. Some, polished, shone in the sun like a mirror. The air trembled with the clang of iron on stone, hummed with the work of manual and steam mechanisms, was filled with acrid stone dust that settled on her hair and cheeks.

Yael stood as if enchanted. She had fallen in love. Fallen in love immediately, irrevocably, and passionately with this power, with this eternal, primordial force that people were taming with their labor.

And her gaze fell upon him.

To the side, at a separate table, a young guy was working. His back and torso were bare and tanned to a dark bronze color, muscles playing under his skin with every blow. In his hands was a 'troyanka' – a steel dressing tool with three edges. He wasn't just hacking at the stone; he was sculpting.

Concentratedly, with titanic effort and yet with incredible grace, he chipped away piece after piece from the block, and from the formless mass, some shape began to emerge. Yael didn't understand what exactly he was creating – whether an animal or a facade element – but the process itself mesmerized her.

She saw how drops of sweat ran down his tense back, how his arm trembled from the impacts, how he stopped for a second to assess the work, and then set to it again. It was a dance of strength and patience.

At first, a wild blush of shame overwhelmed her – she, an orthodox girl, had never seen a bare male torso so close. She wanted to turn away and run, but her legs wouldn't obey. Shame gave way to delight. Delight before this beauty of physical labor, before the skill, before life itself, which was bubbling up here, so real, so unlike the quiet, ordered world of her numbers and books. Now she was the mistress of this world. She ruled this world together with her father.

'He is a sculptor of stone,' flashed through her mind, 'and I... I am now a sculptor of papers and bookkeeping. We are both creating something important.'

Seized by this new, intoxicating feeling, she turned and almost ran back to the office. She flew through the door, forgetting about decorum, with eyes shining like that freshly split stone.
— Papa. Papa. I'm here, — her voice, ringing and full of happiness, overpowered the scratch of pens and the rustle of papers. — I really. Really like it here.

Shimon Reicher, who had been talking to the manager, turned at his daughter's cry. He saw her flushed, happy face, her shining eyes, her rushed breathing. And on his stern face, a flicker of bewilderment appeared for a moment, followed by a rare, surprised smile. He hadn't seen her so inspired since childhood. She is not an orphan. She is his daughter, his hope.

Seven days. Seven long days, like grains of Tokov granite, slowly trickled through the hourglass of her life. But one grain, the largest and roughest, had lodged itself in her very heart, giving her no peace.

Yael sat at her writing desk, carefully drawing columns of numbers in the ledger with a pen. The ink was black, the paper – white, all the lines – perfectly straight. But inside, everything was turned upside down, painted in wild, forbidden colors and shattered to pieces.

One hundred seventy-three rubles and some kopecks for the shipment to Nikolaev... — her hand wrote, but before her eyes stood him. Not a ruble, but the relief of a muscle on his back, tensing under the blow of the hammer. Not kopecks, but drops of sweat, running down his swarthy skin...

She shuddered and made a blot. Annoyed, she sprinkled sand on the sheet.
'Lord, again!' — her inner voice groaned. — 'Again, him! Day and night. Like an obsession.'

She put down the pen, stood up, and went to the window, as if hypnotized, seeking calm on the dusty street. But even there, in the cry of a street vendor and the creak of carts, she heard the metallic screech of the 'troyanka' on stone.

Yael's monologue. In confusion and horror.
How can I? How can I, the daughter of Shimon and Ruth Reicher, an observant Jewish girl, allow such thoughts? This is a sin. An unclean sin. 'Thou shalt not commit adultery' — it is said in the commandment. And is this not adultery in thought? Is it not adultery to look at the bare body of a strange man and admire it? Oh, I am a sinner. A true sinner.

I must repent. I must go to Rav Aaron and tell him everything. Fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness. But what will I say? 'Rabbi, I saw a worker with a bare torso, and I liked him'? He will think I'm crazy. Or worse – licentious. Our family's name will be disgraced. Papa... mama... what would they think?

No. I cannot tell anyone. Anyone.

I must throw him out of my head. Throw him out, like spoiled food. He is a nobody. I don't even know his name. Maybe his name is Ivan? Semyon? Fyodor? What difference does it make? He is a goy. He won't go to the mikveh, won't observe Shabbat, won't understand our customs. His world is stone and hammer. My world... My world is these books, this room, our home, our faith.

This is a dead end. A complete, absolute dead end. Like that stone block he is hewing. No beginning, no end. Only a cold, insurmountable wall.

Oh, God. Why am I being punished like this? Why have you sent me this temptation? I didn't ask for it. I just went to look... I was like a stupid, naive lamb that came to the wolf itself. No, he is not a wolf. He is... an Apollo. Yes, exactly. Like that idol we were told about on the courses, forbidden and beautiful. I'm thinking about a pagan deity. See what I've come to. This is a double sin.

I will light not one candle this Friday. Two. No, five. Or six. One for Papa, one for Mama, one for my peace, one for the forgiveness of sins... and one for him. Yes, for him. So that the Almighty sends him happiness with a woman of his own circle, so that he finds a good wife, Russian, Orthodox, who will wash his shirts and cook borscht... But I don't know his name.

Yael, stop. What are you even thinking about? You're not even acquainted with him. You are building castles in the air out of dust and sin. He is a goy. You are a Jewess. Between you is an abyss that cannot be crossed. Not by you to him, nor by him to you. Your fate is to marry a pious young man from our community, perhaps that clerk from Father's office, Aaron. To sit at the same table with him, bear his children, manage his household. That is your path. The right path. And everything else is from the evil one.

Stop. Breathe evenly. Return to the numbers. One hundred seventy-three rubles... One hundred seventy-three... And how many blows of his hammer does it take to earn one ruble? Thump-thump-thump go the blows of the hammer. Thump-thump-thump-thump beats her heart.

She pressed her temples with her fingers, trying to physically squeeze the image out of her head. Her cheeks burned with a crimson blush of shame. She was alone in the room, but it seemed to her that everyone could see her sinful thoughts.

The June sun shone through the window, but in Yael's soul, a storm of shame, fear, forbidden attraction, and desperate longing for something she couldn't even name was raging. She didn't know what to call by name that which had come to her. The satin dress hugging her waist rose with her fully breathing chest, and her gaze was directed at the distant horizon of the western sun, setting behind the neighboring houses.

The next day was Friday, and the Friday prayer arrived.

The air in the living room was thick and sweet with the scent of lit candles and holiday baking. Dust, raised during the day, now lazily swirled in the rays of the setting sun penetrating the heavy curtains. The heat was unbearable, the stuffiness exacerbated by the seriousness of the moment.

Shimon Reicher, clad in a tallit, stood at the head of the table. His face was turned to the east, towards the invisible Jerusalem. In his hands, he held an ancient Torah scroll, and his low, velvety voice, filled with reverence, sounded steadily in the silence:
"Blessed are You, Lord, forever and ever, and the host of Your angels guards our peace... God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, our God from the birth of the world..."

Ruth, standing nearby, quietly repeated the words of the prayer, her eyes closed, her face expressing peace and reverence. Her world at that moment was simple and clear: family, faith, tradition.

Yael stood next to her mother, trying to imitate her posture, to whisper the same words. But inside her, a storm was raging. The snow-white blouse with a high collar that her mother had told her to wear for the Sabbath felt like a noose. Every word from her father echoed deafeningly in her ears, overlaid by another, obsessive sound – the metallic screech and dull thuds. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

She tried not to look at her father, afraid that he would see with one glance the chaos raging in her maiden head. She stared at the flame tongues of the candles in the menorah, hoping to find purification in them. But instead, in the dancing fire, she saw the musculature of biceps and the glints of sweat on swarthy skin.

"...keeps you from all evil..." — Shimon read.
"...keeps..." — Ruth whispered.
"...from all evil..." — Yael tried to repeat, but her lips trembled.

Yael's internal monologue was full of despair.
Stop. Think about the words. Think about God. Not about him. He is that "all evil" from which one must be kept. No, he is not evil... he is... work, labor, just a man... No. For you, he is evil, temptation, sin. Stop. Concentrate. Jerusalem... think of Jerusalem...

She made a desperate attempt to save herself, breaking the silence and bowing towards the Mizrach. Her voice, unexpectedly loud and cracked, sounded like a fissure on the perfect surface of the ritual:
— O, Supreme City of Jerusalem. Great are you and great are your deeds...

Shimon paused for a second, looking at his daughter in surprise. It was not customary to pray so loudly and suddenly. Ruth half-opened her eyes, her face reflecting slight anxiety.

But for Yael, neither her father, nor her mother, nor the prayerful living room existed anymore. The world had narrowed to two points: the candle flame, in which his image danced, and the thump-thump-thump-thump that now beat not in the quarry, but in her temples, merging with the frantic beating of her own heart.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. — That is his hammer. Thump-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. — That is her heart. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP — That is now a common, all-shattering rhythm, drowning out the words of the prayer, the voice of reason, everything in the world.

The heat became unbearable. The air had lost all coolness; it was thick and sweet like syrup, impossible to breathe. The hot wax from the candles seemed to flood the entire room.

Her religious feeling, suppressed by shame and fear, retreated under the onslaught of her femininity, awakened with furious force. The flesh proved stronger than the spirit. The body demanded its right to life, to beauty, to desire.

Patches of color flushed her cheeks. It grew dark in her eyes. The sounds – her father's voice, the creak of the floorboards, her own heartbeat – merged into one deafening roar. She didn't hear her own weak moan. The world turned over and swam. The flame of the menorah blurred into a dazzling white spot, and then abruptly went out.

Yael, white as chalk, silently sank to the floor, her hand brushing the edge of the table. The glass candlestick clinked, almost falling.
"Yael!" — it was the first time Shimon Reicher's voice broke into a shout from divine horror.

The prayer was interrupted. The Sabbath peace was shattered. In the stuffy room, it now smelled not only of wax and challah, but also of the sharp scent of human turmoil, of a woman's sin of fleshly desire.

 

Chapter 4
Shalom Aleichem ‏ שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם to Artem from Yael

A week passed in tormenting, sweet, and shameful anticipation. Yael had almost convinced herself that the episode at the quarry and her subsequent fainting spell were merely an obsession, born of the heat and exhaustion. But when her father, frowning, said, "Yael, you need to go to Tokovo, pick up the reports from the manager. Ivan will take you," — her heart beat so violently that she could barely nod, afraid to betray her delight.

The road seemed endless. She sat in the phaeton, clutching her reticule, and looked at the flashing fields without seeing them. One thought spun in her head: "Will I see him? No, I won't. And thank God. But what if?... No, don't."

In the office, she acted quickly, almost mechanically. She took the necessary folders from the manager, dryly answered his questions about her father's health, and, without delay, stepped out into the bright June sun. The coachman Ivan was already waiting, holding the horse. Yael sighed with relief — everything had gone quickly and without incident.

She was already lifting her foot onto the phaeton's step when suddenly He emerged from around the corner of the stone-cutting workshop.

Yael froze. Her foot remained in the air. Her whole body tensed, as if facing sudden danger. But it wasn't danger. It was... a shock.

He was completely different. Not a demigod, a sculptor of his own body's anatomy, but... a guy. Dressed in a simple but clean shirt, untucked. His face was clean-shaven, his hair neatly smoothed. And he was smiling.

— Here, miss, another document, — his voice was somewhat muffled but soft. He held out a folded sheet of paper. — This is the timesheet from our art section. They forgot it in the office. — And he laughed, not embarrassed, but simply and good-naturedly.

Yael was speechless. She silently took the paper, unable to take her eyes off him. He was so close.

— And what's your name? — he asked, easily switching to the informal 'you', as was customary in their milieu.
— I'm Yael – Yulia in your language.
— And I'm Artem.
— Are you the daughter of our owner, then?

Yael's lips trembled. Inside, everything was screaming with embarrassment, but a sudden surge of impulse, courage born of desperation and a week of torment, forced her to exhale:
— Yes. Yael Simonovna Reicher.

And suddenly, she burst. It was as if the dam holding back all her feelings had collapsed.
— Show me, dear Artem, your work, — her own voice sounded unnaturally loud and bold to her. — What is it you do there?

Artem was surprised, even recoiled a little, but the smile didn't leave his face. The sight of this animated, excited, dark-haired young lady must have seemed amusing to him.
— Sure, of course. Look.

He led her around the corner of the workshop, to an improvised storage area for finished products. Perfectly processed curbstones, paving slabs, and carved cornices lay everywhere. Yael ran her finger over the cool, smooth surface of the stone, and her heart sang.

And then she saw it. That very lion he had been working on the first time. Now it was almost finished — powerful, with a thick mane, with a majestic and calm expression on its stone muzzle.
— And what's this? — she whispered, mesmerized.

— It's a special order, — Artem said with pride in his voice. — For the Nikopol police chief himself, for his dacha, you hear. A lion is the king of beasts, so the master is a king.

A sudden boldness didn't leave Yael. She looked from the lion to Artem and back, and the words flowed on their own:
— And whose are you? Where are you from?

— I'm local, — Artem smiled, leaning on the lion's stone thigh. — I'm one of the Tokovo stonecutters. My dad worked here.
— And where is he now? — Yael asked, and immediately regretted it, seeing a shadow cross his face.

— Well, the work is dangerous and unhealthy, you see, — he said simply, without tragedy, just stating a fact. — Stonecutter's consumption. Died young.

There was no complaint in his words, only a quiet, grim resignation to the fate of a working man. This simple phrase sobered Yael, returning her from the world of romantic dreams to the world of harsh reality. A world where stone is not only beautiful but also deadly dangerous. A world divided not only by faith but by social chasms, pain, and tears.

She looked at his hands — strong, with scraped knuckles, with stone dust forever ingrained in the pores of his skin. Hands that were already repeating his father's fate.

— I... I have to go, — she suddenly exhaled, feeling a lump rise in her throat. — I'm expected.

And, without looking at him, she turned and almost ran to the phaeton, where the coachman Ivan waited patiently, watching the whole scene with interest.

For several days, Yael nurtured a plan for a meeting and a conversation with Artem about his conversion to her faith. And her plans began to come true…

The heat over the Tokovo quarry was unbearable; the scorched air above the slabs quivered, merging with the hum of cicadas. In the shade of the ruins of the old administration barracks, which now served as Artem's workshop, it smelled of stone, metal, and male sweat.

Yael, in her modest long skirt and with a headscarf covering her hair, seemed a foreign but calm spot in this harsh landscape. She had come to collect the mezuzah case inkwell she had ordered from Artem, which he had carved from local amphibolite stone with a fineness astonishing for his rough hands. The inkwell fit in the palm of her hand and had an internal cone with a hollow for pouring ink. She didn't understand how he had hollowed out the stone from the inside, creating an empty cavity that could hold an entire vial of the sacred mezuzah ink.

The conversation about technique and tools turned into a conversation about faith. And the silence exploded.

— No, I understand you, Yael, — Artem's voice, accustomed to commanding in the workshop, tried to be softer here, but steel still rang in it. — To honor fathers, traditions — that's a tribute. But all this was just a shadow, a preparation. Like a blueprint before building a temple. The real temple is Christ. Your prophets spoke of Him, and you did not recognize Him.

Yael, without blinking, with that inner quietness accumulated over centuries of disputes in yeshivas, parried:
— Artem, have you read the Scripture? The entire Torah, the entire Tanakh — is a covenant between God and the people of Israel. An eternal covenant. It says: 'Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one' (Deuteronomy 6:4). One. The only one. Not three in one. Your teaching about the Trinity is, for us, a violation of the most fundamental principle. Our faith did not 'prepare'; it was and remains the true one.

— And you live by these laws?
— You don't eat dairy with meat? — Artem's voice held bewilderment, almost pity. — That's a yoke, slavery. Christ freed us from the slavery of the law. We live by grace.

— A yoke? — A spark flashed in Yael's eyes for the first time. For Artem, it was like a lightning flash in a cloudless sky. — It's not a yoke, Artem. It's the discipline of love. Every law, every halakha — is an opportunity in the mundane, in the simplest action — to remember God. When I light the Friday candles, I welcome the Sabbath Queen.

When I check greens for insects, I remember that God gave me this food and I must receive it pure. It's not slavery. It's a constant, every-second dialogue with the Creator. And what of your 'grace'? For many, it becomes permission to live as they please, as long as they 'believe in their heart'. Where are your deeds, Cossack?

The argument heated up. They were no longer sitting but standing opposite each other. Artem, powerful and broad-shouldered; Yael — fragile but unbending, like a reed in a hurricane.

— Deeds without faith are dead, — Artem thundered. — We are saved by faith, not by performing rituals. I am a baptized Orthodox man. My ancestors gave their lives for this faith. I stand in the church, and my heart sings because I see the beauty of God in the icons, I hear the choir singing. It's heaven on earth. And what do you have? Bare walls, men separate from women... It's so cold and empty.

— Empty? — Yael's voice became quieter, but only sharper for it. — We speak with God directly. Without intermediaries in the form of images on boards. Our synagogue is the community, the people. And beauty? Beauty is in the words of the prayer, in the melody we have passed down for thousands of years. You speak of your ancestors? And my ancestors went to the fires of the Inquisition with the prayer 'Shema, Yisrael' on their lips, just because they did not want to change this 'cold' faith. They sanctified God's Name with their blood. Can you imagine such faith, Artem? A faith for which millions went to their deaths?

A heavy pause hung in the air. A dog barking somewhere in the distance could be heard.

Artem looked at her, and the anger in him began to change into something else. Astonishment? Horror? Respect?

And then he, without fully understanding what he was saying, blurted out:
— A strong faith... But what a pity that it leads nowhere. Come to us, Yael. Know the true Messiah. See what joy there can be.

Yael's eyes widened in disbelief at what she had heard.
— What? — it was not a word, but an exhale. — You are asking me, an orthodox Jewish girl, a daughter of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to betray the covenant? Do you think, after all I've said, I could even for a second entertain such a thought?

Her coldness melted; now she was burning.
— And you? — she exhaled, and a challenge sounded in her voice. — You, a descendant of warriors who swore on the Gospel? Could you renounce Christ? Could you, for the sake of truth, take upon yourself the burden of the Law that my people carries? Do a giyur, know the true One God.

They froze, looking at each other as if for the first time. The hum of the cicadas suddenly ceased.

The sudden silence deafened them. Both realized they had gone where they hadn't planned. The threats had sounded not as malice, but as a desperate attempt to prove their rightness, turning their own souls inside out before the other, so that they might see.

Artem slowly sat down on a crate, running his hand over his face.
— No... — he rasped. — No, I cannot. This... this is all I have. The faith of my fathers. My land.

Yael straightened up. The fire in her eyes died down, replaced by a deep, ancient sadness.
— You see, — she said quietly. — And I cannot. This is all I have. The faith of my fathers and mothers. My people.

She took the neatly wrapped stone case from the table.
— The mezuzah case inkwell is beautiful. Thank you. Shalom Aleichem, Artem.
— You're welcome... — he replied hollowly. — Peace to your home.

She turned and walked away, her silhouette dissolving in the heat haze.

Artem sat for a long time, staring into emptiness. He had not proven his truth. And she had not proven hers. But for the first time in his life, he felt that the faith of another person was not a delusion that needed to be conquered, but a huge, impregnable, and beautiful temple, into whose doors he was never destined to enter. And from this thought, his soul felt both bitter and somehow newly spacious.

A seed thrown into fertile soil gives its sprout. Day after day, the words Yael had thrown into Artem's ears sometimes sounded again and again in his head. And at this time…

In Shimon's study, Ruth was opening the windows, airing out the spacious room from the thick smells of old books, stone dust, and the acrid smell of the primus stove. A sunbeam, breaking through the trees in the garden, illuminated the dust particles swirling in the air. At the large oak table sat Shimon himself, and opposite him, having pushed aside a cup of unfinished tea, was the manager Mesakh, a dry, nimble man with a perpetually worried face.

— Lions, you say? And statues? And for the pier, and for the platform? — Shimon repeated, running his finger down the list. — And stone for the dam at the rapids? That's quite a volume. Are the Nikopol merchants printing money?

— From their generosity, Shimon-Avrom, — Mesakh nodded. — The city is growing, the port is expanding. And about the dam — the Tsar's engineers are designing it. Serious people. The order is large, but the deadlines are tight.

Yael, sitting in the corner at a clerk's desk and checking statements, raised her head. The pen froze in her hand. She listened without showing it, but her heart beat faster. The thought came instantly, bright and insistent.

— Daddy, — she said quietly but clearly, interrupting the men's conversation.

Both turned to her.
— I know who can head such an order. And complete it quickly and with quality.

— And who is this skilled craftsman? — Shimon asked, looking at his daughter with curiosity.
— Artem. The stonecutter from Tokovo. The one who made… — she hesitated for a moment, — the inkwells for the synagogue in Yekaterinoslav. His work is gloriously kosher, they praised him highly. He knows stone, and he can assemble a crew. He's one of ours, from Tokovo.

Shimon frowned. He narrowed his eyes, and a familiar, paternal suspicion appeared in his gaze.
— Artem? That Cossack lad? And how do you know him, daughter? And why do you praise him so?

Yael felt a deep, crimson blush spreading across her cheeks. She lowered her eyes to the statements, trying to look busy.
— Daddy, I work for you, in the office. I see all the invoices, all the bills. I have to know all the contractors and masters by name. His work is listed under the 'Artistic Products' category, and he received a bonus for speed for that job. So I know.

Mesakh, sensing business interest, supported her:
— Yes, Shimon-Avrom, I remember that Artem. He has a steady hand, a sharp eye. For such a job — just right.

— Alright, — Shimon still looked at his daughter with slight distrust, but his business sense outweighed it. — Mesakh, find him, talk to him.
— Daddy, — Yael suddenly intervened again, a little more insistently. — I'm going to Tokovo tomorrow, Tuesday anyway, to get the statements from the clerks. I can talk to him. It's on the way.

A short pause ensued. Shimon studied his daughter.
— What will you talk to him about? Trading is not a woman's business.

— I'm not trading, I'm explaining the terms, — Yael answered quickly and businesslike, trying to speak in an even tone. — I'll tell him the order is large, but we can give him the contract only if he finds six assistants himself, right here in the Tokovo area. Local workers are used to working for sixty rubles. If he can't find them, we'll have to look for craftsmen in Yekaterinoslav. But they'll ask for one and a half times more, and all his profit will go to the overpayment. So it's more profitable for him to find his own Tokovo men.

She blurted this out almost without breath, but the logic was ironclad. The commercial calculation was impeccable.

Shimon's face slowly broke into an approving smile. He nodded, then slapped his hand on the table.
— You speak sense, daughter. I keep you in the office for nothing, you should be a manager. You calculated it smartly. Go ahead. Go. Talk to this Cossack. But… — he raised his index finger, — …don't linger alone with him for long. Business and only business.

— Of course, Daddy, — Yael lowered her head over the papers again, trying to hide the smile that wouldn't leave her face and her still-flaming cheeks.

Mesakh grunted approvingly and reached for his cup.
— She's a clever one, Yael-daughter. Shimon-Avrom, you should pay her a percentage of the deal.

— It's too early to count percentages, — Shimon grumbled, but it was clear he was pleased. — First, we need to get the order.

Yael didn't hear them anymore. She was looking at the columns of numbers, but she saw before her not them, but a tall figure in a dusty shirt against the backdrop of the quarry, and she was anticipating the next day…

…July stood with such heat that the air above the road to Tokovo melted, shimmering with mirages. The phaeton, bouncing on potholes, raised clouds of acrid, fine dust that immediately stuck to Yael's sweaty face. She was in a hurry.

In the dusty quarry office, everything was done quickly and businesslike: the statements were received, prices checked, work plans for the next extraction handed over with a signature. And then, trying to make it seem like the question had arisen by chance, she turned to the middle-aged female clerk:
— Tell me, is Artem, the stonecutter, at work today? I need to discuss something with him about a new order.

The woman, wiping her hands on her apron, looked at her with unconcealed curiosity.
— Artem? He's at home. He hasn't been here since Friday. Got hurt, poor fellow. His finger, I heard, he almost cut off on a toothed cutter. So he's sitting at home, luckily it's summer work, not urgent.

Yael's heart constricted with sudden anxiety.
— His address… could you tell me? The matter is urgent, — her voice sounded a little higher than usual.

— What address, — the woman waved her hand. — You go straight on this road, all the way to the bridge. And after the bridge — left. And his hut is the third from the bridge. You can't mistake it: roofed with slabstone. He collected the flagstone himself and roofed it himself. A beauty. No one else has one like it. He's a jack-of-all-trades here.

Yael nodded, already turning to leave, but the woman, clearly enjoying sharing village news, continued:
— He's a bachelor here. Keeps a household, a young nephew is in his care. But otherwise… — she lowered her voice, — he had a fiancée, but she ran away from the altar, with some merchant. Since then, he doesn't look at girls. All in work and household.

Yael listened, and a strange mixture of relief and even greater timidity enveloped her. She lowered her eyes.
— Thank you very much. I'll… I'll go then.

— You're welcome, miss, — the woman called after her. — After the bridge, left, you can't miss it. Roof made of flagstone.

Yael almost ran to the phaeton. The coachman, dozing on the box, started.
— To the bridge, — she commanded, trying to keep her voice from trembling. — Then left.

The horses started. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat, echoing in her temples. The dusty road, rare huts, there was the lopsided bridge over the dried-up stream. A sharp turn to the left.

And there it was — the third hut. That very one. Low, neatly built of gray stone, but the main thing — the roof. Not straw, not wood shingles, but neat, flat slabs of flagstone, laid with perfect precision and understanding of the material. The roof breathed the reliability, strength, and perseverance of its owner.

Yael took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf, and got out of the phaeton. She needed to behave as befits a businesswoman: only business, only calculation. But her legs felt like cotton wool, and her head rang: "Got hurt… Bachelor… Doesn't look at girls…".

Yael froze on the threshold, clutching an envelope with papers in her hands. The main room was cool despite the July heat, and it smelled of medicinal ointment, dried herbs, and wax. Directly opposite, in the red corner, lamps burned before a small but rich iconostasis. The faces of the saints, stern and enlightened, seemed to be observing her.

Artem sat at a wide oak table, his right hand tightly bandaged with a clean cloth. Seeing her, his eyes widened in astonishment and he slowly rose.

— Yael?.. — he said reservedly, without the usual Cossack banter. — Come in. What happened? Come in, don't stand on the threshold.

She took a few uncertain steps inside, glancing around the cozy, masculine, ascetic order of the house.
— I'm here on business, Artem, — she began, trying to make her voice sound firm and businesslike. She put the envelope on the table. — A large order from Nikopol. Lions, statues, stone for the platform and the pier. And… calculating stone for the dam across the Dnipro rapids.

Artem whistled, looking surprised from his hand to the papers.
— Serious volume. Deadlines?

— They're tight, — Yael answered clearly.
— Father is willing to entrust the order to you. But on one condition.

He looked at her attentively, gesturing for her to continue.
— You need to find six assistants here, in Tokovo. Locals will take sixty rubles. If you can't find them — we'll have to hire in Yekaterinoslav, and the craftsmen there will ask for ninety. Your profit will go to their overpayment. It's not profitable for you.

She laid it all out as if reciting, looking somewhere into the space over his shoulder, afraid to meet his eyes. The room was silent, broken only by the quiet sputtering of the lamp.

Artem slowly nodded, his gaze becoming focused and proprietary. With his left hand, he reached for the papers, unfolded them, began to study them.
— Six… — he said thoughtfully. — Yes, I'll find them. Both Stepan and Grishka the hammerer, they're without work… Lions… — he suddenly chuckled, — interesting work. And calculating for the dam — that's for an engineer, but I can estimate, my eye is trained. Learned from my father.

He looked up at her, and a familiar spark flashed in his eyes — the spark of a master interested in a complex task.
— Tell your father, Shimon Avramovich, that I take the order. I'll find the assistants. I can start in three days, if my hand… — he winced, — …obeys.

— Good, — Yael nodded, feeling the business part of the conversation was exhausted. An awkward pause hung in the air. Her gaze slid over the iconostasis again, over the simple but sturdy benches, over his bandaged hand.
— You… um… are you badly hurt? — she couldn't help asking, and her voice trembled.

Artem waved his left hand.
— It's nothing. Hit two fingers to the left of where I should have. I'm right-handed, but had to use my left. So… It'll heal. Thank you for asking.

Another pause. Yael understood she should leave, but her legs wouldn't obey.
— Well, I… I'll go then, — she finally forced out, taking a step back toward the threshold. — Father will expect you to start.

— Certainly. And tell him I'm grateful for the trust.

She nodded and, turning around, almost ran out of the room into the bright, blinding sun, leaving behind the coolness of the house and the heavy, piercing gaze of its owner, in which could be read both bewilderment, and gratitude, and something else she was afraid to understand…

The room was empty, but it still seemed to hold her faint scent — not of dust and sweat, but of something clean, soapy, feminine. Artem slowly sat down on the bench, staring at his bandaged hand but not seeing it.

Inside him raged a strange, contradictory mush of feelings.

Bewilderment. Why all of a sudden? She came herself. To the house. Business, you say? Business could have been relayed through Mesakh. Or waited until I returned to work. But she — came straight here. So timid standing on the threshold, but her eyes are burning. Intelligent eyes. They see everything.

Joy. Flared up inside, hot and swift. She remembers me. Is she worried? I got hurt... She asked. She cares. She can't be indifferent. For such a smart one, a beauty... for no reason... No, no, there's something.

Anxiety. Wake up, Artem, — an inner voice, harsh and mocking, immediately doused him with a bucket of icy water. — Who are you? A guy. A sweaty laborer. A bachelor. No children. And who is she? The owner's daughter. A Jewish princess. Her papa will find her some learned rabbi from Odesa, or a rich merchant. And you? A Cossack with a bloody hand and a soul full of holes.

Sadness. Heavy, familiar. What am I living for? Built a house. Put on a roof, so it's no worse than others'. But the house is empty. There's a household, but no one to cook borscht for. The nephew will grow up — he'll leave. And I'll be left alone with this steam stone-cutting machine and the icons in the corner. To have a wife? Where would I find one like that? One who is smart, and kind, and hardworking... and who makes your heart skip a beat as soon as you see her on the threshold...

He clenched his left hand into a fist and slammed it on the table. The dishes in the cupboard rattled.
— Don't lie to yourself, Artem, — he hissed into the silence of the room. — You've fallen in love. With the owner's daughter. You've finally lost your mind.

He imagined Shimon's face — intelligent, stern, with piercing eyes that see right through everything. If he finds out — he'll fire me. Forever. In disgrace. And he'd be right to do so. That's what should happen.

The internal dialogue reached its peak, and suddenly a new, fierce and resolute feeling was born in it. A challenge.
— Let him fire me, — he suddenly said aloud to the empty room. — I'll complete this order for him. Better than anyone. I'll earn money, good money. And... I'll leave this place. Look how wide Russia is. To Kiev, maybe... or to Kuban. Start a new life. Without these stupid thoughts. Without that gaze...

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying to himself. He wouldn't be able to leave her gaze. He would carry it within himself, like that sliver of stone that once lodged in his palm and remained there forever — tiny, invisible, but reminding him of itself with a slight pain with every movement.

He looked at his bandaged hand again and smiled bitterly. The wound on his finger — that's nothing. Much more frightening was the other wound — quiet, hopeless, and so sweet that he didn't want it to heal.

 

Chapter 5
A Change of Faith and a Change of Name

Shimon's office in Yekaterinoslav was far richer and more substantial than his Tokovo office. It smelled of wood varnish, leather, and books. Shimon sat behind a massive desk, invoices and blueprints lay before him, but his attention was entirely fixed on Artem, who stood opposite him, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying not to soil the pristine Persian carpet with his gaze.

— Artem, — Shimon began, and his voice held a rare, genuine respect. — I showed this work from Nikopol in Odesa. Such lions… I haven't even seen such lions in Kyiv. They are as if alive, they'll open their stone mouths any moment and roar. And these spheres… — he shook his head, — perfect form. They shine like Yael's Friday candles. And the stones for the platform… forty-five oblong and twenty small. Each one a work of art. Even angles, polish… A jeweler's work, not a stonecutter's. I am astonished.

Artem silently nodded, looking at the floor. The praise warmed him, but the thought of who had inspired this "miracle" made his heart constrict.

— I cannot leave such work unrewarded, — Shimon continued. — From today, you are not a simple stonecutter with me. I'm promoting you. You will be the foreman. You will lead all the sculptors and stonecutters in the workshop. Your salary is doubled.

He expected to see gratitude, joy in the craftsman's eyes. But instead, Artem gave him a gloomy look and said reluctantly, almost stubbornly:
— Well, Shimon Avramovich… Thank you, of course, for the trust. But… I'm tired of it here. These parts look dreary and grey to me now. Thinking of heading to Crimea. Or to see Kyiv. Something like that.

Shimon leaned back in his chair, raising his thick eyebrows in surprise.
— Crimea? Kyiv? What for? — he asked, not understanding. — There's work here, a career. You've been working in the quarries since you were sixteen, following your father, you have the skill, the talent. And now I should start everything from scratch?

— I started at sixteen, and now I'm twenty-eight, — Artem answered quietly but firmly. — Nothing but work and more work. Life is passing me by. I want… to see something new. To live for myself.

Shimon looked at him carefully, his sharp, entrepreneurial mind quickly calculating the situation. Losing such a master was madness. It was much wiser to give him what he wanted, but on his own terms.

— Alright, — he said, pretending to relent. — I understand. You're still young, you want to live a little. You shall have a vacation.

Hope flared on Artem's face, but Shimon immediately raised a finger, and his voice became hard, businesslike:
— But. With a condition. I give you two weeks. Exactly. Go, have a look around, see Crimea. But on an ironclad condition — you return and accept the position of foreman in the workshop. We will take on big orders. Do you agree?

He looked at Artem searchingly. This was not a request, but a business proposal, one it was foolish to refuse. And a cunning move. Shimon was letting him quench his longing, but at the same time binding him even tighter — with money, position, responsibility.

Artem froze for a moment. Two weeks to try and tear her out of his heart. Or, conversely, to understand that it was impossible. And then… return. To her. Closer than ever, but behind an insurmountable wall of master and worker.

— I agree, — he said hollowly, feeling he was falling into a trap he had no desire to escape. — A deal is a deal. I'll return…
…The silence in Yael's room was deafening. Outside, the sunset painted the Yekaterinoslav sky in purple and gold, but Yael did not see this beauty. She sat at the table, her head in her hands, and a single word, overheard in the office that morning, pounded in her ears: "He left."

He left. Didn't even tell her. Didn't say goodbye. Just took off and disappeared. Where? For good? Or... with someone?

She squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to force back the traitorous tears, but they flowed on their own, leaving salty tracks on her cheeks. It hurt so much. As if that very perfectly polished stone he had hewn had laid itself on her chest and was pressing down, not letting her breathe.

He is a gentile. I am Shimon's daughter. That is a wall higher and stronger than any dam across the Dnipro. We are doomed to silence. I cannot tell anyone. Not my friends, not my mother... especially not my father. They wouldn't understand. They would see only shame, betrayal, sickness in it. And it's not a sickness. It's... it's like singing a song that only you know, and you cannot share its melody with anyone.

She reached for the desk drawer and pulled out a hidden notebook in a simple binding. On the pages, covered in neat Hebrew letters, lived her secret poems. Poems never meant to be spoken aloud.

Your hands, that cut the stone, could have held mine...
But between us — the Law and the covenant we must keep.
Your gaze, that sought an answer in me, now looks into the distance...
And my heart, shattered by silence, continues to ache.

She whispered the lines quietly, almost soundlessly. Her voice broke. She was no singer, but now she wanted to sing. Hiding her face in the pillows so no one would hear, she began to sing to the tune of an old, sad melody, substituting her own words:

Where have you gone, my Cossack, my bright dream?
You left behind this longing and pain, and this house.
Your flagstone lies on the roof of my soul,
And you don't know how my heart cries out for you...

The song was quiet, bitter, confessional. In it was all her pain, all the impossibility of this love, all the longing for the man who might never return. And if he did return... what would change? Nothing. They would still be strangers to each other in this world, divided by faith and traditions.

He knows nothing. Doesn't know I write poems about him. Doesn't know I cry at night. Doesn't know that every clatter of hooves on the cobblestones makes my heart beat wildly in the hope that it's him. For him, I am just the owner's daughter, a clever and strange Jewish girl who brought him a profitable order.

She closed the notebook and pressed it to her chest. This love had no place under the sun. It was destined to live only here — in the silence of her room, in the lines of secret poems, and in the quiet songs heard only by the walls and by God, who, she knew, was unlikely to approve of her feelings.

But He could not forbid her to feel. And she continued to love. Silently. Hopelessly. Desperately.

Mama Ruth had guessed, seeing all the changes in Yael. She did not hinder or make a scene. She waited for a miracle…
…Two weeks of longing and uncertainty were replaced by feverish anticipation. He was back. The manager Mesakh's words rang in her ears like a saving bell: "Artem has returned, healthy, tanned. He has questions about the new order, he asked for Shimon Avramovich, but he is away…"

Yael's heart beat so hard it took her breath away. This was a chance. A single, perhaps fleeting, moment. Without thinking, without asking her father's permission, she rushed into the yard where the coachman Ivan was cleaning the phaeton.

— Ivan. To Tokovo immediately, — her voice sounded so commanding that the coachman merely nodded, tossing aside his brush.

The road passed in an instant. She noticed neither potholes nor dust, seeing only his face before her. The phaeton, bouncing on a bump, stopped by the familiar house with the flagstone roof.

She almost jumped out of the carriage, throwing to Ivan: "Wait here" — and, gathering her skirt, ran to the gate.

Artem was just coming out of the shed with a bucket in his left hand. Seeing her, he froze, and the bucket almost slipped from his fingers. He was indeed tanned, even more sturdy and strong. And his eyes, wide with surprise, flared with such a bright fire that Yael's breath caught.

— Yael... — he whispered, and his voice held so much astonishment and awe that her heart skipped a beat.

They stood opposite each other in the middle of the yard, separated by only a couple of steps that seemed both an abyss and an irresistible pull.

— I... I was told you have questions about the order, — she exhaled, not believing this pitiful, invented excuse herself.

He was silent, just looking at her. And in that silence was more meaning than in a thousand words. Then he slowly, as if afraid to scare her away, took a step forward. Then another.

— I have no questions, — he said quietly. — I just... wanted to see the master. To... see you.

This confession, so simple and direct, burned her. She couldn't hold back. Her hand reached for him of its own accord, and her trembling fingers touched his injured palm — the very one she had kissed in her imagination, to make the wound heal faster.

He flinched at the touch as if from an electric shock. His gaze became so deep, so infinitely tender and sad at the same time. He did not pull his hand away. Instead, his strong, rough fingers carefully closed around her slender, trembling ones. He slowly brought her hand to his lips and paused, looking into her eyes, as if asking for permission. She did not resist. She couldn't move, caught in a whirlwind of feelings that washed away all prohibitions, all fear.

His lips, warm and soft, touched her palm. It was not a passionate kiss, but something more — an oath, adoration, a farewell and a greeting all at once. A long, tremulous, bittersweet kiss.

And then something inside her broke. A wave of hot, all-consuming love overwhelmed her, filled every cell, burned her from within with this pure, tormenting fire. She did not cry aloud. But inside, her entire soul was weeping — from the happiness of this moment and from the awareness of all the impossibility, all the tragedy of their love.

He is a gentile. I am a Jewess. This kiss is our only possible paradise and our eternal curse.

She did not take her hand away, feeling silent tears roll down her cheeks. She just looked at him, absorbing his image, trying to preserve this moment in her heart forever — the moment when they were simply a man and a woman who had found each other in this cruel world…
…Shimon's study was plunged into a viscous, oppressive silence, broken only by the clicking of an abacus. The air was thick with the unspoken. Shimon stood by the window, his back to his daughter, but feeling her tension in every fiber.

— Yael, — his voice sounded muffled, tired, without its usual firmness. — Mother told me everything. Rather, confirmed what I had already seen but refused to believe.

Yael sat, her cold fingers clenched on her knees. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat.

— I am not blind, daughter. You glow and wither at the same time. And that Cossack… he looks at you not as his master's daughter, but as… — he exhaled forcefully, unable to finish. He turned sharply. His face was stern and haggard. — You will disgrace us, Yael. Disgrace us in our synagogue, in our community. Our family name will be whispered with contempt. You must forget him. Immediately.

— I cannot, Papa, — Yael answered quietly but clearly. Tears stood in her eyes, but her voice did not tremble.

— You cannot? — Shimon slammed his fist on the windowsill. — You must. He is a gentile. Between you is an abyss that nothing can fill.

It was then that Yael looked up at him. And in her eyes, he saw not the stubbornness of youth, but a strange, almost fanatical certainty.

— I will make a Jew of him, Papa.

Shimon froze, stunned, as if he didn't believe his ears.
— What? What did you say? How will you do that? He is an Orthodox Cossack. The faith of his ancestors is everything to him.

— He will become a Jew, — she repeated, and her voice held unshakable conviction. — He will undergo conversion. He will study the Law and keep all the commandments of Moses. Trust me.

Shimon looked at his daughter as if she were insane. He slowly shook his head, his gaze a mixture of incomprehension, pity, and horror.

— Do you understand what you are saying? Do you understand what will happen to him if the authorities find out? Apostasy from Orthodoxy… They'll send him to hard labor. And they will throw us out of the city.

— We will leave this place, — Yael blurted out quickly, as if reciting a learned phrase. — We will go to Nikopol. There's a large community there, they don't know us. He will be a different person.

— To Nikopol? — Shimon gave a bitter laugh, sat down in his armchair, and passed a weary hand over his face. — Oh, my daughter… My foolish little girl… What a mad gamble this is. A mad gamble. You will not succeed. He is a gentile. — He pronounced this word with force, investing in it all the age-old horror and insurmountability of that boundary. — His blood, his soul… you cannot remake that. He will never become one of us. He will never be accepted. And you will be cast out with him.

His voice broke. He looked at his intelligent, beautiful, most beloved daughter and saw her digging her own abyss, blinded by love.

— He is a gentile, Yael, — he repeated, almost in a whisper, with hopeless anguish. — And that is the end. Better tear this out of your heart now, before it's too late.

But from Yael's eyes, he understood that it was already too late. She was already in the abyss. And she was pulling him down with her…
Not only Yael and her parents suffered. Artem suffered too…
…The air in Artem's main room was cool and heavy, smelling of stove smoke and old wood. From outside came echoes of the troubled times — shouting somewhere, rumbling wagons elsewhere, but here, inside, there was a tense silence, broken only by the steady ticking of a clock and Yael's passionate whisper.

She sat opposite him, all impulse and conviction. Her eyes burned, her fingers nervously intertwining and separating.

— You must understand, Artem, — her voice sounded fervent and convinced, — this is not just changing a sign. It is a return. A return to the roots, to the true Monotheism granted to us by the Almighty on Mount Sinai. Your soul, I feel, has always striven for this. You seek order, meaning, discipline — all of this is in the Law.

Artem sat, head bowed, and listened silently. His powerful hands lay on the table, palms down. He did not argue, did not dispute. His face was serious and inscrutable.

— It will not be easy, — Yael continued, her words flowing like a river around his silent figure. — But I will be with you. Everything will be according to the Law. First, you must undergo conversion. It is serious study; they will try to dissuade you, test your intention. You must prove that this is your conscious choice.

She fell silent for a moment, looking at him, trying to read something in his downcast eyes.

— Then… — she took a deep breath, — the rite of circumcision, the covenant of circumcision. It is the sign of the covenant with God. An eternal bond. It… it will be painful, but it is necessary.

Artem flinched slightly but did not raise his eyes.

— And the immersion, — her voice became quieter, almost reverent. — You will enter the mikveh, the living waters, and emerge from it a new man. Pure. Sanctified. A Jew. You will take upon yourself all the commandments, all the laws of the Torah. The Sabbath, the dietary laws, the festivals… Everything will be different. Everything will be new. But it will be a righteous life, pleasing to the Almighty.

She fell silent, her ardor spent. The room was silent again, now even more oppressive. Artem slowly raised his eyes to her. There was no anger in them, no refusal. There was a deep, impenetrable thoughtfulness.

— The authorities, — he uttered just one word quietly. But it contained a whole world of fear and reality.

— We will leave, — Yael interrupted him immediately, passionately. — To Nikopol, to Kherson, anywhere. You are a master, you can work anywhere. We will start with a clean slate. You will be a different person. We will be together.

She looked at him with plea and hope, her whole soul striving to infect him with her faith, her certainty.

Artem lowered his gaze again. He looked at his coarse, laboring hands — hands that had held both a cross and a chisel. Hands that had kissed her palm just a few weeks ago.

He was silent. His silence was more eloquent than any words. In it was the weight of his entire life, all the faith of his ancestors, all the fear of the unknown and the wrath of the world that would fall upon them if they took this path.

But in his silence was also his love for her. That very love for which he was perhaps ready to gaze into the abyss…
What is not understood seems hostile. But if one takes the trouble and tries to understand, passing through the rites is not so difficult…
…A small, ascetic room adjacent to the synagogue, where Artem was led blindfolded. The air was thick with the smell of wax, old books, and something inexpressibly ancient. Six rabbis, elders with beards fading into grey and penetrating, probing eyes, stood in a semicircle. Their silent gaze was heavier than any sentence.

The Trial. The Conversion.

They bombarded him with questions. About faith, about the commandments, about his readiness to take upon himself the burden of the Law. The rabbis' voices were stern but just. They discouraged him, testing his resolve.

— Why do you want this? Do you know you are renouncing your people? Your previous life? They will send you to hard labor.

Artem, pale but collected, answered clearly and quietly, repeating the learned words but investing in them all his pain and hope:
— I am doing this consciously. I wish to join the people of Israel and take upon myself all the commandments of the Torah.

Yael waited behind the door, every moment an eternity.

The Covenant of Circumcision.

It was a trial of the flesh. In a sterile room, the mohel performed the ancient rite. The pain was sharp and cleansing. Artem gritted his teeth, not uttering a sound. A drop of blood on the white cloth became the symbol of his new Covenant. Now he was physically bound to the people of Abraham. His body was changed forever.

The Immersion.

He was led to the mikveh — a small pool with living, rainwater collected according to all the rules. He had to stand before the Heavenly court completely naked, as on the day of his birth. All his clothing, the symbol of his past life, was removed from him.

He stepped into the cool water. It embraced him, washing away the invisible defilement of the past. A rabbi recited prayers. On command, Artem fully immersed himself in the waters of the mikveh.

One. The name given at his baptism was washed away.
Two. The memory of his former faith was erased.
Three. He rose from the water a new man.

— Baruch atah Adonai... — he whispered the learned blessing, and the water streamed from him like the tears of time itself.

The Investiture.

He was given new, simple clothes of pure white cloth. But the main thing — he was handed the symbols of his new faith.

A white prayer shawl was draped over his shoulders. The fringes on its corners were to remind him of all the commandments.

A leather belt girded the prayer shawl, separating the upper, spiritual part of the body from the lower, material one.

Phylacteries — leather boxes containing passages from the Torah — which he would henceforth lay upon his arm and head every morning.

The rabbis declared his new name — Abraham, after the patriarch, the first Jew, who made a covenant with the Almighty.

He came out to Yael, pale, trembling, but with an incredible light in his eyes. He was different. He had become both one of them and a stranger simultaneously. A Jew by law, but forever cast out from his former world. His path back was cut off. Only the path forward remained, into the unknown, hand in hand with the one for whom he had accomplished this unthinkable transformation from the Cossack Artem to the Jew Abraham…

     …December 1905 was unusually frosty and anxious. The wind howled through the streets of Nikopol, whistling in stovepipes and tearing prickly snow from the roofs. In a small, modestly furnished room on the outskirts of the city, in a house inhabited mostly by artisans and small traders, it was quiet and almost cozy. It smelled of boiled potatoes, tar, and candle wax.

Artem — now Abraham — stood by the frosted window, having pushed aside the edge of the curtain. His face, still tanned from the summer, looked pale in the cold winter light. His gaze was tense, accustomed to searching for danger in every passerby, in every suspicious shadow. He was no longer that self-assured Cossack from the Tokovo quarries. He was a fugitive, living under constant fear of exposure.

Yael, his betrothed, was busy by the stove. She had learned to cook on a primus stove and light the oven, things she had not been taught in her parents' home. She wore a simple dark dress that concealed her figure. She too had changed — she had matured, a constant shadow of anxiety now in her eyes, but also determination.

They were not yet husband and wife. Their marriage was postponed until calmer times. For now, they were simply engaged, hiding under assumed names.

On the table, covered with a modest tablecloth, lay two new but already fear-worn documents. Certificates issued for a large sum of money by an old Jewish notary whose business Shimon had once saved. He was now Abraham Levin, a stonecutter from Yekaterinoslav, and she was Yael Levina. The surname was common, unremarkable. But every knock on the door made them flinch and freeze, listening — was that a gendarme's boot?

— Don't go anywhere today, — Yael said quietly, stirring the stew. — They said gendarmes were seen at the market, checking papers on young men.

Artem-Abraham nodded, not turning from the window.
— I know. As if one could go anywhere, — his voice sounded hollow and tired. — Siberia… shackles… — he clenched his fists tightly. — For my own choice. For the right to believe as my heart dictates.

— Shhh, — Yael came to him and softly put her hand on his face. — Don't. We are here. We are together. And we will manage. Papa promised that by spring things would calm down, we could think about the wedding… maybe move further away. To Odesa, perhaps.

He turned and looked at her. In his eyes was not only love but the weight of the burden he had taken upon himself.

— I do not regret it, Yael, — he whispered. — Nothing. It's just… frightening. Frightening for you.

She pressed against him, and they stood by the window, two fugitives in a cold room, lost in a big city, shielding each other from the entire hostile empire, whose laws did not forgive ones such as they. Their love had become their fortress and their prison, their greatest happiness and their most terrible secret…

 

Chapter 6
The Unsettling Road from Nikopol to Odesa

The rays of the summer sun, piercing through the tall, narrow windows, illuminated the golden dust dancing in the air from the rare visitors. The air inside the Nikopol synagogue was cool, smelling of wax.

But Toviy felt neither the coolness nor the peace. Before him, leaning on a carved lectern, stood Mordechai-Leib, the richest man in the city, owner of Dnipro freight shipping. His massive gold chain with a watch rose heavily on his waistcoat.
— Toviy, the times are unsettled, — Mordechai-Leib's voice was low but weighty, like an ingot. — Like worms in an apple, revolutionary cells are everywhere. In the factories, in the ports, on the railways. You cannot trust anyone. Toviy nodded silently. He himself read the newspapers, heard the talk. The echoes of January, of Bloody Sunday, had reached here, to Nikopol. The air was filled not only with dust but also with fear and a vague hope.
— But this project… the development of shipping… it is the future, — the magnate continued. — The Odesa merchants are the key. Without their capital and connections, nothing will work. They must be persuaded. But if you don't go yourself… then who?
Toviy flinched. He expected a task, but not this one.
— Me, Mordechai-Leib? But I'm just…
— You are young. You speak Russian without our accent, you know how to talk to both merchants and… the proletariat, if need be. Go. Just for three or four days.
— It's dangerous by train now, — Toviy objected. — Railway workers are striking, there could be delays, robberies.
— And it's dangerous by steamer, — the shipowner agreed grimly. — Just last year there were sailors' strikes. But there is no other way. Risk is a noble business when the future is at stake.
Toviy looked into the stern face of the old Jew, saw in his eyes not only calculation but also a kind of steely faith. He took a deep breath, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine.
— I will go, — he said quietly, and then louder and more confidently: — I will go. But where are the guarantees that they will agree? Odessans are known to be cautious people.

— They will agree, — Mordechai-Leib cut him off. — They need guarantees from the Rabbi of Nikopol. And a letter from me. They are already aware and are favorably disposed. It's June now. Go this week or in July, at the beginning of the month. We cannot delay. But... You will have to dye your black mane red, so you look like a gentile.
— Take this note, go to the central barbershop in the city, say it's from me. Venya knows his job, he's dyed more than one Jew to look like a gentile. And by tomorrow, I want you with straight red hair. And don't argue with me. That way you'll be taken for one of their own by both the sailors and the gangs of striking workers.
— Alright, — Toviy nodded. And, unexpectedly even to himself, added: — And I'll take my wife.
Mordechai-Leib raised his thick, grey eyebrows.
— Your wife? What for? You're not going to a resort, Toviy. This is responsible work.
— But we are on our honeymoon, — Toviy suddenly reminded him, looking defiantly at Leib. — You yourself said, there's a time for work, but family is the foundation. And Leya… it will be good for her to see Odesa. And I feel calmer with her.
— Then she must be dyed too, so she becomes like a gentile-Christian woman. Toviy began to smile, imagining Leya's face when they would look at each other.
The old man grunted, the corners of his lips twitching in a semblance of a smile.
— Well. Well. Young and green. Take your wife. Just don't let it interfere with the business.
— Thank you, Mordechai-Leib.
Stepping out from the coolness of the synagogue into the bright June light, Toviy felt his heart constrict with anxiety. Not from the impending journey or the difficult negotiations. His heart was troubled by the times…

 ... By this very year of 1905, which hung over the country like a dark, stormy cloud. He looked at the sky — clear, cloudless. But somewhere there, beyond the horizon, thunder was already rumbling. And he, a young husband and a young merchant, had to steer his fragile ship through these turbulent waters.
He turned and strode home, to Leya, to start packing for the journey. His thoughts were tangled: Odesa merchants, the rabbi's guarantees, sailors' strikes… and the quiet, frightened face of his young wife, whom he was taking right into the inferno. But they are our people there, Toviy reassured himself…

... They really did laugh at each other when they came out together from the barber Veniamin. And sitting together in the phaeton behind the coachman all the way home, Leya covered her face with her hand so Toviy wouldn't see her ear-to-ear smile. Tomorrow they would set sail. Safe houses, passwords, wigs, hopes, anxieties - everything as it should be in 1906 on the Nikopol-Odesa route...

...First-class deck. A July evening, 1906.

The air over the Dnipro is thick and warm. The steamer of the "Along the Dnieper" society, departing from Kherson towards the sea, rocks steadily on the dark water. From the upper deck come the sounds of a string orchestra — the waltz "On the Hills of Manchuria," bittersweet and languid. And slightly mournful this year. As memories of Russian sailors in the East are still fresh.

Leya, leaning on the polished railing, looks not at the water, but at the illuminated salon. Her white dress, but without a veil, seems too strict for this evening. It smells of home, her mother's perfume, and the dust of the travel trunk. She is nineteen, and her whole being craves not water or wind, but male attention. That admiring, light, social attention which she caught from the corner of her eye on her décolletage from visiting Odesa cousins in fashionable suits.

Toviy stands nearby. His fingers, accustomed to ledgers and freight invoices, nervously finger the fringe of his tallit, hidden from the revolutionaries under his waistcoat. He does not look at the salon. He looks at her. His love for her — enormous, serious, like a volume of the Talmud — is at this moment compressed by anxiety.

— Leya, it's windy here, — he says, in the voice of the deputy port manager. — You'll catch a cold. And this dress… it's for family, not for strangers' eyes.
— What strangers, Taras? We are all passengers here. Listen, how beautifully they play. Can't we dance? Just once?
— A man dancing with his wife is a joy. A wife dancing with an outside man, and to this… secular music… is immodest, — he pronounces the word "immodest" with the same intonation as "defective goods." — Let's go to the cabin. I bought you a new book. Poems by Bialik.
— Poems about how a woman should sit and wait? I've already read them. I want… a living conversation.

Her gaze picks out a group of young officers from the stream of passengers. Their uniforms, laughter, ease — like a flash of magnesium. One of them, with narrow black mustaches and mocking eyes, catches her gaze and bows slightly.
Leyka's heart skips a beat. Not from fear. From anticipation.
— Leya, let's go.
— I want some lemonade. Just for five minutes.

She is already walking, not waiting for his answer, feeling on her back the heavy gaze of her husband and the light, interested gaze of the stranger with the mustache.
First-class restaurant. She sits at a small table with three officers. A candle in a glass chimney throws a trembling light on her flushed cheeks. She doesn't drink wine, only lemonade, but she feels drunk. From the words, the compliments, the music.

— You say, from Nikopol? Ah, the famous rapids. Your husband, is he in business? — asks the very one with the mustaches, a lieutenant.
— He… he manages the port, — Leya says, with pride and a slight sting of resentment. Why isn't Taras here? Why is he sitting in the cabin with his ledgers?
She sees him in the doorway. He stands motionless, like a rock of the last rapid. His face is pale. He does not enter. He only watches. His gaze is not the jealousy of an owner, but something worse - disappointment. The disappointment of a rabbi in a negligent student.
The orchestra strikes up a new waltz. The lieutenant stands up and smilingly offers her his hand.

— May I dare to invite you…
Leya freezes. The whole world has narrowed to this outstretched hand and the stern gaze of her husband in the doorway.
— No… forgive me. I must go. My husband… is waiting.
She jumps up and, without looking at the officers, almost runs to the exit.
First-class cabin.
The confines of the cabin explode with an argument.
— You shamed me. Shamed yourself. Sitting with those dandies, like… like…
— Like what? Like a married woman in a restaurant? Or like your wife, who shouldn't have eyes or ears?
— You should have modesty. The Law we read under the chuppah, did you forget it the same day?
— I forgot nothing. I want to breathe, Taras. I want to hear music, not just the scratch of a pen on paper. You even brought account books on our honeymoon.
Toviy grabs the ledger lying on the table as if it were a shield.

— These are not just books. This is the trust placed in me. This is our future. I must provide for you, our home, our future children. And you think about dancing.
Leya cries, but not from submission, from fury.
— Am I not your future? Is my happiness not part of our shared future? You speak of children, but you treat me like a child. Like property. Have you seen the women in Odesa? They study, work, walk about without asking permission.
— That is Odesa. And we have — tradition. The Law. You chose it when you married me.
— I chose a loving husband, not a warden.

She falls silent, breathing heavily. Between them is an abyss, wider than the Dnipro. He sees in her frivolity a sin and a danger. She sees in his strictness a suffocating cage.
Toviy turns away, looking into the dark porthole.
— Tomorrow we arrive in Odesa. We will go to the sea. Just the two of us.
There is no anger in his voice. Only weariness and that same enormous, burdensome love which does not know how to reconcile itself with the frivolity of July and the thirst for freedom in his wife's eyes.
Leya is silent. She understands that their honeymoon is not a vacation, but the first and most difficult voyage in their shared life, where each of them is both the captain and the mutinous sailor...

...The quiet thrum of the engine, the splash of water against the hull.
The argument had burned out, leaving behind a bitter residue and a tense silence. Leya lay by the wall, turned away, watching the moonbeam trembling on the ceiling. Toviy sat at the table, having set aside the ledger, staring into nothingness. The wound inflicted by words throbbed in both of them.
He was the first to break the silence. His voice was quiet and hoarse with fatigue.
— Leya… forgive me. I… I am afraid of losing you. This world is so big, and I want to protect our little world from all that is bad.
She didn't turn, but her shoulders shuddered.

— And I am afraid that our little world will become too cramped and there will be no place left for me myself.
Toviy sighed heavily, stood up, and approached the bunk. He sat on the edge and cautiously, almost timidly, touched her hair.
— There will always be room for you. You are its heart.
Leya turned over. In the moonlight her eyes glistened with tears. She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, then to her lips. Then she guided his palm to the fastening of her dress.
— Show me, Taras. Show me that I am yours. Not as property. As a wife. As your universe.
Her impulse was sudden and fiery. In it was both a thirst for reconciliation, and resentment turned inside out, and a silent challenge. When his fingers touched her skin, she closed her eyes.

And in the darkness, deep in her subconscious behind her eyelids, they arose like thieves, like an obsession. That one, with the mocking eyes and mustache. Another, tall and broad-shouldered. A third, who laughed the loudest. Their uniforms, the smell of tobacco and pomade… She imagined their hands instead of Toviy's, their gazes on her body. This forbidden, intoxicating vision made her shudder and breathe faster. It was her secret revenge, her tiny stolen freedom.

But when Toviy, having shed his severity along with his clothes, pressed against her with his whole body, hot and strong, the phantoms scattered. His love was not a light flirtation, but a hurricane. In his touches was not social politeness, but a familiar, awaiting-her-alone flesh.
— Toviy… — her whisper was hot in his ear. — My husband… You are my meaning. You are my love and my universe.
These words, torn from the very depths, were meant only for him. The fantasy evaporated, unable to withstand the real. She wrapped her arms around him, dug her fingers into his back, giving herself completely to him — not to the officers from the salon, but to her lawful spouse, the master of her body and soul by all the laws of God and men.
He responded to her with the same passion of which this restrained, calculating man was capable. His kisses were oaths.

— My little berry… My sunshine… — he purrs, kissing her neck, her breasts, her stomach. — My Leyele… The meaning of my life. My beautiful, my only wife.
He covered her naked body with kisses, and each one was an act of possession, of promise, and of complete, unconditional acceptance. That night there were no arguments about the Law and emancipation. There was only the simple, ancient miracle — the flesh of husband and wife becoming one.

Later, when the moonbeam had shifted and they lay entwined, tired and peaceful, Leya whispered:
— Tomorrow, Odesa…
— Tomorrow, Odesa, — he repeated, stroking her hair. — We will go to the sea. Just the two of us.
— Just the two of us, — she buried her nose in his neck, inhaling his native, familiar scent. The disputes were not over. They had only just begun. But in that moment she knew — her place was here, in his soul.
Their breathing evened out and merged into one under the steady hum of the steam engine, lulling them to peaceful sleep just before dawn, before Odesa, before the new chapter of their life...

...The air buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Steamship whistles, shouts of stevedores, speech in a dozen languages — Ukrainian, Greek, Jewish, Russian — merged into one continuous roar. And above it all, conquering the chaos, poured the bravura music of a combined military band, greeting another steamer.

Leya froze on the gangplank, squeezing Toviy's hand. Her eyes were wide open. Before her was not a city, but an embodied dream. The noise was music, the crowd was desired company, and the smell of the sea, coal, and foreign dust was the aroma of freedom.

— Taras, look, — she whispered. — There it is… This is what I strive for. For there to be many people. For music to flow. For me to be… for us to be free.
Toviy did not hear the music. He heard the business buzz. His keen, practical mind was already working, filtering out the extraneous. His eyes, accustomed to assessing cargo and structures, picked out from the crowd not outfits, but faces. He gently but insistently led her through the crowd, towards a line of cabs.

— Stay close to me, my Leyele. Don't get lost.
He found his man — not by the cry of "Miss, need a ride!" but by a modest pile and intelligent, quick eyes. A Jewish cab driver with a neat beard sat on the box of his open carriage, carefully surveying the arrivals.
— Shalom aleichem, — Toviy nodded to him, approaching.
— Aleichem shalom, kind sir. Need a cab?
— We do. To Deribasivska, — Toviy pulled a worn slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket. — The Shneerson house. Know it?
— How could one not know Shneerson? His furnished rooms are good, clean. For our kind, — the cab driver nodded significantly, assessing the couple. — Get in, I'll get you there with the wind.

In the carriage through the streets of Odesa. They rode along streets paved with cobblestones, and each looked out their own window, seeing an absolutely different city.
Through Toviy's eyes:
He saw business and construction. His brain automatically assessed and calculated. Port warehouses: "High ceilings, good ventilation, but the roofs need repair. Ours in Nikopol is more spacious." Horse-drawn trams: "The track gauge is narrower than our Yekaterinoslav one. Lower capacity. Inefficient." Shops: "Sign 'Wholesale trade in colonial goods.'

Interesting, where are the supplies from? Through Marseille or directly from Alexandria? Would like to know their prices..." Architecture: He did not see "beauty." He saw engineering solutions. Massive walls in Italian style — "reliable, but expensive to build." Ornate balconies in Art Nouveau style — "beautiful, but impractical, repairs are expensive." He admired the wide, straight streets, planned like an arrow — "that's smart, perfect logistics."

He saw the city as a giant, perfectly tuned mechanism for extracting profit.
Through Leya's eyes. She saw life and fashion. Her heart fluttered from every covetous glance at her S-shaped silhouette. The women. Ah, these Odesa ladies. They walked as if not touching the pavement, in dresses with a degree of openness unthinkable in Nikopol — lace frills, light fabrics in pastel colors, huge coquettish hats adorned with flowers and feathers.

The men. Not Nikopol merchants in frock coats, but dandies in white panama hats, light three-piece suits, with walking sticks. Young people, students, with loosened ties and folders under their arms, heatedly arguing about something.

 Cafés! Through the open doors came the clinking of dishes, laughter, the sound of a piano. Couples sat at tables, and ladies, without hiding, smoked thin cigarettes. Architecture: She did not see structures. She saw romance. Carved balconies from which garlands of flowers hung, cozy green courtyards entwined with grapes, sun-drenched squares with fountains. It was a city-festival, a city-fairytale.
— Taras, look, what a dress, — she whispered ecstatically, grabbing his sleeve.
Toviy glanced, squinting.
— Silk, imported. Can't afford it on our Nikopol markups. Impractical, you can't stand in it at the market.
Leya sighed and pressed herself to the window again, catching the admiring glances of those very dandies who nodded to her as if she were their best acquaintance in Odesa. She caught their gaze and stored it away like a secret treasure.

She was in Odesa. And she was ready for anything for this city to notice her. And those three had definitely noticed her and were seeking her gaze. She felt their gaze on her back and straightened her spine, looking back and winking at them with a radiant smile.

And Toviy was already calculating how much a week in these "prosperous furnished rooms" would cost them and what benefit could be derived from acquaintance with Odesa grain exporters...
... An office in the firm of the first-guild merchant Aron Moiseevich Fisher.
A massive oak desk, piled with papers. Outside the window, the port and ship masts are visible. The air smells of tobacco, the sea, and money.

Aron Moiseevich, a man of about fifty with a keen gaze, is sorting through ledgers. Opposite him, trying not to slouch, sits Toviy in a suit slightly rumpled from the journey. Before him lies a folder with blueprints and calculations.
Aron Moiseevich. Well, now... Toviy Solomonovich, speak. Your father is a respected man. I know his steamships on the Dnipro.

They carry crockery and flour reliably. Why did he need to send a fledgling to Odesa instead of coming himself? Big deals require big people.
Toviy sighs inwardly, but maintains an outward confidence.
— Father is at the rapids, Aron Moiseevich. Every day is a battle with stones and currents. He sends you his low bow and deepest apologies. But there is no time. While he drinks coffee with you here and reminisces about his youth, competitors from Belgian and German joint-stock companies are already investing their money in projects to bypass our rapids. And we... we want the glory and the profits to remain here.

Aron Moiseevich smirks, — glory is for poets. Profits are for merchants. You talk to me about profits. Your papa... (nods at the blueprints) ... he proposes to dig a channel and build dams. That's like digging up the Tsar Bell and recasting the Tsar Cannon. Where is the capital? Why should I, an Odessan whose fleet plows the Black Sea all the way to Istanbul, dig around in the Dnipro shallows?

Toviy expected this question, slides the folder closer.
— Because, Aron Moiseevich, beyond the rapids lies the entire Dnipro, the Pripyat, the Desna. Grain cargoes from Chernihiv, timber from Mogilev, sugar from Kyiv, ore from Kryvyi Rih. Today they travel in small batches, with endless transshipments. Expensive, slow, unprofitable.

 But imagine: a large steamer, ocean-class, loads in Kyiv and goes without stopping, without the risk of running aground, all the way to Kherson, and from there — for export. Right into your holds. The volume of cargo will increase five, tenfold. Tariffs will fall, our profit — will soar.
Aron Moiseevich looks carefully at the numbers, runs his finger over the columns.
Numbers... they are like girls before a wedding – always beautiful. And after... And if the project fails? The money will go into the sand. Literally. The Dnipro – it is willful. Today you dredge it, and tomorrow the spring flood will bring so much silt that everything will have to start over.

Toviy flares up.
— That is precisely why we need not just dredgers, but capital dams. Not to fight the symptom, but to eliminate the cause. We won't just deepen the fairway, we will build a new channel. Permanent, predictable. This is not a repair, Aron Moiseevich. This is – the creation of a new transport artery. It's like digging the Suez Canal, only in miniature. It will forever change the economy of all of Southern Russia.

He falls silent, trying not to betray how fast his heart is beating.
Aron Moiseevich sits thoughtfully, looking out the window. The pause stretches agonizingly long.
Suez... that's boldly said. He stands, approaches the window.
— See the port? Ships are standing there under British, French, Greek flags. They come for our bread. But to gather it, you have to travel half of Ukraine by cart. The roads – are a nightmare. And the river... the river is a gift from God. It's just hidden under the rapids.
He turns to Toviy.
— Your father... he was always a dreamer. But a dreamer with golden hands. I know that. He returns to the desk. Money will be found. Not just mine. I will talk with Isaac from 'Ropit & Co.', with Mendel from the grain exchange. But...
He looks sternly at Toviy.

— But we will not just give money. We will enter the business. As shareholders. And I personally will come to those rapids to see where every kopeck goes. Tell that to your father. If he doesn't like it – let him look for money from Kyiv bankers. They will buy his business and squeeze it like a lemon.
Toviy barely restrains a sigh of relief.
— Father was counting precisely on partnership, not on loans, Aron Moiseevich. He said: 'The Odesa merchants – they are like rocks. If they believe in a cause, they will stand firm.' He will be glad to see you on his captain's bridge.
Aron Moiseevich smiles for the first time, squinting his eyes.
— Well said. Alright. Go, rest from the journey. Come for dinner this evening. My wife will feed you stuffed fish like you won't find in Nikopol. And I... I will summon those very 'rocks'. Let's see if our young Suez engineer will flinch before a whole hall of old, money-hungry Jews.
Toviy stands, nods, trying to keep his hand from trembling during the handshake. He understands: the first battle is won. But the war for the future of the Dnipro is just beginning.

... While Toviy was in the office on Deribasivska with a serious air discussing tons, percentages, and freight, Leya, burning with resentment at herself for the morning trick with the fake ring, decided to prove to everyone and first of all to herself that she was no simpleton. She persuaded her husband to go to one of the open-air restaurants on Italianska Street.
Evening Odesa lived a different life. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, expensive cigars, and perfume. The sounds of a violin and the soft clatter of dishes created the illusion of a refined, unattainable life.
They sat at a small table. Toviy, tired but pleased with the start of the business negotiations, allowed himself a glass of wine. Leya, in her best dress, tried to portray the ease of a society lady, glancing at the neighbors.

A man approached them, not a waiter, but an imposing gentleman with grey sideburns and an impeccable tailcoat. He introduced himself: "Anton Karlovich, an artist and arranger of small amusements for a select public." His manners were impeccable, his speech velvety.
— Madam, allow me to propose you test your luck? Or, perhaps, your perceptiveness? — with an elegant bow he placed three playing cards on the table: the ace of spades, a queen, and another ace. — The task is simple — guess where the lucky ace is. The stake is purely symbolic, for the thrill. Just one ruble.
Toviy frowned, his business sense immediately scenting a trick.
— We don't gamble, — he said dryly.
But Leya was already on fire. The morning incident with the ring demanded revenge. This was her chance to prove her cleverness!
— Taras, it's just a game. Only one ruble. Please, — she looked at him pleadingly, then turned to the "artist": — I can do it.
Anton Karlovich with a smile began to move the cards around the table. His hands moved with hypnotic smoothness. Leya didn't take her eyes off them, confident she was following the "lucky" ace.
— Here, — she poked her finger at a card, beaming with victory.
The gentleman turned the card over. It was the queen.
— Alas, madam, fortune is not favorable to you today. But perhaps another try? Just one ruble.
— Leya, enough, — Toviy's voice became hard.
But she could no longer stop. She was stung. She watched again, even more attentively. And again she was wrong. And again. With each loss, her excitement and desire to win back grew. She no longer noticed how Toviy was growing pale, calculating in his head the money flying to the wind.
— That's all. The end, — he stood up abruptly, putting several credit bills on the table to cover the dinner and the "game."
At that moment, Anton Karlovich, with the same elegant bow, suddenly… dissolved into the crowd. Disappeared as quickly as the dandy with the ring that morning.
They stepped out onto the street. The air was pierced by an oppressive silence.
— Twenty-seven rubles, Leya! — Toviy hissed, clenching his fists. He wasn't shouting. His voice was low and terrible with impotent rage. — Thirty-seven rubles! For a card trick any urchin in the port knows. That's a month's wages for a good craftsman.
— But I… I almost guessed. He was so fast… — Leya babbled, realizing the full horror of what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears of shame.
— He was moving the cards right under your nose. Are you blind? You were looking not at the cards, but at his cufflinks and shirt studs. You can be bought with shiny trinkets. First the ring, now this. You behave like…
He didn't finish, exhaling forcefully. He looked at her not with anger, but with bitter disappointment, which was more painful than any scolding.
— Tomorrow we are leaving back for Nikopol. No more Odesa. No more restaurants. Do you understand me?
He turned and walked ahead along the dark street, not looking back. Leya stood still, feeling hot tears rolling down her cheeks, mixing with powder. The magical city had suddenly become alien, cold, and cruel.

Her dream of freedom and glitter had turned into a humiliating fiasco and the loss of her husband's trust.
And somewhere in the shadow of an arcade, that very "Anton Karlovich" was already taking off his tailcoat and dividing the spoils with the young dandy who had sold the fake ring in the morning. Odesa remained Odesa.
... Evening. The Shneerson Furnished Rooms...
Toviy and Leya, still not changed, sat in the tense silence of their room. Anger had been replaced by icy alienation. A sudden knock on the door made them flinch.
On the threshold stood the owner himself, Shneerson, with an obsequiously worried look.
— Mr. Toviy, there is… an important personage here to see you. From the customs department. Says he's the shift superintendent. The matter, he says, brooks no delay.
Toviy grew alert. Customs? Perhaps about his cargo? Or, on the contrary, a chance for a profitable acquaintance? It was unwise to refuse.
— Leya, stay here, — he ordered, but she was already standing up, straightening her evening dress. The sight of an "important personage" was far more interesting than sitting alone in the room.
Downstairs, in the dimly lit guest hall by an extinguished fireplace, sat a gentleman in a good-quality frock coat. His face was hidden in the shadow from the lampshade. The butler, a portly man with sideburns, respectfully indicated the armchairs.
— Please, don't trouble yourselves, — said the stranger in a thick bass. — It's a matter of minutes. I heard you and your wife are from Nikopol with trade interests? I may have an interesting proposition for you.

Toviy, flattered by the attention and eager for business connections, began cautiously, but in increasing detail, to talk about his plans to arrange grain supplies, about the port, about his calculations. The shadow nodded, asked intelligent questions. Leya grew bored.
— Excuse me, madam, — the butler suddenly addressed her. — The mistress asks for a moment regarding… the linen. Some misunderstanding with the lace cuffs.
Leya, glad for a pretext to leave the boring conversation, readily rose and followed the butler into the corridor. The door closed quietly behind her.
Toviy negotiated for a full three hours. The stranger was witty, well-informed, and showered him with Nikopol names and figures that Toviy knew.

Toviy, getting carried away, took out his notebook and wrote down: surnames, account numbers, names of offices. He felt himself on the verge of a big deal. Only around midnight, when the negotiations finally concluded and the mysterious guest departed, did Toviy come to his senses.
It was about two in the morning. Leya was not in the hall, nor in their room. Nowhere. He rushed to Shneerson. The latter threw up his hands, swore he knew nothing, that the butler had left on his own business, and as for the "mistress and the linen" — complete nonsense, his wife had been asleep for a long time.

A cold horror, much more piercing than the morning's anger, gripped Toviy's heart. He rushed about the dark house, but the night Odesa was silent. Wake the police? With a scandal? Without connections? It could bury all his endeavors and his reputation. His calculating mind told him: at night, in an unfamiliar city, he was powerless. All that remained was to wait. It was the most difficult decision of his life...

... And at that time, Leya, intoxicated by sweet wine and brilliant compliments from three "officers" (whose manners became more and more unbridled with each glass), was laughing in a carriage racing somewhere through the night Odesa.

Her companions were so gallant, so witty, and so reminiscent of that very, desired freedom. Somewhere in the back alleys of Moldavanka, in a stuffy tavern, they kept pouring wine for her, and she, almost incoherent, tried to dance to a broken piano, feeling finally desired and beautiful.
Her "adventure" ended as suddenly as it began. When her drunken joy turned to nausea and fear, the "officers," having mocked her and laughed, loaded her unconscious and drunk into a phaeton.
Around six in the morning, when the first rays of the sun touched the roofs on Deribasivska, the same phaeton pulled up to the Shneerson house. Leya, pale, in a crumpled evening dress, with disheveled hair and empty eyes, was simply deposited on the cold stone steps. The phaeton immediately sped off in an unknown direction.

She sat, hugging her knees, shaking from cold and shame, unable to move. The door behind her opened. On the threshold stood Toviy. He had not slept all night. His face was grey from sleeplessness and the torment he had endured. He didn't say a word. He just looked at her. And in his gaze there was no anger, no reproach. There was emptiness. That very emptiness which is more frightening than any scream.
Their honeymoon trip to Odesa was over. Something else had begun. Heavy, silent, and irrevocable.

 

Сhapter 7: Leah and Tobias are Divorced

Nikolaevsky Descent, the port of Nikopol. It smelled of coal dust, fish, and the tarred planks of the wharf. They had left the steamship behind long ago, but the silence between them still hung there, thick and impenetrable as a London Particular. He wouldn't look at her. She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

He wordlessly helped her ashore, jerking his chin towards a hansom cab. His gaze was turned inward, fixed on that cold, calculating plan he had built in his mind: his business, his career, a separate flat. Walls. Distance. She wasn't up to his mark. A flighty little doll, for whom the Torah and tradition were all my eye, and all she wanted was dancing and the admiration in other men's eyes.

He drove off without a backward glance. She, as if in a dream, walked to the railway station. The train to Marhanets was in two hours. She needed to get a ticket, but her legs wouldn't obey. She sank onto a wooden bench on the platform, and suddenly her fingers went slack all on their own.

Her fashionable travelling reticule fell onto the stone platform of polished amphibolite, the clasp clicked and flew open. And her entire former, carefully assembled life scattered across the stone flags. A powder compact, the little eyelash curlers she had used so coquettishly under the gaze of that very officer with the thin lips and the sharp little moustache. A small bottle of ‘Fleur d'Oranger’ shattered, and its sharp, floral scent, her favourite, the scent of a bride, mingled with the station's sooty air. The mint imperials she'd sucked to freshen her breath for a kiss that never happened… or did it happen, and she just couldn't remember? A lump rose in her throat. There lay a delicate glass bottle with a rubber bulb-spray. ‘Metamorphose’ cream—promising transformation. ‘Mont Blanc’—for whiteness of the skin. Violet-scented toilet soap. All of it had been necessary to create that very Leah who was so easy to get squiffy, to defile, to violate, and to discard.

And the final insult—the dressing case. The ‘necessary’ of soft morocco, lined inside with velvet and silk, a gift from her aunt in Odessa. An expensive, pointless thing. A repository of perfection that had proved to be such a fragile shell.

She stared at this scattered splendour: at the natural bristle brush, the tortoiseshell comb, the invisible hairpins that hadn't managed to hold a bloody thing, the silk hair ribbons. At the newfangled metal nail file, the scissors, the cuticle nippers. At the whole complicated machinery for creating a jilt.

Now, none of it was needed. It was dodgy. It was a disgrace.

—Chuck it? flashed through her mind.

But how do you chuck yourself? That former Leah. The one who had boarded that steamer, full of daft hopes and flirtation. That life had ended here, on this dusty platform, amidst spilled powder and shards of glass. The new one was dark, empty, and it began with this silent decision: to leave it all here. To travel light. To wash off that sweet, drugging scent of ‘Fleur d'Oranger’ and never smell it again. She didn't bother to gather any of it. She left all her kip–her coquette's toiletries–scattered across the platform and stared through the window at the receding station, with its litter of accessories which a station sweeper with his huge broom was already beginning to brush away…

…The end of 1906. Marhanets was buried in snow; it lay on the low roofs in fat, pudgy caps, blocking the paths to the wells. Smoke wisped from the chimney of the house of Rabbi Kopp, Leah's father. Inside, it smelled of stove-warmth, boiled potatoes, and a quiet, faded poverty.

Her father was past sixty, his back bent from the latest Black Hundred pogrom, and his eyes dimmed from Leah's pregnancy and divorce from Tobias. He kept his own counsel. Her mother moved about the house on silent feet, glancing at her daughter with an anxiety mixed with pity and a silent reproach. Their world was small and simple, and there was no place in it for a story like Leah's.

Leah was barely nineteen, but she felt like an ancient crone. For nine months she had lived in a sort of limbo, in a fog, through which only fragments of the nightmare broke.

That steamer. The cabin. The first, awkward and hasty wedding night with Tobias. And the next day—the dizziness of freedom, of the sea air. The officer with the razor-thin moustache, his cheeky, appraising stare. His mates. A carriage whisking them away into the unknown. Red wine, rough and treacherous. A blackout. A black hole in her memory, from which only vague images echoed: raucous laughter, strange hands on her bodice, the smell of foreign tobacco, the feeling of her body falling into an abyss.

And then—the silent return to the ship. Tobias's icy silence. His decision, like a sentence: "She's not up to my mark."

She tormented herself, trying to pierce that darkness, to dredge up something, anything—a shred of sound—to understand what had happened to her. But her memory was stone deaf and dumb. She was simply a spoiled article, returned to sender, back to her parents' house.

She didn't want to think about the child. This wasn't a pregnancy, it was just growing proof of her shame, the heavy fruit of that night she knew nothing about. She hoped, desperately hoped, that when the infant was born, there would be something of Tobias in it. Some feature that would let her form an attachment, to cling to the thought that it was his child after all, and not the fruit of that black oblivion.

The winter was brutal. The labour was long and hard. The midwife, a thin, silent woman with hands mapped with veins, worked in the half-light of the room. Leah, bathed in sweat, her hair escaped from its plait, gripped the edge of the sheet, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming. Not from the physical pain—from the horror of what she was about to see.

And then it was over. A ringing silence hung in the house. The midwife swaddled the tiny body in a clean cloth and brought it to Leah.

—A girl, she said, her voice hollow.

Leah, drained, her vision bleary, turned her head. And froze.

The infant wrinkled up and cried. And in that moment, in the grimace of its cry, something emerged that froze the very blood in Leah's veins. Straight, ginger hair. A narrow slit of eyes. Thin, string-like lips stretched in an unknowing smile—the spitting image of that dandy, that cheeky, cocksure fellow with the sharp little moustache.

There wasn't a single feature of Tobias. Not his dark, serious eyes, not the shape of his brows, not the oval of his face. Only a living, breathing portrait of that stranger, whose name she did not know and never wanted to know.

The silence was torn by a piercing, animal scream. It was Leah screaming. Screaming from the horror, from the final demolition of her last hope, from a visceral, physical hatred for this proof of her shame that was now staring at her with narrow, foreign eyes.

She turned to the wall, burying herself in the pillow, while the midwife, shaking her head, drew the crying girl to her breast—the living embodiment of that night Leah could never remember. The girl wanted to live and she cried. She waited for her mother's milk...

 

Chapter 8 Tamara

 

The sun's disc rose over the Dnieper without haste, like a red-hot copper shield being reluctantly lifted from the water by a weary bogatyr. Tom saw the bogatyr's outline in the form of a burial mound, and his shield—the sun's disc—guarding the Muravsky Trail far away along the horizon where the sun ascends.

The long morning shadows from the kurgans lay across the steppe, turning the boundless expanse into a mysterious, shifting map of forgotten Scythian and Sarmatian kingdoms. The air, cool and fresh, grew sweet with the first warm rays. At this hour, the steppe began to tell its stories. And Tom listened. It wasn't far from Granddad Kop's house—she could see the roof—as she sat on a kurgan and dreamed.

Warmed by the first sunlight, she wandered off to the well, where the women of Gorodishche usually gathered at this time for a good chinwag about life. Tucking her sandalled feet beneath her, she soaked up every sound, every word that flowed from the mouths of the Gorodishche young wives. Their voices, hoarse from labour and time, were music to her, ancient as the Dnieper region itself.

The women talked of many things. Of the Tomakivka Sich, of the salt route that ran along the river—a road paved not with stone, but with salt and the sweat of the chumaks. Tom would close her eyes and fancy she could hear the creak of countless carts, the snorting of oxen, the weary chumak songs flying into the red sky. She saw phantom convoys carrying not just salt, but legends—of Zaporozhian treasures. Of spells against the evil eye, of untold riches guarded in caves by an evil demon taking the form of a whirlwind or a tornado.

The old biddies said that Mavrynsky Maidan was a place of power. In spring, the Mutant came out of the swamps. Lev the lighthouse keeper was alive again and lighting the lamps. The Tokove waterfalls gave great strength to those who trusted the red stone. The Zaporozhian Cossack Nikita's hut had been undermined again and the cemetery by the Podpilna River was washed away, the corpses floating down the Dnieper all the way to Kherson. Beyond the Podpilna River in the forest stood a huge three-century-old poplar, where a great Dnieper eagle and his mate had built a nest, and the island that formed there was named Orliv by the locals.

There were no newspapers. And all the news was at the well with these talkative Zaporozhian and Dnieper women, keen on gossip and tittle-tattle about other women. They had picked over the bones of Tamara's mother, Olesya, a thousand times. That she'd had such a rich husband, and he'd left her with a child. And then, when Olesya started frequenting the city, they began to gossip that she was "earning a wage" in a house of ill repute. These generous housewives, these keepers of lore, always fed Tom a crust of fragrant bread or a bowl of fresh milk, invariably seasoning the treat with a fairy tale.

—Heard the one about the Tokove rapids, girl? — a neighbour would begin, her eyes sparkling with a wise, witchy glint. — Where the water boils and foams, white as your granddad's beard, there be ghosts. Souls of Cossacks, maybe, or rusalka-mavkas. And at night, when the moon is half-hidden by a cloud, a black carriage races along the steppe by the bank of the Kamianka River, pulled by a team of six black horses. And in that carriage—there's no one. No rider, no coachman. Just the wind whistling through its windows, and the steppe wolves howling in fear.

Tom would go still, goosebumps—sweet and ghastly—running down her spine. She wanted to see that carriage. She wasn't scared, no. She felt these weren't just scary stories, but part of something larger, part of this land's memory. She was a child of this region, steeped in the legends of bogatyrs and famed beauties, and these stories were her birthright.

But sometimes, after tales of ghosts and treasures, the conversation took a different turn. The women's voices grew quieter, more pitying. They would whisper among themselves, nodding in her direction.

—Poor little orphan, all alone in the wide world...

—An orphan, a right orphan, — they would cluck, shaking their heads. — It's not easy for her...

And these words wounded Tom more painfully than any thorn from the steppe's blackthorn. She would look away, into the darkening steppe where it was already impossible to tell a kurgan from a sleeping giant. Inside her, a quiet, stubborn protest would rise.

—I have a mother, — her heart whispered in time with the thunder rolling across the steppe. — I'm not an orphan. And there's my old granddad. Kop, everyone calls him.

Mum was always with her. But not always. Sometimes she'd be away for a day, but she always came back. And she'd bring a gift, a snuffbox, a doll. Tom loved her mum, but when she was away, a feeling of absolute defencelessness arose. It was more real than any fairy tale. Mum would leave silently for a day, off somewhere far away to earn a wage, in a big city Tom knew nothing about.

She sometimes left notes, and the women would read them to her, drawing out the words and adding their own: —See, your mother cares for you, you… child. Extramarital - Illegitimate. The women fell silent, not wanting to upset her girlish imagination. Her mother went away for "city wages." And these wages were rather dodgy. The new authorities didn't look kindly on "underground earnings." But Tom's mother, Olesya, couldn't do anything except console with her body revolutionaries, commissars, Whites, Reds, traders, and penniless students.

No, Tom was not an orphan. The steppe was her mother, and Father Dnieper—her protector. Gorodishche and its surroundings—were her home.

She got up from the well, shook out her skirt, and walked towards the house. Day had fully taken hold, and the sky was clear. Somewhere out there, a carriage was racing, rapids were roaring, and the chumak carts continued their eternal journey along the Milky Way.

Tom was not an orphan. She was a daughter of this steppe, these legends. And this wealth needed no guarding from demons—no one could ever take it from her. She was a daughter of the steppes and the Dnieper...

In Tom's modest room, dolls her mother brought her from the city lay scattered on the floor. Tom sat among them, holding a battered doll, Fanya, in one hand and a doll in a fine dress in the other. Tom fussed over them, seating them around a small table and re-drawing their eyes, just like her mum did when she went to the city to earn her wages.

Tom, tenderly, to the doll Fanya: Oh, and what is this doll Fanya doing? Is she hungry?

Tom changes her tone to an imperious one, speaking for the Fancy Doll: And what shall we make for her? Speak!

Tom, in a thin, whiny voice as Fanya: I don't want to... I won't...

Tom, in the Fancy Doll's voice, sternly: And we'll punish you for that, go to the corner! Quickly!

Tom bangs the Fanya doll on the floor, then abruptly grabs another doll and starts hitting Fanya with it.

Tom, as the Fancy Doll: And what are you staring at? Go and tidy up! And you, get cooking! Don't just sit there! I'm sick of the lot of you!

Marta appears in the doorway. She stands quietly and watches, clutching her neat doll to her chest. Tom notices her but continues to play, now as if for an audience, her movements becoming even sharper.

Tom suddenly speaks to the dolls in a rough tone, mimicking the German speech of Marta's parents: — Wer bist du? Du liebst mich nicht? Essen gehen! Schnell!

She throws the doll and approaches Marta. Her mood shifts abruptly to sad and pleading.

Tom to Marta, quietly: Can I stay at your place?

Marta, carefully adjusting her doll's dress, with slight hesitation: — Yes... Only, your mother will be looking for you.

Tom, looking away, with hurt in her voice: She won't be looking. She's gone off on another… date, with who knows who.

Marta, frowning, sternly, like her mother: — Tom! You mustn't speak about your mother like that.

Tom, flaring up, with a child's cruelty: — As if you don't know she's a… tart. That's how she had me, on the side.

Marta looks at Tom with fright and pity. She doesn't know how to respond to such a grown-up and terrible phrase. Tom sees this and immediately softens, her voice becoming tired and small.

Tom strokes Marta's doll on the head, almost in a whisper: — You're a good girl. Go and eat at the table.

Marta quietly, after a pause: — Armes Mädchen... Poor girl.

Tom, wrinkling her nose stubbornly: — I'm not poor. Mum brings money. Lots of it.

Marta nods, wanting to agree: — Ja. Ja. Ich weiß. Yes-yes, I know.

An awkward silence falls. Tom looks at Marta's doll, then out the window.

Tom, suddenly pleading: — Sing a song. In German.

Marta, after a slight hesitation, quietly hums: — O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum!.. Wie treu sind deine Blätter... du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit...

Tom listens, mesmerised, then interrupts: — Will I get gifts if I sing it at New Year?

Marta, with a touch of sadness, simply agreeing to comfort her: — Ja. Ja. Ich weiß.

Tom takes the doll Marta offers her, clutches it to herself, and crawls back to her own dolls to continue her complicated, burdensome-for-a-seven-year-old game, in which she was both the abandoned child, and the punishing mother, and the pitying friend. Marta remains standing in the doorway, not daring either to leave or to enter.

Marta, the youngest daughter of the Mennonite German settlers, lived three houses down from Kop's house. Her mother, Gretchen, felt sorry for Tom and let her into their house because the seven-year-old Tom had one talent that won over not only her, but any adult. She could quickly draw a cat, a dog, a bird with a pencil. And she loved drawing people. Portraits. She had taught herself when left at home alone without her mum. Her mum left her pencils, and she would colour her dolls: eyelashes, lips, cheeks.

Once, she drew her mother on the wall when she was only four. Her mother was cross at first that the wall was spoiled. But when she looked closer—the likeness was far from perfect, but in general outline, it was recognisably Olesya Kop. From then on, she brought her daughter paper and pencils from the city. Tom didn't like painting with paints. Only pencils and chalk. Now she sits at Frau Gretchen's and draws her friend Marta, who is preparing her notebooks for the gymnasium.

— Have you got your satchel ready for the gymnasium?
— Mum promised to bring one from the city.
— Are you going to our gymnasium to study?
— Yes. Mum enrolled me.
— And who will take you?
— Mum, probably.
— If your mum can't, then my mum will take you.
— Thank your mum. — Tell her I'll draw her portrait. She is kind.

And in 1918, the women's gymnasium was closed by the new White authorities, and the new authorities never opened a new gymnasium, and the girls didn't study anywhere for a whole year...

...In the spring, in May, Tom saw for the first time what her mother did for a living. She and her friends had sneaked into someone else's cherry orchard. They picked four big bags of early cherries. Marta and another friend took the cherries home, and Tom, a fourteen-year-old independent girl, went to the Nikopol station and started selling the early cherries on the platform.

Trade was brisk. The White Guards swiftly bought up the cherries in little newspaper cones. One cone for one Nikopol bonna. Only a little bit of cherries was left, enough for two cones. And suddenly Tom saw her mother in the company of tipsy gentlemen in civilian clothes. They were holding her by the arms and brazenly groping her waist and lower.

Tom broke out in crimson blotches, but didn't scream. Her mother walked across the perron, over the railway tracks, somewhere into the bushes, from where her cheerful, loud laughter echoed. Tom dropped her earnings—the Nikopol bonnas—onto the perron, and they scattered, getting lodged in the cracks between the stones. After that, Tom stopped talking to her mother and dreamed of running away from her grandfather's house, away from the shame of her mother. And a year and a half later, her mother herself unexpectedly suggested leaving for the big construction project.

People had been talking about the big construction project for a while. But no one really knew where it was or when it would start. Some said in Nikopol. Others said in Dnipropetrovsk-Yekaterinoslav. The locals still called the city Yekaterinoslav for a long time, in the old way, even under the new authorities.

The newspaper " Nikopol Worker " wrote about the big construction project.

"Required: general labourers, loaders, masons, carters. And a woman who can draw is required for the local newspaper Dnepro builder."

This was Tom's chance to escape the Gorodishche backwater. She silently packed a small bundle, left a note for her mother. "Don't look for me, Mum, I've left for the construction site. I will live by myself."

Tamara Kopp had just turned eighteen. At the Nikopol station, she bought a ticket and went to Yekaterinoslav. She found the address from the newspaper advert. She came to the labour recruitment office and said she was there about the advert.

— Wait. The commissar will see you now.

Tamara was quite surprised that commissars were selecting personnel for the big construction.

— You can draw? — asked the commissar in a protective military tunic.
— Yes, — Tamara said confidently.
— We'll see about that now. — He sat sideways on a chair and commanded. — Draw.
— Just like that?
— Well, you said you could. Prove it.
— I have a pencil, but I didn't bring any paper.
— Here's paper. But be quick. Ten minutes. I have people waiting, see.

Tom drew the commissar in profile down to the waist, in his tunic and epaulettes. He came over, smiled, and said.

— You're hired. I'm keeping this portrait. It's my first drawn one. Here's a mandate. Take this to the commandant's office. You're not from here? From Gorodishche? You'll live in a state-provided room for now. But you start work tomorrow. We need posters. Yes. Tell me what brushes and paint you'll need.

— For posters, very wide bristle brushes. And red, black, and blue paint. And also white and green, — Tom replied.

A new page in Tamara's life was beginning. DniproHES, at the very start of its excavation work...

...Tamara drew only three posters. "Dnepro builder has begun!", "Communism is Soviet power plus electrification", "Let's have Dnepro builder!"...

Her talent for drawing faces was in demand in another service—the GPU NKVD. Completely by chance, an NKVD captain saw the portrait of the commissar, Tamara's boss, which she had drawn during her job interview. The NKVD captain highly praised the likeness.

— Who drew this?
— Our artist, Tom, from Gorodishche.
— A local, then. Let me check her out, see if she's got any theft or fraud on her record.
— Suit yourself, check. Oh, she also knows German.
— Then I'm definitely taking her from you. German engineers are arriving in a few days, and the translator from Moscow won't be here soon. Which state building should I look for her in? On Kominterna street? I'll find it.

During the check of her background and documents, only one biographical fact raised the captain's suspicion. No father, mother doesn't work anywhere.

— What do you live on?
— I sell cherries sometimes, or draw a portrait, and I also teach children.
— Where do you know German from?
— We've played with dolls in German since we were kids with Marta. She's from the Mennonite Germans, lives in Gorodishche next door.

And so, at eighteen, Tom became an employee of the Provincial NKVD with the rank of Private First Class.

They issued her a uniform, made her sign some papers, and assigned her to the photo lab. Calling the small, dark room, five by four metres, a 'lab' was a stretch. But besides Tom, three other people worked there and sometimes appeared: a photographer, an investigator, a lab assistant.

The department's task was to identify unreliable elements, document them, photograph them, draw portraits from descriptions, and make arrests. Tom didn't care what the work was. She had broken free from home. And now she was a free bird…

Now Tamara had to revert to her childhood and recall all the German words. She not only listened, she sought a way to make her memory obedient, to use it as a tool, as a lever of influence. Playing with dolls and children was one thing.

But these were real Germans. Engineers from Siemens spoke firmly, without smiling once. And Tamara didn't know many words. Especially technical terms. But she guessed from the sound and translated at a venture: that tool, that unit, that assembly. During breaks, she recalled all the words they uttered and tried to write them down.

On Sunday, her day off, she decided to wander through the Tok quarry. She rolled round, nut-sized pebbles with her shoes and admired boulders the size of a shed and a well. She approached a huge rock taller than her and stroked its glossy sides. A small stone stuck to her fingers—not gabbro, but a burgundy-red one, with an inner fire, like a drop of blood in the body of black magma. Tamara held it up to the light—a spark pulsed inside.

— An almandine, — she whispered, remembering a story she'd read in "The Garnet Bracelet" and how such stones were passed down through the female line in Jewish families for centuries. — So that's what you are, a mystic and a seer…

That same evening, lying on her narrow bed in the dormitory, Tamara held the stone in her palms, feeling a faint tingling run up her arm. She closed her eyes and suddenly heard thoughts not her own: foreign voices, fragments of German conversations, secret hints, anxious laughter, a man's hoarse whisper. The stone became for her not just a thing—now it was a connection, a channel through which past, present, and future flowed into one another, like magma in a volcano's throat.

From then on, Tamara wore the almandine on a thin chain under her collar. She quickly understood: if she clenched the stone tightly in her fist before a conversation—the interlocutor would start involuntarily revealing weaknesses. She saw how the fingers of Michael, the chief engineer, trembled when the subject of deadlines came up; she heard how Dr. Wolf, usually taciturn, would suddenly start reminiscing about his children and longing for home. Sometimes it even seemed to her that she herself became someone else for a moment—as if trying on another's skin.

But the stone's magic wasn't only in sensing lies. Sometimes, left alone in the photo lab office, Tamara would press the almandine to her temple and see strange pictures: the German engineers against the backdrop of the Dnieper's icy water, their faces distorted with fear; her mother, young, with the same cunning eyes, saying something in Yiddish; her grandfather, dying, stretching out his hand to her, clutching an identical garnet in his palm.

One night, when an alarming vibration rolled through the dam—they were blasting the bedrock before the dam—Tamara woke up in a cold sweat. The stone around her neck had heated up as if it were a tiny sun. She felt an icy emptiness in her body and simultaneously—a surge of strength. A voice, not her own, raced through the depths of her consciousness: "You will learn everything, if you are not afraid."

The next morning, Tamara's translating was unusually easy; she guessed the speakers' thoughts beforehand. In the eyes of the German engineers, she saw a reflection of fear—not of her, but of the unknown that was embedded in the very structure of the station, in these stones that had absorbed the fire and pain of millennia.

— Junge Frau Tamara, you are an astonishing girl, — Michael said when they met in the corridor. — Sometimes I think you understand me without words.

Tamara smiled, tilting her head slightly, and asked her favourite question:

— And have you ever thought that the stones of the DniproHES dam might remember more than people?

Michael laughed, but something anxious flickered in his gaze. He hurried away, and Tamara slowly ran her finger over the cold concrete wall and whispered in German:

— Remember me when all this is over. Remember, stone, remember the blood, remember the fire.

That day she finally believed: the magic of gabbro-diabase was not superstition, but an ancient science, a gift of foresight and manipulation of people, absorbed into the red-black stone and into the blood of her lineage. And as long as the almandine pulsed on her chest, she was not just a translator—she was a keeper of secrets, a conductor of fate…

…By the time the cold weather set in, Tamara was promoted and given the rank of Junior Sergeant. They issued her a set of warm underwear, warm boots, and a lined greatcoat. Personal weapons were allotted from the rank of Sergeant. During shooting practice at the range in December, she met a young Junior Lieutenant, Mark.

Mark was also from a Jewish family. The new Red authorities were tolerant of all beliefs. Mark hardly ever mentioned his parents in his stories, only noting in passing that they did not share his revolutionary views. He had participated in the revolution as a youth on the side of the RSDLP, and was sent to an NKVD school for a year in 1923. Mark and Tom became friendly and started appearing together on Sundays at the big barracks-club for dances. After the New Year of 1924, severe January frosts began, but work on the DniproHES dam did not stop…

Chapter 9. Maya

 

In the small town of Nikopol, in the Lower Dnieper region of Ukraine, lived a girl named Maya with her father, mother, and two younger brothers. Her name sounded soft and warm, calling to mind water, giver of life. Jewish blood flowed in the girl's veins, a thick current of traditions, commandments, and prayers.

But her heart was open to the world surrounding her family's home. This world buzzed with the local patois, shimmering with the melody of folk songs and local poetry. She lost herself in the verses of poems read by her father, a stonemason, in the Little Russian dialect. The girl's eyes lit up with an inner light, understanding the beauty of the Dnieper lands, their history and culture, which from birth had become part of her own destiny.

The Upper Dnieper folklore captivated her with its tales, legends, and songs born right here, where the land was generous with the tunes of ancient ox-cart drivers. She learned these carter's songs in the local vernacular, memorising every word, soaking up the spirit of the steppes and wide rivers.

And then she repeated them in Hebrew, striving to convey all the depth of feeling embedded in the folk recitative through the prism of her native tongue.

One evening, sitting with her mother Leah, the girl asked:
— Mum, why do you tell me stories specifically in Hebrew?
Her mother smiled thoughtfully and answered in a quiet voice:
— Because every language holds a special code of the world, a special picture of existence. You must understand both pictures to see the beauty of both cultures whole.
And the girl understood why her father had taught her in the local dialect. She felt the importance of the learning she had acquired through studying folklore and customs from the local, humble little books.

She could spend hours humming Christmas carols and Shchedrivka songs. She did this in both languages at once. This unique ability became part of her identity, creating harmony where it seemed no common ground could be found. In Nikopol, many people expressed themselves this way—in Russian, Ukrainian, Hebrew. And lately, in German too. Many Mennonite Germans had appeared in Nikopol.

Walking the streets of Nikopol, Maya would often stop to listen to the conversations of the locals, absorbing the special dialect heard here—warm, soft, cosy. Every word of the Nikopol vernacular sparked an association with a Jewish expression, making the girl smile with the happiness of recognising the parallels and differences between languages.

A particular place in her lexicon was held by the urban surzhyk of the inhabitants of Southern Ukraine.

Thus flowed the days of the girl Maya, living among the shades of a unique combination of Ukrainian and Jewish worlds, intertwined with threads of friendship, mutual respect, and a shared love for the culture of both peoples.

On one of the May days, Maya woke as always to the crowing of cocks. A heavy rain had fallen the day before and the air was fresh and damp. The morning sun's rays began to dry the earth, and Maya clearly heard a rumble as if a herd of horses and twenty oxen were running across the Dnieper steppe. Maya didn't understand where the rumble was coming from.

She went out into the yard and looked west into the steppe. No. Not there. She looked east. Yes. From there. From the Dnieper.

But to get to the Dnieper she had to go way over to that hill, then go around the burial mound, and only then was there the ravine and the wide Dnieper. Maya bypassed the kurgan, approached the Dnieper, and froze. It was seething and had overflowed, filling all the meadows around. It had become wide as the sea and restless, churning. The girl had never seen the Dnieper as such a vast, spilled sea.

There in the north, beyond the horizon in the upper reaches, heavy rains had fallen, and the entire mass of water was now at Maya's feet.

She went right to the edge of the cliff and began to sing, her voice echoing the roar of the Dnieper rapids.

And the green willows sway all day.

Yael rushed to look for her daughter. She was nowhere to be found.
— Maya, Maya, — Yael's voice carried across the steppe.
Maya was nowhere. In horror, Yael ran towards the Dnieper and suddenly heard the rumble-roll of the river. And loud singing.

The water flows down from the yew tree's shade,
Down the ravine to the valley glade,
And the red guelder-rose, so proud and fair...

Yael quietly approached and listened to the song of her daughter of the Dnieper land, her beloved Maya.

She stood on the edge of the cliff, a small figure in the still-cool May air. Her bright dress, the only colourful stroke against the backdrop of the sodden, brown earth and the lead-grey, furious water, fluttered in the gusty wind. She wasn't singing for anyone—she was singing for the mighty Dnieper, answering its rumble and roar with her own strength. Her voice was decisively directed at the Dnieper.

Yael froze, and the fear that had gripped her heart with icy fingers suddenly let go. It was replaced by something else—awe and a strange, poignant understanding. She saw not just her daughter, risking a fall from the Dnieper cliff. She saw a part of this element, its soul, clothed in human form.

The Dnieper boiled and foamed, rushing past with unstoppable power, sweeping away everything in its path. It was a blind, ancient force. And Maya's voice, pure and confident, was the same kind of force, but imbued with spirit. The voice didn't fight the water's roar, it soared above it, weaving into it a golden thread, making this wild picture suddenly meaningful and beautiful.

"...The guelder-rose stands proud, the young yew tree grows strong..."

Yael did not call her daughter. She quietly sank onto the damp grass, hid her face in her knees, and wept. She cried not from fear, but from the overwhelming feelings: from love for this girl, from horror at this world where everyone was at war with everyone else, from the inexpressible beauty of the moment fate had granted her.

The sound of footsteps made her lift her head. It was Artem, and with him their two sons, aged four and six. He wanted to shout something, to rush to the edge, but Yael grabbed his arm and pressed a finger to her lips. Her eyes were full of tears, but they shone with something that made him freeze.

He looked where she was looking. Saw Maya on the edge of the cliff. Heard her song flying over the roaring Dnieper. And he understood everything.

They sat silently side by side, two adults with two small sons, lost in the whirlwind of history, and listened. Listened to their daughter sing. Listened to the river rage. And in this, there was a strange peace.

Maya finished singing, paused as if giving the echo back to the river, and turned around. And as if only now saw and realised where she was. Her eyes widened in amazement at her own courage. She carefully stepped back from the edge and saw her parents.
— Mum! Dad! — her voice, so powerful just moments before, was now again the voice of a twelve-year-old girl. — Did you see? The Dnieper is like the sea.
— We saw, my treasure, — Yael said quietly, approaching and hugging her, not minding the damp earth on the dress. — We saw it all. And heard it all.

Artem silently laid his hand on his daughter's head. He looked at the flooded Dnieper, at the road leading to the city where gangs and patrols prowled, and then at Maya.

'Rabbi Levin was right,' he thought. 'She is the future. And as long as that voice sounds, nothing can drown it out.'

…The evening was quiet and close. Outside the window, in the thick twilight, the edge of the southern Dnieper steppe was no longer visible, only the lamp-lights of the rare houses on the outskirts of Nikopol. Maya, lulled by the rhythmic chirring of crickets, was already asleep.

Avraham and Yael had put their boys to bed and now sat at the table, but the usual peaceful silence between them was absent. The air was filled with a tension that had been building all evening. The "cheeky, daring Tokove Cossack" Artem had turned into the "sedate family man" and orthodox Jew Avraham.

Avraham set aside the book he had been trying to read and sighed, looking at the flame of the kerosene lamp. His new profession was symbolic: he carved memory into stone, thus finding his new roots.
— Yael, I keep thinking about Maya. She's turned eleven.

And she passed primary school with flying colours. It's time for secondary school. We must send her to the city school. The one near the cathedral. They say the teachers are good.

Yael, who had been embroidering a tablecloth, froze. The needle hung in the air. She slowly raised her eyes to her husband, anxiety flaring in them.
— A secular school? With gentile children, where there isn't a hint of the Torah? No, Avraham, it's out of the question.
— Why is it out of the question? — he tried to speak softly, but steel was already audible in his voice. — She will learn to read, write, do sums. She will have friends. She will be here, with us. I will see her every day.
— She will learn God knows what there, — Yael's voice rang like a taut string.

 — Frivolity, idle talk, maybe even disbelief. No, I won't allow it. There is a boarding school for girls in Yekaterinoslav. Send her there. There she will be among her own, will study holy texts, traditions, Hebrew. She will become a proper Jewish woman.

Revolutionary sentiments were growing not only in Nikopol but also in the villages. And sooner or later they could touch the Levin family. As an orthodox Jew and a former Cossack, Artem-Avraham could face misunderstanding from both the revolutionaries and the White authorities. And the growing Maya would ask more and more questions about her origins and roots.

Avraham pushed his chair back and stood up, his tall, still powerful frame blocking the lamplight.
— To Yekaterinoslav? — his voice grew quieter, but only louder for it. — That's over a hundred versts away, Yael. For three months I won't see her wake up? Won't hear her laugh at breakfast? Won't be able to check if she's dressed warmly before going out? It's hard for her. And for me.

There was such bitterness in his words, such naked pain, that Yael wavered for a moment. She had seen what a tender father he was, how he doted on his daughter. But her own conviction was stronger.
— You're thinking of your feelings, and I'm thinking of her soul, — she parried, also rising. Her dark eyes burned. — In a secular school, she'll learn nothing good. She'll forget who she is. She'll grow up and marry someone who doesn't know the commandments? We must give her roots, Avraham.
— And who will give her wings, Yael? — he suddenly asked quietly, going to the window and looking into the darkness.

 — The world is changing. Outside this window is not a shtetl, but a whole city, a whole country. She must be ready for it. She must be able to live in it too.
— To live is to live by the laws of our fathers, — Yael insisted, and tears sounded in her voice for the first time. — Did we not go through all that for this? So that our daughter would turn away from it?

This was their first real argument. Not a squabble, not a spat, but a genuine, profound dispute where not just opinions but entire worlds collided: his—accepted, but still new, and hers—primal, preserved for centuries. Silence hung in the room, thick and heavy, broken only by their breathing and the flicker of the lamp flame. They stood facing each other, a loving husband and wife, discovering for the first time a chasm between them with no reliable bridge across it…

…For several days, a strained silence hung in the Levin house. Avraham and Yael avoided the topic of secondary school, each immersed in their own thoughts. Resolving this argument seemed impossible.

It was a clear, childish voice that cut this Gordian knot. Maya flew into the house, dust from the outlying street on her feet, her eyes shining with determination.
— Dad. Mum. I've arranged it with Esther. We're going to school together, that one, the central one, near the cathedral square.

Yael, who had been stirring soup in a pot, froze. Avraham set down the pen with which he had been inscribing fresh Hebrew lettering.
— Which Esther? — Yael frowned, sensing a catch.
— Well, the one who lives in the sod house, on the Salt Route. Her dad works on the railway.

An expression of mild distaste and alarm appeared on Yael's face.
— Those?.. Maya, they're dirt poor. How did you become friends with her?
— We were buying pears at the market, and she helped me pick the ripest ones. She's kind, — Maya continued with fervour, not noticing her mother's displeasure. — She's been on the train with her dad all the way to Alexandrovsk.

Mum, can I go for a ride on the train with her and her dad sometime? Just to the station? It's very interesting.
— What? No. Absolutely not, — Yael's reaction was instant and categorical. The thought of her daughter, her neshume, gallivanting who-knows-where with some railway workers horrified her.
— Oh, mu-um… — Maya drawled, but seeing the unyielding expression on her mother's face, she didn't insist. Her main goal was different.

She turned her gaze to her father. Avraham looked at his daughter, and laughter lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. He saw not "dirt poor" people, but an independent girl who had found a friend for herself and decided where she would go. In her burning eyes, he saw the very same cheeky Cossack spirit he himself had once been.

Maya, feeling her father's silent support, made the decisive move:
— So, are we going to school with Esther? Yes? I've found out everything. All the children from our street are going there.

Yael sighed. All her arguments about the boarding school in Yekaterinoslav were shattered by harsh reality: logistics, money, hassle. And by the iron will of this small, fragile girl with huge eyes, so like her father.

She looked at her husband. Avraham met her gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly. It was not a triumph, but rather an acknowledgement of the inevitable.
— It's too much trouble to send her to Yekaterinoslav, — Yael said quietly, more to herself than to him, surrendering.

But unexpectedly, Rabbi Yehuda-Leib Levin summoned them for a conversation. By a strange coincidence, their surnames were the same. But in Nikopol this was normal: five surnames Weinstein, four surnames Kop, Koop, Kopp, and Kap. Three Yampolskys. Gorovitz, Schneider, Strasser—two each.

…Yampolsky Lazar Abramovich and his dear wife were not only bound by marital ties but also under the spiritual guidance of the Nikopol Rabbi Yehuda-Leib Levin.

On one of the ordinary days of the civil war, a conversation took place between Yampolsky and Levin.
— Heard. They say another Levin has appeared among us, — says Yampolsky.
— Levin? — Yes, a Levin has appeared, but he's a stonemason. I placed him at our Jewish cemetery on the request of the Yekaterinoslav rabbi. Did you want to talk to me about that?
— No, not about that.
— What about, then?
— You see, my friend Lazar, your Sarah, your dear better half. She has a boarding school for Jewish girls.
— So she's waiting for me here, — said Lazar.
— Call her.
— Darling — come here. The Rabbi wants to see you, — calls his wife Lazar Abramovich.

The Rabbi addresses her.
— It's about this. You need to take on a talented girl, full board.
— And why full? This isn't a poorhouse. Is she a beggar? We don't need beggars.
— You need to hear her first.
— Well, call her then.
— Yael, Artur, — calls Yehuda-Leib. Maya and Artem timidly open the door.
— No, you wait there outside the door. We will listen to Maya.

Maya was wearing a bright crimson dress and white summer sandals. Her curly hair was neatly braided as befits a twelve-year-old Jewish girl.

She began to sing HATIKVAH.

The hope of two thousand years,
To be a free people in our own land,
The land of Zion and Jerusalem!

Her mezzo-soprano captivated everyone. They were struck by the purity and power of her voice.
— Where did you learn to sing? — asked Yampolskaya.
— Mum and Dad taught me. Mum Jewish songs, and Dad Ukrainian ones.
— Sing us a Ukrainian one then.

The wind it doth blow through the oakwood so deep,
And wanders the fields far and wide,
It bends the tall poplar that stands by the way,
And makes its green branches to sigh.
So tall and so green, a right sorry sight,
For all around lies the field, like the sea, broad and blue.

Her voice rang in their ears, reached deep into their hearts, penetrated their souls, and echoed through the open window into the Nikopol distances. Yampolskaya didn't think long—the pause lasted but a few seconds.
— I'll take her. Full board. You owe me one, Rabbi.
— You will thank me later for giving you such a pupil to care for, replied Yehuda-Leib.
— Go, Maya, to your parents, call them in.

And so Maya became a full-board student at the private secondary Nikopol Jewish school where they taught singing, music, and other humanities subjects.

The year was 1918. In Nikopol, there was complete lawlessness.
Everyone was fighting everyone. But only Rabbi Levin could negotiate with the White-bandits, the Reds, the Makhnovists, the Petliurists, the Germans. And they themselves came to him for advice...

…The quiet chords of the piano and the pure maidens' voices drifting from the open windows of the Yampolsky house became as familiar a part of the Nikopol landscape that summer as the rustle of acacias over the Dnieper. It seemed the music itself created an invisible protective sphere around the boarding school, into which the street shooting and the chaos of the world's turmoil dared not intrude.

Maya became not just a pupil, but the darling of the entire boarding school. Her voice, now powerful and passionate in Zionist songs, now tender and sorrowful in Ukrainian melodies, enchanted everyone.

Sara Yampolskaya, once sceptical, now prided herself on her charge as on a precious find. Lazar Abramovich, passing through the corridor, would often slow his step to listen, and a peculiar, bright sadness softened his usually worried face.

But outside the walls, the war year of 1918 continued to rage with undiminished force. Power in Nikopol changed hands, and every new "master" of the city—be it a White officer with epaulettes, a dashing ataman with black moustaches, or a commissar in a leather jacket—would first make his way to the house of Lazar Abramovich, the chief pharmacist and apothecary of the entire Nikopol district.

One late evening, when the city was still in anxious expectation, a tachanka with a machine gun rolled up to the Yampolsky house, from which several men in long greatcoats and with Mausers at their hips briskly jumped down. These were Makhnovists.

Old Man Nestor himself did not enter the study, but his closest associate, a tall, thin ataman nicknamed "The Grey-One", sat down without ceremony opposite the benefactor, patron, and master of the boarding school.
— We've heard about you, you're a clever man and fair to the Jewish people, — he began, twisting a cigarette in his hands. — The Old Man ordered: we need medicines, bandages, iodine. You have a pharmacy here, your own doctors. Gather them. By morning.
Lazar, without batting an eye, looked at him over a stack of books.
— Are there wounded?
— None of your business. Gather the supplies.
— It is my business, — the pharmacist and patron of the boarding school answered calmly. — Because if I give you the medicines, and you go and cut down the Red Army men in the hospital on Sadovaya Street, whom my people have been treating, then the sin will be on me. I will not supply murderers.

The Grey-One paled with anger and grabbed the handle of his Mauser.
— Do you know who you're talking to, kike?

At that moment, from the adjoining room where Maya was practising, the sounds of a piano were heard. The girl, unaware of the Makhnovists' visit, began her vocal exercises. And a moment later, flowed the very first thing she had sung in this house: "The hope of two thousand years..."

Her voice, pure and strong, filled the room, reached the study, and made the ataman freeze. He listened, not taking his eyes off the door from which the singing came, and the iron grip on his Mauser loosened. Perhaps he remembered his own village, his mother, another life—a life that was before the war, before the blood, before this endless slaughter.

Yampolsky took advantage of the pause.
— I will give the medicines. But not to you. I will give them to a sister of mercy from the Red Cross, a neutral party. She will distribute them among all the wounded. Both Reds, and Whites, and yours. Human life is one before God. Do you agree to this?

The Grey-One silently stared at the table. Maya's song swelled, reaching its climax: "To be a free people in our own land, The land of Zion and Jerusalem!"

The ataman heaved himself up.
— Alright. Have it your way, old man. — And, already leaving, turned back. — And who is that singer you have?"
— The future, — Lazar said quietly. — That for which it is worth living, when all this is over.

The Makhnovists left. Yampolsky went to the slightly open door and watched as Maya, engrossed in her music, played for herself alone. He knew his agreements were shaky. He knew that tomorrow Petliurists or Germans could enter the city, and it would all start anew. But in this house, under the protection of music and faith, a fragile hope continued to live. And the name of this hope was Maya. Like water. The waters of the Dnieper, reliable and eternal…

…The classic picture of "ataman rule" in 1919. Local power often belonged not to a regular army, but to various atamans—Zeleny, Angel, Grigoriev—who held sway, including in the Nikopol area. These detachments were often uncontrollable, engaged in robbery, lynching, and conducted a policy of terror against the "unreliable". Often this simply meant educated people, former officials, Russians, Jews, Mennonites.

The halt of cultural life was a natural consequence of war and lawlessness. People thought about survival, not concerts.

In the darkest times of wars and persecutions, religion remained an island of stability and consolation for its communities. For the Jewish population of Nikopol, this was especially important, as they often became the primary victims of pogroms carried out by all warring sides.

April-June 1919 saw the uprising of Ataman Grigoriev raging in the Nikopol and Kryvyi Rih region. First he was for the Reds, then against them. His detachments were distinguished by extreme cruelty and pogroms. This was the peak of horror, driving the local population to despair.

On June 30, 1919, Nikopol was finally occupied by the Armed Forces of South Russia, Denikin's Volunteer Army. A brief period of "White" power began, as it were.

In the summer of 1919, the White Volunteer Army of General Denikin began a large-scale offensive on Moscow ("The March on Moscow"). They captured almost all of Ukraine, including, undoubtedly, Nikopol.

At the end of 1919, under pressure from the Red Army and the Makhnovists, the Whites began a rapid retreat south.

In early 1920, the Red Army finally occupied Nikopol. The process of Sovietisation began, now uninterrupted. By 1921, the Civil War in the region was largely over.

…The house of the stonemason Artem Levin, once an island of sedate order, now seemed to have absorbed the anxieties of the entire era. The walls, which remembered quiet evenings over Torah study, now held the hollow silence of expecting trouble. The air was thick with dust and fear. Their eighteen-year-old daughter wanted to leave.

Maya, tall, thin, with dark eyes in which a girlish sparkle lurked, stood in the middle of the room, clutching a bundle with her meagre belongings.
— I'm leaving this place.

Her voice was not loud, but it held the same steel that had once been audible in her father's voice when he argued about her future. Now that future had come, and it was terrifying.

Avraham-Artem, his back bent over the years under the weight of stone and worries, silently looked at his daughter. His eyes showed infinite weariness. He had seen too much: pogroms, executions, Cossack atrocities.
— It's unsettled everywhere now, Mayechka, — he uttered hoarsely. — Where will you go from this maelstrom?
— First the Whites, then the Reds, then the Greens, — Yael supported him. Her face was pale, gaunt. She did not approach her daughter, as if knowing any touch could break her resolve. — Robberies, shootings… Here at least we have our own corner.
— Our own corner? — Maya gave a bitter laugh, and a hard line formed around her mouth. — To wake up at night from the sound of rifle butts on the door? To see the Red Army men take dad "for questioning" just because he carves letters on stone? To be afraid every day of being raped and killed on the roadside just for being a Jew, or just for being young? This "corner" has become a trap, Mum.
— Where will you go? — Yael asked again, now with despair, clutching her apron.
— I'll go to Kiev. Or to Odessa. — Maya said this firmly, like an incantation. These names were symbols of salvation for her, big cities where one could get lost, where there were universities, theatres, another life. Where there was not this constant smell of fear and dust.
— It's the same there, — Avraham's voice suddenly broke, a long-forgotten Cossack daring ringing in it, mixed with pain.

 — You think they don't shoot in Kiev? They don't rob in Odessa? There's hunger there too, Chekists with Nagants there too. It's the same war of all against all. It's just that here I know every crack in the wall, every nook to hide in. And there you will be alone. Completely alone.

Maya looked at her father, and in her gaze was not a child's resentment, but the severe clarity of an adult.
— Here I am hiding. And there… there I will at least try to live. To look for bread. To look for work. To look for… myself. I am already gone here, Dad. Only fear remains here.

She took a step towards the door. Yael involuntarily stepped towards her, but Avraham gently but firmly took his wife's hand. He looked at his daughter and saw in her the same indomitable strength that had once made him himself burn his bridges and become a different person. He had fought for faith, for family. She was fighting for the right simply to breathe without looking back.

Silence hung like heavy lead. From outside came the distant rumble of a truck, and all three flinched involuntarily.
— You will write, — Avraham said quietly, not as an order, but as a plea. — Every week. At least a postcard. So we know you're alive.

Maya nodded, her lips trembling. She turned, sharply opened the door, and stepped out into the blinding sun of the Nikopol street, leaving her parents in the dark house filled with pain and love, a house that could no longer protect her…

…The perron of Nikopol station was like a giant anthill, kicked apart by a boot. It didn't smell of coal and oil; it smelled of sweat, fear, and hopelessness. Maya, pressing her bundle to her chest, felt like a speck of dust in this crowd of people just like her—lost, ragged, desperate.

Next to her, some man in a crumpled cap, nervously lighting a roll-up, tossed into the air:
— They say the railway workers are on strike again. Yesterday only one train left for Kryvyi Rih all day.
Maya's heart tightened.
— And today? — she squeezed out.
— Well, it's already one in the afternoon, and not a single one has left, — another, elderly passenger, answered indifferently, as if stating the weather. — Let's go to the station master, ask him.
— There he is, by the booth, standing. Go and ask.

Several people, including the man in the cap, went over to the station master—a middle-aged, tired man in a worn-out uniform who himself looked as if he hadn't slept for several days.
— Comrade Station Master, will there be a train today? — a voice rang out.
The station master turned slowly, his eyes empty.
— And how should I know? The railway workers haven't informed me when they'll call off the strike.
— Well, send a messenger to them. Ask them, — a hysterical note was heard in the passenger's voice.
— A messenger? — the station master gave a bitter laugh. — They decide for themselves. I'm just here for show.

Maya listened to this dialogue, and the hope within her melted with each passing minute, like dirty snow under the March sun. She stood on the platform for another four hours. Four hours during which the crowd would freeze at every distant whistle, then sink back into apathy. There was no news. None.

Her legs ached with fatigue, a lump stuck in her throat. She felt trapped. Not trapped at home, but trapped in a huge, mad country that couldn't move. She untied her bundle on the platform to drink from a glass jar. The jar slipped from her hands and shattered on the platform. A glass shard with the inscription '1922' rolled into a crack in the stone platform of Tokove granite, which her father Artem had quarried when he was still a young Tokove stonemason.

Sighing so deeply it seemed to come from the very soles of her feet, Maya turned around and trudged away from the platform, back along the dirty street leading home. Every step was an effort, as if she were carrying on her shoulders all the weight of the spilled water (her symbolic name, Maya) and her shattered escape.

The door creaked. Yael, sitting with a prayer book by the window, started and turned. Seeing her daughter, she involuntarily threw up her hands.
— What? You didn't leave?
Her voice held not disappointment, but a wild, animal relief.

Maya threw her bundle on the floor and, without raising her eyes, muttered:
— Strike.
— And… when now? — Avraham asked quietly, appearing in the doorway. He understood everything without words.
— No one knows.

Without another word, Maya flew into her small room, slammed the door, and threw herself on the bed, burying her face in the hard pillow. Hot, bitter tears of powerlessness streamed down her cheeks. Her escape, her dream of a different sky, of different air—all of it had shattered against the harsh reality of a strike on the Nikopol railway.

It seemed fate itself had decreed that her dream of leaving for distant parts was not meant to be. At least, not on this day. Just in those very days, the Soviet authorities announced the New Economic Policy, and peaceful life was established not only in the Lower Dnieper and the Nikopol estuary but throughout the land of the Soviets, from Odessa to Vladivostok.

 

Chapter 10. Summer 1924

Summer lavished its sunshine upon the Nikopol embankment. The air above the Dnieper shimmered, mingling the scents of heated tar and creosote, river freshness, and the dust of roadside grasses. With a hiss and the dull thump of its paddles against the water, the pot-bellied steamer 'Dnieprovez' stubbornly pushed its way upstream, towing a barge behind. Its horn, low and drawn-out, was not a shout but rather a weary sigh, accustomed to the river's boundless expanses and capricious rapids.

Strolling leisurely along the granite slabs of the embankment were Maya and her friend, the latter holding a light, sun-bleached parasol. The hems of their tailored NEP-era summer dresses—Maya's a dark one with a small floral print, her friend's a light, almost white one—fluttered in the gentle breeze from the river. They were like two songbirds: Maya with her high mezzo-soprano in conversation, her dark, serious eyes; Lenochka—ethereal, coquettish, with a mischievous spark in her gaze and a low, chesty contralto.

Their quiet chat was interrupted by a shadow falling across the path of the two romantic Mädchen. Before them, removing his straw boater and pressing it to his chest, stood a young man. One could discern the German stock of the Lutheran-Mennonite settlers in this fair-haired blond: his light-coloured suit, shoes polished to a mirror shine. But the main thing was his eyes. They laughed even when his face maintained a serious expression, and in the corners of his lips lurked a ready-to-be-deployed, standard compliment.

— Top of the afternoon to you, lovely ladies! — his voice was velvety and slightly husky, like the sound of an old German gramophone. He phrased things a bit clumsily and with a German accent. — Och, a right vision you are on the Nikopol shore! You're like two white yachts on the evening glass—sailing towards me and smashing all my loneliness to smithereens.

Maya merely raised an eyebrow, studying the stranger with interest. But Lenochka, blushing all over, pretended to adjust a strand of hair tousled by the breeze.

— Oh, and what an imposing cavalier, fresh off the boat! — she laughed brightly, throwing Maya a look full of merry panic.

— I'm afraid I'll disappoint you. Where I'm from, the Bazavluk river won't always let a boat through in a dry summer.

— Is that the Bazavluk near Shishkino? — asked Maya. She recalled her father speaking of that little place as a blessed land of paradise gardens and divine vineyards.

— Oh! You know our backwater? Well, if you know Bazavluk. My name is Alex. Alexander Garbart. May I kiss your hand, Mademoiselle?

— Whose? — Maya asked with feigned bewilderment, offering first one elegant hand, then the other. — This one? Or perhaps this one?

Alex, with German pedantry, bowed and barely touched his lips to each proffered hand.

— Both your hands! For my heart is torn in two and cannot choose just one.

— This is Maya's hand, and this is Lenochka's.

— And how, pray tell, is the captain to steer with two wheels? — Maya finally joined in, a smile touching her lips. She liked this game. — Your little boat, by the looks of it, will run aground or crack in half.

Alex straightened up, spread his hands, portraying the utmost degree of puzzlement.

— That, forgive my German, is not a little boat, but a whole flotilla. Garbart Tavrichesky, Garbart Golden Valley. And Garbart Marinopol Bazavluk. I am captain, navigator, engineer, boatswain, and cabin boy all in one. And I bear the name Alexander Garbart—Though for such charming muses… one can simply be Alex from Bazavluk.

The three of them walked on, their shadows, stretched long by the setting sun, mingling on the stones. They walked towards the city theatre. Alex walked between them, talking about his large stock of seed drills, harrows, and other agricultural implements. And then, gazing at the wide, calm Dnieper, he softly and soulfully began a Lutheran psalm tune.

My home is in the heavenly country,
A land of living flowers,
A wonderful, a glorious country,
A kingdom built for love.
Where angel hosts are singing
Their praises to the Lamb;
Where those who dwell know nothing
Of sorrow, sin, or shame.

The girls listened, mesmerised. With her particular musical sense, Maya detected in the Lutheran melody revelations of a new universe that resonated with her own soul's yearning. She had always been drawn to new worlds, to new music. The recent hunger, the war, all the anxieties remained somewhere back there, in the dusty alleys of Nikopol. She felt a desire for those vineyards and paradise gardens of which Alexander sang. 'What a beautiful name,' she whispered dreamily to herself.

Here on the embankment, to the sound of steamer horns and the chirping of swallows circling over the water, it was not only the sunset promising something new in her life, but the rising of her new star. And the light acquaintance was growing into something more significant, though Maya didn't yet fully acknowledge it. This new thing—it was falling for the blond Alex.

That evening, she, along with her troupe and Lena, were giving a concert for a select circle of invited patrons, merchants, pharmacy owners, and proprietors of Nikopol's countless mechanical workshops. And of course, they had invited Alex to listen to their vocals.

A respectable audience of about seventy spectators gathered. An unprecedented cultural event for a southern district town, still in a time when the hunger and devastation of the civil war had been replaced by the relative calm of the NEP-man under the new Soviet power. Local merchants and industrialists had revived trade; ships laden with Nikopol pipes, agricultural machinery, and manganese ore sailed down the Dnieper and up against the current all the way to Chernihiv.

Sitting in the hall, Alex watched Maya, and there was no force in the world that could tear his gaze from her. The fleeting, jesting acquaintance on the river port embankment of Nikopol had grown into an attachment, a love at first sight. And it seemed this love was mutual. Thus do young souls languish, seeking heart-stirring emotions from a love that strikes at first glance. The summer was just beginning, and ahead of them lay a whole eternity of dates, embraces, sighs, and heartache.

A week later, Alex came to Nikopol again and proposed to Maya, asking for her hand in marriage.

— But we've only just met, — said the bride-to-be.

— I know your father. He's a stonemason. Makes headstones. I don't know your mother. But I hope you'll introduce me.

— And I don't really know you at all. What family are you from?

— Settlers. German. Lutherans and Mennonites.

— And what are you?

— How to put it correctly? I respect and value family traditions. But times are such now that one must look to progress and change one's archaic worldview a bit. In the end, I am the owner of a large mechanised workshop for agricultural implements. And one inevitably has to adopt innovations. Replacing steam power with electric. Changing old stamps for newer ones.

— You'll show me your workshop. I've never been to a factory. It's probably all din and racket.

— I'll show you. When shall we go to meet the parents?

— Let's say in a week.

The week flew by in a whirl of preparations...

A week later, the two of them arrived at noon in a road phaeton at the ancestral estate of the family of Eduard Garbart. It was clear that the great-grandfather was honoured here by all his great-grandchildren, grandchildren, and children. His name was cast on an iron plate on the main three-story mill, on three nearby mechanical workshops, and on the manor house.

The groom and bride entered the house and were met by numerous small, large, and old Garbarts. Maya had seen large Jewish families of eight or ten souls before. But here, in the enormous stone house, new faces kept emerging from every room. Maya lost count after twenty and stopped trying. She liked it here.

It was a familial atmosphere of kindness, cosiness, and prosperity. Of German pedantry and neatness in the smallest details. She noticed such trifles as the absence of dust on the cornices, the lack of grimy doorframes and corners. The neat and clean, properly fastened clothes on the small children. How strikingly different it all was from the urban proletarian communal houses and the children living in Nikopol's communes.

Papa Eduard and Mama Jacobina took a liking to Maya from the first moment of acquaintance. As their future daughter-in-law, she greatly pleased the respectable couple. They knew Alexander had good taste and proper upbringing. And he wouldn't bring just any common, low-born girl without a pedigree into his father's house. Although 'pedigree' related more to the breeding of their pedigree herd, in which they were quite successful. But they were eager to learn the details of her lineage. Income, property, dowry, creed.

— All at the table are Lutheran Christians. Let us pray, holding hands, and recite the Lord's Prayer.

Maya, an observant Jewess, entirely unruffled, took Alex's right hand, and with her left took the hand of her mother-in-law Jacobina, and recited the Lord's Prayer along with everyone. And she gave Alex a conspiratorial smile. He understood that this was her first Christian prayer. Alex, like Maya, was tolerant of any religion and was not a fanatic about either Lutherans or Jews. By education, he was somewhat outside the camp of the devout.

He had graduated from a Realschule in Nikopol and was a practising engineer, where precise sciences mattered. But by upbringing, he would not countenance improper behaviour. And Maya valued this very quality in him—his excellent breeding. Despite her strict Jewish boarding school education, she knew secular songs, which she sang with pleasure together with her father when her mother went out to the vegetable garden or the market, so as not to offend her religious feelings.

The wedding took place at the end of the summer. Moreover, there were two weddings. The first, Lutheran, in Shishkino-Marinopol, in the kirk. And the second in Nikopol, in the synagogue.

Only Maya's father knew about this. Maya told no one else in Nikopol that she had married a Lutheran. Because Alex was a rather nominal Lutheran with modern views. One could even say, with socialist internationalist views. He believed that social equality must necessarily come from the state. And he believed the revolution should triumph in Germany just as it had in Russia.

Maya couldn't have cared less about his socialist convictions. She simply loved him as her lawful husband. And she even admired his intellect. He had secured ten patents for inventions of machines and mechanisms that simplified production and reduced the final cost of goods.

She understood little about his inventions, but was proud of it, and told her girlfriends. And Alex was proud of his wife, that she had left her Nikopol chapel behind and now, in the evenings, gave little family concerts for his innumerable cousins, nephews, second cousins, their children and adults. Maya moved permanently to Shishkino-Marinopol. It was fifteen kilometres southwest of Nikopol. One could get to her home hearth by horse in two hours. She missed it for a long time, until she became pregnant.

Among the numerous Garbart kin, there turned out to be a midwife, a feldsher, and a doctor. So, surrounded by love and care, she safely gave birth to a girl in May.

They took a long time choosing a name for the girl, as either a German or a Jewish name would discriminate and offend one of the parents.

After a long search, they finally settled on Anna, which suited everyone without a strong affiliation to either faith. The name appears as Hannah in Hebrew, and in Christianity there is Saint Anne. Garbart Anna Alexandrovna. The year was 1925 Anno Domini.

 

Chapter 11. Even Spies Fall in Love

…The room was poky, institutional, and stuffy, despite the bitter January frost outside. Panelled walls, a bare table facing rows of chairs, and a portrait of Dzerzhinsky, his gaze of steel gimleting everyone who entered. The air was thick with the smell of cheap baccy, even cheaper cologne, and a tense, strained silence. This was a closed session of the OGPU.

Tamara, hunched into herself, sat on the last chair in the row, trying to make herself as small as possible. There were about twenty people in the room, no more. She knew only five by sight: Mark, who sat three rows ahead, back straight as a ramrod, all ears; her colleagues from the operational department, and him—Commander Vyacheslav Bakakin.

Legends swirled around Bakakin. They said he'd scarpered from a Tsarist penal colony three times, disarmed a whole band of Makhnovists with his bare hands, and could hit a bullseye with his Nagant revolver with his eyes shut. He sat in the front row, slouched casually, but every muscle in his body seemed taut as a bowstring. Being under the command of such a legend was both an honour and utterly terrifying. The rest of the assembled—serious, closed-off men in leather jackets or uniform tunics—were strangers to her.

The politruk, a gaunt man with a shaved head and clever, cold eyes, paced before the table, his words crisp and clipped.

— Comrades, the situation at the construction site requires the organs' utmost attention. The scale is grand, the object is strategic, hence the threats are strategic. We have many civilian specialists working there, foreign consultants are involved. Vigilance is our chief weapon.

He paused, letting his gaze sweep the hall. His eyes skimmed over Tamara, and she instinctively shrank into her shoulders.

— First and foremost,— the politruk continued.— Our Red Director, Comrade Alexander Vasilyevich Winter, requires round-the-clock protection. Not just for show, but the real McCoy. His deputy, Comrade Lazar Moiseyevich Kogan, likewise. The chief designer, Comrade Ivan Gavrilovich Alexandrov, visits frequently. Ensure his security during his stays. Unit leaders are to provide lists of reliable personnel for personal security by morning.

In the front row, Bakakin nodded, his expression unchanging, and made a note in his little book.

— Second issue, — the politruk's voice became even drier.— The foreigners. The 'Cooper Engineering Company'. We need our own man on the inside. Not a guard, but a secret, embedded asset. Someone who can gain their trust. And we need eyes on Hugh Lincoln Cooper himself. Comrades, we're clearly strapped for blokes capable of such work. But they'll have our guts for garters if we fail. We won't get a pat on the back for cock-ups.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The politruk lit a cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke.

— In March, we're expecting another group—'Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock'. Engineers...— he glanced at a paper, grimaced, — Frank Defoss (Frank F. Delfosse) and Hubert... bloody hell,— he cursed under his breath, struggling with the pronunciation,— Rukey-shill-Rock-kel (Hubert Rukeyshl-Rockkel). More Jews, — he muttered almost mechanically, with annoyance, setting the paper aside.

Tamara barely grasped the gist. Names whizzed past like bullets, foreign surnames swirled in her head, merging with the Jewish ones into an incomprehensible hum. She understood only one thing: a huge, complex job lay ahead, and they were desperately short-handed.

The meeting dragged on for another half-hour, but she heard almost nothing of it, digesting what she'd learned. And as people began to disperse, Bakakin's sharp voice suddenly called out to her:

— Kop! My office.

She approached, standing to attention, feeling her knees turn to jelly. Bakakin, without looking at her, was discussing something with the politruk. Then he turned. His eyes, pale and piercing like a bird of prey's, looked her up and down appraisingly.

— You'll do, — he tossed out shortly. — Modest, quiet, clever eyes. Looks like she can keep her trap shut. — He turned to the political instructor. — I approve her. Kop, as of tomorrow, you're relieved of your current duties.

He explained everything quickly, clearly, without mincing words.

— They need a maid in the town for foreign specialists. Your task is to get a job there. Undercover as a maid. Your duties: gather any information you hear or see. Eavesdrop on conversations, even in a foreign language—memorise snippets, the translators will sort it out. Clandestine photography of documents on desks, blueprints, if the chance arises. Sketches of suspicious types who might visit them. All clear?

Tamara, trying to catch her breath, just nodded.

— For cover and to enhance operational status,— the politruk added in a formal tone,— Private Kop is hereby promoted to the rank of Junior Sergeant. In March, before the assignment, you'll receive a new summer uniform: skirt, dress, with appropriate insignia. Your pay is doubled.

Her thoughts were in a muddle. Sergeant. Double pay. A new uniform. But that wasn't the heart of it. A new life awaited her.

A week later, she was living in a brand-spanking-new, almost fairy-tale town for foreigners. Clean streets, neat little houses, it smelled not of baccy and cabbage soup, but of coffee and expensive perfume. It was a completely different world, a little slice of abroad right in the middle of the Dnieper steppes.

But Toma didn't kid herself. Every time she put on the simple maid's apron and picked up a duster, she understood clearly: she was a subordinate. A cog in a huge machine. And her well-being was precarious. Any day, for any slip-up, they could send her back to the barracks without a word or toss her into even more dangerous spy work. This new, beautiful world was just stage scenery, behind which lay a harsh and merciless reality….

…Their love lived in the gaps, in the cracks between seconds and days, in the hours stolen from fate. Twice a month, if their duty schedules and the boss's goodwill aligned, Tamara would get a few precious hours of freedom. Not days—hours. Six, eight at most. And she'd wait for that moment, wound up like a spring.

She allowed herself to take off her uniform maid's dress, put on a simple, plain cotton one, the most inconspicuous, and leave the stifling, hateful little world of the 'foreigners' town', that bit of alien, comfortable life. Her feet carried her away from foreign eyes and ears—towards the River Kamenka.

To where, among ancient, wind- and water-polished boulders, she could breathe deeply. She called it 'drawing strength from the stone'. To press her forehead against the rough, sun-warmed surface of granite basalt, close her eyes, and feel the age-old calm and steadfastness of the stone flowing into her, filling her with resolve and patience.

Their agreed spot was hidden deep within, around a bend in the river, under the shade of a wild pear tree. No one could find them there.

That day, Mark was late. Tamara, squatting on a warm stone to avoid crumpling her dress, took a small notebook and pencil from her pocket. To pass the agonising wait, she began to draw the stones. She sketched their peculiar shapes, trying to capture the play of light and shadow. Time crawled, the sun was already setting, and he still wasn't there. A cold, anxious feeling tightened in her chest.

Suddenly, her hearing, sharpened by the silence and anticipation, caught unfamiliar voices. Low, with a distinct Zaporizhian accent, they carried from a bit further away, around the bend.

— We'll sneak in at night and nick it quiet-like, — said one, hoarse and confident.

— Are you off your chump? There's guards... They'll shoot us on the spot, — retorted the second, his voice trembling with fear.

— Don't be a fearty. I've got it all sorted. Did you see how much copper there is? A bloody fortune.

— The two of us can't manage that. There's tons of copper, you've lost the plot.

— Don't you worry. I've got the right blokes. They're game.

Tamara froze, her heart hammering. Carefully, from the corner of her eye, she peered out from her hiding place. Quite close, on the path, two workers in oil-stained trousers and padded jackets were walking. They were carrying a heavy, bulky crate on their shoulders. 'Clearly nicked from the construction site,' flashed through Tamara's mind. Bowing her head to avoid being seen, she feverishly turned the page in her notebook and began quickly, almost instinctively, sketching two portraits. Broad cheekbones, distinctive noses, the shape of one's hat, the other's stooped shoulders. She absorbed every detail like a sponge, her hand drawing the lines on its own.

The voices faded, the footsteps receded. She was left alone with a pounding heart and two portraits in her notebook. Mark never did come. Some urgent business, presumably.

Several weeks passed. In late spring, a major accident hit the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station—with a deafening roar, the metal sheet-piling of the right bank cofferdam collapsed. The construction site ground to a halt. Then rumours started, malicious, whispered: 'Hostile elements, Ukrainian Zaporizhian Cossacks, stole the reinforcement cables. Pinched tons of imported copper wire and flogged it at the market. Turbine wire was found all the way in Dnipropetrovsk.'

As soon as Toma heard this news, an icy chill ran down her spine. She remembered that day on the Kamenka, the two voices, the crate on their shoulders... Without a second thought, she found those very sketches in her notebook. That same day, during her next short outing, she left a sheet of paper rolled into a tube in the designated dead drop for messages to the bosses.

A month later, an order came. Another promotion in rank. Now she was a Sergeant. And a sergeant was issued a service weapon. They gave her that very Nagant she had trained so painfully to use. Now it lay in a holster on her belt, heavy and cold. But that weight was nothing compared to the weight on her soul.

Mark came less and less often. His excuses became shorter and vaguer. A business trip, a meeting, guard duty. Tamara pined, her love, which she carefully hid from everyone, strained to break free, becoming unbearable.

And one of those rare evenings when they did finally meet on the stones by the Kamenka, she cracked. They were sitting on 'their' stone, and an awkward pause already hung between them.

— Mark, — she began quietly, looking at the water, not at him. — I can't go on like this. Meeting on the sly. Like we're up to no good.

He sighed.

— What do you suggest? You know how it is. The job comes first.

— Let's just make it official, for God's sake, — she blurted out, frightened by her own boldness. Become a proper couple. Then our meetings won't be sneaking around.

He was silent, choosing his words.

— I have to file a report. For permission. Those are the rules.

— Well, I have to file a report too, — she interrupted him. — Otherwise, it's not on. The bosses won't bless me getting married, — she drawled sadly and truthfully, knowing Bakakin would hardly approve of such a union for his subordinate.

Mark suddenly perked up, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement. He put his arm around her shoulders.

— I know… let's… let's have a secret wedding. Find some old priest in a village. It'll be our secret.

Toma looked at him with horror and pity.

— Secret from who? From Bakakin? Mark, are you mad? If he finds out, he'll have us rotting in some camp as 'socially alien elements' who didn't pass the vetting. Who are you even on paper? — she suddenly asked, trying to change the subject.

He averted his gaze.

— My ancestors… were Jews. From a shtetl near Odesa.

She gave a bitter smile.

— Mine too, — Toma said sadly. — My mum is still there, in Gorodishche, lighting candles on the Sabbath in secret.

— Let's go to them, — Mark exclaimed with new hope. — I'll meet them, we'll ask for their blessing, properly.

— We're not going, Mark, — her voice became firm and hopeless. — I… I'm ashamed of my mum. Her ways, her faith. She'll never understand you, or my service. To her, all of this is alien and dangerous.

— Why? — he asked, genuinely surprised.

— Shush. I don't want to talk about it. Not now.

There were no more words. Only pain, longing, and hopelessness. They embraced like drowning people and began to kiss hungrily, right there on the stone, now cold with the evening dew. They were greedy, desperate kisses, filled with hunger, fear, and an attempt to lose themselves, to not think about what tomorrow held for them. Two hearts, lost in the steppes, by the River Kamenka, among the boulders, wounded by love. Two lonely souls in a vast country where their feelings were unwanted and dangerous. They kissed until their lips went numb and the first stars, indifferent to their sorrow, lit up in the sky…

 

Chapter 12. Tamara in the Pudding Club

— The office of Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich Bakakin, head of the Dnipropetrovsk OGPU, was now at the DneproGES construction site. He had no business left in Dnipropetrovsk itself—so his superiors in Kyiv had told him.

Map stands, folders stamped "Top Secret". Vyacheslav Bakakin and the Commissar had just put the finishing touches on a meticulously crafted plan, their faces lit with a minor triumph and the glow of a hard-won victory. A persistent knock came at the door.

Bakakin, without looking up from the map, with mild annoyance.
— Come in.
He knew the secretary would only let in someone trusted without announcement.

The door opened and in walked the Chief Medic of DneproGES, Petro Belyaev, removing his cap. His face was serious; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, nervously fiddling with his cap's peak.

Bakakin looked up, his face breaking into a sarcastic smile.
— Everything tickety-boo?

The doctor waved off the joke with a hand.
— Right as rain, right as rain. It's... a bit of a delicate matter, Gov'nor.

With feigned reproach, leaning back in his chair.
— Now, how many times must I tell you, Petro? I'm not your 'Gov'nor'. Vyacheslav. We're the same age, and you're a respected doctor, the leading light of medicine for the entire DneproGES. We're on first-name terms, full stop.

The doctor sighed, conceding.
— Alright, Vyacheslav. The thing is... it concerns your subordinate. Tamara Kop.

Bakakin instantly transformed. The slight smile vanished from his face, his gaze becoming sharp, penetrating. They had just crafted a brilliant plan with Tamara in a leading role. The Commissar froze, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

Bakakin, dryly, all business.
— What's wrong with her? Ill? Consumption? Typhus? Spit it out.

The doctor shook his head, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.
— No. Worse. She's in the family way.

A deathly silence fell over the office. The sound of a lorry passing outside was audible. The tramping of thousands of workers tamping down concrete. A strange, screeching cry—as if a thousand seagulls had suddenly cried out in unison.

— What was that? — the doctor exclaimed.

— That's our modern agitation. Our loudhailer at DneproGES. The first wireless set in Dnipropetrovsk. A blaring loudspeaker. You can hear the bugger from ten kilometres away.

Bakakin slowly rose from behind the desk, his fingers drumming on the tabletop.
— He asked quietly, with a dangerous softness, — Are you sure? Positive? Couldn't you be mistaken? Perhaps she's just put on a bit of weight? She's a young lass.

The doctor, confidently, with professional pride.
— Positive. She told me, of course, it's been two months... But you can't pull the wool over the eyes of an old hand like me. All the signs point to the third. I'm not some lab assistant, I'm a practitioner with twenty years under my belt.

Bakakin turned sharply to the window, looking out at the massive construction site. His shoulders were tense. At that moment, music blared from the site's first loudspeaker: "On the Hills of Manchuria". Bloody hell, of all the times for them to be tuning that bloody contraption. Yesterday, when he saw the two huge loudspeakers, he'd asked if they were new tureens for the canteen.

— But this is a modern achievement of civilisation, Comrade Chief, — you yourself signed the requisition for two units. Loudspeakers from the People's Commissariat for Education.

Through clenched teeth, almost under his breath.
— Right... This is a proper kettle of fish. Such a plan... A brilliant plan... And now this.

The Commissar, perplexed.
— So what now? Call it all off? Find another?

Bakakin turned around sharply. The shock in his eyes was gone, replaced by a thought racing at a mile a minute.
— Call it off? No. Not on your nelly.
He addressed Belyaev.
— And who? Who's the father? Did she say?

Belyaev spread his hands.
— Blimey, everyone knows already. The whole medical post is gossiping. You're the only one, in your secret fortress, out of the loop. Mark Kruz. From the investigative department.

Bakakin's face turned crimson. He slammed his fist on the table, making stacks of paper jump.
— Kruz?!

— I'll... I'll make his life a misery, I'll... How dare he? Undermining a valuable asset. I'll...

Belyaev decisively interrupted, stepping forward.
— Vyacheslav. Don't. Slava, cool your boots. They're in love. I'm telling you, as a doctor and a man—I know, I see it. This isn't some fleeting roll in the hay, understand? It's... — he searched for the word, — a proper bun in the oven. For love. Serious feelings. They respect you, and they're terrified of you. They wanted to come and tell you. But they lost their nerve. She came and told me herself.

Bakakin froze. The anger drained from his face, replaced by cold, predatory calculation. He paced the office slowly, his gaze becoming detached—he was no longer here, he was in the future, weaving the web of a new plan.

Bakakin stopped. His voice was quiet, but commanding.
— Right... Right... It's all clear.
He pressed a buzzer.
— Zina. Kruz and Kop. To my office now. On the double.

Belyaev and the Commissar exchanged glances, not understanding. They knew that Bakakin's "on the double" would take an hour or an hour and a half. While the messenger searched, while they were found, while they gathered themselves.

Suddenly, Zina, slightly opening the door, said.
— They've brought Harvard.

— What Harvard? The one that opened Harvard University in Britain?

— No. Harvardt Alexander. The German. The inventor, the engineer. He's teaching the workers mechanics and construction. You ordered it.

— Ah. I remember. Send him in. But the guards are to wait outside the door.

— So it's you who's scuppering my deadlines for training skilled workers? — Bakakin said, looking straight into the blue-eyed German's eyes.

— Comrade Chief. My wife is having a baby. Any day now. Today or tomorrow.

— What, have you lot started a maternity ward here at DneproGES? — Bakakin, looking at the Commissar, couldn't let it go, that the DneproGES people fell in love, got married, had babies, died, suffered.

— And so the workers won't learn the tricks of the trade because your wife is in labour? I don't see the logic? What have childbirth and workers' knowledge got to do with each other? Perhaps you can explain, Commissar? Or you, Doctor? What's the connection?

— You see, dear Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich, — the doctor took him by the arm and, in a soothing tone, reasoned with him as if he were a patient. — Our respected German engineer Alexander here has already taught two batches of workers mechanics and structural design. He's a bit knackered after two months. If we take a short break for three or four days, he'll get a rest, and the workers will get a break from studying.

— Alright. Alright.
— Harvardt. You have four days' leave. And then back. Get your pass and mandate from Zina.
Harvardt went out to the secretary for his mandate.

At that moment, Mark and Tamara entered the office. Their fingers instinctively interlaced, faces pale, they were ready for a proper bollocking.

But there was a stranger here. Someone they didn't know. So they were afraid to let something slip in front of him.

Bakakin, not letting them get a word in, studied them for several agonising seconds.
— Right... Right...
Suddenly his face was illuminated not by a smile, but by something like a triumphant grimace.
— So that's how it is. Congratulations. On the little one.

Mark and Tamara froze in stunned silence.

Bakakin came up close to them.
— Now listen to me, and remember this once and for all. Your personal life, as of today, is no longer your own. It belongs to the state. Do you understand me? You are part of one big machine. And your... unplanned little cog... we will fit into the overall scheme.
He looked them over, his voice turning to iron.
— From now on, for everyone—colleagues, neighbours, for any questions—you are not Kop and not Kruz. For everyone, you are husband and wife. The Karpenko couple. Understood? A simple, solid surname. Ours. Ukrainian. You will live as a model Soviet family, expecting a new arrival.

He paused, letting it sink in. Then he looked at Tamara.
— You, Tamara, from now on, codename 'Stone'. Because you must be as hard as flint. No excess emotion. No weakness.

His gaze shifted to Mark.
— And you, Mark, are 'Precipice'. So you remember what knife-edge we're all on now. One wrong step—and it's the abyss. But if you hold on to each other—you'll stand firm.

He stepped back. His work was done. The plan wasn't just alive—it had gained a new, brilliant dimension.

Bakakin, now almost amiably, but with an icy undertone.
— All free to go. And... all the best. In your new status.

They stepped out onto the street together—Harvardt Alexander, and Tamara and Mark Karpenko.

At that moment, the radio operator put on a trendy record to please the American and German engineers: "Go Down Moses" by Louis Armstrong.

...The evening was quiet and autumnal-clear. They emerged from the drab, official building of the registry office, holding not flowers or a bottle of champagne, but two small, still smelling of fresh paint and glue, passports and a marriage certificate. In them, they were registered as Mark Karpenko and Tamara Karpenko. These documents were not a testament to love, but a service instruction, but they decided to forget that for the evening.

— Shall we go somewhere? — Mark asked quietly, his voice a mix of hesitation and hope.
— Let's, — Tamara replied and squeezed his hand tighter in the pocket of her modest coat. Her eyes shone. She could feel their secret beneath her heart, their shared life, still invisible to the world.

They found a small restaurant not far from the embankment. Not the posh one where the Party bigwigs went, but a cosy one, with worn tablecloths, the smell of fried onions and fragrant herbs. In the corner, on a small dais, a local orchestra—a violin, an accordion, and a double bass—was playing a somewhat sad, but sweet foxtrot.

No one in the depths of the hall knew them at their table. They were just a young, handsome couple—perhaps students, engineers who had come to the great construction site. The waiter, an elderly man with tired eyes, took their order without much interest: two soups, cutlets with mash, one stewed fruit drink, one cranberry juice. No champagne. Tamara caught herself thinking that even a glance at the sparkling bottles behind the bar counter made her instinctively put a hand on her stomach.

But when the food was brought, Mark suddenly raised his glass of juice.
— To us, Tom, — he whispered, looking at her in a way that took her breath away. — To our family. The real one.

And in that moment, all the lies, all the necessity of pretence, the whole Damoclean sword of Bakakin's plan—all of it dissolved like smoke. Only the two of them remained. And the music.

The orchestra started playing something slow, lyrical. Mark, without a word, stood up and offered her his hand. She placed her palm in his—and there they were, among other couples on the tiny patch of parquet.

She felt his hand on her back, his breath at her temple. They didn't know how to dance properly, they just shuffled slowly, swaying to the rhythm, completely surrendering to the music and each other. She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against the rough fabric of his jacket. He pulled her a little closer, held her tighter, shielding her from the whole world.

Their first truly public kiss happened right there in the middle of the dance. It wasn't passionate, but infinitely tender and bittersweet. Mark simply leaned in and touched his lips to hers, and she responded, forgetting her shyness, propriety, the fact that they might be watched. In that moment, there was no force in the world that could break what was between them. They were young, in love, and it seemed to them that this fragile boat called "us" could sail across any ocean.

They didn't see how the waiter who had served them the compote leaned towards the hostess at the counter and said something, nodding in their direction. They didn't notice the two men in practical raincoats who took a table by the exit, pretending to be engrossed in conversation, only occasionally throwing impassive, recording glances their way.

They didn't know that their first happy evening, their first open dance and kiss—all of it was part of someone else's, brilliant plan. That their love, their new surname, even this restaurant—were all just scenery, a carefully prepared script.

They were young and did not know that in this new, cruel world they were building with their own hands, nothing depended on them anymore. Their fate, like a pawn, had already been moved on the great chessboard. And now everything depended on a stroke of bad luck, on the irony of fate, on blind, merciless chance, which had already begun its game, pretending for one evening to be a gentle accordion in a cosy little restaurant by the Dnieper...

...A late evening in the DneproLag.

The door burst open with a crash, and the first group of "old-timers"—zeks returning from an exhausting shift on concrete work—piled into the prison barracks. They were emaciated, covered in cement dust, with extinguished eyes. And then they froze.

A grey-haired man with a scar on his cheek, nicknamed "Crown".
— Bloody hell... What's all this then?

The barracks they had left in the morning were transformed. The bunks were arranged differently. Their thin mattresses and meagre belongings were scattered on the floor. In the centre, in the best spot by the stove, lounging, sat Bohdan Lyubomirsky and two of his lackeys. They had already managed to get hold of some makhorka and were smoking.

Bohdan, without turning his head, drawled mockingly.
— Ah, the masters have returned. Find a spot, while it's free. It's a bit parky by the stove.

— This isn't a holiday camp, you wee toe-rag, — said Karas. — You and your lot can clear off out of it. Am I making myself clear? This is our barracks.

Bohdan slowly rose to his full, powerful height. Several other newcomers—former Makhnovists, criminals, their eyes burning with brazen malice—rose behind him.
— Yours? Looks like nobody's to me. It's state property. And he who is strong, is in the right. We fancied warming ourselves up. Got a problem?

Crown spat on the floor between them.
— You pups... Greenhorns... You'll snuff it in here in a day, while we've been at it for years. Get back to your own bunks, while you're still breathing.

Bohdan took a step forward, his faceing into a nasty smirk.
— Been at it for years and gone soft, you old gits. Time to make way for the young 'uns. We're hungry, angry, and we've got nothing to lose. But you lot—you've got your rations and your sentences to serve.

Karas shot forward with a squeal.
— You son of a bitch...

Karas's punch was short and pathetic. Bohdan didn't even dodge, took it on the chest and, smirking, replied with a powerful fist to the solar plexus. Karas folded in half with a wheeze.

Crown yelled.
— Lads! Let's have 'em!

And everything descended into chaos. The barracks turned into a hellish cauldron of shouts, groans, the sharp smack of blows, and the sound of breaking utensils. The "old-timers", furious from helplessness and years in the camp, rushed to attack. But the "newcomers" were fresh, hungry, and full of rage. They fought with a wild, beastly energy.

A voice from the crowd:
— Knife! He's got a shiv!
Another voice:
— Get him!

But Bohdan's men didn't seem to have any metal in their hands—just fists, feet, pieces of board. They worked devastatingly and in sync. The old-timers, who outnumbered them three to one, began to be pushed back towards the walls.

Suddenly, a sharp sound, cutting through the air—a gunshot. Then a second. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. In the doorway, with a raised Nagant, stood a young guard, pale with fear.
— Stop! Immediately! Everyone to their places!

The fight died down for a moment, everyone froze, breathing heavily. In that second, another figure appeared in the doorway.

Mark, running inside, tearing his ushanka off his head.
— What's going on here?! Stop this at once!

He, without thinking, rushed into the thick of it, grabbing the fighters by the collars of their padded jackets, pushing them apart with his own body.
— Break it up! I gave you an order! Crown, I know you! Get your men back!

In that crush, in the semi-darkness lit by only a single makeshift lamp, one of the "old-timers", pinned against the wall, saw in Mark not a guard, but another enemy. Blinded by rage and fear, he lunged forward, clutching a sharpened piece of metal in his fist.

Mark was at that moment shoving a huge Makhnovist away. The sharp, stabbing blow to the chest took him by surprise. He didn't cry out, just gasped as if doused with icy water. The blow was glancing, sliding along a rib, but the sharpness of the pain pierced him through. He staggered, his hand reaching for the burning wound on his chest, and dark, crimson blood welled on his fingers.

A voice from the crowd, frightened.
— They've stabbed the officer!

Everyone finally froze. The fight stopped abruptly. Everyone stared at Mark, who was slowly sinking to his knee, trying to steady himself with a hand on the edge of a bunk.

Mark whispered, already losing touch with reality.
— Tom... Tom... Come...

Someone shouted for a stretcher. Commotion, footsteps. He was picked up, laid on the creaking planks. The barracks ceiling swam before his eyes, turning into a darkening point.

Bright light of a kerosene lamp in the infirmary at night.

Doctor Belyaev, removing Mark's bloodied tunic, grumbled through his teeth.
— Ah, Mark... Mark... Only just got married, you fool... And what kind of scrap did you have to get into?
— I was stabbed... in the line of duty...
— Let's have a look, let's have a look, see what we've got here...

He bent over the wound, his face becoming concentrated and serious. Mark was delirious, his consciousness drifting into darkness, and from his lips escaped only one, the most important sound of his life:
— To-ma... To-ma...

...In the DneproGES infirmary, late at night. The air was thick, saturated with the smell of carbolic acid, medicine, and the sweetish smell of blood. The muted light of a kerosene lamp cast flickering shadows on the walls. Mark lay on a cot, pale as the sheet, his breathing shallow and raspy. Tamara sat at the head of the bed, holding his cold, lifeless hand in hers. Her tears had long since dried, leaving only an icy, all-consuming emptiness and despair.
Tamara, leaning over him, her voice a choked whisper, full of tenderness and pain.
     — My dear... I'm here.

Mark opened his eyelids with difficulty. His gaze was foggy, but he recognised her. The corners of his lips twitched in a weak attempt to smile.

Mark, barely audible, every word an effort.
— It's so good... my love... I'll get better... and we... we'll take a steamer. On the Dnieper... You wanted to...

Tamara, squeezing his hand tighter, trying to pour her life, her strength into him.
— Yes, my dear. We will. I promise. You just have to hold on. Hold on with all your might. Do you hear me? Don't die. Don't leave me. Promise me.

She pressed his palm to her cheek, to her lips, trying to warm it with her breath.

Mark whispered.
— I love... you... Won't leave... You're... the light of my eyes...

He fell silent, gathering strength. His gaze became clearer for a moment, anxiety appearing in it.

Tamara quietly.
— How did you... manage... to go into that barracks?... To break up those... thugs?...

Tamara, her voice breaking into a sob which she immediately suppressed, clenching her teeth.
— When I find out who did this... I'll personally see to it he's shot. I'll make sure of it!

Mark weakly shook his head, and again that shadow of a smile she loved so much appeared on his face.
— Tom... don't be sad... No need... for revenge... I'll take care of myself... You... you take care of our little one... our own flesh and blood...

He looked at her with such infinite tenderness that Tamara's breath caught.
— And you... who do you want?...

Tamara, through rising tears,
— I want you. Only you, my boy. I don't need anything else.
— And I... I want a girl... Just like you... Just as... stubborn... and beautiful...

Suddenly his body tensed. His eyes squeezed shut from a sudden, piercing pain. A dull, ragged groan escaped his chest. He tried to take a breath, but couldn't. His gaze lost focus, staring into the emptiness, somewhere far away.
— To... ma...

His eyes slowly closed. The hand Tamara was holding so tightly suddenly went completely limp. A quiet, barely audible exhale, and then nothing. Only absolute, ringing silence.
Tamara froze for a second, unable to believe it. She looked at his motionless face, at his chest, which no longer rose.

Tamara, first in a whisper, then louder, turning into a frantic scream.
— Mark... Mark. My dear, breathe. Breathe! Doctor!

She jumped up, knocking over the chair, and rushed to the door.
Tamara screamed into the corridor, her voice pure horror and despair.
— Doctor Belyaev! He's stopped breathing! Help!

A few moments later, Pyotr Belyaev ran into the ward. He was pale, his coat stained. Silently, quickly, he moved Tamara aside, bent over Mark, felt for a pulse in his neck with two fingers, put his ear to his chest. A minute of agonising silence. He straightened up, and his shoulders slumped. He slowly drew the sheet over Mark's face.

Belyaev, hollowly, not looking at Tamara.
— He's gone, lass. Passed away. There was nothing more to be done... The wound was too deep... Internal bleeding...

Tamara stood like a statue, unable to move, looking right through him.
— No... No, he promised... He said... he wouldn't leave...

Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor. Belyaev rushed to her, caught her, sat her on a chair.

Belyaev, sternly, but with infinite pity in his voice.
— Tomasza... Tom, listen to me. You have to be strong. You're not alone now. Do you understand? You carry a part of him. His continuation. The last thing he asked was to protect the child. So be strong. For him. For his sake.

He placed a heavy, comforting hand on her shoulder. Tamara didn't answer. She just sat and stared at one point—at the white sheet under which the contours of her husband's face, her boy, her never-to-be companion on a steamer journey, were guessed. Her world had just collapsed, and nothing was left in it but silence and that white canvas...

...In Bakakin's office, the same wall with maps, the same smell of tobacco and old paper. But now, standing by his desk was she—Tamara Karpenko, in her sixth month of pregnancy. Her figure had changed, the heavy, rounded bulge no longer hidden under her uniform. In her hands she clutched a folded sheet of paper—a resignation report.

Bakakin, not looking at the paper, twirling a pencil in his hands, looked somewhere past her.
— Your resignation report again, Karpenko? Not tired of it? This is the third time you've brought it. I told you—it's not the time. We have plans. After the birth, when you're back on your feet—you'll be back in the ranks. We'll put the child in a crèche.

Tamara's voice was quiet, but it didn't tremble. In it was a steel resolve, forged by grief.
— I won't be 'back on my feet', Comrade Bakakin. And I won't be back in the ranks. I can't do it anymore. Please sign it.

Bakakin set the pencil aside, finally looked at her. His gaze was heavy, studying.
— Can't? Or don't want to? Don't fancy the work anymore? Or have you remembered you're a 'free citizen'? Forgotten the oath you took?
— I've forgotten nothing. I've done everything I could. And I can't do any more. I want to have my child in peace. Without looking over my shoulder. Without being afraid of being watched. Without pretending to be someone else. — A flicker of pain in her eyes, but she didn't look away. — He... — She involuntarily placed a hand on her stomach. — ...he's the last thing I have left of Mark. I don't want his life to start with a lie.

She saw his jaw tighten. He silently took the report, read it again, though he knew every word. He saw in her not an agent, but a mother crazed with grief, and this was his only weak lever.

Bakakin sighed, accepting the inevitable, but not relinquishing control.
— I see you're burning your bridges with a determination worthy of a better cause. Alright. It's clear as day what use you'd be at 'Siemens' with a baby in your arms.
He signed the report sharply, slammed a stamp on it, and handed her another sheet.
— Here. A mandate. The commandant's office in Nikopol will give you accommodation for the time being. A bunk in a dormitory and rations for a pregnant woman.

Tamara took the mandate, looked at it without joy.
— I... I want to go home. To Gorodishche.

Bakakin raised an eyebrow in surprise.
— To Gorodishche? You said yourself you didn't want to see your mother. That she's a drunk and a family disgrace.

Tamara lowered her eyes, her voice becoming quieter, a note of weary pity in it.
— I want to now. Kind folks say... she's stopped drinking. Completely. Goes around the village begging now, like a pauper. I feel sorry for her. And we've no one else to go to.

Bakakin looked at her in silence for a few seconds, the cogs of plans clicking in his head. He took a notepad, wrote something quickly.
— Take the mandate. But not to the commandant, to this man—the Nikopol Commissar for Personnel. I'll call him, so he'll help you get settled in Gorodishche.
He looked at her with feigned nonchalance.
— They say they've opened a new mining and processing plant there now, at Marganets. They need people there just now.
— I've heard about the plant too. There's always been plenty of manganese there.

Bakakin broke into a smile.
— Well, there you go then. Splendid! Off you go. Don't worry, they'll keep an eye on you there. You won't come to grief.

Tamara took the second mandate. She didn't say "thank you". She simply put the papers in her bag and turned to leave. She felt an enormous weight falling from her shoulders. She took a deep breath—a full, free breath, for the first time in many months.

She stepped outside, and the bright sun blinded her. She was no longer "Stone". Not an agent. Not an informant. She didn't have to spy on foreigners from "Siemens", didn't have to hide her eyes, didn't have to play a role. She was Karpenko Tamara. A widow. An ordinary, free citizen of a free country. And she was seven months pregnant. This feeling of freedom was dizzying. It was bitter, because it was bought at the price of Mark's death, but it was real.

She bought a ticket for the train from Dnipropetrovsk to Nikopol. She sat by the window in the jolting carriage, watched the steppes float by outside, and stroked her stomach, whispering something to the child. She made plans: she would find her mother, they would repair her grandfather's house, she would get a job as a bookkeeper or at least a storekeeper at that plant. She would raise her son or daughter. She would live a quiet, honest, simple life.

She contemplated her future with bitter hope, completely unaware that her freedom was an illusion. That the mandate in her bag was not help, but an order. That the "kind" commissar in Nikopol had already received a call. And that instead of forgetting about espionage, she would have to master a new, no less dangerous role: to spy not on foreigners, but on her own people—at the manganese mining and processing plant in Gorodishche. Her cage had simply become larger and more invisible...

As she rode on the train, a plan formed in her head. And she was itching to carry it out... As soon as the train stopped at the platform of Nikopol station. She folded her two mandates into quarters and walked along the platform. She remembered a narrow crack between two stones there, and she shoved both mandates into it... Little did she know on what paper those mandates were written, but they lay in that stone platform for a full hundred years...

...While Vector and Gena wandered the platform, looking for traces of the Jewish ancestors of the city of Nikopol. Gena was looking for the Yampolskys and his great-grandfather Lazar Abramovich...

...A small flat in Nikopol, modest furnishings. An empty plate and a mug on the table. Tamara, her three-year-old daughter Olga.

A persistent knock came at the door. Tamara, pale, with a shadow of weariness on her face, moved the sleeping Olga onto the bed and went to open it. On the threshold stood two men in identical raincoats, with impassive faces.
— Tamara Karpenko? May we come in? We have a few more questions.

Tamara sighed, stepping aside.
— Come in. But quietly, please, my daughter's asleep.

The men entered, looked around the room. Their glances slid over the corners, the sparse belongings, the shabby furnishings. At that moment, Olga stirred on the bed and woke up.
— Mummy... drink...

The second commissar, dryly.
— We won't be long. Regarding your possible reinstatement to the service...

Olga, seeing the strangers, began to whimper. Tamara instantly made a decision. She looked at the commissars with defiance.
Tamara, interrupting him.
— Sorry, lads, but you see—the child. Not the time for service matters. Absolutely not the time.

She decisively unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse, sat on the edge of the bed, and put her daughter to her breast. Olga immediately fell silent, burying her nose in her mother. The commissars looked away, embarrassed.

The first commissar, slightly flustered.
— We understand. But the matter is important.

Tamara, not looking at them, in a pretend-weary voice.
— What's more important than a child? You sit there, admire the nursing mother. And I'll listen to you. Just, maybe a bit quieter? You'll scare my daughter.

She pretended to be completely absorbed in the feeding process, stroking Olga's hair. The commissars exchanged glances. An awkward pause lasted a minute.

The second commissar whispered to the first.
— Alright. Clearly, it's not the time. Let's go.

The first commissar, nodding to Tamara.
— Very well. Get well soon. We'll drop by another time.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Tamara abruptly took Olga off her breast.

Her daughter, bewildered and offended.
— Mummy! I want more!
— That's all. I did that for them. Not for you. You'll manage.
She started to whine.
— But I want to!
— Go play.
— Who am I to play with?
— With the cat, Masha.
— She runs away from me!

Tamara said irritably, buttoning her blouse.
— Well, don't pull her tail then—and she won't run away.

Time in the provinces passes quickly. Days give way to nights in a monotonous, dreary sequence. Especially if it's a communal, state-provided sequence. Tamara, as the widow of a Chekist, had some insignificant benefits, which had made her a bit lazy.

The same flat, morning. Tamara is getting ready for work, Olga is sitting at the table looking out the window.

Tamara ties her headscarf.
— Olenka, school soon. First form. It's not like kindergarten.

Olya, indifferently.
— Uh-huh.
— Come on, show me what you can do. Here's a newspaper, you know your letters? Read something.

Tamara put an old "Pravda" in front of her daughter. Rita looked at the squiggles with complete indifference.
— Don't want to.
— It's not 'don't want to', it's 'can't'. I was already reading by syllables at your age. What am I to do with you? I work from morning till night in the shop to buy you a sweet, and you...
Olya, interrupting.
— Mummy, will you buy a sweet today?

Tamara sighed, gave in.
— I'll buy one. But you have to at least try at school. Or it's all 'don't want to' and 'can't'. Go on, the lady from the after-school club will pick you up.

Olya got down from the chair without enthusiasm. Her thoughts were far away—on sweets, not on letters...

Tamara came home from work tired. Olya, a teenager now, plump, with unkempt hair, sat staring into space. A school diary lay open on the table on a page with C-grades.

Tamara, irritably.
— Olya. I'm ashamed to look at this diary again. Nothing but C's. And a C in history. How on earth?!
Her daughter, through her teeth, not looking at her mother.
— So it's a C. It's not a D.
— And that's all?! Look at yourself! Are you going to do your homework or sit in the back alley again?
— And what is there to do? It's boring.
— Read a book! I brought you Pushkin, a classic!
Olya, disdainfully.
— I'm not interested.

Tamara sat down opposite, looked at her daughter with bitter pity.
— What will become of you, Olya? I can't bear to look at you... If your father could see you... He was clever, educated...
Her daughter flared up with sudden cruelty.
— What father? What father? I never knew him. He was killed, and you were always at work. You bought me off with sweets. So that's what you got.

Tamara froze as if slapped. She looked at the bloated, unhappy daughter, in whose features she searched for and found neither herself nor her dead husband. In her eyes—guilt and helplessness.

Tamara quietly, almost a whisper.
— Go on... Go play. Just don't go far.
Olya, sullenly.
— Who am I to play with?..
She heaved herself up and left the room, slamming the door. Tamara remained sitting alone before the open diary with its even, hopeless C-grades...

...A room in a house commandeered by the Germans for the local police and auxiliary staff. Morning. The air hung with the smell of cheap tobacco, stale booze, and last night's dinner.

Olga Karpenko is 18 years old. A Ukrainian policeman, about thirty-five. In another wing of the building, an Oberleutnant.

The morning began with the policeman, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his boots, looking at Olga, who had just woken up, with disgust.

The policeman, hoarsely, spitting.
— Right, what are you gawping at? Piss off, while you're still in one piece. Job's done, you're free.

Olga, defiantly, propping herself up on an elbow.
— What do you mean, 'piss off'? What happens next?
The policeman, smirking, lighting a cigarette.
— What's supposed to happen? It's morning, time for work. Sod off, I said.
Olga sat up in bed, her voice hardening.
— You're going to marry me now. I'm not some sort of floozy, just for the fun of it.
The policeman burst into coarse, loud laughter.
— Marry you? Have you looked in the mirror, you bloody scarecrow. Who'd want a minger like you? Me, marry you? You're having a laugh, you daft cow.

Olga's face flushed crimson with fury. She jumped out of bed, clenching her fists.
— I'll give you 'scarecrow'! Say that again!
The policeman stood up, his mood instantly shifting from mocking to vicious.
— You bitch! I'll take you apart myself and chuck you out piece by piece! I'll have you sent to a camp, I'll have your hide!

He took a step towards her, swinging for a slap. Olga, without thinking, instinctively swung back, ready to fight back. At that moment, the door opened slightly. On the threshold stood a German Oberleutnant, clean and neatly dressed. He surveyed the scene with a cold, assessing gaze: the half-dressed, furious girl and the enraged policeman.

The officer, in a calm but brooking-no-argument tone.
— Was ist hier los? What's going on here?
The policeman instantly transformed, snapped to attention, trying to assume an air of official zeal.
— Herr Oberleutnant! It's just... this one... she latched onto me! I'm throwing her out, and she kicks up a row! I'll eject her immediately!
Olga, not frightened, but on the contrary, seeing in him a possible ally, shouted.
— He lied to me! Promised to marry me, and now he's throwing me out!
The officer wrinkled his nose in disgust, his gaze sliding over the dirty room, littered with empty bottles.
— I'm not interested in your village squabbles.
He addressed the policeman.
— You are supposed to maintain order, not run a brothel in a service premises.
He turned his gaze to Olga. His look was not that of a man, but rather that of a superior, assessing her as a possible labour resource.
— You. What do you do? Why are you not at work in the Reich?
Olga, shrugging, defiantly.
— I don't want to go anywhere. I'm alright here.
The officer, to the policeman.
— Is she local? Parents?
The policeman, hastily.
— Local, Herr Oberleutnant. Mother's here, a shop assistant. No father.
The officer, back to Olga, pointing at the mess in the room.
— Can you clean? Wash floors, do laundry, cook?
Olga, slightly taken aback by the turn, nodded.
— Well, I can... if I want to.
— Gut. Starting today, you will come here and to the house opposite, where the officers live. You will clean. For this you will receive food. Soap. Sometimes tins. Agreed?
Olga quickly thought it over. This was better than being thrown out onto the street or, worse, sent to Germany. And food was a strong argument.
— Yes, Herr Officer.
— I am taking her on for work. I don't want to see such scenes again. Verstanden?
— Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant! Understood!
The officer, nodding, turned and left. The door closed. An oppressive silence hung in the room. The policeman looked at Olga with hatred.
— Right then, cleaner... What are you standing there for? Tidy up, since you've got a job. And I don't want to see hide nor hair of you when I get back.
— Don't tell me what to do. I know what to do.
She watched him leave with a triumphant and nasty look. She had stayed. And it was her little victory...

And the fact that she told the Oberleutnant town gossip in between cleaning, she didn't understand, due to her simple mind, that she had just been recruited to inform and spy. She coped with the role of gossip and informant much better than with cleaning.

The Oberleutnant often found dust and dirt in the corners of the barracks and flat she was supposed to clean. But she brought back valuable tidbits from the town market. From the women and her friends.

Tamara saw Olga rarely because their work schedules mostly didn't coincide—night shift, morning shift, every other day. But the fact that her daughter worked as a cleaner suited her. Because she was tired of cooking, washing, and giving pocket money to the grown woman. Now this grown woman earned her own money and sometimes even brought her mother tins and flour...

 

Chapter 13. On the Eve of the Great War

 

An evening at the Garthwaite manor in Shishkino, Marinopol. Summer of 1934. The family was gathered in the dining room: Alexander Garthwaite was reading the Bible, his wife Maya was embroidering, and their ten-year-old daughter Anna was finishing a watercolour painting. The pastoral quiet was shattered by a loud, deliberately coarse knock on the door.

Maya started, putting her embroidery aside.
— Who on earth could that be at this hour?

Alexander, scowling, looked at his watch.
— I wasn't expecting anyone. — Anna, go to the drawing room and finish your drawing.
— But, Papa, I'm almost…
Alexander, more sternly.
— Anna, please.

Anna reluctantly gathered her paints and went into the next room, but stopped by the slightly open door, trying to remain unseen. Alexander went to open the door. On the threshold stood three men in leather jackets. Two young ones with rifles remained at the entrance; the older one, with cold eyes and a briefcase under his arm, stepped inside.

The Chekist, without removing his cap.
— Your documents. Yours and everyone living here.

Alexander, calmly, but inwardly braced.
— First of all, good evening. And with whom do I have the honour of speaking?

The Chekist smirked without a trace of amusement.
— I ask the questions. You give the answers. Documents.
— I am Alexander Garthwaite. This is my house. My wife, Maya, and daughter, Anna. What is the reason for this disturbance?

The Chekist walked into the dining room, cast his eye over the cosy room, and stopped his gaze on Maya's embroidery.
— Very nice. Very… bourgeois. The disturbance, Citizen Garthwaite, is concerning sabotage. Your documents.

Maya silently pointed to the chest of drawers. Alexander, without taking his eyes off the Chekist, retrieved a folder of papers. The Chekist slowly, meticulously studied every sheet.
— German colonists. An engineer. Travelled the country extensively. Saw a lot. Know a great deal about our factories and railways. Correct? Worked on the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station.
— I am an engineer. It is my profession. I design and improve mechanisms. For the good of the economy.
— For whose economy? For the economy of the German colonists or for the economy of the Soviet Union? They say you're an inventor.
— Yes, I hold several patents. Mostly improvements to agricultural machinery. You can review them…
— I will review them where it is necessary. Alexander Garthwaite, you are to report tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp to the commandant's office of the NKVD to give a statement.

Maya jumped up from her seat.
— But why? On what grounds? What has he done?
— A matter of state importance, citizeness. It's beyond your ken.

Alexander, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, soothingly.
— Maya, it's all tickety-boo. I don't quite understand the reason, but of course, I will report. At nine in the morning.
— Correct. If you don't come, we will come for you. And then… you can imagine, it won't be so peaceful. All the best.

The Chekist gave a slight nod of his head, and all three left just as suddenly as they had come, slamming the door. An oppressive silence fell over the house. Anna ran out from the drawing room.
— Papa! What did they want? Who were those rude men? Why did they have guns?

Alexander pulled her close, trying to speak confidently.
— It's nothing, pet. A bit of a misunderstanding. I'll sort it all out tomorrow.

Maya was pale, wringing her hands.
— Alexander… I'm frightened.
— Don't be afraid. Our consciences are clear. We have nothing to justify.

The next day. Alexander returned home late in the evening. He looked dreadfully tired, his clothes were dishevelled, he walked slowly, dragging his feet. Maya, who hadn't slept a wink, opened the door before he even knocked. Anna, hearing the noise, flew down the stairs.
— Papa! Papa! How are you? Good Lord, what's wrong with you?!

She rushed to him, trying to hug him, but Maya caught her by the arm, sharply and uncharacteristically stern.
— Anna, don't touch your father! Go to your room this instant! Now!

Anna recoiled, frightened by her mother's tone.
— But Mum…
— Maya. Your room! Shut the door and don't come out until I say so!

Anna, fighting back tears, shot up the stairs like a bullet. Maya approached Alexander, helped him take off his coat, and sat him on a chair. Her hands were trembling.
— Maya quietly, almost in a whisper. What happened? Where have you been? I've been waiting all day…

Alexander hollowly, staring into space.
— First, it was the office. The same one… He asked, over and over: name, surname, occupation. I said: 'An engineer. An inventor.' He smirked and said: 'Aha, well if you're an inventor, that means you're inventing a bomb against the Soviet power.' I said: 'Comrade Chief, that's absurd! My inventions…' He yelled: 'I'm no comrade to you!' And… into the cooler.

Maya covered her face with her hands.
— My God…
— Cold, filthy, dark. You sit and 'think'. Think about what? I didn't understand… In the morning, he called for me, returned my watch, my wallet without money, took my passport. Said: 'You're free. But don't go far. We'll be back for you.' I walked… twelve kilometres… I had no strength left…

Maya looked at him, and the last hope slowly died in her eyes. She understood everything. This was only the beginning. The new power, cruel and merciless, had entered their home and would never give them peace again.

The arrests of her husband continued all summer. He was summoned again and again. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week. Each time he returned more broken, more grey and silent. The manor fell into disrepair, the garden became overgrown, dust gathered on the unfinished mechanisms in his workshop. Fear became a permanent resident in their home.

And then autumn came. They came for him before dawn. This time they didn't even bother to knock. They just walked in. And Alexander Garthwaite never returned home again. Anna would forever remember that evening when her mother wouldn't let her touch her father — the last night their family was still together, even if under the sword of Damocles. The laughter and music in the Garthwaite house fell silent forever…

***

… The large kitchen in the Garthwaite house. January 1938. Late evening. Several women of the family were sitting at the table: Maya, her sister Elsa, their elderly Aunt Martha, and cousin Liza. Two younger children were playing quietly on the floor. The muted light of the lamp and the heavy curtains created a feeling of a besieged fortress.

Aunt Martha, sighing, was fingering her rosary beads.
— Another wagon went past the garden. I heard the brakes screech by the Schultzes' house. My heart was in my mouth.

Elsa sharply, almost on the verge of shouting.
— Give it a rest, Aunt. Maybe it was the milk lorry? Maybe it was anything! Don't get your knickers in a twist and don't twist ours.

Maya, stroking a warm mug with her hand, spoke quietly and wearily.
— Elsa, she's not winding us up. They took Frieda Weber yesterday. Came in broad daylight, in front of everyone. Said: 'Pack your things for the tribunal.' She was screaming: 'What for? I only dig the garden and feed my children!' Her little daughter was clinging to her skirt... They pushed her away.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The only sound was a log crackling in the stove.

Liza whispered, looking out the window as if afraid she would be heard from the street.
— And what is this 'court-martial'? I don't understand. They aren't soldiers. We aren't soldiers.

Maya gave a bitter laugh.
— It's a new method, Liza. Of rooting out. That's what they said on the wireless. Not discussions, but rooting out. We are like weeds in a flowerbed to them. First Alexander, as an 'inventor of bombs'. Now they're taking women. Aunt Martha could be taken as a 'religious propagandist' for those rosary beads. Elsa — for being quiet and always looking over her shoulder, meaning she's 'spying'. Me — as the wife of an 'enemy of the people'. A reason isn't needed. A quota is.

Elsa dropped her head into her hands.
— I can't go on like this. I hear footsteps on the street – and I'm sick with fear. I'd rather they just…

Maya sharply.
— Hush. In front of the children.
Softening.
Children are the reason we must carry on. We must survive. For them.

The door creaked, and their neighbour, Klara Müller, entered. She was as white as a sheet, her eyes red from crying.
— Have you heard?.. They took old Frau Schmidt. Mother of five. She's seventy years old.
— Good Lord… What for?

Klara laughed hysterically.
— They made something up! Said she was… a 'German spy'. That she was 'sending signals' by hanging her patchwork quilts to dry in the loft. The patterns, you see, seemed suspicious to them! It's a load of old codswallop!

Aunt Martha stopped fingering her rosary, clenching it in her fist.
— It's not codswallop. It's a system. They need enemies. If there aren't any real ones, they'll invent them. Stalin said: look for German spies. So they are looking. In every pattern, in every German word, in every prayer.
— But we were born here. This is our land. We've never seen any Germany!
— That doesn't matter, love. Now our surname and our speech are a death sentence. We are the 'hostile element'. We are Hitler's 'fifth column', though most of us have barely heard his name properly.
— What are we to do? There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just wait for them to come for you?

Maya stood up and went to the window, parting the curtain a millimetre.
— Do? Live. Every day. Feed the children. Stoke the fire. Pray to ourselves. And hope that this mad machine doesn't need everyone. That it will forget some of us after all. Otherwise… otherwise we'll just go off our heads.

She let the curtain fall. The room was plunged back into semi-darkness. The women were silent, each alone with her fear. The dialogues had dried up. All that remained was a quiet, soul-chilling terror of waiting…

***

… The same kitchen. The end of 1939. The room was empty and cold. Despite the winter, the stove was used sparingly. Maya and Liza were sitting at the table. The children were quietly drawing on the backs of old receipts. Of the large family, only they remained, plus a few other women and five children.

Liza was copying a request from a draft onto a clean sheet.
— I've written another inquiry. About Alexander's fate. And about Uncle Karl. Maybe this time they'll answer…

Maya monotonously stirred an empty broth.
— They won't. 'Sent down for ten years without the right of correspondence.' It's a standard phrase. It means nothing. It's the same for everyone.

Liza.
— But there must be some truth! A person can't just vanish!

Maya.
— He can.
She put the pot on the table.
— Just like that. Vanish. As if he never was. That's possible now. New methods.

The noise of a motor came from the street. Both women froze like statues. The children instinctively pressed themselves against Maya. The motor died down, footsteps were heard. But they passed by. A sigh of relief was almost physically audible.

Liza, in a trembling voice.
— I heard from the neighbours… They say it's all because there will be a war with Germany. Stalin is afraid we'll go over to Hitler's side.

Maya looked at her frightened children, at the half-empty pot, at the curtained window.
— He's afraid of the shadows he himself created. He's declared war on his own people. And we… we're just pawns in that war. German wreckers. Saboteurs. Spies.
— She smiled bitterly.
And all of us – one ideologically bereft mob. How frightened he must be himself, if he considers us, ten women and five children, such a terrible threat to his state.

She ladled the broth into the bowls. The dialogue was over. There was nothing more to say. All that remained was a silent, every-second resistance — the very act of living in the hope that tomorrow, they would not come for you…

***

… Doctor Karl Stumpp's temporary office in occupied Nikopol was located in the former Communist Party committee building. The end of August 1941. A stifling, dusty afternoon. The window was open, from the street came the distant rumble of motors and sharp commands in German.

A young soldier opened the office door, letting Anna in. She entered, trying to breathe evenly. Behind a massive desk, piled with papers and maps, sat a man no longer young, wearing glasses and an SS uniform. He didn't look like a front-line officer; his appearance betrayed a scholar, a bureaucrat. This was Doctor Karl Stumpp. He was carefully checking something in the documents, not looking at the newcomer.

After a minute he raised his head. His gaze was not so much stern as appraising, studying. He stared at Anna as if examining a rare exhibit.
— Fräulein Garthwaite? — his voice was rather dry, without particular emotion.
— I reported as ordered, Herr Doktor, — Anna replied clearly, with a slight nod.

Stumpp set aside his pen and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms on his chest.
— I was told you are one of the local Volksdeutsche. Is that correct?
— Yes, Herr Doktor. My ancestors were German colonists.
— Do you speak the language? Proper German, not that dialect?
A slight disdain for 'Plattdeutsch', which had indeed been preserved in the colonies, was audible in his voice.

Anna felt a sting of offence, but this was the very test she had expected.
— My father insisted that at home we spoke only proper High German. It was a tribute to our culture.

Stumpp nodded, seemingly approvingly. His gaze softened.
— Your father… Where is he now? — the question sounded almost casual, but Anna knew it was a key moment in the loyalty check.

She lowered her eyes, feigning natural sadness. It wasn't difficult.
— He was taken away. In thirty-seven. As a German spy. We never found out if he is… or isn't.
— I understand, — Stumpp's voice became almost sympathetic. — The Bolsheviks are barbarians. They destroyed everything German, everything proper. But that is over now. The Reich has returned to protect its own blood.

He was silent for a moment, studying her. Then he took a fresh issue of the German occupation newspaper 'Deutsche Ukraine Zeitung' from the desk and handed it to her.
— Are you literate? Read. This paragraph here, — he jabbed his finger at the leading article.

Anna took the newspaper. Her hands didn't tremble. She took a deep breath and began to read in an even, confident voice, with almost perfect diction, without the slightest accent:
— «The task of the German administration in the East is not only the establishment of a new order, but also the careful sorting of the population. We must find and protect the fragments of the German race, which have languished for centuries under the yoke of Bolshevism…»
— Enough, — Stumpp interrupted her softly. A semblance of a smile appeared on his face for the first time. — Very good. More than good. Your pronunciation… it is almost Berliner. A rarity in these wild parts.

He took a form from the desk, quickly wrote something on it, and stamped it.
— My Sonderkommando requires a competent translator. We are conducting important research work among the local population of German blood. You are perfectly suited. As of today, you will work for me.

He handed her the form.
— This is your pass. It allows you to move freely about the city after curfew. Show it to any patrol, and you will not be bothered.

Anna took the precious paper. Her heart was hammering with joy and fear. A pass! Exactly what the underground needed! She felt she could allow herself a bit more. She needed to cement her success, to play the role of a simple, slightly mercenary girl, concerned with survival.

She made a naive and slightly embarrassed face.
— Herr Doktor… um… how much will you be paying? — she deliberately paused. — I have my mother to care for. We need to eat…

Stumpp smiled again, this time condescendingly, as to a child.
— Money? Under wartime conditions, the main currency is food. You will receive food ration cards according to the category for Volksdeutsche. Bread, margarine, sometimes tinned goods. It will be enough for you and your mother. The Reich takes care of its own.

He waved his hand, indicating the audience was over.
— Tomorrow at eight a.m. be here. You will be given instructions.
— Yes, Herr Doktor. Thank you, — Anna nodded respectfully and left.

Her back felt his studying gaze all the way down the corridor. She went out into the street, stuffed the pass into her pocket, and, trying not to quicken her pace, walked towards the rendezvous point. She urgently needed to find a contact. She had to pass on just one phrase, one that would take the underground's breath away: "I've been taken onto the team by Karl Stumpp himself"…

 

Chapter 14. The Soda Farl

Anna Garhardt was a young unmarried woman, half-Jewish on her mother's side, German on her father's, an ethnic German Volksdeutsche. She worked as a translator and secretary for Dr. Stumpp. She was clever, cool as a cucumber, and had a memory like a trap.

Dr. Karl Stumpp was a German official, a Gebietskommissar and representative of the Sonderkommando. A pedantic, cynical, sharp, and deeply suspicious man. A specialist in the 'Jewish Question'.

Yakov Goldberg was a link to the underground, a middle-aged man who worked as a plumber and handyman, Anna's contact.

Dr. Stumpp's study was chock-a-block with files. He summoned Anna to type up several orders. Stumpp went out somewhere, leaving an open folder on his desk with the heading «Aktion: Zur Evakuierung». Anna glanced at it mechanically and froze. It was lists of names with addresses. Her heart was pounding fit to burst. She recognised the surnames: Elizaveta Shkandel, Bakst, Gurevich, Zhernovsky, Vanya Sapozhnik, Goldstein, Semyon Loshkin, Nikolai Shcherbina, Rusobrovaya, Elizaveta Shkandel.

These were her town, her people. She understood—this wasn't an evacuation, it was a death sentence.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. She had seconds. She couldn't nick anything or write it down. She closed her eyes, pretending to rub the bridge of her nose, and burned the page into her memory. Her photographic memory did the trick—the lines were imprinted on her mind. When Stumpp returned, she was typing as if nothing was amiss, but her fingers were trembling slightly.

The whole day, Anna lived in a state of pure terror. One wrong look could give the game away. Finally, the working day ended. On her way home, she repeated the surnames to herself like a mantra, afraid of forgetting a single letter.

At home, having locked the door, with shaking hands she wrote down everything she remembered on a scrap of tissue paper. She didn't openly write "save" or "evacuate". She used a prearranged code only the underground would understand: «Urgent evacuation. 11 units of old furniture from the listed addresses. Immediate removal. Maria.»

«Furniture» was the code for Jews, «removal»—for smuggling across the front line or to a partisan unit.

She rolled the paper into a tight tube, wrapped it in cellophane, and hid it inside a tobacco-free cigarette.

Late in the evening, she went out on "urgent business"—to buy bread. She went to an abandoned kiosk on the outskirts. After looking around, she tucked the note, twisted into a roll, into a crack between the bricks in the foundation—their designated 'dead drop'. Nearby, she drew a barely noticeable tick with chalk—the sign for "urgent".

The next morning, Stumpp called her into his office. He didn't look at her, sorting through papers.
— Fräulein Steiner, last night, did you go straight home?
— Yes, Herr Doktor. Went straight home, had to get some bread. — Anna replied, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
— Didn't see anyone on the way? Any... suspicious characters? — He looked up at her. His eyes were cold, boring right through her.
— And who was I supposed to see? — she feigned misunderstanding.
— Jews. — He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. — They're like cockroaches, they crawl out at night.

A heavy silence hung in the study.
— And you're not a Jewess by any chance, are you, Fräulein Steiner? — the question came like the crack of a whip.

Her heart sank into her boots and Anna panicked. "Does he know? Did he have me followed? Did he find the dead drop? Is this a trap?"

But years of living in fear had hardened her. She met his gaze without a hint of embarrassment, even with a touch of offence.
— I am German. And you verified that when I was hired. I have all my "papers" in order.
— Yes, — Stumpp drawled, standing up and slowly circling her like a wolf around its prey. — It's just your eyes are Yid eyes. Too dark, too clever. You're a Jewess, I'm sure of it. You all have the same stench about you.

Anna felt goosebumps running down her spine. She was on a knife-edge. The slightest tremor, a bead of sweat on her forehead—and that would be it. Concentration camp. A firing squad.

She straightened up, looked him straight in the face, and spoke in an icy, pointedly offended tone:
— Herr Doktor, my ancestors are from Bavaria. I am German. And I protest against such offensive insinuations. If you don't trust me, I am prepared to tender my resignation.

Her coolness and readiness to quit did the trick. Stumpp was taken aback for a second. He hadn't expected such a reaction. Perhaps he was just testing her, giving in to his own sick prejudice.
— Calm yourself, Fräulein, — he said, sitting back down. — That was merely... a test of your vigilance. Bring some coffee, please.

Anna nodded, turned around, and left. Only outside the door, in the empty corridor, did she lean against the wall to keep from falling. Her legs felt like jelly. She understood her life had been hanging by a thread. And her blood—the Jewish blood of her mother—had almost been her death sentence.

Meanwhile, the contact Yakov, checking the dead drop, found the signal. He retrieved the note and, having read it, went pale. He knew these people. The "furniture" at the Sapozhniks' address worried him especially—there were children there.

An adrenaline-fuelled race against time began. The underground workers, risking their lives, went around the listed addresses. They couldn't warn everyone immediately. Some didn't believe them, others were afraid to leave their homes. They barely managed to persuade Elizaveta Shkandel; she couldn't believe that she, a respected townswoman, could be targeted.

That night, a group of people was secretly led out of the city and smuggled to the partisans across the front line. Among them were Semyon Loshkin, Nikolai Shcherbina with his wife, Sara Bakst, and six other adults, not counting five children.

But the action began sooner than expected. The Gestapo and police collaborators surrounded the houses. They were empty. Someone had warned them. Stumpp was absolutely gutted. He understood there had been a leak. And he remembered his conversation with Anna from the day before. Her "Yid eyes". Her overly confident answers. A coincidence? No, I don't believe in coincidences, — he thought.

He didn't arrest her immediately. He began a quiet, sophisticated surveillance operation. Now Anna knew she was suspected. Every step was watched. She couldn't make contact with the underground. She was trapped, but she had done the main thing—saved lives. The story ends on a tense note—Anna understands the game of cat and mouse is only just beginning, and Dr. Stumpp is already preparing a new trap to prove himself right.

Years later, after the war, one of the survivors, an elderly Sonya Sapozhnik-Goldstein, found in the archives evidence of Dr. Stumpp's work and a mention of his German secretary, Anna Garhardt. And she would always remember that very night when an unfamiliar voice in the darkness whispered: «Get ready, they're coming for you. The furniture removers have been sent for you.» And that voice saved her life and the life of her little brother…

...
The Gestapo basement was damp, reeking of blood, disinfectant, and pure fear. A bare bulb under the low ceiling was blinding.

Dr. Karl Stumpp was clean, in an impeccable uniform. Yakov Goldberg was beaten, tied to a chair. Two large guards in unbuttoned tunics, sweaty. Stumpp sat on the edge of the table, cleaning his nails with a penknife. Yakov breathed heavily, blood flowing from his split mouth.

Stumpp, not looking at Yakov.
— So, Herr Goldberg? Changed your mind about having a civilised conversation? I don't like getting my hands dirty. But for the likes of you, I'll make an exception.

Yakov wheezed, spat blood on the floor,
— You and I... have nothing to talk about.

Stumpp gave a slight smile.
— Oh, but we do. One topic. One name. Who gave you the lists? Who is the traitor in my office?

The guard to the side silently punched Yakov in the ribs. He grunted, bent over as much as the ropes allowed.

Stumpp sighed like a tired schoolmaster.
— This is tedious. It's a waste of time. We found your dead drop. We know the information went out that night. And we know who had access to it. Anna Garhardt. The pretty slip of a girl with the Yid eyes.

Yakov slowly raised his head. His eyes, swollen from the beating, tried to catch Stumpp's gaze. He was looking for a lie.
— She's told us everything. Broke quickly, your informant. Started weeping, said you lot had blackmailed her. Threatened her Jewish mother's children. A pathetic sight. So who's next in your chain? Who did you pass the lists to?

Yakov's heart constricted with horror. Anna? Given in? No. It wasn't possible. He knew her. Her German father had died saving her Jewish mother from arrests back in the civil war. Her mother had taught her daughter the main thing: to keep mum, to hide, to survive. Anna hadn't been "trained" by the OGPU, but the school of life and the constant fear of exposure for her "fifth line" had hardened her no worse than any Chekist. She would die before she said a word.
— You're having me on. She... she'd take it to her grave. She won't talk. You're bluffing.

Stumpp's face twisted into a grimace of rage. He jumped off the table and sharply approached Yakov. His calm evaporated.
— You're for the high jump tomorrow. Understand? At dawn, you'll be taken into the yard and shot. Your life is over. The only thing you can choose is to die like a stubborn mule, or show a bit of sense and give us the names.
— Not a pebble... I've nothing to die for. I've done nothing.
— You're a Yid! And that's enough! Your place is in a pit, not on this land. Ukraine for Ukrainians.

Yakov suddenly lifted his head. In his eyes was not fear, but defiance.
— Ukraine is the homeland of my ancestors. They ploughed this land when yours were still running through the forests in animal skins. I am a Ukrainian. By blood and by tribe. I don't know a word of Yiddish. I'm pure bog-trotter.

Stumpp froze. His anger was replaced by a cold, academic interest. He took a step back, studying Yakov.
— Pure bog-trotter? — He smirked.
— Very good. Very convincing. Let's check. Say... «soda farl».

A dead silence fell. The guards exchanged glances. It was a famous test. A word that gave away any Jew. The combination of sounds was a phonetic trap. Yakov knew this. He had been preparing for this moment his whole life. His father, a genuine Ukrainian, a friend of his Jewish grandfather, had taught him to pronounce this word perfectly, without a trace of a sibilant or softness.

Yakov slowly exhaled. He looked Stumpp straight in the eyes, his lips, broken and bloodied, formed precisely.

Yakov clearly, distinctly, with a hard ending and the correct stress.
— So-da farl.

He pronounced it flawlessly. With the accent of a man from Nikopol who had eaten that very soda farl for breakfast every morning.

Stumpp was stunned. He had expected failure, had expected a recognisable accent. But his ear, tuned to detect the slightest falseness, had caught nothing. Not a single error.

Stumpp whispered almost with respect.
— How?...

He turned away and for a few seconds silently looked at the wall. His brain, working like a computer, was already analysing the failure and finding a use for it. He turned back. On his face was not malice, but the triumph of a discoverer.
— Perfect. Absolutely perfect. — He addressed the guards. — You see? No Yid can say it like that. Not one.

He approached Yakov almost nose to nose.
— You've lost, Goldberg. You've just given me the perfect tool. Quick, efficient, and foolproof. By tomorrow, an order will be sent all over the city. All suspicious persons, all those without documents, all those denounced by their neighbours, will be tested with this word. «Say 'soda farl'». The operation will have the codename... «Soda Farl». How's that for irony?

Yakov froze. He understood that with his own stubbornness and preparation he had just signed the death warrant for dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people. His heart was breaking with horror and despair.
— Finish him off. He's of no more interest.

Stumpp turned and left without looking back. He was already thinking about directives, about orders. He had found a brilliantly simple solution.

The door closed. The guards pulled on their leather gloves. Yakov didn't look at them. He stared into emptiness, and in his ears rang his own, perfectly pronounced word, which had become a death sentence.

Yakov whispered to himself, whether as a curse or with bitter self-mockery — Soda farl...

A blow to the head plunged him into darkness.

 

Chapter 15. Conscience and a Copper are Like Oil and Water

 

…An office in the Nikopol auxiliary police town hall. Karl Stumpp sits at a table covered in papers. The air is thick with the smell of shag tobacco and poorly tanned leather.
Olga, perched on the edge of the table, is whispering in Timofey's ear. He looks at the sheet of paper in her hands, grinning greedily. Olga is a woman in her twenties, dressed better than most townsfolk. Her gaze is sharp, calculating.
—Timofey Osipov, a Ukrainian policeman, her lover. A man of about forty, with large features and a simple but greedy look in his eyes.
—Karl Stumpp, a Gebietskommissar and representative of the Sonderkommando, gaunt, with cold eyes. His cruelty is the talk of the town.

Speaking quietly, breathily, sharing her 'secret', Olga says:
—Timmy, d'ya have any notion how much poteen we could swap for the gubbins they've got hidden in their flats? I've been there, I've seen it. Timofey smacks his lips, leaning in with interest.
—Go on, how much? Spit it out, don't keep me on tenterhooks.
Olga runs her finger down the list.
—So much, you and me could be pissed as newts for a month and still have enough left to have the neighbours showing us some respect. And there'd still be some left. They've been saving it all, the nice things, china, clothes... All for barter. And what's our currency now? Moonshine.
Timofey grins widely, but a flicker of apprehension shows in his eyes.
—Blimey... Sounds... But we... are we sure we won't get collared for this? The Germans... they like to keep the Yids under their own thumb. What if Stumpp decides to make things difficult for us?
Olga waves her hand, full of contemptuous confidence.

—It'll be grand. Don't I work for them? A technical worker, like, I carry papers, stoke the stove. The head honcho knows me. I bring him his coffee, he doesn't even look at me. To him, I'm the air. And the air sees and hears everything. He'll be chuffed to bits if we make his job easier. Do you think he fancies writing forms for every single Jew? See here? – she jabs her finger at the scribbled sheet.

– This is a list of those living near the market, in the old town. So we won't have to drag their Jewish clutter far. Grab 'em – and straight to the market, before the other muckers make off with it.
Timofey gets fired up by the idea, snatches a pencil from the table.

—Right, look here, add that Nikolay Hilinsky to it. Not a Jew, of course, he's a joiner. But he's a right piece of work, still owes me three roubles from last year, from Soviet times. Won't pay up, always has an excuse. Let him settle his debts. In the confusion. And we'll stick in two more Yids from the socialist city.

Olga smiles predatorily.
—We'll add him. We'll say he was hiding them. Or just another mouth to feed. – She carefully writes the names in the margin of the list.
—There. Now it's spot on.

They head to Stumpp's office. Timofey nervously adjusts his belt. Olga walks confidently. They knock. A dry "Herein!" comes from behind the door.
Stumpp is sitting at a clean, almost empty desk writing a report. He doesn't look up immediately.
—What is it?
Olga nudges Timofey forward with her elbow.
Timofey snaps to attention, thrusting the list uncertainly towards the commandant.
—Herr Untersturmführer! We... that is, the informant Olga... has identified a group of individuals hiding in the old market district. A list.
Stumpp slowly puts down his pen, takes the sheet. His cold eyes skim the surnames: Meyerov, Kopp, Manzony, Epstein, Musarsky, Levin... He reads without hurry. Then his gaze rises and slowly, appraisingly, travels over Olga – from her worn but polished shoes to her greedy, shining eyes. Then just as slowly it shifts to Timofey, to his hand trembling with tension, clutching his cap.

A heavy silence hangs in the office. Stumpp leans back in his chair. A faint, cold smirk plays on his thin lips. He's understood everything. It's not ideological fervour, not zeal for the new order driving this pair. They are driven only by a primitive, animal greed. He finds these 'Untermenschen' repulsive, but they are useful in their eagerness.

—Gut. Very... timely. – He makes a slight pause, looking at them as if they were insects. —Tomorrow at six in the morning, an operation will be conducted. You will both accompany the team for identification and... – he gives a barely perceptible smirk, —property confiscation. Especially valuable property. Everything is to be accounted for and delivered to the warehouse. Is that clear?
Olga beams, shoves Timofey.
—Jawohl, Herr Untersturmführer! It will all be done!
Timofey lets out a strained exhale.
—Jawohl!
—Get out. Dismissed.

They step out into the corridor, closing the door behind them. Timofey wipes the sweat from his forehead.
Timofey whispers, relieved.
—We've dodged a bullet... And he even gave his blessing...
Olga laughs quietly, her eyes already counting future bottles.
—I told you, didn't I! Now the main thing is to get to the cupboards and sideboards first, before the other eejits have nicked everything. Tomorrow, Timmy, we'll be laughing.

She takes his arm, and they walk down the corridor, already making plans to trade other people's lives for litres of cheap moonshine, not giving a single thought to what awaits the people on that list tomorrow morning. For them, it's simply a way to grab their own slice of the pie…

…Central Market of Nikopol, October 1943.

Half-destroyed stalls, mud underfoot. The few locals mainly trade produce from their gardens and bits and bobs. The main 'currency' is moonshine, measured in litres in dirty bottles. Against this backdrop of miserable bustle, one stall stands out, piled high with clearly expensive, non-local items: porcelain, silver, books in leather bindings, clothes.

—Olga, Tamara's daughter, unprincipled, with a predatory glint in her eyes. Dressed in a good dress, clearly someone else's cast-off.
—Timofey, a Ukrainian policeman, her lover. Burly, with a cheeky look. His uniform bears traces of yesterday's drinking.

Olga arranges silver candlesticks on a crate that once held shells. Timofey smokes, leaning against a bale of clothes. Stepan approaches them, squinting.
—Will you look at that! Living the high life, Timmy! Look – a fine-looking lass, and fine things too. Where'd this treasure come from? From that do yesterday, was it? From the 'old town'?
Timofey smirks lazily.
—Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. If you're trading, don't be dithering. Have you got anything to offer?
Stepan takes a closer look at Olga, jabs a finger in her direction.
—Ah, I know you, girl. You're Olga, Tamara's daughter. The watchmaker's daughter. But you're a Jewess. Your mother was a pure-blooded Jewess.
Olga flares up, interrupts him sharply and loudly.
—I am no Jewess. You shut your gob. You're the Jew! I'm Ukrainian. Pure blood! If you're not buying – feck off out of it. Don't take up space and don't bother people trying to trade.
Stepan spits at his own feet, but his eyes gleam greedily, looking at the items.
—Have it your way. Right. And how much for these... candlesticks?
Olga's expression changes instantly, her voice becomes sweet and business-like.
—Oh. A litre of poteen. No less. Look – silver.
Stepan pulls a misty bottle from inside his coat.
—Here. Take it. And these... mechanical striking clocks? How much?
Olga takes the bottle, quickly hides it under the stall.
—Three litres.
—But they're Swiss!
—Are you getting them now or what?
—Go on, I'll wait for you.
Stepan nods and disappears into the crowd. Returns twenty minutes later with two lads carrying a bucket of moonshine. Points to a porcelain dinner service.
—And the service for twelve, how much?
Olga sizes it up.
—Four litres.
—Are you off your head?
—I'm not letting it go for less.
—You nicked it from the Yids yourself.
—None of your business.
Stepan waves his hand to his companions.
—Give it to them. Thank the girl, go on. I've a good mind to throttle you.

The trade is brisk. Soon a small crowd gathers around Olga and Timofey. Bottles and cans of murky liquid pass under the stall, and from it disappear items that still smell of other people's homes. By the end of the day, the pair have a dozen new drinking buddies, ready for anything for a share in their 'business'.
Timofey, quite drunk now, slaps one of the lads on the shoulder.
—Right, lads, give us a hand getting this lot back to the gaff? Can't manage on my own. We'll sort it out there.

A few of the strongest help them carry forty litres of moonshine – the day's main haul – to Timofey's cottage.
A continuous drunken stupor lasted in the house for three days.

In the middle of this stupor, Stepan suddenly starts laughing and tells a story about how he and five of his mates nicked copper from the Dneproges.
—They nicked all those other eejits. But they let me go. I had a very convincing alibi, like.
—What's an alibi? — asked Olga.
—An alibi is this thing, — and he points a finger below his belt.
And he laughs.
—My alibi was with my bird. Got it?
—Got it, that you were in two places at once, and with a bird. And what was the bird's name?
—Who remembers her name? I don't ask for names. I just go coo-coo. Straight away.
And he laughs.

Then they had a row with Timofey over Olga, because Stepan started groping her.
Quarrels, drunken songs, fights. On the third day, the door burst open with a crack. On the threshold stood a German patrol with rifles at the ready. Behind them – Untersturmführer Karl Stumpp, pale with rage.
—That's it. The party's over. Confiscated. For misappropriation of Reich property.

The soldiers started grabbing bottles and hurling them into the corner of the cottage. The sound of breaking glass and the acrid smell of spilled moonshine filled the room. The last ten bottles, still unopened, shattered against the clay-daubed wall, leaving dark, sticky stains…

Chapter 16 A Dust-Up on Nikopol Station Platform

 

Nikopol's central market.
A chilly, overcast autumn day. The air smells of rotting leaves, burnt sunflower oil, and damp earth. The market is heaving with people, but the mood is anxious, muted. The Soviet troops are advancing and will soon be on the line of Yekaterinoslav. Anna Garwait is awaiting her legalisation from Khariton Grosman and Major-General Samuel Shapiro. Only they know about her work in the underground. People are talking in hushed tones, haggling without their usual gusto, constantly glancing over their shoulders. In a whisper.

— I've heard. The front is moving west towards us.
— Keep your voice down. Keep it down. That's good news, that is.

Among the usual goods—potatoes, cabbage, apples—on some stalls lie bright, foreign-looking items: silk scarves, silver spoons, porcelain figurines. This is Jewish property, "spoils" from the pogroms.

On the edge of such a scrum, on a blanket spread over some crates, Olga has laid out her wares. A woman of about twenty with a hard, unsmiling face, puffy from homebrew. She's wearing a crumpled coat that wasn't hers to begin with. On the blanket—a stack of books in leather bindings, several pairs of children's shoes, nearly new, and a porcelain dinner service with delicate blue flowers.

Anna Garwait approaches the stall. She is dressed soberly and warmly—a good-quality coat, a neat hat, leather gloves. Her appearance and posture immediately mark her out as a "civil servant" from the occupation administration. In her movements—the calm assurance of a person with authority. Nobody knows she works for the underground. Only two men know she is a plant in the Sonderkommando. Khariton Grosman and Major-General Samuel Shapiro.

Anna, stopping at the stall, polite but cold.
— Good day. An interesting service.

Olga, looking her up and down appraisingly, without a trace of friendliness.
— It's all of a piece. Not a chip or a crack. Six settings. It's a rare find.

Anna takes one of the cups, examines it. On the bottom of the cup is a mark—a factory stamp and numbers neatly inscribed in ink.
— I'd just like the one cup. I had a similar one that got smashed.

— I'm not breaking the set. Take the lot.
— Where are these things from? A looted house?

Olga. Her face instantly turns to stone and her voice becomes rough, prickly.
— From where it's from. Take it or leave it, but don't be asking nosy questions. This pitch is taken.

Anna slowly raises her eyes and looks directly at Olga. Her gaze becomes intent, studying. She puts the cup back.
— I know these numbers. And I know this cup. And I've seen this service. In the house on Sadovaya Street, belonging to the Berkovich family. The numbers are the inventory number of the father of the family, the apothecary. He numbered his porcelain.

A heavy, ringing silence hangs in the air. The noise of the market for the two of them seems to fade away.

Olga pales, her lips pressed into a thin line. She leans closer to Anna, her whisper is hoarse and vicious.
— Four jars of hooch. Or a couple of tins of stew. Take it and sod off. Don't scare away my customers. I've got my own people, I don't bow and scrape to the Jerries.

Anna, without batting an eyelid, just as quietly, but her quiet voice sounds like steel.
— I'll be jiggered. We'll see. I'll find out. I'll definitely find out where you're from and where your "goods" are from.

She holds Olga under her intense gaze for a second longer, then turns sharply on her heel and walks away without looking back. Olga watches her go, a flicker in her eyes not of fear, but of furious, feral malice…

…Anna feverishly goes through the files. Her photographic memory paints every feature of the market trader's face. She doesn't start with the metric records of Nikopol's population, but with the market ledger books, the lists of registered traders.

Anna whispers under her breath. Karpenko, Olga Markovna. Mother—Karpenko, Tamara Tarasovna, shop assistant at Store No. 4.

She sets one folder aside, picks up the next. Military files, death notifications. And there it is—the official death message. A form filled out on a typewriter.

"To Citizen Karpenko, Tamara Markovna. We inform you that your husband, NKVD Lieutenant Karpenko, Ivan Sidorovich, died in the line of duty..."

Anna freezes. NKVD Lieutenant. That explains a lot about the daughter's cheek. But it's not the thread she needs.

— And her maiden name? What was Tamara's maiden name?

She delves into older, pre-war records of the registry office. Metric books. File number 4063785/94. Yellowed pages.

"...birth certificate. Name: Tamara. Parents: father—Toviy, mother—Olesya (née Kop). Paternity not established, recorded from the mother's words. Note: Toviy Kop married Olesya, but the marriage was dissolved before the child's birth..."

— Kop... A Jewish surname. Right... And did Olesya have relatives? Brothers, sisters?

She digs again. Finds a mention: "Olesya, native of the shtetl of Gorodishche..."

Anna decides to go to Gorodishche. A small house on the outskirts of Gorodishche. An elderly woman sits on a bench by the porch.

Anna approaches, shows her pass with the Gebietskommissariat seal.
— Good day. Tell me, who used to live in that house? —she points to a large, but now neglected, dilapidated house on the street.

The old woman squints, looks at the pass, then at Anna.
— Och, who remembers now... It's been forty years with no proper owners. Some merchant, Kop, lived there, a Jew. A man of the kindest soul. But in that pogrom... you know the ones? Before the civil war even... In that pogrom his children were killed. His grown-up children...

It was terrible. And he was left with two little orphans, grandchildren, I think... I can't remember the names now. One, I think, was Olesya... What happened to them? One was sent to an orphanage in Yekaterinoslav, and the second—to Nikopol, to some distant relatives. They vanished, I suppose, the girls...

— Anna's insides go still. The chain is almost complete: —Thank you. You've been a great help.

The archive in Yekaterinoslav. A week later.

Anna sits at a table, in front of her—a thick folder of embossed paper. The case concerning the distribution of orphaned children after the pogrom in Gorodishche. Her finger slowly slides down the lines.

Name: Olesya Kop. Year of birth. Place of distribution: Nikopol, to the family of [illegible]. Distant relatives on the maternal side.

Name: Yael. Year of birth. Place of distribution: Yekaterinoslav.

Anna leans back in her chair. She stares at the wall but sees nothing. A perfect, irrefutable family tree builds itself in her head.

— Olesya Kop from Gorodishche grew up, became the widow Olesya, her daughter Tamara Karpenko, her daughter Olga Karpenko—the market trader.
— Yael Kop from Yekaterinoslav, native of Gorodishche, and I am her granddaughter, Anna Garwait.

She and that coarse, hateful woman from the market are second cousins. Their grandmothers were sisters. They are flesh and blood of the same clan, scattered to the winds by pogrom and war.

Anna's face shows no emotion. In her eyes—only cold steel. The shock passed in an instant, replaced by crystal-clear understanding. This is not a family sentimental drama. This is a signal. Olga is not just a looter. She is the weak link, a threat. Her connection to the NKVD through her father, the illegal trading... Sooner or later she'll be nicked. And under torture, she could spill the beans. Everything. Including the woman with the photographic memory who was interested in her cup.

It was a signal for action. For the resolute and indomitable Anna Garwait now had something to protect. And she knew exactly what needed doing. The silence in the archive was deafening, shattered by the thunder of a decisive, iron will…

…Nikopol station perron. December 1943. A cold, grey sky, snow mixed with grime. The perron is packed with a polyglot crowd. The guttural sounds of German from soldiers and officers smoking nervously, glancing at their watches. Ukrainian and Russian from locals selling chicks, eggs, homebrew, or simply waiting for a train to take them west. Through all this bustle cuts the shout of the police: "Schnell! Schnell! Have your documents ready!" The air is tense, everyone is waiting for something important—be it a train with reinforcements, or with that "wonder weapon," or with high-ranking brass.

Olga Karpenko stands by a freight train car, looking around nervously. In her hand, a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth. She's waiting for a courier to offload the stolen goods.

Anna Garwait, returning from the Yekaterinoslav archive, appears from the direction of the passenger car. She is weary, in her coat, with a small leather bag. She has just learned from the archive that her grandmother and Olga's grandmother were sisters. And the chain of kinship leading to Olga is clearly mapped out in her head.

The train door opens, Anna steps onto the stone platform and stops abruptly, bumping into someone. She looks up.

Anna says automatically, before realising.
— Entschuldigung...

Olga, rudely, not yet looking or recognising her.
— Get off me! — Then she raises her eyes and sees Anna. Her face contorts with hatred and surprise.
— You? Bloody bitch of a spy!

The reaction from both is instantaneous. No more words are needed. Months of tension, fear, and hatred erupt.

Olga, with a shout, lunges at Anna and grabs her by the hair.
— Oy-oy! Petró, will you look at this, a right catfight! Let's have a gander!
— Was ist denn da los? Zwei Weiber! (What's going on there? Two women!)
— Hände hoch! Ah, will you shut it! Let us have a look at these birds!

But it's too late. Olga, who is indeed tall and stocky, has already got a fistful of Anna's hair and is pulling her down.

Olga hisses through her teeth, in Ukrainian.
— I'll fecking rearrange your face, you German slag! That'll teach you to stick your nose in my business!

Anna doesn't answer, gritting her teeth. She hits Olga in the ribs with short, powerful blows, trying to break her grip. She remembers her father's lessons: "Brawn isn't the main thing. Technique is."

The Germans on the platform start laughing, placing bets.
German Soldier 1: Zehn Reichsmark auf die Große! (Ten marks on the big one!)
German Soldier 2: Quatsch! Die Kleine ist zäh! Fünfzehn auf die Blonde! (Nonsense! The little one is tough! Fifteen on the blonde!)

The locals, on the contrary, are rooting for Anna, who looks like one of their own in trouble.
A Ukrainian woman with a basket:
— Ah, shut your gobs, you filthy fascists! Fear God! Look, Hryts, how the birds are going at it! Go on, the fair one, go on, floor her!

The strength is indeed unequal. Olga begins to gain the upper hand, overwhelming Anna with the weight of her body. But Anna doesn't panic. In her mind, she runs through a combination: a trip, a takedown-twist. She sharply shifts her weight, puts a leg behind Olga's, and, without releasing her hair, forcefully twists her towards herself.

Anna under her breath, in Russian, like a mantra: Trip, knock-down, twist... Trip, knock-down, twist... (Trip, takedown-twist... Trip, takedown-twist...)

The movements are precise, practised. Olga, not expecting this, loses her balance and falls onto the platform stones with a heavy, dull thud. In Anna's hand remains a large clump of hair, torn from the greasy head.

Olga howls in pain and rage.
— A-a-a-a! You cow!

Anna, breathing heavily, almost mechanically stuffs the torn clump of hair into a crack between the platform stones—evidence, a trophy, an act of dominance. She doesn't let Olga get up, starting to beat her, unleashing all her anger, fear, and disappointment. For all the humiliations of the occupation, for all the deprivations, and for the shame of her own people looting.

The crowd gets even more worked up.
— Bravo! Go on! Give it to her! That's the way!

Suddenly, a shot rings out in the air. It's a German officer trying to restore order.
German Officer (loudly, in German): Ruhe! Sofort aufhören! Das ist eine Eisenbahnstation! (Quiet! Stop immediately! This is a railway station!)

A policeman translates, shouting.
— Break it up, I'm telling you! The brass will be here any minute!

The crowd murmurs, disappointed that such a grand spectacle is ending. But the tension built up over years of war couldn't be dispelled by a single shot. Both women were on the verge.

And suddenly... the crowd freezes. From afar, first muffled, then louder, another sound is heard. Not a train whistle. The piercing, ominous wail of air raid sirens.

A voice from the loudspeaker (over the commotion, in German and Ukrainian): Achtung! Luftalarm! Achtung! (Attention! Air raid! Attention! Air raid! To the shelters!)

A moment later, this wail is drowned out by the roar of approaching artillery and the whistle of the first bombs falling somewhere very near the station. The ground shudders. Window panes shatter, sending glass flying. One of the Soviet shells hit the tracks near the platform, and clumps of rubble and clay buried the strand of hair Anna had torn from Olga's head.

Panic ensues. German soldiers rush to the anti-aircraft guns, the officer shouts commands. People rush to save themselves, scattering in search of cover.

The fight instantly loses all meaning. Anna and Olga, a minute ago ready to kill each other, scatter in different directions under the wail of bombs and approaching explosions. The assault on Nikopol had begun, which would last for another long four months.

In the crack between the platform stones remains a clump of hair, a silent witness to their personal war against the backdrop of a world war…

But this confrontation is merely the beginning of a great conflict that will evolve into a major war of totalitarian Russia against Independent Ukraine…

 

Chapter 17. Every Manner of Victory

The muffled light strained through the gaps in the boards of the abandoned shed. It smelled of dust and old hay. Olga, hugging her knees, sat on a torn mattress. Timofey stood by the door, listening to the night.

Olga’s voice was strained, without its usual mockery.
— Tim… What’s the crack with us? The whole bloody world’s agin us, so it is.

Not turning around, Timofey said roughly.
— We need to do a runner. Not chinwag, but leg it.
— And where to? Germans there, and there… the feckin' Moskals. It's a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea.
— The Germans will put a bullet in your head first chance, no questions asked. And the Moskals… the Moskals will have you for breakfast just for bearing my name. So, you choose who you'd rather have a knees-up with.

With sudden fury, Olga.
— Bloody Moskals, feck 'em all! And the Germans can go to hell too! The whole lot of 'em!

Timofey moved closer, squatting down in front of her, speaking quieter but more insistently.
— Had your shout? Now listen.
— So, what's the plan?
— I'll tell you the plan.
— Well?
— We skedaddle.

Olga looked at him, her eyes full of fear and defiance.
— Skedaddle. Where? How? With what?
— New names. New faces. I know people in Krivoy Rog. From the nick. Old mates. They won't grass. Our sort don't.
— Mates from the nick? Oh, that's bloody brilliant. Out of the frying pan into the fire.

Timofey grabbed her by the chin, not with anger, but forcing her to look at him.
— And who are you, Olga? Some innocent flower? Listen. Tonight – on foot to Marhanets. I have a bloke there with horses. We change horses – all the way to Krivoy Rog. I know the roads, all the hamlets and gullies.
— On foot? Now? In winter?
— You were expecting a motorcar? They'll find you here by morning with your throat cut. Make your mind up. Now or never.

Olga stared into his eyes for a long time, then nodded, short and sharp.
— Right. Decision made.

The bare, snow-covered Dnieper steppe in January. They trudged across the frozen land. Around them were the skeletons of burnt-out lorries, shattered guns. Timofey slowed his pace near a knocked-out T-34.
— Hang on, I'll have a butcher's.
— What's to look at? Dead iron.
— A lad's curiosity. Might be some tins left.

He disappeared for a few minutes into the open hatch. Olga gazed despondently at the horizon. Suddenly, his muffled exclamation came from the tank. He climbed out, clutching a tattered book, stained with blood and grease.

Timofey’s eyes burned with excitement.
— Olga! Have a gander! This is the business!
— What have you found?
Timofey pointed a finger at the blurred ink.
— A Red Army paybook! A young soldier's. Osipov-Kisel Solomon... Born 1905... Education – parish school... Nationality – Hebrew... Place of conscription – Vladivostok! Get it? Vladivostok! Everyone in that tank is burnt to a cinder, no one will check a thing.
— So what?
Timofey triumphantly.
— Are you thick, woman? Now I'm not Timofey Osipov, I'm Solomon Osipov! Osipov-Kisel Solomon! Remember it. Born in Vladivostok. Now you're my wife or my sister, but you'll need your own papers. Your own cover story.

Olga, with sarcasm, but with a glimmer of hope.
— You're the clever clogs, you think of something. And I... I'll have a rummage around here, might find summat else.

She pretended to search the armour, but in truth, she just turned away to hide the trembling in her hands. She understood – this scrap of paper gave them a chance. A ghost of a chance.

In February, the wind was less cutting. In a hideout made of branches and tarpaulin in a forest belt near Hospitable. They were waiting. This was the hardest part – the waiting.

Olga sat by a tiny fire, warming her hands.
— Your mates... in Krivoy Rog... Are you sure they're still there? That they remember us?

Timofey cleaned the bolt of a found pistol.
— We look after our own. You, in your line of work, wouldn't understand. There, it's every man for himself. But inside, it's different.

Olga, with pride.
— My 'business' runs on trust. No other way.
Timofey smirked.
— Aye, until the pot boiled over. And when it did – you came running to your Tim.

Olga flared up.
— I didn't come running to you! We... bumped into each other.
— Fate, then? He set the pistol down and looked at her seriously.
— No one knows you in the city. That's good. And two people know me. And if they're there... we'll bed in. Like weeds. Slowly. We'll work, we'll live.
— Live. On someone else's papers. Under someone else's names. Like a stolen life.

Timofey sharply.
— And what was your own life like, eh? Olga the smuggler, who her own and others would shoot given half a chance? And now you'll be... who will you be, Olga?

She was silent, gazing into the fire. Somewhere far away, cannonade rumbled. The shells were exploding further west now.

Timofey listened.
— Hear that? They're heading West. The Moskals have taken the city back. It's time. Tomorrow morning – into the city.

Olga raised her eyes to him.
— Sure?
— As sure as anyone. Like thousands of other refugees who have nowhere else to go. We'll just... disappear into the crowd.

In the morning, they left the forest and walked along the road to Krivoy Rog. Two dusty, tired people among thousands of their kind. Their old lives were left behind, in the shell craters. Ahead – only invented names and the fragile hope that this new life wouldn't shatter as easily as the old one.

…Olga and Timofey began to build their new life, betting everything on stealth and secrecy.

Their arrival in Krivoy Rog was a carefully planned performance. They didn't look like frightened, war-scorched refugees. Their clothes were worn and second-hand, but clean, their gazes – tired, but not lost. They walked without haste, with bags sewn from sacking, just like thousands of others. Their strength lay in this grey, unremarkable mass.

Olga's transformation was total. She didn't just change her dress – she changed her skin. She deliberately lost weight to alter the shape of her face, making it more angular, gaunt. The softness of a well-fed life disappeared. She stopped using any makeup, even homemade. Her hands, which once knew care, were now covered in small scratches and calluses. She learned to walk not with the resilient, eye-catching gait of a smuggler, but with the shuffling, weary step of a woman bearing all the hardships of war.

She developed a new system of gestures – modest, somewhat cowed. In conversations with neighbours, she lowered her eyes, spoke quietly and sparingly, inserting common phrases: "it's a hard road...", "thank God we're alive...", "praise be, the husband's got a position." She became a master of "social mimicry" – it was impossible to pick her out from the crowd of other women standing in queues, washing floors in offices, and whispering at the market.

The documents for "Citizeness Osipova Olga, born 1924" were bought for a fortune from one of Timofey's "mates from the nick". The lack of a patronymic was a genius find – it made her origins vague, complicating any hypothetical check. The legend was simple: she and her husband were refugees from near Zaporizhzhia, their house was bombed, all documents lost. Husband – a frontovik, wounded, now working in supply depots. She – a housewife, doing odd jobs where she could.

Their life was built on strict rules of secrecy, developed together.

They rented a half-ruined cottage on the very outskirts, near the mine waste heaps. This location was advantageous for several reasons:

A constant flow of similarly marginal people.

No interest from the authorities – there was nothing to see here.

Excellent escape routes in case of danger – straight into industrial zones, the steppe, quarries.

The ability to come and go unnoticed at different times.

In public, they were a model Soviet family. Timofey – a stern, somewhat grim rear-echelon veteran. Olga – an obedient, downtrodden wife. They went to the market together, never argued in front of others, took part in subbotniks to clear rubble.

At home, all communication was business-like. They spoke in whispers. Olga developed a system of signals: a specific way of hanging the curtain meant "danger"; a brick placed on the fence – "all clear"; a geranium pot on the window – "come in, I'm alone".

They gradually established an underground business, and here Olga's miracles of invisibility came in handy. Their trade – buying and reselling German trophies – was deadly dangerous, but Olga perfected it to an art form.

She didn't deal in large batches. Her method was the "snowflake". She created a network of a few street urchins who scavenged recent battlefields for "trinkets": officer's cigarette cases, pistol cartridges, badges, pencils, leather belts. They didn't know who she was, leaving their finds at "blind" drops – an agreed hole in a fence or under a specific stone. Payment was in food or cartridges for barter.

Olga was a genius at disguising objects. She took watches apart, hiding the components in empty tins with false bottoms. She re-stitched leather goods, altering their style beyond recognition. Gold tooth crowns, which also sometimes entered the trade, she melted down into crude homemade rings or hid in hollow buttons.

She never sold the items herself. Through the same network of urchins or via Timofey's reliable, decades-tested "mates", the goods were sold on the black market in small batches. She was a phantom, a shadow connecting the crows picking through the ruins with the dealers at the market. She was known as "Auntie Olya," who could give some food for a "trinket," but no one knew her real scale.

Information was her main weapon. She could stand in a bread queue for hours, listening to the conversations of military wives and officials. She knew when raids were planned, what the bosses were up to, where units were moving. This information allowed her to stay ahead of events and "go to ground" in time.

Their new life was like a game of chess with a shadow, where the stakes were their own lives. Timofey provided them with legal cover and access to resources. He could sometimes nick a couple of tins of stew or a piece of tarpaulin from the depot, while Olga, with her "miracles of invisibility," was the brain and nerve of the entire operation, an invisible spider weaving her web in the ruins of a vast city...

...It was a warm spring evening in March. Their cottage on the outskirts smelled of steppe dust, wood warmed by the day, and boiled potatoes. Olga stood by the stove, but wasn't eating. She was looking through the sooty window, its glass reflecting her pale face, distorted by inner turmoil.

Olga quietly, almost a whisper.
— Tim.

Timofey, mending an old belt at the table, merely grunted in response.

Olga turned around, her voice trembling.
— Tim, I think... Well, I am.

He looked up at her and understood immediately. From the way she stood – stiffly, as if afraid to move. From her gaze – frightened and angry at the same time.

Timofey set the belt aside.
— Out with it.

Olga looked away, back at the window.
— My monthlies haven't come. Second month now. And yesterday morning... I was sick as a parrot. Oh, what a time for it... – her voice broke, and she gripped the edge of the stove tightly, — Just started to get on our feet. Just got everything sorted.

Timofey stood up, walked over to her. He spoke without particular emotion, stating a fact.
— What did you expect? We're not living in a monastery. Someone to pass the business on to now. What do we need, much? We'll manage.

Olga turned to him sharply, fury flashing in her eyes.
— I don't want it now. Don't want anyone. If we could just wait a year or two. Get the turnover up, make arrangements with people... And now what? Lug a belly around like a submarine?

Timofey frowned, his voice hardening.
— Don't talk daft, Olga. – He wagged a finger at her. – Look at you, what nonsense. You'll have it. And no funny business. This isn't goods you can just refuse.

Olga pleadingly.
— If we could just wait a bit, just a little! The war's only just over, there's hunger and ruin everywhere... Why drag a child into this hell?

Timofey exploded, his patience snapping.
— How's that? Wait? – he came right up to her, looming over her. — Ten months to wait? You've been at the henbane, you've gone mad entirely. This isn't a train you can stop halfway.

Olga held his gaze, steel, dangerous notes appearing in her voice.
— You know everyone... those doctors, who... who get rid of a bun in the oven. What are they... gyne- gyro-... feck it. A gynaecologist. Find one.

Timofey recoiled from her as if from a fire. His face twisted in anger and something almost like superstitious horror.
— Shut your gob! – he barked. — I'm not fetching you no gynaecologist. Never. You hear me? That's murder, so it is. I'll lock you in here. And I won't be letting you out on any of your 'hunts'. Forget it.

Olga straightened up to her full, now pregnant, height. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
— You won't.

Timofey through his teeth.
— I will.

Olga took a step forward, her quiet voice sounding more dangerous than any shout. — You just try.

They stood facing each other, like two enemies on a battlefield. The air crackled with hatred, fear, and misunderstanding.

They rowed like that all spring and all summer. The arguments were fierce, quiet, and bitter. But by the end of autumn, Olga couldn't even leave the house without people turning to look. Her figure, always so lithe and nimble, had changed beyond recognition. Her belly stretched out and stuck forward like a torpedo, and her chest became full and heavy, "like a Krivoy Rog or Nikopol Ukrainian girl," as she herself thought with a bitter smirk. Her weapon had always been invisibility, and now she was a walking advertisement for herself.

And right before the New Year of 1947, when prickly snow swirled outside the window, she gave birth. Not a boy, a successor, but a girl. A beautiful half-blood girl, with a wrinkled little face in which Moskal, Hebrew, and Khokhol blood were mixed. When Olga saw her for the first time, she felt neither happiness nor relief. Only a deafening, all-consuming silence. And the understanding that her life as a smuggler would now proceed by completely new, unknown rules. They named the girl Rima, and now they received their first legal document at the registry office, stating that Osipova Rima, a native of Krivoy Rog, was registered on Kominterna Street...

 

Chapter 18. A Victory to Share

The room was bitterly cold, but Anna was past caring. She sat on the edge of her chair, every nerve in her body as taut as a bowstring. A deafening cannonade roared in her ears. Just yesterday, it had been silent, the front somewhere beyond the horizon, an abstract threat in the news bulletins. But today, this February day in 1944, it had fallen upon the city with full fury. The sound of the gunfire was so close, it could have been just around the corner. Though by her reckoning it was still eight or ten kilometres away. But you couldn't argue with the sound — it was approaching, relentlessly and swiftly, driven by the advancing front from the east.

— No more shilly-shallying, she whispered to herself, the words lost in the rumble of another blast. Her heart was in her mouth. At any moment the door could fly open, and there he would be — Karl Stumpp. His cold, indifferent eyes, his habit of solving all problems with a single shot to the back of the head. For desertion, it would be a firing squad, no two ways about it. The thought was sharper and more real than any artillery barrage.

She stood up abruptly. She put on the warmest coat from her wardrobe, a hat with fold-down earflaps, and warm mittens. She had to act now. On the dresser lay a small leather vanity case, prepared the evening before. Into it she shoved a packet of hardtack, some money, forged documents, and… for some reason, a box of matches. Her hand reached for them of its own accord, as if that little wooden box could offer some protection against the surrounding darkness.

Casting nervous glances about, Anna slipped from the room and pressed herself against the corridor wall. Empty. She listened — only the din from outside. Creeping along, she made for the back door and out into the yard. The air was thick and bitter with the smell of soot and cordite.

The yard was cluttered with rubbish, brick fragments, and abandoned logs — the aftermath of a recent bombing. Hunched over, Anna ran along the crooked fence, her eyes scanning the boards. There it was. That very gap she had noticed days ago, while secretly scouting an escape route. Slipping through the narrow crack, she found herself in a tight, abandoned lane.

According to the map she had secretly copied from the headquarters papers, the entrance to the old sewer network had to be here, under a pile of rubble from a brick shed. Pushing aside the debris with her hands, scraping her fingers on the rough stone, she found it: a half-buried hatch and rusted metal steps leading down into absolute blackness.

Her heart skipped a beat. She had only seen this place on paper. In reality, it looked like a gateway to hell. Taking a deep breath, Anna fetched the box. Her hands were trembling. The first match struck and lit a small circle. The steps were slick with mould. She began to descend, and the match immediately died in a draft of cold air.

The darkness closed in around her, thick, almost tangible. She lit a second match. Below, she could see a low, arched corridor made of old brick. She had to bend over to avoid hitting her head. The flame flickered and went out again.

— Get a grip, Anna, she scolded herself mentally, — you'll burn through the whole box at this rate. Be sparing. This rational thought in an irrational situation was the last drop of her composure. She stuffed the box back into the vanity case and, clutching it to her chest, moved forward, feeling her way through the impenetrable gloom.

She'd have been better off not sparing the matches.

She didn't see that just a few steps ahead, the floor simply gave way. Her foot found empty air, her body lurched forward, and with a short, choked cry, she fell down. A crash. A blinding flash of pain. The impact on the stone bottom landed on her left shoulder and ribs. The darkness swallowed her, not as an absence of light, but as complete oblivion.

Consciousness returned on a wave of nauseating, sharp pain. Every movement sent a fiery stab through her side. She lay on the cold, wet stone, in complete silence, save for the ringing in her ears. And then this ringing was replaced by another sound — distinct, growing. Footsteps. This is a dream, Anna thought.

Terror, cold and piercing, paralysed her. The SS? Had they tracked her? Her thoughts scurried like hunted animals. Instinct took over from reason. She froze, adopting the pose of the dead: arms flung out, head thrown back. But one eye, a narrow slit, was fixed upward, on the black oval of the hatch from which she had fallen.

Suddenly, a light appeared above the hatch. Not electric, but alive, flickering — the light of a torch. And a voice, rough but without malice, spoke in broken Yiddish-surzhyk, then in his own Russian:
— You alive there, love? — Anna trembled all over. The word 'love' sounded just like her mother used to call her in childhood. She would have recognised her own Yiddish speech, with its particular lilt and accent, even in deep sleep or delirium.
That question, so simple and human, pierced the armour of her fear. She stirred, letting out a weak moan. So, not the SS. One of our lot. A local Jew.
— Alive... I'm alive... — she whispered, and her voice no longer sounded so strange and hoarse.
— And who are you? — Anna asked.
— Let's get you out first, — came the voice from above, more confident now.
— And how will you get me out?
— I'll take off me jacket, then me shirt, tie 'em together and lower it down like a rope. And you hold on tight.

She heard the rustle of fabric from above. A minute later, in the torchlight, she saw a jacket sleeve descending towards her, tied to another in an improvised rope. Summoning her last strength, gritting her teeth against the cry of pain from her ribs, she grabbed the rough fabric. Slowly, agonisingly, they began to pull her up. Every movement brought a new flash of agony, but the instinct for life was stronger.

Finally, she was out of the manhole and collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily. Her rescuer held a dying torch, and in its light she saw not a monster, but a young, clean-shaven face with intelligent, tired eyes. He was thin, and she noticed he stood, leaning slightly on one leg — a limp. Where have I seen this lame fellow before?
She grabbed her pocket — the vanity case with her documents and matches was down there, in that black pit.
— Do you have any matches? — she exhaled, aware of the absurdity of the question.
— There's three left in the box, — he replied simply.
— But mine... they're down there... — she felt utterly helpless.
A wave of confusion washed over her. Fear tightened its grip on her throat. Her arm and two ribs ached. She looked at this strange, limping lad, afraid of him and yet aware that he had just saved her life. Frantically, she racked her memory for where she had seen him before.

They sat on old, dusty crates in a dead-end corner of the underground, listening to the muffled booms from outside. The stranger examined her arm through her coat and muttered something clearly meant to be reassuring.

The torch had long since gone out, and they were surrounded by a gloom only occasionally torn by the glow of distant fires seeping through a narrow ventilation slit. Anna, still pale and rubbing her bruised shoulder, peered intently at the features of her saviour. Suddenly, a glint of recognition shone in her eyes.

— I've seen you before, — she said quietly, but with a note of pride in her voice, as if she'd solved a difficult riddle.
The young man, who had been sitting silently in his pose, started.
— Where d'you see me? — his voice sounded wary.
— Down at the labour exchange. That single-storey brick building, rectangular like, on a high stone foundation.
— So what? — he shrugged, trying to look indifferent. — Half the town mills about there.
— And the fact you're not denying it means you admit it. And if you admit it, then you're from the family of Moishe Goldovsky, the watchmaker.
In the dark, she sensed him freeze. Only his quickened breath was audible.
— Maybe, — he finally squeezed out, reluctantly.
— Not 'maybe,' but for certain, — Anna retorted, feeling more confident. — Only I know his two sons — Yevsey and Alexander. I know Alexander rather well.
— And I'm the third son.
— But he didn't have a third, — Anna stated confidently.
He leaned a little closer, and in the half-light his face was twisted by a bitter smirk.
— What am I, then? A ghost?
Anna paused. Her confidence suddenly turned to confusion. She feverishly went through everything she knew about the Goldovsky family. Old Moishe, his wife Tsilya, two sons five years apart...

There was no third. She was sure of it. And then the sheer absurdity of the situation hit her. Outside, a cannonade was roaring, the city was occupied by retreating Germans, they were sitting in a damp cellar, having narrowly escaped death, and she was interrogating the man who had just saved her life.

What a complete arse I am, — flashed through her head. — A right numpty... As if there's nothing else to think about. The main thing is he's one of us. The main thing is he won't turn me over to Stumpp. And the main thing is we're both here, in this stone burrow, we can wait it out until the front rolls over the streets, until the Jerries pack their kit and scuttle out of Nikopol.
She exhaled and leaned back against the cold wall.
— Alright, — she surrendered, all the fire gone from her voice, replaced by weariness. — Doesn't matter. Ta for pulling me out. Really, what difference does it make now.
He was silent, looking at her, then nodded, also as if shedding tension.
— What difference, — he repeated quietly. — Now the main thing is to keep mum and wait. Our lads will be here soon.
He pulled from his pocket that very box with the three remaining matches, shook it, and that dry rattle became the only sound breaking the fragile truce that had settled between them in the underground dark…

The deaf, damp underground of the Nikopol old town's sewer collector. Half-darkness, occasionally torn by the glow of distant fires. The air was cold and raw. Anna and Mikhail sat on crates, at a respectful distance from each other.

Anna huddled in her coat, rubbing her frozen, mittened hands. Their breath came out in plumes of steam. Mikhail sat hunched, trying not to look at her, to avoid causing embarrassment. A long, awkward pause, finally broken by Anna. Her voice was quiet, trying to fill the oppressive silence.
— My... my name is Anna. After my grandmother. Her voice was warmer now, without the previous suspicion, offering it as a sign of trust.
— I'm Mikhail. Same as my father.
Another pause. Anna, trying to distract herself from the cold and fear, looked at him with genuine curiosity.
— So how come... the Germans didn't take you to Germany? You were... out in the open.
— I worked for them.
Anna recoiled as if from a viper. Her eyes widened in shock and disappointment.
— Are you... a collaborator?
Mikhail turned to her sharply, and a fire ignited in his eyes.
— No. I was with the resistance. I can tell you. Now, I suppose, it's alright.
Anna fell quiet, processing this. Then her gaze fell on his posture and how he awkwardly held his leg.
— And you... why weren't you taken into the Soviet Army? In '41, when everyone was leaving...
Mikhail said dryly, without self-pity.
— Anisomelia. That's when one leg is shorter than the other by four, even five centimetres.
Anna's voice softened, a note of genuine sympathy slipping in.
— And does it... hurt?
— No. If you don't run or carry heavy loads. Have to walk slowly. Steady like. — He said it as a statement of fact, without a hint of self-justification. Anna looked at him with a new, pitying seriousness. Then her face clouded again with incomprehension.
— And the Germans... how come they didn't... didn't shoot you? Being a Jew.
— On paper, I'm Mikhail Khristinsky. My adoptive father, before he died, when I was seven, got me a new birth certificate. The word 'Jew'... isn't in it.
— And where... are your real brothers? Yevsey and Alexander?
— They left Nikopol back in the Civil War. And I... I stayed in their place. Mending clocks.
— And so? Fixed many?
Mikhail shrugged, looking into the darkness.
— I don't just fix clocks. The Germans kept me to fix their motorbikes. Locomotives, lever scales... Do you know how much grain they shipped out of Nikopol during the war? They had to weigh everything and account for it. And those scales, the locomotive ones, lever-operated... my dad, Moishe, used to fix them for them too.
— And what... what's so important about that?
Mikhail lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret.
— What's important is — how much. How much grain they're sending to Germany. They got promotions, career advances, commendations for that. Every wagon was a step towards another medal for them.
Anna looked at him with respect and amazement.
— How do you know such details?
— Well, I... picked up a bit of their language. While fixing things. Started to understand a bit. A lot... becomes clear.
Anna shivered violently from the penetrating cold. Her teeth were chattering. She hugged her shoulders, but it didn't help.
— Listen, Mikhail... It's bloody freezing here.
Mikhail instantly got to his feet.
— Here, have my jacket.
He was already taking off his worn-out quilted jacket, but Anna stopped him with a gesture.
— No! You'll be cold yourself. You'll... you'll catch your death.

They looked at each other, and an unspoken thought hung between them. They were both equally frozen, but an insurmountable wall of convention, upbringing, and fear prevented them from even touching each other for warmth. Mikhail averted his eyes, embarrassed.
— How do we... get warm?
— What if we make a fire? A small one...
— Would we be seen?
— Well, they'd see the smoke... Think a shell hit and something's burning. Everything's smashed to bits around here anyway.
Mikhail thought, then nodded decisively.
— Right. Sounds logical. Let's go find some wood.
He got up and, limping slightly, headed towards the hatch leading up to the dim light. Anna, somewhat cheered, followed him. Movement, even towards a small goal, gave them a faint hope and temporarily distracted from the cold and fear reigning in the basement and in their hearts…

…Evening dusk was gathering, the west and east blazed with a glow, and the roar of the cannonade had become closer and more deafening. Anna and Mikhail stood over a pathetic pile of damp twigs that only smouldered, giving off acrid white smoke.
Anna, waving the smoke away and coughing.
— It's no go... They're soaked through.
Mikhail kicked a branch in frustration.
— Bloody eejits... Should've thought. Need dry ones.
He fell silent, his gaze sliding over the dark silhouette of the ruined shed and further — along the long wooden fence, sagging in places. In the twilight, he noticed that some of the boards — the palings — had come loose and dried in the wind.
— Look.
Anna followed his gaze and nodded in understanding.
— Yeah. Just quietly.
They made their way to the fence. The roar of guns overlapped with the creak and crack of torn-off boards. Anna, having torn off a particularly long, dry board, suddenly froze, all ears.
Anna whispered, barely moving her lips.
— Quiet... Someone's coming.
Mikhail instantly pressed himself against the fence, holding his breath. A second, another... Only the distant bark of a dog and the same battle hum could be heard.
— No. Imagined it. Or an echo. Gather faster.
They feverishly gathered armfuls of dry, resinous boards and just as quickly returned to their shelter. Soon, a desired fire was crackling and flaring up in the corner of the basement. The flames licked greedily at the dry wood, casting dancing shadows on the damp walls.

Mikhail, putting a damp branch into the fire.
— There... Now our 'loot' will come in handy. Do its bit.
They sat on Mikhail's jacket spread on the ground, warming their frozen hands. Almost mechanically, obeying the instinct for warmth, they both simultaneously moved closer to the fire — and, consequently, to each other. Now only a narrow gap, a finger's width, remained between their shoulders. They felt the warmth emanating from each other but didn't dare touch.
Mikhail, looking into the fire, thoughtfully.
— You see... My dad dragged me to all these repairs since I was six. To the elevator, to the depot... I was his assistant. 'Fetch this, bring that, clean this...' I could still tell you, blindfolded, by touch, what cylinder it is — from a 'Harley' or a 'Zündapp'... Or a gear — is it a size six or a ten...
Anna smiled, her face softened by the fire and warm memories. The spitting image of my dad – an engineer.
— And in our family... German, Yiddish, Russian, Ukrainian — all were held in equal honour. We sang songs in four languages at one table.
Mikhail turned to her, the flames reflected in his eyes.
— Anya... Sing something.
Anna looked away, embarrassed.
— Oh, I don't know...
— Go on, please. In Yiddish.
— And you... will you sing with me?
— Aye. I will.
Anna closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself. Then she began quietly, in a slightly trembling voice. Mikhail just listened at first, but in the second verse, his low, husky voice picked up the melody.

Together:
(Quietly but clearly, in time with the crackling fire)
While the heat of the soul deep in the breast of a Jew still burns bright,
And he turns his gaze to the confines of the East, to Zion's light —
Our hope is not yet lost, that ancient hope,
To return to the land of our fathers, the city where David dwelt...
While tears, like rain, fall ceaselessly, their power not spent,
And thousands of our brethren to their ancestors' graves are sent...

They reached the end of the verse, and their voices fell silent simultaneously. But in the stone underground, the echo carried the remnants of the melody and the last words for a few seconds more: "...to their ancestors' graves are sent..."

Complete silence fell. They sat motionless, still separated by those five centimetres, but now feeling an invisible, strongest bond between them. They had looked into the same flame and sung the same song. And in that silence, to the accompaniment of the war above, it meant more than any words…

…The low ceiling, made of old brick, was blackened by the smoke of their fire. The main fire had burned down, leaving glowing embers that gave off a steady, warming heat. Anna and Mikhail sat on the spread-out jacket, their backs to the wall. Between them was still that same gap, but now it seemed smaller, almost symbolic. The silence was broken only by the crackling of embers and the muffled but relentless hum from outside.

Anna sat with her knees drawn up, looking at Mikhail without looking away. Her gaze held not just curiosity, but insistence.
— You didn't answer my question.
— Which one?
— How did you end up here? In this specific hole. Not in the city, but right here.
Mikhail shrugged, as if it were obvious.
— Same as you. Looking for shelter. From the shelling... and from the Jerries. They're scurrying about like rats on a sinking ship. Finding a bolt-hole is the first order of business.
— How do you know about this underground? It's not on any maps. I checked.
Mikhail grinned, and something boyish and mischievous appeared in his smile.
— Well, I was a lad. We used to climb all over the place when I was a kid. All the basements, all the attics, all the wells in the area.
— Like where? Name one place I don't know about.
Mikhail leaned a little closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
— Do you know about the underground under the Nikopol station? Not just a cellar, a whole labyrinth.
Anna's eyes widened in genuine surprise.
— No... Never heard of that. Ever.
Mikhail leaned back with satisfaction.
— That's because it's secret. From tsarist times, I reckon. Only a very small circle knows about it.
Anna looked at him intently.
— And you... how did you find out? You're not from that 'circle'.
— I was taken there. Blindfolded. To fix an emergency radio station for them. A direction finder. So I wouldn't remember the way.
— So you remembered it blindfolded?
— I did. Because us cripples... we see differently. We look at our feet differently. We remember every bump, every turn. They thought I was blind, but I 'saw' everything with my feet and felt the air on the turns.
— And you... a cripple... why no walking stick? I saw how you move, you don't seem to need one.
— Don't need it. I get about fine. Just... with a limp. Used to it.
A pause arose. Anna looked into the fire, and the next question escaped her lips as if she had been pondering it for a long time. Very quietly, almost embarrassed.
— And is it... hereditary, that condition?
She herself froze, surprised by her own boldness. The thought that she wanted a child from this man flashed somewhere in the back of her mind, colouring the question in a different, deeply personal hue.
Mikhail wasn't offended, but looked at her with a strange sadness.
— No. A birth injury, they say. Someone was... dragging me by one leg. The midwife, probably. Should've dragged me by both heels, you see. More careful like.
Anna winced, feeling uncomfortable.
— You say it... as if they were dragging a calf or a bullock on a rope.
His face suddenly darkened. He turned away.
— Ah, get away with you. Don't want to talk to you.
He pretended to settle down to sleep, moving a few centimetres away from her. Anna realised she had touched a nerve.
— Alright. Alright. Truce. Don't be cross.
Mikhail didn't turn around, but the tension in his back gradually eased.
— You'd better tell me, what do you like to read? Which authors?
Anna wearily rubbed her temples. The questions, the emotions, the fear — it had all piled on her with a heavy fatigue.
— Let's... leave it 'til morning. Let's get some kip. And tomorrow I'll tell you. Promise.
He nodded silently. They both made themselves as comfortable as possible on the hard floor, using their things as pillows. The embers still glowed, warming their freezing backs. They never did press against each other, separated by conventions, fear, and those five centimetres of empty space.

But something important had happened. They had warmed more than just their hands by the fire. They had warmed each other's hearts and souls, touching the most intimate and painful strings. And both felt that this was only the beginning…

…And ahead of them lay another two days of waiting, until all the Germans had fled the city.
They sat in the darkness by the fire in the underground and couldn't stop talking, as if they hadn't seen each other in ten years. The fire was burning down, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air was close, smelling of smoke and damp. They couldn't shake the feeling of a kinship, a warmth of the soul between them. The subsided cannonade beyond the walls was replaced by an unusual, ringing silence, occasionally broken by distant shots or the hollow rumble of engines.

— I can't tell you in one sentence that I loved my father. I worshipped him. For me, he was like an archangel on a chariot. Strong, healthy, clever. I was fifteen when I last saw him before his arrest.
She raised her eyes and looked at Mikhail with unconcealed admiration. In his calm strength, his intelligent eyes, his very manner of speaking, she already saw a glimmer of that very Archangel.
— You talk about him as if he's alive.
— I believe he is alive. You see? He's just a very clever and talented engineer. And they jailed him for spying. Codswallop. A simple misunderstanding.
— Anya, our whole life is pure codswallop from start to finish. Isn't it codswallop that we're here, three days on hardtack, without a proper cuppa?
— Really? Three days already? How time flies... I didn't even notice. I think I've understood for the first time what happiness is. Happiness is when two people breathe the same air.
— We need to get out and look for some grub. If, of course, the Jerries have already done a runner from the city.

— Misha...
She called him that for the first time, without ceremony, in a homely way, as if he were her own younger brother with whom she had always shared everything equally.
— And I'll call you... Anya.
— I'll call you Misha.
— Anya — Misha. Right.
Mikhail stood up, brushed off his trousers.
— Let's get out of here. Hear that? Sounds like our ack-ack guns are in the city already. The quiet... It means they're here.
Suddenly she grabbed his sleeve, her eyes blazing with determination.
— Only, Misha... I want to go to that underground. At the station.
Mikhail stopped dead in his tracks.
— Now? Are you off your head? It's not the time for sightseeing.
She looked at him unyieldingly.
— Misha. Either now or never. I feel it.
Mikhail shook his head, but his eyes showed agreement. He sighed with exaggerated doom.
— Look, you asked for it. The rats there are as big as melons.
They emerged outside, blinded by the February light. The air, bitter with soot and cordite, was sweeter to them than any nectar. They walked through the streets, still not believing in their freedom, but already feeling it with their entire being. Soviet troops had liberated Nikopol.
Mikhail firmly took Anna's hand and led her to a familiar manhole.
— Then one door, a second, a third, — he muttered, like an incantation. — Turn right, turn left... like in a waltz, in two-thirds time. Two stamps, one clap...
And... voila! They stood in the centre of a huge underground hall beneath the station. The vaulted ceiling was pierced by narrow cracks through which thick, dusty beams of the February sun fell like pillars of light in a cathedral.

Anna waited for that moment when a bright beam of light fell on her, flooded her face. And she spun on the spot, raising her hands to the sky, choking with happiness.
— Hooray! Our lads are here!
Mikhail, astonished, looked at her. Then his reserve melted away like last year's snow. He caught her merriment, grabbed her by the waist and spun her in an improvised, mad dance among the stone giants.

And here, in the centre of the secret underground, under the rays of the sun like a spotlight, they embraced properly for the first time. And kissed for the first time — swiftly, greedily, forgetting everything in the world.
When they emerged, breathless and beaming, the station's granite platform was thirty metres away.
— Come on, straight line. To the station! — Anna shouted.
— Let's go! — Mikhail easily jumped onto the high platform and, turning, held out his hand to her. — Come on, give us your hand.
Anna took a step, but he suddenly pulled his hand back with a playful look.
— I'll give it... if you say you'll marry me.
Anna laughed, and her laughter rang in the frosty air.
— Yes! I will!
He grabbed her hand tightly, so tightly, as if he would never let it go again, and pulled her up. They hopped along the platform like children, to the sounds of the old waltz "On the Hills of Manchuria" pouring from the station loudspeaker.

Stopping at the edge, Mikhail took a nail from his pocket and scratched large letters on the grey granite: "ANYA MISHA".
They stood, looking at those two names, merged into one, and listened to the music, which was now the music of their freedom and their future…

Chapter 19. Never Trust a Blighter, Not Even a General

Peace, it didn't come down from on high by some decree. It sprouted through the rubble and ash, like the first stubborn blades of grass. It was poor, it was hungry, but it was worth its weight in gold.

Their shared home became a single room in the house of Moishe Goldovsky, the watchmaker. And in the yard, a narrow strip of land, three metres wide, along the wall of their single-storey house with its high plinth. Once, this had been the labour exchange, where townsfolk came in search of better wages. For Mikhail, in a distant, half-forgotten childhood, this had been his father's house, Moishe Goldovsky's. Now it was a strange mix of domesticity and chaos. Along the sagging fence, like skeletons of prehistoric beasts, stood a jumble of trophy motorcycles: Zündapp KS 750, R12 BMW R75, Zündapp Werke KS 750. Some were mere frames without wheels, others looked fit to ride, but with silent, dead engines. It was at once a warehouse, a workshop, and a monument to the recent war.

The town council was creaking along. There was practically no one left to serve—some were dead, some taken away, others hadn't returned from the front. Anna got a job as a typist at the council. The work wasn't exactly taxing, but the pay was a mere pittance, often given not in money but in rations—a lump of bread, a tin of stew. But it was their first, honest, peaceful penny.

And to "Limping Misha," as the locals still called him, people began to flock. The fame of the watchmaker-mechanic's golden hands had survived the occupation. They brought him seized-up Singer sewing machines, pocket watch "onions," burnt-out electric motors from threshers. But his real bread and butter were those very trophy motorcycles. For both the Red Army soldiers and the civilians lucky enough to get their hands on one, they were a chief treasure and a royal pain in the arse. Mikhail tinkered with them day in, day out, and folks paid him what they could—a bottle of raw spirits, which he'd immediately trade for food, a couple of litres of petrol, or occasionally, with banknotes.

And so the days flowed—from February 1944 to the start of May 1945. People, deafened by the silence without the cannonade, were getting used to peace. The main concerns became finding a roof over one's head, meagre food, and any work at all. Mikhail had plenty of work, and in that was his certainty for the morrow.

On one such day, a policeman in a new uniform, still smelling of cloth, with a holster on his belt, came into the yard.
— You Mikhail Goldovsky?
Mikhail, without looking up from the carburetor, nodded:
— Aye.
— Get your things.
Misha finally raised his head, wiping his hands on a rag:
— Where to?
— You'll see.

They went out into the street. A lorry was parked by the kerb, and next to it—a man not tall, but built like a brick outhouse, in a general's greatcoat. The shoulder straps of a Major General.
— Get in the back, — the general said without preamble, nodding at the lorry.
Mikhail, perplexed, climbed over the side.
— Pull back the tarpaulin, — came the next command.
Misha tugged at the coarse fabric. Under it lay two brand-spanking-new Zündapp Werke KS 750s. Perfect, menacing, and completely lifeless.
— There, get a load of that, — the general's voice was even, but a note of irritation was in it. — Don't work. Our mechanics have taken them apart down to the last bolt—they don't work, and that's that.
— I'll have a go, — Mikhail said at once, his eye assessing the prize. — Unload them.
— Eh, no, — the general shook his head. — You'll be fixing them under our watch.

At that moment, Anna came through the gate, returning from her service. She tiredly took off her hat and didn't immediately spot the important guest. But the general—Samuil Grigoryevich Shapiro—recognised her instantly.
— Anna Garhardt, — he said, and his stern face softened. He extended his hand to her. Anna, flustered, shook it.
— Yes. I am Anna, wife of Mikhail Khristinsky, — she introduced herself, not knowing what else to say.
— Come, my dear, let's have a word, — the general gently took her by the elbow and led her into the shade of a tumbledown summer kitchen. — Don't you know who I am?
— No, — Anna answered honestly.
— I was your underground commander. Call sign "Tok."
Anna flushed, stepped back, looking at him with astonishment and delight.
— Bloody hell!
— Aye. It's true. She rushed to hug him.
— I was so keen to see you, Comrade Tok. Oh. Samuil Grigoryevich. You're a legend. You were our hope. We were all waiting for you. Finally.

The general summoned his orderly, whispered something quickly and quietly in his ear. The man snapped to attention:
— Very good. Will do!
— Anna, come with me to that motorcar, — Shapiro took her arm again. — I'll have a pass made out for you.

Half an hour later, Anna stood alone in the yard, clutching a crisp sheet of paper in her trembling fingers. In the pass, signed by Major General S.G. Shapiro on 3 April 1944, it was written in black and white that she, Anna Garhardt, from 1941 to February 1944, had worked deep undercover, embedded in the team of Unterscharführer Karl Stumpp of the city of Nikopol, and had saved hundreds of Soviet citizens by passing on secret intelligence.

She felt dizzy. As if a great weight had been lifted from her soul. Her life, her risk, her fear—all of it was now not just her personal memory, but an official, recognised fact.
— And what about my husband? — she asked, suddenly remembering, as the general was already getting into the car.
— He'll be brought home tomorrow, safe and sound, — he reassured her.

The lorry moved off, taking her Misha to an unknown destination to fix the general's Zündapps. Anna was left alone in the middle of her yard-workshop, where the skeletal motorbikes stood as silent witnesses to the past, while in her hand she clutched the document that opened up her future...

...The next day, Mikhail returned home not just tired, but shining with professional pride. His face was smeared with engine oil, but his eyes were triumphant.
— Sussed it! — he exhaled, barely over the threshold of their wretched little room. — Found the cause, Anya! Sabotage, pure and simple!

It turned out the general's motorcycles had cunning "surprises" planted in them: two wires, seemingly perfectly intact, were "dummies"—with a break inside, carefully concealed. Mikhail struggled until he thought to check every strand under voltage. This trick was familiar to him—he'd encountered something similar repairing German equipment during the occupation. The Germans, retreating, often left such "presents."

This was on the eighth of May, a Tuesday. And the next morning, Wednesday, the ninth of May, Anna asked Mikhail to take her to the station on the postal train—she needed to send some official correspondence urgently.

He braked on his trophy, but finely tuned Zündapp 750, in the square before Nikopol station. The morning was quiet, almost peaceful. And suddenly the silence was torn by powerful, rolling volleys. Instinctively, by habit, hunching their shoulders, Anna and Mikhail pulled in their heads and looked towards the horizon, searching for familiar shell bursts. But there were none. These were the guns of the Victory salute.

And that second, from the loudspeaker hanging on the station wall, came a deafening, victorious triple "Hoorah!" followed by the solemn, incomparable voice of Levitan: "Victory! The war is over!"

Anna's breath caught. Mikhail's vision darkened. It seemed the ground had vanished from under their feet, dissolving in this universal jubilation.
— Hold on, Anna! — he shouted, his voice not his own, and yanked the throttle handle.

The motorcycle, roaring, leapt forward. Anna, mad with happiness and fear, clung to her husband, holding him tighter than she ever had before. They didn't go around the station, they drove right onto the platform, cutting through a crowd of jubilant, weeping, embracing people. Without slowing down, Mikhail steered to the very edge of the stone platform, paved with smooth amphibolite, and at the very last moment, with incredible skill, pulled a cheeky wheelie.

For an instant the heavy machine hung vertically, then crashed down onto both wheels. But the tyre mark, black and smelling of burnt rubber, was imprinted forever on the time- and foot-polished surface of the stone—like an autograph of mad happiness, like their personal signature on Victory.

That very morning, as Anna and Mikhail were rejoicing at Nikopol station, Major General Samuil Grigoryevich Shapiro was meeting Victory at the other end of Europe—on the River Elbe, near the city of Magdeburg, where Soviet and American troops had historically met.

But for Shapiro, chief quartermaster of the 69th Army, the war smoothly transitioned into another, no less thrilling battle—a property dispute. His opponent was a fellow hobbyist quartermaster from the US Army's 69th Infantry Division. The apple of discord wasn't strategic maps or captured generals, but six luxurious Mercedes-Benz 770 'Grosser' limousines—legendary, armoured motorcars, once the pride of the Third Reich.

Two collectors, two men possessed by passion, stood facing each other, and the same fire burned in their eyes—not of ideological enmity, but of a greedy, almost physical desire to possess. Each saw in these machines not mere trophies, but the crown jewels of their future collection. The passion for collecting, especially of such a specific sort—it's a pathology, bordering on hoarding. Such people see the world through the prism of their lusts. In their dreams, they see not battlefields, but endless hangars where rare specimens of weapons, watches, or, in Shapiro's case, motorcars, rest on velvet cushions.

The row got out of hand. It came to loud investigations. The Soviet command, learning that the general had been creating a kerfuffle over enemy limousines on the day of the Great Victory, was livid. A case was opened against Samuil Grigoryevich for improper performance of his duties and he was temporarily suspended.

But even suspended, he remained in the ranks—the ranks of collectors. And he continued to dream. Now his dreams were filled with the ghostly silhouettes of the "Grossers." He was already mentally lining them up, polishing the wings, starting the engines and listening to their smooth, powerful rumble. The war was over, but his personal war for automotive masterpieces was just beginning. And he was prepared to do anything to win it...

...The office of the head of the front's medical service was crammed with filing cabinets and folders. In the centre, at a desk, an army doctor, a colonel of medical service, with an intelligent and tired face, finished reading a thick folder labelled "Shapiro S.G."

He closed it, took off his glasses and slowly, doubtfully, shook his head. Two generals from the special department stood nearby—one lean and hard-faced, the other burlier, with lively, cunning eyes.
— Well, Comrade Colonel? — the lean one asked impatiently. — Your conclusions? Don't tell me we have to chuck him out? A shame, he's a unique specialist.

The doctor sighed.
— Physically, your general is fit as a fiddle. Heart, blood pressure—all normal for his age and strain. X-rays clear. Tests ideal.
— Then what's the matter? — the second general raised his eyebrows. — Gone bonkers over some motorcars?
— It's not a matter of physics, Comrade Generals, — the doctor explained patiently. — It's a matter of psyche. It's not clinical insanity. It's... a hyperactive obsession against a background of stress. He doesn't need potions or sanatoriums.

He needs simple, masculine persuasion. Through boxing, perhaps. Or wrestling. He needs... — the colonel made an expressive pause, — ...a good hiding. He's a frontovik, he's been through the whole war. He instinctively understands and respects rough, masculine force and hierarchy. The word "no," whispered, he won't hear. But said with a fist—he'll get the message.

The lean general snorted:
— Who's going to give him a smack in the gob? He's a general! Who, besides the Vozhd himself, has the moral right?
— Well, no one will, — the doctor spread his hands. — He needs to be sent to Stavka. Let them have a word with him there. Maybe they'll knock some sense into him. A shame to lose such a specialist.

Here the burly general with the cunning eyes interjected. His face lit up with an idea.
— Hold on... But you've got a point. We have this performer in the army ensemble. A ventriloquist and mimic. Can do any voice. Even Comrade Stalin's himself. Bloody spitting image, I heard him myself.

A tense silence fell in the office. The idea was barmy, risky, but... brilliant in its simplicity.
— You've got a point, — the lean one said slowly, and a spark of excitement flashed in his eyes too. — Fetch him here. Let him have a word with him over the telephone. And let him forget his "Grossers," "Mercedes," and "Harleys."

A day later, Major General Shapiro, pale and inwardly braced, was summoned to a staff office for a particularly important conversation. He was directed to a high-frequency communication device. The receiver was already off the hook.
— Listening, Comrade Stalin, — Shapiro's voice sounded hoarse but collected.

From the receiver came a dry, lifeless voice, thoroughly permeated with the intonation familiar to all:
— Up to your old tricks, General...
Shapiro stiffened to attention, though no one could see him.
— Not at all, Comrade Stalin.
— They tell me you've stopped performing your quartermaster duties. Got carried away with trophy junk.

A cold sweat broke out on Shapiro's back.
— Not at all, Comrade Stalin. Slander.
— Then tell me, my dear, about your collection. I want to buy it from you. Maybe you'll sell it on the cheap?

Shapiro's breath caught. He felt his heart stop.
— Well, I... that is... that is... — he mumbled incoherently, trying to find the words.
— What "that is"? — the voice in the receiver became harder.
— So I have nothing. Personally nothing, — Shapiro blurted out, understanding it was his only chance.
— You have nothing? — dangerous, sarcastic notes jumped in "Stalin's" voice. — I'll check myself what you have. Conduct an audit in your army and report. What's missing. And what's short. Report to me—by morning.
— At your command, Comrade Stalin! — Shapiro almost shouted.

Behind a thick curtain, partitioning off part of the office, stood that very council. The performer, pale as a sheet, took off the headphones and wiped the sweat from his brow. The generals and the doctor made a Herculean effort not to burst out laughing. They saw Shapiro, pale, hands shaking, hang up the receiver. Sweat was rolling down his face like hail, the back of his uniform was darkened with moisture. He was utterly crushed.

They quickly and silently exited through a spare door and, finding themselves in the next room, collapsed onto chairs and gave way to laughter—quiet, hysterical laughter of relief.

Shapiro, like an automaton, walked out into the long, empty headquarters corridor. His steps echoed hollowly in the silence, pounding in his temples. He walked on the stone tiles, and with each step, the ghostly, shining "Mercedes" in his imagination dimmed, turned to dust, melted like the last snow under a pitiless spring sun. When he reached the end of the corridor and his gaze hit the blank wall, he understood with icy clarity: he had lost everything. His dream, his passion, his "Grossers"—all was finished. Forever...

...A passion that grows into a mania is like a wildfire—it scorches everything in its path, making no distinction between the righteous and the guilty. The manic obsession of General Shapiro with collecting cast a shadow not only on himself, but on all he had touched.

His illustrious name, his merits—all were called into question. And if such a man is under suspicion, then who can be considered clean? A total check began of everything connected with his activities, including the Nikopol underground he had led.

This inspection was headed by General-Lieutenant BABICH, Isay Yakovlevich, a native of Berislav, Kherson Governorate, a man with an impenetrable face and a reputation as an incorruptible servant. He was checking everyone. The chain of suspicions reached Anna Harvart.

The summons was delivered to her personally by the chairman of the Nikopol city council. He called her into his office, and his usually friendly face was serious.
— Here, Anna Alexandrovna, — he handed her a folded paper, not meeting her eyes. — For you. The building opposite.

Anna silently took the paper. She didn't need to specify which building. The grim grey structure with barred windows opposite the city council was known to every town resident.
— I know, — she said quietly.

At home, she showed the summons to Mikhail. His face darkened.
— They're checking everyone now who had any connection with the Germans, — he said, squeezing her hand. — Won't surprise me if they come for me next. Be careful, Anya.

The next day, Anna crossed the threshold of the building opposite. The air inside was thick and stifling, smelling of cold tobacco, cheap ink, and fear. In the office of the NKVD operative, furnished with safes and cardboard folders, she was met by a gaunt man with colourless eyes. He didn't introduce himself.
— Tell me, Citizen Harvart, about Shapiro, — he began without preamble, staring at her.
— I saw him once, — Anna answered honestly. — After the liberation of Nikopol, in February.
— What did he give you?
— This pass, — Anna held out the cherished paper she always carried with her like a safeguard.
The operative took the paper, glanced over it, and set it aside as if it were a worthless scrap.
— And nothing else?
— No. Nothing.
— And what did you talk about?
— I... I was very glad to see him, — Anna's voice trembled with the surge of memories. — It was our first meeting. Before that I only knew him by the call sign Tok.

The investigator leaned forward, his voice becoming hissing and venomous.
— And how is it you worked in the underground and never saw your chief? How's that?
— Well, I... that is... — Anna was bewildered by the absurdity of the question. — I only saw the courier twice the whole time. We had the strictest conspiracy.
— Conspiracy, you say? — he sneered, and there was something vile in his sneer. — And why didn't the Germans take you, so useful and pretty, to Germany? They took everyone else, but you stayed.
— Well, they needed me more here, — Anna objected heatedly. — They thought I was more use to them here.
— And why weren't you found out? — he slammed his fist on the table, making her flinch. — It's clear. You were working for them. And you were betraying the underground's secrets to the Germans.

Anna's breath caught. Her vision darkened from the injustice and horror.
— How dare you?! — burst from her.
— I dare! — the operative cut her off. — Because I know. You are a traitor. And you will be taken to a cell today. Guard!

The door swung open, an armed soldier stood on the threshold.
— Take her to a cell!
Anna jumped up, tears of anger and offence springing to her eyes.
— How dare you? I'll complain to General Shapiro!
The operative grinned widely, savouring his moment of power.
— Complain! Go on. He's in a cell too.

These words hit Anna like a blow from a cudgel. She was led down a long, dimly lit corridor. A heavy bolt screeched, and she found herself in a small, completely empty cell with bare walls and a cement floor. The door slammed shut with a crash.

She sat there for exactly one hour. Sixty minutes that felt like an eternity. She heard only the measured steps of the guard outside the door and the beating of her own heart. Her thoughts were tangled: what if Misha had been taken too? What if this is the end? What if Shapiro really was arrested, and her pass—just a scrap of paper?

After an hour, the door opened again. The same operative stood on the threshold.
— Out. You can go home.

Anna, not believing her ears, mechanically stepped out into the corridor.
— Is this... a test? — she whispered.
— None of your business, — the operative replied drily. — Don't leave the city. Report again on Monday for a chat. There will be more questions.

He turned and left. Anna stood alone in the cold corridor, trembling all over. They had let her go, but the feeling was as if they had merely dusted her off, only to throw her back into the same cell on Monday. The hour spent behind bars had irrevocably changed something within her. Now she understood: her merits, her risk, her Victory—all of it could turn into proof of guilt in an instant. And only a miracle could save her...

...Dawn was just beginning to dilute the ink-blue darkness outside the window when there was a knock at their door. The knock was quiet but insistent, metallic—foreboding no good. Mikhail, a light sleeper, opened the door. Two men in uniform stood on the threshold, their faces impassive.
— Mikhail Mikhailovich Khristinsky?
— I am.
— Get ready. We need to have a chat with you.

Anna jumped out of bed, her eyes blazing with fear. Mikhail, trying to maintain a calm he didn't feel inside, nodded to her: "It's all right." They took him away.

They brought him to the very same office where Anna had been interrogated. The air here seemed to have absorbed all the fear of previous "chats." He was sat on a chair and left alone. The minutes dragged on agonisingly slowly. Finally, the door opened, and in came the very same operative who had interrogated Anna. His colourless eyes slid over Mikhail with cold curiosity.

He silently sat at the desk, took a sheet from a folder, and placed it in front of Mikhail.
— Is this your signature? — his voice was even, indifferent.
Mikhail looked. A chit for the issuance of ten tins of meat.
— Yes, — he nodded. — Mine.
— What did you get ten tins of meat for? — the operative stared at him, waiting.
— Well, I fixed two motorcycles for your general. The Zündapps.
— What else did the general give you?
— Nothing.
— And what did he say to you?
— Nothing special. Asked how long the repairs would take.
— How long did you work on them?
— The whole evening, till late at night. And finished in the morning.

The operative made a note in a notebook, then raised his eyes, and a barely perceptible spark flashed in them.
— Where did you sleep?
The question was so absurd that Mikhail was taken aback. He looked at the investigator, not understanding.
— Slept... on some garage car seats. Covered with some tarps.
— Didn't go to his house? — came the next, even more absurd question.
— No, — Mikhail shook his head, beginning to get irritated. — I don't bloody know where his house is.
— Saw what else in the garage?
— Well, motorcars.
— How many?
— Don't remember... two or three.
— Speak precisely! — the operative's voice became sharp, like a whip crack.
— Three, — Mikhail said crisply. — Three motorcars. German. Trophies.
— What did they feed you?
— I didn't eat. I'm not hungry when I work. When I finished, they fed me. Gave me those tins I signed for.

The operative wrote something down again. The pause dragged on. It seemed the interrogation was over. But no.
— What watch was the general wearing? — came a new, completely idiotic question.
Mikhail, already worn out by this game, sighed with irritation.
— I don't recall that. Wasn't paying attention to watches.

And then the strangest part began. The operative, without changing his expression, asked a dozen of the most stupid, disjointed questions.
— What was the weather like that day? Cold?
— Were birds singing in the city when you returned?
— Used to going to bed late?
— Was your wife worried?
— Any children?

Mikhail, gritting his teeth, answered in monosyllables: "Cold," "Didn't notice," "Yes," "Don't know," "No." He understood they weren't catching him in a lie—they were breaking him. Humiliating him with absurdity, to see how he would behave under pressure.

Finally, the operative set aside his pen.
— Alright. You're free.
Mikhail didn't move, not believing it was over.
— You can go, — the operative repeated, already looking at other papers.

Mikhail slowly rose and headed for the door.
— Khristinsky! — the operative called out, not looking up. Mikhail stopped. — Don't leave the city. Back for interrogation on Monday.

Mikhail walked out into the corridor. He was alive, he was free. But the feeling was as if he had been smeared all over with sticky, indelible filth. And he knew that on Monday, it would all happen again...

The air of the early June morning was still fresh and clear. The sun, just beginning to gain strength, gilded the tops of the acacias, but in the narrow yard, squeezed between two houses, long, slanting shadows from the fence and trees still lay. These shadows, like cool stripes, covered the motorbikes, parts, and spares scattered everywhere. Amid this metallic chaos, Mikhail was fussing over a disassembled engine. His back and torso, bare and tanned, gleamed with a light sweat.

Anna came out onto the porch, yawned, and, stretching, approached her husband. Her bare feet felt the coolness of the trodden earth.
— Top of the morning to you.
He turned, wiping the palm of his hand on a greasy rag. A smile illuminated his thoughtful face.
— And to you, Anya. You're up already.
— Have you had your breakfast?
— Aye, don't fret. Had a cuppa, a sandwich.

She silently squatted down next to him, tucking the hem of her light summer house dress. Without a word, she admired his strong arms, covered with fine scratches, his resilient torso, the swarthy skin with its light curls of hair. Her gaze rose to his face, to his thick, slightly tousled hair. She couldn't resist and reached out a hand, gently stroking his head. Mikhail leaned his head, pressing against her palm.
— Anna, d'you know who came to see me yesterday?
A slight wariness appeared in her movements, her hand dropped.
— And who was it? — her voice sounded a little quieter.
— Khristinsky. Roman Khristinsky.

Anna frowned, running through familiar names and surnames in her memory.
— Who's that? One of the new customers?
— No. It turns out... — he set aside the screwdriver and turned to her, his face becoming serious. — It turns out, I'm from a family with nine sons and two daughters. I was the youngest.

Anna froze, her eyes widening in amazement. She blinked several times, as if checking she wasn't dreaming.
— You mean to say you have... eleven brothers and sisters? — she said this slowly, struggling to comprehend. — How's that? You're... you're Mikhail Goldovsky. The watchmaker's son.
— That I am. But only because my father—Khristinsky—he couldn't feed such a brood. Roman—he's the eldest, pushing fifty now. He remembers how hard it was for our father. There was no bread. We were always hungry. And so... Dad gave me to the watchmaker, Mikhail Goldovsky, to be looked after. I was three or four. I vaguely remember only shouting, crying, and a constant feeling of hunger.

He fell silent, looking somewhere into the past. Anna followed his gaze, but saw only the gleam of the morning sun on chrome cylinders, steel frames, a curved handlebar, and a solitary motorcycle wing. All this was his world, the world he had built himself.
— Well... — she chose her words carefully. — You don't regret it? What happened?
— No. Not for a second. — His voice became firm and clear again. — I learned a real trade from my father—from Mikhail. I became a master. I can assemble and dismantle any mechanism with my eyes closed. And there... — he waved a hand towards the fence. — And there I'd have learned nothing. Only to starve and survive.

He paused, collecting his thoughts, looking at his wife.
— D'you know what I promised my brother, Roman Khristinsky?
— And what? — caution sounded in her voice again.
— That we'd go with him this coming Sunday to their Baptist church.
— Are you sure? — she recoiled as if from an unexpected shove. — Mikhail, must we go? We never... we don't go to church.
— You see, it's... a mark of respect. And gratitude. From me. And from you.
— Gratitude? — she looked at him with complete bewilderment. — To whom? And for what?

Mikhail took a deep breath. He moved closer to her, put his arm around her shoulders, and his fingers, smelling of engine oil and metal, gently squeezed her thin bone.
— Love. I don't know to whom. Maybe to fate. Maybe to that watchmaker who became my father. Maybe to that God they believe in there. I just want... to see them. My brothers and sisters. To see what nest I came from. Let's go. Come on, let's go.
— But I... — she wanted to object, to find a reason to refuse, but, looking into his eyes, where hope, anxiety, and a kind of childish plea were mixed, she gave in. Her shoulders under his arm relaxed. — No. I don't mind. Alright, Misha. Let's go...

...The following Sunday they went to the modest Baptist prayer house. Mikhail, in his one and only worn suit, felt out of place, was taciturn and embarrassed, his fingers constantly going to adjust his collar or cuff. Anna, on the contrary, from the very doorstep, was filled with curiosity. Her eyes slid with interest over the congregation, especially the women in white and blue headscarves, with their calm, spiritualised faces.

She read attentively the simple but profound verses from Scripture, painted right on the walls: "God is love," "The Lord is my Shepherd," "Go and sin no more." Each phrase made her ponder, birthing a quiet, unfamiliar resonance in her soul...

...The prayer house of the Nikopol Baptists was simple and unadorned: whitewashed walls, rows of wooden benches, at the front—a modest pulpit for the preacher and a small table covered with a homespun cloth. The air was thick with the smell of wax, wood, and something elusive—calm and concentration.

The service began without pomp. The preacher, a man of about fifty with an ascetic but spiritualised face, said a quiet, heartfelt prayer, and the hall, in unison, without command, answered him with a quiet "Amen." Then someone in the front row started a hymn. They sang without an organ or choir, but so harmoniously and powerfully that Anna's breath caught. Voices of different timbres—the low baritones of men, the pure sopranos and altos of women—merged into a single, stirring stream.

One of the sisters sitting nearby, with a kindly smile, handed Anna and Mikhail a small, well-worn book of psalms. Mikhail took it awkwardly, feeling like an outsider, but Anna, opening it, was surprised to find familiar lines. She couldn't recall where she'd heard them—perhaps in childhood from her grandmother, perhaps glimpsed in a synagogue.

"Praise ye the Lord, and sing!
How sweet His praise to raise!
To Him, the Lord, your homage bring,
And gladly your anthems raise..."

She quietly, under her breath, began to sing along. The words settled on her soul with an inexplicable warmth. Mikhail stood silent, clutching the little book in his hands and looking straight ahead. He didn't sing, but he was attentive. The words of the psalm seemed to speak to him personally:

"Shall He the city's walls sustain,
And not His children guard?
Shall He who heals the spirit's pain,
The fleshly ills discard?"

He thought of his own wounds—not physical, but those hidden deep in his soul: the childhood hunger, the feeling of abandonment. And the words about Him who "heals the spirit's pain" echoed in him with a quiet, timid hope.

They sang of the greatness of the Creator, of His mercy to the meek, and of how He "casts the proud into the pit." Anna caught every word, and it seemed to her that the vague and troubling things in her life suddenly acquired some higher, if not yet fully understood, meaning.

As they were singing the last verse, from outside came the sharp, crude sound of braking lorries. The singing faltered for a moment in confusion, but almost immediately resumed, louder and more confident. The doors of the prayer house were thrown open with a crash.

Into the hall, silently, keenly surveying those present, walked armed NKVD operatives. Their boots clumped roughly on the wooden floor. In the ensuing silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the people, their steps sounded like hammer blows. Then a familiar figure appeared in the doorway—the very same operative who had interrogated Anna and Mikhail. His face was spread in a triumphant grin.

Attention! You are all arrested for anti-Soviet activity! No one leaves the building! You will be led out now according to a list! — his voice, sharp and metallic, cut the silence.

The roll call began. Names, one after another. People obediently stood and, under escort, walked towards the exit. There was no panic, no screams. Only a quiet whisper of prayer. When the turn came to Anna and Mikhail, the operative came right up to them. His cunning eyes gleefully picked out their fright.
— Aha. Got you, my dears, — he jabbed his revolver hard into Mikhail's back. — Well, now you won't wriggle out of it. German spies. You'll be off to the camps, nice and easy.

He shoved Mikhail roughly forward. Anna, staggering, followed her husband, clutching at his sleeve. Her world was collapsing. Fear squeezed her throat in an icy lump.

And then something happened that they couldn't understand at all. Just as they, along with the next batch of arrestees, were being loaded into the closed vans, from the crowd of remaining believers in the prayer house, a hymn poured forth with renewed strength. They sang, drowning out the roar of the engines and the rough shouts of the guards:

"For Gospel faith so clear,
For Christ we'll stand and fight.
His example ever near,
We'll march into the light!"

Anna and Mikhail, shoved into the back of a lorry smelling of petrol and sweat, turned. They saw the faces of those being led out next. They expected to see horror, despair, tears. But instead—they saw bright, spiritualised, almost happy faces. No pleas, no moans. People with heads held high, with smiles turned to the sky, walked to meet their fate, to the accompaniment of their brothers' and sisters' singing.

For Anna and Mikhail, who lived in a world where the main values were survival, labour, and family, this sight became a moral shock of incredible force. They sat, huddled together in the jolting lorry, and couldn't utter a word. Their fear of the future didn't vanish, but it was pushed aside, suppressed by a burning shame and amazement at this strength of spirit they couldn't comprehend. These people were going to their doom, and they sang. And in their singing was such power that it made the heart freeze and shattered all familiar notions of life...

Chapter 20. The Christian's Assembly

The Nikopol prison was a proper eyesore, a ugly scar on the city's face. A five-storey, grey thing, the very spit of the autumn sky, it was hemmed in by a high, blind fence, crowned with barbed wire that glinted in the sun like the grin of a steel beast. In this place, time itself had congealed, saturated with fear, despair, and the reek of cheap baccy.

The prison governor, Vsevolod Apollonovich Balitsky, saw in these walls not a place of sorrow, but a stepping stone for his career. A man with a resounding name, a relic from the Tsar's time, he was fiercely ingratiating himself with the NKVD top brass, cherishing a dream of a transfer to Kyiv or Moscow. His prison, fit for a model institution, was bursting at the seams. And Balitsky saw "spies" everywhere. He saw them in every other trader at the market, in the thoughtful gaze of a schoolmistress, in an incautious word from an official at the town council. This manic suspicion was a common relapse of the post-war time, a poisonous mould sprouting on all the territories liberated from the Germans. Fear had become the currency, and grassing someone up—a ticket to a brighter future.

Among the many caught and ground by this machinery was Anna. She was interrogated by Lieutenant Balitsky himself. The office was stuffed with official cabinets and stank of dust and power.

—Your surname! Year of birth! — his voice was level, indifferent, like the clatter of a typewriter.
—What is your employment?
—What intelligence did you pass to the Germans?

Anna, gaunt, her hands shaking from sleeplessness, replied quietly:
—Comrade Governor, you have it all written down there.

She knew any of her words were futile. Balitsky did not yet know that Anna was with child. She had been in the clink from June to October, caught up in a absurd case of a "spy ring" which allegedly included General Shapiro himself. The days blurred into a grey mass of hunger, fear, and humiliation. And only when her belly finally rounded beneath her old dress did the penny finally drop for Balitsky.

He looked at her with irritation, as if she had slipped him an unaccounted-for piece of evidence, a hitch in his neatly fabricated case. By that time, the political wind had changed: the case against General Shapiro was dropped, and he himself was promoted to command a Red Army force. In a chain reaction, for lack of evidence, Anna's husband, Mikhail Christian, was also let go.

They emerged into freedom, but it was a freedom of ruins. Returning to their home, they found empty, dust-filled rooms.

—Bleeding looters… — Mikhail whispered, his voice hoarse with anger and pain, his eyes scanning the bare walls. — While we were inside, they made off with all our poor furniture. The lot.

He clutched his head and slowly sank to the floor, in the corner where their bed once stood. Anna silently approached and sat beside him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her rounded belly was a living reproach to this madness.

—I can't live here anymore, — Mikhail's voice cracked, strained to breaking point. — We have to do a runner from this place. Away.
—Where to? — Anna asked quietly, stroking his fingers, clenched into fists.
—Abroad. To America, anywhere.
—They won't let you out. You're unreliable now. An enemy of the people.
—So what does that mean? — he rose sharply and paced the empty room, his shadow giant and misshapen, leaping on the walls. — So we're both non-grata now? Tethered for good to this cursed place?
—Aye, — Anna answered with a strange, new-found calm. — We'll have to make a go of it here. Amidst these ashes.

Mikhail stopped before her, his face twisted in a grimace of despair.
—How, Anna? How can one make a life in this hell? In this total lawlessness that's all around? For they can come for us again. Tonight. Tomorrow.

He fell silent, catching his breath.
—You know, — he said, quieter now, with a fracture in his voice. — In this nightmare, I see but one way out. Only one. To start reading the Bible and to pray. To pray to forget… to forget all this humiliation, this prison, this fear that gnaws the soul from within. To find some shred of meaning.

Anna raised her eyes to him, and in them, through a film of tears, shone a glimmer of hope, the very one not even the prison could extinguish.
—Yes, — she said firmly. — We need a spiritual strength, Mikhail. Not an earthly one, that's been taken from us. But another. We shall sing psalms at home, like those brethren and sisters in the prayer house when they were arrested. Remember? They sang, and the Chekists screamed at them.

From that day on, they made it their rule every Sunday to pray and sing in their desolate house. First, just the two of them. Their quiet voices, merging in ancient hymns, filled the void and healed their wounds. Soon, Mikhail's brother, Roman, equally disgraced and weary, joined them.

Anna gave birth to their firstborn, Vladimir, in February 1947. To their astonishment, not only family came for the christening and to offer congratulations, but also Anna's old friends and Mikhail's comrades—fellow "former spies," equally hounded and persecuted by the authorities. The desolate house began to fill not with things, but with souls.

One Sunday, another married couple came, with the same frightened yet peace-seeking eyes. They prayed together, sang psalms, and in those songs was all their pain, all their hope, and all their defiance. In jest, someone called their small fellowship "The Christian's Assembly," playing on their surname. The name stuck.

The authorities, for now, had no inkling of this quiet isle of faith in an ocean of fear. Or they paid no mind, considering them broken and harmless.

When they gathered all together in June of 1947, there were sixteen of them. Sixteen lives, mangled by the Soviet system. Sixteen voices singing psalms in a half-empty house with curtained windows. It was their secret solace and their quiet, unassailable strength in the harsh post-war years, when the powers that be raged, and they, against all odds, were learning to believe, to love, and to be free beyond any man's law.

Chapter 21. Mykita's Horn

On the highest hill of the Stone Cape, where only eagles dared to build their nests, stood a wicker bothy, daubed with clay. This was the bothy of Mykita and Rada. From the summit, which the neighbours called Mykita's Horn, the view stretched to all four corners of the earth – a view less beautiful than it was deeply worrisome. For from each of those quarters, a threat loomed: from the east rolled the waves of fierce Tatars on their stumpy nags, from the west, through the forests, crept the warlike Ugrians, from the north descended the Rus in their longboats, and from the south, from the hot steppe, galloped the Nogai riders like a thundercloud.

But they all gave this "cursed" place a wide berth. And the reason was not the high horn-shaped cape, nor the palisade, but Mykita himself and his curious horn.

Their bothy, like a nest of some giant bird, was woven from thick willow rods and smeared with a thick layer of grey clay, so the wind wouldn't blow the warmth out. Inside stood a clay-plastered oven. The bothy smelled of smoke, damp earth, dried herbs, and sheep's wool.

The making of fire-steels was the main trade of Mykita's bothy. Stozhar forged the metal striker, Veles the flint, and Rada with her mother prepared the flax and tow. On market days, they could barter ten fire-steels for useful things made of wood, cloth, and ceramics. The walls of the bothy were hung with skins – sheep, goat, and also wild steppe saiga, hunted by Mykita.

At the edge of Mykita's Horn, the northern forests ended and the Dnipro steppes began. The lush Dnipro floodplain, rich with fish and all manner of game, from deer to wild horse and skittish hare, wild boar and fox, which thrived on its numerous islands.

The whole family slept on soft pelts, covered with warm blankets of coarse cloth, which Rada and her daughter Geroda wove on a simple loom from willow splints. By day, the main decoration of the dwelling was Mykita himself, sitting by the entrance and working on his great creation – the Horn.

For two long winters, while blizzards howled outside the walls and wolves crept to the very foot of the cape, Mykita did not part with the mammoth tusk. He polished it with sandstone, burnished it with rough leather, until it became smooth and gleaming, reflecting the sunlight.

But the main thing was the two bores. Two holes which he drilled with a bone and bronze drill, wetting it with water and sand. Two long, monotonous winters went into that. One bore, narrow, for the lips. The other wide, for the air to exit and for that mighty sound which was meant to be born within.

He had seen such a horn among the Rus, when they sailed down the Dnipro past their settlement. But he wanted to make not a copy, but one stronger, bigger, and mightier. So the sound of the horn would scare away evil spirits. Two stout lads lifted the bloody heavy horn together with Mykita and set it on three stones next to the bothy.

None of the tribesmen could manage the horn, blowing into it as if into a hunter's pipe, out of habit, with lips pursed.

Strong warriors tried, skilled hunters – they managed only a pathetic 'baa-baa' or a muffled 'hoo-hoo'. But here, one had to make an effort with the lips and stretch them taut to draw out the sound.

And the famous Mykita's 'oo-doo-doo-doo-doo' was a gift, a sign from above. When he pressed his stretched lips to the horn, filled his lungs with air, and made it vibrate inside the ancient bone, a miracle occurred. The sound, low, piercing, and shattering, rolled from the cape in a wave, struck the cliffs of Eagle Island and echoed across all the small islands.

From this sound, beasts fled in terror from their dens, birds took flight from their settled nests, and people – those very fearsome foes – turned aside, whispering about "the place where the spirit of the mountain himself speaks". Here, the topography of the horn-shaped cape and the horn as a trumpet intertwined. Mykita lovingly called his horn the Oliphant.

Under the protection of their father and mother grew their children – two strapping sons, Veles and Stozhar, and a daughter, Geroda. They were flesh of the flesh of this cape and this bothy.

Veles, the elder, inherited his father's firm hand and keen eye, as a hunter. But his element was stone.

He sat with piles of flint and granite, and under his precise blows were born sharp scrapers for dressing hides and heavy millstones, weights for nets and slings for hunting, pestles and mortars, ornaments and idols. Every strike was measured, every chip – part of a plan. His fingers were forever scraped, but he didn't notice, creating the tools without which the family would be defenceless and hungry.

Stozhar, the younger, burned with a different fire – an earthly fire, the fire of the smelt. He was a master of bronze. Not far from the house, on the bank of a clay cliff, he had dug a small furnace with bellows channels from the Dnipro lowlands.

He had heard about the design of a furnace with natural draught from the Rus at the great Kupala festival in the summer. In the twilight, addled with hemp, they hadn't seen the wee lad listening, holding his breath in the reeds, while they boasted loudly to each other. Apparently, they were important Rus smiths.

And now, in his furnace, even wrought iron, which is harder than bronze, could be melted. Here, in clouds of acrid smoke, he melted yellowish bog ore and scrap copper with tin, obtained on trading expeditions. The red-hot metal he poured into special clay casting moulds, creating knives that shone in the sun, sturdy awls, and elegant jewellery for his sister and mother. His world was a world of fire, metal, and the magic of transformation.

And in the very heart of the home, by the light of the hearth, toiled Rada and Geroda. Their kingdom was leather and cord. Geroda, nimble and patient, helped her mother dress sheepskins, scraping off fat and flesh with a scraper made by her brother. Then they stretched them, dried them, and afterwards softened and smoked them, so they became soft and wouldn't rot.

With needles of bird bone or bronze from Stozhar, they sewed pieces of leather with sinew cords, creating sturdy clothing, footwear, bags, and coverings. Under their hands, the hide came alive, becoming a second skin for the whole family, protecting them from frost and wind.

And so they lived on their impregnable Horn. Mykita – the guardian and voice of their fortress. Rada – the keeper of the hearth and home. Veles – the provider and weapon-smith. Stozhar – the smith and craftsman. Geroda – the craftswoman and helper. Their life was harsh, but filled with meaning and love. And every evening, when the sun set behind the northern forests, Mykita went out to the horned edge of the cape, pressed his lips to the mammoth tusk, and sent into the approaching darkness his mighty 'oo-doo-doo-doo-doo' – a song that this home, this family, and this will were unshakeable...

...Years passed. Veles became a broad-shouldered giant, whose hands, accustomed to breaking stone, could bend a horseshoe forged by his brother. But along with strength, a strange yearning had settled in his heart. He still worked diligently, and his mortars and pestles were renowned as the largest and sturdiest in the settlements around Mykita's Horn, but his gaze often strayed beyond the horizon, to the north beyond the silver ribbon of the Dnipro.

And then one spring morning, he saw HER. It happens to every warrior and craftsman once in his life.

It was a tribe of Rus from Kuyaba, sailing down the river. They sang in time with the oar strokes, and the lead singer was HER. A longboat cut through the water. And on the stern, like a banner of sunbeams, stood SHE. Her golden hair, not braided in the plait he was used to, but loose, streamed in the wind, like a wheat field under an invisible breath. She didn't row, didn't fuss, but stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the distant shores, and in her posture was a mixture of pride and sadness that pierced Veles's heart clean through.

He didn't say a word. Not to his father, whose authority was absolute, nor to his brother, immersed in the secrets of bronze. But the decision ripened in him instantly, like steel in Stozhar's furnace. He would go to the Rus. He would find her.

All winter, while the January wind, piercing the walls, chilled the hut, forcing the family to huddle closer to the hearth, Veles prepared. He set aside his rough blanks for mortars and began to create something uncharacteristic for him – small, delicate trinkets. By the light of a fat lamp, with a flint graver, he carved the shapes of tiny animals: a running deer, a wolf's head, a seal curled into a ball. He polished smooth stone "hearties" and drilled holes in them for a cord. These were not mere baubles – this was his language, his offer, his bride-price.

But his main concern was a horse. A strong, hardy steppe stallion had to become his legs and his armour. Veles spent days on end crafting harness. Together with his mother, the wise Rada, he dressed the strongest leathers. Rada, whose eyes saw not only the seams on clothing but also the seams on her son's soul, understood everything at once. She noticed how he, usually silent, had started quietly humming strange, thoughtful tunes, looking into the flame. She didn't ask, merely helped, putting a mother's blessing into every buckle and strap. They sewed a special saddle, comfortable for both rider and horse, with soft pads under the haunches, so the long road wouldn't chafe the steed's back raw. A long saddle for two.

When the first thaw patches darkened on the slopes of Mykita's Horn, and the air filled with dampness and the promise of warmth, Veles prepared for the journey. He said nothing to his father – the proud Mykita might not understand, might forbid him to go towards an unknown tribe. But to his mother, he looked in the eyes and simply said:
— I'm off to seek my fortune, Mother. To the Rus.

His path was long and full of dangers. He avoided large settlements, sleeping under the open sky, living off hunting. He passed through foreign steads where they looked at him with suspicion, and skirted the edges of the forest-steppe where every hill and grove could hide a horseman. He walked by animal tracks and by the stars that showed him the way north. And he walked. Up the Dnipro, from where the swift longboats came. First, he followed the salt route, then turned west onto the Murava route. He reached the large settlement of Kuyaba on the Dnipro.

The inhabitants of Kuyaba surrounded him and led him to the elder. And here Veles saw her – his golden-haired song-leader from that longboat. She was the elder's daughter. The haggling began at once. Veles laid out before her father and the warriors who had immediately gathered all his treasures: furs of sable and marten, a bronze dagger made by Stozhar, and most importantly, those very stone figurines – his painstaking winter's work.
— This is the arles for my bride, — he said firmly. The arles was rich, very rich...

And so, in high summer, when the air was thick with the smell of heated grains and flowering grasses, he returned.

First, on the cape, they spotted a lone figure on a horse. It was Veles, but how he had returned! Tanned, with new scars on his arms, but with a light in his eyes that none had ever seen. And behind him, on another horse, sat she. A girl with a plait whiter than flax, braided into a heavy plait that glittered in the sun.

Her eyes, blue as the waters of the Dnipro on a clear day, looked without fear at the unfamiliar dwelling and at the mighty, grey-haired old man who came out to meet them. Mykita, hearing the noise, came out of the bothy and froze, seeing his son and the stranger.
— Father, I'm back. And I've brought my fate with me. Her name is Zlata, — said Veles, dismounting and kneeling on one knee for a blessing.

But then something unexpected happened. As Mykita, frowning, was about to say something, Zlata herself stepped forward. Her speech was a bit strange, but understandable.
— My father, Gostomysl, also demanded a large bride-price, — she said, looking straight at Mykita.

 — But when Veles gave his name and the name of his father, Mykita of the Great Horn, whose fame and thunderous voice have reached our lands, my father's anger turned to mercy. He said: "They will bear heroes whose spirit will be stronger than steel." And he gave me away without further ado or price.

Mykita listened, and the severe creases on his face began to smooth out. He looked at his son, at this northern beauty, at the shining eyes of his Rada, standing on the threshold. He saw that this was not just a marriage, this was a union, sealed not only by a price but by respect for his line – Mykita's Line.

Silently, he approached Veles, laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, then turned to Zlata and with a nod indicated the entrance to the hut. It was the highest sign of approval.

That evening on Mykita's Horn, the anxious 'oo-doo-doo-doo-doo' that scared off wild beasts did not sound. Instead, the air was filled with laughter, the smell of roasted game, and the clinking of the wedding cup. The family of Mykita and Rada had grown. And it seemed that fate itself had blessed this high cape, Mykita's Horn, for many years to come...

...The evening air over the Dnipro was thick and sweet. It was woven from the smells of earth steamed by the day's heat, wormwood, hemp, the smoke from the hearths of neighbouring bothys that lay in grey strands on the hill slopes, and a barely perceptible freshness coming from the mighty river. The sun itself, sinking to the west, turned the expanse into living gold. The steppe grasses, not yet mown, swayed in the light wind like a sea, and somewhere high above, a steppe eagle soared, searching for prey.

The family had gathered on a hillock near the large, time-and-rain-blackened bothy of father Mykita. The walls of dense willow rods, double-layered and daubed with clay, breathed with the warmth of the sun accumulated during the day.

From the open door came the scent of smouldering logs in the clay oven, boiled wheat porridge with lard and dried herbs. In the yard, enclosed by a palisade of sharpened logs, chickens roamed, and from the pen came the lowing of a small herd of cows.

Father Mykita, a man with a beard touched with grey and hands mapped with veins and scars, sat on the very edge of a roughly hewn bench. He cast his gaze over his family: his wife Rada, still stately but with tired, kind eyes, was mending a coarse linen shirt.

Daughter Geroda, fair-haired and quick in her movements, was sorting through freshly picked mushrooms in a woven basket. Brother Stozhar, broad-shouldered and silent, was sharpening a heavy knife set in a wooden haft on a whetstone. And opposite, settled on a log, sat his eldest son Veles, and next to him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, his young wife Zlata. Her long hair, plaited into a braid, was the colour of ripe rye.

Mykita spat out a stalk of hemp he had been chewing, and his voice, hoarse and quiet, broke the evening peace.
— Ye'll be needin' a new bothy, you and the wife, — he began, looking at Veles. — Bairns will come—it'll be tight here. Look, the walls are breathin', there's room enough for me and your mother and your sister, but not for a new branch.
— Aye, Da, — nodded Veles, putting his arm around Zlata's shoulders. — Zlata and I have been thinkin' on it.
— Choose yerself a bit of land higher up, on Yarila's Hill, — Stozhar put in confidently, not taking his eyes off the blade. The whistle of steel on stone was his accompaniment. — From there ye can see the steppe, and the descent to the river is steep, they won't approach unseen.
— No, brother, — Geroda objected timidly, almost in a whisper, raising her clear eyes to him. — It should be closer to the water. For Zlata to carry water with a yoke… fewer steps. And in summer, to wash, to rinse linen… It's hard for her to run up and down that hill.

Mykita smirked, and in his smirk was all the wisdom of his years.
— You don't remember, Geroda, none of you young ones remember, — he cast his glance around them all, — how Father Dnipro flooded that year when the Greeks and their rowing triremes came here, from the south, for trade. The year after, when the snows melted so, and the rain poured for two days, the water rose…

Rose so high it reached our fence, right to this very one. — He jabbed a finger at the base of the palisade. — The bothys that stood lower, the river washed away like splinters. We saved the cattle on the roofs. So, son, ye must build on the hill. Water—she's both a nourisher and a destroyer.
— It can't be? — exclaimed Geroda, and a mushroom fell from her hands. She looked at the wide, calm ribbon of the Dnipro, gleaming with gold in the distance. — But it's… a stone's throw from us!
— So, son, on the hill, — Mykita repeated firmly.

Veles sighed and stood up. He was as stately as his father, but his gaze was fixed on the future.
— But Zlata and I have already picked out a spot for ourselves, — he said. — On the Tokovskaya Kamenka. Where the stream falls, and the boulders lie, red, black with sparkles like snowflakes. A powerful place. And for me, as a stone-cutter, it's not far to go for material. — He turned and with a broad gesture pointed to the backyard, piled with hewn stone blocks, blanks for millstones, heavy pestles. — Step over the threshold—and here's your work material. From our very own stone I'll build the walls.
— It's grand, — said the daughter-in-law. — I've never seen the like of such stones, with snowflakes. They sparkle like winter snow. And it's summer now.
— Labradorite sparkles like that, — Veles said knowingly.
— But that's so far from your father's house! — Mother Rada's voice quivered with sudden anxiety. She set aside her sewing. — How will I run to see the grandchildren? Across the field, on that serpentine path… it's far, Veles!
— Mam, — Veles came over and put his hand on her shoulder. — It's just a hop and a skip away. Zlata and I walked it—the sun hadn't even moved from noon by the time we were there and back. As if we'd never left. The path is good, doesn't smell of beasties.

He fell silent, looking at his hands, accustomed to the weight of stone.
— At dawn tomorrow, I'm off to the Tokovskaya Kamenka. I'll be preparing stone for the foundation. It's heavy, granite.

The whistle of the whetstone stopped. Stozhar slid the knife into a leather sheath and rose to his full heroic height.
— I'll come and give you a hand, — he said simply. In his words there was neither argument nor approval of the choice—just a brotherly certainty in the necessity of the task.

Rada sighed, but the corners of her eyes already glistened with tears in which sadness mixed with the beginning of a new joy. Mykita silently nodded, his gaze slid over the boundless steppe expanses, over the great Dnipro carrying its waters into the distance, and settled on his son's face. In that gaze was acceptance.

Thus, under the whisper of the evening wind in the feather grass, under the cry of gulls flying over the Dnipro, with the smell of smoke and rotting grass, the building of a new bothy on the Tokovskaya Kamenka began. A new branch of the line was putting down roots in this ancient, generous, and harsh land...

...Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock goes Veles's chisel. From morning till late evening. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Until the mighty 'oo-doo-doo-doo-doo' of his father sounds. And Veles goes to the Kamenka stream, five paces away, to wash off the stone dust. He had marked those mighty granite boulders long ago. But they were no good for the foundation—too large. And he decided to split them first in half, then in half again, and so on to the needed size.

He had begged his brother Stozhar to make him a heavy hammer and a chisel-point. And also twenty metal wedges. He would bore a small hole in the boulder, drive a wooden peg into it, and water it three times a day. Sometimes Zlata watered it. And she couldn't fathom why she was watering wooden pegs. But when on the third day the huge boulder split, she exclaimed.
— Water wears away stone. And Zlata carries the water, — and she laughed that she had such strength.

Veles made several more granite blocks for the future house this way. But as always happens, "out of the blue". Out of the blue, towards the end of the sweltering summer, the rains came. For two days it rained without cease. And the Kamenka stream turned into a raging torrent and downstream, for an arrow's flight into the lowland, the current carried off his chopped heavy stones. He and Zlata watched as their stones rolled down the Kamenka with a heavy rumbling, as if a giant were grumbling and sighing, heaving heavy boulders.

In the bed of the Kamenka River, these stones, honed by water, lay for seven hundred years. The water wore away their sharp edges, and now they lay edgeless—rounded, almost polished by water. And the Kamenka changed its course and those boulders were scattered over the hillock. It was these that the stonecutter Artem noticed when he received the order for the railway station platform in Nikopol... "forty-five oblong and twenty small. Each one—a work of art. Even corners, polished. A jeweller's work, not a stone-cutter's"…

***

...The autonomous drone Vector is nipping smartly between passengers, offering water, lemonade, ice cream to the travellers. To the weary Gena, it tells the history of the stone platform.
— Where do you get such details from?
— I'm a next-gen drone. On hydrogen batteries. Equipped with a radiocarbon analyser, I have the ability to penetrate the stone's structure and research its genealogy.
— Right, right. I don't doubt you're cleverer than me. But I'm interested in the rest of the story. Tell me what happened after Anna and Alexander prayed. And Olga and Timofey Osipov had a daughter, Rima.
— I'll give you a flash drive, listen to it at home, — the train is departing now.
— Give me the flash drive.
— Buy a token.
— Daughter, give him a token.
— Is there really something about Gena Yampolsky here?
— Gena. There's little about you there. It's more about the ancestors.
— I'll call you, — Gena shouts in farewell.
— Call. You'll find the phone number on the flash drive...

 

Chapter 22. The Yampolsky Wedding

 

There were many Yampolskys in Nikopol—people with the same name and very distant relatives, fourth and fifth cousins. The May evening was warm and thick like honey. The air in the garden, reclaimed from the war, was filled with the fragrance of blooming apple trees and lilacs. They overpowered the sweetly bitter smell of war's aftermath that permeated the soil of Nikopol. The garden surrounded a single-story house, its roof patched with plywood and pieces of tar paper, and the walls, pockmarked with shrapnel scars, were already plastered in places. Behind the branches of sprawling acacia trees, the sinister outlines of neighboring houses destroyed by bombs were visible—their skeletons gaped with the empty eyesockets of windows.

At a roughly hewn wooden table, covered with a worn but clean tablecloth, sat two families merged into one—the Yampolskys.

Bearded Boris, the bride's father, a man with a tired face, let his gaze sweep over the blooming garden, then shifted it to the black outline of the ruins beyond the fence. He sighed heavily and, toying with a wooden spoon, spoke, addressing the sky more than those sitting.
— I understand that we are the chosen people, my God, — his voice was muffled and resigned, — but sometimes, Lord, choose someone else.

His wife, Feiga, a woman with lively, dark eyes in a gaunt face, chided him, lightly touching the sleeve of his faded cardigan.
— Boris, don't start. Not on a day like today.

— What kind of talk is that, — Boris shook his head. — Just stating a fact. We only survived because we joined the partisans. And how many of those who didn't? — He nodded towards the Old Town, where near the market square and the Passage similar ruins gaped.

Leib Yampolsky, the groom's father, a portly, not yet old man with thick peyes and a black beard, importantly adjusted his lapserdak, the only decent garment at this table.
— And we were evacuated as valuable personnel, — he said with a hint of pride, but then, catching the stern look from his wife Margula, softened his tone. — They took care of us engineers. At least some justice. May the Lord protect the sons of Israel.

Young Yakov, the groom, a sturdy fellow with an open face, sitting next to his Bella, squeezed her hand under the table and cheerfully, almost defiantly, announced.
— Well, here we are. There will be many Yampolskys now! We will restore Nikopol, rebuild the houses, have children. The city will have a new life, and the family—a new beginning.

Bella, a fragile girl with large, sad eyes inherited from her father, smiled back at him; her smile held anxiety for her future offspring.

Leib, taking a sip of kompot from his glass, worriedly rubbed his forehead:
— Yes, children, that's true. But let's talk about the wedding. How are we going to separate the men and women at the wedding according to Jewish custom? — He surveyed the half-destroyed courtyard. — The house has two rooms, we won't all fit. The garden—it's big, but it's one space. Where do we put the chuppah so that everything is according to the rules?

— We'll ask the rabbi, — Feiga said confidently, accustomed to solving practical matters. — He will advise. Maybe we can partition it off with screens or fabric?

— And who will perform the marriage ceremony? — asked Margula, anxiously fidgeting with the corner of the tablecloth. — The most important question. There are no clergy left alive in Nikopol—the Nazis killed them all. All of them.

A short, heavy pause ensued. The wind carried from somewhere in the wastelands and the steppe the smell of dust and decay.

— A rabbi will come from Dnipropetrovsk, — Boris said quietly but clearly. — I've already made inquiries. The community there is slowly recovering. Rabbi Levi-Itzhak Shneerson. He agreed.

Leib sighed with relief and said, staring into emptiness, words that made everyone's heart clench.
— When sorrow comes into the world, Israel feels it first. We are like a barometer of human trouble. But our joy is also special. It is hard-won.

— And who else will be at the wedding? — asked Bella, wanting to change the subject, to steer the conversation away from bitterness. — Besides our relatives?

Feiga perked up, started counting on her fingers.
— There will also be Genya Molchinskaya, Khaim Shulkin, Lazar Berman, Doctor Kop. Those who miraculously survived. Only God knows how they managed to escape from the Ingulets ghetto and from Stalindorf. — She fell silent, understanding that each name was a whole story of horror and miraculous deliverance from the Lord.

— Yes, — Boris Yampolsky said thoughtfully and bitterly, looking at his daughter. — Do not complain, for each person's path is written in the Book of Fates. Their paths were written in blood, but they have been rewritten. They are alive.

— Yes. And also Anna Garvardt and Mikhail Goldovsky – they are a young family, just married.

— And Goldovsky is alive? – that's a real miracle, — Leib beamed. I knew his father, Mikhail.

— Evil tongues say he's not Goldovsky's natural son.

— We do not know our earthly path, — Margula whispered, and tears glistened in her eyes.

Yakov, seeing the mood falling, leaned towards the table and said in a conspiratorial, enthusiastic voice.
— Don't be sad! I have an idea. Right now, Rozalia Epelbaum and her husband Mikhail Epelbaum are on tour in Dnipropetrovsk. Have you heard? Her voice is like an angel's. I will ask Rabbi Levi-Itzhak to invite them to the wedding. Can you imagine what an honor that would be?

Feiga gasped, then laughed.
— Yakov, don't talk nonsense. Where would we get such money? And where would we seat them? And where would they sing here? On an apple tree stump? Such an artist won't come to our ruins.

— But Osip Shor would come easily, — Boris interjected, winking. — He's in Dnipropetrovsk now. A clown, a joker. He'll sit at the table, tell jokes, make everyone laugh. For free, for a bottle of trophy cognac.

Leib furrowed his thick eyebrows and decisively slapped the table with his palm.
— No. We don't need that. Osip Shor is a clown, yes. A godless man. He doesn't observe our laws. Gives concerts on Fridays and Saturdays. And he'll tell jokes at our holy wedding again, maybe even not entirely decent ones. We need a solemnity, a spiritual celebration, not a circus performance.

— But he is a famous artist, — Yakov tried to object.

— A famous hooligan, — Leib parried. — No way. Let's decide as a family. Osip Shor is not to be invited. But as for the Epelbaums... — he looked at his wife, at Feiga, at Boris, — we can try. The rabbi will pass on the invitation. If they come, it will be a great honor for us. If they don't, we won't be offended. Agreed?

Everyone nodded. The decision was made.

— And one more thing, — Feiga raised a finger, bringing everyone back to earthly concerns. — About the date. The rabbi said we can set up the chuppah in mid-June. On weekdays, when it's not Shabbat, not Friday candles. Shall we do it that way?

— We shall, — came the chorused reply from the table.

The sun had almost set, painting the ruins of Nikopol in crimson hues. But in the Yampolsky garden, among the blooming apple trees, active preparations for the wedding were already underway. For a new life which, against all odds, was going on...
... Mid-June in Nikopol was generous with sun and cherries. In the Yampolskys' garden, which had finished blooming but was lushly green, under the shade of old acacias, stood a chuppah. A simple tallit stretched over four poles—a fragile but indestructible symbol of the home that Yakov and Bella were to build. Beneath it, an eternal union was now being sealed.

Rabbi Levi-Itzhak Shneerson from Dnipropetrovsk, a man with a tired, wise face and calm eyes, held a silver cup in his hands. Around him gathered all the survivors: relatives, Kop, Genya Molchinskaya, Khaim Shulkin, Lazar Berman, whose lives had become living testaments to God's mercy towards the sons and daughters of Israel.

 On the rabbi's advice, men and women stood together, shoulder to shoulder—in such times, the strictness of customs gave way to the necessity of human unity. People had yearned for communication and joy.

The ceremony of Kiddushin, the sanctification, began. The rabbi recited the blessing over the wine, symbolizing joy. The cup, filled with dark, thick wine, was passed around to all the witnesses, and each, including the bride and groom, took a sip from it, affirming their participation in this union.

Then came the moment of the Ketubah. The rabbi read aloud, in Hebrew and with a translation into Ukrainian, the marriage contract, in which Yakov undertook the obligations to love, respect, and provide for his wife. It was not just a document; it was the voice of an age-old law, sounding amid the Nikopol ruins, affirming that life, order, and love are stronger than chaos and destruction.

Before placing the ring, the ceremony of kinyan took place—the act of acquisition. The rabbi handed Yakov a white cloth, and he, taking it in his hand, symbolically "acquired" Bella as his wife according to the law of Moses and Israel. This ancient gesture, understood by all present, sealed the deal, sanctified by tradition.

Then Yakov, taking a simple gold ring, looked Bella in the eyes and clearly pronounced the sacred formula: "Harei at mekudeshet li b'taba'at zo k'dat Moshe v'Yisrael." He placed the ring on the index finger of her right hand amid exclamations of approval and tears of happiness in the eyes of Feiga and Margula.

After this, the rabbi again took the cup of wine and recited the Seven Blessings—Sheva Brachot. Seven prayers glorifying the Creator, who created joy and gladness, bride and groom, love and fellowship. Each word, flying into the quiet June air, seemed to heal another wound on the scarred earth.

And then the most dramatic moment arrived. The rabbi handed Boris, the bride's father, an old, cracked plate. He, with a stony face, glanced at his daughter, at Yakov, at the ruins of his city, and with force hurled it to the ground, right at the feet of the newlyweds. The sound of breaking china echoed through the garden, drowning out all other sounds for a moment.
— Mazel tov! — came the unanimous exclamation of the guests.

This sound—the sound of the Temple's destruction Mazel tov, the eternal memory of sorrow even in the hour of great joy—was the most bitter and most necessary act of the entire ceremony. Yakov, without prior agreement, squeezed Bella's hand tighter, as if promising to protect her from any adversity.

Finally, amid joyful shouts, Yakov stepped on the glass and crushed it with his heel. And again—a jubilant cry of "Mazel tov!", applause, and tears. The ceremony was complete.

The wedding feast, if one could call it that, was very modest. On tables hastily knocked together from planks lay large plates with Dnieper herring, boiled potatoes in their jackets steamed in six cast-iron pots, and there were nine bowls with beans stewed in the oven. But the main decoration was the woven baskets full of dark red Nikopol cherries—sweet and juicy, a symbol of the generosity of the surviving land.

And then came the "surprise" that the groom Yakov had concocted right there just two minutes earlier. Rising from his seat, Mikhail Epelbaum, with a light gesture of his hand, called for silence.
— Dear friends, — he said, — my wife and I are infinitely touched that you have invited us into your home, into your family. And we cannot help but sing for Yakov and Bella.

Rozalia Epelbaum, a woman with a regal posture, smiled, and her gaze fell on the elderly woman, Maya Levin, sitting next to her daughter Anna and Mikhail Goldovsky. Maya, who had once received a musical education at the Yampolsky boarding school, knew nothing about the surprise. She looked at Roza with wide eyes, not believing herself.
— Rozochka? — she uttered quietly, almost childishly.

Roza threw up her hands.
— Maya! My first teacher! I haven't seen you in a hundred years!

They embraced like two sisters found after a long separation. The guests, holding their breath, watched this meeting. Anna, Maya's daughter, beamed with pride for her mother, whom such artists remembered and loved.

— We will sing together with our first teacher, Maya Levin-Garvardt! — announced Mikhail Epelbaum.

The guests applauded. Maya was from another generation, and few remembered when she, a young and beautiful actress, sang in the local theater back in the years of the Civil War. But the old-timers, nodding their gray heads, smiled, remembering.

To the accompaniment of Mikhail's guitar, three voices—the mature, professional soprano of Rozalia, the strong baritone of Mikhail, and the trembling but pure, full of inextinguishable warmth voice of Maya—merged into one, starting the main wedding song, the hymn of joy and the victory of life—"Hava Nagila."

"Hava nagila! Hava nagila! Hava nagila v'nismecha!"

And everyone joined in the Hava Nagila—Yakov and Bella under the chuppah, Boris and Feiga, Leib and Margula, those saved from the ghetto, engineers and artists. They sang loudly, with strain, singing out every word like a prayer. They sang of the joy they had earned through suffering, of the faith they had carried, of the life that, against all odds, continued under the peaceful sky of Nikopol, in the garden reclaimed from war...
... The wedding of Yakov and Bella, as required by strict custom, stretched over several days—from Monday to Thursday. These days became a small island of unbridled, almost carefree joy in a sea of surrounding sorrow.

On the first day, right after the chuppah, the bride's parents, Boris and Feiga, approached Yakov with solemn importance. Feiga held a bundle wrapped in clean cloth.
— Son, — Boris's voice trembled. — Now you are the head of the family. You must build your own house. And keep your faith.

They unwrapped the bundle. Inside lay a new, dazzling white tallit with black stripes and long tzitzit. Yakov, excitedly, with reverence, touched the woolen fabric. For the Shacharit prayer, he would don it already as a married man, taking upon himself new obligations before God and family.

In response, Yakov presented his gift to Bella. It was a beautiful siddur in a velvet cover, with her initials inscribed on it. To the prayer book, he added a modest but elegant bouquet of wild roses, which she now held carefully in her hands, and a bottle of perfume—a rarity for the post-war time, smelling of a distant, peaceful life.

And again music flowed. Mikhail and Rozalia Epelbaum sang on both the first and second days, sometimes as a duet, sometimes as a trio with Maya Levina-Garvardt. And when her divine mezzo-soprano, a pure and powerful voice touched by years of hardship, sounded, absolute silence fell. She sang in Yiddish, and every word was filled with age-old wisdom and passion.

Ikh hob dikh tsu fil lib, ikh trog oyf dir kayn has,
Ikh hob dikh tsu fil lib tsu zayn oyf dir inkas.
(I love you too much to bear any grudge against you,
I love you too much to hold a case against you.)

In these words was the entire history of their people—forgiveness that their enemies did not deserve, and love that proved stronger than hatred. The guests cried, unashamed of their tears.

And then the merriment began. Until late in the evening, the young people made merry and danced Jewish dances. A small Jewish orchestra played: violin, flute, clarinet, guitar. Lively, rhythmic music sounded, and couples whirled in the David's dance, energetic and life-affirming. Toasts were made: "Le chaim, yehudim, le chaim!" — "To life!" This life, which had been so fiercely tried to be taken from them, was now celebrating its victory.

Outside the fence, in the twilight, a crowd of boys of all nationalities had gathered. They, holding their breath, listened to the unfamiliar music and watched the exotic merrymaking. And when the guests, joining hands, began to sing the famous "Vu iz dos gezele?", a response was found immediately.
"Vu iz dos gezele? Vu iz dos gezele? Vu iz dos hoyz?"
Where is this street? Where is this street? Where is this house?

And from all along the street, from the surviving houses, from behind fences, dozens of voices, Russian and Ukrainian, joined in, singing in the night twilight:
"Vu iz di meydele..." Where is the girl...
"... that I'm in love with!" — now rang out in a single powerful chorus over the Dnieper cliffs, over the destroyed houses. It was a moment of unity, rare and beautiful, when the pain and joy of one people became understandable to other nationalities: Ukrainians, Armenians, Russians, Greeks.

In these moments, it seemed there was no force in the world that could destroy this house, this union, this people—the house of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Their faith and love were stronger than stone.

But they did not yet know. They did not know that after the ghetto and the war, a harsher, more insidious trial awaited them. A trial not from an enemy with a swastika, but from their own.

In the shadow of the ruins across the road, leaning against a scorched wall, stood a man in a worn-out gymnasterka without insignia. He was a local corporal, with the soul of a Judas, who had received a handout from the new authorities. A secret informer for the NKVD—Naum. He watched the Jewish wedding intently, every movement, every guest. In his hands was a FED camera. Quiet shutter clicks sounded, capturing the faces of the singing and dancing people. From time to time, he moved the camera aside and, with the diligence of an ignoramus, wrote something down in a worn notebook. He was recording "bourgeois nationalist frenzy," "religious obscurantism," and "ties with foreign elements" in the person of the artists from Dnipropetrovsk.

The celebration of life continued, but the shadow from the leaden cloud of a new era of persecution for the sons and daughters of Israel had already fallen on the Yampolsky garden...

... The evening of the second day of the wedding was warm and resonant. The air, thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, mixed with the smell of Dnieper water carried from the cliffs. Quiet voices came from the open windows. Maya, Anna, Mikhail, and Rozalia sat in the room, from which a piece of the Dnieper, silvery in the moonlight, was visible.

Mikhail Epelbaum dreamily surveyed the modest surroundings: faded curtains, a worn carpet on the wall, a primus stove in the corner on which Feiga had brewed coffee during the day—an unheard-of luxury.
— Ah, — he said quietly, gazing into emptiness, — if only there were a piano somewhere now... Even the most out-of-tune one. To not just sing, but to accompany. To have a full sound.

Anna Garvardt, always practical, perked up.
— I know where there is a piano. The only one that survived the war intact, seems like in all of Nikopol. — She paused, thinking. — But it's unlikely we'll have access to it.

— Why? — Rozalia asked, alert, adjusting the silk scarf on her shoulders. — Where is it?

— Because the piano is at the Nikopol military commissar's office. In his office. That's where the military enlistment office is located now.

— Is he a musician? — Mikhail asked, surprised.

— No, he doesn't play, — Anna shook her head. — But the building where the enlistment office is—it's our former boarding school. There were always two grand pianos in the hall there. One was bombed, but the second, a "Becker," miraculously survived. They moved it into the office.

Maya Levina, who had been listening silently until now, raised her head. A spark of long-forgotten daring flashed in her eyes.
— What's the military commissar's last name?

— Dmitry Shavl, — Anna said confidently. — I saw him when I was getting a certificate for my husband.

— I knew his father, Pavel, — Maya said thoughtfully. — He supplied firewood to the boarding school even before the revolution. He was an honest man. Maybe, for old times' sake... We can try to arrange it.

— But I'll go myself, — Anna said decisively, standing up.
— I'm coming with you, daughter, — her mother retorted unequivocally.

The military commissar's office was exactly as it should be: a strict desk piled with papers, a portrait of Stalin on the wall, it smelled of tobacco and fresh printer's ink. And in the corner, like a ghost from another world, stood that very polished "Becker," slightly tarnished but majestic.

Dmitry Shavl, a man of about thirty-five with a piercing gaze, looked up from his papers.
— Anna Markovna? I know you. And this? — He nodded at Maya.

— I am Maya Lvovna Levina-Garvardt. Her mother. I played, — her voice suddenly trembled, — on this piano when I studied in this building, in the boarding school... in the turbulent years of anarchy and civil war.

The military commissar looked at her, not understanding.
— So?

— We come to you with a big request on behalf of... — she hesitated, — the musical community of Nikopol and from the artists from Dnipropetrovsk, — Anna interjected. — We want to borrow it from you to give a real concert, while our artists are still here.

Shavl leaned back in his chair, folded his hands.
— I heard about your artists. Made noise at the Jewish wedding. And where will this concert be? In the "Trubnik" club? Or in the cinema?

— It could be there, — Anna nodded.

— Here's the thing, — the commissar rubbed the bridge of his nose. — Ask your these... Eppel... Epabum. Ugh, can't even say it.

— Epelbaum, — Maya corrected softly.

— Yes, Epelbaum. Can they perform for the Red Army soldiers? — He jabbed his finger at a paper on the desk. — We have a directive here—see, I'm reading: "...to acquaint the newly arrived officer corps of two divisions and one unit with the cultural life of the city..." And how to acquaint? Concerts, movies, dances.

— So, Comrade Shavl, you give your approval? — Maya asked, holding her breath.

— Yes. Now. Orderly! — he shouted towards the half-open door. A young soldier entered. — Give these comrades the piano against a receipt and note it in the log. Load it onto a one-and-a-half-ton truck using the soldiers. Deliver it... Where? For now, to them, and then, for the concert, to the club. It needs some cosmetic repairs—whitewash, paint. Alright. Carry on.

That same evening, when summer twilight had completely descended upon Nikopol, and a drawn-out steamer whistle came from the Dnieper, Maya lovingly stroked the lid of her precious "Becker," now set up in the Yampolsky garden, under the open sky. She whispered quietly, as if casting a spell:
— Back then you saved me from loneliness and fear, in those hungry years. And now you will open your soul to me with your music.

Her fingers, old, with prominent veins, but still strong and confident, touched the keys. And the first chords flowed. She began to sing, and her divine mezzo-soprano seemed to silence even the grasshoppers chirping in the grass:

Kol od balevav penima,
Nefesh Yehudi homiya...
(As long as deep in the heart, The soul of a Jew yearns...)

It was "Hatikvah." And Mikhail and Rozalia, standing nearby, joined in. And then, when the hymn of hope faded away, Mikhail sat down at the piano, and they sang a cheerful, mischievous song.

Kuram na smekh, vsyo bogatstvo kuram na smekh!
Otkryvayte dveri nastezh', budut gosti, budut schast'ye!
A grekhi — otpoyom, otplyashem!
(To the chickens for a laugh, all wealth to the chickens for a laugh!
Open the doors wide, there will be guests, there will be happiness!
And the sins—we'll sing them away, dance them away!)

In the evening June twilight, the sounds of the piano and songs flowed beyond the garden, mixing with the splash of the Dnieper and the whistles of steamboats. And they could be heard long past midnight.

Later, when the fervor of the general merriment had subsided a little, Anna Khristinskaya, pouring tea, asked Rozalia:
— And you, I think, have a daughter? How old is she?

— Our Ruth, — Rozalia's face lit up with a tender smile, immediately clouded by anxiety. — She is four now. She'll be five in the fall.

— And where is she? With you?

Mikhail sighed heavily:
— Oh, it's not all that simple, Anna Alexandrovna. We slightly... missed the mark with the concerts. She is ill. And she's in a clinic now, in Dnipropetrovsk.

— Something serious? — Maya asked quietly, coming closer.

— Yes, — Rozalia nodded, looking into her cup. — She has, how to put it simply... signs of a mental disorder. The doctors just shrug.

— Why are you keeping quiet?! — Anna exclaimed. — You won't find a better doctor for mental disorders than our Nikopol Kop! He worked with this even before the war, in Kyiv.

— But we showed Ruth even to a Moscow professor, — Mikhail spread his hands. — Zero effect.

— Bring her to us, — Maya stated decisively. — Kop will definitely cure her. He has his own method. He gets everyone here back on their feet.

— And where will she live? — asked Rozalia, and a note of hope trembled in her voice.

— We will adopt her while she is being treated, — Anna said simply. — I have a room. And she stroked her stomach, in the fourth month of pregnancy.

— Tomorrow we'll talk with Doctor Kop, — Maya put her hand on Rozalia's shoulder. — And don't doubt it. Everything will be fine.

And to the sound of that quiet, confident voice, under the fading sounds of the piano and the regular creaking of a tugboat passing on the Dnieper, the Nikopol night lulled them with its serene, southern peace, briefly hiding from them the coming harsh trials.

 

Chapter 23. Doctor Kop and Ruth

 

Monday morning in the office of the Nikopol City Executive Committee.

The air in the chairman's office was thick with makhorka smoke and the pungent smell of printer's ink from fresh decrees and newspapers. The desk at which the chairman himself, Comrade Grubnik, sat was piled with stacks of papers. On the wall—the obligatory portrait of Stalin and a map of the district with red flags.
— Well, artists, — Grubnik, a former front-line soldier with a scar across his eyebrow, looked at Mikhail and Rozalia over his glasses. — The concert program is approved. For the workers of the Southern Tube Plant and the personnel of the garrison. Four days in a row. Understood?

— Understood, Comrade Chairman, — Mikhail nodded.

— And the fee? — Rozalia asked cautiously. — We are from another city...

Grubnik snorted, pulled a form out of the desk, and with a flourish wrote something on it.
— The fee! From the city treasury, for the two of you—a whole two hundred rubles! — he said this with such pathos, as if bestowing an order. — Unheard-of luxury! So you know how Nikopol values art.

Mikhail and Rozalia exchanged glances. The sum was indeed huge for the post-war time, when the salary of a highly qualified milling machine operator at a plant barely reached ninety.

— We thank you, — said Mikhail, trying to keep irony out of his voice.

The audiences were different: sometimes the overcrowded, makhorka-and-sweat-smelling "Trubnik" club, where stern workers in new overalls sat in the front rows; sometimes the parade ground of a military unit, where soldiers and officers stood at attention; sometimes the half-destroyed cinema, where the audience sat on stools brought from home.

For this audience, the Epelbaums prepared a completely different repertoire. Mikhail sat at the piano, Rozalia came out to the front of the stage, and her voice, strong and penetrating, flowed over the heads.

" Where the vines whisper, the dreams of gray cliffs...

and my beloved is like a stone...

Oh, Dnieper, Dnieper among the black clouds...

Cranes fly above you...."
(Where the vines whisper, the thoughts of the gray cliffs...
And we loved, and grew...
Oh, Dnieper, Dnieper, amid the dark clouds...
Cranes are flying over you...)

The hall fell silent. These songs about the native land, about love and separation, were closest and most understandable to them. They also sang spirited, dashing songs:
"Ikhav kozak na viyonon'ku...
Proshchav svoyu divchynon'ku..."
(A Cossack rode off to war...
Bid farewell to his maiden...)

And lyrical, folk ones:
"Teche voda z-pid yavora, yarom na dolynu..."
(Water flows from under the sycamore, down the ravine to the valley...)

And at the end—patriotic ones, which made the hearts of former front-line soldiers clench:
"Vernulsya ya na Rodinu..." or "Kogda dusha poyot..."
("I returned to my Motherland..." or "When the soul sings...")

The applause was deafening, sincere. The audience had missed concerts during the war. And this was essentially the first free post-war concert. And without tickets...
... In the small but cozy apartment of Maya and Anna, it smelled of tea and fresh baking. Sitting at the table were tired but pleased Mikhail and Rozalia, Maya, and her daughter Anna. From the open window came the distant sound of a steamer whistle and the chirping of grasshoppers in the Dnieper grasses.
— Four days... like a single moment, — Rozalia exhaled, taking off her shoes. — My voice is getting hoarse.

— But they listened to you as if spellbound, — Mikhail smiled. — At the factory, that's all people are talking about.

Suddenly, a sharp knock came at the door. On the threshold stood a messenger from the city executive committee.
— Directive from Comrade Grubnik! — he handed over a slip of paper. — Tomorrow, Friday, and the day after tomorrow, Saturday—concerts at the Officers' House. Start at 19:00.

The door closed. A heavy silence hung in the room.
— Shabbat... — Rozalia whispered, looking at her husband in horror. — The holy Sabbath. We can't.

— This could lead to big trouble, — Mikhail said gloomily. — They'll take away the fee, and, who knows, might confiscate the piano. They'll say it's sabotage.

Anna thought, looking at the setting sun.
— Are there any... not Jews, but Jews by birth? Who can sing and dance? Who could substitute for the artists?

Maya shook her head bitterly.
— After the ghetto and the Holocaust, my dear, it's unlikely any such remain. And who would go against their conscience? The holy Sabbath is the law for all believers.

— The only way out is to quickly gather musicians from the wedding orchestra, — Mikhail suggested.

— But they are all observant Jews! — Maya exclaimed. She terribly did not want to part with the piano, which had become a part of her soul.

— Here's what, — Anna said decisively. — I'll ask Military Commissar Shavl. Maybe there is a musician or singer among the Red Army soldiers.

And miraculously! They were found. Two young soldiers, one—an accordionist from Voronezh, the other—a violinist from Kyiv, and one senior sergeant with an amazingly strong and beautiful baritone. The rehearsal on Saturday morning was led by Maya. She sat at the piano, and to her confident, strict chords, the same Ukrainian and patriotic songs sounded.

The evening concert was no less successful. Maya Levina, forgetting her fatigue, accompanied the musicians, her face illuminated by an inner light. She did not sing, but her music was the backbone that held the entire performance together.

On Monday, when Mikhail and Rozalia came to the city executive committee for their fee, Grubnik was again sitting at his desk.
— Well, artists? Saturday, I heard, went on without you. Good thing you found a replacement. Otherwise, I would have had to reduce the fee... for the disruption.

He counted out eight purple twenty-five-ruble notes and with a slight smirk handed them to Mikhail.
— Nikopol won't forget you. Next time—no amateur performances.

Going out into the street, flooded with bright June sun, Mikhail and Rozalia caught their breath. The fee was saved. Their reputation was saved too. But the aftertaste of this forced compromise with the authorities, who had violated their sacred day, remained bitter and heavy, like a premonition of a new, peaceful, but no less apocalyptically uncertain life...

... Doctor Kop was known throughout the Nikopol region. From the youngest to the oldest. He was not called "Comrade Kop" or "Avraam Moiseyevich"—for everyone he was simply "Doctor Kop," like a natural phenomenon or an immutable law. He was nearing sixty, he stooped as if under the weight of knowledge and thousands of patients he had treated.

And his sparse red hair gleamed under the light bulbs in the hospital corridors. He was always clean-shaven, and he smelled of medical preparations. But the main thing was his eyes—intelligent, tired, and his invariable, slightly sad smile with which he looked at patients. That smile said: "I understand everything, and we will manage."

He was not a surgeon, did not perform brilliant operations. He was a therapist in city hospital number two, and it seemed he treated everything in the world: kidneys and lungs, acting-up blood vessels and worn-out hearts, persistent migraines and the effects of hunger faints. If other doctors, confused, threw up their hands, they would sigh with relief: "Only Doctor Kop can save you." And he saved. But his true calling, his specialization, which he told no one about, was the mental and psychiatric disorders of patients. Where a simple therapist from provincial Nikopol got such practice and knowledge about mental disorders, schizophrenia, severe neuroses—was a mystery. But he really did treat. In more than half of his patients, improvement began from the very first week. They said that his very presence was already a medicine.

As agreed, Anna Garvardt met Rozalia Epelbaum with her daughter on the platform. Ruth, a girl with large, too serious eyes for her four years, was outwardly no different from her peers. Only she was unchildishly withdrawn and silent.

In Anna's house, it smelled of pies and freshness. Anna, noticeably rounded, pushed a stool towards the girl.
— Come in, dear, sit down.

— No, — Ruth answered quietly but firmly, pressing herself against the doorjamb. — It's alright, I'll stand.

She looked attentively, almost critically, at Anna and asked without any preamble:
— Auntie, are you pregnant?

Anna laughed.
— Yes. Call me Aunt Anya. And this is my husband, Uncle Misha. I'm in my fifth month.

— So, you will have a little one soon?

— Yes. I will.

— And where will I sleep when the little one appears? — a note of unchildish anxiety sounded in the girl's voice.

— There's room for everyone, — Anna reassured her. — We have a big room.

While Ruth uncertainly examined the surroundings, Rozalia called Anna aside and, clutching two precious twenty-five-ruble notes in her hand, shoved them into her palm.
— Anna, this is for initial expenses. For food, for what's needed...

Anna recoiled as if from fire.
— No! What are you doing! No! — her face flushed. — I would lose my self-respect. I won't take it for anything.

— But we are not beggars! — Rozalia pleaded. — My husband earns well, the concerts...

— And we don't take from friends, — Anna said softly but firmly, making Rozalia hide the money. — She is like family here.

Rozalia stood indecisively for a moment, then, going up to her daughter, kissed her firmly, almost desperately, on the top of her head and, wiping away a tear, left to catch the evening train.

The next day, Anna brought Ruth to the hospital. Doctor Kop, by arrangement with the head doctor, kindly received them out of turn. His office was cluttered with card files, folders, medical journals lay everywhere. While they were waiting for the tests—blood, urine—Anna, looking at him, suddenly asked:
— Doctor, do you know Kop from Gorodishche?

The doctor's face showed keen interest.
— Why do you ask, my dear?

— Because, it turns out, I am the great-great-granddaughter of that Kop. From grandmother Yael.

Doctor Kop froze, his habitual smile disappeared, giving way to astonishment.
— It can't be? — he whispered. — I am his cousin! Come here, let me hug you!

He stood up and, forgetting professional distance, hugged Anna. But suddenly his face darkened.
— But... he is no more. And his children are gone.

— I was told that after the pogrom of 1887 in Gorodishche he was killed, — Anna said quietly. — And the children were distributed among relatives.

— That's right, — the doctor nodded, sitting back in his chair. His gaze became detached.
— Olesya and Yulia. So you are... the great-granddaughter of Yael Rabe?

Anna nodded.
— What a surprise! — her cousin great-grandfather suddenly exclaimed. Well, my own blood. Now everything is clear.

At that moment, the test results came in. Doctor Kop quickly studied them.
— So, so... So, good. — He put the papers aside and looked at Anna. — Here's what, my dear. You go, take a walk for half an hour. And I'll have a talk with Ruth here. In a friendly way.

When the door closed, Doctor Kop rolled his chair closer to the girl. He didn't baby her, didn't talk to her like a child. He looked at her seriously and attentively.
— Ruth, look at me. I am your doctor. And from now on, I am your best friend. You can tell me everything you want. Everything that worries you. Any secrets. Friends don't keep secrets from each other.

Ruth looked at him with undisguised distrust, but something in the doctor's tone struck a chord.
— Really? — she asked again.

— Really.

— Well then, listen, — she took a step forward and lowered her eyes. — When I was little, our neighbors had a kitten. And he suddenly disappeared. And I loved him very much. And when he disappeared... I lost my appetite. And I started making up stories... about how he was run over by a car. How he was eaten by dogs. And stolen by a falcon... And I felt so sorry-sorry for the kitten... — her voice trembled.

Doctor Kop listened attentively, without interrupting. Then he said softly:
— Don't be afraid, Ruth, my dear. He is alive. You'll see.

— Really? — a spark of hope flashed in her eyes.

— Of course. And what kind of fur did he have?

— Gray. And also a black-and-white collar on his neck, like a real one.

— Oh, exactly! I'm almost sure he's alive. Call... call Aunt Anya.

When Anna entered, Doctor Kop took her aside and spoke quickly, in a whisper:
— You see, the thing is... She needs a point of support. A small, but undeniable miracle. We need to find such a kitten. Gray fur, black-and-white collar.

Anna gasped.
— Doctor, where would I...

— Shh! — he put a finger to his lips. — You love her... well, you've almost adopted her. And you will find it. Go to the dumps, ask the boys. This is more important than any medicine.

And Anna, without a word, set to work, despite her pregnancy. Three days were spent on an intensive search. She went around all the abandoned houses in the area, stood watch near empty entryways, asked all the neighbor children. And finally, in a ruin on the outskirts of Sotsgorod, she found him—skinny, frightened, but exactly like that: gray, with an elegant black-and-white "collar." Catching him wasn't easy, but Anna, remembering the doctor's instruction, showed miracles of patience, luring him with a crust of bread.

When she, grimy, tired, but triumphant, brought the kitten into the house, Ruth at first didn't believe her eyes. She froze on the threshold, then quietly, like a prayer, whispered.
— Is that... him?

Anna nodded. The girl slowly approached, reached out her hand, and touched the trembling little ball. And for the first time in many years, a real, childish, happy smile bloomed on her face.
Doctor Kop, who dropped by in the evening to check on his patient, seeing that smile, merely nodded in agreement. The first, most important therapy session was successfully completed. And now Ruth's recovery needed to be consolidated.

Anna read fairy tales to her in the evenings in Russian and Ukrainian. And suddenly began reading from the Torah in Hebrew. Ruth listened without interrupting. And then repeated everything Anna had read in Russian.

"...By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy..."

... The life of Anna's family and the lame Mikhail was built around quiet, orderly care. Their house, single-story, with a roof repaired after the war, was drowning in greenery from the garden on one side. Mikhail, despite his congenital lameness, worked from home repairing household appliances and motorcycles, as a first-category disabled person from birth. Anna managed the household with the same methodicalness with which her mother, Maya, had once practiced scales. Every morning began with Mikhail lighting the stove, and Anna preparing breakfast—porridge on water, sometimes with condensed milk, miraculously obtained by Mikhail.

Into this measured routine, Ruth's life was firmly woven. The girl truly began to recover. Her world was ruled by two beings: the gray kitten with the aristocratic collar, named "Baritone" for his loud purring, and Doctor Kop. Baritone slept at her feet, rubbed against her cheek in the mornings, and was the silent keeper of her secrets. And Doctor Kop was her wizard. She became so attached to him that every morning began with the same request:
— Well, Mom, well, let's go to the doctor, — she tugged at Anna's hem.

Anna, wiping her hands on her apron, corrected her with slight sadness:
— Rufenka, how many times do I have to tell you? You have a mother. Your mother is Rozalia.

— You are my mom, — the girl stubbornly repeated, hugging her around the knees. — My Aunt Roza is always on tour. And I'm alone in the room. And I'm scared.

— Don't call her aunt. She is your mother, she loves you very much, — Anna tried to explain, but she herself was already doubting her words.

— But what can you do, — she later sighed to Mikhail, — we must accept reality.

Reality was harsh. Rozalia had not come for her daughter for three months now. In all that time, there was only one, hurried and noisy phone call from a payphone.
— Oh, Anya, dear! — Rozalia shouted into the receiver, and the noise of a station could be heard in the background. — I'm in Leningrad now on tour with Misha! Incredible success! And then, can you imagine, we're invited to America! Can Ruth stay with you a little longer? Well, for two months? We'll send money.

Those "two months" imperceptibly stretched to six months. And then Anna and Mikhail had their own long-awaited event. At the beginning of February, Anna gave birth to a girl. They named her Sophia.

For the first few days, Mikhail and Anna, worried and happy, couldn't figure out who their daughter looked like. And only on the third day, when Sophia's little face had smoothed out a bit, they both, looking at her, exclaimed in unison:
— Why, she's the spitting image of Grandma Maya!

And they were immensely happy about it. In the features of the newborn, the same spirituality and soft strength as Maya's could be read. Ruth, who had become a serious older sister beyond her years, stood for long periods by the cradle, gazing spellbound at the tiny face.

Meanwhile, life went on. Ruth started second grade. She studied diligently, with the same stubborn concentration with which she had once made sand pies in the garden. Her notebooks were clean, her letters—even. And her biological parents still did not appear. Their foreign tours, judging by the rare postcards with views of New York, were dragging on.

And into this seemingly settled life, alarming news began to seep in. A new, underhanded wave of repression was beginning. This time under the heading "Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee"—JAC. Commissioners from the center arrived in the city, ominous articles about "rootless cosmopolitans," about a "Zionist conspiracy" appeared in the newspapers "Pravda" and "Izvestia." Mikhail, reading the newspaper in the evening by the lamp, grew gloomy.
— Again, — he threw out shortly, putting the newspaper aside. — It smells like a storm.

Anna, rocking Sophia in her arms, looked at him anxiously.
— It won't affect us, will it? We are simple people.

— Under Stalin, Anna, no one knows who it will affect, — Mikhail answered quietly, looking at the sleeping Ruth, who, hugging Baritone, was smiling in her sleep. — Especially if someone has relatives abroad. Even if those relatives are artists.

One day in March, Doctor Kop came into their yard. He was unusually serious, his usual smile absent.
— How is our patient? — he asked, as always, but there was a false note in his voice.

— Better, thank you, — Anna smiled.

Doctor Kop looked at Ruth and Sophia playing in the corner, then shifted his gaze to Anna and Mikhail.
— Be careful, my children, — he said quietly, almost in a whisper. — The air smells of lead. Talk less. And... take care of the girls.

He left, leaving behind a heavy silence. Anna involuntarily pressed Sophia to herself, and Mikhail went to the window and looked out at the deserted street, where in the twilight the lone figure of Corporal Naum loomed. They did not yet know that the shadow of the "JAC affair" had already fallen on their quiet house, and that the test for their fragile family happiness would be not Ruth's illness, but a new, much more terrible sickness of the times.

Chapter 24. Mania and Phobia

 

Colonel Shlikht, Luka Filippovich's office resembled a battlefield after an artillery barrage, only instead of craters there were mountains of papers. It seemed as if Abakumov himself, without leaving his chair in Moscow, was personally issuing orders that materialized as folders on Luka Filippovich's desk. "Urgent," "Immediate," "Sabotage," "Arrest"—these words danced before his eyes like fleas on a hot skillet.

He was just trying to get a grip on the "Trophy Affair." Where are the trophies and who trophy-ed them, when from under another pile the folder for the JAC case winked at him ominously with its "Top Secret" stamp. Jews. Artists. Seemingly anti-fascists, but now, it turns out, that's wrong too. And the main thing—tours! These thespians, unaware of their enemy nature, travel around the region as if on purpose to complicate the life of a Chekist colonel.

— They went to Nikopol? — grumbled Shlikht, gathering papers. — Connect me with Nikopol UGB. Stashkevich?

In Nikopol, Major Stashkevich Nikita Zakharovich was at that very moment performing a ritual sacrifice—writing a funding request for the hundred-thousandth time. He already mentally saw his modest office turning into a powerful stronghold of state security with two extra employees, a filing cabinet, and, oh dream, a new sofa.

Suddenly the phone rang. Shlikht's voice from the regional center sounded as if Comrade Stalin himself was speaking from the loudspeaker.
— Nikita! Urgent! Assemble a team, artist Epelbaum Mikhail—nail him! He's coming to your Nikopol. Our man in the synagogue passed it on. Arriving on train six-nine, arrival at twelve-thirty. Arrest him right on the platform.

Nikita Zakharovich sighed so deeply that even the papers from the "anti-fascist committee" case stirred.
— Luka Filippovich, Comrade Colonel! Everyone I have is assigned, by your own order! No one to allocate. I wrote reports five times... The monetary allowance for the new staff...

The classic dance began: "I'm the boss – you're the fool" - "I'm on the ground – you're seeing through rose-colored glasses." In the end, under pressure and with a promise of "I'll sign it, alright, alright," Stashkevich broke.
— Will you comply?
— I will... — the major uttered with the enthusiasm of the doomed.

Hanging up, Stashkevich scratched his neck. An epic picture was emerging: a State Security Major personally escorting an artist-enemy of the people through the streets of Nikopol. This isn't even a comedy, it's some kind of vaudeville.

He went out into the corridor—long, dark, and empty, like the hope for a bright future. In the distance, from the darkness, a silhouette emerged. Stashkevich peered. It wasn't an employee. It was... potential. Informer Corporal Naum. A man on "probation," whose salary was measured in praise entered in his work record book.
— Naum! — the major boomed, and the corporal, like a spring, jumped in place, clicking his heels. His right hand shot up to his empty head in a soldierly salute.
— Combat mission! — Stashkevich announced, savoring every word. — An enemy of Soviet Power. Artist Epelbaum. Arrest!

Naum turned red with pride and strain. Finally! Not spying, not photographing, not writing down, not copying endless lists, but here it is—real action!
— It will be done, Comrade Major!
— In the office—get the warrant and photo. In the armory—handcuffs. And don't forget the key for them! — Stashkevich shouted after him. — You're responsible for the property!

Naum, puffing up with self-importance, received the warrant in the office (a document looking more like a free pass to a dance floor) and a worn photograph of a smiling man in makeup.
— I know him, - I took his photo myself at the Yampolsky wedding in Nikopol. - Aha, gotcha, kike.
And then a thought struck him: "How will I arrest the enemy without a weapon?"

The thought was so brilliant and unexpected that Naum, forgetting to knock, burst back into the major's office.
— You have to knock! — roared Stashkevich.
— It's just... What if they... start running? Or they have a gun?

The major measured him with a look. A puny corporal against a seasoned artist from the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee. A sight worthy of a circus.
— Naum, they're artists, — Stashkevich explained with resignation. — They know how to run on stage, not from an escort. And their gun, at most, is a prop.
— But I know how to shoot! — Naum declared proudly. — Went to the firing range twice.
— Good for you. You'll get a weapon when you complete the mission with honor. Dismissed.

Corporal Naum Ruzhin, with the warrant in his pocket, the photo in his hand, and handcuffs jingling in his other pocket, marched through the streets of Nikopol. Like a general on parade. He was going to arrest an enemy. A spy. A saboteur. A man who, he imagined, was surely hiding coded messages behind his passport, and behind his smile—insidious plans to blow up the Nikopol Ferroalloy Plant with the power of his velvety baritone.

And in the office, Major Stashkevich again took up his report. Now he was adding a new point: "...and also, due to operational necessity, I request the allocation of one soldier (one unit) for combating particularly cunning enemies of the people, whom the existing corporal staff cannot overcome."

He understood: if an inspection came from the center and saw his only "operational reserve" in the person of Naum arresting an entire theater, then the next "trophy case" would be opened against him.

The air on the Nikopol platform was a thick cocktail of smells. The sweetish smoke of cheap "Belomors" and the pungent makhorka from porters mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the buffet and the faint but persistent smell of kerosene from the storm lamps.

A steam locomotive hooted in the distance, releasing clouds of steam smelling of coal and soot. Anna, holding Ruth's hand, inhaled this familiar mixture with slight anxiety. In the girl's plaid bag, a kitten meowed, destined to travel with them to Kherson and Odessa. Her mother had decided they would pick up Ruth at the Nikopol station on their way from Dnipropetrovsk to Kherson.

— Mom, will Mom and Dad bring me a singing doll from America? — Ruth asked without much enthusiasm. - She was more worried about the kitten's fate.
— They will, sunshine, they definitely will. - Don't call me mom in front of Mom.

From the shadow of the fence, smelling of dust and rust, a pair of eyes burning with zeal watched them. Corporal Naum. He smelled of cheap triple cologne and the stinky sweat of an unwashed body. He clutched the cold, ominously jingling handcuffs in his pocket. His heart pounded with hunting excitement and tension at the sight of the approaching train, like a predator before approaching prey. He swallowed a lump and prepared to pounce.

The train, with a roar and a hiss, burst onto the platform, hitting everyone with a hot wind and the smell of red-hot metal. The carriage doors clanged open. And here they were—the enemies. First Mikhail, tall, in an elegant travel coat, with a tired but inspired face. Then Rozalia, all grace and tremulousness.
— Dad! Mom! — this time Ruth cried out with genuine joy.

And at that moment, Naum stepped between them. His figure, puny and absurd, blocked the light.
— You are under arrest, as enemies of the people and traitors! — he blurted out, and his voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse in the train's roar.

Naum triumphantly clamped the handcuffs on Mikhail's wrist. And immediately his face twisted into a mask of primal horror. The key. Where was the key?

What followed can only be described in the genre of tragic farce in slow motion. As soon as he pulled out the photograph of Epelbaum to check the face, the photo slipped from his swollen fingers and smoothly, performing intricate somersaults, landed on an oily stone. And the key... Oh, that government-issue key, the symbol of the entire Soviet bureaucratic machine, made its small but symbolically great fall.

Click! — it hit the amphibolite granite of the station platform. Hop-skip! — it bounced twice in front of the stunned corporal's nose. And then, describing an elegant rotational parabola, like a ballerina in a fouetté, it darted into a narrow, almost invisible crack between the slabs, littered with cigarette butts and stains of machine oil.

In the ensuing silence, broken only by the snorting of the locomotive, only Naum's internal scream was audible: "The property! The first assignment! How to lock the handcuffs?!" Soviet handcuffs of the pre-war system were copies of the Tsarist ones, you just had to turn the key like in a keyhole.

Naum forgot about the enemies, about Soviet power, about everything. He dropped to his haunches, and then lay down completely on the platform, trying to peer into the treacherous crevice. His rear end, clad in cheap fabric, stuck up in the air, becoming the new center of the universe of the Nikopol station.
— Mom, what is he looking for? — Ruth whispered.
— Something very important, — Anna replied with bitter irony, her experience in the Nikopol underground suggesting that such total idiocy could only be homegrown, Soviet.

And then, as if ordered by a satirical director, a garrison commandant patrol appeared on the platform, conducting its usual duty round. A sergeant and two Red Army soldiers, smelling of boot polish and army porridge.
— What's going on here? — the sergeant thundered, surveying the surreal picture: a crying kitten in a bag, famous artists in bewilderment, and the main hero—the corporal's rear end, engaged in saving state property.
— It's... this... Arrest them! — Naum exhaled, not tearing himself away from the crack. — And the key... the key rolled away! - and again bent down on all fours, and from effort and strain arched so that his breeches ripped right along the seam of his rear end into two hemispheres of the globe - the southern and northern hemisphere.

The crowd at the station roared with laughter.

The sergeant, a man of action, pulled out his bayonet-knife. The clang of metal sounded threatening. But the thickness of the bayonet and the width of the crack were from different measurement systems, like the Party plan and its execution in the Soviet economy in different coordinate systems.

From the crowd, which had already gathered to watch the free show, practical suggestions were heard:
— A spoke from an umbrella!
— Give him an awl!
— Give him an awl in the ass! — that was the verdict already.
— Perhaps we should go? — Mikhail said softly, looking at the rapidly passing minutes before the train's departure. — The train, you know...
— You are under arrest! — Naum squeaked again, but now without any belief in success.

This picture, this pearl of bureaucratic absurdity, reflected not just the state of Abakumov's department. It was the quintessence of the entire system. A giant, clumsy machine that, instead of catching real spies, was chasing its own tail in the form of a lost key.

Embezzlement started with uniforms in supply depots, and then there was no money for new breeches for a corporal. Corruption flourished in offices where they signed pointless orders to arrest an informer denounced by an anonymous letter. False witness was born from the fear of reporting a failure. And lack of control allowed this clownery with a rear end on the platform to be called an "important state assignment."

Replace General Abakumov with Corporal Naum Ruzhin—and absolutely nothing would change in the highest echelons of power. The same empty pocket, the same lost key for repairing the repression machine, the same crack into which common sense, conscience, and human fates disappeared forever.

The commandant sergeant took the shoelaces from Epelbaum's boots, tied his hands with the artist's shoelace, and delivered him to the Nikopol UGB accompanied by Corporal Naum Ruzhin. And Rozalia, Anna, Ruth with the singing doll from America, and the kitten Baritone remained on the platform of the Nikopol station. Train number six-nine to Kherson left without the artists...
... The air in the small Goldovsky house, which usually smelled of bread and children's diapers, was today filled with anxiety and spiritual fear for their future. Anna, Roza, and Ruth, returning from the station, huddled in a tight circle in the room. Mikhail, hearing the noise, came out of the adjacent room; in his arms, little Sophia was dozing but beginning to whimper with unease.
— Quiet, quiet, girls, — he said tiredly, rocking his daughter. — I just got her to sleep.

But it was impossible to lull the anxiety. It hung in the house like the smell of smoke.
— We have to get used to this life, Roza, — Anna said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the back of a chair as if this action required all her strength. Her voice was lifeless, like a faded photograph.
— Get used to it? To what? To the fact that anyone on the street can be pinched like a thief? — Rozalia's voice rang with restrained tears and anger. She was all nerves, her elegant hands, accustomed to smooth gestures on stage, now convulsively wrung her fingers.

Mikhail, still not understanding, looked from his wife to Roza.
— Explain again, in order. What escort? What "scarecrow"?
— There, you see, this... this bug in a uniform! — Roza didn't let Anna speak, pouring out her indignation. — A garden-variety scarecrow! Knee-high to a grasshopper, shifty eyes! Grabs Misha by the hands, click—handcuffs! And then... — she choked on a mixture of shame and fury, — then he got down on all fours in front of us! Crawled on the dirty platform, looking for the key he dropped! It wasn't an arrest, Misha. It was a circus! A pathetic, terrifying circus!

At this time, Ruth, finally waiting for a pause, tugged at her father's jacket hem.
— Did Dad bring me the doll? The one with the closing eyes and it says ma-ma?
Her childish, naive delight hung in the air as an ominous counterpoint. Mikhail looked at his adopted daughter, and such pain flashed in his eyes that Anna couldn't bear it and turned away.
— It's good that he brought it, little fish, he brought it, — he answered hoarsely, stroking her head.
— Misha, — Anna spoke again, now quietly and very seriously, approaching her husband. — We need to hide Ruth and Roza somewhere. Now. Today.

Mikhail slowly shook his head, pressing the now awake and crying Sophia to his chest.
— Where? We can't hide them. They'll find them anyway. This machine... it grinds everyone down. Do you think they don't know who is where?
— Then we need to separate them, — Anna insisted, her eyes burning with determination forged in the underground. — Let's leave Ruth with us. And Roza... Roza will leave incognito for Leningrad. With Klavdia Lvovna, my aunt. They won't find her there. A big city, strangers.
— Do you realize that our family is in danger now too? — Mikhail's voice broke. He wasn't just talking about himself and Anna; he was looking at the crying Sofa. — If they find the daughter of an "enemy of the people" with us... and the sister of an "enemy of the people"... They'll grind us all into camp dust, Anna! Our whole family!
— Misha, — Anna came close to him and put a hand on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes. — It has to be this way. There is no other way. We can't betray them.

Her tone had that same steel that helped her survive in the underground. Mikhail saw it and couldn't argue. He silently nodded, holding his daughter close.
— So it's decided.

The decision was terrible but clear. Through reliable people, for a bottle of samogon and hidden gold earrings, they organized a cart to Kryvyi Rih for Rozalia, from where she could flee further, getting lost in the streams of people. Roza left at night, without tears, with dry, burning eyes, leaving her daughter in Anna's care. Ruth stayed.

A few days later, through "big connections" and for a lot of money, a new birth certificate appeared in the Nikopol registry office. Khristinskaya Ruf Mikhailovna. Sophia's cousin, orphaned after a bombing. The irony of fate was bitter: both her real father and her new "father" on paper bore the same name—Mikhail.

Several months passed. Autumn came. One evening, a letter arrived with a courier from Leningrad. Short, written with a chemical pencil. "R. has been taken. That same night. In the JAC case."

Mikhail sat for a long time with this scrap of paper in his hands, looking at the sooty wall of the stove.
— Why didn't they just stay in America on tour? — he whispered, and his voice held not so much condemnation as bitter, powerless bewilderment. — They could have stayed...
Anna, standing at the table setting it for dinner, answered without intonation, resignedly.
— Many artists stay. But then their relatives who stayed in the Union... all of them. They arrest everyone. It's a standard procedure.

She approached her husband, took the letter from his hands, and threw it into the firebox. The flame greedily licked the paper.
— You understand, — she continued, looking at the fire, — that Golda Meir just came to Moscow? There was a big rally. And all the Jews who came to see her, who came out onto the street... all of them. Over a thousand people. Already arrested.
— Yes, — Mikhail nodded, not taking his eyes off the fire. — And in Pravda, and in Izvestia... they started writing about the "Zionist conspiracy." About "rootless cosmopolitans." The steamroller is starting, Anna. A new steamroller.

Anna turned to him. There was no fear in her eyes. Only a tired, infinite resolve.
— It's alright, Misha. We'll survive this too. We've already survived so much.

She went to the shelf where two modest copper Sabbath candles stood. It was Friday. Evening was beginning. In the house where they were hiding someone else's daughter and burying their own past, the candles still had to be lit. It wasn't a question of faith. It was a question of resistance. Of the silence, light, and memory they refused to surrender to the surrounding darkness...

... Life in the small house in Nikopol was still no picnic, but, against all odds, it went on. In May 1953, two months after Stalin's death, Anna and Mikhail's third daughter was born.

According to Jewish custom, the girl was named Chana – "grace," "favor." This name was like a quiet prayer, a hope for a life that would finally become gracious and favorable. In the "birth certificate" column at the Nikopol registry office, she remained forever Tatyana Mikhailovna Khristinskaya. Chana became the fourth generation in the line stretching from great-grandmother Yael and the sculptor Artem, the very one who once carved the stone slabs for the Nikopol station platform.

The irony of fate was striking: that very amphibolite from the Tokovsky quarry, laid by the hands of her great-grandfather in the distant year 1905, proved stronger than all the state systems that tried to establish themselves on it. Until 1955, no major repair of the platform was done—the stone was that strong.

 Now, in that very Tokovsky quarry where the free stonecutter Artem once worked, prisoners labored, manually extracting the same granite-amphibolite for the "construction projects of communism." However, for the zeks of the Dnipropetrovsk region, the breadbasket of the Ukrainian SSR, where winters were relatively mild, this was considered not the hardest ordeal. Not Siberia, where fierce frosts froze the soul along with the body.

It seemed that with Stalin's departure, a new era was beginning. The birth of Chana-Tanya coincided with this tremulous moment of hope. First Malenkov came to the helm, talking about the "well-being of the people," then he was replaced by Khrushchev, praising corn. In the newspapers that Mikhail read, sitting on the porch, there was no longer that bestial snarl, but the ghosts of the recent past still hung in the air.

From the central newspapers—Pravda and Izvestia—one could learn that the "Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee," which had turned into a "Zionist" one in official rhetoric, had been finally "liquidated." Behind these dry bureaucratic words stood the lives of the best minds and talents, executed without trial or investigation: Perets Markish, Itzik Fefer, David Bergelson, David Hofstein, Lev Kvitko, Boris Shimeliovich, Veniamin Zuskin. This list, like a bloody stream, flowed through the pages of history: Yuzefovich, Talmi, Vetenberg, Teumin, Lozovsky...

A series of executions—this was the ordinary, everyday life in the Soviet country, which they preferred not to shout about, but which everyone knew.
— Nothing changes, Anna, — Mikhail said, putting down the newspaper. — Only the names on the Mausoleum tribune change. Now they'll make us plant corn, but the essence... — he looked meaningfully at his wife, — the essence remains. The same crack in the platform where you can lose anything.

Anna, rocking little Chana in her arms, nodded. She believed in the best, but her faith was cautious, hard-won.
— They there, in Moscow, can stomp their heels on the UN tribune, promising "peaceful coexistence," but here, in Nikopol, it's the same dust on the roads. And the same stone.

She went to the window and looked towards the station, the very one where the puny corporal Naum once tried in vain to pry the key from the crack in the amphibolite slab carved by her great-grandfather. The stone had outlasted the Tsars, the war, the repressions, and would outlast much more. And people... people were only temporary shadows on its eternal, unyielding surface.

The country was entering the era of corn and stagnation, but for the Khristinsky family, one thing remained paramount: to live quietly, raise their daughters, and light candles on Fridays, peering into their flickering flame in search of an answer to the question of when their life would finally become truly "Chana"—gracious...

... The evening in the Khristinsky house was as quiet and cozy as the light of the lampshade on the table under which Mikhail was sharpening a kitchen knife. The children were already asleep. The large room had that special order that remains after a noisy children's day: a doll neatly seated in the corner of the sofa, a stack of notebooks on the whatnot, a sheet of music with scales on the piano.

Anna, knitting by the window, put down her needles and looked carefully through the slightly open door to the children's room.
— Look, Mikhail, — she said quietly. — Ruth, as the eldest of the children, has taken charge of Chana. Put her to bed, read her a story. A fourteen-year difference... it's like a second mother, not just a sister. Her experience shows. She helps Sophia with mathematics, and now looks after little Chana. Leading the younger ones—it's in her blood.

Mikhail put down the kitchen knife, felt the blade with his thumb.
— Yes, a golden girl. And imagine, the Epelbaums—Misha and Roza—were amnestied, pardoned. The papers wrote—"for lack of evidence." Only eight years of life taken, and that's considered good. — Bitter irony sounded in his voice. — But look, Ruth isn't in a hurry to return to them. She writes to Leningrad, of course, but to go... she doesn't want to. Says: "My parents are here."
— She grew up here, Misha. For her, we are the parents. And they... are like distant, slightly blurred memories from another life. I feel sorry for them, of course. But Ruth's heart is here.

They were silent, listening to the ticking of the clock and the even breathing of their daughters from the next room.
— And our Chana-Tanya... — Anna's face lit up with a smile, — is growing up to be a very smart and such a temperamental child. Not a screamer, but stubborn. Today she could sit over her copybooks for an hour, two, until all the hooks and sticks came out perfectly.

I say: "Chanusha, that's enough, rest." And she tells me: "No, Mama, my calligraphy isn't beautiful enough yet." And in the dance club it's the same story—has to be the best. She gets along with her sisters, there's never been jealousy or misunderstandings between them. As if fate itself sent us such a golden child to compensate for all the past anxieties.
— Those are your genes, Anna, — Mikhail smiled. — Your stubbornness. Remember how you insisted that we teach them all the traditions?

Anna nodded. They both thought with pride about how on Fridays, before Shabbat, the girls lit candles together, and on Saturdays they read aloud passages from the Torah in Hebrew and then in Russian, sitting together on the big sofa. And Chanu, with her serious little face and clear voice, was always held up as an example to the younger ones—not as a reproach, but as a model of diligence.

— She's gifted, — Mikhail continued with paternal pride. — Both a dancer and on the piano... It's a bit far to the music school, on the other end of the city, but no one complains. Sometimes Sophia accompanies her, sometimes Ruth, sometimes you and I take turns. The city has grown, Nikopol isn't what it used to be. New districts, factories... Life goes on.
— And your limp is almost unnoticeable now, — Anna shifted her gaze to her husband. — That prosthetic you and Doctor Kop invented... that thickened sole... it really helps?
— Good as new, — Mikhail confirmed, slapping his palm on his boot with the almost invisible five-centimeter thickening. — Those wretched five millimeters I lacked for a full life... and just a piece of leather and rubber changed everything. Sometimes the simplest things solve the most complex problems.

Silence settled in the house again, comfortable and peaceful. The children grew, the parents worked—Anna as an accountant, Mikhail as a handyman fixing appliances at home, the children studied. Everything was fine with the Khristinsky family. It seemed the past, with its platforms, arrests, and fears, was far behind, like train smoke, like the pre-dawn mist over the Dnieper cliffs.

And suddenly, looking at the candle flame burning down on the table, Anna spoke in a completely different, muted voice, as if falling into a long-forgotten basement of memory:
— Mikhail... Do you remember I told you about Olga?

Mikhail frowned, sorting through names and faces in his memory.
— Olga?... The one you dragged by the hair on the Nikopol station platform when the Germans were still in the city? The one who worked with the police?
— Yes, yes, that one, — Anna became animated, her eyes narrowed, an old, unburned coal of hatred flaring up in them. — I suddenly became terribly curious today... whatever happened to her? She didn't just disappear. She served the Germans, was an informer, betrayed people. Where did she go after the liberation?

Mikhail shrugged, his expression becoming tired and cynical.
— Probably our people imprisoned her. As a collaborator. Or maybe even shot her. Back then, in '44-'45, they didn't stand on ceremony with them.
— No, no, Misha, you didn't know her, — Anna shook her head, her voice becoming firm and confident. — She's not the type to just get caught up in the sweep. She's very cunning, slippery as an eel.

She always had "protection." I'm sure she hid somewhere. Under false documents, under a different biography. Got married, changed her name, and is living quietly somewhere, maybe in that same Dnipropetrovsk, raising children.
— Quite possible, — Mikhail sighed. He looked at the neat rows of books on the shelf, at his peacefully sleeping daughters, at his homemade prosthetic, and a bitter smile touched the corners of his lips.

 — That's how our government works, Anna, always so ham-fisted. Some, the innocent ones, like the Epelbaums, get dragged through prisons for eight years, then "amnestied" and "rehabilitated." And the real scoundrels, like your Olga, escape responsibility. Our system gives them the freedom to continue their mischief and theft, just under a different sauce. They probably sit in district committees or trade departments now, getting medals on their jackets. The system is the same. Only the signs change.

Anna sighed, went to the window, and drew the curtain. The stars over Nikopol were cold and indifferent.
— Yes, the system is one. But you and I survived. And our children are growing up good. Let them know nothing of the past. And that platform, remember? That very one, amphibolite... it will probably stand longer than all of us and all these Soviet systems.

 

Chapter 25. The Levers of Power in the Most "Deserving" Hands

The evening in the Kryvyi Rih flat of the Osipovs was slightly tainted by the smoke from the Kryvyi Rih Metallurgical Plant. Timofey looked at his wife with unconcealed self-satisfaction.
– Well, Olga? I'm a respected man now, one might say, – he blurted out. – Not some two-bit hustler, but the deputy manager of the district trade department's supply warehouses. The little sweeteners, clear as day, they bring them themselves, just so I'll sign the invoices. Life's a bowl of cherries.

Olga, standing by the stove and stirring the borscht, smirked. Her smile was sly, wolfish.
– And I, Timosha, have just written an application.

Timofey grew alert, propping himself up on an elbow.
– An application? For what? Don't tell me it's for the police, so we end up paupers? – he laughed nervously.
– I've written an application to the CPSU. To join.

Timofey nearly jumped.
– Have you taken leave of your senses, woman?! – he hissed, glancing at the wall as if eavesdroppers stood behind it. – There's a purge in the ranks on right now! They're combing through every third man like sheep! They'll heat up a bunk for us traitors so hot, steam will rise from under the planks!
– Oh, they won't arrest us, – Olga parried calmly, with defiance. – I've thought something up for them, you see. A scheme.
– And what could the likes of you possibly think up? – Timofey laughed again, but now with a note of curiosity. Their entire married life had been built on her "schemes."
– I've thought up a way to take an extra ten kopecks from every salesgirl at the market. Not for my pocket, but nominally. A "commission levy."

Timofey wrinkled his brow.
– And what is that, this "commission" of yours? Sounds like a lot of nonsense.
– It's like this, – Olga approached the table and sat opposite her husband, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. – So that the market director brings the district committee secretary five hundred rubles every month. A little incentive. In clean cash. No invoices involved. So even the accountant doesn't know.

Timofey whistled. Five hundred rubles was an ungodly amount of money.
– And so? Did you get it through?
– But of course! – Olga uttered triumphantly. – They didn't just accept me into the party, they put me up for promotion straight away. I'm now in charge of several clothing ateliers and shoe repair shops. The position is called 'Head of Consumer and Public Services.'
– You don't say? – Timofey looked at his wife with new, respectful admiration. – So that's... essentially a cooperative?
– Aha, – Olga nodded. – A legal shop. Where cooperative trade in goods made by invalids at home is permitted: string bags, house slippers, skipping ropes, brooms. And we provide just the price tag and the display window. And the money – for ourselves. That's the whole scheme.
– Well, you are a right one, Olga... – Timofey shook his head in admiration. – What a piece of work!
– You've got to keep your nose to the grindstone, – she noted philosophically. – Now we'll wangle a new flat from the district committee in a prestigious area, not in this dirty, stinking proletarian one where the factory winds don't let you breathe.

She fell silent, glanced towards the room where their eldest daughter was doing her homework.
– So, where will Rima go to study? It'll be time for her soon.
– Where? – Timofey waved his hand. – Into trade, clear as day. The trade technical college. So she knows how to make money stick to money.
– The one that opened last year?
– Yes. The Kryvyi Rih Technical College of Soviet Trade, Timofey said proudly.
– Let her go.
– But she's still too young! Only fourteen. Still a child.
– Well, she can apply in a year. There's time. Let's agree on that.

The fate of Rima Osipova was sealed - the Kryvyi Rih Technical College of Soviet Trade. Neither of them could then have imagined that their daughter, raised on falsified documents and having absorbed, like a sponge, the philosophy of 'working the system,' would find herself on her pre-diploma trade practice in that very city where, once upon a time, her great-grandmother Olesya had lost her cosmetics on the amphibolite platform when she was abandoned by Toviy. Back then, a clash of two systems of coordinates began, a feud and a struggle between two branches of a Jewish family, tracing their origin back to Cain and Abel…

…An episode from the past. During breaks, the corridors of Kryvyi Rih Elementary School Number Four exploded with deafening noise. Shrieks, the stomping of feet running for the exit, loud slaps on doors, fragments of teasing rhymes, and bursts of laughter—all merged into one continuous din, against which life carried on as usual. And the main focal point in this chaos was Rima Osipova from the 4th "A".

There was one item in short supply in the classes – dry kissel in little square fifty-gram packets. The big ones, for housewives, interested no one, but these small ones, which you could chew and suck, became the currency, the meaning, and the passion. And the little kissel suddenly disappeared.

One evening at dinner, Rima, picking at her potatoes with a fork, asked:
— Papa, why has the little kissel disappeared from the shops? Completely.

Timofey, her father, who worked in the district consumer union, put down his newspaper.
— The factory in Kiev is under repair, – he sighed. – For three months, at least.
— What, you don't have any at all in your warehouse? Not a single packet? – his daughter persisted, making big, interested eyes.
— We ran out last week. They say there are some leftovers in the Nikopol district trade department, but that's nonsense.
— Well, order it from them, Papa! Please! – Rima clasped her hands in supplication.

Timofey looked at her suspiciously.
— And why do you need it? You didn't eat that much of it before.

Rima pursed her lips, feigning offense.
— I'm going to be a businesswoman, like you and Mama! You're always talking about supplies and shortages. Well, here's a shortage!

Her father laughed.
— Well, I never! And how much of this kissel do you need, little businesswoman?
— A thousand, – Rima blurted out briskly.

Timofey choked.
— Have you gone off your rocker, girl! A thousand packets? That's an article for speculation! They'll put me on trial, and you'll end up in an orphanage!
— Don't be afraid, – Rima reassured him with a serious look. – I'll sell them one at a time. That's not speculation, it's... satisfying consumer demand.

Upon hearing such a statement from the mouth of a fourth-grader, Timofey was utterly defeated. He waved his hand: "Do what you want, but I know nothing about it."

And so it began.

In the morning, fifteen minutes before the first bell, a real queue formed near the coatracks by Rima's classroom. Jostling, impatient shouts: "Rima, I'm first!", "Two for me, Rima, I have the change!" She, like a cashier at a factory gate, stood with a satchel stuffed with packets of kissel and kept a precise "ledger."

— Rima, two for me! – said a girl with a bow the size of her two fists, holding out three ten-kopeck coins.
— Take them, – Rima threw out shortly, handing over the coveted squares and taking the money. – Next!
— Three for me! – a ruddy boy, secretly in love with Rima, pushed forward, now buying at an inflated price just to attract her attention.
— Forty-five kopecks, – Rima rattled off, not even looking at him. Her cash register was in her head.

Soon, the rumor of the "Kissel Queen" reached the older pupils. (The traitor's father has the same last name, Kisel). At first, they came with smirks, like, let's have a look at this little speculator. But the craving for sweets was stronger than pride.
— Hey, fourth-grader, – a ninth-grader with the first hint of a moustache called her over. – Is it true you sell kissel?
— True, – Rima answered coolly. – Fifteen kopecks.
— Here's fifty kopecks, give me four. Keep the change.

It was precisely like this, without change, for the "clout," that Rima gained incredible weight in the eyes of the older kids. Her first one hundred rubles, earned in two weeks, were mostly heavy, silver change that weighed down the pocket of her coat.
— Mama, change this small change for paper money for me, – she asked one evening, dumping a clinking pile onto the table.

Olga, Rima's mother, gasped, then laughed and hugged her daughter.
— Oh, what a clever girl you are! Just like me, a real little homemaker! Not like some scatterbrain. Alright, I'll change it for paper roubles tomorrow.

Rima finished March, April, and May with nothing but fours and fives. She could calculate in her head instantly, outpacing those who diligently clicked away on abacuses. By the eighth grade, her business empire had expanded. Now she didn't just have customers, but her own "authoritative" senior pupils who looked out for her, fended off overly persistent clients, and proudly said: "You know Rima? She's one of ours." Some of them, of course, confessed their love to her, but Rima, with a child's perceptiveness, understood—it was more of an infatuation with her business acumen and the opportunities that money provided.

With money, she could gain authority not only with the older pupils but also with adults when it was necessary to get something in short supply—be it a fashionable pin, foreign chewing gum, or a ticket to a newly released film. And this authority was far more solid than that of any straight-A student or the prettiest girl in school…
…In Kryvyi Rih of the late sixties, a shortage wasn't just a word, it was a state of mind. Especially for girls. It was a longing for beauty, packaged in the drabness of the standard. In the "Goods for Women" shops, the dreary Soviet standard reigned: beige bras resembling harnesses, flesh-coloured tights that immediately developed ladders, and "Sputnik" soap with a scent that evaporated before it even touched the skin.

Teenage girls, whose awakening femininity yearned for elegance and uniqueness, felt this especially acutely. They could spend hours handling the same ugly plastic hairband in the "Children's World," knowing there would be nothing else, and envy their Moscow peers from the "Rabotnitsa" magazine, whose outfits seemed like visitors from another planet.

It was in this fertile environment that Rima Osipova's entrepreneurial talent blossomed with renewed force. Having enrolled in the Kryvyi Rih Trade Technical College, she quickly realized that her previous scale was child's play. Her commercial appetite grew exponentially, and her empire and sphere of interests stretched far beyond her hometown.

Now she had a real "racket," and her own, trusted people in Dnepropetrovsk, Kiev, and Odessa. Through them flowed forbidden rivers of fashion: French mascara, Polish lipstick, Hungarian shoes with "stiletto" heels.

But she set off a real bomb when the hosiery factory in Dnepropetrovsk released its first, experimental batch of black stockings. This wasn't just an item, it was a manifesto. Rima got them first in the entire technical college and wore them to the May Day demonstration.

The effect was staggering. Her slender legs in the sheer, elegant stockings, contrasting with the dreary trousers and thick tights of the other girls, made her the centre of the universe. There were four times fewer boys in the technical college, and their admiring, glued-on stares were only natural. Legs like a magnet.

Legs – the centre of the universe for the boys. But most acutely, Rima felt the gazes of her girlfriends and classmates. It was a whole gamut of emotions: from open, heart-squeezing envy to silent admiration and a burning desire to possess the same magic. Whispers behind her back: "Look, Osipova! Where from?", "Must be from a commission shop..." – but everyone understood that such things weren't found in Kryvyi Rih's commission shops.

She was summoned by the senior instructor, the formidable Vasilina Stepanovna, "Vaska," as she was called behind her back, the living embodiment of Soviet morality in a jacket with worn-out elbows.
— Osipova, what is this nonsense? – she began, measuring Rima with a stern look. – Who do you think you look like? Dressed up like some... like a lady of the night from the Odessa train station! You're violating discipline! Soviet morals and ethics!

But Rima wasn't flustered. She knew "Vaska's" weak spot. She had a daughter, two years older than Rima, just as stuck in Kryvyi Rih's shortages and dreaming of beauty.
— Vasilina Stepanovna, – Rima parried quietly but confidently, – I can get the same for your Larisa.

The senior instructor's stern face twitched. Indecision flickered in her eyes, followed by a greedy, lively interest.
— Really... you can? – her voice softened half a tone. – Only, you know... not so flashy. Something... more modest.

And then Rima performed her signature move, the gesture of a true magician dissolving the boundaries of Soviet reality. She opened her satchel and pulled out not a notebook, but a thin, battered, foreign catalogue of tights and stockings. The paper was glossy, and the models in the photos weren't Soviet workers, but smiling Frenchwomen in elegant shoes and silky lingerie.

Vasilina Stepanovna's eyes nearly popped out of her head.
— Where did you get this?! – she exhaled, unable to tear her eyes away from the bright pages.
— From Odessa, – Rima answered with the pride of a professional dealer. – Sailors brought it.

At that moment, she saw it—her supervisor, the senior instructor, the "commissar" of the entire technical college, was now looking at her not down her nose, but from below. Her authority had cracked and crumbled before the magic of the imported catalogue. She was at Rima's feet, or rather, at her connecting bridges to the world of abundance.
— Alright, – Vasilina Stepanovna surrendered, and her voice held an almost pleading note. – I'll give you the sizes tomorrow... for Larisa.

Rima, seeing her pleading, silent question, nodded with the grandeur of a queen graciously distributing alms.
— I'll find something for you, too. Not like these, of course, – she nodded significantly at her own legs, – but "more modest."

Thus, in her first year, Rima transformed from a simple student into the true queen of the trade technical college. Her power rested not on statutes, but on a delicate web of shortages, women's dreams, and the ability to fulfil those dreams. She was the shadow minister of fashion in a single, separate Kryvyi Rih citadel…

…The evening was sultry, smelling of heated asphalt and acacia. Olga, unpacking groceries in the kitchen, heard her daughter running around the room, getting a suitcase. Rima appeared in the doorway, her eyes burning with the excitement of long roads and profitable deals.
— Mama, oh Mama, – she began, approaching the table and taking an apple. — I'm going to Odessa. With some girlfriends. For three days.

Olga looked at her, putting down a packet of buckwheat.
— Oh? – she asked simply, letting it be known the news wasn't unexpected. — Go on. You're a grown woman.

But maternal concern, honed over the years, overcame her demonstrative calm.
— And where will you sleep? You're not planning on guarding the train stations, are you?
— Oh, Mama, really! – Rima snorted. — At Auntie Sveta's. That's my friend Oksana's own aunt, she lives there, on Deribasovskaya. She's taking us, me and another friend, Polya.

Olga took off her glasses, and her face broke into a sly, understanding smile. She knew her daughter.
— What, more "racket"? – she asked, winking.

Rima struck the pose of a successful businesswoman, hand on hip.
— But of course! – she replied with the unmistakable intonation of someone confident in their profit. — And now... – she made a dramatic pause, looking her mother straight in the eye, — now, Mama, I'll soon earn enough for a cooperative flat and move out from you to my own place.
Olga laughed, shaking her head.
— You're still a young'un! You're not even eighteen. A flat... – she sighed, but her eyes showed pride. Then her expression softened, became caring. — Listen, I've been meaning to ask... You've never brought a beau home. And how come you don't have a suitor? So beautiful, successful, and all alone.

Rima waved her hand contemptuously, as if swatting away a bothersome fly.
— Mama, just look at these Kryvyi Rih simpletons! Who'd want to bother with them? I need... – she screwed up her eyes, picturing the ideal, — someone tall, slender, curly-haired, and who can play the guitar. And earns money. Well, at least half of what I earn. Well... or at least a quarter.
— My dear girl, – Olga said with sudden tenderness. — Who could ever hold a candle to you? That businessman who earns as much as you do at your age hasn't been born yet. — She paused, looking at her daughter with a slight sadness. — And have you never been in love? Properly, foolishly, with your heart?
— No, Mama, – Rima answered honestly, and her voice momentarily lost its businesslike edge, becoming simply the voice of a young girl. — They all cling to me. Even those five years older. But among the Kryvyi Rih lads, there's no one like the one I imagine.
— And who do you imagine? – Olga asked with genuine curiosity.

Rima, as if she'd been waiting for this question, nimbly jumped up and brought from her room a cherished, well-thumbed imported magazine of French men's fashion. She triumphantly opened it to a bookmarked page and poked her finger at the photo of a tall, casually dressed man with a proud profile.
— This one. Curly, tall, slender, thin face, nose with a bump.

Olga peered at it and burst out laughing, her laughter ringing and slightly caustic.
— Why, he's a proper Jew from France! There are heaps of Jews like that in Nikopol and Odessa. Go to the synagogue, there are dozens of them.

A tense pause hung in the kitchen. Rima closed the magazine and looked at her mother with defiance.
— Mama... I've been wanting to ask you for a long time. Are you a Jewess? Or is Papa a Jew?

Olga's face instantly became serious, almost stern. She lowered her voice to a whisper, although there was no one else in the flat.
— Daughter. Hush. Not a word about that. – She drew a circle in the air with her finger, indicating the walls, which, as everyone knew, have ears. — I am a Jewess. And even my mother was a Jewess, and my grandmother. You are a full-blooded Jewess, too. Only we don't keep the laws and we don't go to the synagogue. Our faith is money.

Rima, digesting this information, asked the next, inevitable question, her voice growing quieter:
— And... have you never wanted to know where your mother is?

Olga's face contorted with sudden pain. She stood up abruptly, pushing back her chair.
— Hush, I said! Be quiet. I don't want to know. And you don't need to know.

Rima, understanding she had touched something deeply hidden and painful, immediately backed off. She went up to her mother, hugged her shoulders.
— As you say, Mama. Tomorrow I'm leaving for Odessa on the morning train. You'll still be asleep at six.

Olga turned, looking at her grown-up, independent, equally stubborn and prematurely matured daughter. Tears welled in her eyes—from memories, from pride, from fear for her. She reached out and stroked Rima's cheek with her palm.
— Alright, alright, my beauty. My queen. Go. Just be careful.

That "be careful" referred not only to the trip but to her entire life, to her overflowing commercial talent, to her search for a non-existent ideal, and to that "fascist" legacy which the family preferred to keep silent about…

The train carried them away from the dusty, metallurgical-plant-smell-saturated Kryvyi Rih towards the sea breeze and incredible opportunities. Rima, settled by the window, didn't look at the passing fields—she was studying a tattered Russian-English phrasebook. Her knowledge was limited to pitiful "Do you speak English?" and "How much?". But the information "in her little beak," received from her people in Odessa, was worth it: the legendary British liner Queen Elizabeth was standing in the roads. A whole floating island of forbidden Western chic.

The thought of how to approach such seasoned sea wolves caused a slight tremble. But fear wasn't for Rima Osipova. She had developed a strategy. The journey to Odessa passed to the accompaniment of a whispered refrain:
"You… a-re… gre-e-eat guy." You're a good chap.
"Boat… tri-i-p." Take me to the ship.
"Ma-a-ay da-ay." A date.

This linguistic arsenal, in her opinion, was to slay the Englishmen outright.

She wasn't afraid of the customs officers and border guards in the port. This was her native element—the element of the deal. She knew how to buy them off: not only with money and a pack of gum, but with a spectacle. For this, she had her two loyal friends, Oksana and Polya, whom upon arrival in Odessa she, like a stage director, dressed according to patterns from Parisian fashion magazines.

From modest Kryvyi Rih girls, they transformed into fatal Frenchwomen: bouffant hairdos, bright lipstick, snow-white dresses emphasising their figures, and, most importantly, those very black stockings and stiletto heels one could only dream of in the Soviet Union.

And when, during the day, this trio clicked their heels onto the stone pier, it wasn't just an entrance, it was a performance. White silhouettes against the blue water, laughter ringing louder than seagulls, the rustle of silk, and a promise hanging in the air. The bored, tired-from-monotony border guards and customs officers lost not only their vigilance but also the power of speech. They followed them with admiring, slightly bewildered glances, forgetting to ask for passes.

 Rima walked ahead, like the commander of a landing party, throwing languid glances and slight nods at the posts—a silent language that said: "We're one of you, we're beautiful, don't interfere," and to each she tossed boxes of gum on the go like feeding birds.

The formation click-click-click-click led them to the place in the bay where, from the roads, a boat from the giant ship QE2 was delivering English sailors, who missed solid ground and female company, to the shore. Rima chose her target—the first officer to disembark, young, dapper, with a neat moustache.
"You are great guy!" – she blurted out, approaching him, and before he knew it, she ran her palm over his cheek. The gesture was both brazen and tender.

The officer, whose name was Albert, froze. His eyes, accustomed to sea distances, grew misty from such a swift attack. Before him stood three embodied fantasies, three mermaids who had come ashore from Odessa. He muttered something in English, but Rima, beaming a victorious smile, was no longer listening.

She needed only one thing—a pass onto the ship.
"Boat trip?" – she asked, making an expressive gesture towards the cruise giant. Albert, still under the spell, only nodded in confusion.

Her friends, Oksana and Polya, watched their leader with admiration. They idolised Rima and knew—she wouldn't miss. And so it happened. Under the pretext of a "tour," Rima was escorted on board. And while her friends charmed the border guards and customs officers, laughing at their jokes, Rima conducted business negotiations.

She pointed at jeans, perfumes, cassette players in the cabins and said: "How much?.. More… friend… Odessa." Her "business English" was primitive, but the thirst for a deal and the magic she radiated were a universal language. She took addresses and contacts, arranged for "parcels" through trusted sailors, and outlined a scheme for future supplies.

And she didn't miss. That night became the start of her new, international operation. Having made the necessary contacts, she established the first, still fragile but so promising, bridge of smuggling straight from Britain into the Soviet Union, hungry for Western glamour. Leaving the ship that evening, holding the cherished business cards and written names in her purse, Rima understood—the world had become smaller, and her empire—larger…

…Gena Yampolsky, the child of the sturdy Jewish union of Yakov and Bela, had gone entirely and completely in his looks to his mother. From Bela he had inherited not just features, but a whole picturesque picture: blue-black curls, unruly and lush, dark, enormous eyes in which, it seemed, the secrets of an ancient people swam, and an elegant nose with a proud bump that gave his face a noble, almost biblical expression. But he became tall, lean, and wiry thanks to the genetics of grandfather Yampolsky, a man whose image in his grandson's memory had faded to the transparency of old parchment. When he was six – his grandfather passed away.

In the cool, wax-and-antiquity-scented silence of the synagogue, he was sometimes addressed by grey-haired old men with penetrating eyes, their faces inscribed with wrinkle-chronicles.
— Aren't you, by any chance, Yampolsky's grandson? – a voice would suddenly sound, rattling like a double bass string.
— Yes! Yes, – Gena would respond, and in that short word sounded not just a statement of fact, but a quiet, overflowing pride. Pride in his belonging, in the sonorous surname, in the fact that he was a link in this long chain of generations. — I'm his grandson.
— Shalom, a big shalom to your father and mother. – This ritual response was a blessing for Gena, a sign of acceptance in the community, and he carried it in his heart like the most precious relic.

The world of Jewish education in Nikopol was quiet, almost secret. The "Cheder Achat Tmimim" for boys existed in a semi-underground dimension; only a narrow, close-knit circle of initiates knew about it, speaking their own special language—Hebrew mixed with Yiddish. But the "Beit Yehudit"—the closed school for girls at the synagogue—was more widely known, as it was famous as a music school, from which came not the strict speeches of rabbis, but the pure, spring-like strains of piano and girls' voices.

Strict Jewish custom erected an invisible but sturdy wall between the worlds of boys and girls. Khana-Tanya, the daughter of Anna and Mikhail Khristinsky, was for Gena an almost mythical being—beautiful and unattainable. She was almost a year older, and he only occasionally, out of the corner of his eye, glimpsed her slender figure, caught her light, leafy-whisper of a laugh coming from the direction of their school. He simply knew that there was such a Tanya, that she had hair the colour of ripe almonds, and that she studied in the music class. Nothing more.

Gena, whose soul was drawn to music, took lessons on the seven-string guitar. But the wind of change brought new trends—the bold, modern chords of six-string stage guitars were sounding everywhere. One of his friends, seeing his confusion, whispered to him like a brother: "Listen, go see Moishe, he teaches at 'Beit Yehudit.' He's a virtuoso, he knows these new modes like the back of his hand."

And so, on one of those summer days when the air is thick with the scent of blooming linden trees and the sun lazily dips towards the horizon, Gena, having finished his lessons, stepped out into the small, golden-flooded courtyard of the Cheder. And as if by magic, at that very moment, the doors of "Beit Yehudit" swung open, releasing a swarm of lively, chattering girls.

His heart jumped and beat faster. Gathering all his composure, as a well-bred Jewish youth, he politely, with a light, barely noticeable smile, bowed and said, addressing the whole group:
— Shalom.
— Shalom, – came the answer in a chorus of girls' mischievous voices, melodious as violas.

And then something incredible happened. Khana-Tanya, that very stranger, detached herself from her friends and herself, boldly but with that particular, shy grace characteristic of orthodox girls, approached him. A delicate, bashful blush flooded her cheeks.
— Gena, I know you, – she said, and her voice sounded to him like the sweetest music.
— You're the eldest of Yakov and Bela.

Gena was flattered to the depths of his soul. It felt gratifying and warm to the heart that his parents, his family, were known and named with such warmth.
— Yes, yes, – he nodded, feeling his face burn. — I'm the eldest. And we also have a younger one, Esther.
— And why don't you ask how I know? – Khana-Tanya asked, her eyes sparkling mischievously, tilting her head slightly.

Gena was completely flustered. This directness bowled him over. Everything inside turned upside down, his thoughts tangled into one incoherent knot.
— You… you'll tell me yourself, – he finally squeezed out, trying to appear calm. — Or… or should I guess?
— I'll tell you myself, – she smiled. — At your mother and father's wedding, my grandmother, Maya, sang.

From such detailed, family specifics, Gena was completely embarrassed. He stood there, feeling like a complete ignoramus in his own family's history, and his embarrassment deepened, becoming almost touching.
— I didn't know that myself, – he admitted honestly and suddenly smiled widely, with an infectious, boyish smile. That smile completely washed away all the feigned seriousness from his face. And, yielding to a sudden, bold impulse coming from the very depths of his open soul, he said.
— Let me walk you home.

On that warm, ringing-twilight June evening, under the tender, silken sky, their acquaintance began. And with it, quietly, like the first dew, a secret, tremulous, not yet fully realised infatuation was born in Gena's heart. He was afraid to admit it even to himself, hiding it in the most secret corner of his soul, like a jewel he was afraid to look at in the light of day.

He honoured the Jewish laws not just by performing rituals, but with his whole being, his entire soul, and this nascent feeling was both bliss and torment. Gena had just turned sixteen, and Khana-Tanya was seventeen and a bit, as she put it. They stood on the threshold, beyond which stretched an unexplored, frightening, and alluring country called Life…

This new, secret infatuation lived in Gena parallel to another, no less vivid passion, which was his personal, small form of rebellion against the strict Soviet way of life. As he called it, his "S.S. life" from the first two letters of "Soviet Country." His secularity, which his wise parents preferred not to notice, manifested itself in those very "little pranks" one could turn a blind eye to, provided their son returned from the synagogue on time and didn't miss the Sabbath.

These "pranks" consisted of the fact that behind the closed door of his room, in secret from everyone, he indulged in the magic of "forbidden" sounds. Armed with his six-string guitar, with the zeal of a self-taught musical pioneer, without sheet music or teachers, he picked out chords to songs he caught on his radio receiver tuned to "enemy voices." Through the noise and hiss, as if through an iron curtain, broke the bold rhythms of The Beatles, the incendiary whirlwinds of Emy Stewart, the bawdy, in the elders' opinion, rock 'n' roll of The Rolling Stones, the melancholy folk of The Sledge Sisters, the animal cry of James Brown's "I Got You (I Feel Good)" and the naive, heart-rending duet of "I Got You Babe." The Jamaican group Melodians' "Rivers of Babylon" – that was his favourite.

It was his personal, sonic escape into another, incredibly bright and free world. He didn't just listen—he entered into a dialogue, he became an accomplice. Fingers accustomed to the strict melodies of prayers now searched the fretboard for rebellious rock 'n' roll rhythms. And his greatest pride was a reel-to-reel tape recorder "Yauza," bought with great difficulty. Gena, like an alchemist, conjured over it, recording the captured ether hits onto spools of magnetic tape. He was creating his own phonotheque—a secret treasury, a library of forbidden melodies, where every neatly labelled box was for him not just a recording, but a brick in the wall of his personal freedom.

In this youthful turmoil, where reverence for ancient traditions and the electric thrill from the chords of the Jamaican group Melodians' "Rivers of Babylon" were mixed in his soul, lived his pure, tremulous feeling for Khana-Tanya. These two worlds—the strict one with the warm candles of the synagogue, and the rebellious one with the smell of heated plastic from the tape recorder—were preparing to collide, and the heart of the seventeen-year-old Gena was the field of this battle…

…This idyllic picture of existence, where awe for Tanya and rebellious rock 'n' roll coexisted peacefully in Gena's heart, turned out to be as fragile as the first ice. Providence itself, in the form of the group Melodians, decided to introduce a pinch of destructive chaos into his ordered world.

Gena wasn't just looking for a song. He was looking for his anthem, the soundtrack to his restless soul. And he found it, catching on a fading "Jamaican wave" a groaning, sorrowful and powerful chant: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept when we remembered Zion." It wasn't just music—it was a prayer, but not the kind read in the synagogue, but the kind screamed by a wounded heart. Right away, on the intuition of a genius dilettante, he picked out the bass strings and in a low, velvety baritone, ringing with centuries-old longing, sang this line. It was a triumph of the spirit. An epiphany. He understood that this song would become his credo, his signature piece both in the synagogue, bringing tears to the old men's eyes, and among friends, plunging them into reverent stupor.

But where to get the recording? Friends, those demonic tempters, whispered: "Go to Kryvyi Rih. To the flea market. Look for the queen, Rima. That fairy of the underground will get you Brezhnev's own voice in 24 hours. Just pay up."

The next day, Gena, trembling with impatience like a guitar string, waited for the electric train on the Nikopol platform. Two and a half hours of travel flew by to the hypnotic accompaniment of the wheels, whispering the same magical formula: "By the rivers of Babylon...". He hummed it, muttered it, sang it with his inner voice, already feeling like a prophet carrying a new tablet to the world.

The central market of Kryvyi Rih fell upon him with a cacophony of an alien world—the yells of traders, the smell of rotting vegetables and sweat, rough speech. He, like a lost astronaut, timidly approached a group of "market operators"—beings with stony faces and bull necks.
— I need... Queen Rima, – he squeezed out, feeling his voice drowning in the market din.
— What are you, a king? – one of them, with a face as if carved with an axe, grinned, baring a gold tooth.
— No. I'm Gena.
— What do you want her for?
— I need a record by the group Melodians...
The operators measured him with an appraising, cynical glance, scanning his modest clothes and frightened-yet-proud posture. It was a look reserved for a curious but utterly useless insect.
— Run along, sonny, before you get a thrashing, – the gold-toothed one said dismissively. — You haven't got enough for the Melodians.
— Here! I have! – with naive triumph, Gena, as if producing a magic talisman, pulled out the cherished purple twenty-five rouble note from a secret trouser pocket.
— When you have four of those purple notes, then come back.

Gena's world collapsed. He scratched the back of his head, feeling poor and pathetic. At that very moment, moving through the market like a cruiser through waves, was she—Queen Rima. Accompanied by her faithful cashier-bodyguard, who resembled a tamed bear, she was making the rounds of her domain. And suddenly she stopped, as if running into an invisible wall. Her gaze, sharp and tenacious, hooked onto Gena.

He stood there, unaware that he had become the object of intense study. For Rima, he wasn't just some guy from the market. He was a living illustration from the French magazine "Salut!": black curls, bow-shaped lips, a nose with a bump that gave his face an aristocratic air, a tall, slender figure breathing a kind of otherworldly, intellectual fragility. She admired this strange, antiquarian beauty, like a collector admiring a rare butterfly.
— Should I go find out? – the "bear" hissed.
— Find out what he's after.

The bodyguard lumbered over to Gena.
— Hey, little Jew! What do you want?
— Well, I... don't have enough money, – Gena admitted honestly, still reeling from his defeat.
— Just say—for what?
— A record by the group Melodians... – Gena sighed. And then, to explain that it wasn't a whim but a matter of life and death, to convey the whole gamut of feelings, he again, forgetting everything, sang his magical mantra, his shield and sword: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept when we remembered Zion..."

And a miracle happened. A silent scene. The market roar, that multi-headed dragon, froze. Operators with gaping mouths, market women with cries frozen mid-word—all stared spellbound at this young Levite singing a psalm in the language of enemy radio. It was a grotesque concert in hell.

Rima, like a gorgon, squared her shoulders. Her eyes flashed with the excitement of a huntress who had found not just prey, but a unique trophy.
— Hi. I'm Rima, – she said, coming so close that Gena could smell her sharp perfume. Her voice was low and commanding. — And who are you?
— From Nikopol. Gena.
— What do you need?
— A record by the group Melodians.

Rima's brain, that perfect computer of the black market, instantly performed a calculation. 'Melodians... Odessa... Boatswain Dmitry... Just back from a round-the-world voyage...'
— You'll have to wait a week.
— I'll wait! – Gena exclaimed, and his heart beat in his chest like a bird in a cage. — How much?
— How much what?
— How much money?

Rima smiled the smile of a cat that saw a mouse. She understood she was dealing not with a client, but with an interesting project.
— I'm doing you a favour. But you'll do me a favour in return.
— What kind? – Gena was taken aback.
— This kind. You'll come with me right now to that restaurant over there and tell me everything.
— Tell you what?
— Who you are? Who your parents are? What you do?
— Is it necessary? – a note of panic sounded in his voice.
— Well, then you won't get the Melodians.
— Alright... alright, I'll tell you. Only when I get the record. Right now I'm not really ready.
— Suit yourself. Hand over the advance.

Gena, as if in a dream, handed her his cherished twenty-five roubles.
— Another same amount when it's delivered, in a week. Leave your phone number.
— I don't have a phone.
— Well, someone's, from the synagogue or what? – she threw out with a mocking grin.
Gena hesitated. He didn't want to defile the synagogue's holy phone with calls from this self-styled queen of the underground. "Why did I get involved with her?" – flashed through his head like a saving, but belated, lightning bolt. But it was too late. Rima had sunk her dead grip into him. He didn't yet know what this serpent-woman, this queen of the shadow carnival, who had burst into his ordered world with the smell of expensive perfume and the promise of forbidden fruits, was capable of. A one-way journey was beginning…

…All the next week, Gena's life turned into a convulsive, obsessive ritual. He wasn't just learning the 136th psalm in English—he was trying to stitch together two warring elements by sheer willpower: his soul, raised on smooth liturgical chants, and the wild, rhythmic moan of Jamaican rhythms. The melody and lyrics in his performance resembled two scorpions locked in a death grip—they didn't sing, they venomously stung each other. He was always late, stumbling into the beat over his own notes, or, conversely, raced ahead of the music like a train with derailed carriages.

In desperation, with his guitar at the ready like a talisman, he went in search of a rhythmic foundation. His target was the drummer Vitaliy, a being from another, primitive and thunderous world.
"Vitaliy, can you pick up this rhythm?" – and Gena, with a face contorted by effort, began beating his fingers on an imaginary membrane, emitting an inarticulate incantation: "Boom-Boom ra-ta-ta-ta ta-boom — ta-ra-ta-boom-ta — ta-ra-ta-boom."

Vitaliy, a cyclops of music, instantly reproduced what was required, unleashing upon Gena a cascade of powerful, simple-as-a-sledgehammer blows. "Excellent! Again!" – Gena exclaimed, and for the next two days his room shook from a chaotic symbiosis—a divine baritone mourning Zion, and a rapid drumbeat as if hammered out on the skulls of enemies.

And in a week... How Gena didn't want to, with all his gut, all the fibres of his law-abiding soul, to dive again into the acid bath of the Kryvyi Rih bazaar. But vanity—that old, tested demon—had already sunk its claws into his throat. The desire to be not just the first in Nikopol, but the master of minds for the entire Dnepropetrovsk region, made his heart beat in unison with that very drumbeat. He went to his Calvary, not even suspecting that he himself was carrying his cross.

Meanwhile, in her den, Rima, that priestess of the underground Olympus, had finally fallen into obsession. She didn't just look at the cut-out from the French magazine—she conducted mystical sessions over it, studying every feature of the unfamiliar man like a treasure map. She had privately named him "The Frenchman." And so a new, grandiose project was born under the codename "Frenchman." It wasn't just a whim—it was a manic idée fixe. Without a word to her parents, with infernal persistence, she managed to get her pre-diploma practice redirected to the Nikopol District Trade Department. For her, this wasn't practice, it was a landing on the planet where her ideal object resided. She already saw how much profit this Frenchman would bring. He sings enchantingly with a Jewish accent to his guitar.

Their meeting at the market was like a rendezvous of two aliens from opposite ends of the Galaxy.
— Hello, handsome, – Rima's voice sounded like metal scraping glass. — Here, your Melodians have arrived. She held the record not as a disc, but as a sacred relic, the Holy Grail, which she would hand over to him only in exchange for his soul.
— You know, in three days I'm moving to Nikopol!
"Just what I needed there!" – flashed through Gena's head in a panicked thought, like a warning from above. But out loud he only asked timidly.
— To live?.
— No, for my diploma practice. Will you show me your musical setup? Then I'll give you the record. - She clung tenaciously to the precious vinyl, like a leech knowing the victim wouldn't escape.
— You know, I can do a lot of things, – she continued, and notes of Mephistopheles seducing Faust sounded in her voice. — And I can make a great artist out of you.

The words "great artist" sounded like the sweetest poison to Gena. They flattered him, hitting the bullseye, his most secret ambition. And he, surrendering, with a heavy heart, reluctantly nodded.
— Alright... I'll show you.

Rima was jubilant. Her inner triumph was like a volcanic eruption. She had obtained what she had unconsciously dreamed of for three years—not just a pretty boy, but a living, breathing project, clay from which she would sculpt her masterpiece. And Gena, like a hypnotised rabbit, millimetre by millimetre, was inexorably approaching the gaping maw of the boa constrictor. He, raised in a world where rules were written on stone tablets, had no idea what bestial laws reigned in the jungles of commerce, in the tropics of mimicry, in the swamps of lies, and in the deserts of betrayal. His innocence was like a white sail, and he himself was steering his boat straight into the black, bottomless mouth of worldly temptation…
...Khana-Tanya knew nothing of Gena's new infatuation. She simply liked him—handsome, well-mannered, educated, from a good family. But when she first caught that particular, profound look of infatuation in his eyes, something turned over inside her. The maiden's soul, which had previously slumbered under a layer of rules and prohibitions, not just stirred—it roared like an organ in the synagogue on the Day of Atonement. Something ancient, powerful, and frightening awoke, something not spoken of aloud in a decent Jewish family. And this vague tremor she buried as deep as she could, walling it up under a layer of modesty and a proper smile.

At sixteen, lovestruck girls in our feminist age let their hair down in every sense. But in a provincial Dnieper southern town, where the air is thick with the scent of acacias and old laws, young maidens—guard their innocence. They don't just follow the rules. They carry their honour and name like a fragile wax candle, afraid that the slightest draft of a compromising rumour will blow it out forever.

The object of her adoration was constantly humming something under his breath, and she couldn't bear it. That sound was like a hook that caught her in her very core and pulled her towards him.
— And what is it you're singing?
— Oh, just a tune. – You wouldn't know it.
— Maybe I do.
— Our music teacher gives us such melodies that if Mum and Dad knew, they'd take me out of the school.

She lied. Lied easily and naturally, as she breathed, just to prolong this conversation, just so his voice would flow for her, and not into emptiness.
— Well, alright. Listen.

They were walking along the road from the synagogue home, on a street flooded with the honeyed light of sunset. Gena looked around—seemed like no one was there. And he sang the first four lines. By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept when we remembered Zion...

And Tanya's world froze. This wasn't just music. It was a prayer she had carried within herself, without even knowing the words. The longing for Zion, cast into melody, found a ready vessel in her soul, lined with the pain and memory of ancestors. The last two lines "Let the words of our mouth and the meditations of our heart..." Tanya sang along with Gena in her pure, high soprano, in which rang the tears of two thousand years of exile.
— And how do you know it? – his surprise was sweeter to her than any spice.
— I heard it only once on the receiver, and I liked it, – again a half-truth. She absorbed it with every cell, feeling how these sounds became part of her quintessence.
— Come to my place, you can listen to the Melodians' record.

Tanya's heart sank to her heels, then leapt to her throat, cutting off her breath. Everything inside screamed: "You mustn't! It's dangerous! They'll find out! What will people think?" The inner voice, the voice of her mother, grandmother, the whole community, raised a panic. But above this din, quietly but inexorably, another voice sounded—her own. The voice of the Babylonian river, calling to its shores. And this voice was stronger.

Tanya resisted inside, but outwardly showed delight and agreement, catching herself thinking that she was willingly learning hypocrisy in the name of something greater than propriety.

Oh, could the dreamy youth Gena ever imagine in his wildest dreams that his Tanya, Khana herself, would be in his room? That she would breathe the air saturated with the smell of his cologne and books? And they would be alone—his parents at work. It was a dizzying freedom, smelling of sin and happiness.

His fingers trembled when he took the guitar from the wall. For Tanya, this tremor was a sacred aleph, bet, gimel, deciphering which she understood: he is not calm. He is just as excited, just as frightened by this miracle of presence. He put on the record, and sang loudly, keeping to the rhythm, note for note.

In the 4/4 rhythm, she began to sing along vocalis – melodiously, protractedly, allowing her voice to lead her where her feet dared not tread. But then she began to catch individual English words and clearly pronounced two words: "Babylon" and "Zion." These words, escaping her lips here, in his room, sounded like a confession. We are both exiles. We both long for our Zion. And my Zion is you.
— Let's do it again.

Gena rummaged in his sheets of music and pulled out the lyrics written in English. She stood next to him, and looking at the paper, she began to tremble all over. The distance between them disappeared. Their shoulders and arms touched. She felt the warmth of his body emanating from him like radiation from a stove. It was almost tangible, dense. She so wanted to lean against his strong male shoulder, lay her head on this solid, reliable support, close her eyes, and forget about Babylon, the Dnieper, about everything in the world. This desire was so sharp, so physical, that her head spun.

But centuries of upbringing, like steel hoops, squeezed back this impulse. Shame, pride, fear—all mixed into a single knot stuck in her throat. And she gave herself up to the waves of singing, found in it salvation and expression. By the rivers of Babylon... — This was their river of love. In its streams flowed not water, but the sounds of the guitar and their voices. In it, they expressed their feelings for each other as clearly as they never could with words. They sang of captivity, but in that moment they were absolutely free.

But to say "my love" out loud—an internal barrier wouldn't allow him. These words got stuck somewhere between his heart and larynx, unable to break through the wall of youthful timidity and those same, albeit male, conventions.

The barrier and the emergency brake for their love came from outside. From Rima. And when it sounded, the enchanting melody of their found Zion broke off on the highest note, leaving in their ears only the deafening, humiliating ring of reality…
…"Well now, Gena, my friend… Do you think your routes are such a secret? Home – synagogue – music school – library. Your schedule is precise as clockwork. Hee-hee… I've studied it all. Like a detective. No, like a hunter. And the most interesting place in your schedule—here it is, this establishment. The synagogue."

Before, she would have given it a wide berth. In Kryvyi Rih we steered clear of them—none of our business. But here, her mother's words sounded in her head like an alarm bell: "You are a Jewess. And your grandmother was a Jewess." Well, if I'm a Jewess, that means I have every right to enter here. That means it's mine. And everything that's yours, Gena, can also become mine. I just need to understand the rules of the game.

And the rules here, I see, are strict. You can't just waltz in like a club for a disco. She had to go to the library. The Nikopol one is a bit scant, truth be told… But I found it! In Ukrainian. "How Goyim Should Behave in the Synagogue." Goyim… So it turns out that's what they call us. Goyim. Non-Jews, right? What a demeaning word. But that's not about me. I'm not a goy now. I'm one of them.

Shalom Aleichem, Adonai, kadosh, kosher, the holy Sabbath… Amen, Hallelujah, Yahweh… A couple of hours—and I'm filled with this wisdom. Now I'm a pure-blooded Jewess. I've learned everything, understood it all. The whole law of the Torah—it's not that complicated if you don't delve into the philosophy, but just memorize the right words. The main thing is to look like you belong.

And so, the Sabbath day. I go in. I knew about the women's section. Looked around. Well, the decor is… Meager. Modest. Bordering on poverty. Dim lamps, peeling paint. No gilding, no murals. Clearly a place to apply my commercial savvy. Could organize a renovation, buy new utensils, more expensive candles… I have an uncle in Odessa… well, you know, connections. While the service was going on, I didn't pray, I was composing a business plan in my head. Where to add what, change what, to make it look more respectable. So it wouldn't smell of poverty, but of money.

After the service—the main move. I approach the rabbi. Old, bearded, intelligent, piercing eyes. You can see right away—you can't fool him. But I'll try.
— Shalom, Rabbi. I have an uncle in Odessa, he makes the best tefillin. Quality, inexpensive. I can help you with the purchase.

He looks at me as if I'm speaking not Russian, but Chinese. He was silent, studying me.
— Whose daughter are you? – he asks.

Here it is, the beginning of the vetting. I have the answer ready.
— I am a Jewess by birth, – I say this with pride, straightening my back. I learned it all.
— Where are you from?
— From Kryvyi Rih.

He nods, and in his eyes I read not interest, but… pity?
— You know, my daughter, – he says softly, but so firmly it sets my teeth on edge. — We have a custom: where you are registered in the synagogue's birth register, there you may make your offers. That is our way. Go in peace, daughter of Zion.

He turned away. That's it. I was brushed off. Given the cold shoulder. I studied so much, prepared, and he wouldn't even listen to me! Some birth register! What difference does it make?

But I don't give up. This is just the first round.
— I live nearby, just in case? – I almost shout at his back.

He turns around, his face showing weary patience.
— I live here, in the centre, nearby, on Market Square, number nine! – I say quickly, trying to hand him my address like a business card.

He just waved his hand.
— Alright. Go in peace.

And he left. And I remained. With a lump of anger in my throat. Well, never mind… Never mind. I'll prove I belong yet. I'll prove to all of you that I'm one of you. And that everything I want will be mine. Including your cozy little world, Gena. And the synagogue thrown in…
…Rima isn't one to nurse a grudge for long. A grudge must be converted into action. She was brushed off at the synagogue? Well then, the war would be waged on another front. She needed a tool, and she quickly found one.

She walked into the first photo studio she came across. It smelled of chemicals and secrecy.
— I need a photo, – she announced to the photographer, a middle-aged man in a vest stained with developer.
— Only studio, posed shots, – he answered indifferently, adjusting his camera. — If you want reportage, live shots—go to the reporters at the 'Nikopolskaya Pravda.'

An idea flashed in her mind like a magnesium flare. Reportage… Yes, that's exactly what's needed. Not a setup, but life. Or what could pass for it.

The editorial office of "Nikopolskaya Pravda" smelled of cheap tobacco and fresh printer's ink.
— And where are your photo-reporters here? – she tossed out to the secretary.
— And who are you, citizen? – she looked at Rima over her glasses.
"Who am I?" – Rima smirked mentally. – "I am the storm. I am the reckoning."
— I have material that will make your head spin, – she said aloud, flashing a mysterious smile.
— We're not supposed to let people talk to photo-reporters without the editor-in-chief's permission.

But Rima wasn't listening anymore. A predatory glance picked out a lanky guy in the corridor with a "Zenit" in his hands and a "frog" flash on a wire. A perfect target. A bit of a pushover, hungry for earnings.
— Want to earn some money? – she came up close, speaking his language.
— What? A wedding, birthday? A funeral? – the guy perked up.
"Oh, this one will do," – flashed through her head. In his eyes, she saw not only a desire to earn but also that very vulnerability which is so easy to use.
— Right, – she rattled off, shoving a piece of paper into his hand. — Here's the address. Take some photos. Preferably in the room. The setting. With people in the frame. Do it—you'll get double your rate.

What she received three days later plunged her into confusion and fury. It wasn't in Rima's nature to lose her composure, but the pictures were like a spit in the soul. In them, Gena stood in his room, almost embracing that very Jewess, Khana-Tanya. They were singing, bent over a single sheet of music. On his face—absorption, on hers—rapturous delight. The picture was so intimate that Rima's fists clenched. This wasn't just a simple crush. This was that very connection which Rima didn't have with him and, she felt, never would.

But the fury didn't break her. It only fanned her resolve white-hot. "Kiss, cuddle all you want," – she hissed, digging her nails into the photo paper. — "It's fine. Soon you'll forget her, Gena."

A plan matured instantly, cunning and simple. She invited Gena to the park, calling the meeting a "business date." She chose the right topic—offered him two more rare records. And the paparazzo with his pathetic camera received a new order: hide in the bushes and take shots when they would be "kissing."

Gena came wary, but the temptation of the records was great. Rima played confidently: a businesslike tone, a bit of mystery.
— Here, look, – she leaned towards him, pretending to show something on the cover, and whispered something in his ear.
— What did you say? – he asked, pulling back.

She leaned in again, bringing her lips so close to his ear that he felt her breath. He only caught fragments: "It's... not expensive...". At that moment, as if by chance, that very reporter walked by. The click of the shutter was silent. And Rima, as if unable to restrain herself, abruptly hugged Gena and pressed her lips to his cheek. He recoiled, but it was too late. The camera had captured a "passionate kiss."

The next day, an envelope with the photographs, like a bomb, was slipped through the crack of Tanya's open window. The Gorgon's work was done. In the pictures—she, Rima, kissing a flustered Gena in the park. A perfect, dirty lie.

Rima was jubilant. She stood by her window, looking at the city which for her was merely a chessboard. The move was made. Tanya and Gena stopped meeting. The revenge was cold, precise, and utterly inhuman. And in this, she found her own, ugly, but absolute triumph.

Chapter 26. Rima and Tanya

Misunderstanding hung on Gena like a heavy, unbearable burden. Just yesterday the world had been bright and clear: Tanya's smile, their walks, promises to meet again. And today — a wall. A wall of evasive glances, short, conversation-ending phrases, and swift disappearances the moment he appeared in her field of vision.

The reasons for this sudden cooling were a dark forest for Gena, where he wandered without a compass or hope of finding a way out. His thoughts, like hunted little animals, darted about searching for an answer, looking for the slightest clue, and each time painfully stumbling over his own insecurities.

— Did I say something wrong? — his exhausting internal dialogue began. — Maybe that evening when I walked her home? Was the joke inappropriate? Did I seem too pushy?

He caught his breath in his palm, trying to detect a non-existent smell: — Maybe bad breath? But I brush my teeth...

Approaching the mirror, he examined his reflection with disgust. The face that always seemed to him young and not serious. — This pathetic fuzz on my cheeks, not a man's stubble. She probably thinks I'm a snot-nosed kid. Maybe shave it all off? Or grow it out? I'll look rugged, adult, and she'll see me differently.

But then other, more frightening guesses arose, chilling his soul: — She's probably found someone else. Someone older, more confident, with a car and a thick stubble already. Or... maybe her mom and dad forbade it? Found someone better, from a wealthier family?

This spiritual torment was like an illness. It sucked all the vitality out of him, sapped his strength. His appetite vanished completely. Even his favorite mother's meatballs sat untouched, causing only heaviness in his stomach. He had to tighten his belt by an extra notch — Gena had lost weight, grown haggard, and a constant, tired sadness had settled in his eyes.

And then, as if in mockery, his father's asthma worsened. It was an old illness, but this time the attacks were so severe that the doctors insisted on hospitalization in the Dnipropetrovsk hospital. His mother, exhausted with worry, rushed between home, work, and the long trips to her husband.

— Son, you go see your dad, — she pleaded one day, handing him a bag of medicine. — Take this to him, support him. He'll be glad.

Gena went. The journey in the crowded electric train felt like a continuation of his internal nightmare — just as jolting, stuffy, and aimless as his thoughts. But on the way back to Nikopol, something unexpected happened: on his train bench, as if it were the most natural thing, sat Rima.

He was even slightly glad. Not that it was Rima specifically, but that there was an opportunity to be distracted, to kill two and a half hours with chatter instead of in gnawing loneliness.

— How are things? — she asked.
— Well, went to see my dad, in the hospital, — Gena replied, looking out the fogged-up window.
— What's wrong with him?
— Asthma. An old illness.
— What are you treating it with? — Rima showed unexpected concern.
— There are these, Soviet, "Astmopen". But the doctors hint that modern American "puffers" are needed. They say the effect is completely different.
— You can do anything, Rima. Can you get them? — Gena said, with a plea in his eyes. He pulled an empty "Foster" box from his pocket. Rima took the box, studied the label intently, reading it slowly, syllable by syllable.

— Fo-ster. You know, Gena, I can do anything.

— This "Foster" is very expensive, — she immediately sized up the situation.
— How much? — he asked, already sensing a trick.
— A friend sold it to us for ten rubles.
— That was a family discount, — Rima smirked. — Its real price is fifty. But I'll give you a discount if you fulfill one condition.

Gena became wary.

— What is it?
— You see, I've been invited to a friend's wedding. And I don't have an escort. A gentleman. I need to look respectable.
— What does that have to do with me?
— You need the medicine for your dad, right? You do. And I need an escort-gentleman for the wedding. A fair exchange.

Gena hesitated. The thought of spending a whole evening with Rima at an unfamiliar celebration filled him with dread. But he pictured his father's face, his labored breathing, and his own pride seemed petty.

— If I agree... for how much will you sell it?
— Twenty-five. For three units.
— Okay, — he exhaled with resignation. — I agree.
— When is your friend's wedding?
— Well, in three days.
— I don't even have a decent suit, — he tried to find a last excuse.
— No problem! We'll rent one, — Rima parried easily.

And so Gena, led by filial duty and his own naivety, fell for the tricks of the cunning Rima. The wedding passed like a hectic, absurd dream. He was an extra, a puppet whose strings Rima deftly pulled, introducing him to all her friends as "her gentleman."

And then Rima played this situation like a chess game. She staged a photograph where Gena, in a dark rented suit, stood next to her, and the edge of the frame cleverly caught a piece of Rima's wedding dress and her smile. The shot was cropped and presented in such a way that it created a complete and unconditional impression: the photo showed a bride and groom.

Anonymously, through a mutual acquaintance, this photo found Tanya. For her, it was not just a blow, but a verdict. All her doubts, all the pain from his avoidance found cruel confirmation. Now she didn't just avoid him — she turned away, spotting him from afar, and, not hiding her disgust, crossed to the other side of the street as if he were a leper.

Their worlds had finally diverged. And so, in bitter misunderstanding and silent resentment, six months passed. Gena's life had reached a dead end, a hopeless impasse. And the only way out of it, cruel but final, was the summons for urgent service in the Army...

...The November wind drove dry leaves and scraps of paper across the station square in Nikopol. Tanya, wrapped in a warm shawl, walked resolutely along the platform. Three days off, gifted by the holidays, were her salvation — she could finally accept her aunt Zhanna's long-standing invitation from Dnipropetrovsk. The trip seemed like an escape from herself, from the obsessive image that had haunted her all these months: the image of Gena and Rima in that ill-fated photograph.

Entering the ticket hall from the tracks, she bought a ticket and, without looking around, went out onto the platform, hurrying to hide in the train car and be alone with her thoughts.

At that very moment, Gena entered the station square from the main entrance. He needed to go to his father, to the Dnipropetrovsk hospital. To say goodbye before the army. Perhaps forever. He felt empty, burnt out. Even the thought that he might accidentally see Tanya evoked nothing but bitter anguish — he was sure she would turn away, as she had done for the past six months.

The ticket clerk handed him a ticket for the passing train number eighteen, seat sixty-nine. Fate, cruel and mocking, had given Tanya seat seventy.

Gena, confused and mixing up the carriage numbers, boarded the first carriage of the train. When the train started moving, he had to make his way through the moving train, elbowing past passengers in the cramped vestibules, until he found his carriage. He entered, caught his breath, and raised his eyes.

And his heart stopped.

By the window, in the gray autumn light, sat Tanya. She was looking out the window, but her gaze was fixed — she was just staring at the fields fleeing past the window, not seeing them.

A thought raced through Gena's head like a searing lightning bolt: "Now. Or never."

Taking a step that required all his strength, he quietly, almost soundlessly, said:
— Tanya... Hello.

She slowly, as if in a dream, turned her head. Her face turned pale. "He's just as handsome. And stately. Why is he here?" flashed through her mind. But her lips sealed. She demonstratively lowered her eyes to her book, making him understand that conversation was impossible.

But Gena did not retreat. He couldn't.
— Tanya, — his voice trembled. — I've been wanting to ask for a long time... What did I do wrong? Why are you avoiding me?

— Is he pretending? Playing innocent? — Tanya thought with a bitter smirk. She looked for falseness in his eyes but saw only pain and sincere bewilderment.

— You see, I'm leaving for the army in twelve days, — he said, as if that explained everything.

— What?! — escaped from Tanya against her will. Her plan of escape was crumbling. The army was something absolutely unreal, a final period. — How old are you?

— Eighteen and a half, — Gena answered honestly.

"Something's not right here," — the first crack in the wall of her resentment stirred in her head. — "He's not lying. But then... what was that?" She decided to test him. Start from afar.
— And did you say goodbye to your girlfriend? — she asked in an icy tone, piercing him with her gaze.

Gena almost jumped on the spot.
— What girlfriend? — he suddenly guessed, and a spark of hope flashed in his eyes.

— The one you were kissing, — it burst out of her.

— What girlfriend? — And then he guessed. Rima. — Gena's voice broke. — That was Rima bargaining with me for medicine for my dad! So I would just be a "druzhko" at her friend's wedding! I didn't even like her, she just needed an "escort" for show!

— Well, there. The girl has a name. - Tanya said bitterly.

— And the kissing in the park? — Tanya didn't give up, playing her last card. — Was that also part of the deal?

Gena choked. He tried to explain that that vulgar "kiss" was part of the same deal, payment for the discount, that he felt like the last idiot then, but Tanya, unable to listen any longer, demonstratively turned away to the window, curling up into a ball.

— So, you don't believe me? — he asked quietly, almost in despair. — You don't believe it was all a game and a script by that... queen of commerce?

— I don't believe you! — she exhaled onto the glass. — Very convincing photographs.

— What photographs?! I haven't seen any photographs!

— I burned them! — she turned sharply, and tears stood in her eyes. — In one, you're kissing her in the park. And in the second... in the second you're the groom, and she's the bride.

And only now, at this very moment, did the full monstrous depth of the web he had been caught in finally reach Gena's sluggish, grief-exhausted brain. He hadn't just been an extra. He himself, with his own hands, his own naivety and desire to help his father, had destroyed everything that was dear to him.

He didn't remember collapsing to his knees before her right there in the train aisle, paying no attention to the surprised glances of the passengers.

— Tanya, forgive me... God, how she planned it all! — he grabbed her hands, and she didn't pull them away. — She tricked me, Tanya! Lulled my, you see, vigilance! It was for my dad... I thought it was just one evening, one stupid evening, and that's it! I didn't even look at her, it was all so unexpected for me! I was thinking about you all the time!

They cried. Both of them. The remaining two hours of the journey to Dnipropetrovsk they spent holding hands, like drowning people. The tears were different — his of despair and repentance, hers — the pain of six months of unspoken resentment and the bitter relief that the nightmare had turned out to be just a nightmare, and not the truth.

When the train pulled into the platform, they got off, not noticing the crowd. Hand in hand. They found a lone cold bench, dusted with the first snow, and the wind drove icy sleet along the asphalt paths. But they weren't cold.

Their kiss was not like the one in that fake photo — not staged and forced. It was greedy, long, like that of people who had found each other again and were afraid of losing one another once more. A modest, desperate kiss on a cold, frozen November bench, warmed by the heat of their reconciliation, became a new starting point...

...The thought of the impending separation hung over them like heavy lead. Twelve days — that was nothing, a moment in which they had to make up for six months of lost time, say everything left unsaid, and give each other a promise that had to last two long years.

But how to do it? Inviting Gena to aunt Zhanna's was necessary — these two days were their only chance to be alone, without judgmental glances and past grievances. But under what pretext?

"Think, Tanya, think," — she literally ordered herself.

She went through all her relatives, all her acquaintances in her memory, trying to find at least some clue, a thread connecting their families. Yampolsky, Khristinsky, Chepelinsky, the Korchinsky brothers, Goldovsky... Surnames flashed by like in a kaleidoscope, but none connected to her aunt's surname.

In desperation, she involved Gena in this. Meeting him on their bench, she staged a real brainstorming session.
— Gena, remember! Who does aunt Zhanna know well? Who from your relatives could she have been acquainted with?
— What's her surname, anyway? — Gena asked, straining his memory.
— Frayner. Zhanna Frayner.
Gena shook his head, his face was bewildered.
— I don't recall, honestly. Anyone from our lot hanging out with the Frayners.
— Where did she live before? Maybe not here?
— In Zaporizhzhia, before she got married.

Zaporizhzhia... That was a dead end. It turned out their families existed in parallel universes, never intersecting. And the longer they thought, the more absurd and humiliating any invented pretext seemed.

And then Gena, with his directness and already heightened sense of "now or never," proposed a solution brilliant in its simplicity.
— Let's... be honest? — he said, looking her straight in the eyes. — Let's just tell her everything honestly. That I'm your friend. That we're from the same school. That I have nowhere to stay overnight in Dnipropetrovsk, and it's too late to leave. That's all.

Tanya froze. Honesty? It was so unlike their adult life, built on conventions and gossip. But in this childish directness, there was some liberating force.
— It's decided then, — she exhaled, and for the first time in many months, a carefree, almost innocent smile ran across her face.

The plan was set in motion. First, Gena, with a sinking heart, went to the hospital to see his father. The latter, seeing his son, rejuvenated and with a new sparkle in his eyes, just firmly squeezed his hand and said hoarsely: "Hang in there, son. Come back." That fatherly blessing gave Gena confidence.

In the evening, he met Tanya at the entrance to aunt Zhanna's building. The conversation with the aunt was brief and a little awkward. They stood in the hallway, two big children, looking down, and Tanya's voice trembled:
— Auntie, this is Gena. My... friend. From school. He had to visit his father in the hospital, and he missed the return train. Can he stay overnight at your place?

Aunt Zhanna, a perceptive woman, looked at their shining and frightened faces, at how their hands instinctively reached for each other, and smiled wisely.
— Of course, he can, — she said simply. — There's room for everyone. Come in, Gena, make yourself at home.

That night under one roof became the greatest happiness for them. They didn't dare dream of more — just knowing that he was sleeping behind the wall, that she would see him first in the morning — was enough.

And the morning... The morning was magical. The whole next day they walked around the huge, unfamiliar-to-Gena Dnipropetrovsk. The city was gray and damp, but for them it shone with all colors. They wandered aimlessly through parks, their laughter echoed along the deserted avenue, and, unashamed of passersby, they started dancing right there on the square dusted with fine snow, because happiness overwhelmed them and demanded an outlet.

They went into a Soviet-style canteen, drank scalding hot tea with lemon from faceted glasses, shared one cabbage pie, and looked at each other as if afraid to miss a moment. And then, breathless and flushed from the frost, they found a secluded bench and kissed, long and greedily, until they were dizzy, until they felt complete oblivion, as if trying to absorb a supply of kisses for two years ahead.

But evening inevitably descended on the city, reminding them of harsh reality. They had to return to Nikopol. Both understood — the countdown had begun.

They had to prepare for different feats. Gena — for army service: the barracks, drill, heavy boots, and discipline. He gathered his simple soldier's belongings, passed the medical board, and mentally said goodbye to civilian life.

Tanya, however, was preparing for her own, no less difficult feat — waiting. She made a vow to herself to be faithful to him for these two years. Her preparation was quiet and internal: she stored in her heart his every word, every glance, every laugh. She was preparing for the long winter of separation, stocking up on the warmth of their two days of happiness, like a faithful friend stocks up on provisions for a long and difficult journey...

...The November wind roamed the platform of the Nikopol station, tearing the last leaves from the carriage roofs and howling in time with the general confusion. Rima's pre-graduation practice was coming to an end, and she was preparing to return to her native Kryvyi Rih. But one piece of news made her postpone everything: Gena had received his summons for urgent service.

The thought of just leaving without saying goodbye was unbearable. But bargaining, exchange, "gesheft" — all those habitual tools for dealing with the world — now seemed vulgar and inappropriate. She wanted something else. What she had seen in Soviet melodramas: touching farewells to the sound of a guitar, waving handkerchiefs, restrained tears, and a farewell kiss. Ah, romance... She daydreamed, imagining her and Gena standing in an embrace, music flowing around them, and everyone looking at them with emotion.

And Rima, who always acted head-on, decided on a desperate, by her standards, act — to arrange a pompous send-off. She talked to the local "stilyagi" (style-conscious youth), and they, flattered by the attention of the bright guest from Kryvyi Rih, promised guitars and even an accordion.

Gena, standing in a tight circle of friends and relatives, was touched. In his naivety, he decided that the whole Nikopol crowd had come to see him off — a tribute to his "well-deserved authority" as the only guy in town who could sing "Beatles" and "Rolling Stones" songs to a guitar without a cheat sheet.

And then he saw Tanya. She was making her way through the crowd, clutching something to her chest. As she came closer, he saw — it was a record. That one, his treasure.

— Why did you bring the record? — he asked, surprised.
— You forgot it at my place, — Tanya said quietly, looking at him with eyes full of tears. — That day when we... And what am I supposed to do with it now?

This simple question, full of hopeless tenderness, was the last straw for Rima. Her theatrical send-off was crumbling before her eyes, giving way to real, living feelings.

— You're not doing anything with it! — a voice as sharp as a whip crack sounded.

Rima appeared as if from underground. With a swift movement, she snatched the record from the stunned Gena's hands, pulled the shiny black vinyl from its sleeve, and forcefully threw it onto the concrete platform.

A dry, cracking sound rang out. Before anyone could recover, Rima, her face distorted with resentment and malice, stepped on the fragile disc with the sharp heel of her stiletto. The crunch of breaking vinyl sounded like a gunshot.

— It all started with this! — Rima shouted, furiously grinding the fragments. — With your stupid English songs! It will all end with the record!

This was too much. All the tension, all the pain of the last months, poured out of Tanya in a single, desperate impulse. Her nerves, stretched like strings, snapped.

— It's your fault! — she screamed piercingly and dug into Rima's lush hair with a strength no one suspected she had.

— Oh, you zhidyovka! — Rima shrieked, trying to pry off the tenacious fingers. — You're going to tell me what to do?!

Gena was stunned. His brain refused to comprehend what was happening. First, his favorite record, his talisman and object of pride, was, right before his eyes, trampled. Second, his quiet, modest Tanya, his muse, was fighting with gusto and fury, like an enraged cat. Third, he, a future soldier, stood like a post and didn't know what to do. And what would happen in the Army? Break them up? But how? Rima was stronger and fiercer, but Tanya seemed to draw strength from the very depths of despair.

The platform froze. The general buzz and Babylonian pandemonium of the send-off were replaced by a ringing silence, broken only by the desperate sobs and curses of the fighting girls. And everyone understood — they were fighting over a guy. Over him. Over Gena...

    The platform. Nikopol - 2030

— Do you remember that fight yourself? — the robot-bot Vector asks Gena. It rolled along the stone platform to the place where Rima and Tanya had fought sixty years ago. It searched for something in the cracks between the amphibolite slabs of the platform and found what it needed. The bot whirred, moved back and forth a few centimeters, buzzed, and from its manipulator-tentacle, a small gripper extended, holding a tiny black vinyl fragment.

Gena, mechanically, stretched out his hand. The robot carefully placed the fragment of black vinyl onto his palm. Gena turned it over in his fingers and read the surviving letters syllable by syllable: «Melodians recorded - Rivers of Babylon. 1970...»

He raised his eyes to the soulless metal casing.
— Thank you, Vector. — Then his voice trembled. — Just tell me the main thing... Why didn't Tanya wait for me to return from the army?

Robot Vector froze for a second, its sensors blinked with a dim light, as if it were considering the answer.
— Well, how to put this... explain it to you intelligently, Gena, — it creaked, imitating thoughtfulness. — You, humans, have hormones. We, robots, don't have them.

— So, you awakened these hormones, sleeping in the female body. She couldn't sleep. At night, you came to her. And tormented her female nature.

Gena swallowed the lump in his throat.
— And so? Can't one live with that?
— For you men, it's possible to live with that, — Vector noted philosophically. — A woman needs to give birth. Not to suffer and moan with desire.

The robot buzzed once more, as if sighing, and quietly began to play a long-forgotten melody from its built-in speaker: "I'll put on a new hat, I'll go to the city of Anapa...", moving away along the platform in search of a new passenger to entertain with Nikopol stories or music...

 Next comes the reader's cliffhanger. The author hopes the reader's imagination will continue the story of the platforms at Nikopol station. Or he will ask the author to write a continuation of the platform's story…