He crawled up behind them as they sat around the campfire, Vanya, Papa, Dimitry and other men from the gypsy tribe all talking in low whispers. Some men from Kyiv had joined them as well, and had been welcomed as fellow partisans.
One of the scouts names Pesha had just returned with news of the German movement in Bykivnia Forest.
"The patrols are getting closer. If we stay where we are then we will surely be discovered."
"How many days away?" Nicholaí asked.
"Two days at best."
"Then we will move, we break camp and leave tomorrow at first light," Vanya said." I have found us a perfect place deep within Bykivnia, in a ravine. It will offer us deep cover and will be our camp for the winter."
He reached into a satchel sitting on the ground beside him, pulling out a primitively made glass bottle of filled with a clear liquid.
"We drink to better days, to our safety and health of our family and friends, for times do not bode well for us...the Rom."
He took a swig from the bottle, passing it to his nephew Kolya, then he in turn to his eldest son Dimitry."
"Illya, come out of your hiding place now boy. Come to Papa." Kolya called to his other son who was hiding, listening to his elders.
Illya crawled out on his hands and knees from the bower, going to his father and expecting to be scolded for spying.
Nickolaí Kuryakin looked into his young son's frightened blue eyes, and laughed. "Moy syn, you are becoming a good little partisan. Come sit boy, it is time you joined us. You are growing into manhood before your time." He handed Illya the bottle waving with his hand for the boy to take a sip.
The small blond boy hefted the bottle to his lips, excited that he was getting his first taste of vodka and proud that his Papa called him a man. He swallowed the burning liquid, it making him cough and sputter instantly.
They all laughed, and Illya got a slap on the back from his big brother Dimitry.
"Do not laugh at me!" His voice squeaked. "Not funny. I show you!" He hefted the bottle again and took another slug; this time he was prepared as the drink went down much easier this time.
"Papa," he gasped, "that was good." He said sucking in more air.
"And now you are a man Illyusha," Nicholaí squeezed his son's shoulder.
The laughter continued as they passed the bottle along in the circle until it was empty.
Some of the musicians and the women walked over joining the circle, and one of the older men with a violin in his hands struck up some notes on the strings as he sang out, modulating his voice in the gypsy style of singing and looking at one of the dark-eyed women who began her sultry dance.
"Ochi chornyye, ochi stratsnyye.
Ochi zhaguchiye i prekrasnyye,
Kak lyublyu ya vas, Kak boyus' ya vas,
Znat' uvidel vas ya v nedobryi chas."
Then another of the men took a turn at the next verse, keeping it in the same key, but accompanying his voice with an accordion. Then the next man took a verse and the song continued.
"Dark eyes, passionate eyes,
Brown and splendid eyes.
How I love you, how I fear you,
Verily, I espied you in an ill-starred moment.
"Oh, not for nothing are you darker than the deep,
I see mourning for my soul in you
I see a triumphant flame in you,
A poor heart immolated in it."
"But I am not sad, I am not sorrowful.
My fate is soothing to me,
all that is best in life, God gave us
In sacrifice I returned to the fiery eyes!"
"Yshertvu otdal ys ognevym glazam!
In sacrifice I returned to the fiery eyes!"
The bottle came it's way back to Illya and this time, with just one more mouthful left. He swallowed it all, forcing himself not to cough again; after all his Papa had told him he was a man now.
He listened to the song, thinking at first that the men were singing to the beautiful dancer named Nadezhda, but then the emotion they put into the singing seemed as they they were singing not to her, but to their way of life that was being threatened.
This was the gypsy way, to sing and drink to the life they loved even in the face of death.
It was said that the Nazis were hunting down the Rom along with the Jews...these were things that Illya found hard to understand at first. The thought of those soldiers hunting down people like they were animals seemed so unbelievable.
When the song concluded they walked away from the fire one by one, each wandering to their tents. Illya went down to the steam to fill his water skin, and there he found the boy Kiril hiding in the shadows.
"Vy dumaete, chto takogo osbennogo_you think you are so special. Do you not?" He whispered to Illya in the darkness, "They're letting you drink with them like you are a grown man. You are no man, you are just a puny little boy, a nobody. And you are going to die."
Illya was taken aback, not just by the words but also the fact that Kiril Andropov had spoken to him. He spoke to no one and few spoke to him. The boy was like an outcast among them, he and his mother. He did little to nothing to help in the daily upkeep of the camp. Yet the tribe took care of them.
"Nyet, I do not think that," Illya answered, " And I am not a puny little boy, I am a fighter and I help as best I can, unlike you Kiril. Why do you say I am going to die? Why are you being so mean?"
"Zanachit ...zanachit_ mean...mean?" You accuse me? I am the one who should have been sitting in that circle not you. Me! It should me!" Kiril lashed out, shoving Illya to the ground as he ran off into the darkness.
Illya picked himself up, brushing the dirt off his clothes and went back to their tent. He told Dimitry of the boy's strange behavior and asked why Kiril said it should have been him sitting in the circle?"
His brother had little to say, "Illuysha, stay away from him. He is bad news. Just do not talk him again. That boy...no good will come of him some day."
Illya did as he was told, avoiding the red-haired Kiril as he continued to do what was needed to help their little group succeed in their battle against the invading Germans.
He'd gotten quite good at building triggers for their little bombs, as his hands though small, were quite nimble. Illya learned quickly how to construct primitive explosive devices of his own.
He'd even been allowed to venture out on some forays where they planted explosives beneath the railroad tracks leading into Kyiv. Still, no matter how many times they did damage, the tracks were repaired.
Illya crawled forward on his hands and knees, with Dimitry behind him.
his little hands reached under the track, removing bits of gravel until the opening was large enough to insert the explosive device….one of little Illya's making.
Slipping it under the track; Dimitry carefully pulled away a small folded paper, that was all there was between the sensitive triggering switch and the metal of the track. Once it was removed, the bomb was set. When the weight of a passing train increased pressure on it, young Illya's mechanism would activate and explode.
So far none of Illya's bombs had failed; not bad for an eight year old.
Trees were hewn, and used to build dugouts in the ravine; covered with dirt and pine branches for their shelters, as the tents would no longer do.
They had enough supplies with them to last some time. A few pot bellied stoves they carried with them, taken from the caravans the family once used. Though small they would help them to survive the brutal winter to come.
Every bit of cloth and canvas they had was used to help to cover inside of the dugouts. The floors were lined with pine needles and then the rugs they had were rolled out. Moss was stuffed between the logs, and made for a fine insulation. Crude beds were built so they wouldn't have to sleep on the ground.
The women were busy setting up a communal kitchen, hanging all the cooking pots inside, as well as digging a root cellar for the storing of turnips and potatoes. The cooking, as always, would be done outside over a campfire.
Food supplies were ample enough for now, and what they ran out of...they would have to steal. Traps would be set to catch their meat as ammunition was too valuable to use for hunting.
The women set about making candles out of tallow from the fat of animals that had been caught in traps. There were a few oil lamps, but the oil for those wasn't easily had so their use was kept to a minimum.
The Rom were survivors and accustomed to living hard, and those who had joined them who were not gypsy, soon learned their ways of doing things.
Life in the camp was never dull for Illya. His father saw to it he still did his lessons, especially in mathematics. Vanya had several books that he had Illya and is cousin Anastasiya read from every few days.
Dimitry would give his brother lessons about tracking and moving in the forest, and of course Illya would continue helping to create better bombs for them to use.
Still he was allowed to be a child, and Illya and his cousin as well as the other children in the camp would play their games, and sing songs. Hide and seek was a favorite as it was among all children. The young Kuryakin was always the best at that game, both hiding and finding the others.
Cold winds began to blow, soon the snows would come and playtime outdoors would lessen. Everyone huddled in their shelters, preparing for the long winter to come.
Vanya told his skazka (fairy tales) to his daughter Tasiya and his nephew Illya and lull them to sleep by candle light, while they snuggled in their primitive beds; warm under their blankets as the heat from the pot bellied stove filled the dugout. They were still children, and needed to keep some innocence in their lives, and the women would sing to them at night, lulling them to sleep.
Nicholaí and Dimitry had returned having trapped a hart, a nice fat one that would make for a hearty stew to fill everyone's bellies for a few days.
The campfire was stoked and people sat around it telling stories and singing. The older women dressed the hart and began to butcher it for cooking.
Everyone was feeling safe in this place. It was a good choice Vanya had made.
Little did young Illya Kuryakin know that not much long after retreating to this winter camp, his life would change forever...