Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series or The Book Thief. Really. Get over it.
Aw. Don't cry. I just don't want to get sued.
The last time. The white snow. How did it get to that? Yassen swinging at the end of a rope. The procurement of a book. When did it reach that point? What could have happened to put so much strain on him? It started, years earlier, with the black night.
The time had come. For one.
A Tragedy:
In the small gloom of the rented bedroom. The house was devoid of life, save for two rooms. A woman died on the floor.
Yassen Gregorovich and his sister were travelling to Estrov where a foster family had been found for him. Not a rich, upper class family. But people who could clothe and educate them, and perhaps give them more food. Their mother had been travelling with them. One last journey to deliver them into the hands of strangers. We now know she did not make it from Moscow to Estrov.
How It Happened:
A shudder racked her frame. She opened her mouth then closed it again. Her eyes slowly frosted over. A stillness crept through her.
She was asleep.
Yassen shook her. He tugged her sleeve. He begged. He pleaded. She did not budge. He stayed with her. He clung to her arms with the desperation of a drowning man. And finally, he broke down. With her dead arms around him. He wept. A sightless teddy bear watched him.
It took many minutes for his sister to return to the small room. When she did, she knew something was wrong. She knew from her eyes. They saw nothing. Or perhaps they saw everything.
The children waited. Her body grew cold. Her blood stilled in her veins. Tears slouched in gangs from Yassen's eyes. The candle blew out abruptly. So much horror. So much wonder. The world is clogged with secrets.
I want to tell you that Yassen Gregorovich accepted me. That I'd taken his mother. A soul like hers. It was robbery. So much to live with. So much to breathe for. Now, her whole death was stretched out in front of her son. Her nine year old son.
But Yassen was never going to be one of the accepting sort. He wept until his hunger denied him more tears to expel from his eyes. In the dark of that small room, he raged. His sister sobbed. His mother lay dead. And he threw a fit of anger at the unfairness of life. Of death.
But time does not slow forever. The world must turn. It took four hours for the landlord to appear in the doorway, complaining about the noise. He blinked twice. Drew another breath. And then he saw.
The boy and girl were removed from the room and taken to the living room of the rather large, ramshackle house. Cheap rooms, caked in filth, waited above them. Every single brick watched a future unfold.
Officials were called. Their social worker appeared. And a tall man with blond hair was summoned. It was decided upon. The children would wait for the burial. Then they would journey on, bound for Estrov.
Yes, I knew of Estrov. Even before the accident, it was one of the places I visited regularly. A place I walked too many times. I pulled charred souls from their bodies. Their fingernails bleeding. Moments before, they'd scratched the thick metal doors with desperation. At times, I wondered how something so horrific could be kept a secret. But you humans. You deal in secrets.
The burial took place the next day. A coffin was nailed together with planks taken from an old outhouse. The grave diggers whined about the icy conditions as they dug the grave. The social worker bowed her head. The sister held her hand, weeping loudly. Yassen kept his head down, the weight of grief on his shoulders. The priest said a few prayers. The world revolved.
And the tall blond man drove a car.
Afterwards, the social worker took both children by the hand and led them over to thank the priest. Yassen slipped away, with, dare I say it, the air of a master art thief. He wandered through the snow, back to the grave. A small, wooden cross marked the spot. The blond man materialized by his shoulder.
"Hallo" the man said. His voice was hushed, as though he was keeping a secret. It was the kind of voice that was more accustomed to barking orders than speaking to children. Although, the man made an effort. He made an effort.
Yes, the man addressed the boy in German. Yes, Yassen spoke German. His mother had been a German student of music studying in Moscow. His father was a bit of hot shot in the KGB. Love at first sight. I suppose. If you could call a physical attraction, unhappily undertaken marriage and a financial dependence love.
"Hallo" Yassen mumbled in reply.
"You're name is Yassen, isn't it?" the man asked politely.
"Yes" Yassen muttered.
"A good name. I will be driving you and your sister to Estrov. To your new home" the man volunteered, scuffing his feet in the snow.
"Yes" Yassen repeated.
There were so many things that the man wanted to say. So many sentences unspoken. Of lies and tears and laughs and blood. I want you to know that he regretted what he'd done. Perhaps you need a bit of information on the man.
Some Facts About Gregor Mikhailovich:
He was six foot six with pale blue eyes that were dead on the inside.
He was father to both Yassen and his sister.
He had pushed and pushed Yassen's mother until, finally, she had left in the middle of the night with her son and her unborn daughter.
He wanted more than anything to embrace his son and break down in tears. But anyone could have been watching.
The social worker approached the man tentatively, the girl clinging to her side. She made a remark about getting the children into the car. And Yassen bolted. The blond man watched, his head tilted to one side, as Yassen stumbled through the snow.
"Yassen!" the girl called out.
I like to imagine the scene on the days when I can't help but fantasize. The boy, in threadbare shorts. A dirty white shirt with no top buttons. Bare foot. Rasping across the snow with desperation. Made of shadows in the half light, with the glint of a monster. Then, the girl. In a scratchy grey pinafore. Calling out. Her voice stopping the monster in it's tracks. Can you see it too? I like to imagine the look on her face. The smell of grief, heavy in the air.
And then, her voice strolls from her mouth and stops him where he stands. He shivers once. She pulls once, twice from the social worker's grip to no avail. He trudges back alone.
The blond man wanted to comfort his son. Instead, he cuffed him around the ear and scolded him shortly. Then, both children were herded into the car.
The drive marked a few relatively large moments in Yassen's life.
1- He was leaving his mother for the last time.
2- It was his first journey in a car.
3- It was the first time he'd ever travelled anywhere without his mother.
It wasn't far from the small, derelict cemetery to Estrov. A large town, the Bio Chemical Research Centre loomed overhead at all times, casting a shadow on the homes below. The blond man steered his car expertly through the narrow, winding streets. Yassen made a small circle in the steamed up window to look out of.
Unhappy looking houses stared back at him.
Eventually, the car reached it's destination. It was a small, cramped looking street, with barely enough room for a car to squeeze through. Yassen breathed quietly as the car pulled to a stop outside a particularly dishevelled looking house.
The social worker got out of the car, the sister trailing dismally behind her. They disappeared through the open door. Silence crackled between the man and the boy, like the fuzzy white noise between radio stations. The man glanced around secretively and then, finally, opened his mouth to speak.
"My name is Gregor. I'm thirty one years old. I love your Mama very much. And today is my birthday" the man said, his voice choking slightly on his words. Yassen glanced up, nine year old brain whirring. Wheels turned and he stored away what the man had said, in case it would help him in the future.
"Alles Gute zum Guburtstag" Yassen said, smiling slightly. "All the best for your birthday". Yassen touched the front of his hair timidly and watched the man with scarcely veiled interest. The man shifted slightly under the gaze of the boy.
"Thank you, very much. If things do not work out. Here, I mean. I will come for you. If anything goes wrong. I will. I promise. I understand that it is your birthday in two weeks?" the man asked, smiling slightly.
"Ja" Yassen replied gloomily.
"How old?" the man asked. Gregor asked. Call him what you want. To me, he will always be 'the man'. Because that was how Yassen saw him. Yes, Yassen was aware in his later years that the man was his father. But you call your father that name because he doesn't leave. That is the one catch to fatherhood.
A Definition Not Found In The Dictionary:
Not-Leaving: An act of trust and love, often deciphered by children.
And that is exactly what Gregor Mikhailovich did. He left his children. Perhaps their mother had been too poor to care for them adequately. But at the very least, she had been there.
Yassen Gregorovich never called the man 'father'. Or 'Gregor'. He called him the man. The man who'd made many mistakes. The man who feared for his children's safety above his own. The man who wanted, above all else, his wife to love him. For Gregor was all these things, unknown to Yassen. Or was he simply just a man?
"Ten" Yassen answered the question with a definate lack of enthusiasm.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled a small package from it. It was clumsily wrapped in plain brown parcel paper with 'Yassen' scrawled on the flat side of it. Very slowly, as though he was feeding a wild animal, he reached out with the package. He held it halfway between himself and Yassen, turning around in his seat to offer it.
Cautiously, Yassen reached forward, his fingers sliding through the air carefully. He gripped the corner of the package loosely. A minute passed before the man let go and turned back around. Slowly, Yassen pulled the package to his chest and set it down on the back seat.
"Danke-"
"Never thank me. Never. Don't you dare. It should be me, thanking you" the man said in a low tone, his voice dark and miserable.
Yassen let the words hang in the air of the car. He wasn't sure how to meet them. So instead, he turned to gaze out the small circle.
After a few more minutes, a very tall man came out. Pavel Demichev, Yassen's foster father. On one side of him stood the social worker, two heads below him. On the other side was the rather squat form of Olga Demichev. She had a distinctly irritated expression on her face, as though she had just sneezed up two underfed children.
Yassen's sister clung tearfully to Olga's small, tough fist. Pavel opened the car door and gestured once with his hand. Then he spoke. "Come on. Inside". Yassen would not budge. He sat still on the back seat, staring down at the floor. The man folded his arms across his chest. The social worker frowned. And Pavel Demichev? Did he violently force Yassen from the car? Did he ignore the small boy's stubborn jaw and order him out? No.
After twenty seconds he fixed the boy with an equally stubborn look.
"You like reading?" he asked, twisting his head so he could fix his left eye on the boy. Yassen shifted slightly in his seat and shook his head.
"Can't" he mumbled.
Pavel gave the boy a once over look and blinked. He scratched the back of his head. Then he gave a slight sniff. Nothing unfriendly. Just a sniff. He offered the boy a rough, callused hand. Yassen looked at the fingers. Many thoughts rushed through his mind.
Slowly, he reached out and gripped the offered fingers. With a gentle tug, Pavel lifted him out of the car and set him on his feet with a half friendly crease of the mouth. Then, without uttering a word, he led the boy firmly inside, the parcel and his small, battered suitcase lay forgotten on the back seat.
The house was by no means large. It contained a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room and two bedrooms upstairs. One was to be shared by Yassen and his sister. The other was shared by Pavel and Olga. And nestled at the front of the house with a window over looking the street, there lay a strange little room. It held an ancient desk and was coated by walls of shelves which creaked under the weight of books.
Large dusty tomes, slim manuals, typed out reports and books on foreign languages. The room had a strange chill to it. Yassen simply stared, taking everything in. It was impossible not to be amazed. He'd seen two books in his life. A small, battered bible and a guide to mining. And here lay dozens, hundreds of them. THe shelves whined in protest and Pavel blinked at the boy's astonished expression.
"You like writing?" Pavel asked, closing the door softly. Yassen wandered over to the window, scuffing his feet on the bare floor boards. He watched, with a detached interest as Olga grabbed his possessions from the back of the car and tucked them under one arm, closing the door with her considerably large girth. The man looked up once and saluted Yassen with a wry smile. Yassen nodded slowly. The the car started and the man and the social worker left the Gregorovichs to their fate.
"No. Can't" Yassen muttered, watching Olga pull his sister inside.
Pavel strolled over easily to the window and stared un-surely down at the boy.
"Yes. Well, you will learn at school. And until you do, this room is strictly out of bounds. When you do become literate", this was said in a faintly disapproving tone, "You will come in here everyday after school and spend two hours helping me with my work. Is the understood?"
Yassen took once last glance out at the unhappy street and then turned to face Pavel. He nodded meekly.
Yes, you read correctly. Meek. The one word that I never thought I would use to describe anything Yassen did. Remember. He was a small boy who wanted to please his new foster father.
Perhaps it was the obedience. Perhaps he was feeling indulgent. Or perhaps he just wasn't as hard as he liked to think. But that was when Pavel Demichev's eyes softened slightly. He plucked a random book from one of the many shelves and bent down, cradling the small form of the boy with one arm. Then, almost thoughtfully, he smiled. His face softened slightly.
He offered the book carefully and Yassen took it in his slightly grubby palms, almost guiltily.
"Good boy. You will be reading in no time. Won't you? And you will see your Mama and Papa again" Pavel said.
An Important Statement:
Pavel Demichev did not deserve to die the way he did.
Yassen studied the cover of the book blankly. Tattered silver words gazed up at him curiously. The sightless teddy bear remained downstairs, sitting on the kitchen counter. The book was promptly stuffed up Yassen's threadbare coat.
"Hey, грязная свинья! Get down here now you, грязная свинья!" Olga's voice resonated throughout the house.
Yassen looked questioningly at Pavel, his grasp of Russian not extending to slander. Pavel looked down at the boy and a smile widened his lips. He chuckled a short, three syllable laugh. He rose back to his full height and winked at the boy.
"She's calling you a грязная свинья. You know..." he clicked his fingers, thinking of the German phrase, "Saukerl? A filthy pig, Yassen".
The boy's mouth widened into an o. He glanced in horror at his foster father. Pavel chuckled again, the same three syllables.
"Don't be so surprised. Olga, she likes pigs" he said, leading the boy out of the library.
Yassen touched his chest, almost reverently, feeling the cover of the book through his coat and shirt. He tapped it once. It felt reassuring. If Yassen had been able to read, he would have realised the the book was called:
A Guidebook To Chemical Waste Disposal:
A twelve step guide to Safely Disposing of Waste.
Published by the Estrov Board of Safety.
And so began an endless hunger for words. And an illustrious career.
There you go. Now, is anyone actually reading this? It's kind of lonely, sending things off into cyberspace without knowing if there's any real point. Also, if anyone knows a good beta who has no problem accepting someone who could not spell their way out of a paper bag, please, drop me a line. My spell checker is exhausted.