Child 44

– You useless, clumsy, stupid boy. Where is my son? Where is he?

She pulled the spoon out again but he was crying and choking. He couldn’t talk. He just kept crying and coughing and so she hit him, pounding her hands on his tiny chest. Only when the borscht was in danger of boiling over did she stop. She stood up, moving the soup off the fire.

Andrei whimpered on the floor. Oksana looked down at him, her anger melting away. He was so small. He loved his older brother so much. She bent down, picked him up and sat him on a chair. She wrapped her blanket around him and poured him a bowl of borscht, a generous portion far larger than he’d ever had before. She tried to spoon-feed him but he wouldn’t open his mouth. He didn’t trust her. She offered him the spoon. He stopped crying and began to eat. He finished the borscht. She filled the bowl again. She told him to eat slowly. He ignored her, finishing a second bowl. Very quietly she asked what had happened and listened as he explained the blood in the snow, the dropped sticks, the disappearance and the heavy footprints. She closed her eyes.

– Your brother is dead. He’s been taken for food. Do you understand? Just as you hunted that cat, someone was hunting you. Do you understand?

Andrei remained silent, staring at his mother’s tears. In truth, he didn’t understand. He watched at she stood up and left the house. Hearing his mother’s voice, he ran to the door.

Oksana was on her knees in the snow, staring up at the full moon.

– Please, God, give me back my son.

Only God could bring him home now. It wasn’t so much to ask. Did God have such a short memory? She’d risked her life to save his bell. All she wanted in return was her son, her reason to live.

Some of the neighbours appeared at their doors. They stared at Oksana. They listened to her cries. But there was nothing unusual about this kind of grief and people did not watch for long.

TWENTY YEARS LATER

Moscow

11 February 1953

The snowball thumped into the back of Jora’s head. Caught by surprise, snow exploded around his ears. Somewhere behind him he could hear his little brother laughing, laughing really loudly – proud of himself, proud of that shot even though it was a fluke, a one-off. Jora brushed the ice off his jacket collar but fragments had already snuck down his back. They were melting, sliding down his skin, leaving snail-trails of freezing water. He tugged his shirt out of his trousers, reaching his hand up as far as he could, scraping at the ice.

Unable to believe his older brother’s complacency – busy with his shirt instead of checking on his opponent – Arkady took his time, clumping together the snow, handful on top of handful. Too large and the snowball became a dud shot: difficult to throw, slow in the air and easy to dodge. That had been his mistake for a long time, making them too big. Instead of having a greater impact they could be swatted out of the air and more often than not they disintegrated of their own accord, falling apart and not even reaching his brother. He and Jora played in the snow a lot. Sometimes there were other children but most of the time it was just the two of them. The games would start casually, growing more and more competitive with each hit. Arkady never won in so far as anyone could be said to win. He was always overwhelmed by the speed and power of his brother’s throws. The games ended the same way: frustration, surrender, getting annoyed, or worse, crying and storming off. He hated that he was always the loser, and worse, he hated that he got so upset about it. The only reason he kept playing was because he was sure that today would be different, today he’d win. And today was that day. Here was his chance. He edged closer but not too close: he wanted the shot to count. Point-blank didn’t count.

Jora saw it coming: a glob of white arcing through the air, not too big, not too small, just like the kind he’d throw. There was nothing he could do. His hands were behind his back. He had to admit his little brother was learning fast.