Prologue

A seven-year-old boy with platinum blonde hair and pale blue eyes bounced his two-year-old sister on his hip as he surveyed the landscape outside the kitchen window of a small farmhouse in Russia. The snow had subsided, at least enough so that he could see the shed and would be able to walk there freely rather than having to cling to the rope line between the building and the house. There was firewood in the shed, chopped and stored away by his father in the autumn. He looked between the shed and the little cotton-topped girl who was beginning to drift off to sleep. When she finally went down for her nap, he decided, he would bring back as much firewood as he could carry. It was dangerous to leave his sister alone too often. The KGB was near, and as he'd learned in the last month even without them in the equation, two-year-olds are fast to get themselves in trouble.

It had only been the last two weeks that he'd dared to light fires in furnace or in the fireplace, and then he only braved it then because they had run out of fuel for the generators. His eyes wandered to the doorframe where he had marked off the days since the KGB had come. Forty-seven uneven lines stood testament to the days he and little Katerina had been alone. He shivered whenever he saw the notches, but he couldn't help record them each morning.

The baby's head lay against his shoulder and her breath came out in shallow little snores. Gently he laid her down on the mattress he'd pulled into the kitchen. It made little sense to heat the whole house for only two people, he thought mournfully. That was what his father would have said had he been there. He shuddered again, tears welling up in his eyes at the unbidden reminders of the missing members of his family. A mere forty-eight days ago the whole house had been almost alive with energy. Had it been an afternoon back then, before he started marking tallies on the doorpost, he would have been wrestling with his three older brothers at that time, getting scolded by their ruddy-faced mother as she cooked dinner. In about an hour, if it were a good day, the boy's father would come in, weary from work, but still taking time to join in the roughhousing. It didn't matter anymore, he thought, no amount of remembering or wishing would bring back the rest of his family. It had been a miracle that he'd been able to keep Katerina silent as they hid in a closest in the cellar.

He slid on his boots and pulled on his coat, hat, and gloves. With one more glance at his sister, he hurried out into the freezing air. He rushed as much as he could through the deep snow, though his legs sunk down to just above his knees. Inside the small shed his father had stacked enough wood to last the winter just in case they had to do without government-rationed fuel. The boy made eighteen trips back and forth from the shed to the house and back again. His lungs felt as though they would bleed from the stinging lashes of the cold as he drew in hungry gulps of air. Despite the subfreezing temperature, he sweated as he struggled to load the kitchen down with enough wood to hopefully last the week. When he got back into the kitchen he leaned over Katerina, checking to make sure she was actually still alive, there with him. She cooed a little, squirming in her sleep as he brought a tired hand up to her cheek. He wished he could curl up next to her and sleep, but if he did that it would get colder in the house. They could freeze in their sleep and join the rest of their family. Shaking off the thought, he grabbed up an armload of firewood and went down to the furnace in the basement. It was a surprisingly efficient system, for one that was almost twenty years old. The amount of energy usually expended for a fire, would not only heat the house but also run the power for a few hours. The boy had made it stretch even further by cutting off the power to the upstairs and back rooms, heating only the kitchen, living area, and one bathroom. He was glad his father had taught him how to do that some years ago, as now it saved him trips through the deep snow to get wood. He was using a flashlight to navigate the gloom of the basement, but when he opened the furnace door the fire gave off enough of a glow that he could turn it off for a little while as he rummaged through a tall shelf crowded with cans and jars of food. He grabbed a can of tuna and a jar of apple preserves. That should do for supper, he thought, tucking the jar under his arm as he threw a few logs into the fire with the other hand. Closing the heavy iron door, he flicked the flashlight on and made his way back upstairs.

Setting the food down on the table, he lay down next to his sleeping sister. He looked up at the wooden beams that ran across the kitchen ceiling, letting his eyes relax until the knots of the wood started to look like people and animals, and drifted into a light sleep, imagining stories for the beings. Had it been another day, he would have… no it didn't matter; it wasn't another day. There was no changing that.

Chapter 1

The rumble of a truck engine woke Verund. Outside the setting sun started to leave streaks of orange in the sky. He didn't wait to see whom the truck belonged to, but grabbed up his little sister and hurried back to the cellar. She woke slightly, grumbling and rubbing her eyes. "Shhh, Katerina," he whispered as he rushed down into the darkness below. He only flicked the flashlight on for a moment, just long enough to be sure that the path to the closet was still unobstructed.

"I scared," Katerina said sleepily, her small hands clinging tightly around his neck as he tried to set her down behind him.

"Shhh," he repeated. "I'll be here." He grabbed the pistol his father had sent him down with the day the rest of his family had been killed by KGB soldiers. With a little more whispered bidding, he successfully put her down, although she clung to the back of his shirt. He aimed the pistol at the closed door. If anyone came through it they were dead. He vaguely thought that he had no idea what he would do when he ran out of bullets, but it didn't matter. All he knew was that he had to keep her safe; keep her safe as long as he could.

Above them he heard knocking on the door. A minute passed and another knock came, a heavier one. He heard a muffed voice shout something he couldn't make out, then there was a loud crash as the door was kicked in. Above him, he heard the footsteps of many booted feet, then a man's voice called again. "Stas! Stas!" His father's name; of course no answer came, and so the footsteps continued. The voice now called his mother and his oldest brother, "Liza! Sasha! Anyone!?"

Behind him, Katerina trembled with fear. "It's the bad men," she whispered.

Verund was beginning to have his doubts that these were KGB, though. There was something very familiar about the calling voice although he could not pin it. He wanted to go out, see who the voice belonged to, but he couldn't. Even if he could shake the fear that held his feet rooted to the cellar floor, how could he justify going out there? What if it was the KGB? If they killed him who would care for Katerina? What if they killed Katerina? Aside from that, the idea of dying was frightening enough in and of itself. He was no hero; he was a farm boy from Vyshni. He didn't even know why the KGB had attacked his family. All he knew was that his mother had forced he and his little sister into that closet over a month ago with the words, "Verund, take care of Katerina. If the soldiers come, kill them. Kill them all, or they will kill you both. I love you." And that was it. She was gone.

Above them the cellar door opened. He heard the voice grow louder. "Men, search the house." A pause and he heard more muffled voices. "How many? No, there were four boys and a little girl." Another indistinguishable reply came from inside the house. "I don't care. I want you, all of you, to scour the house. Don't leave a single room unchecked. If those children are here, we have to find them." Verund shuddered as he heard the second to last step squeak loudly as the man walked on it. They would be found out, and what would he do then? If he followed his mother's orders and killed them, he could take the truck, maybe drive out to his aunt and uncle's house. He wondered if they were still alive, if anyone's life was still normal. Under the door, Verund saw the light of a search lamp sweep over basement. When it stopped on the door, the light piercing in and illuminating his black-socked feet, Katerina let out a little cry. Verund turned fast to her, his eyes wide with shock, but he turned back quickly to the door as he heard the voice say. "Katerina? Verund?" The boy turned back to his sister with his finger to his lips. She pursed her lips and gave him a scared nod. The voice called out again. "Kids, it's your father's friend, Ruslan." Verund breathed a little easier. He remembered Ruslan as a serious but kind man who came to the house from time to time. The man continued. "I know what happened to your family. We're here to take you somewhere safe."

Verund took a deep breath. He forced his shaking hand to reach out and turn the doorknob. In his other hand, he still held the pistol, aimed out towards the light as it poured over him and his sister.

Ruslan Golitsin was no longer startled by the reality of war, and one of those realities was the look in the eyes of children when the war had touched them. So when the light fell on the faces of Verund and Katerina, he was not shocked. But the lack of shock did not mean the lack of sorrow, the little girl, whose face barely showed from behind her brother's back, had her eyes shut tight as though not seeing the horrors she expected would keep them from happening. The boy was shaking in spite of his efforts to look brave, his right hand trembling heavily as he tried to aim the pistol at the older man. Ruslan lowered the light so that the boy could see him easier. "I'm not going to hurt you," the man said softly, holding out his hands to show they were empty.

Both children were grimier than they would have been had their mother been alive to care for them. The boy's hair had grown out shaggy and both of them looked a bit disheveled. It had only been three months since Ruslan had been to the house, but he was apt to believe that he would have never recognized the children if he had seen them on the street. "You've been on your own a while," Ruslan said. It wasn't a question, but Verund nodded and lowered his weapon hesitantly.

"Forty-seven days," he said softly.

"That is a long time," the man said, taking a step towards the closet, grateful that the boy didn't raise his gun again.

"What do you want?" Verund said, his voice was hollow and his eyes empty now that most the fear had left them.

"I just want to make sure you and your sister are safe." He took another step, and the boy stood a little taller. "I can bring you to family members, someone who can watch out for the both of you."

Verund nodded again and stepped out the closet, his arm around Katerina's shoulders, guiding her. She gave a scared little cry as her feet began to move, but Verund looked down at her and said gently, "It's okay, Kat. No one's going to hurt us today."

Upstairs in the living room, the other men had laid out the bodies of Verund's other family members. He had wanted to bury them, but the ground was frozen so solid that he had been unable to dig the graves. Instead he had buried them deep in the snow, packing it tight around the bodies and marking each body with a cross he'd made with scraps of lumber from the shed. He hadn't figured out what he'd do in the spring when the snow began to melt but the ground was still frozen.

Seeing the bodies, Verund trembled again, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Ice had crystallized over them, giving them a look even stranger than the pall of death. In his arms Katerina held her arms out. "Mommy!" she called, pleading as though her voice could call back the woman's spirit. "Mommy, wake up!"

"Mommy's not waking up," Verund whispered to her, holding her hands back next to her body. He looked back at Ruslan questioning.

"We can't bury them," the man said, "but we have to do something." He hesitated for a moment, unsure how the boy would take what he was about to say. "Normally in cases like this we burn the bodies with the house." It took care of the bodies, and gave the KGB one less building to take over. It was practical, even if it wasn't sentimental.

Verund looked at the bodies of this family, without responding for a long moment. When he finally did answer his voice was filled with a quiet resignation. "I'm going to get some stuff together for Katerina and I," he said.

The older man gave a small nod, and asked as gently as he could, "Is it okay if we take the food and supplies?"

"Yeah," Verund said emotionlessly, turning and heading up the stairs to pack what he felt he and his sister would need. It was hard, deciding what to keep and what to lose forever. Part of him wanted to go back down and order the men to leave them in peace. But he knew, in the end, they were right. He and Katerina couldn't keep living in that house. The only thing that had kept the KGB from coming back to strip the house bare was the heavy blizzards that had just let up the night before.

In the end, he packed only the necessities. He had shared a room with his eleven-year-old brother, Osip. It hurt to see his bed neatly made and all his things, knowing that Osip would never again have need of them. That was the real reason he'd avoided the rest of the house, he realized. He stuffed his things into an empty pillowcase, and then went to his parents' room to gather Katerina's belongings and stuff them in another pillowcase. As he worked, Katerina played with some of her toys. He was glad that despite everything she endured, she was still happy.

After he stuffed some of her toys into the pillowcases, he went back downstairs. There were only three rooms upstairs, the room he shared with his brother, his parents' room, and a bathroom. At the foot of the stairs was the room that his oldest brothers, Sasha and Nikita. He didn't even bother to open it. He could see the room in his mind, there was nothing he needed there, and no need to be reminded of things he could not change.

He avoided the living room for the same reason, that and he didn't think he could stand hearing Katerina cry for their mother again. Mercifully Ruslan was in the kitchen. He was talking to two of the other men, but turned to the children when they walked in. "Do you need anything else?" he asked Verund, but the boy shook his head.

Verund looked around the kitchen and was surprised to see that the men had already stripped it of most of its contents, with the exception of the kitchen appliances, the dining set, and the pictures from the walls. The photos reminded him he should take an album with him, if only so Katerina would know what her family looked like. "Yes," he said, correcting himself. Pulling his sister up into his arms, he quickly rushed back upstairs to his parent's room. He went back down to the kitchen with a fat album under the arm not holding Katerina.

"Do you want to go say your final goodbyes?" Ruslan asked him, gesturing to the living room.

Verund looked to the door, giving it serious consideration, but responded coldly, "Do you think they'll hear me?"

Ruslan gave a short sigh, looking between the door and the two surviving children. "No," he said honestly.

Verund and Katerina sat in the back of the truck as they drove down the road. He could still see the smoke from the fire billowing over the treetops, blotting out the stars from the night sky. In his arms, Katerina had fallen asleep again. As he watched the smoke rise up, he wondered where he would go from there, but it was sure that even if he did move in with his relatives, life would never go back to normal. Not really.