The Novel "Perron"

Nikolay Matvienko

Annotation

In October 2025, Nikolay Matvienko presents his sweeping historical romance novel "Perron," set in the Ukrainian steppe town of Nikopol. This city is filled with light and energy. The author transforms Nikopol into García Márquez's Macondo on the Dnieper—a city where reality is intricately intertwined with mysticism, and the past speaks to the present in the language of forgotten things.

The story centers on the stone perron of the Nikopol railway station. It is the protagonist and silent witness, the keeper of the main secret. Over the course of 162 years (from 1878 to 2040), six generations of the Jewish Cope family leave their invisible traces here.

According to tradition, which determines lineage through the female line, the story unfolds through the destinies of women—from great-great-grandmother to great-great-granddaughter.

Each of them loses a tiny piece of their life on the perron:

• a hairpin;
• a dress bead;
• a handcuff key;
• a ticket to the unknown;
• a lock of hair;
• a treasured coin.

These objects, rolling into the cracks between the perron stones, become directly involved in a grand family saga.

The task of investigating this centuries-old family affair falls not to a human, but to a state-of-the-art detective bot named Vector. It is with his purring on the perron that the novel begins, and with the same robotic grumbling that the text ends. Vector, like an archaeological investigator, doesn't clean away the dust of history, but rather revives it, scanning and analyzing every find, attempting to reconstruct the full picture of events. But is artificial intelligence capable of comprehending the full complexity of human emotions? And most importantly, can it uncover the mystery that lies hidden after 1947, leaving the reader with the question: "What happened next?" A cliffhanger from the bot Vector and the author puts an end to the unfinished plot on the novel's final page, leaving the reader to complete the saga of the Cope family's history.

The novel is structured like an elegant Möbius loop, where the past and the future meet on the Nikopol perron. Here, at the intersection of eras, a love story unfolds, colliding with the harsh dogmas of the Orthodox Jewish community. The feelings between characters of different faiths become a test of strength, reflecting the eternal conflict between personal choice and religious foundations.

"Perron" is not only about falling in love but also a profound exploration of faith, the voice of conscience, and the search for self in a world full of persecution and harassment by the authorities. The author creates atmospheric prose, where subtle observation combines with a rich language. The reader literally feels the roughness of the stone beneath their feet, hears the increasing clatter of the wheels, and senses the hearts of lovers—knock-knock-knock—beating to the rhythm of the universe, to the melody of the wheels on the perron of Nikopol station. Knock-knock-knock-knock.

This is a mystery novel, a novel of exploration, and a novel of mood that will linger in the memory, making you reflect on the invisible threads that connect us to the past and the objects and traces we leave behind for the future.

Dedication

This novel is a kept promise.

 

This novel is dedicated to the first and most important editor my word has ever known—my mother, Olga Andreyevna Vantsa.

If she were here with me now, her wise eyes would follow every line of that story about the perron — the very same story she told me, her son, on long, quiet winter evenings by the stove. While her knitting needles clicked rhythmically, knitting warm socks and scarves for her grandchildren from woolen thread, she wove the intricate fabric of a future novel with the same loving patience. She knitted warmth for the body; for me, she wove a world of memories and dreams, a family history that has become ingrained in my soul.

Now she rests with my father in the peaceful fields of Parma Cemetery in Rochester, N.Y. But stories never end. My parents left this earth and found their home in Parma, but they live on in these pages. I promised to give form to the fleeting power of her words, to erect a prose monument as eternal as the amphibolite stone of the Nikopol perron. This book is a promise fulfilled. It is the final woven pattern of the threads she placed in my hands, a story as warm and eternal as the love she poured into every stitch.

 

Nikolay Matvienko

The Novel "The Perron"

2025. Nikopol - Kyiv

 

https://rutube.ru/video/b5b7bb939613f6d541ac92f89742f6c4/?r=wd 

 

Synopsis of the novel "The Perron"*

... The Kyiv high-speed metro train made a short technical stop at the Nikopol railway junction. 2040 year.

On the Nikopol perron, robots cheerfully hand out fresh water to passengers and announce the time remaining until the Kyiv-Tavrida express train departs. A whole twenty minutes. A gray-haired old man with a cane drone strolls demurely along the perron, 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 bought a ticket here in 1970 to Dnieper.

— What's your name?

— Vector. I help passengers with navigation and make them feel good.

— I'll call you Victor. Let's go, dear, to that corner, and I'll see if the booth where I met Tanya is still standing.

— Which Tanya? - the daughter asked. "Mom?"

— No. It's a different Tanya.

— Dad, you never mentioned a different Tanya. Tell me...

But suddenly, the robot Vector began telling the story to the bored passengers instead of the old man with the cane. ... In 1905, young ladies in muslin dresses greeted their gentlemen at the station in Yekaterinoslav, which you passed half an hour ago. Our travel speed is 240 kilometers per hour. Yekaterinoslav Station was built in 1884 in the neo-Russian style. The waiting room features wooden benches with carved backs, bronze trash cans, and train schedules on slates. The scent is a mixture of coal dust, lavender cologne, and fresh buns from the buffet.

Olesya in a dress with a fashionable hairstyle. On the perron, pools of melted tar from the heat, and porters shouting "move over."

Olesya radiated happiness and inspiration before meeting her beloved Taras. They hadn't seen each other for four months. She powdered her face, rouged her cheeks. She looked like a high society lady on the perron in her fashionable dress and trendy heels.

— Oh, is that you?- she asked, breathless with happiness, as she sank into Taras's arms.

Taras scooped up his bride's limp body and carried her weightlessly to the bench. With the hot steam of the locomotive, they wanted to disappear into the ether of time, accompanied by the clatter of the wheels—tap-tap-tap-tap-tap... Wooden carriages, painted dark green with yellow trim, flashed past, slowly gaining speed. Benches with wicker seats were visible through the window. Smoke from the stove rose. The air smelled of creosote and coal. The engineer peered out, wearing a cap with a cockade, a double-breasted uniform, and boots. Conductors in vests with brass buttons and pocket watches on chains glance at the Jewish couple in love. Olesya's heels click-clack. The wheels click-clack. The rhythm of the universe click-clack.

1916 year

Artyom is heading to his new posting in Nikopol and finds himself in a first-class carriage, where velvet sofas and porcelain washstands contrast with the wooden benches of third-class. Here, among impoverished merchants and ladies in lace, he notices Yulia, a local woman returning from Yekaterinoslav. Their acquaintance begins with an awkward conversation by the window, when the locomotive, shunting, suddenly brakes due to a railway workers' strike somewhere at a railway station. Smoke and cheap tobacco drift through the half-open window. But Yulia's rosemary-tinged perfume intoxicates Artyom.

Third-class carriages are wooden, with separate compartments (curtains instead of doors). First-class carriages are mahogany, with velvet sofas and porcelain washstands. Conductors wear long skirts, white blouses, and caps. Engineers wear leather jackets and coal-dust goggles. "War Loan" leaflets, trampled by soldiers' boots, flicker past the window. In a third-class compartment, RSDLP agitators whisper with workers, while cap-wearing conductors nervously adjust curtains instead of doors. Yulia, somewhat embarrassed and defensive, tells Artyom how the local Nikolaev newspaper, "Voice of Labor," is calling for "Down with the Tsar," and disgruntled officers are already gathering in Nikopol's clubs. The creaking of train wheels, the shouts of peddlers delivering "The latest issue of the Nikopol Herald," the blaring of locomotive horns.

A commotion greets them at the station: a crowd of artisans chanting slogans, gendarmes pushing them toward the freight cars. Yulia, who knows every corner of the city, takes Artyom by the arm and leads him through a side exit, past stalls where fences sell stolen army uniforms. She whispers that even in the Assembly of the Nobles they're now talking about "change."

On the way to Yulia's house, Artyom learns that her family—once wealthy millers—is now barely making ends meet. She shows him an old park where balls were once held but where underground groups now gather. "Everything here exudes rebellion," she laughs, "even the streetlights glow dimly, as if in protest." Before parting, Yulia gives Artyom a copy of a banned newspaper. He senses that this city, where the scent of coal and apples and Yulia (Ah, this rosemary) is about to become a crossroads in his destiny. And tomorrow—a new job, new faces, and somewhere in the crowd, red ribbons are already flickering…

1939 year

Nikopol Station. Above The main entrance is adorned with a banner that reads, "Give us a five-year plan in four years." Inside, there's a bust of Stalin, a stand with the newspaper "Pravda," and leaflets about the Stakhanovite movement. The sounds are a loudspeaker playing the "Aviator" march and the clicking of a Morse code telegraph machine.

A young cadet sergeant from the Dnipropetrovsk Flight School, Andrei, with a bouquet of spring flowers, meets his beloved Oksana, a senior medical student, at the Nikopol train station. The future pilot's smart dress uniform and the capricious blond forelock from under his army cap mark him as a mischievous and rebellious cadet. And it looks like he's gone AWOL. He glanced around, searching for a patrol. Either he was looking for his Oksana, or he was looking for a patrol. But his eyes darted across the passengers' faces like sunbeams bouncing on the waves of the Dnieper.

— Why are you covered in blood? -  The groom asked his admirer.

— There wasn't a single midwife on the entire train. The conductor ran through the carriages, yelling, "There's a woman in labor. They need a midwife." So I volunteered to attend to the woman in labor. The blood on Oksana's gown was as red as the banner on the station flagpole. In the corner was a poster with pictures of Young Pioneers: "Thank you, Comrade Stalin, for a happy childhood!"

— So what?

— It's all fine. Like all women in labor, she got the timing wrong. Either accidentally or deliberately. A boy. Full-term. He screamed, like all boys, "I'm hungry."

— Let's wipe the blood off you first. You need new clothes. They didn't have time to disappear into the mother-and-child room.

— Comrade Sergeant, here are your documents.

— Ah-ah-ah. Here's my bride in labor. - Yes, I can see she's covered in blood. Did she give birth?

— No, she delivered a baby.

— Do you have any documents?

— There are no documents stating she delivered a baby.

— What about your military ID, leave pass?

1970, hot, July

A neon "Nikopol" sign hangs on the facade, and in the ticket office, vending machines sell 3-kopek sodas with syrup. The smell is of shoe polish, bleach, and fried pies. On the walls are posters reading "Lenin is still alive and kicking" and route maps of the Dnieper Railway. Metal cars, blue and yellow. Inside, leatherette shelves and aluminum cup holders. Conductors in orange vests and wool skirts. The distinctive sound is the clanking of brake pads and cries of "Citizens. Do not smoke in the vestibule."

On the perron, eighth-grader Gena is looking at the passengers. His mother saw him off with instructions to change trains in Dnepr. The station and the vestibule of the train car smell like Krasnaya Moskva and moonshine from a passenger's suitcase. His mother's instructions still echo in his ears.

— I don't have time. I need to visit Dad in the hospital,- she said as he walked, and Gena, curious and feeling free, paced the platform of Nikopol station like he owned the place. A girl in a miniskirt and stocking boots was walking toward him, and Gena straightened his shoulders slightly.

— Oh, I wish she'd get on my train car.

She not only got on, but sat next to Gena and started showing him her bruises.

— He gave me a hickey here. She lifted her skirt and showed him the bruise. And then — she opened her bodice and revealed a blue hickey from an unknown lover. Gena devoured Tanya with his eyes as she kissed her, not knowing what to do with his hands, his eyes, or where to look. Blood rushed to his young brain, and he, unconscious, began kissing Tanya's legs above the knees, his palms clutching her flesh.

— Stop. Don't,- Tanya cooed. She stroked Gena's hair...

Of course, she gave him her address in Nikopol. Mom had sternly ordered him to transfer to a train in Dnipro to Lviv. Tanya was going to enroll in a pedagogical college in Dnipro after tenth grade. The two hours to Dnipro flew by like a second — they cooed and hugged—the carriage was almost empty, with only three passengers in the whole carriage. He stopped by to see Tanya two years later. Before he went into the Army... It's a romantic story—described ten thousand times in romance novels. There's nothing new under the sun. Gena serenaded Tanya with his guitar, and Tanya sighed... And then she got married. For another. After six months of service, she wrote to him...

 2025 year

Nikopol. The electronic board shows the DPR Express train is 14 hours late. An air raid siren sounds. The young widow Nina meets Yan's body at the station. But she doesn't cry. Nina wears a black cloak without any signs of mourning. This is her second husband. She lost her first five years ago – he drowned in the Dnieper. Drunk. He dove in and never came back up. Divers found him in the backwater the second day. But this Yan didn't want to fight. He was caught, arrested, and sent to the front. Two months after she was sent away, she received a death notice. And here she stands on the platform in Nikopol, without a tear in her eye. Only hatred for the authorities and the military enlistment office of the TCC (territorial recruitment center) - what they did to her life...

 2040 year

Nikopol shines in summer and winter. The upholstery is made of polyamides with a nanocarbon coating. The cabins feature seats with biometric adjustment, windows with displays showing views of Crimea. The Vector robot in a white composite body, with a holographic interface on its chest. Touch posts with QR codes detailing the station's history, cleaning drones. The smell of ozone and a "sea breeze" fragrance. The employees wear reflective overalls with health sensors and helmets with an AI assistant.

The robot Vector tells the assembled passengers funny stories from the past and makes an announcement.

— Please take your seats. The train departs in three minutes.

— And leave your phone,- asks a gray-haired old man with a cane.

— Give me the token and take the phone number.

— Daughter, give him the token.

The daughter placed her wrist on the robot. Click.

— Thank you,- said Vector. He blinked and sang an old-fashioned song. — I'll put on a new hat, and I'll go to Anapa...

— I'll call you, - the old man called out to Vector from the window as the train pulled away.

— Close the windows,- said the conductor. And she slammed the window shut. The wheels of the Kyiv metro's high-speed train, Kyiv-Tavrida, clattered with the sound of a low hum from the antigravity cushions beneath the car.

* Perron - (French: Perron) "perron" literally means "stone-paved platform."

Chapter 1

Olesya from Gorodishche travels by stagecoach along a dirt road to meet Taras at the Nikopol train station

 

Olesya is an orphan and is being raised by her uncle, Rabe. His clothing and manners suggest that Rabe is a second-guild merchant.

Olesya was one year old when an anti-Semitic pogrom occurred, sparked by a spontaneous brawl between Gorodishche and Nikopol Cossacks. This was a local, age-old feud between Nikopol and Gorodishche, the primacy of power, wealth, prowess, the beauty of women, and hatred of Jews. One of the drunken brawlers with a Cossack forelock shouted, "Beat the Jews - save Russia!" and the senseless pogroms began.

The murder of Jews was punishable by penal servitude. The gendarmerie suppressed the pogroms in the south of the empire, but was slow to respond. So that the hot-blooded southern people would take out their negativity on the Jews, and not on the tsarist government.

Because the Cossacks of the Zaporizhian Cossacks and the Dnieper Cossacks are a free people. Olesya's mother accidentally died in that pogrom, and her father disappeared without a trace after the pogrom.

The search and search were unsuccessful, and Rabe, as Olesya's father's brother, received a "Missing in Action" certificate from the gendarmerie office three years later.

But Olesya doesn't know she's an orphan. She's certain that Rabe is her father. She was one year old when this misfortune happened. Rabe had to give her a different name. She was born Leah - לאה, and her sister was born a year before her. And by birth, her sister Yehudith - יהודית Judith.

But they named her Yulia so as not to provoke the daring young men with forelocks to new pogroms and anti-Semitism in the Yekaterinoslav province. Yulia was taken to Yekaterinoslav by Aunt Ruth after the pogrom. And the sisters didn't know of each other. Only Rabe and Aunt Ruth, who was Rabe's cousin, knew.

Olesya was traveling by stagecoach from Gorodishche to Nikopol with three companions, and a conversation inevitably struck up among the companions. Fortunately, it wasn't far—twenty-three miles. They'd be there in a jiffy — five hours. She jumped up at four in the morning to catch the first mail coach at six at the Gorodishche post office.

The stagecoach ride from Gorodishche to Nikopol was a typical, but tiring, journey along the swampy October road. Wealthy travelers could afford a carriage with leather springs, an upholstered interior, and even curtains on the windows to protect against dirt.

 But Olesya was traveling on a stagecoach. And the trip cost her a whole ruble. She could have taken a simpler option—a britzka or a kibitka—a covered cart. But she was no simple peasant. She was the daughter of a second-guild merchant, Rabe.

She had taken two travel bags with secret contents, even from her father. She mentally recalled everything: Orange Blossom, Montpensier, a thin glass bottle with a rubber spray bulb, Metamorphosis Cream, Mont Blanc. And something else.

She blushed at the thought of this "something." Olesya rode in the stagecoach with curtains faded and unwashed for an eternity. Her traveling companions were a chatty middle-aged merchant woman named Olga, a junior military officer named Boris in a field-style summer uniform, and a cleric, either a missionary or a proselyte, for on the journey he spoke of the moral decline of modern youth.

The junior officer was discussing news from the newspapers "Ekaterinoslavskie Gubernskie Vedomosti" and "Yuzhny Rabochy" with the merchant woman. This news was about the Government Manifesto*. The officer took both newspapers from his shoulder bag, but he gave the Vedomosti to the merchant woman, Olga Stanislavovna, while he himself read the banned, semi-legal workers' newspaper.

Look, look at this. What am I serving for? For these freethinkers? For these Black Hundreds? No. Well, tell me, Olesya. How can I defend them? How? This is what they write in the Manifesto*.

About improving the state order." On the All-Russian October political strike. Civil liberties. Personal inviolability, freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and association. 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're not defending them, but the Tsar and your property, mine, and hers,- the merchant's wife waved her hand toward Olesya.

— And what should I defend? Her fiancé will protect her. Look at those crimson cheeks, flushed at the word fiancé.

— No, Your Honor. She needs to be protected. Because if there's another pogrom, she'll definitely become an orphan. And that's only half the story.

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

— He's not your papa—you were orphaned during the pogrom in Gorodishche under the previous mayor.

— You're all lying to confuse me...

— Or maybe I really am, lying to bring that damned thing to its senses. So he'll wear his uniform with honor and not read that Black Hundred newspaper. And so he won't read the manifestos.

— Don't shut me up,- the officer retorted.

The coachman listened to this conversation and then began arguing with his traveling clients.

— We're all orphans here, abandoned. Of no use to the Tsar, nor to the government. The horses don't have enough fodder, and there's no good road. He stroked his gray beard with his left hand. His entire appearance, in a gray armyak, belted with a gray sash, and wearing a gray hat, was exactly like the dusty road of the same color. The same dullness, fatigue, and hopelessness.

Along the way, they came across slanted black-and-white mileposts indicating the distance to Nikopol. Some were emblazoned with the provincial coat of arms.

The route lay along a dirt road that turned into dusty ruts in dry weather and a muddy quagmire after rain. At the stops, they were met by stationmasters — low-ranking officials, often former soldiers, who supervised the changing of horses. Some, out of habit, saluted the passenger on the stagecoach. They could be rude, but if a passenger tipped, travelers' services were rendered more quickly.

The merchant's wife started a conversation about the harvest. That year hadn't been the best due to the lack of rain, so the topic was relevant to all the fellow travelers. Peasants emerged from the steppe farmsteads along the road to Nikopol and sold fresh bread and kumiss to travelers. Because there was only one post station—with tea shops where one could buy kvass or herring—there wasn't always a place for hungry travelers to rest and grab a bite to eat.

The travelers complained about the bumpy ride and the October mud. But as they approached the outskirts of the city, the road improved. The suburbs and the last miles before the city brought a lively atmosphere to the travelers.

The stagecoach, bouncing over the bumps, slowly enters the city limits of Nikopol. The swampy October road has softened from the dampness, and passengers constantly shield themselves from the clods of mud flying from under the wheels. The road, which until recently ran through endless steppes, is now lined on one side with low peasant huts.

The walls are made of clay mixed with straw, the roofs are covered with cheap reeds, browned by the sun. Here and there, wattle fences are visible, behind which chickens scurry, and women with buckets stand by the wells, lazily looking at passersby from under a hand placed on their foreheads.

There is no sun in October, but it is the habit of the local women to look at the whole world through their placed hand, in order to understand the essence of what is happening not only to themselves, but to the entire country.

 And so, in the midst of this wretched idyll with women and hands on their foreheads, richer houses begin to appear – built of flagstone and shell rock, with thick walls and tiny windows. These are already the courtyards of wealthy townspeople or retired soldiers who have settled on the outskirts of the city.

And further on – the first signs of the city: two-story houses with carved window frames, whitewashed shutters, here and there even iron roofs sparkling in the sun. The fellow travelers, tired from the long journey, come to life:

— Look, the young lady's all blushed, - the officer laughs, winking at Olesya.

— I bet the groom is a real handsome man? - the merchant's wife chimes in.

Olesya is indeed flushed, hiding her face in a kerchief, but her eyes are shining. She's heading to the station, where her groom—a young graduate of the Vladimir Gymnasium in Kyiv—is scheduled to arrive by train.

— The station is new these days, with columns. And the platform is stone. The buffet is excellent, - the officer remarks importantly.

— Yes, indeed, progress, - the proselyte missionary sighs. Now we have a telegraph, and trains are running, but people still trudge along on horses the old-fashioned way. Travelers, almost exhausted from the damp and mud, breathe a sigh of relief in the last minutes before entering the suburbs.

The road becomes smoother, the mud no longer flies up from under the wheels as much—it's clear that the mud here is sprinkled with sand. On the sides there are now shops, inns, and teahouses. A sign flashes by: "Schultz's Beer House," a Jewish tavern with a Yiddish inscription, and then a cobblestone street.

And finally, in the distance, behind a palisade of carts and wagons, the station building appears—new, with tall windows, smoking chimneys, and a bustle all around: cabbies, merchants, gendarmes in blue uniforms checking documents.

— Well, young lady, we've arrived,- the coachman turns, grinning. Just make sure your fiancé doesn't leave while we're trudging along.

Olesya, all trembling, straightens her hat and goes out, looking around for a familiar face. But looking at the station clock, she realizes the train is still a long way off. Olesya has been waiting for her fiancé at Nikopol Station for two long hours.

The majestic station building amazes her with its beauty and size. She begged her daddy to let her go. He wouldn't let her. He threatened to lock her out and wouldn't listen to his Olesya's whims. But she knew how to influence him. She came up quietly from behind, put her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek to his beard, and whispered,

"Daddy. I love you so much. I can't bear it. Let me go to the station."

He couldn't refuse her, even though it cost him a lot of money. Forty rubles: travel expenses, tips, stagecoach fare, luggage. She's brought a change, you see. Travel clothes and formal wear. Oh, these girlish pranks and bride shows will ruin me.

Olesya, stepping out of the carriage, froze for a moment, stunned by the sight of the station.

It was no wonder she'd begged her father to let her go to the new station in town. And she'd promised her father to tell him everything in detail about this station. So she memorized everything down to the smallest detail. So she could tell all her friends in Gorodishche and her father.

The station building's roof is covered with iron. Large windows and brick decorative elements frame the doorways and window openings. Inside, the station features wooden trim, wrought iron elements, and ticket halls.

The passenger hall has ceramic floor tiles, wooden benches, and stone and metal details. The provincial coat of arms adorned the central entrance, and electric lanterns on delicate cast-iron poles hung beneath the roof. She froze in delight. She hadn't expected to see such a thing. For the first time in her eighteen years, she was heading into town without her nanny and dad.

The cabbies at the entrance, exchanging jokes, watched her go:

— The young lady must be expecting a groom. Look, she's got her hair spread like a peacock.

— She probably picked up the fashion from St. Petersburg.

Olesya, embarrassed, adjusted her hair and headed inside, where the luxury and bustle had turned her head.

Entering the first-class lounge, she found herself in a room with oak paneling, windows, and soft sofas. A mirror hung on one wall, while others were hung with paintings of Crimea and St. Petersburg. In the corner, a string quartet, assembled from local musicians to entertain the passengers, played softly.

It was sparsely populated. Officials in uniforms and decorated medals were discussing the government's new Manifesto. A merchant family with children drank tea from porcelain sets. A young officer wrote something in a notebook, stealing glances at Olesya.

She quickly freshened up in the ladies' room, feeling the road grime melt away layer by layer from her worried face, and she splashed herself with rose water in relief.

She began to notice the details of station life. Olesya had a whole hour before the train arrived, so she decided to take a look around. The first-class buffet offered Viennese coffee and Napoleon cakes. The price was steep at 30 kopecks a cup, but she allowed herself a lemon syrup with ice. It wasn't for nothing that her daddy had given her some rubles for the journey. The station was greedily eating up his rubles.

The telegraph in the next hall crackled incessantly—someone was sending urgent dispatches to Krivoy Rog and Odessa about Jewish pogroms. Olesya began to worry. How was her fiancé Toviy doing in light of this Manifesto*?

Through the window, she saw a freight train carrying coal from Donbass pulling onto the platform. Workers in tattered shirts shouted something in an incomprehensible language—either Ukrainian or Greek. But their eyes clearly showed hatred for capital and the Jewish faith. Many Greek immigrants from Crimea lived in Nikopol. And many Jews. In Gorodishche, Olesya and Rabe were alone in the wilderness, with a single pharmacy for two thousand households.

Her fiancé, Taras—Tovyi טוֹהַר (Tohar), was traveling from Kyiv, where he had completed a four-month accounting course, and was heading to Nikopol for a new job with a river shipping company. In Kyiv, he also attended synagogue and never missed a single morning prayer. He also headed an informal society for "mutual aid for law students." He also secretly attended the "Union of Torah Students." And he had nightmares at night about being expelled for praying too hard.

With ten minutes left before the train's arrival, Olesya stepped almost to the very edge of the platform. A crowd of people were already gathering under the awning to greet them. Porters in blue jackets with badges were loading luggage onto carts, and gendarmes were checking the documents of suspicious individuals.

Smoke appeared in the distance — a mail and passenger train from Krivoy Rog, with first- through third-class carriages. Olesya's heart began to beat faster. Somewhere out there, behind the windows of one of these 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 from the October grime in the ladies' room. She lifted the hem of her dress slightly and admired her ankles in cognac-colored stockings. "Taras will appreciate this."

She stood on a high platform—about a meter above the tracks.

— Go away. What are you looking at?- she shooed away the ragamuffin who was peering at her stockinged legs from the tracks below. And Olesya, like a monument standing on a pedestal, looked down.—The gendarme will be here any minute now.

The ragamuffin disappeared from her sight. She turned her attention to the iron and steel structure, wanting to describe it in detail to her girlfriends from Marganets. The perron of the Nikopolsky station was a reinforced peron parallel to the tracks. Its framework included steel beams and columns to support the canopy over the platform. The canopies were openwork, with wrought iron elements. And Olesya's summer shoes clicked along the platform in time with the approaching train, thump-thump-thump-thump. Olesya's heels clicked. And the train clicked in time with her. Thump-thump. The cast-iron lampposts glittered—with electric bulbs.

She bent and lowered her head to examine the paving and surface of the platform up close. Black and red amphibolite granite from the local quarry, polished to half its shine, but not slippery. If you look closely, you can see your reflection, like in a mirror. Olesya's heels clicked on the polished granite of the platform. And the heels of other young ladies meeting the train joined them. Thump-thump-thump.

Legs flashed with heels. And the train was about to move. Just a little bit. She's studying again like a scout, trying to tell her dad about the crowd, about the railroad tracks. This mirrored platform of polished amphibolite has become a favorite of the local Nikopol punks. If you stand next to a woman in a skirt and look at her reflection, you can see something. Something. Something that makes the boys' eyes widen like balls and their lungs fill with air...

...Nothing escapes her field of vision. The water supply—cast-iron pipes leading to the station building and the locomotive refueling pumps. The sewerage—brick sewers for draining wastewater from toilets and refreshment stands. She marvels at the progress, as if she's stepped into the distant future. The pipes are small and thick. The interweaving of the pipes is like a spider web. She imagines distant countries, Paris, and she, like a high society lady, walks through a luxurious city with mirrored windows (and floors where everything is visible) and men look at her, looking in the mirror. The floor in which it is reflected is reflected. Oh. What was I talking about?...

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

...The October air of the Nikopol station carried the smell of coal dust, burnt oil, and the sweet aroma of freshly mown steppe.

1905 is not only a year of revolution and unrest in Russia. It is also a year of progress, expressed in the steel rails and rattling trains that have already reached this provincial southern coastal 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 he — Toviy. Like a large, awkward bird: overly long arms, the chubby cheeks of an intellectual who hadn't seen the sun for four months of school, and a thick cap of jet-black curls that contrasted defiantly with his pale skin. His thick-rimmed glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and he nervously adjusted them, peering into the crowd of people greeting him.

He returned as a promising young twenty-seven-year-old specialist, who had completed advanced training courses in "Transport Logistics" and "Accounting and Storage." His brain was overflowing with accounting formulas for freight transport. He was smart, talented, and... a groom. The son of a wealthy Jewish merchant. And he was the perfect match for any marriageable Jewish bride. Toviy understood perfectly well that his marriage was part of a greater game, a subtle calculation by their parents, who knew how to combine the incompatible and pretend to love the unloved.

And there he was, this "incompatible" element, standing on the platform, clutching the handle of the suitcase containing the treasured diplomas.

And on the stone platform of the black-red amphibolite platform stood she. Leia. She was his complete opposite, the living embodiment of a Parisian engraving, straight from the yellowed pages of the Journal des Demoiselles. Caught in a fitted corset, she curved like a graceful, fashionable letter S. A light dress of the latest cut, a tiny fashionable hat, a handbag in her hands to match.

This bright, almost unreal spot against the backdrop of the tired faces of the townspeople and those greeting her on the platform. There wasn't a more striking pair on the entire platform than these two. It seemed to him that everyone saw the difference as keenly as he did through his minus-three glasses. But there wasn't a trace of embarrassment on her face. She was waiting for her Toviy. The rich, awkward, awkward bespectacled man.

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

— Leia, you... you look amazing.

— Toviy. Finally—her voice rang like a bell. — I've 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 Leia's father, with whom his father had collaborated on the unification of capital and berths in the Nikopol river port. This was his choice. His. Only his. A sincere smile touched his lips. He believed this game, believed that the overdressed beauty could be sincerely waiting for him.

And she, taking his arm, was already chatting about the upcoming wedding, casting loving glances at him, which he blindly believed. They thought it was love. And that was enough. At least on this platform, on this sunny day.

Olesya melted under the kisses of the clumsy Toviy.

The lovers didn't risk riding to Gorodishche after four o'clock in the afternoon, as they would have to travel half the way in the dark. And they said that gangs of escaped criminals roamed the route, robbing travelers and chumaks.

Now Toviy decided to exercise his rights as groom and guardian, taking control of Olesya's mood. Here he was being a bit naughty – it would have been a three-hour drive to his home in Kamenka, but he was eager to have a private moment with his fiancée.

— Sir, take us to the furnished rooms?- he shouted to the available driver in the cab.

— So, where to?

 — Take her to the fairground. To the port. Taras shouted cheerfully and playfully to a smiling Olesya.

Even though she was betrothed to Tobias, Jewish customs forbade sleeping with her betrothed before marriage. So they took a room at the Slavyanskaya Hotel, but with two beds and a screen...

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

 

Chapter 2

Toviy, prayer, Olesya, women's accessories

 

Toviy retreats from Olesya behind a screen and reads a prayer. He feels as if he's with her, but also not with her. He's torn between his fiancée and his faith. The temptation to be desired and the habit of reading evening prayers tear his flesh and soul apart. Leah watches Toviy pray for a long time. She calls him by his double name. In public, he's Taras. In private, he's Toviy. Her fiancé calls her Olesya in public, and in the synagogue and with her parents, he's Leah-Leah.

Leah sees Toviy's strict rituals as a barrier not only to knowledge but also to simple human happiness. Twilight thickens on the Dnieper, and the lights of steamships are lit. Leah goes out onto the balcony, leans on the railing, pensively gazing at the broad river. Toviy finishes his evening prayer and goes out to his fiancée. She stands nearby, nervously fingering the tassels of her tzitzit. She speaks, tormented by doubts and passions, filled with emotional pain.

— Look at them, Toviy. Steamships. They're going to Kherson, to Odessa. And from Odessa, to Marseille, to Naples, to Alexandria. The whole world is open. And we sit here, in our shtetl. And the greatest debate of our age is whether it's permissible to eat peas on Passover if they were cooked in a goy's pot. You're in synagogue all day. In the evening, studying Gemara. In the morning, prayer. When will you be with me? When will we just talk? Not about what is and isn't permissible, but about us? About what's on my soul?

—  It's not about the peas, Leah. It's about the law. About purity. A pea is just a grain of sand. But if you start removing it grain by grain, the whole wall will crumble. The wall that has protected us for two thousand years. From pogroms, from the Crusades, from assimilation. What will remain of a Jew who ceases to be a Jew? He won't become Russian, much less German. He will become a nobody. Without roots, without a past, without a covenant with God. Leah, my soul. I am doing all this for you. To earn the Almighty's blessing 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 eating with a separate knife for the milk? Were Ibn Gabirol, Maimonides, and 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, Tobias. This is a conversation with God. And I need a conversation with you. With a living person. I need your eyes fixed on me, not on a prayer book. I need you to stroll with me along the embankment in the evenings when everyone else is out and about, not rush off to evening prayers.

— Spinoza is an apostate and a heretic. He was given over to the herem. Do you want to emulate him? Your "progressive" ideas lead straight to atheism. You no longer cover your hair as a married woman should. Where you're rushing, there's no room for Shabbat or kashrut. Minyan... obligation... I can't let the community down. And you shouldn't say such things. It's a sin to put the pleasures of this world above service.

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

— Leah... Don't say such things... Don't make me choose. It's not my choice. This is the path given to us from above. How can you, a daughter of Israel, speak like that? 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. Leaving the fire on is medieval superstition. Today we have gas, we have electricity. Why should I sit in the dark when the whole world is reading, studying, socializing? Why can't I go to the park or a concert with a Christian friend? Why should this ruin my friendship? Rituals and laws are stifling my life. I feel sick, Toviy, do you understand? Like a stone on my chest. I look at these 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 up in beautiful dresses, like in magazines. I want you to see my hair and tell me it's beautiful. I want to board a boat with you and leave.

— Shut up. For God's sake, shut up. This is the spirit of Asmodeus, the spirit of rebellion and heresy, speaking through your lips. Wake up, Leah. Remember who you are. You can't be friends with Christian women. Because they are goyim. Their world is not our world. "Train up a child according to his way, and when he is old, he will not depart from it." This is the path of our fathers. I want my children, our children, to follow this path. And you are asking them to walk along the edge of the abyss.

 — I don't know who I am. I know I'm suffocating. I need air, Toviy. Air. Wind. I want to go to Odessa. To see a big city, the sea, the people... To get away from here. Come with me. I beg you. Let's go to Odessa. At least for a week. On our honeymoon. Let's save our love, otherwise it will die here, within these four walls of the law.

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

— I propose that we breathe the air of freedom, Tobias. I propose that we be not only Jews, but also people of the new century. Doctors, engineers, scientists. And not just melameds and merchants. You talk about children. But I want thatI wish my daughter could read not only Tehillim, but also Pushkin and Tolstoy. So that our daughter would see in the mirror not just a creature to be hidden from prying 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 real life. Everything else is vanity and a striving for the wind.

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

— You can’t serve two masters. You can’t be a little enlightened and a little observant. It’s a slippery slope. First, you’ll allow yourself to go uncovered, then you’ll want to eat in a non-kosher cafeteria so as not to stand out, and then... then you’ll abolish the Sabbath for the sake of an exam. No. It’s either—or.  A painful silence falls. He looks out the window—a large steamship, its lights shining, sailing downstream.

Leah quietly, almost in a whisper.

— So you don’t need me. You need an obedient shadow who will sit silently in the women’s quarters of the synagogue and bear you children. And for me? - Her voice breaks. But I need a life. A full, complex, perhaps sinful life... but a life. - Toviy turns pale.

— Leah... What are you saying...

— I’m saying I can’t be who you want me to be. And you can’t be who I’m waiting for. We love each other, but we’ve fallen in love with images, not real people. You’re the image of a pious husband from the past. And I... I’m probably the image of a rebellious soul from some future that doesn’t exist yet.

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

Leah watches the departing lights of the enormous ship. And she sails away from Toviy with this ship, saying goodbye to her beloved in her thoughts.

— No. Not because of ideas. Because of the right to my own life. Forgive me, Toviy.

Leah turns and walks off the balcony into her room. Toviy remains alone, clutching the tzitzit in impotent anger. He gazes at the wide, free Dnieper, stretching into the dark distance, its unknown yet terrifying and alluring.

He has an invitation from the Yekaterinoslav governor to become deputy head of the Nikopol Shipping Company. He has such plans for redeveloping the port. And then Olesya. Shipping is stagnant and not developing on the Dnieper: Yekaterinoslav-Nikopol-Odesa. And the main obstacle is the Dnieper rapids.

 Large ships have to be reloaded onto smaller ships, then back onto larger ones. The cost of cargo is nearly doubling. 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 thesis for the four-month course is "Legal and Economic Reforms of the Dnieper River Shipping Company in the Dnieper Rapids and Improving the Efficiency of Yekaterinoslav-Nikopol-Odesa Shipping." He would have to reform the entire local river fleet: lighters, tugboats, steamships, local transport, and saliki.

For some reason, Toviy remembered the barge haulers on the Dnieper from his childhood and smiled at his own barge haulers from his distant childhood. From Nikopol, along the Dnieper, through Kherson to Odessa and beyond, a huge quantity of wheat and barley, grown on the fertile lands of the county, was exported. This was primarily the work of large merchants, many of whom were Jewish. He himself came from a family of first-guild merchants.

The river route was long: down the Dnieper to Kherson, and then along the Black Sea coast to the port of Odessa. This was a key trade channel, linking the agricultural hinterland with the empire's largest international port.

Through it, Nikopol was integrated into the global economy. The Dnieper 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, shuffling them from one travel bag to another.

Here's an elegant porcelain compact with a puff. Here are some blusher, slightly pink. Paper napkins with a natural red pigment. And here are eyelash curlers and a brush. Orange Blossom scented water. Now she's going to throw all this away? Fruit drops and a thin glass bottle with a rubber spray bulb. Metamorphosis and Mont Blanc creams.

Toilet soap. She doesn't need all this anymore? A toiletry bag—a must-have, made of morocco leather, lined with velvet and silk. And she's going to throw this away? A natural bristle brush and a tortoiseshell comb.

Bobby pins. Hair ribbons. A trendy metal file, scissors, hangnail clippers. A corset, lingerie, stockings, a bra. Does Tobias need any of this? Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

— Why is this all happening? He doesn't love me. I'm such a fool. She sobs, her shoulders shaking.

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

Toviy. His voice is muffled, broken, as if the words are being torn out against his will.

— Okay.

Leah freezes, not believing her ears. She breaks off her sobs.

— What?

Toviy looks away, clenching his fists. He speaks not to her, but as if to himself, trying to find an excuse.

— There's a large synagogue in Odessa. And kosher cafeterias. And I can find a minyan... Maybe... A change of scenery will do us good." He doesn't finish. He can't say the most important thing: "I'm doing this for you. For us. I'll break everything just to keep you."

Leah rushes to him, wraps her arms around his neck, crying and laughing at the same time.

— Really? Are you telling the truth? Are we going? Thank you. Thank you, my dear, my beloved.

She kisses him on the cheek, on the lips. Tobias freezes. His body tenses. He doesn't hug her back. He looks somewhere above her head, into the gathering darkness. There's no joy in his eyes, but a terrible, all-consuming anxiety. He's just agreed to something that, for him, is tantamount to sin. He's taken the first step from the stable, solid ground of the Law of Moses into the shaky, dangerous world of love and passion, where the winds of change reign.

And he doesn't know if they'll ever be able to return. He and his Leah. But love is stronger than his convictions, it wins. Love is stronger than laws.

Chapter 3

Perron. Yael's Temptation

The living room in the Reicher house. The electric lamp with a glass shade in the living room was a source of pride for Ruth, the owner. And for Shimon Reicher, the pride of the past six months has been the carved oak sideboard, delivered by craftsmen in Kyiv.

The legs of the sideboard are shaped like lion's paws, the plinth with a wide pull-out drawer, the panels, and the frames are skillfully carved. The capital and pilasters support the cornice and pediment with a crown.

Behind the glass doors were kept traditional Jewish Seifer Torah scrolls. Next to the oak sideboard is a massive silver seven-branched Chanukiah minor menorah, guiding the gaze to Mizrahi. The air smelled of coffee, mingled with freshly baked goods.

Shimon Reicher was examining an account book. Ruth was embroidering. The radiant Yael burst into the room, trying to contain her emotions.

— Mama. Papa. I passed. All the exams. And Mrs. Krasnozhon herself said that I have an exceptional talent for numbers and that I could teach.

Ruth puts down her embroidery, her face lighting up with a warm but reserved smile.

— We never doubted it, my girl. You've always been diligent. Come here, I'll kiss you. You must be hungry; I told Mirla to bring you cherry pie.

Shimon looked up from the account book, and the corners of his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile.

— Teaching? No way. We have other plans. They're all masters at praise. And I paid for my studies 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 got it, Daddy. I can keep double-entry bookkeeping, prepare reports for a joint-stock company, and calculate the cost of a stone down to the last penny. I find that interesting.

Shimon finally puts down the account book and looks at it over his glasses.

— Interesting? Numbers aren't for fun. Numbers are honesty. Or lies. They contain the whole truth about a business, and about a person. Do you understand 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, Daddy. This is trust. And an honor for me.

Ruth strokes Yael's hand.

— Shimon, don't frighten the child. She understands everything already. Yael, my child, you are now an educated woman. But don't forget whose daughter you are. Your knowledge is not for showing off to some college girls and nihilists. It is for the family's business. For our well-being.

— I haven't forgotten, Mother. But at the courses, everyone is talking about change. There's unrest in the city. They say that everything could soon change, that women can now…

Shimon cuts her off with a sharp gesture.

— There's a lot of nonsense being said in the city. They are troublemakers without family or tribe who want to destroy everything. And what will they build? Nothing. Only pogroms and destruction. Our affairs are our home, our community, our business. This is what we built with our labor. And not their ideas, for which they are ready to lay down the lives of others. Did you hear what happened in Odessa? In Kyiv? No? Well, I'll tell you: blood and tears. And mostly our tears. And our pain.

After a moment of heavy silence, Ruth quietly.

— Shimon is right. The world is full of dangers. Our job is to protect our world from corrupting influences. Your father doesn't trust strangers because he's greedy, but because he's cautious. Caution has preserved our family for centuries. Your studies are also caution. And great wisdom.

Shimon softened and smiled.

— Tomorrow you'll come with me to the office on Tokovka. I'll show you the books. You'll start small. And no one. Listen, none of the employees must know that you're keeping the books. To everyone, you're my daughter, helping her father sort the mail. Understood?

Yael nods, her initial excitement fading slightly, replaced by a feeling of enormous responsibility and a touch of dread. "Understood, Daddy."

— And there are no dates on Saturday. No ink on the Sabbath. Your books can wait until Sunday. First, faith, then deeds. That's our strength. Not their constitutions.

— I remember.

Ruth rises from her sewing.

— Go, wash up, rest. We'll light the candles soon. And don't think about sad things. You've made us very happy. You're our rock. Our smart girl.

Yael nods and leaves the living room. Her gait isn't as light as it was when she entered. She feels the full weight of responsibility, fears, and hopes of her family on her shoulders.

After the courses, Yael has matured, and now the ordinary objects in their home have begun to seem archaic and unprogressive to her: the sofa, kerosene lamps, the old stove, and the primus stove.

The toilets at Maria Krasnozhon's school were cast iron, enameled white, with running water and sewer. And at home, even in winter, you have to run out to the sheds in the yard. She longs for freedom, for open space, and she begged her father to take her to the Tokovsky quarry the next day.

The air in the Tokovsky quarry office was thick with the smell of dust, old paper, and the pungent odor of ink. Yael timidly crossed the threshold, introduced herself to the clerk her father had sent, and sat down at the high office desk, where stacks of account books and folders with invoices awaited her. Numbers danced before her eyes, but her attention was distracted by a persistent, creaking iron grinding 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 stay in the office, but she couldn't resist. Telling the clerk she'd step outside for a minute to get some air, she headed toward the source of the sound.

Rounding the office building, she froze, stunned.

The stone processing workshop opened before her—a huge canopy, beneath which reigned noise and movement. But it wasn't chaos, but a powerful, orderly rhythm of labor. And most importantly—stone. Stone everywhere.

Enormous, rough blocks of black, dark-gray stone, which she now recognized as gabbro-amphibolite, lay like sleeping ancient animals. Others, already sawn into gigantic slabs of varying sizes, awaited the cutting. Some, polished, gleamed in the sun like mirrors.

The air trembled with the clang of iron on stone, hummed with the work of hand and steam-powered machinery, and was filled with acrid stone dust that settled on her hair and cheeks.

Yael stood as if enchanted. She had fallen in love. She had fallen instantly, irrevocably, and passionately in love with this power, this eternal, primordial force that people had tamed through their labor.

And her gaze fell on him.

Off to the side, at a separate table, a young man was working. His back and torso were bare and tanned to a deep bronze, the muscles rippling beneath the skin with each stroke. In his hands was a trojan—a three-sided steel chisel. He wasn't simply chopping stone; he was sculpting.

With concentration, titanic effort, and yet incredible grace, he chipped away at the block piece by piece, and from the shapeless mass, some form began to emerge. Yael couldn't understand what exactly he was creating—an animal or a facade element—but the process itself captivated her.

She watched as beads of sweat trickled down his tense back, his hand trembled from the blows, and he paused for a second to assess his work, then began again. It was a dance of strength and patience. At first, a wild flush of shame washed over her—she, a traditionalist girl, had never seen a naked male torso so close.

She wanted to turn away and run, but her legs wouldn't obey her. Shame gave way to rapture. Rapture at the beauty of physical labor, at the skill, at the very life that bubbled here, so real, so unlike the quiet, orderly world of her numbers and books. Now she was the mistress of this world. She ruled it together with her daddy.

— He's a sculptor of stone, - flashed through her mind, - and I... I'm now a sculptor of papers and accounting. We're both creating something important.

Overwhelmed by this new, intoxicating feeling, she turned and almost ran back to the office. She burst through the door, forgetting her dignity, her eyes shining like that very same stone that had just been split.

—  Daddy. Daddy. I'm here,- her voice, clear and full of happiness, cut through the scratching of pens and the rustling of papers. - I really do. I 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 sparkling eyes, her ragged breathing. A moment of bewilderment flashed across his stern face, followed by a rare, surprised smile. He hadn't seen her so inspired since childhood. She wasn't an orphan. She was his daughter, his hope.

Seven days. Seven long days, like grains of Tokovsky granite, slowly crumbling into the hourglass of her life. But one grain of sand, the largest and roughest, lodged itself in her heart, haunting her.

Yael sat at her desk, painstakingly tracing columns of figures in her ledger with her pen. The ink was black, the paper white, every line perfectly straight. But inside, everything was upside down, painted in wild, forbidden colors, and shattered.

One hundred and seventy-three rubles and some kopecks for shipment to Nikolaev... her hand wrote, and he stood before her eyes. Not a ruble, but the contours of the muscles on her back, straining under the hammer blow. Not kopecks, but beads of sweat trickling down her dark skin...

She shuddered and blotted her pen. Annoyed, she sprinkled sand on the page.

—  Oh, God, again!- her inner voice groaned. "Here he is again! Day and night. Like an obsession.

She put down her pen, stood, and went to the window, as if hypnotized to find peace in the dusty street. But even there, in the peddler's cry and the creaking of carts, she could hear the metallic scrape of a Trojan horse against stone.

Yael's monologue. Confused and horrified.

How can I? How can I, the daughter of Shimon and Ruth Reicher, a devout Jew, allow such thoughts? It's a sin. An unclean sin. "You shall not commit adultery," the commandment says. But isn't that adultery in thought? Isn't it adultery to look at the naked body of a strange man and admire it? Oh, I'm a sinner. A real sinner.

I need to repent. I need to go to Rabbi Aron and tell him everything. Fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness. But what will I say? "Rabbi, I saw a worker shirtless, and I liked him"? He'll think I'm crazy. Or worse, promiscuous. Our family name will be disgraced. Dad... Mom... what would they think?

No. I can't tell anyone. No one. I need to throw him out of my head. Throw him out like spoiled food. He's a nobody. I don't even know his name.

Maybe his name is Ivan? Semyon? Fyodor? What difference does it make? He's a goy. He won't go to the mikvah, won't observe Shabbat, won't understand our customs. His world is a stone and a hammer.

My world... My world is these books, this room, our home, our faith.

It's a dead end. A complete, utter dead end. Like the stone he's hewing. No beginning, no end. Just a cold, insurmountable wall.

Oh, God. Why am I being punished like this? Why did you send me this temptation? I didn't ask for it. I just went to see... I was like a stupid, naive lamb who came to the wolf on her own. No, he's not a wolf. He's... Apollo. Yes, that's right. Like that idol they told us about in class, forbidden and beautiful. I was thinking about a pagan deity. That's what I've come to. It's a double sin.

I'll light more than just one candle this Friday. Two. No, five. Or six. One for Dad, one for Mom, one for my peace, one for the forgiveness of sins... and one for him. Yes, for him.

May the Almighty grant him happiness with a woman of his class, may he find a good wife, a Russian Orthodox, who will wash his shirts and cook borscht for him... But I don't know his name.

Yael, stop. What are you even thinking about? You don't even know him. You're building castles in the air out of dust and sin. He's a goy. You're a Jew. There's a gulf between you that can't be crossed.

 Neither can you reach him, nor can he reach you. Your destiny is to marry a pious young man from our community, perhaps that clerk from Father's office, Aron. To sit at his table, bear his children, and manage his household. This is your path. The right path. And everything else is from the devil.

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

She pressed her temples with her fingers, trying to physically push the image from her mind. Her cheeks burned with a crimson blush of shame. She was alone in the room, but she felt as if everyone could see her sinful thoughts.

The June sun shone through the window, but Yael's soul raged with a storm of shame, fear, forbidden desire, and desperate longing for something she couldn't even name. She didn't know what to call what had come over her. The satin dress, clinging tightly to her waist, rose with a full, heaving chest, and her gaze was directed toward the distant horizon of the western sun setting behind the neighboring houses.

The next day was Friday, and Friday prayers had begun.

The air in the living room was thick and sweet with the aroma of lit candles and holiday pastries. Dust raised during the day now swirled lazily in the rays of the setting sun, filtering through the heavy curtains. The heat was unbearable, the stuffiness intensified by the gravity of the moment.

Shimon Reicher, wearing a prayer shawl, stood at the head of the table. His face was turned eastward, toward the invisible Jerusalem. He held an ancient Torah scroll in his hands, and his low, velvety voice, filled with reverence, rang rhythmically in the silence:

"Blessed are You, O Lord, forever and ever, and the host of Your angels guards our peace... The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, our God from the beginning of the world..."

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

Yael stood next to her mother, trying to imitate her posture, whispering the same words. But a storm raged inside her. The snow-white, high-collared blouse her mother had ordered her to wear for Shabbat felt like a noose.

Every word her father spoke echoed in her ears like a deafening sound, overlaid by another, haunting sound—a metallic grinding and dull thuds. Knock-knock-knock-knock.

She tried not to look at her father, afraid that he would see the chaos raging in her girlish head with a single glance. She stared at the flickering flames of the menorah, hoping to find purification in them. But instead, she imagined the muscles of biceps and the glistening sweat on dark skin in the flickering flames.

— ...keeps you from all evil...- Shimon read.

— ...keeps...- Ruth whispered.

—...from all evil...- Yael tried to repeat, but her lips trembled.

Yael's inner monologue was filled with despair.

Stop. Think about the words. Think about God. Not about him. He is that "all evil" from which we must be protected. No, he is not evil... he is... work, toil, just a man... No. For you, he is evil, a temptation, a sin. Stop. Focus. Jerusalem... think of Jerusalem...

She made a desperate attempt to save herself, breaking the silence and bowing toward Mizrach. Her voice, unexpectedly loud and cracked, sounded like a crack in the perfect surface of the ritual:

— O High City of Jerusalem. Great art thou, and great are thy deeds...

Shimon paused for a second, looking at his daughter in surprise. Praying so loudly and suddenly was not customary. Ruth opened her eyes slightly, a slight alarm reflected on her face.

But for Yael, neither her father, nor her mother, nor the prayer room existed anymore. The world narrowed to two points: the candle flame, in which his image danced, and the thump-thump-thump-thump that now pounded not in the quarry, but in her temples, merging with the frantic pounding of her own heart. Knock-knock-knock-knock. "It's his hammer." Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock. "It's her heart." Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock. "It's a general, all-crushing rhythm, drowning out the words of prayer, the voice of reason, everything in the world."

The heat was becoming 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 feminine nature, awakened with furious force. The flesh proved stronger than the spirit. The body demanded its right to life, to beauty, to desire.

Splotches of color appeared on her cheeks. Her vision darkened. Sounds—her father's voice, the creaking of the floorboards, her own heartbeat—were intertwined into one deafening roar. She didn't hear her own weak groan. The world turned upside down and swam. The menorah's flame dissolved into a blinding white spot, then abruptly went out.

Yael, chalk-white, sank soundlessly 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 scream of divine horror.

The prayer was interrupted. The Sabbath peace was shattered. The stuffy room now smelled not only of wax and challah, but also of the pungent odor of human confusion, the feminine sin of carnal lust.

 

Chapter 4

Sholom Aleichem ‏ שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם To Arthur from Yael 

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

The road seemed endless. She sat in the phaeton, clutching her handbag, and looked at the flashing fields without seeing them. One thought swirled in her head.

 — Will I see him? No, I won't. And thank God. What if?.. No, that's not necessary.

At the office, she acted quickly, almost mechanically. She took the necessary folders from the manager, answered his questions about her father's health curtly, and, without hesitation, 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 had already lifted her foot onto the step of the phaeton when suddenly He emerged from around the corner of the stone-cutting workshop.

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

He was completely different. Not a demigod, sculpting his own anatomy, but... a boy. Dressed in a simple but clean shirt, hanging loose. His face was clean-shaven, his hair neatly slicked back. And he was smiling. "Here, miss, is another document," his voice was muffled but soft. He held out a folded sheet.

 — It's a report card from our art department. We forgot it at the office. And he laughed, not embarrassed, but simply and good-naturedly.

Yael was speechless. She silently took the paper, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He was very close.

— And what's your name?  - he asked, easily switching to the informal "you," as was customary in their circle.

— I'm Yael—Yulia, in your language.

— And I'm Artem.

— Are you our boss's daughter, or something?

Yael's lips trembled. Everything inside her screamed with embarrassment, but some sudden impulse, a courage born of despair and a week of torment, forced her to exhale:

— Yes. Yael Simonovna Reicher.

And suddenly she burst out. It was as if the dam holding back all her emotions had collapsed.

— Show me your work, dear Artem, - her own voice sounded unnaturally loud and bold.

— What are you doing there?

Artem was surprised, even recoiled slightly, but the smile didn't leave his face. The sight of this cheerful, excited, black-haired young lady must have seemed amusing to him.

— Yes, please. Look.

He led her around the corner of the workshop, to a makeshift warehouse for finished products. Perfectly finished curbs, paving slabs, and carved cornices lay everywhere. Yael ran her finger along the cool, smooth surface of the stone, and her heart sang.

And then she saw it. The very lion he had worked on that first time. Now it was almost finished—powerful, with a thick mane, a regal and calm expression on its stone face.

—And what is this? - she whispered, mesmerized.

— This is a special order, - Artem said with pride. "For the Nikopol police chief himself, for his dacha, I heard. The lion is the king of beasts, so its owner is king too.

Yael's sudden courage didn't leave her. She looked from the lion to Artem, and the words flowed naturally:

— Whose are you? Where did you come from?

— Yes, I'm from around here, - Artem smiled, leaning on the hip of the stone lion. "I'm one of the Tokov stonecutters. My dad worked here.

— And where is he now?  Yael asked, and immediately regretted it as a shadow crossed his face.

— But the work is dangerous and harmful, - he said simply, without tragedy, stating a fact. - Stone consumption. He died early.

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

She looked at his hands — strong, with scraped knuckles, with stone dust forever soaked into the pores of his skin. Hands that had already shared her father's fate.

— I... I have to go,- she suddenly exhaled, feeling a lump rise in her throat. - They're waiting for me.

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

For several days, Yael had been hatching a plan for a meeting and a conversation with Artyom about his conversion. And her plans were beginning to come true...

The heat over the Tokovskaya quarry was unbearable; the scorching air above the slabs shimmered, merging with the hum of cicadas. In the shadow of the ruins of the old administrative barracks, where Artyom's workshop now stood, the smell of stone, metal, and male sweat filled the air.

Yael, in her modest long skirt and headscarf, seemed a strange but calming presence in this harsh landscape. She came to pick up the mezuzah-dyo inkwell she'd ordered from Artem, which he'd carved from a local amphibolite stone with a delicacy surprising for his rough hands. The inkwell fit in the palm of his hand and had an internal cone with a hollow for pouring ink. She couldn't understand how he'd carved the stone from the inside, creating a hollow cavity that held an entire vial of sacred mezuzah-dyo ink.

The conversation about technology and tools turned to 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 the steel still rang in it. Honoring the fathers and traditions is a tribute. But all of this was merely a shadow, a preparation. Like a blueprint before the construction of a temple. The true temple is Christ. Your prophets spoke of Him, but you have not recognized Him. - Yael, without batting an eyelid, with that inner silence that had accumulated over centuries in yeshiva debates, retorted:

— Artem, have you read the Scriptures? The entire Torah, the entire Tanakh — it's 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. Unique. Not three in one. Your teaching on the Trinity is a violation of our most fundamental principle. Our faith has not been 'prepared'; it was and remains true.

— So you live by these laws?

— You don't eat dairy and meat? - Artem's voice betrayed incomprehension, almost pity. That's a yoke, slavery. Christ freed us from the bondage of the law. We live by grace.

— A yoke? - A sparkle flickered in Yael's eyes for the first time. For Artem, it was like a flash of lightning 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 most ordinary, the simplest act, to remember God.

When I light Friday candles, I greet Queen Saturday. When I check the greens for insects, I remember that God gave me this food and I must accept it pure. This is not slavery. It is a constant, moment-by-moment dialogue with the Creator. And what is your 'grace'? For many, it becomes permission to live as they please, as long as they 'believe in their hearts.' Where are you, Cossack?

The argument was heating up. They were no longer sitting, but standing across from each other. Artem, powerful and broad-shouldered, Yael, frail but unbending, like a reed in a hurricane.

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

— Empty?- Yael's voice grew quieter, but only sharper. - We speak to God directly. Without intermediaries like icons on boards. Our synagogue is a community, people. And beauty? Beauty is in the words of prayer, in the melody we've passed on for thousands of years. Are you talking about your ancestors? My ancestors went to the stake of the Inquisition with the prayer "Shema, Israel" on their lips simply because they refused to change that "cold" faith. They sanctified the Name of God with their blood. Can you imagine such a faith, Artem? A faith for which millions went to their deaths?

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

Artem looked at her, and the anger in him began to give way to something else. Amazement? Horror? Respect?

And then, without fully understanding what he was saying, he blurted out:

— Strong faith... But what a shame it leads nowhere. Come to us, Yael. Discover the true Messiah. See what joy can be.

Yael's eyes widened at the incredibleness of what she was hearing.

— What? — it wasn't a word, but an exhalation. "You're asking me, an Orthodox Jew, a daughter of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to betray the covenant? Do you think, after everything I've said, I could even entertain such a thought for a second?

Her coldness melted, now it burned.

— And you? - she breathed, a challenge filling her voice. - You, a descendant of warriors who swore an oath on the Gospel? Could you renounce Christ? Could you, for the sake of truth, accept the burden of the Law that my people bear? Convert to Christianity, come to know the true One God. 

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

The sudden silence deafened them. Both realized they had strayed into a place they hadn't planned on. The threats didn't sound like malice, but like a desperate attempt to prove his point, turning his soul inside out for another to see.

Artyom slowly sank onto the crate, running his hand over his face.

— No..." he croaked. - No, I can't. This... this is all I have. The faith of my fathers. My land.

Yael straightened. The fire in her eyes faded, replaced by a deep, ancient sadness.

— You see, - she said quietly. - And I can't. This is all I have. The faith of my fathers and mothers. My people.

She picked up a carefully wrapped stone case from the table.

—The mezuzah inkwell is beautiful. Thank you. Shalom Aleichem, Artyom.

— To your health..." he replied hoarsely. "Peace to your home. - She turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing in the haze of heat.

Artem sat for a long time, staring into space. He hadn't proven his truth. And she hadn't proven hers. But for the first time in his life, he felt that another person's faith wasn't a delusion to be conquered, but a vast, impenetrable, and beautiful temple whose doors he was never destined to enter. And this thought filled his soul with both bitterness and a new sense of spaciousness.

A family abandoned to fertile soil sprouts. Day after day, the words Yael had hurled at Artem sometimes rang in his ears again and again. And meanwhile...

In Shimon's office, Ruth opened the windows, airing the spacious room from the thick smells of old books, the dust of stone chips, and the acrid smell of the primus stove. A ray of sunlight filtered through the trees in the garden, illuminating the dust particles swirling in the air. Shimon himself sat at the large oak table, and across from him, setting down his cup of half-finished tea, sat the manager, Meshach, a dry, agile man with a perpetually preoccupied expression.

— Lions, you say? And statues? And for the pier and the platform? - Shimon repeated, running his finger down the list. “And rock for the dam for the rapids? That’s a huge amount! Are the Nikopol merchants printing money, or what?

— Out of their generosity, Shimon-avrom, - Meshach nodded. - The city is growing, the port is expanding. And as for the dam—those are the royal engineers designing it. Serious people. The order is large, but the deadlines are pressing.

Yael, sitting in the corner at the desk, checking the reports, raised her head. The pen froze in her hands. She listened without showing it, but her heart began to beat faster. The thought came instantly, vividly and insistently.

- Daddy, - she said quietly but clearly, interrupting the men’s conversation.

They both turned to her.

— I know someone who can handle such an order. And complete it quickly and efficiently.

— Who's the skilled worker?- Shimon asked, looking at his daughter curiously.

— Artem. A stonemason from Tokovskaya. The one who made…- she paused for a moment, inkwells for the synagogue in Yekaterinoslav. His work is excellent, kosher, and they highly praised him. He knows his way around stone and can assemble a team. He's one of our own, from Tokovskaya.

Shimon frowned. He narrowed his eyes, and his gaze took on a familiar, paternal suspicion.

— Artem? That Cossack? And how do you know him, my dear? And you're raving about him like that?

Yael felt a deep, crimson blush spread across her cheeks. She looked down at the records, trying to appear preoccupied.

— Daddy, I work for you, in the office. I see all the invoices, all the bills. I should know all the contractors and craftsmen by name. His work is listed under the category ‘Artwork,’ and he was awarded a bonus for that work for speed. So I know.

Mesach, sensing a businesslike interest, chimed in:

— Yes, Shimon-avrom, I remember that Artyom. He has a steady hand, a keen eye. He’s perfect for this kind of work.

— Okay, - Shimon still looked at his daughter with slight mistrust, but his business sense prevailed. - Mesach, find him, talk to him.

— Daddy, - Yael suddenly intervened again, a little more insistently. -I’m going to Tokovskaya tomorrow, Tuesday, anyway, to pick up the invoices from the clerks. I can talk to him. It’s on the way.

There was a short pause. Shimon looked at his daughter searchingly.

—What are you going to talk to him about? Trading isn't a woman's job.

— I'm not going to trade, I'm going to explain the terms, - Yael replied quickly and matter-of-factly, trying to keep her tone even. - I'll tell him the order is large, but we can only award it to him if he finds six assistants right here in the Tokovskaya district.

 Local workers are used to working for sixty rubles. And if he can't find them, we'll have to look for craftsmen in Yekaterinoslav. But they'll charge half as much, and his entire earnings will go toward the overpayment. So it's more profitable for him to find his own Tokovskaya workers.

She blurted this out almost breathlessly, 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're right, my daughter. - I shouldn't have kept you in the office; you should be a manager. Cleverly calculated. Come on. Go. Talk to this Cossack. Just, - he raised his index finger, - don't linger too long in private. Business and nothing but business.

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

Meshach chuckled approvingly and reached for his cup.

— Good girl, Yael-daughter. Shimon-avrom, you should pay her a percentage of the deal.

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

Yael no longer heard them. She looked at the columns of numbers, but saw not them before her, but a tall figure in a dusty shirt against the backdrop of a quarry, and she looked forward to tomorrow...

...July was so hot that the air above the road to Tokovskaya melted, shimmering with a haze. The phaeton, bouncing over the potholes, raised clouds of acrid, fine dust, which immediately stuck to Yael's sweaty face. She was in a hurry. In the dusty quarry office, everything was done quickly and efficiently: statements were received, prices were verified, and the work orders for the next production run were handed over against signature. And then, trying to pretend the question arose casually, she turned to the middle-aged clerk:

— Tell me, is Artyom, the stonemason, 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 undisguised curiosity.

— Artyom? He's home. He's been gone since Friday. He hurt himself, poor thing. I heard he nearly severed his finger on a serrated chisel. He's still sitting there, fortunately, it's summer, not urgent.

Yael's heart sank with sudden anxiety.

— His address... could you tell me? It's urgent," her voice rose slightly higher than usual.

— What's the address? - the woman waved her hand. - You'll go straight ahead along this road, all the way to the bridge. And after the bridge, turn left. And his house is the third one from the bridge.

You won't mistake it for any other: it's roofed with flagstone. He made the flagstones himself, assembled them, and roofed them himself. It's beautiful. No one else has anything like it. He's a jack of all trades.

Yael nodded, already turning to leave, but the woman, clearly enjoying sharing village news, continued:

— He's a bachelor. He runs a farm, and he's raising a young nephew. And as for... - she lowered her voice, "he had a fiancée, but she ran away from the wedding with some merchant. Since then, he hasn't even looked at girls. He's always been busy with work and housework.

Yael listened, and a strange mixture of relief and even greater timidity washed over her. She lowered her gaze.

— Thank you very much. Then... I'll go. -You're welcome, miss, the woman called after her. -Turn left after the bridge, don't miss it. The roof is made of flagstone.

Yael practically ran toward the phaeton. The driver, dozing on the box, perked up.

— Over the bridge, - she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady. Then turn left. 

The horses set off. Her heart pounded in her throat, echoing in her temples. A dusty road, scattered houses, and then a slanted bridge over a dry stream. A sharp left turn.

And there it was—the third house. The very one. Low, neatly laid out of gray stone, but the main thing was the roof. Not straw, not shingles, but neat, flat flagstone slabs, laid with perfect precision and an understanding of the material.

The roof exuded the reliability, strength, and tenacity of its owner. Yael took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf, and stepped out of the phaeton. She needed to behave like a businesswoman: strictly business, strictly business. But her legs felt weak, and her head rang with the thought: "He's hurt... A bachelor... He doesn't look at girls..."

Yael froze in the threshold, clutching an envelope of papers. The room was cool, despite the July heat, and smelled of healing ointment, dried herbs, and wax. Directly across the room, in the beauty corner, lamps burned before a small but opulent iconostasis. The faces of the saints, stern and radiant, seemed to be watching her.

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

— Yael? - he said reservedly, without the usual Cossack lilt.

— Come in. What happened? Come in, don't just stand there.

She took a few hesitant steps inside, taking in the cozy, masculine, ascetic order of the house.

— I'm here on business, Artem, - she began, trying to sound firm and businesslike. She placed the envelope on the table. - A large order from Nikopol. Lions, statues, stones for the platform and pier. And... rock calculations for the dam across the Dnieper rapids.

Artem whistled, looking in surprise from his hand to the papers.

— A significant amount. What's the deadline?

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

He looked at her carefully, gesturing for her to continue.

—You need to find six assistants here in Tokovskaya. The locals will charge sixty rubles. If you can't find them, you'll have to hire in Yekaterinoslav, and the craftsmen there will charge ninety. Your profit will go towards overpaying them. That's not profitable for you.

She laid it all out clearly, staring off into space above his shoulder, afraid to meet his eyes. The room was silent, broken only by the soft crackling of the oil lamp.

Artyom nodded slowly, his gaze focused and possessive. He reached for the papers with his left hand, unfolded them, and began to examine them.

— Six...-  he said thoughtfully. - Yes, I'll find them. And Stepan and Grishka the hammerman, they're idle... The lions... - He suddenly chuckled. - Interesting work. - As for the dam—that's for an engineer, but I can figure it out; I have a keen eye. I learned it from my father.

He looked up at her, and a familiar glimmer flickered in his eyes—the glimmer of a master interested in a complex task.

— Tell your father, Shimon Avramovich, that I'm taking the order. I'll find assistants. I can start working in three days, if my hand... - he winced, - is working properly."

— Okay, - Yael nodded, sensing that the business part of the conversation was over. An awkward pause hung in the air. Her gaze slid again over the iconostasis, the simple but sturdy benches, and his bandaged arm.

— Are you... er... badly hurt? - she couldn't help but ask, her voice trembling.

Artyom waved his left hand.

— It's nothing. Two fingers too far to the left. - I'm right-handed, but I had to use my left. Well... It'll heal. Thank you for managing it.

Another pause. Yael knew it was time to go, but her legs wouldn't obey.

— Well, I... I'm going then, - she finally managed, taking a step back toward the threshold. - Father will be waiting for you to come out. 

— Of course. And tell him I'm grateful for his trust. 

She nodded and, turning, practically ran out of the room into the bright, blinding sun, leaving behind the coolness of the house and the heavy, piercing gaze of her host, which conveyed bewilderment, gratitude, and something else she was afraid to understand...

The room was empty, but it seemed to still retain its faint scent—not dust and sweat, but something clean, soapy, feminine. Artyom slowly sank onto the bench, staring at his bandaged hand but not seeing it. A strange, contradictory jumble of feelings raged inside him.

Confusion. Why this all of a sudden? She came herself. To the house. Business, you say? Business could have been handed over through Mesakh. Or wait until I got to work. And she came straight here. She stood so timidly by the threshold, but her eyes were shining. Intelligent eyes. They see everything, everything.

Joy. It flared inside, hot and swift. She remembers me. Is she worried? Did you get hurt... She asked. She cares. She can't be indifferent. Such a smart, beautiful woman... and just like that... No, no, there's something there.

Anxiety. Wake up, Artyom, - an inner voice, harsh and mocking, immediately doused him with a bucket of ice water.

 - Who are you? A man. A sweaty worker. A bachelor. No children. And who is she? The owner's daughter. A Jewish princess. Her father will find her some learned rabbi from Odessa, or a rich merchant. And what about you? A Cossack with a bloody hand and a hole in his soul.

Sadness. Heavy, familiar. What am I living for? I built a house. I laid a roof, so it would be as good as other people's. But the house is empty. There's a farm, but no one to cook borscht for. My nephew will grow up and leave. And I'll be left alone with this steam-powered stone-cutting machine and the icons in the corner. A wife? But where will you find one like that? Smart, kind, and hardworking... and whose heart skips a beat the moment you see her in the doorway...

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

He imagined Shimon's face—intelligent, stern, with piercing eyes that saw right through everything. If he finds out, he'll fire him. Forever. With shame. And he'll do the right thing. That's what he deserves.

His internal dialogue reached a crescendo, and suddenly a new, furious, and decisive feeling was born within him. A challenge.

"Let him fire me," he suddenly said loudly to the empty room. "I'll give him this order. Better than anyone else. I'll earn money, good money. And... I'll leave here. Look at Russia, how vast it is. To Kyiv, perhaps... or to Kuban. To start a new life. Without these stupid thoughts. Without that look..."

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying to himself. He couldn't escape her gaze. He would carry it within him, like that shard of stone that had once pierced his palm and remained there forever—tiny, invisible, but reminding him of its presence with a slight pain with every movement.

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

 

Chapter 5

Conversion of Faith and a Change of Surname 

Shimon's office in Yekaterinoslav was far richer and more prestigious than his Tokovo office. It smelled of wood varnish, leather, and books. Shimon sat at a massive desk, bills and blueprints spread out before him, but his attention was completely focused on Artem, who stood across from him, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying not to stain the pristine Persian carpet with his gaze.

— Artem, - Shimon began, his voice laced with rare, genuine respect. -   I showed this work from Nikopol in Odessa. Lions like these... I haven't even seen lions like these in Kiev. They seem alive, as if they could open their jaws from the stone and roar. And these balls..." he shook his head, "are perfectly formed. They sparkle like Yael's Friday candles." And the stones on the platform... forty-five oblongs and twenty small ones. Each one a work of art. Perfect angles, polished... The work of a jeweler, not a stonecutter. I'm amazed.

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

— I can't leave such work unpaid, - Shimon continued. - Starting today, you're more than just a stonecutter. I'm promoting you. You'll be a foreman. You'll oversee all the sculptors and stonecutters in the workshop. Your salary will be double your current salary.

He expected to see gratitude, joy in the artisan's eyes. But instead, Artem looked at him gloomily and said reluctantly, almost stubbornly:

"So, Shimon Avramovich... Thank you, of course, for your trust. But... I'm tired of it here. These places look dreary and gray. I'm thinking of heading off to Crimea." Or maybe go to Kyiv. Something like that.

Shimon leaned back in his chair, his thick eyebrows raised in surprise.

— Crimea? Kyiv? What do you need it for? - he asked, confused. - It's about a career. You've been working for your father in the quarries since you were sixteen; you've got the skill and the talent. And now I have to start from scratch?

— I started at sixteen, and now I'm twenty-eight, - Artem replied quietly but firmly. - It's just work. Life is passing me by. I want... to see new things. To live for myself.

Shimon looked at him carefully, his keen, entrepreneurial mind quickly calculating the situation. Losing such a master would be madness. It would be much wiser to give him what he wants, but on your own terms.

— Okay, - he said, pretending to give in. - I understand. You're still young, you want to live. You'll get a vacation.- Hope flashed across Artem's face, but Shimon immediately raised a finger, and his voice took on a harsh, businesslike tone:

— But. With a condition. I give you two weeks. Exactly. Go, have a wander, see Crimea. But with an ironclad condition—you'll return and accept a job as a foreman in the workshop. We'll be taking on large orders. Agreed?

He looked at Artem searchingly. This wasn't a request, but a business proposition, one he'd be foolish to refuse. And a clever move. Shimon was allowing him to slake his longing, but at the same time he was tying him to himself even more tightly—with money, position, responsibility.

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

— I agree, - he said hoarsely, feeling himself falling into a trap he had no desire to escape. - A deal is worth more than money. I'll be back...

...The silence in Yael's room was deafening. Outside, the sunset painted the Yekaterinoslav sky purple and gold, but Yael didn't see this beauty. She sat at her desk, her head in her hands, and in her ears pounded the single word she'd overheard that morning in the office: "He's gone."

He'd gone. He didn't even say anything. He didn't say goodbye. He just vanished. Where to? Forever? Or... with someone?

She squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to squeeze out the treacherous tears, but they flowed of their own accord, leaving salty streaks on her cheeks. How it hurt. As if the very same perfectly polished stone he'd carved lay on her chest, pressing down, preventing her from breathing.

He's a goy. I'm Shimon's daughter. This wall is higher and stronger than any dam across the Dnieper. We are doomed to silence. I can't tell anyone. Not my friends, not my mother... especially not my father. They won't understand. They will see in this only shame, betrayal, illness. And this is not an illness. It's... it's like singing a song that only you know, and you can't share its melody with anyone.

She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a hidden notebook, its plain binding. On the pages, covered in neat Hebrew letters, lived her secret poems. Poems that were never destined to be spoken aloud.

"Your hands, which cut stone, could hold mine...

But between us lies the Torah and the law, which we must keep.

Your gaze, which sought an answer in me, now looks into the distance...

And my heart, broken by silence, continues to suffer."

 

She whispered the lines quietly, almost soundlessly. Her voice broke. She was not a singer, but now she wanted to sing. Hiding her face in the pillows so no one would hear, she sang to the tune of an old sad melody, substituting her own words:

"Where have you gone, my Cossack, my bright dream?

Left behind me longing and pain, and this home.

Your slab 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. It contained all her pain, all the impossibility of this love, all her longing for a man who might never return. And even if he did return... what would change? Nothing. They will still be strangers to each other in this world, divided by faith and tradition.

He knows nothing. He doesn't know that I write poems about him. He doesn't know that I cry at night. He doesn't know that every clatter of hooves on the pavement makes my heart pound wildly in the hope that it's him. To him, I'm just the owner's daughter, a clever and strange Jewish woman who brought a lucrative 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 quiet songs heard only by the walls and by God, who, she knew, could hardly approve of her feelings.

But He couldn't forbid her to feel. And she continued to love. Silently. Hopelessly. Desperately.

Mama Ruth guessed, seeing all the changes in Yael. She didn't interfere or start a fight. She was waiting for a miracle...

...Two weeks of melancholy and uncertainty gave way to feverish anticipation. He returned. The words of the manager, Meshach, rang in her ears like a saving bell: "Artem has arrived, healthy and tanned. He has questions about a new order, he's asking to see Shimon Avramovich, but he's away..."

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

— Ivan. To Tokovskaya immediately, - her voice was so commanding that the coachman merely nodded, throwing down his brush.

The road flashed by in an instant. She didn't notice the potholes or the dust, seeing only his face before her. The phaeton bounced over a hummock and stopped at a familiar hut with a corrugated roof.

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

Artyom was just emerging from the barn with a bucket in his left hand. Seeing her, he froze in place, and the bucket almost slipped from his fingers. He was indeed tanned, even more robust and powerful. And his eyes, wide open in surprise, blazed with such a bright fire that Yael caught her breath.

— Yael... - he whispered, and his voice was so full of wonder and awe that her heart sank.

They stood facing each other in the middle of the yard, separated by just a couple of steps that seemed like an abyss and at the same time beckoned. "I... they told me you had special questions," she breathed out, not believing this pathetic, contrived excuse.

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

— There are 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 out to him, and her trembling fingers touched his wounded palm—the very one she'd kissed in her imagination, to help the wound heal faster.

He shuddered at the touch, as if struck by an electric shock. His gaze became so deep, so infinitely tender and sad at the same time. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, his strong, rough fingers gently closed around her thin, trembling fingers. He slowly raised her hand to his lips and paused, looking into her eyes, as if asking permission. She didn't resist. She couldn't move, caught in a whirlwind of emotions that washed away all inhibitions, all fear.

His lips, warm and soft, touched her palm. It wasn't a passionate kiss, but something more—a vow, adoration, a farewell, and a greeting all rolled into one. A long, trembling, bittersweet kiss.

And then everything inside her broke. A wave of hot, all-consuming love washed over her, filling every cell, burning her from within with this pure, agonizing fire. She didn't cry out loud. But inside, her whole soul wept—from the happiness of this moment and from the realization of the impossibility, the tragedy of their love.

He is a goy. I am a Jew. This kiss is our only possible paradise and eternal damnation.

She didn't take her hand away, feeling silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She simply 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 office was plunged into a lingering, oppressive silence, broken only by the clicking of the dice on the counting board. The air was thick with the unspoken. Shimon stood by the window, his back to his daughter, but he could feel her tension with every muscle.

— Yael, - his voice was muffled, tired, without its usual firmness. -Mama told me everything. Or rather, she confirmed what I had already seen but refused to believe.

Yael sat, her cold fingers clasped in her lap. Her heart pounded somewhere in her throat.

— I'm not blind, daughter. You glow and fade at the same time. - And this Cossack... he looks at you as if you're not his master's daughter, but...

He exhaled heavily, unable to finish. He turned around abruptly. His face was stern and haggard.

 — You will disgrace us, Yael. You will disgrace us in our synagogue, in our community. Our family name will be whispered with contempt. You must forget him. Immediately.

— I can't, Papa, -Yael answered quietly but clearly. Tears welled up in her eyes, but her voice didn't waver.

— You can't?- Shimon slammed his fist on the windowsill. - You must. He's a goy. There's a chasm between you that nothing can fill.

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

— I'll make a Jew out of him, Papa. - Shimon froze, stunned, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

— What? What did you say? How can you do this? He's an Orthodox Cossack. The faith of his ancestors is everything to him.

— He'll become a Jew, - she repeated, her voice filled with unshakable conviction. "He'll convert. He'll study the Torah and observe all the laws of Moses. Trust me.

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

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

— We'll leave here," Yael blurted out quickly, as if reciting a memorized phrase. - We'll go to Nikopol. - There's a large community there, they don't know us. He'll be a different person.

— To Nikopol? - Shimon smiled bitterly, sat down in a chair, and ran a hand over his face in dismay. - Oh, my daughter... My foolish daughter... What a gamble this is. A mad gamble. Nothing will work out for you.

— He's a goy. - He pronounced the word with force, imbuing it with all the centuries-old horror and impenetrability of that boundary. - His blood, his soul... that can't be undone. He'll never be one of us. He'll never be accepted. And you'll be exiled along with him.

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

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

But he could tell from Yael's eyes that it was too late. She was already in the abyss. And she was dragging him down with her...

It wasn't just Yael and her parents who were suffering. Artem was suffering too...

…The air in Artem's room was cool and heavy, smelling of stove smoke and old wood. Echoes of a troubled time drifted outside—somewhere shouting, somewhere the rumble of wagon trains—but here, inside, there was a tense silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and Yael's passionate whisper.

She sat across from him, all passion and conviction. Her eyes glowed, her fingers nervously intertwined and separated.

— You must understand, Artem, - her voice was fervent and convincing, - this is not just a change of name. This is a return. A return to the roots, to the true Monotheism that the Almighty gave us on Mount Sinai.

Your soul, I sense, has always longed for this. You seek order, meaning, discipline—all this is in the Torah." Artem sat with his head bowed, listening silently. His powerful hands rested on the table, palms down. He didn't argue, didn't argue. His face was serious and unreadable.

— It won't be easy,- Yael continued, her words flowing like a river, enveloping his silent figure. "But I will be with you. Everything will be according to the law. First, you will have to undergo conversion. This is a serious study; they will dissuade you, test your intentions. You will have to prove that this is your conscious choice.

She paused 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 brit milah. It is a sign of the covenant with God. An eternal union. It… it will be painful, but it is necessary.

Artem shuddered slightly but did not look up. - And ablution, tvila, - her voice became quieter, almost reverent. - You will enter the mikvah, the living water, and emerge a new person. Clean. Sanctified. A Jew.

You will accept all the commandments, all the laws of the Torah. Shabbat, kashrut, holidays... Everything will be different. Everything will be new. But it will be a righteous life, pleasing to the Almighty.

She fell silent, her fervor exhausted. Silence reigned in the upper room again, this time even more oppressive. Artyom slowly raised his eyes to her. There was neither anger nor refusal in them. There was deep, impenetrable thought.

— Power, - he quietly uttered just one word. But within it was a whole world of fear and reality.

— We'll leave," Yael interrupted him passionately. - To Nikopol, to Kherson, anywhere. You're a master, you can work anywhere. We'll start from scratch. You'll be a different person. We'll be together.

She looked at him with pleading and hopeful eyes, striving with all her soul to infect him with her faith, her confidence.

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

He was silent. His silence was more eloquent than any words. It carried 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 set foot on this path.

But in his silence there was also love for her. The very love for which he was perhaps willing to peer into the abyss...

Everything that is incomprehensible seems hostile. But if you take the trouble and try to understand, it's not so difficult to undergo the rituals...

...A small, austere room next to the synagogue, where Artem was led blindfolded. The air was thick with the scent of wax, old books, and something indescribably ancient. Six rabbis, elders with graying beards and penetrating, searching eyes, stood in a semicircle. Their silent gaze was heavier than any sentence.

A test. Conversion

They peppered him with questions. About faith, about the commandments, about his readiness to accept the burden of the Law. The rabbis' voices were stern but fair. They tried to dissuade him, testing his resolve.

— Why do you need this? Do you know you're renouncing your people? Your former life? You'll be sent to hard labor.

Artem, pale but composed, answered clearly and quietly, repeating the words he'd memorized, but putting all his pain and hope into them:

— I do this consciously. I wish to join the people of Israel and accept all the commandments of the Torah.

Yael waited outside the door, each moment like an eternity.

Brit milah

It was a test of the flesh. In a sterile room, the mohel performed an ancient rite. The pain was sharp and purifying. Artem clenched his teeth, not making a sound. A drop of blood on a white cloth became a symbol of his new covenant. Now he was physically connected to the people of Abraham. His body changed forever.

Tvila. Ablution

He was led to the mikveh—a small pool of living, rainwater, collected according to all the rules. He was to appear before the judgment seat of Heaven completely naked, as on the day of his birth. All his clothes, a symbol of his past life, were removed.

He stepped into the cool water. It embraced him, washing away the invisible filth of the past. The rabbi recited prayers. Artem, on command, completely immersed himself in the mikveh.

One. The name given at baptism was washed away.

Two. The memory of his former faith was erased.

Three. He arose from the water a new man.

— Baruch ata Adonai... - he whispered the memorized blessing, and the water flowed from him like the tears of time itself.

Vestment

He was given new, simple clothing made of pure white fabric. But most importantly, he was given the symbols of his new faith.

A white shawl (tallit) was draped over his shoulders. The tzitzit tassels at its corners were meant to remind him of all the commandments.

A leather belt encircled the tallit, separating the upper, spiritual part of his body from the lower, material one.

Tefillin—leather boxes containing passages from the Torah—were to be placed on his arm and head every morning.

The rabbis announced his new name—Abraham, in honor of his forefather, the first Jew to make 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 insider and outsider at the same time. A Jew by law, but forever rejected by his former world. His path back was cut off.

 There was only the path forward, into the unknown, hand in hand with the one for whom he had made this unthinkable transformation from the Cossack Artem to the Jew Abraham...

…December 1905 was unusually frosty and unsettling. The wind swept through the streets of Nikopol, howling in the chimneys and blowing stinging snow from the roofs. In the small, modestly furnished room on the outskirts of town, in a house inhabited mostly by artisans and small traders, it was quiet and almost cozy. The air smelled of boiled potatoes, tar, and candle wax.

Artyom—now Avraam—stood by the frost-covered window, pulling back the curtain. His face, tanned since the summer, seemed pale in the cold light of the winter day. His gaze was intense, accustomed to searching for danger in every passerby, in every suspicious shadow.

 He was no longer the confident Cossack from the Tokovo quarries. He was a fugitive, living in constant fear of exposure. Yael, his fiancée, was busy at the stove. She had learned to cook on a primus stove and light the oven, something she hadn't been taught in her parents' home.

She wore a simple dark dress that concealed her figure. She, too, had changed—grown older, a constant shadow of anxiety had appeared in her eyes, but also determination.

They weren't yet husband and wife. Their marriage had been 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 documents, already frayed by fear. Certificates, issued for a large sum of money by an old Jewish notary whose business Shimon had once saved. Now he was Avraham Levin, a stonemason 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 it a gendarme's boot?

— Don't go anywhere today, - Yael said quietly, stirring her soup. - They said you saw gendarmes at the market, checking young men's papers.

Artem-Avraam nodded, not taking his eyes off the window.

— I know. As if there's anywhere to go, - his voice sounded dull and tired. - Siberia... shackles... -  He clenched his fists tightly. - For your own choice. For the right to believe as your heart tells you.

—Shh,- Yael approached him and gently placed her hand on his face. -No need. We're here. We're together. And we can handle it. Papa promised that by spring everything would calm down, we could think about the wedding... maybe move even further. To Odessa. Maybe. - He turned and looked at her. His eyes held not only love but also the weight of the burden he had shouldered.

—I don't regret anything, Yael, - he whispered. - Nothing. I'm just... scared. Scared for you.

She pressed herself 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 forgave their kind. Their love became their fortress and their prison, their greatest happiness and their most terrible secret...

 

Chapter 6. The Turbulent Road from Nikopol to Odessa

Rays of summer sunlight, filtering through the tall, narrow windows, illuminated the golden dust dancing in the air from the rare visitors. The air in the Nikopol synagogue was cool, scented with wax. But Toviy felt neither coolness nor peace. Before him, leaning on a carved lectern, stood Mordechai-Leib, the richest man in the city, the owner of Dnieper cargo ships. His massive gold watch chain heaved heavily on his vest.

— Toviy, these are turbulent times, - Mordechai-Leib's voice was muffled, yet weighty as an ingot. - Like worms in an apple, revolutionary cells are everywhere. In the factories, in the ports, on the railroad. You can't trust anyone.

Toviy nodded silently. He himself had read the newspapers and overheard the conversations. Echoes of January, of Bloody Sunday, reached Nikopol as well. The air was filled not only with dust, but also with fear and a vague hope.

— But this project… the development of the shipping company… is the future, - the magnate continued. - The Odessa merchants are the key. Without their capital and connections, nothing will come of it. They need to be persuaded. But if you don’t go yourself… then who?

Toviy shuddered. He had expected an order, but not this.

— Me, Mordechai-Leib? But I…

— You’re young. You speak Russian without our accent, you know how to talk to merchants and… to the proletariat, if need be. Go. Just for three or four days.

— It’s dangerous by train now, -Toviy countered. - The track workers are on strike, there could be delays, robberies.

— And it’s dangerous by boat, - the shipowner agreed gloomily. - Just last year there were sailors' strikes. But there's no other way. Risk is a noble cause when the future is at stake.

Toviy looked into the old Jew's stern face and saw not only calculation in his eyes, but also a kind of steely faith. He took a deep breath, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine.

— I'll go, - he said quietly, and then louder and more confidently. - I'll go. But where's the guarantee they'll agree? Odessans are known to be cautious.

— They'll agree, - Mordechai-Leib snapped. - They need guarantees from Rabbi Nikopolsky. And a letter from me. They're already aware and are favorably disposed. It's June now. Go this week or early July. There's no time to waste. But... You'll have to dye your black hair red, so you'll look like a goyim. - Here's a note for you: go to the central barbershop in town and say it's from me.

Venya knows his stuff; he's dyed more than one Jew's hair goy. And I hope you have straight red hair tomorrow. And don't argue with me. That way, both the sailors and the gangs of striking workers will consider you one of their own.

— Okay, - Toviy nodded. And, to his own surprise, he added. - And I'll take a wife.

Mordechai-Leib raised his thick gray eyebrows.

— A wife? Why do you need a wife? You're not going on a vacation, Toviy. You have a responsible job.

— We're on our honeymoon, -Toviy suddenly reminded him, looking defiantly at Leib. You said yourself that business is a time, but family is the foundation. And Leia... it will be good for her to see Odessa. And I feel more at ease with her. -Then she needs to be repainted too, so she'll look like a goy Christian. Toviy smiled, imagining Leah's face when they looked at each other.

The old man chuckled, the corners of his lips twitching in a semblance of a smile.

— Well. Well. Young and green. Take a wife. Just don't let it derail your business.

— Thank you, Mordechai-Leib.

Stepping out of the cool of the synagogue into the bright June light, Toviy felt his heart tighten with anxiety. Not from the journey ahead or the difficult negotiations. His heart was uneasy because of the time. Because of that very year 1905, which hung over the country like a dark, storm cloud. He looked at the sky—clear, cloudless. But somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, thunder was already rumbled. And he, a young husband and a young merchant, was faced with guiding his fragile ship through these stormy waters.

He turned and walked home to Leah, preparing for the journey. His thoughts were jumbled: Odessa merchants, the rabbi's guarantees, sailors' strikes... and the quiet, frightened face of his young wife, whom he was driving into the very heart of hell. But there were his own people there, Toviy reassured himself...

... They really did laugh at each other when they left Veniamin, the barber, together. And sitting together in the phaeton behind the coachman all the way home, Leah covered her face with her hand so that Toviy wouldn't see her wide-eyed smile. Tomorrow they were sailing. Meetings, passwords, wigs, hopes, worries—everything as it should be in 1906 on the Nikopol-Odessa route...

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

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

Leah, leaning on the polished railing, looks not at the water, but at the illuminated salon. Her white dress, minus the veil, seems too formal for this evening. It smells of home, her mother's perfume, and the dust of a traveling trunk. She is nineteen, and her whole being craves not water or wind, but male attention. That admiring, light, social attention she caught out of the corner of her eye on her décolletage from visiting Odessa cousins in fashionable suits.

Toviy stands nearby. His fingers, accustomed to bills and waybills, nervously finger the tassel of his tallit, hidden from the revolutionaries under his vest. 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 suppressed by anxiety.

— Leia, it's windy here, - he says, sounding like the deputy port manager. - You'll catch a cold. And that dress... it's for family, not for strangers.

— What strangers, Taras? We're all passengers here. Listen to how beautifully they're playing. Can't we dance? Just once?

— A man dancing with his wife is joy. A wife dancing with a stranger, especially to this... secular music... it's immodest, - he says with the same intonation as - defective goods. - Let's go to your 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'd like... a lively conversation.

Her gaze catches a group of young officers from the stream of passengers. Their uniforms, their laughter, their relaxed manner—like a flash of magnesium. One of them, with a thin black mustache and mocking eyes, catches her gaze and bows slightly.

Leika's heart skips a beat. Not from fear. From anticipation.

— Leya, let's go.

— I want some lemonade. Just for five minutes.

She's already walking, not waiting for his answer, feeling her husband's heavy gaze on her back and the light, interested gaze of the mustachioed stranger.

A first-class restaurant. She's sitting at a table with three officers. A candle in a glass dome casts a flickering light on her flushed cheeks. She doesn't drink wine, only lemonade, but she feels drunk. From the words, from the compliments, from the music.

— From Nikopol, you say? Ah, the famous rapids. Your husband, is he in on it?" asks the lieutenant with the mustache. "He... he runs the port, Leia says, with pride and a slight sting of resentment. Why isn't Taras here? Why is he sitting in his cabin with his accounts?

She sees him in the doorway. He stands motionless, like a rock at the last threshold. His face is pale. He doesn't enter. He only watches. His gaze isn't possessive jealousy, but something worse—disappointment. A rabbi's disappointment in a lazy student.

The orchestra strikes up a new waltz. The lieutenant stands and extends his hand to her with a smile.

— Do I dare invite...

Leia freezes. The whole world narrows to that outstretched hand and her husband's stern gaze in the doorway.

— No... I'm sorry. I have to go. My husband... is waiting.

She jumps up and, without looking at the officers, practically runs to the exit.

A first-class cabin.

The cramped cabin erupts in a quarrel.

— You've disgraced me. You've disgraced yourself. Sitting with these 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 be ashamed, tzniut. Did you forget the Torah we read under the chuppah that same day?

— I haven't forgotten anything. I want to breathe, Taras. I want to hear music, not just the scratch of a pen on paper. You even took account books on your honeymoon.

Tobiy clutches the ledger lying on the table like a shield.

— These aren't just books. - This is the trust you've placed in me. This is our future. I must provide for you, our home, our future children. And you're thinking about dancing.

Leia cries, not from humility, but from rage.

—Am I not your future? Isn't my happiness part of our shared future? You talk about children, but you treat me like a child. Like property. Have you seen women in Odessa? They study, work, and go out without asking.

— This is Odessa. And we have tradition. Law. You chose him when you married me.

— I chose a loving husband, not a warden.

She falls silent, breathing heavily. There's a chasm between them, wider than the Dnieper. He sees sin and danger in her frivolity. She sees a suffocating cage in his strictness.

Toviy turns away, looking out the dark porthole.

 — Tomorrow we’ll arrive in Odessa. We’ll go to the sea. Just the two of us.

There’s no anger in his voice. Only weariness and that same immense, overwhelming love that can’t reconcile itself with the frivolity of July and the thirst for freedom in its wife’s eyes.

Leia is silent. She understands that their honeymoon is not a vacation, but the first and most difficult voyage of their life together, where each of them is both captain and rebellious sailor...

...The car’s slow pace, the splash of water against the side.

The argument petered out, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste and a tense silence. Leia lay against the wall, turned away, looking at the moonlit path trembling across the ceiling. Toviy sat at the table, his ledger set aside, staring into space. 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.

— Leia... forgive me. I... I'm afraid of losing my mother-in-law. This world is so big, and I want to protect our little world from all evil.

She didn't turn around, but her shoulders shook.

— And I'm afraid our world will become too small and there won't be room for me.

Toviy sighed heavily, stood, and walked over to the bed. He sat on the edge and carefully, almost timidly, touched her hair.

— There will always be room for you in it. You are his heart.

Leia rolled 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 clasp of her dress.

— Show me, Taras. Show me that I'm yours. Not as property. As a wife. As your universe.

Her impulse was sudden and fiery. It contained 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 a thief, like an obsession. And the one with the mocking eyes and mustache.

The other, tall and broad-shouldered. The third, who laughed louder than all. Their uniforms, the smell of tobacco and lipstick... She imagined their hands instead of Tobias's, their gazes on her body. This forbidden, intoxicating image made her shudder and breathe faster. It was her secret revenge, her tiny, stolen freedom.

But when Toviy, having cast off his sternness along with his clothes, pressed his whole body against hers, hot and strong, the phantoms dissipated. His love was not a light flirtation, but a hurricane. His touch held not social courtesy, but familiar flesh, waiting specifically for her.

— 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 addressed only to him. The fantasy evaporated, unable to withstand the present. She wrapped her arms around him, digging her fingers into his back, giving herself completely to him—not to the officers in the salon, but to her lawful spouse, the master of her body and soul by all the laws of God and man.

He responded with the same passion this reserved, calculating man was capable of. His kisses were vows.

— My berry... My sunshine...- he purred, kissing her neck, chest, stomach. - Lelechka... 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, a promise, and complete, unconditional acceptance.

That night, there were no arguments about the Torah or emancipation. There was only a simple, ancient miracle—the flesh of husband and wife, becoming one.

Later, when the moonlight had shifted and they lay entwined, tired and peaceful, Leia whispered:

— Tomorrow Odessa...

—Tomorrow Odessa, - he repeated, stroking her hair. - We'll go to the sea. Just the two of us. - Just the two of us, - she said, nuzzling his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. The arguments weren't over. They'd only just begun. But in that moment, she knew her place was here, in his soul.

Their breathing evened out and merged with the rhythmic hum of the steam engine, lulling them into a peaceful sleep just before dawn, before Odessa, before a new chapter in their lives...

...The air hummed like a disturbed beehive. The hoots of steamships, the cries of stevedores, the speech of a dozen languages—Ukrainian, Greek, Hebrew, Russian—merged into one continuous roar. And above it all, conquering the chaos, flowed the bravura music of a combined military band, greeting yet another steamship.

Leah froze on the gangway, clutching Tobias's hand. Her eyes widened. Before her was not a city, but a dream come true. The noise was music, the crowd was welcome company, and the smell of the sea, coal, and other people's dust was the aroma of freedom.

—Taras, look," she whispered. - This is it... This is what I'm striving for. For there to be a crowd. For the music to flow. For me to be... for us to be free.

Toviy didn't hear the music. He heard the hum of business. His keen, practical mind was already at work, filtering out the unnecessary. His eyes, accustomed to assessing cargo and structures, picked out faces, not outfits, from the crowd. He gently but insistently led her through the crowd, toward a line of cabbies.

— Hold on to me, Lelechka. Don't get lost.

He found his man—not by the cry, - Miss, I'll give you a ride!- but by his modest kippah and his intelligent, quick eyes. A Jewish cab driver with a neat beard sat on the box of his cab, carefully surveying the arrivals.

— Sholom aleichem, - Toviy nodded to him, approaching.

— Aleichem sholom, virtue. Need a cab?

— Yes, I will. To Deribasovskaya, - Toviy pulled a worn piece of paper from his vest pocket. - Schneerson's house. You know?

— How could I not know Schneerson? He has nice, clean furnished rooms. For his own people," the cab driver nodded meaningfully, assessing the couple. "Get in, I'll give you a ride as fast as I can.

In a carriage through the streets of Odessa. They rode along the cobblestone streets, each looking out their own window, seeing a completely different city.

Through Tobias'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 Yekaterinoslavskaya. Lower capacity. Inefficient." Shops: "A sign reading 'Wholesale Trade in Colonial Goods.' I wonder where the supplies come from? Via Marseille or directly from Alexandria? I'd like to know the prices..." Architecture: He didn't see "beauty." He saw engineering solutions. Massive Italian-style walls—"reliable, but expensive to build." The delicate Art Nouveau balconies—"beautiful, but impractical, expensive to repair." He admired the wide, straight streets, planned like an arrow—"that's clever, the logistics are perfect."

He saw the city as a gigantic, perfectly tuned profit-making machine.

Through Leia's eyes. She saw life and fashion. Her heart fluttered with every lustful glance at her silhouette. Women.

Ah, those Odessa ladies. They walked as if they weren't even touching the pavement, in dresses with a degree of revealing unimaginable in Nikopol—lace frills, light pastel fabrics, huge, flirty hats adorned with flowers and feathers. Men.

Not Nikopol merchants in frock coats, but dandies in white Panama hats, light three-piece suits, and canes. Young men, students, with loose ties and folders under their arms, heatedly arguing.

 A café! The clink of dishes, laughter, and the sounds of a piano drifted through the open doors. Couples sat at tables, and the ladies openly smoked thin cigarettes. Architecture: She didn't see construction.

 She saw romance. Carved balconies with garlands of flowers hanging from them, cozy green courtyards covered with grapevines, sun-drenched squares with fountains. It was a festive city, a fairytale city.

— Taras, look at this dress, - she whispered enthusiastically, grabbing his sleeve.

Toviy squinted.

— Silk, imported. It's too expensive for our Nikopol premiums. Impractical; you can't stand in it at the market.- Leia sighed and leaned her head back against the window, catching the admiring glances of those same dandies who'd nodded to her as their best friend in Odessa.

She caught their glances and hoarded them, like a secret treasure. She was in Odessa. And she was ready to do anything to be noticed by this city. And these three certainly noticed her and sought her gaze. She felt their gaze on her back and straightened her back, looking back and winking at them with a radiant smile.

And Toviy was already calculating how much a week in these "well-off furnished rooms" would cost them and what profit he could derive from his acquaintance with Odessa's grain exporters...

...The office in the office of first-guild merchant Aron Moiseevich Fisher.

A massive oak desk, piled high with papers. The port and ship masts were visible outside the window. The air smelled of tobacco, sea, and money.

Aron Moiseyevich, a man of about fifty with a keen gaze, is sorting through ledgers. Across from him, trying not to slouch, sits Toviy, his suit slightly wrinkled from the journey. A folder with drawings and calculations lies before him.

Aron Moiseyevich. So... Toviy Solomonovich, you say. Your father is a respected man. I know his steamboats on the Dnieper. They run regularly for dishes and flour. Why did he need to send a chick to Odessa instead of coming himself? Big things require big people.

Toviy sighs inwardly, but outwardly maintains his confidence.

— Father, at the rapids, Aron Moiseyevich. Every day is a battle with stones and the current. He sends you his deepest respects and his deepest apologies.

But there's no time. - While he's here drinking coffee with you and reminiscing 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 profits to stay here.

Aron Moiseevich grins. — Glory is for poets. Profits are for merchants. You're talking about profits. Your folder... (nods at the drawings)... he's proposing digging a riverbed and building dams. That's like digging up the Tsar Bell and melting down the Tsar Cannon.

Where's the capital? Why should I, an Odessan whose fleet plies the Black Sea all the way to Istanbul, dig around in the Dnieper rapids?"

Toviy had been expecting this question and pushed the folder closer.

— Because, Aron Moiseevich, after the rapids, there's the entire Dnieper, the Pripyat, the Desna. - Grain cargo from Chernihiv, timber from Mogilev, sugar from Kyiv, ore from Kryvyi Rih. Today, they come in small consignments, with endless transshipments.

Expensive, slow, unprofitable. But imagine: a large, ocean-going ship, loaded in Kyiv and sailing non-stop, without the risk of running aground, to Kherson, and from there, for export. Straight into your holds. Cargo volumes will increase fivefold, tenfold. Tariffs will fall, and our profits will soar.

Aron Moiseyevich looks closely at the numbers, running his finger over the graphs.

Numbers... they're like girls before their weddings—always beautiful. And after... What if the project falls apart? The money will go down the drain. Literally.

The Dnieper is capricious. Today you deepen it, and tomorrow the spring flood will deposit so much silt that you'll have to start all over again.

Toviy lights up.

— That's precisely why we need not just dredgers, but permanent dams. Not to fight the effect, but to eliminate the cause. We won't just deepen the channel; we'll build a new channel.

Permanent, predictable. This isn't a renovation, Aron Moiseyevich. This is the creation of a new transport artery. It's like digging the Suez Canal, only in miniature. This will forever change the economy of all of Southern Russia.

He falls silent, trying not to reveal how quickly his heart is beating. Aron Moiseevich sits, pensively looking out the window. The pause drags on painfully long.

Suez... that's a bit of a stretch. He gets up and goes to the window.

— Do you see the port? - Ships are moored there, flying British, French, and Greek flags. They come for our grain. But to collect it, you have to travel across half of Ukraine in carts. The roads are a nightmare. And the river... the river is a gift from God. It's just hidden beneath the rapids.

He turns to Toviy.

— Your father... he was always a dreamer. But a dreamer with golden hands. I know it. - He returns to the table. "The money will be found. Not just mine. I'll talk to Isaac from Ropit and Co., to Mendel from the grain exchange. But...

He looks sternly at Toviy.

— But we won't just give you money. We'll get involved. As shareholders. - And I'll personally come to these rapids to see where every penny goes. Tell your father that. If he doesn't like it, let him seek money from the Kyiv bankers. They'll buy his business and squeeze it dry.

Toviy barely holds back a sigh of relief.

— Father was counting on a partnership, not loans, Aron Moiseevich. He used to say, -Odessa merchants are like rocks. If they believe in a business, they'll stand firm.' He'll be glad to see you on his bridge.

Aron Moiseevich smiles for the first time, squinting.

— Well said. Okay. Go, rest from the journey. Come to dinner this evening. My wife will treat you to gefilte fish, the likes of which you won't find in Nikopol. And I... I'll summon these 'rocks. - Let's see if our young Suez engineer will chicken out in front of a roomful of old, money-hungry Jews.

Toviy stands up and nods, trying to keep his hand steady as he shakes hands. He understands: the first battle has been won. But the war for the future of the Dnieper is just beginning.

... While Toviy, in the office on Deribasovskaya Street, was solemnly discussing tons, interest, and freight, Leah, consumed with resentment for her morning prank with the fake ring, decided to prove to everyone, and especially to herself, that she was no simpleton. She persuaded her husband to go to one of the outdoor restaurants on Italian Street.

Evening Odessa was a different place. The air was thick with the scent 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 table. Toviy, tired but pleased with the start of the business negotiations, allowed himself a glass of wine. Leia, in her best dress, tried to feign the ease of a society lady, glancing at her neighbors.

It wasn't a waiter who approached them, but an imposing gentleman with gray sideburns and an impeccable tailcoat. He introduced himself as "Anton Karlovich, artist and organizer of small entertainments for a select audience." His manners were impeccable, his speech silky.

— Madam, may I suggest you try your luck? Or perhaps your insight? - With a graceful 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 lies. The stake is purely symbolic, just for the thrill of it. Just a ruble.

Toviy frowned, his business acumen immediately sensing a catch.

— We don't gamble, - he said dryly. But Leia was already burning. The morning's incident with the ring demanded revenge. This was her chance to prove her intelligence!

—Taras, it's just a game. Just one ruble. Please, - she looked at him pleadingly, then turned to the "artist": I can do it.

Anton Karlovich, smiling, began moving the cards around the table. His hands moved with hypnotic smoothness. Leia kept her eyes on them, certain she was tracking the "lucky" ace.

— Right here, - she pointed at the card, beaming with victory.

The gentleman turned over the card. It was a queen.

—Alas, madam, fortune is not kind to you today. But perhaps one more try? Just a ruble.

— Leia, that's enough, -Toviy's voice grew hard.

But she couldn't stop. It had stung her. She watched again, even more closely. And again she was wrong. And again. With each loss, her excitement and desire to win back grew. She no longer noticed Toviy's pale face, mentally calculating the money being thrown away.

— That's it. It's over, -he stood up abruptly, placing several banknotes on the table to cover the bill for dinner and the "game.

At that moment, Anton Karlovich, with the same elegant bow, suddenly… disappeared into the crowd. Vanished as quickly as the dandy with the ring that morning.

They went outside. An oppressive silence filled the air.

— Twenty-seven rubles, Leia! Toviy hissed, clenching his fists. He didn't shout. His voice was low and terrifying with impotent rage. —Thirty-seven rubles! For a card trick that any kid in the port knows. That's a month's wages for a good master.

— But I... I almost guessed it. He was so quick...- Leia babbled, realizing the full horror of what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears of shame.

— He was dangling cards in front of your nose. Are you blind? You weren't looking at the cards, but at his shirtfronts and cufflinks. To buy you with shiny tinsel. First the ring, now this. You're acting like...

He trailed off, exhaling forcefully. He looked at her not with anger, but with a bitter disappointment that hurt more than any curse.

— We're leaving back to Nikopol tomorrow. - No Odessa. No restaurants. Do you understand me?

He turned and walked forward down the dark street, without looking back. Leah stood there, feeling hot tears roll down her cheeks, mixing with her powder. The magical city suddenly felt alien, cold, and cruel. Her dream of freedom and splendor had turned into a humiliating embarrassment and the loss of her husband's trust.

And somewhere in the shadows of the arcade, that same "Anton Karlovich" was already taking off his tailcoat and sharing the spoils with the young dandy who had sold the fake ring that morning. Odessa remained Odessa.

... Evening. Schneerson's Furnished Rooms...

Tobiy and Leah, not yet changed, sat in tense silence in their room. Anger gave way to icy alienation. A sudden knock on the door made them flinch.

Schneerson himself stood on the threshold, his expression one of obsequiously alarmed alarm. "Mr. Toviy, there's an important person here to see you... From the customs department. He's the shift supervisor, he says. The matter is urgent, he says."

Toviy was wary. Customs? Perhaps about his cargo? Or, on the contrary, a chance to make a profitable acquaintance? It would be unwise to refuse.

— Leia, stay here," he ordered, but she had already risen, adjusting her evening dress. The sight of an "important person" was far more interesting than sitting alone in the room.

Downstairs, in the dimly lit guest room, a gentleman in a fine frock coat sat by the extinguished fireplace. His face was hidden in the shadow of the lampshade. The butler, a portly man with sideburns, respectfully gestured toward the chairs.

— Please don't worry, - the stranger said in a deep bass voice. - It's only a matter of minutes. I heard you and your wife are from Nikopol with trading interests? - I may have an interesting proposition for you.

Toviy, flattered by the attention and eager for business connections, began to cautiously, but with increasing detail, describe his plans to establish grain supplies, the port, and his calculations. Shadow nodded and asked intelligent questions. Leia was bored.

— Excuse me, madam, - the butler suddenly addressed her. -The mistress asked you for a moment about... linen. Some misunderstanding with the lace cuffs.

Leia, glad for an excuse to escape the boring conversation, readily rose and followed the butler into the corridor. The door closed quietly behind her.

Toviy negotiated for three whole hours. The stranger was witty, knowledgeable, and reeled off Nikopol names and numbers that Toviy knew.

Toviy, carried away, took out a notebook and wrote down names, account numbers, and company names. He felt like he was on the brink of a major deal. It wasn't until mid-morning, when the negotiations had finally concluded and the mysterious guest had departed, that Toviy came to his senses.

It was around two in the morning. Leah was neither in the hall nor in their room. Nowhere. He rushed to Schneerson. He threw up his hands, swore he knew nothing, that the butler had gone off on business, and that the "mistress and linens" thing was complete nonsense; his wife had long since gone to bed.

A cold horror, far more piercing than his morning anger, gripped Toviy's heart. He paced the dark house, but the nighttime Odessa was silent. Wake the police? With a scandal? Without connections? This could ruin all his undertakings and his reputation. His calculating mind told him: at night, in an unfamiliar city, he was powerless. All he could do was wait. It was the hardest decision of his life...

...Meanwhile, Leia, intoxicated by sweet wine and the sparkling compliments of three "officers" (whose manners grew more brazen with each glass), laughed in a carriage speeding somewhere through the night-time Odessa. Her companions were so gallant, so witty, and so reminded her of that very, desired freedom. Somewhere on the outskirts of Moldavanka, in a stuffy tavern, they poured her wine, and she, almost out of her mind, tried to dance to a broken piano, finally feeling desired and beautiful.

Her "adventure" ended as suddenly as it had begun. When her intoxicated joy gave way to nausea and fear, the "officers," having mocked and laughed at her, loaded her unconscious, drunk, into a phaeton. Around six in the morning, when the first rays of sun touched the roofs of the Deribassovskaya houses, the same phaeton pulled up to Schneerson's house. Leah, pale, in a rumpled evening dress, with disheveled hair and empty eyes, was simply dropped off onto the cold stone steps. The phaeton immediately sped off in an unknown direction.

She sat, hugging her knees, shaking from the cold and shame, unable to move. The door behind her opened. Toviy stood on the threshold. He hadn't slept inThat night. His face was gray from lack of sleep and the torment he'd endured. He didn't say a word. He simply looked at her. And there was no anger or reproach in his gaze. There was emptiness. That same emptiness that's more terrible than any scream.

Their honeymoon to Odessa was over. Something else had begun. Heavy, silent, and irrevocable.

 

Chapter 7: Leah and Toviy Divorced

Mykolaivskyy Spusk, the port of Nikopol. It smelled of coal dust, fish, and the tarry planks of the pier. They had long since departed the steamer, but the silence between them still hung thick and impenetrable, like the Dnieper fog. He didn't look at her. She couldn't look at him.

He silently helped her ashore, nodding toward the cabbie. His gaze was turned inward, to the cold, calculating plan he had built in his head: business, service, a separate apartment. Walls. Distance. She was no match for him. A frivolous doll, for whom Torah and tradition were empty words, needing only dancing and the sparkle of other people's eyes.

He drove away without looking back. She, as if in a dream, walked to the train station. The train to Marganets was in two hours. She needed to buy a ticket, but her legs wouldn't obey. She sank down onto a wooden bench on the platform, and suddenly her fingers unclenched.

Her fashionable travel bag fell onto the polished amphibolite stone platform, and the lock clicked open. And her entire, carefully collected life scattered across the stone platform. Her powder compact, the eyelash curler she'd coquettishly used in front of that same officer with the thin lips and pointed mustache. The bottle of Orange Blossom shattered, and the tart, floral scent, her favorite, the scent of a bride, mingled with the stench of the station. The peanut butter she'd sucked to freshen her breath before the kiss that never happened... or did, but she doesn't remember? A lump rose in her throat. There lay the thin glass bottle with the rubber spray bulb. Metamorphosis cream—promising transformation. Mont Blanc—for whitening skin. Toilet soap, violet. All this was necessary to create that very Leia, who was so easy to drug, defile, rape, and abandon.

And the main reproach—the vanity case. A "necessary thing" made of soft morocco leather, lined with velvet and silk, a gift from an aunt in Odessa. An expensive, meaningless thing. A repository of perfection that turned out to be such a fragile shell.

She looked at this crumbling splendor: the natural bristle brush, the tortoiseshell comb, the bobby pins that couldn't hold anything, the silk hairbands. The newfangled metal file, the scissors, the hangnail clippers. This entire complex mechanism for creating a prudish woman.

Now all this was unnecessary. It was dangerous. It was shameful.

— Throw it away? flashed through her mind.

But how could she throw herself away? The old Leia. The one who boarded that ship, full of foolish hopes and coquetry. That life ended here, on the dusty platform, amid scattered powder and shards of glass. The new one was dark, empty, and began with this silent decision: to leave it all here. To leave lightly. To wash off that sweet, intoxicating scent of Orange Blossom and never smell it again. She didn't bother to collect it all. She left all her feminine toiletries scattered on the platform and looked out the window at the receding platform with its scattered accessories, which the station janitor had already begun sweeping up with a huge broom...

.. Late 1906. Manganese was blanketed in snow, lying like pot-bellied caps on the low roofs and blocking the paths to the wells. Smoke billowed from the chimney in the house of Rabbi Kopp, Leah's father. Inside, it smelled of warm stoves, boiled potatoes, and quiet, faded poverty.

Her father was over sixty, his back bent from yet another Black Hundreds pogrom, his eyes dull from Leah's pregnancy and divorce from Toviy. He was silent. Her mother walked through the house with silent steps, glancing at her daughter with a trepidation that mingled pity and silent reproach. Their world was small and simple, with no room for stories like Leah's.

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

That ship. The cabin. Her first wedding night with Tobias, awkward and hasty. And the next day—the dizziness of freedom, the sea breeze. The officer with the blade-thin mustache, his insolent, assessing gaze. His comrades. The carriage bearing them into the unknown. Red wine, tart and deceptive. Abyss. A black hole in her memory, from which only vague images emerged: loud laughter, someone else's hands in her bodice, the smell of someone else's tobacco, the feeling of her body falling into the abyss.

And then—the silent return to the ship. Tobias's icy silence. His decision, like a sentence: "She's no match for me."

She struggled, trying to penetrate this darkness, to extract anything, even a scrap of sound, to understand what had happened to her. But her memory was dull and silent. She was simply a ruined thing, returned to her parents' home.

She didn't want to think about the child. This wasn't a pregnancy, but merely growing proof of her shame, the heavy fruit of that night she knew nothing about. She hoped, desperately hoped, that when the baby was born, there would be at least something of Tobias in it. At least some trait that would allow her to bond, to rely on the thought that this was, after all, his child, and not the fruit of that black oblivion.

The winter was fierce. The birth was long and difficult. The midwife, a thin, silent woman with hands riddled with veins, fussed in the dim room. Leia, drenched in sweat, her hair escaping her braid, clutched the edge of the sheet, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming. Not from physical pain, but from the horror of what she was about to see.

And then it was over. A ringing silence hung in the house. The midwife wrapped the tiny body in a clean swaddling cloth and held it out to Leia.

"A girl," she said hoarsely.

Leia, exhausted, her gaze clouded, turned her head. And froze.

The baby winced and screamed. And in that moment, in the grimace of his crying, something appeared that made Leia's blood run cold. Straight red hair. Narrow slit eyes. Lips, thin as threads, stretched into an unconscious smile—exactly like that dandy, insolent and self-assured, with his pointed mustache.

Not a single feature of Tobias was there. Not his dark, serious eyes, not the shape of his eyebrows, not the oval of his face. Only a living, breathing portrait of that stranger whose name she didn't know and didn't want to know.

A piercing, animal-like scream shattered the silence. It was Leia screaming. Screaming in horror, from the final collapse of her last hope, from a wrenching, physical hatred for this proof of her shame, which now looked at her with narrow, alien eyes.

She turned to the wall, huddling in her pillow, and the midwife, shaking her head, clutched the crying girl to her chest—the living embodiment of that night Leia could never remember.

The girl wanted to live, and she screamed. Waiting for mother's milk...

 

Chapter 8. Tamara

The sun's disk rose slowly over the Dnieper, like a red-hot copper shield reluctantly lifted from the water by a weary warrior. Toma saw the warrior's outline as a burial mound, and the warrior's shield—the disk of the sun—guarding the Muravsky Highway far along the horizon, where the sun was rising.

Long morning shadows from the burial mounds fell across the steppe, transforming the endless expanse into a mysterious, elusive map of the forgotten kingdoms of the Scythians and Sarmatians. The air, cool and fresh, became sweet with the first warm rays. At this time of day, the steppe began to tell its stories. And Toma listened. Not far from Grandfather Kop's house, so the roof was visible, she sat on the burial mound and dreamed. Warmed by the first rays of the sun, she wandered to the well, where the women of Horodyshche usually gathered at this time to gossip about their daily lives. Tucked in her sandals, she absorbed every sound, every word that flowed from the lips of the young women of Horodyshche. Their voices, hoarse from labor and time, were music to her, as ancient as this Dnieper region itself.

The women talked about many things. About the Tomakiv Sich, about the salt trail that ran along the river—a road paved not with stone, but with salt and the sweat of the chumaks. Toma closed her eyes and imagined the creaking of countless carts, the snorting of oxen, the tired chumaks' songs floating into the red sky. She saw ghostly convoys carrying not only salt but also legends — of Zaporizhian treasures. Of spells against the evil eye, of countless treasures guarded in its caves by an evil demon, disguised as a whirlwind or tornado.

Old women said that the Mavrinsky Maidan was a place of power. In the spring, the Mutant emerged from the swamps. Buoy keeper Leva was alive again and lit the beacons. The Tokovsky waterfalls bestow great power upon those who trust in the red stone. The Zaporozhian Cossack Nikita's hut was washed away again, and the cemetery on the Podpolnaya River was washed away by water, and corpses floated down the Dnieper to Kherson. Beyond the Podpolnaya River, in the forest, there was a huge, three-century-old black poplar, on which a large Dnieper eagle and his female eagle had built a nest, and the resulting island was named Orlov Island by the residents.

There were no newspapers. And all the news was gathered by the well with these talkative Zaporozhian and Dnieper women, eager for gossip and the gossip of other women. They wentssiped about Tamara's mother, Olesya, a thousand times. That she had such a rich husband, and he abandoned her with their child. And then, when Olesya began coming to town frequently, they began gossiping that she was going to a brothel "to earn money." Generous housewives, these keepers of legend, always fed Tom a crust of fragrant bread or a cup of fresh milk, always garnishing the treat with a fairy tale.

— Have you heard, young lady, about the Tokovsky rapids? - the neighbor would begin, her eyes glittering with a wise, bewitching light. — Where the water boils and foams, white as grandfather's beard, ghosts haunt. Either the souls of Cossacks or Mavka mermaids. - And at night, when the moon is half-hidden by clouds, a black carriage drawn by six black horses races across the steppe by the very banks of the Kamenka River. And there's no one in that carriage. No rider, no coachman. Only the wind whistles in the windows, and the steppe wolves howl in fear.

Toma froze, and goosebumps ran down her spine — sweet and eerie. She wanted to see that carriage. She wasn't afraid, no. She felt that these weren't horror stories, but part of something greater, part of this land, her memory. She was a child of this land, steeped in epics about heroes and beautiful women, and these stories were her inheritance.

But sometimes, after tales of ghosts and treasures, the conversation took a different turn. The women's voices became quieter, more pitiful. They whispered, nodding in her direction.

— Poor little orphan, all alone in this world.

— Little orphan, little orphan, -they shook their heads. - It's not easy for her...

And these words hurt Toma more than any thorn in the steppe bramble. She averted her eyes and stared into the darkening steppe, where it was no longer possible to distinguish a burial mound from a sleeping giant. A quiet, stubborn protest rose within her.

— I have a mother, - her heart whispered, rhythmically echoing with the rumbles of thunder that filled the steppe. — I'm not an orphan. And my grandfather is old. Everyone calls him a cop.

Her mother is always with her. But not always. Sometimes she'll leave for a day, but she'll always return. And she'll bring her a treat, a snuffbox, a doll.

Toma loves her mother, but when she leaves, she feels utterly vulnerable. It was more real than any fairy tale. Mom leaves silently for one day, somewhere far away to earn money, to a big city Toma had no idea about.

She sometimes left notes, and the women would read them to her, drawing out the words and adding.

 —Look, your mother cares for you, nieślubny child. - "illegitimate child" is illegal. The women remained silent and didn't upset her girlish imagination. Her mother had gone "to the city to earn money." And these earnings were highly dubious. The new government didn't encourage "underground earnings." But Toma's mother, Olesya, knew how to do nothing but comfort revolutionaries, commissars, Whites, Reds, traders, and penniless students with her body.

No, Toma was not an orphan. The steppe was her mother, and the Dnieper, her protector. Gorodishche and its environs were her home.

She rose from the well, shook out her hem, and walked toward the house. Day had finally arrived, and the sky had become clear. Somewhere out there, a carriage raced, rapids rustled, and wandering wagons continued their eternal journey along the Milky Way.

Toma wasn't an orphan. She was the daughter of this steppe, of these legends. And this wealth didn't need protection from demons—no one could ever take it away. She was the daughter of the steppes and the Dnieper...

In Toma's modest room, dolls her mother brought her from the city were scattered on the floor. Toma sat among them, holding a tattered doll named Fanya in one hand and a smart doll in a dress in the other. Toma fussed over them, seating them around a small table and painting their eyes, like their mother did when she went to the city to earn money.

Toma said affectionately to the doll Fanya.

— Oh, what's this doll Fanya doing? Is she hungry? Toma changes her tone to a commanding one, like the Dressed-Up Doll.

—  What are we going to prepare for her? Speak!

Toma, in Fanya's thin, whiny voice: I don't want to... I won't...

Toma, in the Dressed-Up Doll's voice, sternly.

—  We'll punish you for this, go to the corner! Quickly!

Toma slams Fanya's doll on the floor, then abruptly grabs another doll and starts hitting Fanya with it.

Toma, in the Dressed-Up Doll's voice.

—  What are you staring at? Go clean up! And you cook! What are you sitting there for? I'm sick of everyone!

Marta appears in the doorway. She stands quietly and watches, clutching her neat doll to her chest. Toma notices her, but continues playing, now, as if for the audience, her movements become even more abrupt.

Toma suddenly speaks to the dolls in a rough tone, mimicking the German spoken by Martina's parents.

 — Wer bist du? Don't you lie to me? Yeah, right! Schnell!

She drops the doll and approaches Martha. Her mood suddenly changes to sadness and pleading.

Toma to Martha, quietly.

—  Can I stay with you?

Martha, carefully adjusting her doll's dress, with slight hesitation, says. — Yes... But Mom will look for you.

Toma, looking away, with resentment in her voice.

—  She won't. She went on another date, not knowing with whom.

Martha, frowning, sternly, like her mother: Toma! You can't talk about Mom like that.

Toma, flushing, with childish cruelty: As if you didn't know she was a prostitute. That's why she took me for a walk.

Martha looks at Toma with fear and pity. She doesn't know what to say to such a grown-up and scary phrase. Toma sees this and immediately softens, her voice becoming tired and small.

Toma strokes Martha's doll's head, almost whispering.

—  You're a good girl. Come to the table and eat.

Martha quietly, after a pause.

—  Armes Mädchen... Poor girl.

Toma stubbornly wrinkles her nose.

—  I'm not poor. Mom brings money. Lots.

Martha nods, wanting to agree.

—  Yes. Yes. I know. Yes, yes, I know.

An awkward silence falls. Toma looks at Martha's doll, then out the window.

Toma suddenly asks pleadingly: Sing a song. In German. Martha pauses a bit, then quietly sings.

—  O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum!.. We are the devil... I don't want to go to summer, even if it's winter, I'm not...

Toma listens, looking at her, fascinated, and then interrupts.

—  I'll sing it on New Year's, and will they give me presents?

Martha, slightly sad, simply agreeing to console him

— Yes. Yes. I'm so happy.

Thoma takes the doll Martha hands her, hugs it, and crawls back to her dolls to continue her complex game, a game beyond her seven-year-old abilities, in which she is an abandoned child, a punishing mother, and a pitying friend. Martha remains standing in the doorway, hesitant to leave or enter.

Martha is the youngest daughter of German Mennonite immigrants and lives three houses down from the Kop house. Her mother, Gretchen, takes pity on Thoma and lets her into her home, as seven-year-old Thoma has a talent that captivates not only her but every adult.

She quickly draws a cat, a dog, and a bird with a pencil. She also loves to draw people. Portraits. She learned this on her own when she was left home alone without her mother. Her mother left her crayons, and she would color her dolls: eyelashes, lips, cheeks.

Once, when she was only four years old, she drew her mother on the wall. At first, she was angry that the wall was ruined. But when she looked more closely, the portrait resemblance was far from perfect, but Olesya Kop was clearly visible.

From then on, she brought her daughter paper and crayons from the city. Toma didn't like to draw with paints, only with pencils and crayons. Now she's sitting at Frau Gretchen's, drawing her friend Martha, who is preparing her notebooks for school.

— Have you prepared your backpack for school?

— Mom promised to bring one from the city.

— Are you going to study at our school?

— Yes. Mom signed me up.

— Who will take you?

— Probably Mom.

— If Mom can't, then my mom will take you.

— Thanks to your mom. -Tell her I'll paint her portrait. She's kind.

And in 1918, the new White regime closed the girls' high school, and the authorities never reopened the new school, so the girls didn't attend school for a whole year...

...In the spring, in May, Toma saw her mother's work for the first time. She and her friends had climbed into someone else's cherry orchard. They picked four large, early cherries. Marta and her friend took the cherries home, and Toma, a fourteen-year-old independent girl, rode to Nikopol station and began selling the early cherries on the platform.

Trade was brisk. The White Guards quickly snapped up the cherries in newspaper bags. One bag meant one Nikopol nurse. There were just enough cherries left for two bags. And suddenly, Toma saw her mother in the company of tipsy civilians. They were holding her by the arms and groping her around the waist and below.

Toma flushed red, but didn't scream. Her mother walked across the platform along the tracks, into the bushes, where her cheerful, loud laughter could be heard. Toma dropped her Nikopol nanny bills on the platform, and they scattered across the platform, clinging to the cracks between the stones. After that, Toma stopped talking to her mother and dreamed of running away from her grandfather's house wherever her eyes could see, out of shame for her mother. And a year and a half later, her mother suddenly suggested they go to a big construction site.

The big construction site had been talked about for a long time. No one really knew where it would start or when. Everyone said Nikopol. Others said Dnipropetrovsk-Ekaterinoslav. For a long time, locals continued to refer to the city of Dnepropetrovsk, using the old Yekaterinoslav name, under the new government.

The newspaper "Nikopolsky Rabochy" wrote about the large construction project.

"We need general laborers, loaders, masons, and cabbies. We also need a woman who can draw for the local newspaper, Dneprogesovets."

This was Toma's chance to escape the backwaters of Gorodyshchyna. She silently packed her things and left a note for her mother.

—Don't look for me, Mom, I've gone to the construction site. I'll be living on my own.

Tamara Kopp was barely eighteen. She bought a ticket at the train station in Nikopol and traveled to Yekaterionslav. She found the address through a newspaper ad. She went to the labor recruitment office and said she'd come in response to the ad.

— Wait. The commissar will be here soon.

Tamara was quite surprised that the commissars were selecting personnel for a major construction project.

—Can you draw?- asked the commissar in his protective uniform.

—Yes, - Tamara said confidently.

—We'll check that out now.- He sat sideways on the chair and commanded.

—Draw.

—What, just like that?

— Well, you said yourself you can. Prove it.

—I have a pencil, but you forgot some paper.

—Here, take the paper. Just hurry. Ten minutes. I have people waiting.

Toma drew the commissar in profile, waist-length, wearing a tunic and shoulder straps. He came over, smiled, and said.

 —You're accepted. I'm taking this portrait. It's my first drawn portrait. Here's your mandate. You'll go to the commandant's office with this mandate. You're not from around here? From Gorodishche? You'll live in the government building for now. But back to work tomorrow. We need to paint posters. Yes. Tell me what brushes and paint you need.

—If it's for a poster, then very wide bristle brushes. And red, black, and blue paint. And white and green, too, -Toma replied, was beginning a new chapter in her life. The Dnieper Hydroelectric Station was just beginning its initial excavation work, with soil and rock excavated...

... Tamara drew only three posters. "The Dnieper Hydroelectric Station has begun!" "Communism is Soviet rule plus electrification." "Give us the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station!"...

Her talent for drawing faces was in demand in another service of the GPU, the NKVD. Quite by chance, an NKVD captain saw the portrait of the commissar, Tamara's boss, which she had drawn for him during his hiring process. The NKVD captain praised the likeness.

— Who drew it?

— So, our artist, Toma, from Gorodishche.

— A local, then. Let me check her to see if she has any thefts or frauds on her record.

— As you wish, check. Yes, she also speaks German.

— Then I'll definitely take her away from you. German engineers are coming to visit us in a few days, and it won't be long before they send a translator from Moscow. Which government building should I look for her in? At Komintern? I'll find her now.

When checking her family tree and documents, only one fact about her biography alerted the captain. Her father is gone, and her mother doesn't work anywhere.

— How do you live?

— Sometimes I sell cherries, sometimes I paint portraits, and I also teach children.

— How do you know German?

— Well, Marta and I have been playing with dolls in German since we were kids. She's a German Mennonite and lives in Gorodishche next door.

So Toma, at eighteen, became an employee of the Provincial NKVD with the rank of corporal.

They gave her a uniform and made her sign some papers. And assigned her to a photography lab. Calling the small, dark room, five by four meters, a lab was a stretch. But besides Toma, three other people worked there, and sometimes showed up: a photographer, an investigator, and a lab technician.

The department's job was to identify untrustworthy individuals, document them, photograph them, draw portraits based on descriptions, and arrest them. Toma didn't care what kind of work it was. She had broken free from home. And now she's a free bird.

Now Tamara returned to her childhood and recalled all the German words. She didn't just listen; she sought a way to make her memory obedient, to use it as a tool, as a lever. Dolls were one thing. And children.

But here were real Germans. The engineers from Siemens spoke firmly, never once smiling. And Tamara didn't know many words, especially technical terms. But she could guess by their sounds and translate them at random: that tool, that unit, that assembly. During breaks, she recalled all the words they'd spoken and tried to write them down.

Sunday was a day off, and she decided to wander around the Toka quarry. She rolled small, round, nut-like stones in her shoes and admired the large boulders the size of a barn or a well. She approached a huge boulder taller than her and stroked its glossy sides. A small stone clung to her fingers—not gabbro, but burgundy-red, with an inner fire, like a drop of blood in a body of black magma. Tamara held it up to the light—a spark pulsed within.

— Almandine," she whispered, remembering the story she'd read in "The Garnet Bracelet" and how such stones had been passed down through the female line of Jewish families for centuries.

— So that's what you are, a mystic and a seer.

That evening, lying on the narrow dormitory bed, Tamara held the stone in her palms, feeling a barely perceptible tingling sensation run up her arm. She closed her eyes and suddenly heard thoughts that weren't her own: strange voices, snatches of German conversations, secret hints, anxious laughter, a man's hoarse whisper. The stone became more than just an object for her—it was now a connection, a conduit through which past, present, and future flowed, like magma in a volcano.

From then on, Tamara wore the almandine on a thin chain under her collar. She quickly realized that if she clutched the stone tightly in her fist before a conversation, the person she was talking to would involuntarily reveal weaknesses. She saw Michael, the chief engineer,'s fingers tremble when the conversation turned to deadlines; she heard Dr. Wolf, usually a man of few words, suddenly begin to reminisce about his children and feel homesick. Sometimes she even felt as if she herself momentarily changed—as if trying on someone else's skin.

But the stone's magic wasn't only in its premonition of lies. Sometimes, alone in the darkroom, Tamara would press the almandine to her temple and see strange images: German engineers against the icy waters of the Dnieper, their faces distorted with fear; Her mother, young, with the same cunning eyes, says something in Yiddish; her grandfather, dying, extends his hand to her, clutching the same pomegranate in his palm.

One night, when an alarming vibration rolled through the dam—they were blasting the rock in front of it—Tamara woke up in a cold sweat. The stone on her neck warmed like a small sun. She felt an icy emptiness in her body, yet simultaneously a surge of strength. A voice echoed in the depths of her consciousness.

— You will find out everything if you don't get scared.

The next morning, Tamara's translation was unusually easy; she guessed her interlocutors' thoughts in advance. In the eyes of the German engineers, she saw a reflection of fear—not of her, but of the unknown, 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 amazing woman.- Michael said when they met in the corridor.

— Sometimes I think you understand me without words. =Tamara smiled, tilting her head slightly to the side, and asked her favorite question.

— Have you ever considered that the stones of the Dnieper Hydroelectric Power Station dam can remember more than people?

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

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

That day, she finally believed: the magic of gabbro-diabase wasn't superstition, but an ancient science, a gift of foresight and manipulation, imbued in the red-black stone and the blood of her family. And while the almandine pulsed on her chest, she was more than just a translator—she was a keeper of secrets, a guide to fate...

...By the time the cold weather set in, Tamara had been promoted to junior sergeant. They issued her a warm set of underwear, warm boots, and a lined overcoat. A personal weapon was provided for those with the rank of sergeant.

At a shooting range in December, she met a young junior lieutenant named Mark. Mark was also from a Jewish family. The new Red regime was tolerant of all faiths. Mark rarely mentioned his parents in his stories, only briefly mentioning that they did not share his revolutionary views.

As a young man, he had fought in the revolution on the side of the RSDLP and was sent to the NKVD school for a year in 1923. Mark and Toma became friends and would appear together on Sundays at the large barracks club for dances. After the New Year of 1924, the harsh January frosts set in, but work on the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station dam continued.

 

Chapter 9. Maya

In the small town of Nikopol in the Lower Dnieper region of Ukraine, a girl named Maya lives with her father, mother, and two younger brothers. Her name sounds soft and warm, evoking associations with water, the giver of life. Jewish blood flows through the girl's veins like a thick stream of traditions, commandments, and prayers. But her heart is open to the world that surrounds her family home. This world hums with the local language, the shimmering melodies of folk songs and local poetry. She immerses herself in the lines of poetry read by her stonemason father in the Little Russian dialect. The girl's eyes light up with an inner understanding of the beauty of the Dnieper lands, their history, and culture, which have been a part of her destiny since birth.

Upper Dnieper folklore enchants the girl with tales, legends, and songs born here, where the land is rich with the melodies of ancient chumaks. She learns these chumak songs in the local dialect, memorizing every word, absorbing the spirit of the steppes and wide rivers. Then she repeats them in Hebrew, striving to convey the full depth of emotion embedded in the folk recitative through the prism of her native language.

— One evening, sitting with her mother, Leah, the girl asks.

— Mom, why do you tell me stories in Hebrew?

Mom smiled thoughtfully and answered in a quiet voice:

— Because each language contains a unique code of the world, a unique picture of existence. You must understand both pictures to see the beauty of both cultures in their entirety.

And the girl understood why her father taught her in the local dialect. She felt the importance of reading, acquired through studying folklore and customs in the local, simple books.

She could sing carols and shchedrivkas for hours. She did this in two languages at once. This unique skill became part of her identity, creating harmony where it seemed impossible to find a common language. In Nikopol, so many people spoke Russian, Ukrainian, and Hebrew. And recently, German, too. Many Mennonite Germans had arrived in Nikopol.

Walking the streets of Nikopol, Maya often stopped to listen to the locals' conversations, absorbing the distinctive dialect—warm, soft, and cozy. Every word of the Nikopol dialect evoked an association with a Jewish expression, making the girl smile with joy at the recognition of the parallels and differences between the languages.

The urban surzhyk spoken by the inhabitants of Southern Ukraine held a special place in her vocabulary.

Thus flowed the days of Maya, living among the nuances of a unique blend of the Ukrainian and Jewish worlds, intertwined by threads of friendship, mutual respect, and a shared love for the cultures of both peoples. One May day, Maya woke, as usual, to the sound of roosters crowing. It had rained heavily the day before, and the air was crisp and damp. The morning sun's rays began to dry the earth, and Maya distinctly heard a rumble, as if a herd of horses and twenty oxen were running across the Dnieper steppe. Maya couldn't figure out 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. There. From the Dnieper.

But to get to the Dnieper, she had to go up to that hill, then around the burial mound, and then there was a ravine and the wide Dnieper. Maya walked around the burial mound, approached the Dnieper, and froze. It seethed and overflowed, filling all the surrounding meadows. It became as wide as the sea, restless and seething. Never before had the girl seen the Dnieper such a sea of overflowing water.There, to the north, beyond the horizon, heavy rains were falling in the upper reaches, and the entire mass of water was now at Maya's feet.

She walked to the very edge of the cliff and began to sing, echoing the roar of the Dnieper rapids.

Water flows from under the sycamore ravine to the valley,

It's written above the water

Red kalyna.

It's written above the water,

Young yavor,

And around them are verbolozy

And the vines are green.

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 to be found. Yael ran in terror to the Dnieper and suddenly heard the roar and ripple of the Dnieper. And the loud singing

Water flowing below the yavor.

A ravine into the valley,

It's written above the water...

Yael quietly approached and listened to the song of the 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, a single splash of color against the brown, soggy earth and the leaden, furious water, fluttered in the gusty wind. She wasn't singing for anyone—she was singing for the mighty Dnieper, responding to its roar and rumble with her own power. Her voice was resolutely directed toward the Dnieper.

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

The Dnieper seethed and foamed, rushing past with unstoppable force, sweeping away everything in its path. It was a blind, ancient force. And Maya's voice, pure and confident, was the same force, but spiritualized. The voice didn't fight the roar of the water; it hovered above it, woven into it like a golden thread, suddenly making this wild picture meaningful and beautiful.

— Written by Kalinka, Yavor Molodie..."

Yael didn't call her daughter. She quietly sank down onto the damp grass, buried her face in her knees, and began to cry. She cried not from fear, but from the emotions that overwhelmed her: from love for this girl, from horror at this world where everyone fought against everyone, from the indescribable beauty of the moment fate had given her.

The sound of footsteps made her look up. It was Artyom, and with him their two sons, aged four and six. He wanted to shout something, to rush to the edge, but Yael grabbed his hand and pressed her finger to her lips. Her eyes were full of tears, but something shone in them that made him freeze.

He looked where she was looking. I saw Maya on the edge of the cliff. I heard her song flying over the roaring Dnieper. And I understood everything.

They sat silently side by side, two adults with two small sons, lost in the maelstrom of history, listening. Listening to their daughter sing. Listening to the river rage. And there was a strange peace in it.

Maya finished singing, paused, as if allowing the river to echo, and turned around. And it was as if only now she saw and realized where she was. Her eyes widened in amazement at her own courage. She carefully stepped back from the edge and saw her parents.

— Mom! Dad! - Her voice, so powerful just a moment ago, now became that of a twelve-year-old girl. "Did you see? The Dnieper is like a sea.

— We saw, darling. - Yael said quietly, approaching and hugging her, ignoring the damp earth on her dress.

— We all saw. And we all heard.

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

— Rabbi Levin was right, - he thought.

 — She is the future. And as long as that voice resounds, nothing can drown it out.

... The evening was quiet and sultry. Outside, in the thick twilight, the edge of the southern Dnieper steppe was no longer visible, only the lamplight of the rare houses on the outskirts of Nikopol. Maya, lulled by the rhythmic creaking of cicadas, was already asleep.

Abraham and Yael had put their boys to bed and were now sitting at the table, but their usual peaceful silence was absent. The air was filled with tension that had been building all evening. From the "mischievous, daring Tokovo Cossack," Artem had transformed into a "sedate family man" and Orthodox Jew.

Avraham put down the book he was trying to read and sighed, gazing into the flame of the kerosene lamp. His new profession was symbolic: he was carving memories in stone, thus finding new roots.

— Yael, I keep thinking about Maya. She's eleven. And she got through elementary school with flying colors. It's time for her to go to high school. We should send her to the city school. The one by the cathedral. They say the teachers are good.

Yael, embroidering a tablecloth, froze. The needle hovered in midair. She slowly raised her eyes to her husband, alarm flaring in them.

— A secular school? With the children of goyim, where there's not a hint of Torah? No, Avraham, that's impossible.

— Why impossible?- He tried to speak softly, but his voice was already steely.

— She will learn to read, write, and count. She will have friends. She will be here, with us. I will see her every day.

— She'll learn God knows what there. - Yael's voice rang out like a taut string.

— Frivolity, empty talk, maybe even unbelief. No, I won't allow it. There's a boarding school for girls in Yekaterinoslav. That's where she'll go. There she'll be among her own kind, studying sacred texts, traditions, Hebrew. She'll become a true Jewish woman.

Revolutionary sentiment is growing not only in Nikopol but in the villages as well. And sooner or later, it could affect the Levin family. As an Orthodox Jew and former Cossack, Artem-Avraam could face misunderstanding from both the revolutionaries and the White authorities. And the growing Maya will ask more and more questions about her origins and roots.

Avraam pushed back his chair and stood, his tall, still powerful figure blocking the lamplight.

— To Yekaterinoslav? - His voice grew quieter, but that only made it louder.

— That's a hundred miles away, Yael. I won't see her wake up for three months? Won't hear her laugh at breakfast? Won't be able to check she's warmly dressed before going outside? It's hard on her. And on me.

There was such bitterness in his words, such naked pain, that Yael wavered for a moment. She saw what a tender father he was, how he doted on his daughter. But her own conviction was stronger.

— You think about your feelings, and I think about her soul. - She retorted, also rising. Her dark eyes blazed.

—She won't learn anything good in a secular school. She'll forget who she is. She'll grow up and marry someone who doesn't know the commandments? We must give her roots, Abraham.

—And who will give her wings, Yael? - he suddenly asked quietly, approaching the window and looking out into the darkness.

 —The world is changing. - Outside the window, it wasn't just a small town, but an entire city, an entire country. She had to be prepared for it. She had to be able to live in it, too.

—To live means to live by the laws of our fathers, - Yael insisted, and for the first time, tears welled in her voice. "Isn't this what we went through all this for? For our daughter to turn away from it?

This was their first argument. Not a quarrel, not a spat, but a real, profound debate, in which not just opinions but entire worlds clashed: his — the accepted, but still new, and hers—the primordial, preserved for centuries. A thick, heavy silence hung in the room, broken only by their breathing and the flickering flame in the lamp.

They stood facing each other, loving husband and wife, discovering for the first time the gulf between them, a gulf across which there was no reliable bridge...

...For several days, a tense silence hung in the Levin house. Avraham and Yael avoided talking about high school, each lost in their own thoughts. Resolving this dispute seemed impossible.

A clear child's voice cut the Gordian knot. Maya rushed into the house, brushing the dust of the outlying street from her feet, her eyes shining with determination.

—Dad. Mom. I made arrangements with Ester. We walk to school together, to that very central one, near the cathedral square.

Yael, stirring the soup in the pot, froze. Avraham put down the pen he'd been using to write a fresh Hebrew inscription.

—Which Esther? - Yael frowned, sensing a trap.

—Well, the one who lives in the adobe hut on Solyanoy Shlyakh. Her dad works on the railroad.

A look of mild disgust and alarm crossed Yael's face.

—These?... Maya, they're just ragamuffins. How did you become friends with her?

—We were buying pears at the market, and she helped me choose the ripest ones. She's kind, - Maya continued passionately, oblivious to her mother's displeasure.

— She and her dad took the train all the way to Alexandrovsk. Mom, can I ride the train with her and her dad someday? At least to the station? I'm very interested.

—What? No. - No way. - Yael's reaction was immediate and categorical. The thought of her daughter, her neshome, hanging out God knows where with some railroad workers horrified her.

—Well, ma-a-am. - Maya drawled, but seeing the unwavering 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 a glimmer of laughter danced in the corners of his eyes. He saw not a "rolling fool," but an independent girl who had found her own friend and decided where to go. In her sparkling eyes, he saw the same mischievous Cossack he had once been.

Maya, feeling her father's silent support, made the decisive move.

— So, Esther and I are going to school? Yes? I already found out everything. All the kids from our street go there.

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

She looked at her husband. Avraham met her gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly. It wasn't triumph, but rather an acknowledgment of the inevitable.

—Sending her to Yekaterinoslav is too much trouble, -Yael said quietly, more to herself than to him, giving in.

But suddenly, Rabbi Yehuda Leib Levin called them in for a talk. By a strange coincidence, their last names were the same. But in Nikopol, that's the norm: five Weinsteins, four Kop, Koop, Kopp, and Kap. Three Yampolskys. Horowitz, Schneider, and Strasser each had two last names. Lazar Abramovich Yampolsky and his dear wife enjoy not only marital ties but also the spiritual protection of the Nikopol Rabbi Yehuda-Leib Levin.

One mundane day during the civil war, a conversation took place between Yampolsky and Levin.

— We've heard. They say we've got another Levin, - Yampolsky said.

— A Levin?

— Yes, we have a Levin, but he's a stonemason. At the request of the Yekaterinoslav Rabbi, I placed him in our Jewish cemetery. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?

— No, not about that.

— What was it about?

— You see, my friend Lazar, your Sarah is your dearest half. She runs a boarding school for Jewish girls.

— So she's waiting for me here,- said Lazar.

— Call her.

— Darling—or come here. Rabbe wants to see you.- Lazar Abramovich called to his wife.

The rabbi turned to her.

— Here's the deal. You need to take in a talented girl for full board.

— Why full board? We're not an almshouse. Is she a beggar? We don't need beggars.

— You need to listen to her first.

— Then call her.

— Yael, Arthur. -Yehuda-Leib called. Maya and Artem timidly opened the door.

— No, you stand there outside. We'll listen to Maya. - Maya wore a bright crimson dress and white summer sandals. Her curly hair was neatly braided, as befits a twelve-year-old Jewish girl.

She sang "HATIKAVA" - Hatikvah.

The sacred fire in the heart never goes out!

The Jewish soul will strive!

It will strive to the East, to Zion,

To the land of our fathers, which God promised us!

Hope lights our way!

We have guarded it for two thousand years!

We will be a free people again!

In Zion, in Jerusalem!

And all the adults sang the last words with her. Yampolskaya's mezzo-soprano voice captivated everyone. They were captivated by the purity and power of her voice.

— Where did you learn to sing? -Yampolskaya asked.

— Mom and Dad taught me. Mom Jewish songs, and Dad Ukrainian songs.

Sing us a Ukrainian one. 

— Po dibrovі vіter vє,

Walking across the field,

The edge of the road is like a poplar

All the way to the valley.

A tall figure, a broad leaf

Marne zelenіє;

Around the field, like the sea, wide, blue.

Her voice rang in her ears and reached deep into her heart, penetrating her soul and echoing through the open window into the Nikopol expanses. Yampolskaya didn't think long — the pause lasted a few seconds.

— I'll take her on full board. You owe me, slave.

—You'll thank me for entrusting such a ward to your care, -Yehuda-Leib replied.

— Go, Maya, to your parents, call them.

So Maya became a full-boarding student at the private Nikopol Jewish Secondary School, where singing, music, and other humanities subjects were taught.

It was 1918. Nikopol was in complete anarchy.

Everyone was fighting against everyone else. But only Rabbi Levin could negotiate with the White bandits, the Reds, the Makhnovists, the Petliurists, and the Germans. And they themselves came to him for advice...

...The quiet chords of the piano and the clear girls' voices, drifting from the open windows of the Yampolsky house, became as familiar a part of the Nikopol landscape that summer as the rustling of acacias over the Dnieper. It seemed as if music itself created an invisible protective sphere around the boarding house, one that street gunfire and the raging global unrest dared not intrude upon.

Maya became not just a student, but the favorite of the entire boarding house. Her voice, sometimes powerful and passionate in Zionist songs, sometimes tender and sad in Ukrainian melodies, captivated everyone. Sara Yampolskaya, once skeptical, now prided herself on her student as a treasured find. Lazar Abramovich, passing through the hallway, often slowed to listen, and a special, radiant sadness softened his usually preoccupied face.

But beyond the walls of the house, the year 1918 continued to rage with undiminished force. Power in Nikopol was changing hands, and each new "master" of the town—be it a white officer with epaulettes, a dashing ataman with a black mustache, or a commissar in a leather jacket—first went to the home of Lazar Abramovich, the chief pharmacist and druggist of the entire Nikopol district.

One late evening, when the town had fallen silent in anxious anticipation, a machine-gun-mounted cart pulled up to Yampolsky's house, and several men in long overcoats, Mauser pistols at their sides, briskly jumped off. They were Makhnovists.

Batko Nestor himself did not enter the office, but his closest associate, a tall and thin ataman nicknamed "Gray," unceremoniously sat down across from his benefactor, the philanthropist, and the owner of the boarding house. "We've heard a lot about you; you're an intelligent man and fair to the Jewish people," he began, rolling a cigarette in his hands. — Father's orders: we need medicines, bandages, iodine. You have your own pharmacy and doctors here. Gather them. By morning.

Lazar, without batting an eye, looked at him over a stack of books.

— Are there any wounded?

—Not your concern. Gather them.

—My concern, - the pharmacist and patron of the boarding house calmly replied. "Because if I give you medicines, and you go and slaughter the Red Army soldiers from the hospital on Sadovaya, whom my people treated, then I will be guilty. I have no intention of supplying murderers.

Sivy turned pale with anger and grabbed the handle of his Mauser.

—Do you know who you're talking to, Jew?

 At that moment, the sounds of a piano rang out from the next room, where Maya was studying. The girl, unaware of the Makhnovists' visit, began to warm up. And a moment later, the very first song she had sung in this house flowed forth.

 —The sacred fire in my heart never goes out!

Her voice, clear and powerful, filled the room, reached the study, and made the ataman freeze. He listened, his eyes fixed on the door from which the singing was emanating, and his iron grip on the handle of his Mauser relaxed. Perhaps he remembered his village, his mother, another life—a life before the war, before the bloodshed, before this endless slaughter.

Yampolsky took advantage of the pause.

— I'll give you the medicine. But not to you. I'll give it to a nurse from the Red Cross, a neutral party. She will distribute it among all the wounded. Reds, Whites, and yours. Human life is one before God. - Do you agree to this?

Gray looked silently at the table. Maya's song grew louder, reaching its climax: "We will be a free people again! In Zion, in Jerusalem!"

The ataman rose heavily.

— Fine. Let it be your way, old man." He turned back as he left.

— And who's that singer you've got there?

— The future, - Lazar replied quietly.

— What's worth living for, when all this is over.

The Makhnovists left. Yampolsky approached the half-open door and watched Maya, engrossed in her music, playing for herself. He knew his arrangements were shaky. He knew that tomorrow Petliurites or the Germans could enter the city, and everything would start all over again. But in this house, protected by music and faith, a fragile hope lived on. And the name of that hope was Maya. Like water. The waters of the Dnieper, reliable and eternal...

... A classic picture of the "atamanshchina" of 1919. Local power often belonged not to the regular army, but to various atamans like Zeleny, Angel, and Grigoriev. Which also ruled the Nikopol region. These units were often unruly, engaging in robbery, lynching, and pursuing a policy of terror against "unreliable" individuals. This often meant simply educated people, former officials, Russians, Jews, and Mennonites.

The cessation of cultural life is a natural consequence of war and lawlessness. People think about survival, not concerts.

In the darkest times of war and persecution, religion remained an island of stability and solace for their communities. This was especially important for the Jewish population of Nikopol, as they often became the main victims of pogroms carried out by all warring parties.

From April to June 1919, the Ataman Grigoriev uprising raged in the Nikopol and Krivoy Rog region. At first, he was for the Reds, then against them. His units were known for their extreme cruelty and pogroms. This was the height of the horror, which drove the local population to despair.

On June 30, 1919, Nikopol was finally captured by the Armed Forces of Southern Russia, Denikin's Volunteer Army. A brief period of "White" rule had arrived.

In the summer of 1919, General Denikin's White Volunteer Army launched a large-scale offensive on Moscow (the "Moscow March"). They captured almost all of Ukraine, undoubtedly including 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 captured Nikopol. The process of Sovietization began, and it was never interrupted. By 1921, the Civil War in the region had largely ended.

…The house of stonemason Artem Levin, once an island of sedate life, now seemed to absorb the anxieties of the entire era. The walls, which remembered quiet evenings spent studying Torah, now held a resounding silence, a sense of impending disaster. The air was thick with dust and fear. Their eighteen-year-old daughter wanted to leave.

Maya, tall and thin, with dark eyes gleaming with a girlish sparkle, stood in the center of the room, clutching a bundle of her simple belongings.

— I'm leaving here.

Her voice was quiet, but with the same steel she'd once heard in her father's voice when he'd argued about her future. Now that future had arrived, and it was terrifying.

Avraham-Artem, his back bent over the years under the weight of stone and worry, looked silently at his daughter. His eyes betrayed an endless weariness. He'd seen too much: pogroms, executions, the atrocities of the Cossacks.

— Everywhere is restless now, Mayechka. - He said hoarsely.

 — Where will you escape this maelstrom?

—White, red, green, - Yael agreed. Her face was pale and gaunt. She didn't approach her daughter, as if knowing any touch would break her resolve. - Robberies, executions... At least here you have your own corner.

— Your own corner? Maya smiled bitterly, a hard line forming around her mouth.

—To wake up at night to the sound of rifle butts banging on the door? To see Red Army soldiers taking your dad away 'for questioning' just because he carved letters into a stone? To fear every day that you'll be raped and killed on the side of the road just because you're Jewish, or simply because you're young? This 'corner' has become a trap, Mom.

—Where will you go? - Yael asked again, desperately, her fingers clutching at her apron.

— I'll go to Kyiv. Or Odessa. - Maya pronounced this firmly, like a spell. For her, these names were symbols of salvation, of great cities where one could lose oneself, where there were universities, theaters, a different life. Where there was no such eternal smell of fear and dust.

— It's the same there. -Abraham's voice suddenly broke, a long-forgotten Cossack daring rang in it, mixed with pain.

— Do you think there's no shooting in Kyiv? No looting in Odessa? There's hunger there too, there are also Chekists with revolvers. There, it's the same war of everyone against everyone. It's just that here, at least I know every crack in the wall, every nook and cranny where I can hide. And there, you'll be alone. Completely alone.

Maya looked at her father, and her gaze held not childish resentment, but the stern clarity of an adult.

— Here I hide. And there... there, at least I'll try to live. To find bread. Looking for work. Looking for... myself. I'm not here anymore, Dad. Only fear remains here.

She took a step toward the door. Yael involuntarily took a step toward 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 driven him to burn his bridges and become a different person. He fought for his faith, for his family. She fought for the right to simply breathe, without looking back.

Silence hung heavy. The distant rumble of a truck came from outside, and all three of them involuntarily shuddered.

—You will write, - Avraham said quietly, not as a command, but as a plea. "Every week. Even a postcard. So we know you're alive.

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

... The Nikopol station platform was like a giant anthill, stirred up by a boot. It didn't smell of coal or oil, but of sweat, fear, and hopelessness. Maya, clutching her bundle to her chest, felt like a speck in this crowd of others like herself—lost, ragged, desperate.

Nearby, a man in a battered cap, nervously lighting a cigarette, tossed into the air:

—They say the railroad workers are on strike again. Yesterday, all day, they sent only one train to Krivoy Rog.

Maya's heart sank.

— And today? - she managed to squeeze out.

— It's already one o'clock, and not a single one has left, - another, elderly passenger replied indifferently, as if observing the weather.       — Let's go see the stationmaster and ask.

— Oh, there he is, standing by the booth. Go and ask.

Several people, including a man in a cap, went to the stationmaster—an elderly, tired man in a shabby uniform, who looked as if he hadn't slept for days.

—Comrade Stationmaster, will there be a train today? - a voice rang out.

The stationmaster slowly turned, his eyes empty.

— How should I know? The railroad workers haven't told me when they'll end their strike.

—Then send a messenger. Ask them, - a hysterical note crept into the passenger's voice.

—A messenger? - the stationmaster smiled bitterly. They decide for themselves. I'm just here for show.

Maya listened to this exchange, her hope melting with each passing minute, like dirty snow in the March sun. She stood on the platform for another four hours. Four hours passed, during which the crowd either froze at every distant whistle, or sank back into apathy. There was no news. None.

Her legs ached with fatigue, and there was a lump in her throat. She felt trapped. Not trapped at home, but trapped in a vast, insane country that couldn't move. She untied her bundle on the platform to get a drink from a glass jar. The jar slipped from her hands and shattered on the platform. A shard of glass, bearing the inscription "1922," rolled into a crack in the stone platform of Tokovo granite, carved by her father, Artem, when he was still a young stonemason.

Sighing so deeply, as if it came from her very heels, Maya turned and trudged away from the platform, back down the dirty street leading home. Every step was laborious, as if she were carrying the entire weight of the spilled water (Maya's symbolic name) and her shattered escape on her shoulders.

The door creaked. Yael, sitting by the window with her prayer book, shuddered and turned. Seeing her daughter, she involuntarily clasped her hands.

— What? You didn't leave?

There was no disappointment in her voice, but a wild, animal-like relief.

Maya dropped her bundle on the floor and, without looking up, muttered,

— A strike.

— And... when now? - Abraham asked quietly, appearing in the doorway. He understood everything without words.

— Nobody 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 helplessness streamed down her cheeks. Her escape, her dream of a different sky, a different air—all shattered against the harsh reality of the Nikopol railway strike.

It seemed fate itself had decreed that her dream of leaving for distant lands would never come true. At least, not on that day. It was precisely during these days that the Soviet government announced a new economic policy, and peace reigned not only on the Lower Dnieper and in the Nikopol estuary, but throughout the Soviet Union, from Odessa to the east to Vladivostok.

 

Chapter 10. Easy Summer of 1924

The summer of 1924 generously flooded the Nikopol embankment with sunshine. The air above the Dnieper shimmered, mixing the scents of heated tar and creosote, river freshness and the dust of roadside grass. With a hiss and the dull thud of its wheels, the pot-bellied steamboat "Dneprovets" stubbornly made its way upstream, towing a barge. Its low, drawn-out whistle wasn't a cry, but rather a weary sigh, accustomed to the river's endless expanses and capricious rapids.

Maya strolled leisurely along the granite slabs of the embankment with a friend, holding a light, shining white parasol. The hems of their fitted NEP-era summer dresses — Maya's was dark, with a small floral pattern, her friend's was light, almost white—fluttered in the gentle breeze from the river. They resembled two vocal birds: Maya, with a high mezzo-soprano as she spoke, with dark, serious eyes; Lenochka, airy, flirtatious, with a mischievous twinkle in her gaze, with a low, chesty contralto. Their quiet conversation was interrupted by a shadow falling across the fairway of the spatzer of the two romantic Mädchen—girls. Before them, removing his straw boater and clutching it to his chest, stood a young man. In him, as in the golden-haired blond, one could recognize the German breed of Lutheran-Mennonite immigrants: a light 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 the usual compliment lurked at the corners of his lips, ready to burst out.

— Healthy girls, lovely ladies! - His voice was velvety and slightly hoarse, like the sound of an old German gramophone. He pronounced the phrases somewhat awkwardly and with a German accent.

— Oh, what a marvelous wonder there is on the Nikopol shore! You are like white yachts on the evening surface—sailing towards me and shattering all my loneliness into dust.

Maya merely raised an eyebrow, studying the stranger with interest. And Lenochka, blushing, pretended to straighten a strand of hair that had fallen out of place in the breeze.

— Oh, what an imposing gentleman from the ship has arrived! - she laughed loudly, casting a look of amused panic at Maya.

— I’m going to disappoint you. Where I come from, the Bazavluk River doesn’t even always allow a boat to pass through in a dry summer.

— Is that the Bazavluk in Shishkino? - Maya asked. She remembered her father describing this place as a fertile land of paradise gardens and divine vineyards.

— Oh. You know our backwater? Well, since you know Bazavluk. My name is Alex. Alexander Garvart. May I have your hand, mademoiselle?

— Whose? - Maya asked with feigned bewilderment, holding out first one and then the other graceful hand.

— This one? Or maybe this one?

Alex, with German pedantry, bowed and barely touched his lips to each of the outstretched hands.

—Both of your hands! For my heart is torn in two and can't choose one.

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

— And how, pray tell, is the captain supposed to steer at both helms? Maya finally interjected, a smile touching her lips. She enjoyed this game.

 — Your little ship, it looks like it might run aground or split in half at any moment.

Alex straightened up and spread his arms, feigning extreme bewilderment.

— And this, forgive my German, is not a boat, but an entire flotilla. Garvart Tauride, Garvart Golden Valley. And Garvart Marinepol Bazavluk. I am captain, navigator, mechanic, boatswain, and cabin boy all rolled into one. And I bear the name of Garvart Alexander. — Although for such lovely muses... Alex from Bazavluk would do.

The three of them walked on, their shadows, elongated by the setting sun, mingling on the stones. They walked toward the city theater. Alex walked between them, telling them about his large farm of seeders, harrows, and other agricultural tools. And then, looking at the wide, calm Dnieper, he began to sing a quietly and soulfully Lutheran psalm melody.My home is in the heavenly land,

Among living flowers,

Where a wondrous garden grows,

Where love reigns.

Where choirs glorify

The Savior of men.

Where the inhabitants know neither tears nor sorrows.

The girls listened, enchanted. Maya, with a special musical sense, detected revelations of a new universe in the Lutheran melody, resonant with her spiritual impulses. She was always drawn to new worlds, to new music.

Famine, the recent war, all the worries remained somewhere out there, in the dusty alleys of Nikopol. She longed for those vineyards and gardens of paradise that Alexander sang about.

 — What a beautiful name, - she whispered dreamily. Here on the embankment, to the sound of steamboat horns and the twittering of swallows circling over the water, it wasn't just the sunset, promising something new in her life, but also the rise of her new star. And their casual acquaintance was blossoming into something more significant, but Maya didn't yet realize it. What this new thing was—a crush on the blond Alex.

That evening, she, the troupe, and Lena were giving a concert for a small group of invited patrons of the arts, merchants, drugstore owners, and the owners of Nikopol's countless mechanical workshops. And, of course, they invited Alex to hear their vocals.

A respectable audience of about seventy spectators gathered. An unprecedented cultural event for a southern provincial town, where the famine and devastation of the civil war had given way to the relative peace of the NEP era under the new Soviet regime. Local merchants and industrialists revived trade; ships sailed loaded down the Dnieper and upstream all the way to Chernigov, carrying Nikopol pipes, agricultural machinery, and manganese ore.

Alex, sitting in the hall, looked at Maya, and there was no way in the world he could tear his gaze away from her. A fleeting, playful acquaintance on the embankment of the Nikopol river port had blossomed into affection—love at first sight. And it seemed the love was mutual. This is how young souls yearn, seeking the emotional thrill of falling in love at first sight. Summer was just beginning, and ahead of them lay an eternity of dates, hugs, sighs, and heartache.

Alex returned to Nikopol a week later and proposed to Maya.

— But we barely know each other, - said the bride.

— I know your dad. He's a stonemason. He makes tombstones.- I don't know Mom. But I hope you'll introduce me.

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

— German settlers. Lutherans and Mennonites.

— And who are you?

— How should I put this correctly? I respect and value family traditions. But these are the times we live in. We need to look at progress and change our archaic worldviews a little. After all, I own a large mechanized workshop that makes tools for the village. And it's inevitable that we have to adopt innovations. Replace steam traction with electric. Replace old stamping tools with newer ones.

— Show me your workshop. I've never been to a factory. It's probably very noisy and loud.

— I'll show you. When are we going to meet the parents?

— Let's say next week.

The week flew by in a flurry of activity...

A week later, the two of them arrived in a traveling phaeton at lunchtime at the ancestral estate of Eduard Garvart's family. It was clear that their great-grandfather was revered here by all his great-grandchildren, grandchildren, and children. His name was cast on a cast-iron plaque on the main three-story mill, on three nearby machine shops, and on the manor house.

The bride and groom entered the house and were greeted by numerous Gorvarts, small, large, and old. Maya had seen large Jewish families of eight and ten before. But here, in this enormous stone house, new faces appeared from every room. Maya lost count after twenty and stopped counting. She liked it here.

This warm, familial atmosphere of comfort and prosperity. German meticulousness and attention to detail. She noticed such details as the absence of dust on the cornices, the absence of greasy doorframes and corners. The neat, clean, buttoned-up clothes of the little children. How strikingly different this is from the urban proletarian communal houses and the children living in the Nikopol communes.

Maya liked Papa Eduard and Mama Yakobina from the very first moment they met. As their future daughter-in-law, she was very much liked by the respectable couple. They knew Alexander had good taste and a respectable upbringing.

And he wouldn't bring a low-born, untested girl with no pedigree into his father's house. Although "pedigree" more closely refers to breeding stock, in which they had quite succeeded. But they were eager to learn the details of her lineage: income, property, dowry, religion.

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

Maya, a devout Jew, unabashedly took Alex's hand in her right hand and Yakobina's mother-in-law's hand in her left, and recited the Lord's Prayer along with everyone else. She smiled conspiratorially at Alex. He understood that this was her first Christian prayer. Alex, like Maya, was tolerant of all religions and wasn't a fan of either Lutherans or Jews. His education placed him outside the religious camp.

He graduated from a real school in Nikopol and was a practicing engineer, where the exact sciences were important. But he was raised not to tolerate inappropriate behavior. And Maya valued this very quality in him — his excellent upbringing.

Despite her strict Jewish boarding school, she knew secular songs, which she sang with pleasure with her father when her mother went out to the garden or the market. This was so as not to offend her religious sensibilities.

The wedding took place at the end of summer. In fact, there were two weddings. The first was a Lutheran church in Shishkino, Marinopol. And the second was in Nikopol, at a 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 conventional Lutheran with modern views. One could even say he held internationalist socialist views. He believed that social equality must necessarily come from the state. And he believed that the revolution must triumph in Germany just as it had in Russia.

Maya didn't care about his socialist beliefs. She simply loved him as her legal husband. And she even admired his intelligence. He had secured ten patents for inventions of machines and mechanisms that simplified production and reduced the final cost of products.

She understood little about his inventions, but she was proud of them and told her friends about them. And Alex is proud of his wife, that she gave up her Nikopol Chapel and now organizes small family concerts in the evenings for her countless cousins, nephews, cousins, their children, and adults. Maya has finally moved to Shishkino, Marinopol. It's fifteen kilometers southwest of Nikopol. It's a two-hour horse ride to her home, which she missed for a long time until she became pregnant.

Among Garvart's numerous relatives, she found a midwife, a paramedic, and a doctor. So, surrounded by love and care, she safely gave birth to a girl in May.

They struggled to find a name for the girl for a long time, as a German or Jewish name would have discriminated against and infringed on one of the parents.

After a long search, they finally settled on Anna, a name that suited everyone without any obvious religious affiliation. The name is also known as Hannah in Hebrew, and Saint Anna in Christianity. Garvart Anna Alexandrovna. The year was 1925 AD.

 

Chapter 11. Spies Also Fall in Love

The room was small, institutional, and stuffy, despite the bitter January frost outside. Paneled walls, a bare table in front of rows of chairs, and a portrait of Dzerzhinsky, whose steely gaze pierced everyone who entered. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco, cheap cologne, and tense silence. It was a closed session of the OGPU.

Tamara, huddled, sat on the last chair in the row, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. There were no more than twenty people in the room. She recognized only five by sight: Mark, who sat three rows ahead, his back straight, his ear turned out; her colleagues from the operations department; and him—commander Vyacheslav Bakakin.

Bakakin was legendary. They said he'd escaped from the Tsarist penal servitude three times, disarmed an entire gang of Makhnovists with his bare hands, and could shoot a ten-point target with his eyes closed with a revolver. He sat in the front row, casually lounging, but every muscle in his body seemed taut. To serve such a legend was both an honor and mortally terrifying. The rest of the assembled group—serious, reserved men in leather jackets or military tunics—were unfamiliar to her.

The political instructor, a lean man with a shaved head and intelligent, cold eyes, paced in front of the desk, enunciating his words clearly.

— Comrades, the situation at the construction site requires increased attention from the authorities. The scale is enormous, the site is strategic, and therefore the threats are strategic. We have numerous civilian specialists working on it, and we've brought in foreign consultants. Vigilance is our main weapon.

He paused, looking around the room. His gaze slid over Tamara, and she instinctively shrank back.

— First and foremost," the political officer continued. - Our Red director, Comrade Alexander Vasilyevich Winter, needs round-the-clock security. Not just formal security, but actual security. His deputy, Comrade Lazar Moiseevich Kogan, needs it too. The chief designer, Comrade Ivan Gavrilovich Alexandrov, comes frequently. Ensure his safety during his visits. Submit lists of vetted personnel for personal security to the department heads by morning.

In the front row, Bakakin nodded, his expression unchanged, and made a note in his notebook.

— Second question," the political officer's voice grew even drier.         Foreigners. Cooper Engineering Company. We need someone on the inside. Not a security guard, but a secret, embedded agent. Someone who can earn their trust. And we need 'eyes' on Hugh Lincoln Cooper himself.

 — Comrades, we clearly don't have enough people capable of such work. And we'll be held accountable. We won't be praised for our failures.

A heavy pause fell over the room. The political officer lit a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke.

— Another group is expected to visit in March — Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock. Engineers...

— He glanced at the paper and winced. - Frank F. Delfosse and Hubert... ugh,- he cursed angrily, struggling to pronounce the name, - Hubert Rukyshl-Rockkel. - Jews again, - he muttered almost automatically, with annoyance, putting the paper aside.

Tamara barely grasped the gist. Names flashed like bullets, foreign surnames swirling in her head, merging into one incomprehensible hum with Jewish ones. She understood only one thing: a huge, complex task lay ahead, and there was a catastrophic shortage of people.

The meeting lasted another half hour, but she heard almost nothing, digesting what she had heard. And when they were about to disperse, Bakakin's sharp voice suddenly called out to her:

— Cop! To me.

She approached, standing at attention, feeling her legs buckle. Bakakin, not looking at her, was discussing something with the political officer. Then he turned. His eyes, bright and piercing, like those of a bird of prey, appraised her from head to toe.

— You're good for this, - he said curtly. - Modest, quiet, with intelligent eyes. Clearly not a chatterbox." He turned to the political officer. - I approve it. Cop, starting tomorrow, you are relieved of your current duties.

He explained everything quickly, clearly, without unnecessary words.

— A maid is needed in a town for foreign specialists. Your task is to get a job there. Disguised as a maid. Your duties include: collecting any information you hear or see. Eavesdropping on conversations, even in an incomprehensible language—memorize snippets, the translator will figure it out later. Covertly photographing documents on the desk, blueprints, if the opportunity arises. Sketches of suspicious individuals who might be visiting them. Is everything clear?

Tamara, trying to catch her breath, merely nodded.

— To provide cover and enhance your operational status, - the political officer added formally. - Private Cop is being promoted to junior sergeant effective today. In March, before your deployment, you will receive a new summer uniform: a skirt, a dress, with corresponding shoulder straps. Your pay will be doubled." Her thoughts were jumbled. Sergeant. Double pay. A new uniform. But that wasn't the point. A new life awaited her.

A week later, she was already living in a brand-new, almost fairytale-like town for foreigners. Clean streets, neat houses, the smell not of tobacco and cabbage soup, but of coffee and expensive perfume. ThisIt was a completely different world, a piece of foreign land in the middle of the Dnieper steppes.

But Toma wasn't fooled. Every time she donned her simple maid's apron and picked up a duster, she clearly understood: she was a subordinate. A cog in a huge machine. And her well-being was illusory. Any day, for any misstep, she could be transferred back to the barracks without a word or thrown into even more dangerous espionage work. This new, beautiful world was just a theatrical backdrop, hiding a harsh and merciless reality.

… Their love lived in the gaps, in the cracks between seconds and days, in hours stolen from fate. Twice a month, if her shift schedules and the boss's favor coincided, Tamara had a few precious hours of freedom. Not days, but hours. Six, eight at most. And she waited for this moment, like a taut string.

She allowed herself to take off her maid's uniform and put on a simple cotton one, the most discreet, and leave the stifling, stuffy world of the "town for foreigners," this slice of a strange, prosperous life. Her feet carried her away from prying eyes and ears—towards the Kamenka River. There, among the ancient boulders polished by wind and water, she could breathe deeply. She called it "drawing strength from the stone." To rest her forehead against the rough, sunny surface of the basalt granite, close her eyes, and feel the age-old calm and steadfastness of the stone flow into her, filling her with determination and patience.

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

That day, Mark was gone for a long time. Tamara, squatting on the warm stone so as not to wrinkle her dress, took a small notebook and pencil from her pocket. To while away the agonizing wait, she began sketching the stones. She traced their whimsical shapes, trying to capture the play of light and shadow. Time passed slowly, the sun was already setting, and he still hadn't appeared. A cold, anxious feeling gripped her chest.

Suddenly, her hearing, heightened by the silence and anticipation, was touched by strange voices. Low, with a distinctive Zaporizhian accent, they came from a little further away, around the bend.

— We'll sneak in at night and quietly reel them in, - said one, hoarse and confident.

—Are you kidding? There's security there... Execution on the spot,- countered the second, his voice trembling with fear.

— Don't be afraid. I've thought it all through. Have you seen how much copper there is? A fortune.

— The two of us can't handle it. There are tons of copper there; are you crazy?

— Don't worry. We have the right people. They're ready.

Tamara froze, her heart pounding. Cautiously, out of the corner of her eye, she peered out from behind her hiding place. Two workers in greasy trousers and padded jackets were walking very close, along the path. They were carrying a heavy, bulky box over their shoulders. "Clearly stolen from a construction site," flashed through Tamara's mind. Lowering her head to avoid being noticed, she feverishly turned the page of her notebook and began quickly, almost instinctively, sketching two portraits. The broad cheekbones, the distinctive noses, the shape of the hat on one, the hunched shoulders on the other. She absorbed every detail like a sponge, her hand automatically drawing the lines.

The voices faded, the footsteps receded. She was left alone with her pounding heart and two portraits in her notebook. Mark still hadn't arrived. Apparently, it was urgent.

Several weeks passed. At the end of spring, a major accident occurred at the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station—a metal sheet pile on the right bank of the lintel collapsed with a deafening roar. Construction came to a standstill. Then rumors began to spread, malicious, whispering: "Alien elements, Ukrainian Zaporozhian Cossacks, stole the support cables." They stole tons of imported copper wire and sold it at the market. Wire from turbines was found all the way to Dnepropetrovsk."

As soon as Toma heard this news, a chill ran down her spine. She remembered that day in Kamenka, the two voices, the box on her shoulders... Without thinking, she found those very sketches in her notebook. That same day, during another short outing, she left the rolled-up piece of paper in the designated cache for delivering letters to her superiors.

A month later, an order arrived. Another promotion. Now she was a sergeant. And a sergeant was entitled to a service weapon. She was given the same revolver she had learned to use so painfully. Now it lay in a holster on her belt, heavy and cold. But this heaviness was no match for the heaviness in her soul.

Mark came less and less often. His excuses grew shorter and vaguer. A business trip, a meeting, a shift. Tamara was pining; her love, which she carefully concealed from everyone, was bursting to the surface, becoming unbearable.

And on one of those rare evenings when they finally met on the rocks of Kamenka, she couldn't bear it anymore. They sat on "their" rock, and an awkward silence hung between them.

—Mark, - she began quietly, looking at the water, not at him. - I can't do this anymore. Meeting furtively. Like thieves.

He sighed.

— What are you proposing? You know how it works. Service comes first.

— Let's get married already, - she blurted out, startled by her own boldness. - We'll become a legal couple. Then our meetings won't be furtive.

He paused, choosing his words.

— I need to write a report. For permission. That's the procedure.

— And I need to write a report, - she interrupted him. "There's no other way. My superiors won't bless me for marriage," 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 boyish excitement. He put his arm around her shoulders.

— Let's... let's get married secretly. We'll find some old priest in the village. - It will be our secret.

Toma looked at him with horror and pity.

— Secretly from whom? From Bakakin? Mark, are you out of your mind? He'll find out—and you and I will rot away in a camp somewhere as 'socially alien elements' who didn't pass the purge. Who are you, anyway, according to the papers? - she suddenly asked, trying to change the subject.

He looked away.

— My ancestors... Jews. From a shtetl near Odessa.

She smiled bitterly.

— And mine too," Toma drawled sadly. - Mom still lights candles there, in Gorodishche, on Saturdays, secretly.

— Let's go see them," Mark exclaimed with renewed hope. - I'll meet them, we'll ask for their blessing, as is proper.

— We won't go, Mark,- her voice became firm and hopeless. - I... I'm ashamed of my mother. Of her way of life, her faith." She will never understand you or my service. For her, all of this is alien and dangerous.

— Why? - he asked, genuinely surprised.

— Be quiet. I don't want to talk. Not now.

There were no more words. There was only pain, longing, and hopelessness. They embraced like drowning men and began to kiss passionately right there on the stone, already cold from the evening dew. These were greedy, desperate kisses, filled with hunger, fear, and an attempt to forget, to not think about what awaited them tomorrow. Two hearts lost in the steppes, on the Kamenka River, among 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 grief, lit up the sky.

 

Chapter 12. Tamara is pregnant

The office of Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich Bakakin, head of the Dnepropetrovsk department of the OGPU, is now located at the Dneproges construction site. He has no business in Dnepropetrovsk, his superiors in Kyiv told him.

Stalls with maps, folders marked "Top Secret." Vyacheslav Bakakin and the commissar have just completed a carefully crafted plan, their faces lit up with a small triumph and a hard-won victory. There's an insistent knock on the door.

Bakakin, his eyes fixed on the map, says with slight annoyance.

— Come in. - He knew the secretary would only let in very trusted and close people without permission.

The door opens, and Petro Belyaev, Chief Physician of the Dneproges, takes off his cap and enters the office. His face is serious, he shifts from foot to foot, nervously fiddling with the peak of his cap.

Bakakin looks up, his face breaking into a sarcastic smile.

— Are you well?

The doctor dismisses the joke with a wave of his hand.

— Healthy, healthy. I'm here... on a delicate matter, boss.

With mock reproach, leaning back in his chair.

— Well, how many times do I have to tell you, Petro? I'm not your boss, Vyacheslav. I'm your peer, and you're a respected doctor, a luminary of medicine in the entire Dnieper Hydroelectric Station. We're on first-name terms, period.

He sighs, giving in.

— Okay, Vyacheslav. The matter... it concerns your subordinate. Tamara Kop.

Bakakin instantly transforms. The slight smile disappears from his face, and his gaze becomes sharp, penetrating. They've just concocted a brilliant plan starring Tamara. The commissioner freezes, sensing a change in the atmosphere.

Bakakin, dry and businesslike, says.

 — What's wrong with her? Is she sick? Consumption? Typhus? Speak up.

The doctor shakes his head, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. No. Worse. She's pregnant.

A deathly silence reigns in the office. A truck can be heard passing outside. The tramp of thousands of workers compacting concrete. A strange squeaking sound, like a thousand seagulls suddenly screaming in unison.

— What is that? - the doctor shouted.

— That's our modern propaganda. Our loud megaphone on the Dnieper. It's the first radio in Dnepropetrovsk. Loud. You can hear it from ten kilometers away.

Bakakin slowly rises from the table, his fingers drumming on the countertop.

— He asks quietly, with dangerous softness. - Are you sure? Are you sure? Didn't get it wrong? Maybe she just gained weight? The girl's young.

The doctor, confidently, with professional pride, said.

 — Exactly. She told me, of course, two months. But you can't fool me, an old cat. By all indications, it's three. I'm not a lab technician, I'm a practitioner with twenty years of experience.

Bakakin turns sharply to the window, looking at the enormous construction site. His shoulders tense. At that moment, the music "On the Hills of Manchuria" blares from the first loudspeaker at the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station. What a bad time, they're fixing this mess. Yesterday, when he saw two huge loudspeakers, he asked. - Are those canisters for the mess hall?

— But that's a modern achievement of civilization, Comrade Chief, - he said.

— You yourself signed the invoice for two of them. Loudspeakers from the People's Commissariat of Education." Muffled, almost under his breath, "Yes... What a disaster. Such a plan... A brilliant plan... And then...

The Commissioner is puzzled.

— So what now? Cancel everything? Find someone else?

Bakakin turns around abruptly. His eyes no longer reflect shock, but a lightning-fast thought. Cancel? No. Absolutely not. He turns to Belyaev. And who? Who's the father? Did she tell him?

Belyaev spreads his hands.

— Everyone already knows. The whole medical center is whispering. You're the only one, in your secret fortress, who doesn't know. Mark Krutz. From the detective department.

Bakakin's face turns purple. He slams his fist on the table, shaking the stacks of papers.

Krutz?!.

— I'll... I'll tell him such things that he's in my... How dare he? Undermining a valuable asset. I...

Belyaev interrupts him decisively, taking a step forward.

— Vyacheslav. No need. Slava, calm down. They're in love. I'm telling you, as a doctor and as a person — I know, I see. This isn't a passing fling, understand? This... he's searching for the right word—a successful pregnancy. For love. Serious feelings. They respect you very much and are afraid of you. They wanted to come tell you. But they were afraid. She came herself and told me.

Bakakin freezes. The anger fades from his face, replaced by a cold, predatory calculation. He paces slowly around the office, his gaze becoming detached—he's no longer here, he's in the future, weaving the web of his plan.

Bakakin stops. His voice is quiet, but commanding.

 — So... So... Everything is clear." He presses the doorbell. — Zina. Krutsa and Kop come to me immediately. This very second.

 Belyaev and the commissar exchange glances, confused. They understand that Bakakin's "right now" command will take an hour or an hour and a half to execute. While the messenger searches, while they find it, while they get ready.

Suddenly, Zina, opening the door, says.

— They've brought Harvard.

— What Harvard? The one Harvard opened in Britain?

— No, no. Harvart, Alexander. A German. He's an inventor, an engineer. He trains workers in mechanics and design. You told him to.

— Yes. I remember. Call him. But tell the guards to wait outside the door.

— So you're the one disrupting my training for skilled workers? Bakakin says, looking the blue-eyed German straight in the eye.

— Comrade Chief. My wife is giving birth. She's in her ninth month.

She will give birth today or tomorrow.

— Have you really started a maternity hospital here at Dnieproges? Bakakin, looking at the commissar, couldn't get over the fact that Dnieproges people fall in love, get married, give birth, die, suffer.

— And what if the workers aren't going to learn a thing or two because your wife is giving birth? I don't see the logic? What does childbirth have to do with the workers' knowledge? Maybe you could explain it to me, Commissar? Or maybe you, the doctor, could explain it? What's the connection?

— You see, dear Vyacheslav Alexandrovich, - the doctor takes him by the arm and soothingly admonishes him, like a doctor with a sick patient. — Our esteemed German engineer, Alexander, is already teaching the second batch of workers mechanics and the design of mechanisms here. He's a little tired after two months. If we take a short break of three or four days, then he'll rest, and the workers will rest from their studies.

— Okay. Okay.

— Harvart. You have four days off. And back again. You'll get your pass and credentials from Zina. Garvart went to the secretary for his credentials.

At that moment, Mark and Tamara enter the office. Their fingers are instinctively intertwined, their faces pale, ready for any dressing down.

But there's some stranger here. Someone they don't know. That's why they're afraid to say anything unnecessary in front of the stranger.

Bakakin, not giving them a chance to speak, looks at them searchingly for several agonizing seconds.

 — So... So... Suddenly, his face lights up not with a smile, but with something like a triumphant grimace. So that's it. Congratulations. On the baby.

Mark and Tamara freeze in stupor.

Bakakin approaches them closely.

— Now listen to me, and remember once and for all. From today on, your personal life ceases to be personal. It belongs to the state. Do you understand me? You are part of one large mechanism. And we'll integrate your... unplanned cog... into the overall scheme. He glances at them, his voice hardening.

— From now on, to everyone, you're neither Cop nor Krutz. To everyone — coworkers, neighbors, any questions—you're husband and wife. The Karpenkos. Understood? A simple, strong family name, ours. Ukrainian. You'll live like a model Soviet family expecting a baby.

He pauses, letting them take it in. Then he looks at Tamara.

You, Tamara, are henceforth the call sign "Rock." Because you must be as strong as flint. No unnecessary emotions. No weakness.

His gaze shifts to Mark. And you, Mark, are "Cliff." So he'll remember the brink we all stand on now. One false step, and the abyss. But if you hold on to each other, you'll survive.

He steps back, his job done. The plan isn't just alive – it's acquired a new, brilliant dimension.

Bakakin was almost friendly, but with an icy undertone. Everyone is free. And... good luck to you. In your new status.

They walked out into the street together – Alexander Garvart, Tamara, and Mark Karpenko.

Meanwhile, the radio operator played a trendy record to please the American and German engineers: "Go Down Moses" by Louis Armstrong.

When Israel was in Egypt's land

Let my people go.

Let my people go.

Oppressed so hard they couldn't stand

Let my people go.

Let my people go.

The Lord said

Go down Moses' way down in Egypt's land

Tell the old Pharaoh to let my people go.

Tell old Pharaoh to let my people go.

So Moses went to Egypt's land.

So Moses went to Egypt's land.

Let my people go.

Let my people go.

To make old Pharaoh understand.

Let my people go.

Let my people go.

None of the Ukrainians, Russians, Rusyns, Greeks, Poles, or Kazakhs understood what the song was about. Only a few who knew English did. Tamara and Mark, like Alexander, didn't know English, but they recognized from individual words that it was a song about Jews. Israel, Egypt, Pharaoh, Lord, People, Let. Many of the words were understandable to the Germans. And they were quite surprised that the new government was delighting the ears of workers and engineers with this amazing song by Louis Armstrong about the Jewish exodus from Egypt...

... The evening was quiet and autumnally clear. They emerged from the gray, official building of the registry office, holding not flowers or a bottle of champagne, but two small passports, still smelling of fresh paint and glue, and a marriage certificate. They were listed as Mark Karpenko and Tamara Karpenko. These documents weren't a declaration of love, but a work instruction, but they decided to forget about it that evening.

— Shall we go somewhere?" Mark asked quietly, his voice hesitant but hopeful.

— Let's go, - Tamara replied, squeezing his hand tighter in the pocket of her modest coat. Her eyes glittered. She felt their secret, their shared life, still invisible to the world, deep in her heart.

They found a small restaurant near the embankment. Not a formal one, not the kind frequented by party officials, but cozy, with worn tablecloths and the scent of fried onions and fragrant herbs. In the corner, on a small dais, a local orchestra—violin, accordion, and double bass—was playing a sad but sweet foxtrot.

No one knew them at the table at the back of the room. They were simply a young, beautiful couple—perhaps students, engineers, visiting the great construction site. The waiter, an elderly man with tired eyes, took their order without much interest: two soups, cutlets with mashed potatoes, one compote, and one fruit drink. No champagne. Tamara caught herself instinctively placing her hand on her stomach just by looking at the bottles of sparkling wine behind the glass.

But when the food arrived, Mark suddenly raised his glass of fruit drink.

— To us, Toma, - he whispered, looking at her in a way that took her breath away. - To our family. A real one.

And in that moment, all the lies, all the need for pretense, the sword of Damocles of Bakakin's plan—it all vanished like smoke. Only the two of them remained. And the music.

The orchestra struck up something slow and lyrical. Mark, without a word, stood up and extended his hand to her. She placed her hand in his — and there they were, among other couples on the tiny parquet floor.

She felt his hand on her back, his breath on her temple. They didn't really dance, just slowly shuffled, swaying to the rhythm, completely surrendered to the music and to each other. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to the rough fabric of his jacket. He pulled her a little closer, hugged her tighter, protecting her from the world.

Their first truly public kiss happened right 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 shyness, propriety, or the possibility of being watched. In that moment, no force in the world could break what was between them. They were young, in love, and they thought this fragile boat called "us" could sail any ocean.

They didn't notice how the waiter, serving them compote, leaned toward the hostess behind the counter and said something, nodding in their direction. They didn't notice how two men in practical raincoats took a table near the exit, pretending to be engrossed in conversation, only occasionally casting dispassionate, searching glances at them.

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, and even this restaurant were just props, a carefully crafted scenario.

They were young and unaware that in this new, cruel world they were building with their own hands, nothing depended on them. Their fate, like a pawn, had already been moved on the great chessboard. And now everything depended on a cruel twist of fate, a twist of fate, a blind, merciless destiny that had already begun its game, pretending for one evening to be a gentle accordion in a cozy restaurant on the Dnieper…

...Late evening at the Dnieper Camp.

The door slammed open, and the first group of "old men"—prisoners returning from a grueling shift at the concrete works—tumbled into the prison barracks. They were exhausted, covered in cement dust, their eyes dull. And then they froze.

Gray-haired, with a scar on his cheek, nicknamed "Kron"—"Your mother... What the hell is going on here?"

The barracks they had left that morning had been transformed. The bunks were arranged differently than they had been that morning. Their mattresses and meager belongings lay scattered on the floor. In the center, in the best spot by the stove, Bohdan Lyubomirsky and two of his henchmen were lounging. They'd already managed to get hold of some shag and were smoking.

Bohdan, without turning his head, said with a mocking drawl.

— Ah, the owners are back. Take your seats while they're free. It's cold by the stove.

— This isn't a piece of cake, dude, - Karas said. - You're... - Get that bastard out of here. Do I tell you anything? This is our barracks.

Bogdan slowly rises to his full, Herculean height. Several more newcomers rise behind him—former Makhnovists, criminals, their eyes blazing with insolent malice.

— Yours? But I see it's nobody's. It's government property. And the strong are the boss. We decided to warm up here. Do you mind?

Kron spits on the floor between them.

— Puppies... Snot-nosed brats... You'll die here in a day, and we've been dragging it out for years. Get back to your bunks while you're still alive.

Bogdan takes a step forward, his face contorted into a wicked grin.— You've been dragging it out for years and have weakened, old men. It's time to make way for the young. We're hungry, angry, and have nothing to lose. And you — your rations and your time.

Karas leaps forward with a squeal.

— I'll take you, bitch. 

Karas's blow is short and puny. Bogdan doesn't even dodge, taking it on his chest and, grinning, responds with a powerful punch to the solar plexus. Karas doubles over with a croak.

Kron yells.

— Brothers, give them to us.

And everything is in chaos. The barracks turns into a hellish cauldron of screams, groans, loud blows, and breaking utensils. The "old men," angry from impotence and years of camp, rushed to the attack. But the "newcomers" were fresh, hungry, and full of fury. They fought with wild, animal-like energy.

A voice from the crowd.

 — Knife! It's sharpened!

Another voice - Get him!

But Bogdan's men really didn't have any metal in their hands — only fists, feet, and scraps of wood. They worked devastatingly and harmoniously. The old men, outnumbered three to one, began to be pushed against the walls.

Suddenly, a sharp, air-splitting sound rang out over the chaos—a gunshot. Then a second. Plaster began to fall from the ceiling. A young guard stood in the doorway, his revolver raised, pale with fear.

— Stop it! Immediately! Everyone to their places!

The fight died down for a moment, everyone froze, breathing heavily. At that moment, another figure appeared in the doorway.

Mark, running inside, ripping his fur hat from his head.

— What's going on here?! Stop it immediately!

Without thinking, he rushed into the thick of it, pulling the fighting men apart by the collars of their jackets, throwing them apart with his body.

— Disperse! Who told you? Kron, I know you! Get rid of these people!

In the crush, in the semi-darkness lit only by a single oil lamp, one of the "old men," pressed against the wall, saw Mark not as a guard, but as another enemy. Blinded by rage and fear, he lunged forward, clutching a sharpened piece of metal in his fist.

At that moment, Mark was pushing back a huge Makhnovist. A sharp, piercing blow to the chest caught him off guard. He didn't cry out, but merely gasped, as if he'd been doused with ice water. The blow was a glancing blow, grazing his rib, but the pain pierced him. He staggered, his hand reaching for the burning scar on his chest, and crimson, dark blood appeared on his fingers.

A voice from the crowd, frightened.

—The officer's been cut!

Everyone froze completely. The fight stopped abruptly. Everyone stared at Mark, who was slowly sinking to his knees, trying to hold on to the edge of the bunk with his hand.

Mark whispered, already losing touch with reality.

—Toma... Toma... Come...

Someone shouted for a stretcher. There was commotion, footsteps. They picked him up and laid him down on the creaking boards. The barracks ceiling swam before his eyes, turning into a dark spot.

The bright light of a kerosene lamp in the medical station at night.

Doctor Belyaev, removing Mark's bloody tunic, grumbled through his teeth. "Oh, you, Mark... Mark... Just got married, you fool... And what kind of fight did you get into?

— I was cut on duty...

— Come on, let's see, let's see what you've got here...

 He leans toward the wound, his face becoming focused and serious. Mark is delirious, his consciousness drifting into darkness, and only one sound, the most important in his life, escapes his lips.

— To-ma... To-ma...

... It's late at night in the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station infirmary. The air is thick, saturated with the smell of carbolic acid, medication, and the sweetish scent of blood. The dim light of a kerosene lamp casts flickering shadows on the walls. Mark lies on his cot, pale as a sheet, his breathing shallow and hoarse. Tamara sits at the head of the bed, holding his cold, lifeless hand in hers. Her tears have long since dried, leaving only an icy, all-consuming emptiness and despair. Tamara, leaning toward him, her voice a muffled whisper, full of tenderness and pain.

— Darling... I'm here.

Mark barely opens his eyelids. His gaze is clouded, but he recognizes her. The corners of his lips twitch in a weak attempt at a smile.

Mark, barely audible, each word forced.

— How wonderful... darling... I'll get better... and we... we'll go on a boat. Along the Dnieper... You wanted...

Tamara, squeezing his hand tighter, trying to pour her life, her strength, into him.

— Yes, darling. We'll definitely go. The main thing is, hold on. Hold on with all your might. Do you hear me? Don't die. Don't leave me. Promise.

She presses his palm to her cheek, to her lips, trying to warm it with her breath.

Mark whispers.

— I... love you... I won't leave you... You... the light of my eyes...

He falls silent, gathering his strength. His gaze briefly clears, a hint of alarm creeps into it.

Tamara is quiet.

— How did you... manage to... go to that barracks?... To separate those... bandits?...

Tamara, her voice breaks on a sob, which she immediately suppresses, gritting her teeth.

— When I find out who did this... I will personally demand that he be shot. I will see to it!

Mark shakes his head weakly, and the shadow of that smile she loved so much appears on his face again.

— Toma... don't be sad... No need... for revenge... I'll... take care of myself... You... you take care of our baby... our little one...

He looks at her with such infinite tenderness that Tamara catches her breath.

— And you... who do you want?...

Tamara, through the welling tears, I want you. Only you, my boy. I don't need anything else.

— And I... I want a girl... Someone like you... Just as... stubborn... and beautiful...

Suddenly, his body tenses. His eyes close tightly from a sudden, piercing pain. A dull, broken groan escapes his chest. He tries to breathe, but can't. His gaze loses focus, staring into the distance.

— To... ma...

His eyes slowly close. The hand Tamara held so tightly suddenly goes completely limp. A quiet, barely audible exhalation, and nothing more. Only absolute, ringing silence. Tamara freezes for a second, unable to believe it. She looks at his motionless face, at his chest, which no longer rises.

Tamara, at first in a whisper, then louder, turning into a frantic scream.

— Mark... Mark. Darling, breathe. Breathe! Doctor! She jumps up, knocking over her chair, and rushes to the door.

Tamara screams into the hallway, her voice pure horror and despair. - Doctor Belyaev. He's stopped breathing! Help!

A few moments later, Pyotr Belyaev runs into the room. He's pale, his gown stained. He silently but quickly pushes Tamara aside, bends over Mark, feels for his pulse in his neck with two fingers, and presses his ear to his chest. A moment of painful silence. He straightens up and his shoulders sag. He slowly covers Mark's face with a sheet.

Belyaev speaks muffled, not looking at Tamara.

— He's dead, my daughter. Gone. Nothing could be done... The wound was too deep... Internal bleeding...

Tamara stands like a statue, unable to move, staring right through him. - No... No, he promised... He said... he won't leave...

Her legs give way, and she sinks to the floor. Belyaev rushes to her, catches her, and sits her down on a chair.

Belyaev speaks sternly, but with infinite pity in his voice.

— Tomas... Tomas, listen to me. You have to hold on. You're not alone now. Do you understand? You're 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 places a heavy, comforting hand on her shoulder. Tamara doesn't respond. She simply sits and stares at one point — at the white sheet, beneath which the contours of her husband's face, her boy, her would-be companion on the steamship voyage, can be discerned. Her world had just collapsed, leaving nothing but silence and this white canvas...

... In Bakakin's office, the same wall of maps, the same smell of tobacco and old paper. But now she stands at his desk – Tamara Karpenko, six months pregnant. Her figure has changed; the heavy, rounded belly is no longer hidden by her uniform. In her hands, she clutches a folded sheet of paper – a resignation letter.

Bakakin, not looking at the paper, twirling a pencil in his hands, looks somewhere past her.

— Your resignation letter again, Karpenko? Aren't you tired of it? You've brought it for the third time. I told you – it's not the time. We have plans. After the birth, you'll recover – and then we'll be back on duty. We'll place the child in a nursery.

Tamara's voice is quiet, but not trembling. It contains a steely determination forged by grief.

— I won't recover, Comrade Bakakin. And I won't return to duty. I can't take it anymore. Please sign.

Bakakin puts down his pencil and finally looks at her. His gaze is heavy, searching.

— You can't? Or don't you want to? Don't you like the job? Or have you remembered that you're a 'free citizen'? Have you forgotten the oath you took?

— I haven't forgotten anything. I've done everything I could. And I can't anymore. I want to give birth to my child peacefully. Without looking back. Without fear of being watched. Without pretending to be someone else. - Pain flashes in her eyes, but she doesn't look away. He... She involuntarily places her hand on her stomach... he's the last thing I have left of Mark. I don't want his life to begin with a lie.

She sees his jaw tense. He silently takes the report, reads it back.ah, even though he knows every word. He sees her not as an agent, but as a mother distraught with grief, and that's his only weak lever.

Bakakin sighs, resigning himself to the inevitable but not relinquishing control.

— I see you're burning bridges with a tenacity worthy of better causes. Okay. It's not clear what use you'll be at Siemens now, holding a cradle in your hands." He abruptly signs the report, slaps a stamp on it, and hands her another sheet. Here. The mandate. The Nikopol commandant's office will give you housing for the first time. A bed in a dormitory and maternity rations.

Tamara takes the mandate, looking at it without joy.

— I... I want to go home. To Gorodishche.

Bakakin raises an eyebrow in surprise.

— To Gorodishche? You yourself said you didn't want to see your mother. That she's a drunkard and a disgrace to the family.

Tamara lowers her eyes, her voice quieter, a hint of tired pity.

— And now I want to. Kind people say... that she's stopped drinking. Completely. Now she wanders around the village begging like a beggar. I feel sorry for her. And we have no one else to turn to.

Bakakin stares at her silently for a few seconds, the gears of his plans clicking in his head. He picks up a notebook and quickly scribbles something.

— Take the mandate. But not the commandant, but this one—the Nikopol Commissioner for Personnel. I'll call him so he can help you find a place in Gorodishche." He looks at her with feigned nonchalance. —They say they just opened a new mining plant there, in Manganese. They need people there.

— I heard about the plant too. We've always had plenty of manganese there. - Bakakin breaks into a smile.

— Well, that's all right. Excellent! Go. Don't worry, they'll look after you there. You won't get lost.

Tamara accepts her second mandate. She doesn't say "thank you." She simply puts the papers in her bag and turns to leave. She feels a huge weight lift from her shoulders. She sighs—deeply, fully, freely, for the first time in months.

She steps outside, and the bright sun blinds her. She is no longer "Stone." Not an agent. Not an informer. She doesn't have to spy on foreigners from Siemens, doesn't have to hide her face, doesn't have to play a role. She is Tamara Karpenko. A widow. An ordinary, free citizen of a free country. And she is seven months pregnant. This feeling of freedom is dizzying. It is bitter, because it was bought at the price of Mark's death, but it is real.

She buys a train ticket from Dnepropetrovsk to Nikopol. She sits by the window in the shaky carriage, looking out at the steppe passing by, and strokes her stomach, whispering something to her child. She makes plans: she'll find her mother, they'll renovate her grandfather's house, she'll get a job as an accountant or at least a storekeeper at this plant. She'll raise a son or daughter. She'll live a quiet, honest, simple life.

She contemplates her future with bitter hope, completely unaware that her freedom is an illusion. That the mandate in her bag isn't help, but an order. That the "kind" commissar in Nikopol has already received a call. And that instead of abandoning espionage, she'll have to master a new, no less dangerous role: spying not on foreigners, but on her own people – at the manganese mining plant in Horodyshche. Her cage simply grew larger and more invisible...

While riding the train, a plan formed in her head. And she couldn't wait to execute it... The train had barely stopped on the Nikopol station platform. She folded her two mandates in quarters and walked along the platform. She remembered there was a narrow gap between two stones, into which she had tucked both mandates... She couldn't even guess what paper the mandates were written on, but they had lain there on the stone platform for a hundred years...

...While Vector and Gena wandered the platform, searching for traces of their ancestors. Gena was looking for the Yampolskys and his great-grandfather, Lazar Abramovich...

***

... A small apartment in Nikopol is modestly furnished. An empty plate and mug are on the table. Tamara and her three-year-old daughter, Olga.

There's an insistent knock on the door. Tamara, pale, with a trace of fatigue on her face, lifts the sleeping Olga onto the bed and goes to answer it. Two men in identical coats, their expressions impassive, stand at the threshold.

— Tamara Karpenko? May I come in? We have a few more questions.

Tamara sighs, stepping back.

 — Come in. But be quiet, please, our daughter is sleeping.

The men enter, scanning the room. Their gazes swirl around the corners, taking in the sparse belongings and shabby furnishings. Meanwhile, Olga stirs in bed and wakes.

— Mama... drink...

The second commissar speaks dryly.

— We won't be long. Regarding your possible reinstatement...

Olga, seeing strangers, begins to whine. Tamara makes an instant decision. She looks at the commissioners defiantly.

Tamara, interrupting him.

— Sorry, guys, but you see — it's a child. No time for official matters. Not at all.

She decisively unbuttons the top buttons of her blouse, sits on the edge of the bed, and puts her daughter to her breast. Olga immediately falls silent, burying her nose in her mother's. The commissioners look away, embarrassed.

The First Commissioner, slightly embarrassed.

— We understand. But the question is important.

Tamara, not looking at them, feigned tiredness.

— What's more important than a child? You sit and admire the nursing mother. And I'll listen to you. Just maybe keep it down a bit? You'll scare the daughter.

She pretends to be completely absorbed in the feeding process, caressing Olga's hair. The commissars exchange glances. An awkward pause lasts a minute.

The second commissar whispers to the first.

— Okay. It's clear you have other things to talk about. Let's go.

The first commissar nods to Tamara. Okay.

— Get well soon. We'll come another time.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Tamara abruptly takes Olga away from her breast.

The daughter looks confused and offended.

— Mom! I want more!

— That's it. I did it for them. Not for you. You can manage.

She starts to get capricious. - But I want to!

— Go for a walk.

— Who should I take for a walk?

— With Masha the cat.

— She's running away from me!

Tamara, irritated, buttoning her blouse.

— Don't pinch her tail — she won't run away.

Time flies in the provinces. Days follow nights in a monotonous, dreary sequence. Especially if this sequence is communal, free. Tamara, as the widow of a GPU officer, has some minor benefits, which have made her a little lazy.

The same apartment in the morning. Tamara gets ready for work, Olga sits at the table and looks out the window.

Tamara ties her headscarf.

— Olenka, it's almost time for school. First grade. This isn't kindergarten.

Olya, indifferently, says, "Uh-huh."

— Come on, show me what you can do. Here's a newspaper. Do you know the letters? Read at least something."

Tamara places an old Pravda in front of her daughter. Rita looks at the squiggles with complete indifference.

— I don't want to.

— No, not 'I don't want to,' I mean, you don't know how. When I was your age, I could already read syllable by syllable. What am I doing to you? I work from morning until night at the store so I can buy you candy, and you...

Olya interrupts.

— Mom, will you buy some candy today?

Tamara sighs, giving in.

— I will. But at least try hard at school. Otherwise, it's all 'I don't want to' and 'I can't do it'. Go, the woman from after-school care will pick you up.

Olya climbs off her chair without enthusiasm. Her thoughts are already far away—on candy, not on letters...

Tamara came home from work tired. Olya, a teenager, plump, with unkempt hair, sits and stares into space. On the table lies a diary, open to the page with Cs.

Tamara is irritated.

— Olya. I'm embarrassed to show you this diary again. It's all Cs. And a C in history. How can that be?!

The daughter grits her teeth, not looking at her mother.

— Well, a C is a C. Not a D. - And that's all?! Look at yourself! Are you going to do your homework or sit in the alley again?

— What else are you going to do? It's boring.

— Read a book! Look, I brought you Pushkin, a classic!

Olya looks disgusted.

— I'm not interested.

Tamara sits down opposite her, looking at her daughter with bitter pity.

— What will you grow up to be, Olya? I wish I never laid eyes on you... Your daddy would see... He was smart, educated...

The daughter flares up with sudden cruelty.

— What daddy? What daddy? I don't know him. He was killed, and you're always at work. You used to pay me off with candy. That's how it all turned out.

Tamara freezes, as if slapped. She looks at her daughter's discolored, unhappy features, searching for and finding neither herself nor her dead husband. Guilt and powerlessness are in her eyes. Tamara spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

—Go... Go for a walk. Just don't go too far.

Olya gloomily.

—Who should I go for a walk with?

She rose heavily and left the room, slamming the door. Tamara remained sitting alone in front of her open diary with its neat, hopeless "three" marks...

***

... A room in a house seized by the Germans to house the local police and support staff. Morning. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco, fumes, and last night's dinner.

Olga Karpenko was 18 years old. The Ukrainian policeman was about thirty-five years old, a lieutenant in the other wing of the building.

The morning began with the policeman sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, looking with disgust at Olga, who had just woken up.

The policeman hoarsely, spitting,

—Well, what are you staring at? - Get out of here while you're still in one piece. The job is done, you're free to go.

Olga with a callov, raising himself up on his elbow.

— What do you mean, "go"? What happens next?

The policeman grins, lighting a cigarette.

— What should happen? It's morning, time to get going. Get lost, I told you.

Olga sits up on the bed, her voice growing harsher.

— Now you're going to marry me. I'm not just anyone, just for nothing.

The policeman bursts into a harsh, loud laugh.

— You? Marry? Look at yourself in the mirror, you scarecrow. Who needs you? For me to marry you? You're ridiculous, you idiot.

Olga's face flushes with rage. She jumps up from the bed, clenching her fists.

— I'll give you a scarecrow now! Now say that again!

The policeman stands up, his mood instantly changing from mocking to angry.

— You bitch! I'll carry you out of here myself, piece by piece! I'll throw you in a concentration camp, skin you alive!

He takes a step toward her, raising his hand to slap her. Olga, without thinking, instinctively raises her hand in response, preparing to hit back. At that moment, the door opens slightly. A German lieutenant appears on the threshold, neatly and neatly dressed. He takes in the scene with a cold, appraising gaze: the half-naked, angry girl and the enraged policeman.

The officer's tone is calm but firm.

— Wast ist hier los? What's going on here?

The policeman instantly transforms, standing at attention, trying to project an air of official zeal.

— Mr. Lieutenant! It was... that... she... she pestered me! - I'm throwing her out, and she's making a scene! I'll throw her out right now!

Olga, not frightened, but on the contrary, seeing in him a potential ally, screams.

— He deceived me! He promised to marry me, and now he's throwing me out!

The officer winces in disgust, his gaze sliding around the unwashed room, littered with empty bottles. "I'm not interested in your village squabbles." He turns to the policeman.

— You should maintain order, not set up a brothel in the office.

He turns his gaze to Olga. His gaze is not masculine, but rather commanding, assessing her as a potential labor resource.

— You. What are you doing? Why aren't you working in the Reich?

Olga shrugs defiantly.

— I don't want to go anywhere. I'm fine here.

The officer, addressing the policeman.

— Is she local? Does she have parents? - The policeman hurriedly.

— A local, Mr. First Lieutenant. My mother is here, working as a saleswoman. My father is not here.

The officer turned back to Olga, pointing to the mess in the room.

- Can you clean? Wash the floors, do the laundry, cook?

Olga, slightly taken aback by this turn of events, nods.

— Well, I can... if I want.

— Fine. Starting today, you will come here and to the house across the street where the officers live. You will clean. In return, you will receive food. Soap. Sometimes canned goods. Agreed?

Olga quickly realized. It's better than being thrown out on the street or, worse, sent to Germany. And the food is a compelling argument.

— Yes, Mr. Officer.

— I'm hiring her. To prevent such scenes from happening again. Understood?

— Yes sir, Mr. First Lieutenant! Understood! The officer nodded, turned, and left. The door closed. A heavy silence fell over the room. The policeman looked at Olga with hatred.

— Well, cleaning lady... What are you standing there for? Clean up, since they hired you. And don't let your ghost be here when I get back.

— Don't lecture me. I know what to do.

She watched him go with a triumphant, angry look. She stayed. And that was her small victory...

And even though she was telling the first lieutenant town gossip between cleaning duties, she, due to her lack of intelligence, didn't realize that she had just been recruited to inform and spy. She was much better at being a gossip and a spy than at cleaning. The first lieutenant often found dust and dirt in the corners of the barracks and apartment she cleaned.

But she brought back valuable information from the city market. From her aunts and friends. Tamara rarely saw Olga because their work schedules often clashed — night and morning, every other day. But the fact that her daughter worked as a cleaner suited her. Because the grown-up girl was tired of cooking, washing, and giving her change. Now this grown-up girl earned her own money and sometimes even brought her mother canned goods and flour…

Chapter 13. On the Eve of the Great War

Evening at the Garvart estate in Shishkino, Marinopol. Summer 1934. The family is gathered in the dining room: Alexander Garvart is reading the Bible, his wife Maya is embroidering, and their ten-year-old daughter, Anna, is finishing a watercolor painting. The pastoral silence is broken by a loud, deliberately rude knock on the door.

Maya, startled, puts down her embroidery.

— Who would be so late?

Alexander, frowning, looks at his watch.

— I wasn't expecting anyone. - Anna, go into the living room and finish the painting.

— But, Papa, I'm almost...

Alexander, more sternly.

— Anna, please.

Anna reluctantly gathers her paints and goes into the next room, but pauses at the half-open door, trying to remain unnoticed. Alexander goes to open it. Three men in leather jackets stand at the threshold. Two young men with rifles remain at the entrance; the elder, with cold eyes and a briefcase under his arm, steps inside.

The Chekist, without removing his cap.

— Documents. Yours and everyone who lives here.

Alexander, calmly, but with a composed expression.

— First of all, good evening. And with whom do I have the honor of speaking?

The Chekist smiles without a trace of humor.

— I ask the questions. You answer. Documents.

— I am Alexander Garvart. This is my home. My wife, Maya, and my daughter, Anna. What is the matter with you?

The Chekist walks into the dining room, glances around the cozy room, and stops at Maya's embroidery.

— Very nice. Very... bourgeois. Concern, citizen Garvart, regarding sabotage. Your documents.

Maya silently points to the chest of drawers. Alexander, keeping an eye on the security officer, takes out a folder of papers. The security officer slowly and carefully examines each page.

— German colonists. Engineer. Traveled a lot around the country. Seen a lot. Know a lot about our factories and railways. Right? Worked at the Dnieper.

— I'm an engineer. That's my profession. I design and improve machinery. For the benefit 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 have several patents. Mostly, they're improvements to agricultural machinery. You can inspect them...

— I'll inspect them where necessary. Alexander Garvart, you are required to report to the NKVD commandant's office tomorrow at 9:00 AM to give a statement.

Maya jumps up.

— But why? What business? What did he do?

— A matter of national importance, citizen. None of your business.

Alexander, placing a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder.

— Maya, it's all right. I don't quite understand the reason, but of course I'll be there. At nine in the morning.

— That's right. If you don't come, we'll come for you. And then... you understand, things won't be so calm. All the best.

The Chekist makes a slight nod of his head, and the three of them leave just as suddenly, slamming the door. An oppressive silence falls over the house. Anna runs out of the living room.

— Dad! What did they want? Who are these rude people? Why are they carrying guns?

Alexander, pulling her closer, tried to speak confidently. - It's okay, honey. A small misunderstanding. I'll sort everything out tomorrow.

Maya is pale, her hands clenched.

— Alexander... I'm scared.

— There's no need to be afraid. We have a clear conscience. We have nothing to justify.

The next day. Alexander returns home late in the evening. He looks terribly tired, his clothes are rumpled, and he walks slowly, barely managing to move his legs. Maya, who hasn't slept a wink all night, opens the door before he even knocks. Anna, hearing the noise, flies down the stairs.

— Papa! Papa! How are you? Oh, God, what's wrong?! - She rushes to him, trying to hug him, but Maya grabs her hand, sharply and unusually sternly.

— Anna, don't touch Papa! Go to your room right now. Immediately!

Anna, recoiling, frightened by her mother's tone.

 — But Mama.

— Maya. The room! Close the door and don't come out until I say so!

Anna, barely holding back her tears, bolts up the stairs. Maya approaches Alexander, helps him take off his coat, and sits him down on a chair. Her hands are shaking.

— Maya, quietly, almost in a whisper. What happened? Where were you? I waited all day.

Alexander, dull, staring into space.

— First, there was the office. The same one… He asked again and again: name, surname, occupation. I said: “Engineer. Inventor.” He chuckled and said.

 — Aha, well, if you’re an inventor, that means you’re inventing a bomb against the Soviet regime. I said. - Mr. Boss, that’s absurd! My inventions… He screamed: “I’m not your master!” And… to the punishment cell.

Maya covers her face with her hands.

 — My God…

 — It’s cold, dirty, dark. Sit and ‘think.’ What should I think about? I didn’t understand… He called me in the morning, gave me my watch, my empty wallet, and took my passport. He said: “You’re free. But don’t go far.” We'll come back to you." He walked... twelve kilometers... no strength left...

Maya looks at him, and the last hope slowly fades from her eyes. She understood everything. This is only the beginning. A new government, cruel and merciless, has entered their home and will never give them peace again.

Her husband's arrests 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 and more broken, more gray and silent. The estate fell into disrepair, the garden became overgrown, unfinished machinery gathered dust in the workshop. Fear became a permanent resident of their home.

And then autumn came. They came for him before dawn. This time, they didn't even knock. They simply entered. And Alexander Garvart never returned home again. Anna forever remembered the evening when her mother wouldn't let her touch her father—the last night their family was still together, albeit under the sword of Damocles. The laughter and music in the Garvart house died forever…

…The large kitchen in the Garvart house. January 1938. Late evening. Several women of the family are sitting at the table: Maya, her sister Elsa, and their elderly Aunt Marta and cousin Lisa. The two younger children are playing quietly on the floor. The dim lamplight and thick curtains create the feeling of a besieged fortress.

Aunt Martha sighed and fingered her rosary beads.

— The van passed the garden again. I heard the screech of brakes outside the Schultzes' house. My heart sank.

Elsa spoke sharply, almost screaming.

— Stop it, Auntie. Maybe they were delivering milk? Maybe anything! Don't get yourself and us worked up.

Maya, stroking her warm mug, spoke quietly and tiredly.

 — Elsa, she's not getting worked up. They took Frieda Weber away yesterday. They came during the day, in front of everyone.

They said. — Get ready for court." She screamed. "What for? All I do is dig the garden and feed the children." Her young daughter was holding on to her skirt... They pushed her away.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The crackling of a log in the stove could be heard. Liza whispered, looking out the window, as if afraid she'd be overheard from the street.

— What kind of 'court martial' is this? I don't understand. They're not military. We're not soldiers.

Maya smiled bitterly.

— It's a new method, Liza. Uprooting. That's what they said on the radio. Not discussions, but uprooting. We're like weeds to them. First, Alexander, as a 'bomb inventor.' Now they're taking women. Aunt Marta might be arrested as a 'religious propagandist' for those rosary beads. Elsa – for being silent and constantly looking over her shoulder, which means she's 'spying.' Me – as the wife of an 'enemy of the people.' No pretext is needed. A bill is needed.

Elsa dropped her head into her hands. I can't live like this anymore. I hear footsteps in the street – and I feel sick with fear. It would be better to just...

Maya snapped.

— Shut up. In front of the children. Softening. Children are what we must hold on for. We must survive. For them.

The door creaked, and a neighbor, Klara Müller, entered. She was completely white, with tear-stained eyes.

— Did you hear? They took away old lady Schmidt. Mother of five. She's seventy years old.

— Good God... For what?

Klara laughs hysterically.

— They made it up! They said she was... a "German spy." That she was "transmitting signals" by hanging her patchwork quilts in the attic to dry. The patterns, you see, seemed suspicious to her! This is the ravings of a madman!

Aunt Martha stops counting her rosary beads and clenches them in her fist. - This isn't raving. 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 search. 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!

— It doesn't matter, baby. Now our last name and our speech are a death sentence. We are "hostile encirclement." We are Hitler's "fifth column," though most of us haven't even heard his name.

— What are we supposed to do? Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Wait for them to come for you too?

Maya gets up and goes to the window, pulling the curtain open a millimeter.

— Do? Live. Every day. Feed the children. Light the stove. Pray silently. And hope that this crazy machine doesn't need everyone. That it will forget someone. Otherwise... otherwise we'll just go crazy.

She lets go of the curtain. The room plunges into semi-darkness again. The women are silent, each alone with her fear. Conversations have dried up. Only the quiet, chilling horror of anticipation remains...

The same kitchen. Late 1939. The room is empty and cold. Despite winter, the stove is heated sparingly. Maya and Lisa are sitting at the table. The children are quietly doodling on the backs of old receipts. They, along with several women and five children, are all that remain of the large family.

Lisa is copying the application from draft to final copy. I wrote another request. About Alexander's fate. And about Uncle Karl. Maybe this time they'll answer...

Maya monotonously stirs the empty stew. They won't answer. "Sentenced to ten years without the right to correspondence." It's a standard phrase. It means nothing. It's the same for everyone.

Lisa.

— But there has to be some truth! A person can't just disappear!

Maya.

— Maybe. He puts the pot on the table. That's it. Disappear. As if he never existed. Now it's possible. New methods.

The sound of a motor comes from the street. Both women freeze, like statues. The children instinctively cling to Maya. The motor fades, and footsteps are heard. But they pass by. The sigh of relief is almost audible.

Lisa, her voice trembling. I heard it from the neighbors... They say it's all because there will be a war with Germany. Stalin is afraid that we will go over to Hitler's side.

Maya looks at her frightened children, at the half-empty pot, at the curtained window.

— He's afraid of the shadows he himself created. He declared war on his own people. And we... we are just bargaining chips in this war. German saboteurs. Saboteurs. Spies. She smiles bitterly. And we are all one unprincipled gang. How afraid he himself must be, if he considers us, ten women and five children, such a terrible threat to his state.

She pours the soup into bowls. The dialogue is over. There is nothing more to say. All that remains is silent, moment-by-moment resistance—life itself, waiting for them to come for you tomorrow…

... Dr. Karl Stumpp's temporary office in captured Nikopol is located in the former city party committee building. Late August 1941. A stuffy, dusty afternoon. The window is open, and the distant rumble of motors and sharp commands in German can be heard from the street.

A young soldier opened the door to the office, letting Anna in. She entered, trying to breathe evenly.

A middle-aged man, wearing glasses and an SS uniform, sat in front of a massive desk littered with papers and maps. He didn't look like a front-line officer; his appearance suggested a scholar, a bureaucrat. It was Dr. Karl Stumpp. He was carefully checking some documents, not looking at the woman who entered.

A minute later, he raised his head. His gaze wasn't so much stern as appraising, scrutinizing. He stared at Anna, as if examining a rare exhibit.

— Fräulein Harwart? - His voice was dry, without much emotion.

— I came on your orders, Herr Doktor. - Anna replied clearly, nodding slightly.

Stumpp put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

— I've been told you're a local Volksdeutsche. Is that true?

— Yes, Herr Doktor. My ancestors were German colonists. You speak the language? Real German, not this dialect? - His voice tinged with mild disdain for the "Plattdeutsch" that had actually survived in the colonies.

Anna felt a twinge of resentment, but this was the very test she'd been expecting.

— My father made sure we spoke only pure Hochdeutsch at home. It was a tribute to our culture.

Stumpp nodded, seemingly approvingly. His gaze softened.

— Father... Where is he now? -The question sounded casual, but Anna knew it was the key moment in the loyalty test.She lowered her eyes, feigning natural sadness. It wasn't difficult.

— He was taken. In '37. As a German spy. We never found out whether he lived... or not.

— I understand. - Stumpp's voice became almost sympathetic. "The Bolsheviks were barbarians. They destroyed everything German, everything genuine. But now that's over. The Reich has returned to protect its blood."

He paused, examining her. Then he picked up a fresh copy of the German occupation newspaper, Deutsche Ukraina Zeitung, from the table and handed it to her.

— Are you literate? Read it. This paragraph, - he pointed to the editorial.

Anna took the newspaper. Her hands didn't shake. She took a deep breath and began reading in an even, confident voice, with near-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 remnants of the German race, languishing for centuries under the yoke of Bolshevism...”

— That's enough, - Stumpp interrupted her gently. For the first time, a semblance of a smile appeared on his face. - Very good. More than good. Your pronunciation... it's almost Berliner. A rarity in these wild places.

He took a form from the table, quickly wrote something on it, and stamped it.

— My Sonderkommando requires a competent translator. We're conducting important research among the local population of German descent. You're ideal. From today on, you'll work for me.

He handed her the form.

— This is your pass. It allows you to move freely around the city without curfew. Show it to any patrol, and you won't be disturbed.

Anna took the treasured paper. Her heart pounded with joy and fear. A pass! Just what the underground needed! She felt she could afford a little more. She needed to consolidate her success, to play the role of a simple, slightly materialistic girl, concerned with survival.

She assumed a naive and slightly embarrassed expression.

— Herr Doktor... and... how much will you pay? - She paused deliberately. I have my mother in my arms. We need to eat...

Stumpp smiled again, this time condescendingly, as if to a child.

— Money? In wartime, food is the main currency. You will receive ration cards for the Volksdeutsche category. Bread, margarine, sometimes canned goods. That will be enough for you and your mother. The Reich takes care of its own.

He waved his hand, indicating that the audience was over.

— Be here tomorrow at eight o'clock. You will be given instructions.

— Yes, Herr Doktor. Thank you, - Anna nodded respectfully and left.

Her back felt his searching gaze all the way to the end of the corridor. She stepped outside, pocketed her pass, and, trying not to quicken her pace, walked to the designated location. She urgently needed to find a contact. She had to convey just one phrase, one that would take the breath away from the underground fighters: "Karl Stumpp himself recruited me into the team."

Chapter 14. Palyanitsa

Anna Harwart is a young, unmarried woman, half Jewish on her mother's side, half German on her father's, an ethnic German "Volksdeutsche." She works as a translator and secretary for Dr. Stumpp. She is intelligent, cool-headed, and has a phenomenal memory.

Dr. Karl Stumpp is a German official, Gebietskommissar, and representative of the Sonderkommando. He is pedantic, cynical, intelligent, and extremely suspicious. He is an expert on the "Jewish question."

Yakov Goldberg is an underground liaison, a middle-aged man, who works as a plumber and mechanic for Anna's liaison.

Dr. Stumpp's office is littered with folders. He calls Anna to type up a few orders. Stumpp goes off somewhere, leaving an open folder on his desk, titled "Aktion: Zur Evakuierung" (Action: For evacuation). Anna glances automatically and freezes. These are lists of people with addresses. Her heart pounds wildly. She recognizes the names: Elizaveta Shkandel, Bakst, Gurevich, Zhernovsky, Vanya Sapozhnik, Goldstein, Semyon Loshkin, Nikolai Shcherbina, Rusobrova, Elizaveta Shkandel.

This is her city, her people. She understands—this isn't an evacuation, this is a death sentence.

Footsteps are heard in the hallway. She has seconds. She can't steal anything or write anything down. Anna closes her eyes, pretending to wipe the bridge of her nose, and imprints the page into her memory. Photographic memory kicks in—the lines are imprinted in her mind. When Shtumpp returns, she types as if nothing happened, but her fingers tremble slightly.

All day, Anna lives in a state of terror. Any wrong look could give her away. Finally, the workday ends. On the way home, she repeats the names to herself like a mantra, afraid to forget even a single letter.

At home, locked in, she writes down everything she remembers on a scrap of tissue paper with trembling hands. She doesn't explicitly write "rescue" or "evacuate." She uses a code understood only by the underground: "Urgent evacuation. 11 pieces of old furniture from the specified addresses. Immediate removal. Maria."

"Furniture" is code for Jews, "export" is for transport across the front lines or to a partisan unit.

She rolls the paper into a tube, wraps it in cellophane, and hides it in a tobacco-free cigarette.

Late in the evening, Anna goes out on "urgent business"—to buy bread. She goes to an abandoned kiosk on the outskirts. Looking around, she places a rolled-up note in a crack between the bricks in the foundation—their designated hiding place. She makes a barely noticeable tick next to it with chalk—a sign of "urgent."

The next morning, Stumpp calls her to his office. He doesn't look at her, sorting through the papers.

— Fräulein Steiner, did you go straight home last night?

— Yes, Herr Doktor. I ran home to buy some bread, - Anna replies, trying to keep her voice steady.

— Did you see anyone on the way? Any... suspicious characters? - He looks up at her. His eyes are cold, piercing.

— Who was there to see? - she feigns incomprehension.

"Jews." He puts down his pen and leans back in his chair. - They're like cockroaches, they come out at night.

A heavy pause hangs in the office.

— Are you Jewish by any chance, Fraulein Steiner? - the question sounds like a whiplash.

Her heart sinks, and Anna panics.

— He knows? Followed me? Found the hiding place? Is this a trap?

But years of living in fear have hardened her. She meets his gaze without a hint of embarrassment, even with a hint of resentment.

— I'm German. And you checked that when you hired me. I have all the necessary papers.

— Yes," drawls Stumpp, standing up and slowly circling her, like a wolf around prey.

— Only your eyes are Jewish. Too dark, too intelligent. You're definitely Jewish. You reek of it.

Anna feels a shiver run down her spine. She's on the edge. The slightest tremor, a bead of sweat on her forehead—and that's it. Concentration camp. Execution.

She straightens up, looks him straight in the face, and says in an icy, emphatically offended tone:

— Herr Doktor, my ancestors are from Bavaria. I am German. And I protest such insulting insinuations against me. If you don’t trust me, I am prepared to hand in my resignation.

Her composure and readiness to leave work. Stumpp is momentarily taken aback. He hadn’t expected such a reaction. Perhaps he was simply testing her, succumbing to his own morbid prejudice.

— Calm down, Fraulein, - he snaps, sitting back down. It was simply... a vigilance test. Please bring me some coffee.

Anna nods, turns, and leaves. Only outside the door, in the empty hallway, does she lean against the wall to steady herself. Her legs are weak. She realizes that her life hung in the balance. And her blood—her mother’s Jewish blood — almost became her death sentence. Meanwhile, the liaison officer, Yakov, checking the hiding place, finds a signal. He pulls out the note and, upon reading it, turns pale. He knows these people. He's especially worried about the "furniture" at the Sapozhnikov address — there are children there.

An adrenaline rush begins. The underground members, risking their lives, visit the indicated addresses. Not everyone can be warned right away. Some don't believe it, others are afraid to leave their homes. Elizaveta Shkandel is barely persuaded; she can't believe that she, a respected citizen, could be touched.

At night, a group of people is secretly escorted out of the city and transported to the partisans across the river behind the front line. Among them are Semyon Loshkin, Nikolai Shcherbina and his wife, Sarah Bakst, and six other adults, not counting their five children.

But the action begins earlier than expected. The Gestapo and police surround the houses. They are empty. Someone managed to warn them. Stumpp is furious. He realizes there has been a leak. And he remembers his conversation with Anna yesterday. Her "Jewish eyes." Her overly confident answers. Coincidence? No, I don't believe in coincidences, he thinks.

He doesn't arrest her right away. He begins quiet, sophisticated surveillance. Now Anna knows she is a suspect. Every step is monitored. She can't contact the underground. She's trapped, but she has done the most important thing—saved lives. The story ends on a tense note —Anna realizes that the game with death is only just beginning, and Dr. Stumpp is already preparing a new trap to prove his case. Years later, after the war, one of the rescued women, the now aged Sonya Sapozhnik-Goldstein, finds evidence of Dr. Stumpp's work in the archives, along with a mention of his German secretary, Anna Harwarth. And she will always remember that very night when an unfamiliar voice whispered in the darkness, "Get ready, they're coming for you. They've sent you furniture makers for an urgent pickup." And that voice saved her and her little brother's lives...

...The Gestapo basement is damp and smells of blood, disinfectant, and fear. A bare lightbulb under the low ceiling blinds the eyes.

Dr. Karl Stumpp is clean, in perfect condition; Yakov Goldberg is beaten, tied to a chair; two large guards in unbuttoned uniforms, sweating. Stumpp sits on the edge of the table, cleaning his fingernails with a penknife. Yakov is breathing heavily, blood streaming from his broken mouth. Shtumpp did not look at Yakov.

— Well, Herr Goldberg? Have you changed your mind about having a civilized conversation? I don't like getting my hands dirty. But for people like you, I make an exception.

Yakov wheezes, spits blood on the floor.

— You and I... have nothing to talk about.

Stumpp smiles slightly.

— Oh, exactly. One topic. One name. Who gave you the lists? Who's the traitor in my office?

The guard at the side silently punches Yakov in the ribs. He groans, bending as far as the ropes will allow.

Stumpp sighs like a tired teacher.

— This is boring. This is wasting time. We found your hiding place. We know the information was lost that night. And we know who had access to it. Anna Garvarth. A pretty girl with Jewish eyes.

Yakov slowly raises his head. His eyes, swollen from the beatings, try to catch Stumpp's gaze. He's searching for a lie.

— She told everything. He broke quickly, your informant. She burst into tears and said you blackmailed her. Threatened her Jewish mother's children. Pathetic. So who's next in your chain? Who did you give the lists to?

Yakov's heart sinks with horror. Anna? Surrendered? No. That's impossible. He knows her. Her German father died saving her Jewish mother from arrest back in the Civil War. Her mother taught her the most important things: silence, concealment, survival. Anna wasn't "trained" in the OGPU, but the school of life and the constant fear of exposure under "Point Five" have hardened her as well as any Chekist. She will die, but she won't say a word.

— You're lying. She... she will take this to the grave. She won't tell. You're bluffing.

Shtumpp's face contorts into a grimace of anger. He jumps off the table and abruptly approaches Yakov. His calm evaporates.

— You will die tomorrow. Do you understand? At dawn, they will take you out into the yard and shoot you. Your life is over. The only choice you have is to die like a stubborn animal, or show at least a shred of reason and give us names.

— There's no reason... I have nothing to die for. I've done nothing.

— You're a Jew! And that's enough! Your place is in a pit, not on this earth. Ukraine is for Ukrainians.

Yakov suddenly raises his head. There's not fear in his eyes, but defiance.

— Ukraine is the homeland of my ancestors. They plowed this land when your ancestors ran through the forests in skins. I am Ukrainian. By blood and by tribe. I don't speak Jewish. I am a pure crest.

Shtumpp freezes. His anger gives way to a cold, academic interest. He takes a step back, studying Yakov.

— A pure crest? - He grins.

— Very good. Very convincing. Let's check. Say... 'palyanytsya.'

A dead silence falls. The guards exchange glances. This is the famous test. The word that gives away any Jew. The combination of "la" and "nits" is a phonetic trap. Yakov knows this. He has prepared for this moment his whole life. His father, a true Ukrainian, a friend of his Jewish grandfather, taught him to pronounce this word perfectly, without a hint of lisp or softness.

Yakov exhales slowly. He looks Stumpp straight in the eyes, his lips, broken and bloodied, form precisely.

Yakov is clear, distinct, with a firm "ts" and the correct stress.

— Pa-lya-ny-tsya.

He pronounces it flawlessly. With the accent of a Nikopol resident who ate this same palenytsa for breakfast every morning.

Stumpp is stunned. He expected failure, expected a recognizable accent. But his hearing, attuned to the slightest falsehood, caught nothing. Not a single mistake.

Stumpp whispered almost respectfully.

— What?...

He turns away and stares at the wall for a few seconds in silence. His brain, working like a computer, is already analyzing the failure and finding a use for it. He turns around. His expression isn't anger, but the triumph of a discoverer.

— Perfect. Absolutely perfect. - He turns to the guards. "Did you see? No Jew would say that. Not one.

He approaches Yakov, almost right up to him.

— You've failed, Goldberg. You just gave me the perfect tool. Quick, efficient, and flawless. The order will be sent out throughout the city tomorrow. Anyone suspicious, anyone without documents, anyone reported by neighbors, will be tested with this word. "Say 'Palyanytsya.'" The operation will be codenamed... "Palyanytsya." How's that for irony?

Yakov freezes. He realizes that with his own stubbornness and preparation, he has just signed the death warrant for dozens, maybe hundreds of people. His heart breaks with horror and despair.

— Finish him. He's no longer interesting.

Shtumpp turns and leaves without looking back. He's already thinking about directives, about orders. He's found a brilliantly simple solution.

The door closes. The guards pull on leather gloves. Yakov doesn't look at them. He stares into space, and in his ears, his own perfectly pronounced word, which has become a death sentence, rings. Yakov whispers to himself, either with a curse or a bitter sneer, "Palyanytsya..."

A blow to the head plunges him into darkness…

 

Chapter 15. Conscience and a policeman are incompatible concepts

... An office in the Nikopol Auxiliary Police town hall. Karl Stumpp sits at a desk covered with papers. The air is thick with the smell of tobacco and poorly tanned leather.

Olga, perched on the edge of the table, whispers in Timofey's ear. He looks at the piece of paper in her hands, grinning greedily. Olga is a woman of about twenty, better dressed than most of the townspeople. Her gaze is sharp, calculating.

Timofey Osipov, a Ukrainian policeman, her lover. A man of about forty, with strong features and a simple yet greedy expression in his eyes.

Karl Stumpp, Gebietskommissar and representative of the Sonderkommando, is thin and has cold eyes. His cruelty is legendary. Olga says quietly, breathlessly, sharing the "secret."

— Timosha, do you know how much vodka you can trade for that junk they have stashed away in their apartments? I've been there and seen it. Timofey smacks his lips and leans closer, interested.

— How much? Tell me, don't keep me in suspense.

Olga runs her finger down the list.

— So much that you and I will have enough to drink for a month, and enough for the neighbors to respect us. And there will be some left over. They saved everything, the good things, the china, the clothes... Everything for trade. And what currency do we have now? Moonshine.

Timofey grins broadly, but a glimmer of apprehension flickers in his eyes.

— Wow... Sounds good... And we... are we sure nothing will happen to us for this? The Germans... they love to rake in those Jews themselves. I hope Stumpp doesn't get us." Olga waves her hand, full of disdainful confidence.

— Nothing will happen. I work for them. A technical worker, as they call it; I carry papers, stoke the stove. The boss knows me. I bring him coffee, and he doesn’t even look at me. For him, I’m air. And air sees and hears everything. He’ll only be glad if we make his job easier. Do you think he wants to write papers on every Jew? See?” She points her finger at the written sheet. “Here’s a list of those who live near the market, in the old town. So they don’t have to drag their Jewish belongings far. They grabbed them and went straight to the market before others stole them.

Timofey is fired up by an idea, grabbing a pencil from the table.

— Then look, add Nikolai Khilinsky to that. He’s not Jewish, of course, he’s a carpenter. But he’s such a bastard; he still owes me three rubles from last year, including the Soviets. He won't pay, he keeps evading it. Let him answer for his debts. Under the cover of silence. And we'll add two more Jews from the socialist town.

Olga smiles predatorily.

— We'll add them. Say he harbored them. Or just an extra mouth to feed. She carefully writes the names in the margins of the list.

— There. Now it's perfect.

They head toward Stumpp's office. Timofey nervously adjusts his belt. Olga walks confidently. There's a knock. A dry "Herein!" comes from behind the door.

Stumpp sits at a clean, almost empty desk, writing a report. He doesn't immediately look up.

— What do you have?

Olga nudges Timofey forward with her elbow.

Timofey stands at attention, hesitantly pointing the list at the commandant.

- Herr Untersturmführer! We... that is, the informant Olga... have identified a group of individuals hiding in the area of the old market. A list.

Shtumpp slowly puts down his pen and picks up the sheet of paper. His cold eyes glide over the names: Meerovs, Kop, Manzons, Epsteins, Musarskys, Levins... He reads slowly. Then his gaze rises and slowly, searchingly crawls over Olga – from her worn but polished shoes to her greedy, glittering eyes. Then, just as slowly, it shifts to Timofey, to his hand, trembling with tension, clutching his cap.

A heavy silence reigns in the office. Shtumpp leans back in his chair. A barely perceptible, cold smile plays on his thin lips. He has understood everything. It is not an ideological impulse, not a zeal for a new order, that drives this couple. Only primitive, animal greed. He's disgusted by these "Untermenschen," but they're useful in their zeal.

— Gut. Very... timely. - He pauses briefly, looking at them as if they were insects.

—Tomorrow at six o'clock in the morning, there will be an operation. You will both accompany the team for identification and... he smiles faintly, "the confiscation of property. Especially valuables. Everything must be accounted for and delivered to the warehouse. Understood?"

Olga beams, nudging Timofey.

— Yes sir, Herr Untersturmführer! Everything will be done!

Timofey exhaled wearily.

— Yes sir!

— Go out. You're free to go.

They walked out into the hallway, pretending to be behind the door. Timofey wiped the sweat from his brow.

Timofey whispered, relieved.

— That was a relief... And he even gave permission...

Olga laughed quietly, her eyes already counting the future bottles.

— I told you so! Now the main thing is to get to the buffet and the cabinets first, before the other bastards steal them. Tomorrow, Timosha, you and I will go for a walk.

She took his arm, and they walked down the hallway, already making plans for how they would exchange other people's lives for liters of cheap moonshine, completely oblivious to what awaited the people on this list tomorrow morning. For them, it's just a way to grab a piece of the pie...

... Nikopol's central market, October 1943.

Dilapidated stalls, dirt underfoot. The few locals selling mostly produce from their gardens and household goods. The main "currency" is moonshine, measured out by the liter in dirty bottles. Amid this squalid bustle, one stall stands out, piled high with clearly expensive, foreign items: porcelain, silver, leather-bound books, clothing.

Olga, Tamara's daughter, is unscrupulous, with a predatory glint in her eyes. She's dressed in a fine dress, clearly borrowed.

Timofey, a Ukrainian policeman, her lover. He's heavyset, with an insolent gaze. His uniform shows traces of yesterday's drinking.

Olga is arranging silver candelabra on an empty shell crate. Timofey is smoking, leaning against a bale of clothes. Stepan approaches them, squinting.

— Wow! You've really gone wild, Timosha! The sky is a beautiful woman, and those things are beautiful. Where did you get such a treasure? From yesterday, perhaps? From the "old town"?

Timofey grins lazily.

— Maybe from that, maybe not. Trade, don't be afraid. Do you have anything to offer?

Stepan looks at Olga and points a finger in her direction. - I know you, my dear. You're Olga Tamarina. That watchmaker's daughter. And you're a Jew. Your mother was a pure Jew.

Olga flushes, interrupting him sharply and loudly.

— I'm not a Jew. Movchi already. You're a Jew yourself! I'm Ukrainian. Pure blood! If you don't buy, go away. Don't take up space and don't interfere with people's trade.

Stepan spits at his feet, but his eyes gleam greedily, looking at the things.

— So what? Okay. And why are these... candelabra?

Olga's expression immediately changes, her voice becomes sweet and businesslike.

— Oh. A liter of vodka. No less. Look – silver.

Stepan takes a foggy bottle from his shirt.

— Here. Take it. And what are these... mechanical candlesticks with fire? Why?

Olga takes the bottle and quickly hides it under the counter.

— Three liters. - They're Swiss!

— Will it be here in a jiffy?

-— Go look, I'll wait for you.

Stepan nods and disappears into the crowd. He returns twenty minutes later with two men carrying a bucket of moonshine. He points to the china service. And what's the price for a twelve-person service?

Olga ponders.

— Four letters.

— You're crazy.

— I won't give it to you for less.

— You stole it from the Jews yourself.

— None of your business.

Stepan waves to his companions.

— Give it to them. Thank you, girls, I wish I could strangle you.

Business is brisk. Soon a small crowd gathers around Olga and Timofey. Bottles and cans of cloudy liquid spill under the counter, and things disappear from it, still smelling of other people's homes. By the end of the day, the couple already has a dozen new drinking buddies, ready to do anything for a share of their "business."

Timofey, already quite drunk, claps one of the men on the shoulder.

—Come on, guys, can you help me get home? I can't handle it myself. We'll figure it out later.

Several of the strongest help them carry forty liters of moonshine—the day's haul—to Timofey's house.

A drunken stupor reigned for three days in the hut.

In the midst of this stupor, Stepan suddenly starts laughing and tells a story about how he and five of his friends stole copper on the Dnieper.

—They all put those idiots in jail. But they let me go. I had a very plausible alibi. - What's an alibi? - Olga asked.

— An alibi is a thing,- she said, pointing below her waist.

And laughing.

— I had an alibi with my cuckoo. Got it?

—I got it, you were both there and with the cuckoo. And what's the cuckoo's name?

—Who remembers her name? I don't ask. I know. Right away.

And laughing.

Then she and Timofey had a fight about Olga, because Stepan had started groping Olga.

Quarrels, drunken songs, fights. On the third day, the door burst open. A German patrol stood on the threshold, rifles at the ready. Behind them stood Untersturmführer Karl Stumpp, pale with anger.

— That's it. The circus is over. Confiscated. For embezzlement of Reich property." The soldiers began grabbing bottles and hurling them against the corner of the hut. The sound of shattering glass and the acrid smell of spilled moonshine filled the room. The last ten bottles, still undrunk, smashed against the adobe wall, leaving dark, sticky stains.

 

Chapter 16. A Fight on the Perron at Nikopol Station

The central market in Nikopol.

A cool, cloudy autumn day. The air smells of rotting leaves, burnt sunflower oil, and damp earth. The market is crowded, but everyone's mood is anxious, subdued. Soviet troops are advancing and will soon be at the Yekaterinoslav line. Anna Garvart awaits her legalization from Khariton Grosman and Major General Samuil Shapiro. Only they know about her underground work. People speak in hushed tones, bargaining without their usual passion, constantly glancing around. Whispers.

— We heard. The front is moving westward toward us.

— Quiet. Quiet. This is joy.

Among the ordinary goods — potatoes, cabbage, apples — on some counters lie bright, alien objects: silk scarves, silver spoons, porcelain figurines. These are Jewish possessions, "trophies" of the pogroms.

At the edge of such a crowded place, on a blanket spread over boxes, Olga has laid out her wares. She is a woman of about twenty, with a stiff, unsmiling face, puffy from moonshine. She is wearing someone else's wrinkled coat. On the blanket lies a stack of leather-bound books, several pairs of children's shoes, almost new, and a porcelain service with elegant blue flowers.

Anna Garvart approaches the counter. She is dressed formally and warmly—a good coat, a neat hat, leather gloves. Her appearance and posture immediately identify her as an "employee" of the occupation administration. Her movements convey the calm confidence of someone in power. No one knows she works underground. Only two people know she's an undercover agent in the Sonderkommando: Khariton Grossman and Major General Samuil Shapiro.

Anna, stopping at the counter, is polite but cold.

— Hello. The set is interesting.

Olga, looking at it appraisingly, without a hint of friendliness.

— Solid. Not a chip, not a crack. Six-piece set. A rarity.

Anna takes one of the cups and examines it. On the bottom of the cup is a stamp—a factory stamp and numbers carefully written in ink.

— I'd like one. Mine broke.

— I'm not breaking it. Take the whole set.

— Where did you get these things? From a ruined house?

Olga. Her face instantly hardens and her voice becomes rough, prickly.

— From where it should be. Take it or not, but don't ask any unnecessary questions. The seat is taken.

Anna slowly raises her eyes and looks directly at Olga. Her gaze becomes intense, searching. She puts the cup back.

— I know these numbers. And I know this cup. And I saw this set. In the house on Sadovaya, at the Berkovich family's. The numbers are the inventory number of the father of the family, the pharmacist. He numbered his china.

A heavy, ringing silence hangs in the air. The noise of the market seems to fade for both of them.

Olga turns pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She leans closer to Anna, her whisper hoarse and angry.

— Four bottles of moonshine. Or a couple of cans of stew. Take it and get lost. Don't scare my customers. I have my own people; I don't bow to the Germans.

Anna, without blinking, just as quietly, but her voice rings out like steel.

— Well, well. 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's gaze for another second, then turns abruptly and walks away without looking back. Olga watches her go, her eyes flashing not with fear, but with a furious, animalistic rage...

...Anna feverishly shuffles through the folders. Her photographic memory paints every feature of the market vendor's face. She begins not with the birth certificates of the town of Nikopol, but with the market registers, the lists of registered merchants.

Anna whispers under her breath. "Karpenko Olga Markovna. Mother - Karpenko Tamara Tarasovna, saleswoman at Store No. 4."

She puts one folder aside, picks up the next. Military records, funeral notices. And there it is—a funeral notice. A typewritten form.

— To citizen Tamara Markovna Karpenko. We inform you that your husband, NKVD Lieutenant Ivan Sidorovich Karpenko, died while on a combat mission...

Anna freezes. NKVD Lieutenant. That explains a lot about her daughter's insolence. But it's not the clue she needs.

— And her maiden name? What's Tamara's maiden name?

She delves into the older, pre-war registry office files. Parish registers. File number 4063785/94. Yellowed pages.

"...birth certificate. Name: Tamara. Parents: father - Toviy, mother - Olesya (née Kop). Paternity was not established; the record is based on the mother's words. Note: Toviy Kop married Olesya, but the marriage was dissolved before the child's birth..."

— Kop... A Jewish surname. So... Did Olesya have any relatives? Brothers, sisters?

She digs around again. Finds a reference: "Olesya, a native of the town of Gorodishche..."

Anna decides to go to Gorodishche. A small house on the outskirts of Gorodishche. An elderly woman sits on the porch.

Anna approaches and shows her pass with the Gebietskommissariat seal.

— Hello. "Tell me, who used to live in this house?" she points to a large, but now neglected, dilapidated house on the street.

Granny squints, looks at the pass, then at Anna.

— Who remembers it... The owners have been gone for about forty years. Some merchant named Kop lived there, a Jew. A very kind man. But in that pogrom... did you know what they were like? Even before the civil war... His children were killed in that pogrom. His grown children... It was terrible. And he was left with two little orphans, granddaughters, I think... I can't even remember their names. One of them, I think, was named Olesya... Where did they go? One was sent to an orphanage in Yekaterinoslav, and the other to Nikopol, to some distant relative. The girls probably vanished... - Anna's heart sank. The chain almost came together.

 — Thank you. You've been very helpful. The Yekaterinoslav Archives. A week later.

Anna sits at the table, a thick folder of stamped paper in front of her. A file on the distribution of orphans after the pogrom in Gorodishche. Her finger slowly glides over the lines.

Name: Olesya Kop. Year of birth. Place of distribution: Nikopol, family name illegible. Distant relatives on the mother's side.

Name: Yael. Year of birth. Place of distribution: Yekaterinoslav.

Anna leans back in her chair. She stares at the wall, but doesn't see. A perfect, irrefutable family tree forms in her head.

— Olesya Kop from Gorodishche grew up, became Olesya, a widow, her daughter Tamara Karpenko, her daughter Olga Karpenko is a market vendor.

— Yael Kop from Yekaterinoslav, a native of Gorodishche, and I am her granddaughter, Anna Garvart.

She and this rude, hateful woman from the market are second cousins. Their grandmothers were sisters. They are the very flesh and blood of a single family, scattered across the world by pogrom and war.

Anna's face betrays no emotion. Her eyes reveal only cold steel. The shock passed instantly, replaced by a crystal-clear understanding. This is not some sentimental family drama. This is a signal. Olga is more than just a looter. She is the weak link, a threat. Her connection to the NKVD through her father, her illegal trade... Sooner or later, she will be arrested. And under torture, she might reveal everything. Including the woman with a photographic memory who inquired about her cup.

This was a call to action. Determined and unwavering, Anna Garvart now had something to protect. And she knew exactly what she had to do. The silence in the archive exploded with the roar of a strong-willed decision...

...The platform of Nikopol station. December 1943. A cold, gray sky, snow mixed with mud. The platform is filled with a multilingual crowd. Rumors of German from soldiers and officers smoking nervously, glancing at their watches. Ukrainian and Russian from the locals selling chickens, eggs, moonshine, or simply waiting for the train that will take them west. Through all this bustle, the policeman's cry cuts through: "Schnell-schnell! Collect your documents!" The air is tense, everyone is waiting for something important – be it a train with reinforcements, or the same "weapon of vengeance," or a visit from their superiors.

Olga Karpenko stands by a freight train car, glancing around nervously. In her hand is a small package, wrapped in dark cloth. She is waiting for a courier to sell the stolen goods. Anna Garvart, returning from the Yekaterinoslav archive, appears from the passenger car. She's tired, wearing a coat and carrying a small leather bag. She's just learned from the archive that her grandmother and Olga's grandmother were sisters. And in her mind, the chain of family ties leading back to Olga is clearly laid out.

The car door opens, Anna steps onto the stone platform and stops abruptly, bumping into someone. She looks up.

Anna blurts out, not yet fully comprehending.

"Entschuldigung..."

Olga rudely, not yet looking or recognizing.

— Leave me alone! - Then she looks up and sees Anna. Her face contorts with hatred and surprise.

—You? You damned spy!

Both of them react instantly. No unnecessary words. Months of tension, fear, and hatred burst forth.

Olga screams, lunging at Anna and grabbing her by the hair.

— Hey, hey! Look, Petro, miracles are fighting. Let's go and have a look!

— Was it the same? Zwei Weiber!

— Hey! Let's see these women!

But it's too late. Olga, who is indeed tall and stocky, has already grabbed Anna by the hair and is pulling her down.

Olga hisses through her teeth, in Ukrainian.

— I'll break your spear, you German bitch! You'll be less in my power to climb!

Anna doesn't respond, clenching her teeth. She hits Olga in the ribs with short, powerful blows, trying to break free from her grip. She remembers her father's lessons: "Strength isn't everything. Technique is."

The Germans on the platform start laughing and placing bets.

German Soldier 1: Ten marks on the tall one! (Ten marks on the tall one!)

German Soldier 2: Quatsch! The little girls are swollen! Fifteen on the blonde! (Nonsense! The short one is tough! Fifteen on the short one!)

The locals, on the other hand, are rooting for Anna, who looks like one of their own in trouble.

Ukrainian woman with a basket.

— Quote me, you filthy fascists! Fear God! Watch, Gritsya, how the women fight! Come on, blonde, come on, cut her down!

The forces are truly unequal. Olga begins to gain the upper hand, crushing Anna with the weight of her body. But Anna doesn't panic. She mentally executes a combination: a trip, a sweep, and a twist. She shifts her weight sharply, thrusts her leg toward Olga, and, still holding her hair, twists it forcefully toward herself.

Anna mutters under her breath, in Russian, like a mantra: Trip, sweep, and twist... Trip, sweep, and twist...

The movements are precise, practiced. Olga, not expecting this, loses her balance and falls with a heavy, dull thud onto the platform stones. Anna is left with a large strand of hair, torn from the fat head, in her hand.

Olga howled with pain and rage.

— Aaaaah! Bitch!

Anna, breathing heavily, almost automatically stuffs the torn clump of hair into a crack between the platform stones – proof, 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 deprivation and shame for looting her own people.

The crowd gets even more excited.

— Bravo! Come on! That's it! Agov!

Suddenly, a shot rang out in the air. It was a German officer trying to restore order.

German officer (loudly, in German)

— Ruhe! Sofort aufhören! Das ist eine Eisenbahnstation! Silence! Negative stop immediately! This is a train station!

A policeman translates, shouting.

— Roziytys, I say! The authorities are coming right now!

The crowd is reveling, disappointed that such a wonderful spectacle is ending. But the tension built up over the years of war couldn't be dispelled by a single shot. Both women were about to break down.

And suddenly... the crowd freezes. From far away, at first muffled, then louder, another sound is heard. Not a locomotive whistle. But the piercing, ominous wail of air raid sirens.

A voice from the loudspeaker overriding the commotion, in German and Ukrainian.

— Achtung! Air raid sirens! Achtung! Air raid sirens! To the shelter!

A moment later, this wail is drowned out by the roar of approaching artillery and the whistle of the first bombs falling somewhere very close to the station. The ground trembles. Window fragments fly. One of the Soviet shells hit the tracks near the platform, and clumps of rubble and clay showered the strand of hair that Anna had torn from Olga's head.

Panic ensues. German soldiers rush to the anti-aircraft guns, an officer shouts commands. People run for cover. The fight instantly loses all meaning. Anna and Olga, who were ready to kill each other just a minute ago, are scattered in different directions by the howl of bombs and approaching explosions. The assault on Nikopol began, a campaign that would last another four long months.

A clump of hair remains in a crack between the platform stones, a silent witness to their personal war against the backdrop of a world war...

But this confrontation is the very beginning of a greater confrontation that will escalate into a major war between Ukraine and Russia...

 

Chapter 17. Victory Is Different for Everyone

Dim light filters through the boards of an abandoned barn. It smells of dust and old hay. Olga, hugging her knees, sits on a torn mattress. Timofey stands by the door, listening to the night.

Olga's voice is muffled, without its usual mockery.

— Timosha... what will happen to us? It seems the whole world has risen up.

Without turning around, Timofey speaks rudely.

— Then we need to run. Don't argue, just run.

— Where should we run? There are the Germans, and there... the Muscovites. The choice is like between the plague and cholera.

— The Germans will shoot you first, if anything happens. And the Muscovites... the Muscovites will completely destroy you just for my name. So choose who you're happier with.

Olga suddenly became angry.

— Damn the Muscovites, may they die! And the Germans too! And everyone else is right there.

Timofey comes closer, squats down in front of her, and speaks more quietly but insistently.

— Have you shouted enough? Now listen.

— So tell me, what should we do?

— And I'll answer you.

— So what?

— In.

Olga looks at him, fear and defiance in her eyes.

— In. Where? How? With what?

— Change your name. Change your appearance. I know people in Kryvyi Rih. From prison. Old friends. They won't turn you in. They don't turn in their own.

— Friends from prison? Oh, that's reliable. From one bandit to another.

Timofey grabs her by the chin, but without malice, rather forcing her to look at him.

— And who are you, Olga? Innocent flower? Listen. Tonight – on foot to Marganets. I have a man with horses there. By stagecoach – to Krivoy Rog. I know the route, all the farmsteads and gullies.

— On foot? Now? In winter?

— Did you want a limo? They'll find you here by morning with your throat slit. Make up your mind. Now or never.

Olga looks him in the eyes for a long moment, and then nods, briefly and sharply.

— The decision has been made.

The bare, snow-covered Dnieper steppe in January. They wander across the frozen steppe. All around them are the skeletons of burnt-out trucks and mangled guns. Timofey slows his pace next to a destroyed T-34. - Wait, I'll take a look.

— What's there to see? Dead metal.

— Male curiosity. Maybe some canned food left.

He disappears into the open hatch for a few minutes. Olga longingly scans the horizon. Suddenly, a muffled cry comes from inside the tank. He climbs out, clutching a tattered book, stained with blood and oil.

Timofey's eyes sparkle with excitement.

— Olga! Heavens! This is what we need!

— What did you find?

Timofey points at the smudged ink.

— A Red Army service record! A young soldier's. Osipov-Kisel Solomon... Born in 1905... Education – parochial... Nationality – Jewish... Place of recruitment – ​​Vladivostok! Do you understand? Vladivostok! Everything in that tank burned up; no one will check anything there.

— So what?

Timofey triumphantly.

— What's wrong with you, woman? Don't you understand! I'm not Timofey Osipov anymore, I'm Solomon Osipov! Osipov-Kisel Solomon! Remember that. I was born in Vladivostok. Now you're my wife or my sister, but you need to come up with documents. Your own cover story.

Olga sarcastically, but with a glimmer of hope.

— Think about it, you're so smart, you'll come up with something. And I... I'll rummage around here, maybe I'll find something else.

She pretends to search the armor, but in reality she simply turns away to hide the trembling in her hands. She understands – this scrap of paper gives them a chance. Even if it's a ghostly one.

In February, the wind isn't so biting. In a hut in a forested area near Radushnoye. They live in a hidden hut made of branches and tarpaulin. They wait. This is the hardest part – inaction.

Olga, sitting by a tiny fire, warms her hands.

— Your friends... in Krivoy Rog... Are you sure they're still there? And do they remember us?

Timofey cleans the slide of the pistol he found.

— They don't abandon their own. You wouldn't understand that in your line of work. There, it's every man for himself. But in prison, it's different.

Olga, proud of herself.

— My "business" is based on my word. There's no other way.

Timofey grins.

— Well, yeah, until it was too late. And when it was, I ran straight to Timokha.

Olga flushes.

— I didn't run to you! We... collided. - Destiny, huh? He puts the gun down and looks at her seriously.

— Nobody knows you in town. That's good. But two people know me. And if they're there... we'll grow in. Like weeds. Little by little. We'll work, live.

—Live. With false documents. Under false names. Like a stolen life. -

Timofey sharply.

— And what was your own life like, huh? Olga the smuggler, whom both her own and their enemies would shoot if the opportunity arose? And now you'll be... what will you be, Olga?

She is silent, looking at the fire. Somewhere in the distance, the cannonade rumbles. Shells are already exploding to the west.

Timofey listens.

—Do you hear that? They're retreating west. The Muscovites have retaken the city. It's time. Tomorrow morning – into the city.

Olga looks up at him.

— Are you sure?

— Like everyone else." Like thousands of other refugees who simply have nowhere else to go. We'll just... disappear.

In the morning, they emerge from the forest and walk along the road to Krivoy Rog. Two dusty, tired people among thousands like them. Their old lives are left behind, in shell craters. Ahead lie only fictitious names and the fragile hope that their new lives won't shatter as easily as the old ones.

...Olga and Timofey are building their new lives, relying on secrecy and conspiracy.

Their arrival in the city of Krivoy Rog was a carefully planned spectacle. They didn't look like frightened, war-scarred refugees. Their clothes were worn, secondhand, but clean, their gazes were tired but not lost. They walked leisurely, carrying burlap bags, like thousands of others. Their strength lay in this gray, 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 contours of her face, making it more angular and haggard. The softness that came with a well-fed life was gone. She stopped using any cosmetics, even homemade ones. Her hands, which had once been able to groom themselves, were now covered with small scratches and calluses. She learned to walk not with the springy, eye-catching gait of a smuggler, but with the shuffling, tired gait of a woman bearing the full brunt of war.

She developed a new system of gestures—modest, a little haunted. In conversations with neighbors, she lowered her eyes, spoke quietly and tersely, interjecting commonplace phrases: "How important..." "Thank God, I'm alive..." "Thank God, a man under the government." She became a master of "social mimicry"—it was impossible to pick her out from the crowd of similar women standing in lines, mopping floors in offices, and whispering at the market.

Her documents, "Olga Osipova, citizen, born 1924," were purchased for a huge sum from one of Timofey's "friends from the zone." The lack of a patronymic was a brilliant find—it blurred her origins, complicating any hypothetical verification. The cover story was simple: she and her husband were refugees from the Zaporizhzhia region; their house had been bombed, and all their documents had disappeared. Her husband, a wounded front-line soldier, now worked in the supply warehouses. She was a housewife, working wherever she could.

Their life was built on strict rules of secrecy, which they had developed together. They rented a dilapidated hut on the very outskirts, next to the mine dumps. This location was advantageous for several reasons:

A constant flow of similarly marginalized people.

A lack of interest from the authorities—there was nothing to see here.

Excellent escape routes in case of danger—straight to industrial zones, steppes, quarries.

The ability to come and go unnoticed at different times of the day.

In public, they were a model Soviet family. Timofey—a stern, slightly sullen veteran of the rear. Olga—a submissive, downtrodden wife. They went to the market together, never argued in front of strangers, and participated in cleanup days to clear rubble.

At home, all communication was limited to business. They spoke in whispers. Olga developed a system of signals: a certain way to hang a curtain meant "danger"; a brick placed on the fence meant "all clear"; a pot of geraniums on the windowsill - "Can you come in, I'm alone?".

They quietly established an underground business, and this is where Olga's remarkable stealth skills came in handy. Their trade — buying and reselling German trophies — was deadly dangerous, but Olga had perfected it.

She didn't work with large quantities. Her method was the "snowflake." She created a network of several street boys who scoured the sites of recent battles, collecting "trinkets": officers' cigarette cases, pistol cartridges, badges, pencils, leather belts. They didn't know who she was, handing over their finds at "blind" spots—a designated hole in a fence or under a certain rock. Payment was food or ammunition for barter.

Olga was a genius at disguising objects. She dismantled watches and hid the parts in empty tin cans with false bottoms. She remade leather goods, altering the style beyond recognition. Gold dental crowns, which also occasionally found their way into circulation, she melted down into crude homemade rings or hid in hollow buttons.

She never sold things herself. Through the same network of street children or through Timofey's reliable, decades-tested "friends," the goods were sent in small batches to the black market. She was a ghost, a shadow that connected the crows rummaging through the ruins with the hucksters at the market. They knew her as "Aunt Olya," who would give food for some "trinket," but no one knew her true scale.

Her main weapon was information. She could stand in line for bread for hours, eavesdropping on the conversations of the wives of soldiers and officials. She knew when raids were planned, how the higher-ups lived, where the units were being deployed. This information allowed her to stay ahead of events and "go into the shadows" at the right moment.

Their new life was like a game of shadow chess, where their own lives were at stake. Timofey provided them with legal cover and access to resources. He might occasionally sneak a couple of cans of stew or a piece of tarpaulin from the warehouse, while Olga, with her "miracles of invisibility," was the brains and nerves of the entire operation, an invisible spider spinning her web in the ruins of a vast city...

...It was a warm spring evening in March. Their hut on the outskirts smelled of steppe dust, wood warmed by the day, and boiled potatoes. Olga stood by the stove, but did not eat. She looked out the smoke-blackened window, the glass reflecting her pale face, distorted by internal struggle.

Olga spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. - Timosha.

Timofey, who was mending an old belt at the table, merely grunted in response.

Olga turned around, her voice trembling.

— Timosha, I think... Well, I...

He looked up at her and understood everything at once. From the way she stood – constrained, as if afraid to move. From her gaze – frightened and angry at the same time.

Timofey puts the belt aside.

— Talk.

Olga looks away, looking out the window again.

— No period. For two months now. And yesterday morning... I threw up. Oh, how inopportune... - her voice broke, and she gripped the edge of the stove tightly.

— We've just started living. We've just gotten everything sorted out.

Timofey gets up and approaches her. He speaks without much emotion, stating the fact.

— What did you expect? We don't live in a monastery. Now I have someone to hand over the job to. Do we need much? We'll feed them.

Olga turns sharply to him, anger flashing in her eyes.

— I don't need it now. I don't need anyone. I could have waited another year or two. Get our business going, come to an agreement with people... And now what? Carry this belly around like a submarine?

Timofey frowns, his voice growing harsher.

— Don't be silly, Olga. He wag his finger at her. - Look at you, what's going on? Give birth. And don't be silly. This isn't the kind of thing you can refuse.

Olga implores. - Just wait a little, just a little bit! The war just ended, there's hunger and devastation all around... Why drag a child into this hell?

Timofey flares up, his patience snapping.

— What do you mean? Wait? He approaches her closely, looming.

— Wait ten months? You’re completely out of your mind, you idiot. This isn’t a train to be stopped halfway.

Olga holds his gaze, and a steely, dangerous edge appears in her voice.

— You know all those doctors who… who terminate pregnancies. What are they called… gyn-gire-… damn you. A gynecologist. Find one.

Timofey recoils from her as if from fire. His face contorts in anger and an almost superstitious horror.

— Shut up! he barks. - I’m not bringing you a gynecologist. Never. Do you hear me? That’s murder. I’ll lock you in here. And I won’t let you go on any ‘hunting’. Forget it.- Olga straightened up to her full pregnant height. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

— But you won't lock me.

Timofey gritted his teeth.

— But I will.

Olga took a step forward, her quiet voice sounding more dangerous than any shout. "You can try."

They stood facing each other, like two enemies on a battlefield. The air crackled with hatred, fear, and misunderstanding.

They argued like this all spring and all summer. The arguments were furious, quiet, and angry. But by the end of autumn, Olga couldn't even leave the house without people turning their heads. Her figure, always so lithe and agile, had changed beyond recognition. Her belly had stretched and jutted forward like a torpedo, and her breasts had become full and heavy, "like a Ukrainian woman from Krivoy Rog or Nikopol," as she thought with a bitter smile. Her weapon had always been inconspicuousness, but now she was a walking advertisement for herself.

And just before New Year's 1947, with stinging snow swirling outside the window, she gave birth. Not to a boy, to continue her legacy, but to a girl. A beautiful half-breed girl, with a wrinkled face, in whom was a mixture of Muscovite, Jewish, and Ukrainian blood.

When Olga first saw her, she felt neither happiness nor relief. Only a deafening, all-consuming silence. And the realization that her life as a smuggler was now governed by entirely new, unfamiliar rules. They named the girl Rima, and now they received the first legal document from the registry office, stating that Rima Osipova, a native of Krivoy Rog, was registered on Kominterna Street...

 

Chapter 18. A Single Victory for Two

The room was cold, but Anna didn't notice. She sat on the edge of her chair, every nerve in her body taut as a bowstring. The deafening roar of the cannonade filled her ears. Just yesterday, it hadn't been audible; the front was somewhere far away, beyond the horizon, an abstract threat in the reports. But today, on this February day in 1944, it descended on the city with all its fury. The sound of the gunfire was so close, it seemed as if they were firing somewhere in the next block. Although calculations put the range at another eight or ten kilometers. But the sound was undeniable — it was approaching, inexorably and swiftly, driven by the wave of the front advancing from the east.

— We can't delay any longer,- she whispered to herself, and the words were lost in the roar of another explosion. Her heart pounded somewhere in her throat. At any moment, the door could swing open, and there he would appea r— Karl Stumpp. His cold, indifferent eyes, his habit of solving every problem with a single shot to the back of the head. For escape — definitely death by firing squad. The thought of it was more acute and real than any artillery barrage.

She stood up abruptly. She put on the warmest coat in her wardrobe, a hat with flap brim, and warm, two-fingered mittens. She had to act now. On the dresser lay a small leather vanity bag, prepared the night before. In it, she slipped a pack of crackers, some money, forged documents, and… for some reason, a box of matches. Her hand reached for them, as if this small wooden box could offer any protection from the surrounding darkness.

Looking around warily, Anna slipped out of the room and pressed herself against the wall of the hallway. Empty. She listened—only the hum outside. Stealthily, she walked to the back door and stepped out into the yard. The air was thick and bitter with the smell of burning and gunpowder.

The yard was littered with debris, broken bricks, and abandoned logs—evidence of a recent bombing. Anna crouched low and ran along the leaning fence, her gaze skimming the boards. There it was. The same clearing she'd noticed a few days ago while secretly studying the escape route. Slipping through a narrow gap, she found herself in a narrow, abandoned alley.

According to the map she'd furtively copied from headquarters papers, the entrance to the old sewer system should have been here, beneath the ruins of a brick barn. Pushing aside the rubble with her hands, scraping her fingers on the rough stone, she found it: a manhole half-buried in earth and rusty metal steps leading off into absolute blackness. Her heart sank.

She'd only seen this place on paper. In reality, it felt like the entrance to hell. Taking a deep breath, Anna pulled out the matchbox. Her hands trembled. The first match struck and illuminated a small circle. The steps were slippery with mold. She began to descend, and the match immediately went out in a draft of cold air.

Darkness closed in around her, thick, almost tangible. She lit a second match. Below, a low, arched corridor of old brick was visible. She had to bend over to avoid hitting her head. The flame flickered again and died.

— Hey, Anna, - she mentally scolded herself, "you'll burn up all the matches like that. Save them. - This rational thought in an irrational situation was the last straw of self-control. She stuffed the box back into her toiletry bag and, clutching her purse to her chest, moved forward, feeling her way through the impenetrable darkness.

She wished she hadn't saved the matches.

She didn't notice that after a few steps, the floor beneath her feet simply fell away. Her foot struck empty air, her body lurched forward, and with a short, choked cry, she plummeted. A crash. A blinding flash of pain. The impact with the stone bottom struck her left shoulder and rib. The darkness engulfed her no longer as the absence of light, but as complete nothingness.

Consciousness returned to her in a wave of sickening, sharp pain. Every movement sent a fiery stab through her side. She lay on the cold, wet stone, completely silent except for the ringing in her ears. And then that ringing was replaced by another sound—distinct, growing louder. Footsteps. This is a dream, Anna thought.

Horror, cold and piercing, gripped her. SS? Tracked? Her thoughts raced like hunted animals. Instinct overcame reason. She froze, adopting a death pose: arms outstretched, head thrown back. But one eye, a narrow slit, was directed upward, toward the black oval of the hatch from which she had fallen.

Suddenly, a light appeared above the hatch. Not electric, but living, flickering—the light of a torch. And someone's voice, rough but without malice, spoke in broken Hebrew, and then in its own Russian.

— Are you alive, my beauty? - Anna trembled. The word "beauty" sounded like something her mother had called her as a child. She would have recognized her own Hebrew speech, lisping with a distinctive accent, even in a deep sleep and unconsciousness. This question, so simple and human, pierced the armor of her fear. She stirred, letting out a weak groan. So, not SS men. Local Jews.

— Alive... Alive... - she whispered, and her voice was no longer so strange and hoarse.

— And who are you? - Anna asked.

“Let me get you out first,” came a voice from above, more confidently.

— And how will you get me out?

— Get my jacket now.

I'll take it off, I'll take off my shirt, tie it in knots, and lower it like a rope. And you hold on tight.

She heard the rustling of fabric from above. A minute later, in the torchlight, she saw a jacket sleeve descending toward her, tied to another sleeve in a makeshift rope. With her last strength, clenching her teeth against a scream of pain in her ribs, she grabbed the rough fabric. Slowly, painfully, they began to lift her. Every movement caused a fresh flash of agony, but her life instinct was stronger.

Finally, she climbed out of the hatch and fell 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 that he stood slightly bent on one leg—lame. I've seen this lame man somewhere before. She clutched her pocket—the vanity case with her documents and matches remained down below, in that black hole.

— Do you have any matches? - she breathed, realizing the absurdity of the question.

— There are three left in the box, - he answered simply.

— And mine... are still down there... - She felt completely defenseless.

A wave of confusion washed over her. Fear gripped her throat again. Her arm and two ribs ached. She looked at this unfamiliar, limping boy, afraid of him, and at the same time, realizing he had just saved her life. Frantically, she tried to remember where she had seen him before.

They sat on old, dusty crates in a remote corner of the dungeon, listening to the muffled hums outside. The stranger examined her hand in her coat and muttered something clearly reassuring. The torch had long since died out, and they were surrounded by semi-darkness, broken only occasionally by the glow of distant fires filtering through a narrow vent. Anna, still pale and rubbing her bruised shoulder, peered intently at the features of her savior. Suddenly, recognition flashed in her eyes.

— I saw you, - she said quietly, but with a hint of pride in her voice, as if she'd solved a complex riddle.

The young man, who had been sitting silently in his position until then, perked up.

— Where did you see me? - his voice sounded wary.

— Where the labor exchange is. Where the one-story brick rectangular building is on a high stone foundation.

— So what? - he shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "Half the city is milling about there.

— And the fact that you don't contradict me means you admit it. - And if you admit it, then you're from the family of the watchmaker Moisha Goldovsky.

In the darkness, she caught him freeze. All that was audible was his rapid breathing.

— Maybe, - he finally managed, reluctantly.

— Not 'maybe, but definitely, - Anna countered, feeling more confident. — But I know his two sons—Yevsey and Alexander. I'm actually close with Alexander.

— And I'm the third son.

— Well, he didn't have a third, - Anna stated confidently.

He leaned a little closer, and in the semi-darkness, a bitter smile twisted his face.

— And who do you think I am? A ghost?

Anna paused. Her confidence suddenly gave way to confusion. She frantically recalled everything she knew about the Goldovsky family. Old Moisha, his wife Tsilya, two sons five years apart... There was no third. She was certain of it. And then the absurdity of the situation dawned on her.

 Cannon fire thundered outside, the city was occupied by retreating Germans, they were sitting in a damp basement, having narrowly escaped death, and she was interrogating the man who had just saved her life.

How insignificant I am, flashed through her mind. Ignorant... As if there was nothing else to think about. The main thing is that he's one of us. The main thing is that he won't hand me over to Stumpp. And the main thing is that we both here, in this stone hole, can wait until the front rolls through the streets, while the Fritzes pack their belongings and flee Nikopol.

She exhaled and leaned her back against the cold wall.

— Okay, - she gave in, the fervor draining from her voice, replaced by weariness. "It doesn't matter. Thanks for getting me out. Really, what difference does it make now?

He paused, looking at her, and then nodded, as if releasing the tension.

— What difference does it make, - he repeated quietly. - The main thing now is to keep quiet and wait. Our people will be here soon.

He took the very same box of matches from his pocket, holding three matches, shook it, and the dry thud became the only sound breaking the shaky truce that had settled between them in the underground darkness...

The deaf, damp underground of the Nikopol old town sewer. Gloom, occasionally broken by the reflections of distant fires. The air was cold and dank. Anna and Mikhail were sitting on boxes, a respectful distance apart. Anna huddles in her coat, rubbing her frozen, mittened hands. Her breath steams. Mikhail sits hunched over, trying not to look at her, so as not to embarrass her. A long, awkward pause, finally broken by Anna. Her voice is quiet, trying to fill the oppressive silence.

— I... I was named Anna. After my grandmother. - She speaks more warmly, without her previous suspicion, offering it as a sign of trust.

— My name is Mikhail. Just like my father.

Another pause. Anna, trying to distract herself from the cold and fear, looks at him with genuine curiosity.

— And how is it... that the Germans didn't take you to Germany? You were... in plain sight.

— I served with them.

Anna recoils as if from a horror. Her eyes widen in shock and disappointment.

— Are you... a traitor? - Mikhail turns sharply to her, and a fire flashes in his eyes.

— No. I'm an underground member. I can tell you. Now, I suppose, it's okay.

Anna falls silent, considering. Then her gaze falls on his posture and the awkward way he holds his leg.

— And you... why weren't you drafted into the Soviet Army? In '41, when everyone was leaving... - Mikhail's voice is dry, without self-pity.

— Anisomelia. It's when one leg is four, or even five centimeters shorter than the other.

Anna's voice softens, a hint of genuine sympathy.

— Does it... hurt?

— No. Unless you run and carry a load. You need to walk slowly. Carefully. - He says this as a statement of fact, without a hint of self-justification. Anna looks at him with a new, pitiful seriousness. Then her face darkens again with incomprehension.

—And the Germans... how come they didn't... execute you, a Jew?

— My legal name is Mikhail Khristinsky. My adoptive father, before he died, when I was seven, made me a new birth certificate. The word 'Jewish'... is missing.

— And where... are your brothers? The real ones? Evsey and Alexander?

— So they left Nikopol during the Civil War. And I... I stayed where they were. I fix watches.

— So? Have I fixed a lot?

Mikhail shrugs, looking into the darkness.

— I don't just fix watches. The Germans kept me fixing motorcycles. Train traction, beam scales... Do you know how much grain they exported from Nikopol during the war? They had to weigh everything and report on it. And the scales, the locomotive scales, the beam scales... my dad, Moisha, even fixed them. - What... what's so important about that?

Mikhail lowers his voice, as if confiding a secret.

— What matters is how much. How much grain they send to Germany. They received new ranks, promotions, and commendations for it. Each carload is a step toward their medal.

Anna looks at him with respect and amazement.

— How do you know such details?

— Well, I... learned a little of their language. While I was fixing it. I began to understand a little. A lot... a lot becomes clear.

Anna shudders violently from the piercing cold. Her teeth chatter. She hugs herself, but it doesn't help.

— Listen, Mikhail... It's very cold here.

Mikhail immediately jumps up.

— Let me give you my jacket.

He's about to take off his worn quilted jacket, but Anna stops him with a gesture.

— No! You're cold too. You're already... You'll freeze.

They look at each other, and an unspoken thought hangs between them. They're both equally cold, but an insurmountable wall of convention, upbringing, and fear prevents them from even touching each other for warmth. Mikhail looks away, embarrassed.

— How are we... going to warm up?

— If we start a fire? A small one...

— Will they see us?

— Well, they'll see the smoke... They'll think a shell hit and something's burning. Everything around here is destroyed.

Mikhail considers this, then nods decisively.

— Okay. That's logical. Let's go look for firewood. - He rises, limping slightly, and heads toward the opening leading upward, toward the dim light. Anna, slightly perked up, follows him. Movement, even if it's toward a small goal, gives them a glimmer of hope and temporarily distracts them from the cold and fear reigning in the basement and in their hearts...

...The evening twilight thickens, the west and east blaze with a glow, and the roar of the cannonade has grown closer and more deafening. Anna and Mikhail stand over a pitiful pile of damp branches, which only smoke, emitting acrid white smoke.

Anna, waving away the smoke and coughing.

— It won't work... They're completely wet.

Mikhail kicks the branch with his foot in frustration.

— Stupid little things... You should have thought about it. You should have taken dry ones." He falls silent, his gaze sliding over the dark silhouette of the dilapidated barn and then along the long wooden fence, leaning in places. In the twilight, he notices that some of the boards—the pickets—have come loose and dried in the wind.

— Look.

Anna follows his gaze and nods understandingly.

— Yes. Just be quiet.

They make their way to the fence. The roar of the guns overlaps with the creaking and cracking of the boards being torn away. Anna, having torn off a particularly long, dry board, suddenly freezes, all ears.

Anna whispers, barely moving her lips.

— Quiet... Someone's coming.

Mikhail instantly presses himself against the fence, holding his breath. A second, then another... All that's heard is the distant barking of a dog and the same roar of battle.

— No. I imagined it. Or an echo. Pack it up quickly. They feverishly gather armfuls of dry, resinous boards and just as quickly return to their shelter. Soon, the longed-for fire is crackling and flaring in the corner of the basement. The flames greedily lick the dry wood, casting dancing shadows on the damp walls.

Mikhail, adding a damp branch to the fire.

— There... Now our 'raw material' will be put to good use. It will serve.

They sit on Mikhail's jacket spread out on the ground, warming their chilled hands. Almost automatically, obeying the instinct for warmth, they both simultaneously moved closer to the fire—and, therefore, closer to each other. Now only a narrow gap, a finger's width, remained between their shoulders. They felt the warmth radiating from each other, but did not dare touch.

Mikhail, gazing into the fire, thoughtfully. "You see... My dad dragged me to all these repairs from the age of six. To the elevator, to the depot... I was his assistant. 'Bring it, bring it, clean it...' Even now, with my eyes closed, just by touch, I can tell what kind of cylinder it is—a Harley or a Zündapp... Or a gear—a sixth- or tenth-gauge..."

Anna smiles, her face softened by fire and warm memories. A perfect copy of my dad—an engineer.

— And in our family... German, Hebrew, Russian, Ukrainian — were held in equal esteem. We sang songs in four languages at the same table.

Mikhail turns to her, his eyes reflecting the flame.

— Anya... Sing one.

Anna looks away, embarrassed.

— Oh, I don't know...

— Well, please. In Hebrew.

— And you... will you sing with me?

— Yes. I will. - Anna closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she begins quietly, her voice trembling slightly. Mikhail simply listens at first, but by the second verse, his low, husky voice picks up the melody.

Together:

Quietly, but clearly, in time with the crackling fire.

While the fire of the soul burns deep within the Jew's chest,

And he turns his gaze to the borders of the east, to Zion—

The eternal hope is yet to be realized:

To return to the land of our fathers, to the unforgettable city of David...

While, like rain, not having spent all its strength, tears flow,

And thousands of our brothers strive to the tombstones of their ancestors...

They reach the end of the verse, and their voices fade simultaneously. But in the stone dungeon, the echoes of the melody and the final words linger for a few seconds: "...to the tombstones of our ancestors..."

Complete silence falls. They sit motionless, still separated by those five centimeters, but now feeling an invisible, powerful connection between them. They gazed into the same flame and sang the same song. And in this silence, accompanied by the war above, it meant more than any words...

... The low ceiling, made of old brick, was sooty from the smoke of their fire. The main fire had already burned out, leaving smoldering embers that radiated a steady, comforting warmth.

Anna and Mikhail were sitting on a spread-out jacket, their backs to the wall. There was still that same gap between them, but now it seemed smaller, almost symbolic. The silence was broken only by the crackling of the embers and the muffled but inexorable hum outside.

Anna sat with her knees tucked in, staring at Mikhail. Her gaze held more than just curiosity, but insistence.

— You didn't answer my question.

— Which one?

— How did you end up here? In this particular hole. Not in the city, but right here.

Mikhail shrugged, as if it went without saying.

— Just like you. - I was looking for shelter. From the cannonade... and from the Fritzes. They're scurrying around like rats scenting a ship. Finding shelter is the first thing.

— How do you know about this dungeon? It's not on the maps. I checked.

Mikhail grins, and something boyish, mischievous, appears in his smile.

— But I was a boy. We used to crawl everywhere as kids. Every basement, every attic, every well in the area.

— And where? Name at least one place I don't know about.

Mikhail leans a little closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

— Did you know there's a dungeon under the Nikopol station? Not just a basement, but a whole labyrinth.

Anna's eyes widen in genuine surprise.

— No... I've never heard of that. Never.

Mikhail leans back with satisfaction.

— That’s because it’s secret. Since the Tsarist era, I think. Only a very small circle of people knows about it.

Anna looks at him intently.

— And you... how did you find out? You’re not part of that ‘circle of people.

— They brought me there. Blindfolded. So I could fix their emergency radio. A direction finder. So I wouldn’t remember the way.

— So, you remembered it blindfolded?

— I remembered. Because lame people like me... have special vision. We look at our feet differently. We memorize every ledge, every turn. They thought I was blind, but I “saw” everything with my feet and felt the air around the turns.

— And you... lame... why don’t you use a cane? I saw how you move; you don’t seem to need one.

— You don’t need one. I walk freely. I just... limp. I’m used to it.

There’s a pause. Anna stares into the fire, and the next question blurts out, as if she's been pondering it for a long time. Very quietly, almost embarrassed.

— Is it hereditary?

She freezes, surprised by her own audacity. The thought that she wants this man's child flashes somewhere in the back of her mind, coloring the question with a different, deeply personal tone.

Mikhail isn't offended, but looks at her with a strange sadness.

— No. Birth trauma, they say. Someone... dragged me by one leg. The midwife, probably. But you should have dragged me by both heels. More carefully.

Anna winces, feeling uneasy.

—The way you talk... it sounds like someone dragging a bull or a calf on a rope.

His face suddenly darkens. He turns away.

— Oh, come on. I don't want to talk to you." He pretends to go to bed, moving a few centimeters away from her. Anna realizes she's touched a nerve.

— Okay. Okay. Peace. Don't be angry.

Mikhail doesn't turn around, but the tension in his back gradually subsides.

—Tell me, what do you like to read? Which authors?

Anna rubs her temples wearily. Questions, emotions, fear—all of it weighs down on her like a heavy weariness.

— Let's... see you tomorrow. We'll sleep. And tomorrow I'll tell you. I promise.

He nods silently. They both settle more comfortably on the hard floor, using their belongings as pillows. The embers still smoldered, warming their frozen backs. They still hadn't pressed themselves against each other, separated by convention, fear, and those five centimeters of empty space.

But something important had happened. They had warmed each other's hands more than just by the fire. They warmed hearts and souls, touching the most secret and painful chords. And both felt that this was only the beginning...

...And ahead of them lay two more days of waiting, until all the Germans had fled the city.

They sat in the darkness by the fire in the dungeon and couldn't stop talking, as if they hadn't seen each other for ten years. The fire was dying down, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air was stale, smelling of smoke and dampness. They couldn't leave.It gave a feeling of kinship, a warmth of soul between them. The dying cannonade outside the walls gave way to an unfamiliar, ringing silence, occasionally broken by distant gunshots or the booming rumble of engines.

— I can’t tell you in one sentence that I loved my father. I idolized him. He was like an archangel on a chariot to me. Strong, healthy, intelligent. I was fifteen the last time I saw him before his arrest.

She raised her eyes and looked at Mikhail with undisguised admiration. In his calm strength, his intelligent eyes, his very manner of speaking, she already saw a glimmer of that very Archangel.

— You talk as if he’s alive.

I believe he’s alive. You understand? He’s simply a very smart and talented engineer. And he was imprisoned for espionage. Nonsense. A common misunderstanding. -

 — Anya, our life is full of absurdities. Isn't it absurd that we've been here for three days straight, living on nothing but crackers, without hot tea?"

— Really? Really? Three? How time flies... And I didn't even notice. I think I finally understood what happiness is for the first time. Happiness is when two people breathe the same air.

— We need to get out and look for food. If, of course, the Germans have already fled the city.

— Misha...

She called him that for the first time, without ceremony, in a familiar way, as if he were her own younger brother, with whom they had always shared everything equally.

— And I... I'll call you Anya.

— I'll call you Misha.

— Anya—Misha. Okay.

Mikhail stood up and brushed off his pants.

Let's get out of here. Can you hear that? Look, there already are our anti-aircraft guns in the city. Silence... They're already here.

Suddenly she grabbed his sleeve, her eyes blazing with determination.

— Only, Misha... I want to go to that dungeon. At the train station.

Mikhail stopped dead in his tracks.

— Now? Are you crazy? Now's not the time for excursions.

She looked at him unwaveringly. "Misha. It's now or never. I feel it.

Mikhail shook his head, but his eyes held agreement. He sighed with exaggerated resignation.

— Look, you asked for it. The rats there are like watermelon.

They emerged, blinded by the February light. The air, bitter with soot and gunpowder, was sweeter than any nectar to them. They walked through the streets, not yet believing in their freedom, but already feeling it with their whole being. Soviet troops had liberated Nikopol.

Mikhail took Anna's hand firmly and led her to the familiar hatch.

— Then one, two, three doors," he muttered, like a spell. "Turn right, turn left... like a waltz, two thirds to the beat. Two stomps, one clap...

And... bang! They stood in the center of a huge underground hall beneath the train station. The vaulted ceiling was pierced by narrow crevices through which thick, dusty rays of the February sun fell, like columns of light in a temple.

Anna waited for that moment when a bright beam of light fell upon her, bathing her face. And she spun around, raising her arms to the sky, choking with joy.

— Hurray! Our people have arrived!

Mikhail, amazed, looked at her. Then his restraint melted away like last year's snow. He was infected with her joy, grabbed her by the waist, and whirled her around in an impromptu, wild dance among the stone masses. And here, in the center of the secret dungeon, under the rays of the solitaire sun like a spotlight, they truly embraced for the first time. And they kissed for the first time—swiftly, hungrily, forgetting everything else.

When they emerged, breathless and beaming, the granite platform of the station was thirty meters away.

— Come on, straight ahead. To the station! - Anna shouted.

— Come on! - Mikhail leaped easily onto the high platform and, turning, extended his hand. - Come on, give me your hand.

Anna took a step, but he suddenly pulled his hand back, amused.

— I'll give it to you... 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, as if he'd never let go, and pulled her up. They bounced around the platform like children, to the sounds of the old waltz "On the Hills of Manchuria" pouring from the station's loudspeaker. Stopping at the edge, Mikhail took a nail from his pocket and scratched large letters into the gray granite: "ANYA MISHA."

They stood, looking at these two names merged into one, and listened to the music that was now the music of their freedom and their future...

Chapter 19. You Can't Trust Even the General

Peaceful life didn't arrive by decree, but sprouted through the rubble and ashes like the first stubborn grass. It was poor, hungry, but incredibly valuable.

Their shared home was one of the rooms belonging to the watchmaker Moisha Goldovsky. And in the courtyard was a narrow strip of land, three meters wide, running along the wall of their one-story house with a high basement. Once upon a time, this had been the labor exchange, where townspeople came in search of better earnings. For Mikhail, in his distant, almost forgotten childhood, this had been the home of his father, Moisha Goldovsky. Now, a strange combination of routine and chaos reigned here. Along the sagging fence, like the skeletons of prehistoric animals, trophy motorcycles stood in disarray: a Zündapp KS 750, an R12 BMW R75, and a Zündapp Werke KS 750. Some were just frames without wheels, others seemed to be running, but with silent, dead engines. It was at once a warehouse, a workshop, and a monument to the recent war.

The city government was creaking. There was practically no one left to serve on the city council — some had died, some had been driven away, some hadn't yet returned from the front. Anna found a job as a typist. The work wasn't hard, but the salary was symbolic, often paid not in cash but in rations—a piece of bread, a can of stew. But it was their first honest, peacetime penny.

And people flocked to "Lame Misha," as the Nikopol residents still called him. The fame of the watchmaker-mechanic's golden hands outlasted the occupation. They carried jammed Singer sewing machines, onion-shaped pocket watches, and burnt-out electric motors from a threshing machine. But the main source of income came from those same captured motorcycles.

For both the Red Army soldiers and the civilians lucky enough to lay their hands on them, they were both their greatest treasure and their greatest headache. Mikhail spent days on end tending to them, and they paid him with whatever they could get their hands on—sometimes a bottle of raw alcohol, which he immediately exchanged for food, sometimes a couple of liters of gasoline, and occasionally banknotes.

And so the days passed—from February 1944 to early May 1945. The people, stunned by the silence without the shelling, were getting used to the world. Their main concerns became finding a roof over their heads, meager food, and any kind of work. Mikhail had plenty of work, and that was his confidence in the future.

One such day, a police officer entered the yard, wearing a brand-new uniform, still smelling of cloth, with a holster on his belt.

— Are you Mikhail Goldovsky?

Mikhail, still working on the carburetor, nodded.

— Yes.

— Get ready."

Misha finally raised his head, wiping his hands on a rag.

— Where to?" "You'll see for yourself now.

They stepped outside. A lorry stood by the sidewalk, and next to it stood a short but stocky man in a general's greatcoat. He had the epaulettes of a major general.

—Get in the back, - the general said without preamble, nodding toward the truck.

Mikhail, perplexed, leaned over the side.

—Throw back the tarpaulin," -came the next command.

Misha tugged at the rough fabric. Beneath it lay two brand-new Zündapp Werke KS 750s. Perfect, menacing, and utterly lifeless.

— Here, take a look, - the general's voice was even, but irritated.

—They don't work. Our mechanics have gone over every part—they don't work, that's all.

— I'll take it," Mikhail said immediately, eyeing the loot. = Unload them.

— Oh, no, - the general shook his head. - You'll be supervising the repairs.

At that moment, Anna entered the gate, returning from work. She wearily removed her hat and didn't immediately recognize the distinguished guest. But the general—Samuel Grigorievich Shapiro—recognized her instantly.

— Anna Garvart, - he said, and his stern face softened. He extended his hand. Anna shyly shook it.

— Yes. I'm Anna, Mikhail Khristinsky's wife, - she introduced herself, unsure what to say.

— Come on, my dear, let's talk, - the general gently took her elbow and led her into the shade of the dilapidated summer kitchen. "Don't you know who I am?

— No, - Anna answered honestly.

— I'm your underground commander. Call sign 'Tok.'

Anna flushed and stepped back, looking at him with amazement and delight.

— It can't be!

—Yes. It is.  She rushed to hug him.

— I so wanted to see you, Comrade Tok. Oh. Samuil Grigorievich. You are a legend. You are our hope. How we've all been waiting for you. Finally.

The general called his orderly over and whispered something quickly and quietly in his ear. He stood at attention:

— Yes sir. Yes!

— Anna, come with me to that limousine, - Shapiro took her arm again. — I'll write you a mandate.

Half an hour later, Anna stood alone in the courtyard, clutching a crisp piece of paper in her trembling fingers. The mandate, signed by Major General S.G. Shapiro's letter of April 3, 1944, clearly stated that she, Anna Harwart, had worked deep underground from 1941 to February 1944, embedded in the assault team of Unterführer Karl Stumpp in Nikopol, and saved hundreds of Soviet citizens by transmitting classified information.

She felt dizzy. As if a weight had been lifted from her soul. Her life, her risk, her fear—all of this was now not just her personal memory, but an official, recognized fact.

— What about my husband? - she asked, as the general was already getting into the car.

— They'll bring him home safe and sound tomorrow, - he reassured her.

The lorry pulled away, carrying her Misha to an unknown destination to repair the general's Zündapps. Anna was left alone in the middle of her courtyard workshop, where the skeletons of her motorcycles silently testified to the past, while in her hand she clutched a document that revealed her future...

...The next day, Mikhail returned home not just tired, but beaming with professional pride. His face was smeared with machine oil, but his eyes were jubilant.

— Found it! - he exhaled, barely crossing the threshold of their squalid little room. — Found the reason, Anya! Sabotage, pure sabotage!

It turned out that General Shapiro's motorcycles were rigged with insidious "surprises": two wires, seemingly completely intact, turned out to be "dummy" wires—a break inside, carefully concealed. Mikhail fiddled around until he figured out how to check each live wire. This trick was familiar to him—he had encountered something similar while repairing German equipment during the occupation. The Germans, retreating, often left such "dummy wires" behind.

It was Tuesday, May 8th. And the next morning, Wednesday, May 9th, Anna asked Mikhail to take her to the station to catch the mail train—she urgently needed to send some work correspondence.

He pulled up in his captured, but perfectly tuned Zündapp 750 in the square in front of Nikopol Station. The morning was quiet, almost peaceful. And suddenly the silence was shattered by powerful, rolling volleys of gunfire. Instinctively, out of habit, hunching their shoulders, Anna and Mikhail pulled their heads back and glanced at the horizon, searching for the familiar explosions. But there were none. They were the cannons of the Victory Day salute. And at that moment, a deafening, triumphant "Hurrah!" rang out from the loudspeaker hanging on the station wall, followed by Levitan's triumphant, incomparable voice.      —Victory! The war is over!

Anna caught her breath. Mikhail's vision darkened. It seemed the ground had vanished from under his feet, dissolving in this universal jubilation.

— Hold on, Anna! - he shouted, his voice not his own, and jerked the throttle sharply.

The motorcycle roared forward. Anna, wild with happiness and fear, clung to her husband, hugging him tighter than ever before. They didn't go around the station; they drove straight onto the platform, cutting through the crowd of jubilant, crying, and embracing people. Without slowing down, Mikhail pulled up to the very edge of the stone platform paved with smooth amphibolite, and at the very last moment, with incredible agility, he executed a daring wheelie. For a moment, the heavy vehicle froze vertically, and then landed with a crash. But the tire mark, black and smelling of burnt rubber, was forever imprinted on the stone surface polished by time and footsteps—like an autograph of wild happiness, like the personal signature of their Victory.

On the very morning that Anna and Mikhail were rejoicing at the Nikopol train station, Major General Samuil Grigorievich Shapiro was celebrating Victory Day on the other side of Europe—on the Elbe River, near Magdeburg, where Soviet and American troops had historically met.

But for Shapiro, the chief quartermaster of the 69th Army, the war smoothly transitioned into another, no less exciting battle—one of property. His opponent was a fellow hobbyist quartermaster from the 69th Infantry Division of the US Army. The bone of contention was not strategic maps or captured generals, but six luxurious Mercedes-Benz 770 'Grosser' limousines—the legendary armored vehicles that were the pride of the Third Reich. Two collectors, two men possessed by passion, stood facing each other, their eyes blazing with the same fire—not ideological hostility, but a greedy, almost physical desire to possess. Each saw these cars not simply as trophies, but as the crown jewels of their future collections. A passion for collecting, especially such a specific kind, is a pathology that devolves into hoarding. Such people see the world through the prism of their desires. In their dreams, they dream not of battlefields, but of endless hangars where rare weapons, watches, or, in Shapiro's case, cars rest on velvet cushions.

The dispute went beyond the bounds of propriety. It escalated into a high-profile court battle. The Soviet command, upon learning that the general had staged a bazaar over enemy limousines on Victory Day, was furious. A case was opened against Samuil Grigorievich for improper performance of his duties and he was temporarily suspended from his post. But even sidelined, he remained in the ranks—the collectors' ranks. And he continued to dream. Now his dreams were filled with the ghostly silhouettes of Grossers. He mentally lined them up, polished the fenders, started the engines, and listened to their smooth, powerful rumble. The war was over, but his personal war for these automotive masterpieces was just beginning. And he was ready to do anything to win it...

...The office of the front's chief of medical service was filled with file cabinets and folders. In the center, at the desk, an army doctor, a colonel in the medical service, with an intelligent and tired face, was finishing reading a thick folder labeled "Shapiro S.G." He closed it, removed his glasses, and slowly, doubtfully, shook his head. Two generals from the Special Department stood nearby—one gaunt and stern, the other heavier, with lively, cunning eyes.

—Well, Comrade Colonel? - the gaunt man asked impatiently.

—Conclusions? Do we really have to write him off? Too bad, he's a unique specialist.

The doctor sighed.

—Your general is physically as healthy as an ox. His heart and blood pressure are all normal for his age and workload. His X-rays are clear. His lab results are perfect.

— Then what's the matter?" the second general raised an eyebrow. - Did he go crazy over some machines?

— It's not a physical issue, comrade generals, - the doctor explained patiently.

— It's a mental issue. This isn't clinical insanity. It's... a hyperactive obsession caused by stress. He doesn't need potions or sanatoriums. He needs simple masculine suggestion. Boxing, perhaps. Or wrestling. He needs..." the colonel paused meaningfully, "...to punch someone in the face. He's a veteran; he went through the entire war. He instinctively understands and respects brute male strength and hierarchy. He won't hear the word 'no' spoken in a whisper. But what's said with a fist—it'll get through.

The gaunt general snorted.

— Who's going to punch him in the face? He's a general! Who but the Leader himself has the moral right to do that?

— Well, no one will, - the doctor said, spreading his hands. - He needs to be sent to Headquarters. Let them talk to him there. Maybe they'll put his mind to it. It's a shame to lose such a specialist.

A heavyset general with cunning eyes intervened. His face lit up with insight.

— Wait... You're right. We have an artist in our army ensemble. A ventriloquist and impersonator. He can impersonate any voice. Even Comrade Stalin himself. It's eerily similar, I heard it myself.

A tense silence fell over the office. The idea was crazy, risky, but... brilliant in its simplicity.

— You're right, - the gaunt man said slowly, his eyes also blazing with excitement. - Bring him here. Let him talk to him on the phone. And let him forget his Grossers, Mercedes, and Harleys.

A day later, Major General Shapiro, pale and inwardly collected, was summoned to the headquarters office for a particularly important conversation. He was directed to the high-frequency communication device. The receiver had already been picked up.

— I'm listening, Comrade Stalin, - Shapiro's voice sounded hoarse but collected.

A dry, lifeless voice, permeated with a familiar intonation, came from the receiver:

— Are you kidding, General...

Shapiro stood at attention, although no one saw him.

— Not at all, Comrade Stalin.

— They say he's stopped fulfilling his duties as quartermaster. Got carried away by the trophy junk.

Cold sweat broke out on Shapiro's back.

— No, Comrade Stalin. Slander.

— Tell me about your collection, my dear. I want to buy it from you. Maybe you'll sell it for cheap?

Shapiro's breath caught. He felt his heart stop.

— So I... that... that..." he mumbled incoherently, trying to find the words.

— What 'that'? - the voice on the phone grew harsher.

— So I have nothing. Personally, nothing, - Shapiro blurted out, realizing this was his only chance.

— You don't have anything? - "Stalin"'s voice took on a dangerous, sarcastic edge. I'll personally check what you have. Conduct an audit of your army and report back. What's missing. And what's missing. I need your report by morning.

— Yes, Comrade Stalin!" Shapiro almost shouted.

Behind the thick curtain that separated part of the office stood the very same council. The actor, pale as a sheet, removed his headphones and wiped sweat from his brow. It took a herculean effort for the generals and the doctor not to burst out laughing. They watched as Shapiro, pale and shaking, hung up the phone. Sweat poured down his face, and the back of his uniform was darkened by the moisture. He was utterly devastated.

They quickly and silently exited through the back door and, finding themselves in the next room, collapsed into chairs and burst into laughter—quiet, hysterical laughter, the laughter of relief.

Shapiro, like a robot, walked out into the long, empty corridor of headquarters. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, pounding in his temples. He walked along the stone tiles, and with each step, the ghostly, shining Mercedes in his imagination faded, crumbled to dust, melted like the last snow under the merciless spring sun. When he reached the end of the corridor and stared at the blank wall, he realized with icy clarity: he had lost everything. His dream, his passion, his Grossers—it was all over. Forever...

... Passion that has grown into mania is like a forest fire—it burns everything in its path, without regard for right or wrong. General Shapiro's obsessive collecting cast a shadow not only on himself but on everything he touched. His famous name, his achievements—everything was called into question. And if such a man is under suspicion, then who can be considered innocent? A comprehensive investigation was launched into everything connected to his activities, including the Nikopol underground, which he led.

This investigation was led by Lieutenant General Isay Yakovlevich BABICH, a native of the city of Berislav in the Kherson province, a man with an impenetrable face and a reputation for incorruptibility. He investigated everyone. The chain of suspicion reached Anna Harvart.

The summons was personally handed to her by the chairman of the Nikopol city council. He summoned her to his office, and his usually friendly face was serious.

— Here, Anna Alexandrovna,- he handed her a folded piece of paper, not looking her in the eye. "For you. The building across the street.

Anna took the paper silently. She didn't need to specify which building. The gloomy gray building with barred windows opposite the city council was familiar to every resident of the city.

— I know, - she said quietly.

At home, she showed the summons to Mikhail. His face darkened.

— They're checking everyone who had any connection with the Germans, - he said, squeezing her hand. - I wouldn't be surprised if they come for me soon, too. Be careful, Anya.

The next day, Anna stepped into the building across the street. The air inside was thick and stuffy, smelling of stale tobacco, cheap ink, and fear. In the NKVD operative's office, lined with safes and cardboard folders, she was met by a thin man with colorless 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?

— Here's this mandate, - Anna handed over the treasured piece of paper, which she always carried with her as a safe conduct. The detective took the paper, glanced at it briefly, and set it aside as if it were worthless.

— And nothing else?

— No. Nothing.

— What did you talk about?

— I... I was very glad to see him," Anna's voice wavered as memories flooded back. "It was our first meeting. Before that, I only knew him by his call sign, Tok.

The investigator leaned forward, his voice hissing and venomous.

— So how come you worked underground and never saw your boss? How come?

— Well, I... well... - Anna was taken aback by the absurdity of the question. "I only saw the liaison officer twice the entire time. We had the strictest secrecy.

— Secrecy, you say? - He chuckled, and there was something disgusted in his grin. "And why didn't the Germans take you, so useful and beautiful, to Germany? They were taking everyone away, but you stayed.

— But they needed me here more, - Anna retorted heatedly. - They thought I was more useful here.

— And why weren't you identified? - He slammed his fist on the table, making her wince. - I see. You worked for them. And you gave the Germans the secrets of the underground." Anna's breath caught in her throat. Injustice and horror darkened her vision.

— How can you?! - she blurted out.

— I can! - the detective snapped. - Because I know. You're a traitor. And you'll be taken to your cell today. Guard!

The door swung open, revealing an armed soldier.

— Take her to her cell!

Anna jumped up, tears of anger and resentment welling up in her eyes.

— How dare you? I'll complain to General Shapiro!

The detective grinned broadly, relishing his moment of power.

— Complain! Complain. He's in the cell too.

These words struck Anna like a blow. She was led down a long, dimly lit corridor. A heavy bolt creaked, and she found herself in a small, completely empty cell with bare walls and a cement floor. The door slammed shut. She sat there for exactly an hour.

Sixty minutes that felt like an eternity. All she heard was the guard's measured footsteps outside the door and the pounding of her own heart. Her thoughts were jumbled: what if Misha had been taken too? What if this was the end? What if Shapiro really had been arrested, and her warrant was just a scrap of paper?

An hour later, the door opened again. The same detective stood at the threshold.

— Come out. You can go home.

Anna, not believing her ears, instinctively walked out into the hallway.

— Is this... a test? - she whispered.

— None of your business,- the detective replied dryly. - Don't leave the city. Come back for a debriefing on Monday. There will be more questions.

He turned and left. Anna stood alone in the cold hallway, shaking all over. She had been released, but it felt as if she had just been dusted off, only to be thrown back into the same cell on Monday. The hour spent behind bars had changed something in her irrevocably. Now she understood: her achievements, her risk, her victory—all of it could instantly turn into evidence of guilt. And only a miracle could save her...

...Dawn was just beginning to wash away the inky blue outside the window when there was a knock on their door. The knock was soft, but insistent, metallic—not a good omen. Mikhail, a light sleeper, opened the door. Two uniformed men stood on the threshold, their faces impassive.

— Mikhail Mikhailovich Khristinsky?

— Me.

— Get ready. I need to talk to you.

Anna jumped out of bed, her eyes blazing with fear. Mikhail, trying to maintain a calm he didn't have inside, nodded to her: "Everything is fine." He was led away.

He was brought to the same office where Anna had been interrogated. The air here seemed to have absorbed all the fear from the previous "conversations." They sat him down on a chair and left him alone. The minutes dragged on agonizingly. Finally, the door opened, and the same detective who had interrogated Anna entered. His colorless eyes slid over Mikhail with cold curiosity.

He sat silently at the table, took a piece of paper from the folder, and placed it in front of Mikhail.

— Is this your signature? - His voice was even, indifferent.

Mikhail glanced at it. A manifest for the issuance of ten cans of meat.

— Yes, - he nodded. - Mine.

— What did you get ten cans of meat for? - The detective stared at him, expectantly.

— So I repaired two motorcycles for your general. Zundappas.

— What else did the general give you?

— Nothing.

— What did he tell you?

— Nothing special.- He asked how long the repairs would take.

— How long did it take you?

— All evening, late into the night. And finished in the morning.

The detective made a note in his notebook, then looked up, and a barely perceptible light flickered in his eyes.

— Where did you sleep?

The question was so absurd that Mikhail was taken aback. He looked at the investigator, confused.

— 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, starting to get irritated. - I don't know where his house is.

— Did you see anything else in the garage?

— Well, the cars.

—How many?

— I don't remember... two or three.

— Tell me exactly! - the detective's voice became sharp, like the crack of a whip.

— Three, -  Mikhail said crisply. - Three vehicles. German. Trophies.

— What did they feed you?

— I didn't eat. I'm not hungry when I work. Well, when I finished, they fed me. They gave me the canned goods I signed for.

The detective wrote something down again. The pause dragged on. It seemed the interrogation was over. But no.

— What kind of watch did the general have? — followed a new, completely idiotic question.

Mikhail, already exhausted by this game, sighed with irritation.

— I don't remember that. I had no time for watches.

And then the strangest thing began. The detective, without changing his expression, asked. A dozen stupid, incoherent questions.

— What was the weather like that day? Cold?

— Were the birds singing in the city when you returned?

— Are you used to going to bed late?

— Was your wife worried?

— Do you have children?

Mikhail, gritting his teeth, answered in monosyllables: "Cold," "Didn't notice," "Yes," "I don't know," "No." He understood that they weren't catching him in a lie—they were breaking him. They were humiliating him with absurdity, to see how he would behave under pressure.

Finally, the detective put down his pen.

— Okay. You're free.

Mikhail didn't move, not believing that this was the end.

— You can go, - the detective repeated, already looking at other papers.

Mikhail slowly rose and headed for the door.

— Khristinsky! - the detective called out to him, not looking. Mikhail stopped. "Don't leave the city. You're back for questioning on Monday.

Mikhail walked out into the corridor. He was alive, he was free. But he felt as if he were covered in sticky, indelible mud. And he knew it would happen again on Monday...

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 driveway, squeezed between two houses, long, slanting shadows from the fence and trees still lay. These shadows, like cool streaks, covered the motorcycles, parts, and spare parts scattered everywhere. Amid this metallic chaos, Mikhail was busy over a disassembled engine. His back and torso, bare and tanned, glistened with a light sweat.

Anna stepped out onto the porch, yawned, and, stretching, approached her husband. Her bare feet felt the coolness of the packed earth.

— Good morning.

He turned, wiping his hand on a greasy rag. A smile lit up his thoughtful face.

— Hello, Anya. You're up already.

— Have you had breakfast?

— Yes, don't worry. I drank some tea and ate a sandwich.

She silently squatted down next to him, lifting the hem of her light summer housedress. Without saying a word, she admired his strong arms, covered with small scratches, his firm torso, his dark skin with curling light hairs. Her gaze rose to his face, to his thick, slightly tousled hair. She couldn't resist reaching out, gently stroking his hair. Mikhail bowed his head, nestling into her palm.

— Anna, do you know who came to see me yesterday?

A slight wariness appeared in her movements, and her hand dropped.

— And who is it? - Her voice softened slightly.

— Kristinsky. Roman Khristinsky.

Anna frowned, running through familiar names in her mind.

"Who is it? One of the new clients?"

— No. It turns out... - He put down the screwdriver and turned to her, his face serious. - It turns out I come from a family of nine sons and two daughters. I was the youngest.

Anna froze, her eyes widening in amazement. She blinked several times, as if checking to see if she was asleep.

— Are you saying you have... eleven brothers and sisters? - She said this slowly, barely comprehending the words. "How am I supposed to understand that? You... you're Mikhail Goldovsky. The watchmaker's son.

— Exactly. - But it was only because my father was a Khristinsky that he couldn't feed such a crowd. Roman is the eldest, now approaching fifty. He remembers how hard it was for my father. There was no bread. We were always hungry. And then... Papa gave me over to a watchmaker, Mikhail Goldovsky, to be kept. I was three or four years old. I vaguely remember only screams, crying, and a constant feeling of hunger.

He fell silent, looking off into the past. Anna followed his gaze, but saw only the glint of the morning sun on chrome cylinders, steel frames, curved handlebars, and a lone motorcycle fender. All this was his world, a world he had built himself.

— Well..." She chose her words carefully. - Don't you regret? What happened?

— No. Not for a second. - His voice became firm and clear again. - I learned a real craft from my father — from Mikhail. I became a master. I can assemble and disassemble any mechanism with my eyes closed. And there... - he waved his hand to the side, over the fence. - And there I wouldn't have learned anything. Only to starve and survive.

He paused, gathering his thoughts, looking at his wife.

— You know what I promised my brother, Roman Khristinsky?

— So what? - Her voice took on a wary tone again.

— That you and I would go to their Baptist church next Sunday.

— Are you sure? - She recoiled, as if from an unexpected jolt. - Mikhail, do we have to go? We never... we don't go to church.

— You see, this is... a tribute. And gratitude. From me. And from you.

— Gratitude?- She looked at him with utter bewilderment. — To whom? And for what?

Mikhail sighed deeply. He moved closer to her, put his arm around her shoulders, and his fingers, smelling of machine oil and metal, gently squeezed her slender bone.

— Darling. I don't know who. Maybe fate. Maybe that watchmaker who became a father to me. Maybe that God they believe in. I just want... to look at them. At my brothers and sisters. To see what kind of nest I come from. 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 pleading were mingled, she gave in. Her shoulders relaxed under his arm. — No. I don't mind. Okay, Misha. Let's go...

...The following Sunday, they went to a modest Baptist meetinghouse. Mikhail, in his only worn suit, feltHe was out of his element, dressed in a sparse dress and embarrassed, his fingers constantly reaching out to adjust his collar or cuff. Anna, on the other hand, was filled with curiosity from the very threshold.

Her eyes slid with interest over the parishioners, especially the women in white and blue headscarves, their calm and spiritual faces. She carefully read the simple but capacious verses from Scripture painted directly on the walls: "God is love," "The Lord is my shepherd," "God and sin no more." Each phrase made her think, giving birth to a quiet, previously unfamiliar response in her soul...

... The prayer house of the Nikopol Baptists was simple and unpretentious: whitewashed walls, rows of wooden pews, a modest pulpit for the preacher in the front part and a small table covered with a homespun tablecloth. The air was thick with the scent of wax, wood, and something elusive—calm and concentration.

The service began without much pomp. The preacher, a man of about fifty with a haggard but inspired face, delivered a quiet, heartfelt prayer, and the congregation, without a command, responded with a quiet "Amen." Then someone in the front row began to sing. They sang without an organ or choir, but so harmoniously and powerfully that Anna caught her breath. Voices of varying timbres—the men's low bars, the women's clear sopranos and altos—merged into a single, stirring flow.

One of the sisters, sitting nearby, handed Anna and Mikhail a small, tattered book of psalms with a gentle smile. Mikhail took it awkwardly, feeling like a stranger, but Anna, opening it, was surprised to find familiar lines. She couldn't remember where she'd heard them—maybe from her grandmother as a child, maybe briefly in the synagogue.

"Praise the Lord and sing!

How sweet it is to sing His praises!

To Him alone build

The organs of your heart..."

She began to hum along quietly, in a low voice. The words touched her soul with an inexplicable warmth. Mikhail stood silently, clutching the booklet in his hands and looking ahead. He wasn't singing, but he was attentive. The words of the psalm seemed to speak to him personally.

— By whom are the walls of the city raised,

Will he not protect the citizens?

By whom are the sorrows of the spirit healed,

Will he not heal the wounds of the flesh?

He thought about his wounds—not physical ones, but those hidden deep within his soul: his childhood hunger, his sense of abandonment. And the words about the One who "heals the sorrows of the spirit" resonated with a quiet, timid hope.

They sang of the Creator's greatness, of His mercy to the meek, and of how He "casts the proud into the pit." Anna hung on every word, and it seemed to her that the hazy and disturbing things in her life suddenly acquired some higher, albeit not entirely clear, meaning.

As they finished singing the last verse, the harsh, harsh sound of trucks braking could be heard outside. The singing paused for a moment, but almost immediately resumed, even louder and more confident. The doors of the prayer house swung open with a bang.

Armed NKVD operatives entered the hall silently, their eyes scanning the audience. Their boots clattered roughly on the wooden floor. In the ensuing silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the people, their footsteps sounded like hammer blows. Then a familiar figure appeared in the doorway—the same operative who had interrogated Anna and Mikhail. His face broke into a triumphant grin.

— Attention! You are all under arrest for anti-Soviet activities! No one leaves the building! You will be led out according to the list now! - His voice, harsh and metallic, cut through the silence.

The roll call began. Names, one after another. People obediently rose and walked toward the exit under escort. There was no panic, no shouting. Only the quiet whisper of a prayer. When it was Anna and Mikhail's turn, the operative approached them. His mischievous eyes took delight in capturing their fear.

— Aha. - Gotcha, my dears, — he jabbed the revolver hard into Mikhail's back. - Well, now you're not getting away with this. German spies. You'll end up in a camp, like little darlings.

He roughly pushed Mikhail forward. Anna staggered after her husband, clinging to his sleeve. Her world was crumbling. Fear gripped her throat like an icy lump.

And then something happened that they couldn't understand. As soon as they, along with the next group of prisoners, began to be loaded into closed vehicles, a hymn began to pour forth with renewed vigor from the crowd of believers remaining in the prayer house. They sang, drowning out the roar of the engines and the harsh shouts of the guards.

For the Gospel faith,

For Christ we will stand.

Following His example,

Forward, forward, after Him!

Anna and Mikhail, pushed into the back of a tarpaulin-covered semi-truck smelling of gasoline and sweat, turned around. They saw the faces of those being led out behind them. They expected to see horror, despair, tears. But instead, they saw bright, inspired, almost happy faces. Not a plea, not a groan. People with their heads held high, smiling heavenward, walked toward their destiny, accompanied by the singing of their brothers and sisters.

For Anna and Mikhail, who lived in a world where survival, work, and family were the most important values, this sight was a moral shock of incredible force. They sat huddled together in the shaking truck, unable to utter a word. Their fear of the future had not disappeared, but it was pushed aside, suppressed by burning shame and amazement.They were overcome with awe before this power of spirit, which they could not comprehend. These people sang as they walked to their execution. And their singing was so powerful that it chilled the heart and shattered all familiar notions of life...

 

Chapter 20. The Church of the Christians

The Nikopol prison was an ugly scar on the city. The five-story building, gray as the autumn sky, was framed by a high, solid fence topped with barbed wire that gleamed in the sun like the grin of a steel beast. Time stood still in this place, permeated with fear, despair, and the smell of cheap tobacco.

The prison warden, Vsevolod Apollonovich Balitsky, saw these walls not as a place of sorrow, but as a springboard for a career. He, a man with a distinguished name inherited from the Tsarist era, fiercely courted the NKVD leadership, cherishing the dream of a transfer to Kyiv or Moscow. His prison, as befits a model prison, was overcrowded. And Balitsky saw "spies" everywhere. He saw them in every other trader at the market, in the thoughtful look of a schoolteacher, in the careless word of a city council official. This manic suspicion was a typical relapse of the post-war period, a poisonous fungus that had sprouted in all the territories liberated from the Germans. Fear became currency, and denunciations a passport to a bright future.

Among the many caught in this flywheel and ground to pieces was Anna. Lieutenant Balitsky personally interrogated her. The office was lined with government-issued filing cabinets and smelled of dust and power.

— Last name! Year of birth! - His voice was even, indifferent, like the clatter of a typewriter.

— What do you do for a living?

— What information did you pass on to the Germans? - Anna, exhausted, her hands shaking from lack of sleep, quietly replied.

— Comrade Chief, you have it all written down.

She knew that any words she spoke were meaningless. Balitsky didn't yet know that Anna was pregnant. She had been in prison from June to October, charged with an absurd "spy ring" case, which allegedly included General Shapiro. The days blurred into a gray mass of hunger, fear, and humiliation. And only when her belly finally rounded out under her shabby dress did Balitsky finally understand.

He looked at her with irritation, as if she had slipped him unaccounted evidence, an obstacle to a carefully fabricated case. By then, the political tide had shifted: the case against General Shapiro was dropped, and he himself was promoted to commander of the Red Army. In a chain reaction, due to insufficient evidence, Anna's husband, Mikhail Khristinsky, was also released.

They were free, but it was the freedom of ruins. Returning to their home, they found empty, dusty rooms.

— Looters... - Mikhail whispered, his voice hoarse with anger and pain, looking around at the bare walls. - While we were sitting there, they carried off all our shabby furniture. All of it.

He clutched his head and slowly sank to the floor, into the corner where their bed had once stood. Anna silently came over and sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her rounded belly was a living reproach to this madness.

— I can't live here anymore, - Mikhail's voice broke, a deep ache in it.

— We have to run away from here. Away.

— Where to? - Anna asked quietly, stroking his clenched fists.

— Abroad. To America, anywhere.

— They won't let you out. You're now unreliable. An enemy of the people.

— So what happens? - He stood up abruptly and paced the empty room, his gigantic, ugly shadow bouncing across the walls. "So are we both now banned from traveling abroad? Forever chained to this damned place?"

— Yes, - Anna answered with a strange, new calm. - We'll have to settle here. Among these ashes.

Mikhail stopped in front of her, his face contorted in despair.

— What, Anna? How can we settle in this hell? In this total lawlessness that's going on all around us? They could come for us again. Tonight. Tomorrow.

He fell silent, catching his breath.

— You know, - he said more quietly, brokenly. - I see only one way out of this nightmare. One. To start reading the Bible and praying. Praying to forget… to forget all this humiliation, this prison, this fear that gnaws at my soul from within. To find at least some meaning.

Anna looked up at him, and in them, through the veil of tears, a spark of hope glimmered, the very same hope that even prison couldn’t extinguish.

— Yes, - she said firmly. - We need spiritual strength, Mikhail. Not earthly strength; that was taken from us. But a different kind. We’ll sing psalms at home, like those brothers and sisters in the prayer house when they were arrested. Remember? They sang, and the Chekists shouted at them.

From that day on, they made it a rule to pray and sing every Sunday in their devastated home. At first, just the two of them. Their quiet voices, merging in ancient chants, filled the void and healed the wounds. Soon, Mikhail's brother, Roman, joined them, equally disgraced and tormented.

Anna gave birth to her first child, Vladimir, in February 1947. To their surprise, not only family but also Anna's former friends and Mikhail's friends — fellow "former spies," also persecuted and hunted by the authorities—came to the christening and simply to congratulate them. The devastated house began to fill not with things, but with souls.

One Sunday, another couple arrived, their eyes equally frightened but yearning for peace. They prayed together, sang psalms, and in these songs was contained all their pain, all their hope, and all their defiance. Someone jokingly named their small community "The Church of the Christians," a play on their last name. The name stuck. The authorities hadn't yet realized this quiet island of faith amidst an ocean of fear. Or perhaps they didn't notice, considering them broken and harmless.

When they all gathered together in June 1947, there were already sixteen of them. Sixteen destinies, twisted by the Soviet system. Sixteen voices singing psalms in a half-empty house with curtained windows. This was their secret consolation and their quiet, unshakable strength in the harsh post-war years, when the authorities were raging, and they, despite everything, taught.

 

Part Three. Chapter 21. Nikitin Rog

On the highest hill of Mys Kamenka, where only eagles dared to build nests, stood a reed hut, plastered with clay. This was the hut of Mykita and Rada. From the summit, called Mykitin Rog by their neighbors, a view opened up in all four directions — a view not so much beautiful as alarming.

For from each of these directions a threat loomed: from the east, waves of ferocious Tatars rolled in on their low-mounted horses; from the west, warlike Ugrians made their way through the forests; from the north, the Rus descended in boats; and from the south, from the hot steppe, a cloud of Nogai horsemen rushed.

But they avoided this "cursed" place. And the fault lay not in the high, horn-shaped cape, nor in the palisade, but in Mykita itself and its strange horn.

Their kuren, like a giant bird's nest, was woven from thick willow twigs and coated with a thick layer of gray clay to keep the wind from blowing away the warmth. Inside stood a clay oven. The kuren smelled of smoke, damp earth, dried herbs, and sheep's wool.

Flintmaking was the main industry of Mykita's kuren. Stozhar made steel strikers from metal, Veles made flint, and Rada and her mother made flax and tow. On market days, they could exchange ten flints for useful household items made of wood, fabric, and ceramics. The walls of the kuren were hung with skins — sheep, goat, and even wild steppe saiga antelopes hunted by Mykita.

At the edge of Mykita's Horn, the northern forests ended and the Dnieper steppes began. The Dnieper's expanse, rich in fish and various game, from deer to wild horses and timid hares, wild boars, and foxes, bred on its numerous islands.

The entire family slept on soft skins, covered with warm bedspreads of coarse fabric, woven by Rada and her daughter, Heroda, from willow shingles on a simple loom.

During the day, the main decoration of the dwelling was Mykita himself, sitting at the entrance and working on his great brainchild — the Horn. For two long winters, while blizzards howled beyond the walls and wolves crept to the very foot of the cape, Mykita never parted with the mammoth tusk. He ground it with sandstone, polished it with rough leather, until it became smooth and polished, reflecting the sunlight.

But the most important thing was the two air vents. Two holes that he drilled with a bone and bronze drill, wetting them with water and sand. Two long, monotonous winters were spent on this. One air vent, narrow, for the lips. The other wide, for the air to escape and the powerful sound that would be born within.

He had seen such a horn among the Rusichi when they sailed down the Dnieper, past their kuren camp. But he wanted to make not a replica, but one that was stronger, larger, and more powerful.

So that the sound of the horn would ward off evil forces. Two strong young men lifted the heavy horn, along with Mykita, and set it on three stones next to the hut.

None of the tribesmen could handle the horn, so they blew it, as if into a hunting pipe, their lips pursed out of habit.

Strong warriors and agile hunters tried, but all they could produce was a pitiful "be-me" or a muffled "goo-goo." But here, they had to exert force with their lips and stretch their taut lips to produce the sound.

And Mykitino's famous "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 within the ancient bone, a miracle occurred.

A low, piercing, and all-destroying sound rolled from the cape of the kuren like a wave, crashing against the rocks of Orlov Island and echoing across all the small islands.

This sound caused animals to flee their lairs in fear, birds to fly from their nests, and people—those same formidable enemies—to flee, whispering of "the place where the mountain spirit itself speaks." Here, the toponymy of the cape, shaped like a horn on a hill, and the horn like a trumpet, intertwined. Mykita affectionately named his horn Olifanta.

Under the protection of their father and mother, their children grew up—two heroic sons, Veles and Stozhar, and a daughter, Heroda. They were the very flesh of this cape and this kuren.Veles, the eldest, inherited his father's steady 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, sharp scrapers for tanning hides and heavy millstones, seine sinkers and hunting slings, pestles and mortars, jewelry and idols were born.

Every blow was carefully calculated, every chip part of the design. His fingers were perpetually bruised, but he ignored it as he crafted tools without which the family would be defenseless and hungry.

Stozhar, the youngest, burned with a different fire—an earthly fire, the fire of smelting. He was a master of bronze. Not far from his house, on the bank of a clay cliff, he dug a small furnace with ducts drawing air from the Dnieper lowland.

He heard the Rus' use of a naturally-blown forge on the great holiday of Kupala in the summer. In the twilight, intoxicated by hemp, they didn't notice his boy, who listened breathlessly in the reeds while they loudly boasted to each other.

Apparently, noble Rus' forgers were at work. And now, even bloomery iron, harder than bronze, was melted in his forge. Here, in clouds of acrid smoke, he smelted yellowish bloomery ore and scrap copper and tin, obtained in bartering expeditions. He poured the red-hot metal into special clay molds, creating knives that glistened in the sun, sturdy awls, and elegant jewelry for his sister and mother. His world was one of fire, metal, and the magic of transformation.

And in the very heart of the house, by the light of the hearth, Rada and Geroda toiled. Their kingdom was leather and cord. Heroda, dexterous and patient, helped her mother dress sheepskins, scraping off the fat and flesh with a scraper made by her brother. Then they stretched them, dried them, and finally kneaded and smoked them to make them soft and prevent them from rotting.

Using needles made of bird bone or bronze from Stozhar, they sewed pieces of leather together with sinew cords, creating durable clothing, shoes, bags, and blankets. Under their hands, the hide came to life, becoming a second skin for the entire family, protecting them from the cold and wind.

And so they lived on their impregnable Horn. Mykita was the guardian and voice of their fortress. Rada was the keeper of the hearth and comfort. Veles was the provider and weaponsmith. Stozhar was the blacksmith and artisan. Heroda was 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 would walk out to the horned edge of the cape, press his lips to a mammoth tusk, and send his mighty "oo-doo-doo-doo-doo" into the gathering darkness—a song about how this house, this family, and this will are unshakable...

...The years passed. Veles became a broad-shouldered hero, whose hands, accustomed to crushing stone, could bend a horseshoe forged by his brother. But along with his strength, a strange melancholy settled in his heart.

He still worked diligently, and his mortars and pestles were reputed to be the largest and strongest in the kurens of Mykitin Rog, but his gaze often slid beyond the horizon, northward beyond the silvery ribbon of the Dnieper.

And one spring morning, he saw HER. In the life of every warrior and craftsman, this happens once.

It was the Rus tribe from Cuiaba, sailing downriver. They sang harmoniously with the stroke of the oars, and SHE led the singing. The long boat cut through the water. And at the stern, like a banner of sunbeams, stood SHE.

Her golden hair, not braided in his usual braid but loose, fluttered in the wind like a wheat field under an invisible breath. She didn't row, didn't fuss, but stood motionless, gazing at the distant shores, and in her posture there was a mixture of pride and sadness that pierced Veles's heart.

He didn't say a word. Not to his father, whose authority was unquestioned, nor to his brother, immersed in the mysteries of bronze. But the decision matured within him instantly, like steel in the furnace of Stozhar. He would go to the Rus. He will find her.

All winter, while the January wind, piercing the walls, chilled the hut, forcing the family to huddle closer around the hearth, Veles prepared. He set aside his crude mortar blanks and began creating something unusual for him—small, elegant objects.

By the light of a tallow lamp, he used a flint chisel to trace the shapes of tiny animals: a running deer, a wolf's head, a curled seal. He polished smooth stone "hearts" and drilled holes in them for a cord. These were not just trinkets—they were his language, his offering, his ransom.

But his main concern was the horse. A strong, hardy steppe stallion was to become his legs and his armor.

 Veles spent days crafting the harness. Together with his mother, the wise Rada, he tanned the most durable leather. Rada, whose eyes saw not only the seams of his clothes but also the seams of his son's soul, understood everything immediately.

She noticed how he, usually silent, began to quietly hum strange, pensive melodies as he gazed at the flames. She didn't ask questions, but merely helped, placing a maternal blessing into every buckle and belt.

They sewed a special saddle, comfortable for both rider and horse, with soft pads under the croup so that the long journey wouldn't wear the steed's back raw. A long saddle for both.

When the first thawed patches darkened the slopes of Mykita's Horn, and the air filled with dampness and the promise of warmth, Veles prepared to set out.

He said nothing to his father—the proud Mykita might not understand and might forbid him to go.towards an unknown tribe. But he looked his mother in the eyes and simply said.

— I'm going to seek my happiness, Mother. To the Rus.His path was long and full of dangers. He avoided large camps, spending the night in the open, feeding on hunting. He crossed other people's kurens, where they looked at him with suspicion, and passed the outskirts of the forest-steppes, where every hill and grove could hide a rider.

He followed the tracks of animals and the stars, which showed him the way north. And he went. Up the Dnieper, from where fast boats arrived. First he followed the Chumaks' path, then turned west along the Muravsky path. He reached the large settlement of Kuiaba on the Dnieper. The inhabitants of Kuiaba surrounded him and led him to the elder.

And there Veles saw his golden-haired songstress on that boat. She is the elder's daughter. Bargaining began immediately. Veles laid out all his treasures before his father and the warriors, who had immediately gathered: sable and marten furs, a bronze dagger crafted by Stozhar, and, most importantly, those very same stone figurines — the result of his painstaking winter labor. "This is a bribe for my bride," he said firmly. The bribe was rich, very rich...

And so, in midsummer, when the air was thick with the scent of warm grains and blooming grasses, he returned.

First, a lone figure on horseback was noticed on the cape. It was Veles, but what a sight he had been.

Tanned, with new scars on his arms, but with a light in his eyes no one had ever seen. And behind him, on another horse, sat she. A girl with a braid of hair whiter than flax, braided into a heavy plait that glittered in the sun.

 Her eyes, blue as the waters of the Dnieper on a clear day, gazed fearlessly at the unfamiliar dwelling and the powerful, gray-haired old man who came out to greet them. Mykita, hearing the noise, emerged from the hut and froze upon seeing his son and the stranger.

"Father, I have returned. And I have brought my destiny with me. Her name is Zlata," said Veles, dismounting and kneeling to bless.

But then something unexpected happened. As Mykita, frowning, was about to speak, Zlata herself stepped forward. Her words were a little strange, but understandable.

— My father, Gostomysl, also demanded a large ransom, - she said, looking directly at Mykita. - But when Veles named his name and the name of his father, Mykita of the Big Horn, whose fame and whose thunderous voice reached our lands, my father’s anger changed to mercy. He said, "They will give birth to heroes whose spirit will be stronger than steel. And he gave me away without unnecessary trouble or ransom."

Mykita listened, and the stern lines 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 ransom, but also by respect for his family - the Mykitin Family.

Silently, he approached Veles, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and then turned to Zlata and nodded toward the entrance to the hut. This was the highest sign of approval.

That evening, on Mykitin Rog, there was no alarming "oo-doo-doo-doo-doo" that scattered wild animals. Instead, the air was filled with laughter, the smell of roasting game, and the ringing of wedding bells. cups. Mykita and Rada's family grew. And it seemed as if fate itself had blessed this high cape of Mykitin Rog for many years...

...The evening air over the Dnieper was thick and sweet. It was woven from the scents of the earth steamed during the day, wormwood, hemp, the smoke from the fireplaces of the neighboring kurens that spread in gray strands along the hillsides, and the barely perceptible freshness wafting from the mighty river.

The sun itself, setting in the west, turned the expanse into living gold. The steppe grasses, not yet mown, swayed in the light breeze like the sea, and somewhere high above, a steppe eagle soared, watching for prey.

The family gathered on a hillock near the large kuren of Mykita's father, blackened by time and rain. The walls were made of thick willow twigs in two layers, The clay-coated houses breathed the warmth of the sun accumulated during the day.

The open door wafted the aroma of smoldering logs in the wattle and daub stove, along with the aroma of boiled wheat porridge with lard and dried herbs. Chickens were grazing in the courtyard, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened logs, and the lowing of a small herd of cows could be heard from the corral.

Mykit's father, a man with a graying beard and hands streaked with veins and scars, sat on the very edge of a roughly constructed stall. He glanced around his family: his wife, Rada, still stately but with tired, kind eyes, was mending a rough linen shirt.

Herod's daughter, fair-haired and quick in her movements, was sorting through freshly picked mushrooms in a wicker basket. Brother Stozhar, broad-shouldered and silent, He was sharpening a heavy knife set in a wooden frame on a whetstone. Opposite him, perched on a log, sat his eldest son, Veles, and next to him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, was his young wife, Zlata. Her long hair, braided, was the color of ripe rye.

Mykita spat out the hemp stalk he was chewing, and his voice, hoarse and quiet, disturbed the evening peace.

— You and your wife need a new kuren, - he began, looking at Veles.

—When the children come, it's cramped here. Look, the walls are breathing; there's plenty of room for your mother, you, and your sister, but there's no new branch.

— Yes, Dad, - Veles nodded, hugging Zlata's shoulders. - Zlata and I were thinking about that.

— Choose land higher up, on Yarilin Hill, he added confidently. Stozhar, noTearing his eyes away from the blade. The hiss of steel on stone was his accompaniment. - From there, you can see the steppe, and the slope down to the river is steep; they won't get there unnoticed.

— No, brother, - Heroda countered timidly, almost in a whisper, raising her clear eyes to him. - We need to get closer to the water. Zlata has to carry water in a yoke… fewer steps. And in the summer, she has to wash and rinse clothes… It's hard for her to run up that hill.

Mykita smiled, and his smile held all the wisdom of his years.

— You don't remember, Heroda, none of you young people remember, - he glanced around at everyone, - how the Dnieper flooded that year when the Greeks and their oar - powered triremes came here from the south for barter. After them, the following year, when the snow melted and it rained for two days, the water rose... So high it reached our fence, right here.

— He pointed his finger at the base of the palisade. - The kurens that stood below were washed away like splinters. We saved our cattle on the roofs. So, son, you must build on the mountain. Water is both nourisher and destroyer.

— Isn't that possible? - Heroda exclaimed, and the mushroom fell from her hands. She gazed at the broad, calm ribbon of the Dnieper, glittering golden in the distance. - That's... a sea spilling out from us!

— So, son, on the mountain, - Mykita repeated firmly.

Veles sighed and rose. He was as stately as his father, but his gaze was fixed on the future.

— And Zlata and I have already found a place for ourselves, - he said.

- In Kamenka Tokovskaya. Where the stream falls, and the boulders lie, red and black, glittering like snowflakes. A powerful place. And as a stonecutter, I don't have far to travel for material. - He turned and gestured broadly toward the backyard, littered with hewn stone blocks, millstone blanks, and heavy pestles. - You step outside — and there you have material for your work. I'll build the walls from our own stone.

— A marvelous wonder, - said his daughter-in-law. I've never seen such stones, with snowflakes. They sparkle like winter snow. And now it's summer.

— The Labrador sparkles so much,- Veles said knowingly.

— But it's far from my father's house! - Mother Rada's voice trembled with sudden anxiety. She put down her sewing. "How will I run to my grandchildren? Across the field, along that snake path... so far, Veles!

— Mom, -Veles came over and put his hand on her shoulder. - It's just a stone's throw away. Zlata and I walked—the sun hadn't even moved past noon, and we were already back and forth. It was as if we'd never left. The path is good, there's no scent of wild animals.

He paused, looking at his hands, accustomed to the weight of the stone.

— Tomorrow at dawn I'll go to Tokovskaya Kamenka. I'll prepare the foundation stone. It's heavy, granite. - The whistle of the whetstone ceased. Stozhar sheathed his knife and rose to his full, heroic height.

— I'll come and help you," he said simply. There was no argument or approval of his choice in his words—only a brotherly confidence in the necessity of the task.

Rada sighed, but tears were already glistening in the corners of her eyes, mingling sadness with the beginnings of a new joy. Mykita nodded silently, his gaze gliding over the endless steppe expanses, over the mighty Dnieper carrying its waters into the distance, and stopping on his son's face. There was acceptance in that gaze.

Thus, to the whisper of the evening wind in the feather grass, to the cries of seagulls flying over the Dnieper, with the scent of smoke and rotting grass in the air, construction of a new kuren began on Tokovskaya Kamenka. A new branch of the family took root in this ancient, generous, and harsh land...

... Tok-Tok, Tok-Tok hammers Veles's chisel. From morning until late evening, Tok-Tok. Tok-Tok. Until his father's mighty "oo-doo-doo-doo-doo" resounds. And Veles goes to the Kamenka River, five steps away, to wash off the stone dust. He had long ago noticed those mighty granite boulders. But they were too large for a foundation.

So he decided to split them first in half, then in half again, and so on until he reached the required size. He begged his brother Stozhar to make him a heavy hammer and a chisel. And twenty metal wedges. He drilled a small hole in the boulder, drove a wooden peg into it, and watered it three times a day.

Sometimes, Zlata was watered. And she couldn't understand why she was watering the wooden pegs. But when on the third day the enormous boulder split, she exclaimed, "Water wears away stone. And Zlata carries water," and laughed at her power.

Veles used this method to make several more granite blocks for the future house. But everything, as usual, happens "suddenly." Suddenly, toward the end of the sultry summer, rain began. For two days, it rained nonstop. And the Kamenka River turned into a raging river, and the torrent carried its heavy, chopped stones downstream, an arrow's throw away, into the lowlands. He and Zlata watched their stones roll down the Kamenka with a heavy rumbling sound, as if a giant were growling and sighing as he shifted the heavy boulders.

These stones, worn away by water, lay in the bed of the Kamenka River for seven hundred years. The water had worn down its sharp edges, and now they lay edgeless—rounded, almost polished by the water.

And the Kamenka River had changed its course, and these boulders scattered across the hill. It was these boulders that the stonecutter Artem noticed when he received the order for the Nikopol station platform... "forty-five oblongs and twenty small ones. Each one a work of art. Smooth angles, polished finishes. The work of a jeweler, not a stonecutter."

...The autonomous drone Vector nimbly darts between passengers, offering water, lemonade, and ice cream. He tells the weary Gena the story of the stone platform.

— Where did you get such details?

— I'm a new-generation drone. Hydrogen-powered. Equipped with a radiocarbon dating system.

I'm an insulator, I have the ability to penetrate the structure of a stone and study its lineage.

— Okay. Okay. I have no doubt you're smarter 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 at home—the train is leaving now.

— Give me the flash drive.

— Buy a token.

— Give him a token, daughter.

— Are you sure there's something about Gena Yampolsky here?

— Gena. There's not much about you there. It's more about your ancestors.

— I'll call you, Gena calls out goodbye.

— Call. You'll find the phone number on a flash drive...

https://ahmir.ru/news/143-nikolaj-matvienko-roman-perron-2025-god-nikopol 

 The ending is in the third part of the novel