Home, love, family

by Gabros

… there was once a time the Romanovs had it all. This is just the story of Anastasia and her siblings before the revolution. Prequel to Light at the end of the tunnel.

23. Siberia

Obligatory apology for taking so long.
Parts of this chapter are inspired by a movie I will mention in the endnotes so as not to spoil.
Potential triggers in the end notes.

St. Petersburg. January, 1906.

For many years to come, Dmitri Ivanovich Sudayev will think back to 1906 as the beginning of the end, the year that doomed him to a lifetime as a good-for-nothing scoundrel.

Not 1905, the year he lost half his family during Bloody Sunday and his father left to fight for the revolution with the anarchists. No. 1905, while undoubtedly a traumatic and chaotic year for the little Dmitri, is nevertheless destined to be remembered by him as a fairly adequate bunch of 365 days, at least in hindsight when compared to other bad years he will have lived through.

In September of 1905, the six-year-old started school at a free government institution that mainly instructs other poor and lower middle-class children. A couple of the educators there still hate his guts for being the most disrespectful and cunning class clown they have ever had the misfortune of being forced to educate, the religion teacher among them, but most find him amusing, endearing, and clever for his age.

What is more, Dmitri has made new friends his age, lots of friends. They meet during breaks and after school to play all sorts of games together. They go to the candy shops to get sweets or chocolates and also buy ice cream and sbiten from the street vendors. Now that Ivan is an active anarchist, Dmitri has enough money to pay for himself and his friends. It is like magic.

Ivan and Ilya come to visit Dmitri and Sophia regularly, taking them and sometimes also the Smirnovsʼ son Pavel, a classmate of Dmitri, to the theater of the People's Palace, amusement parks, museums, and restaurants.

Ivan still takes Dmitri to the highest place in the world sometimes, the little Sophia having joined them on one occasion only to fall asleep in her father's arms, but now that the former factory worker has money, there are just so many more places to go.

It is no wonder the young Dmitri has developed a perhaps impious appreciation for money. A few moralizing teachers have told him that one should not make an idol out of wealth after hearing him brag about his new clothes, no longer worn and patched, but the boy has not paid them any mind.

Nothing is better than the happiness in his father's eyes when he can reply to him with a "Yes!"

"Yes, you can have another plate, son."

"Of course we can go get ice cream!"

"You passed your test, so as a reward, let me buy you that set of tin soldiers you wanted."

Money means food and fun with the people he loves, his father, uncle, friends, and sister, so why wouldn't Dmitri care for it?

Ivan too is glad to be able to provide his children with everything they need, with everything they have at times been deprived of, and he is pleased to be achieving this by fighting for what he believes in.

Ivan and Ilya's anarchist cell has successfully targeted several Cossacks, soldiers, and policemen, most of whom had partaken in the Bloody Sunday massacre. Homemade bombs and strategically placed snipers are the organization's principal methods of combat and political assassination, what the government knows as "terrorism."

There is no remorse in Ivan's heart and little pity for his victims though. His heart could only leap with joy when he personally saw one of those responsible for Maria's death blow up. Ilya's heart leaped even more.

When they are not making bombs, distributing propaganda, or carrying out attacks, Ivan and Ilya are participating in the robberies that finance a considerable portion of the organization's activities, as well as the allowance given to its members.

As perfect as everything seems to be, Ivan has nonetheless begun to have some disagreements with the rest of the anarchists, particularly about what should be the minimum age when assessing new recruits and who or what can be considered a legitimate target. Still, these are all minor concerns for now, and he is certain that his comrades have no reason to doubt his loyalty to the cause.

What worries Ivan the most is the fact the country seems to be gradually stabilizing. There are still countless terrorist attacks and minor insurrections taking place, of course, but since the December Moscow uprising in which he and Ilya participated was put down, the government has been taking more and more steps to regain control of the country.

Ivan hasn't yet lost hope that the revolution may ultimately prevail in a few more months or years, but he can not help but fear being caught and apprehended, or worse, being caught and apprehended with his children around to watch. It is for this very reason that he has begun taking precautions by carefully avoiding soldiers, guards, policemen, and even anyone looking at him suspiciously while he is spending time with Dmitri and Sophia.

1906 didn't start as a bad year, but as a continuation of the better half of 1905. Dmitri still has frightening nightmares about Kostya, Maria, and her baby dying, and he and Sophia miss their father and uncle terribly whenever they are away, but Ivan and Ilya's visits never take more than a week or two to come, and things are in general getting better.

In the fourth week of January 1906, Ivan and Ilya paid their second visit to the children that year. They took them to the zoo, where both kids were delighted by the sight of the animals and little Sonya got to ride a small pony with her brother.

After a late lunch at a restaurant, Ilya took Sophia back home and Ivan carried Dima over his shoulders to the highest place in the world.

"Bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!" Ivan didn't fail to jump while exclaiming his distinguishing jest phrase, sending Dmitri up on his shoulders into a frenzy of giggles.

Having admired the view of the Neva River and the Baltic Sea for a while, father and son are now throwing snowballs at each other on top of that high, white rooftop, an admittedly dangerous pastime. That is why Ivan compels his son to continue with the fight down below.

The fun resumes on the streets, where Ivan and Dimitri keep throwing snow at each other as they head back home. Their laughter grows so loud that for brief moments it can be heard several streets away, and they only grow tired when their apartment is already on sight.

"I am worried about the lack of progress you are making with your reading and writing, Dima", Ivan tells his son as they wait for a carriage to pass before crossing the street.

The little Dmitri frowns, not pleased with the sudden lecture. It is not fair! They were having fun! "I am good at memorizing what they tell me, counting, and doing sums, papa!"

"I am talking about reading and writing, Dima, which is also very important, and yet you are failing to do it", Ivan replies softly, without condemnation. "Why do you think that could be? Are you paying attention in class? Mr. Mikhailov told Mrs. Smirnova that you like playing the fool."

"It is not that, papa", Dmitri kicks a few small rocks out of the way to make his frustration clear enough for his father. "I try, but the letters jump around the page, I can't help getting them mixed up."

Ivan nods sympathetically. "I am also learning, so let's see what I can do to help you when we get home."

Dmitri sighs, not feeling too enthusiastic about spending the precious time he has left until his father leaves again doing boring stuff like studying stupid letters. They all look the same!

Had Dmitri known the reason why he wouldn't spend much time studying with his father, his opinion would have been very different.

That same evening, when most of the children have gone to bed and the grown-ups are either sewing or chatting by the candlelight, a loud knock on the door reverberates through the crowded house. The noise startles Mrs. Smirnova into dropping her needle and wakes Sophia from her sleep on the many mantles that make up her crib. Ivan goes over to pick his crying daughter up and soothe her.

Dmitri has feared the sound of knocking for a long time, but the letters he is still having trouble differentiating even with his father's aid have been such a chore to learn that for once he can only be relieved by the interruption. He closes his notebook with unmasked satisfaction and lays his head on the small, low wooden table he was working on.

The knocking goes on, becoming louder and more urgent each time. Valentina is the one who answers the door, and her face turns pale upon seeing the people standing there.

"Sorry to bother you, miss", one of the three policemen looks behind her, scrutinizing the humble lodgings in search of the men he is after, "but we are looking for two of your neighbors, the Sudayev brothers, have you seen them?"

Dmitri raises his head in horror and disbelief, and Ivan and Ilya share a look of panic.

"I… uhm, I…" Valentina stutters.

Ivan hands Sophia over to Mrs. Smirnova, moves toward his son, and kisses him on the forehead before speaking calmly but firmly. "Stay here with your sister, please, darling."

"Papa…" Dmitri moans in fear, his eyes filling with tears. This has the unintended effect of drawing the policemen's attention to him. Just as Ivan and Ilya are moving to the back of the apartment, intending to escape through the window the same way the young Patya tried to do, the officers push Valentina aside and burst into the place uninvited.

It takes them less than one minute to tackle Ivan and Ilya to the ground as the neighbors scream, Sophia wails in Mrs. Smirnova's arms, and Dmitri cries out for them. The Sudayev brothers writhe and resume their struggle to break free even on the floor.

"Get away!" The boy grabs the policeman restraining Ivan by the white uniform shirt and uselessly tries to kick him. "Get away from my papa! Papa is a hero, don't touch him! Don't touch him! Stop!"

Dmitri is easily pushed to the ground, and when he gets up and moves to defend his father again, Valentina comes from behind and restrains him. The child is thus forced to watch in total helplessness as his uncle and father are beaten to a pulp.

The officers are brutal. They hit the Sudayev brothers with their batons repeatedly, without rest. They kick and strike them in the legs, in the arms, and even go for the faces.

The children of the flat, now fully awake, grow frightened and confused, and the women weep at what they are seeing and hearing. Dmitri too cries and screams, unable to do anything as his father and uncle start wailing from the pain.

"Dima!" Ivan gasps between clenched teeth as he tries to look at his son with the one eye that hasn't been swollen shut. "Don't watch, Dima!" That is all he can utter before a painful blow to the mouth silences him. He will never forgive himself for failing to save his child from witnessing yet another horror.

"Papa! Papa!" The boy extends his arm, trying to touch his father. "What are you doing? You are hurting him!" He pleads with the officers, trying hard not to show fear. "Please!"

Valentina tries to heed Ivan's wishes by covering Dmitri's eyes. Her only intention is to spare the child the distress of seeing his father in such an unenviable state, but her efforts prove impossible. The boy is moving too much. He wants to see.

Dmitri remains stubborn, defiant, and eventually, he manages to forcefully untangle himself from Valentina's grasp just in time to follow the officers outside the apartment, where the battered and bleeding Ivan and Ilya are taken, no longer fighting back.

"Stop! Idiots! Villains! Where are you taking them?!" The black-haired boy tries to follow the policemen for as long as he is able to, walking, then running, but the uniformed men force his father and uncle onto a horse-drawn sled that he ultimately loses track of. It is fast, too fast to catch up to.

Dmitri ends up panting in the middle of the streets, no closer to his father than he was a minute ago. Finding himself completely alone and out of breath, he lets out a terrified cry and then bursts into sobs. He just lost his beloved father, again , his poor papa, whom those demons beat so badly. Is he in pain? Is he going to get better? Will he ever see him again?

Oo

Tsarskoye Selo. Spring, 1906.

Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanova.

Lies! Papa will always protect us, and I am almost nine years old. I should not fear those silly things my older sister Olenka is describing.

"The angry crowd approached the Winter Palace", she says, hiding her whole body save for her eyes with one of the sheets of her bed, where we are both sitting, cross-legged and facing each other. "They were crying 'Give us the Tsar! Give us the Tsar!'"

I too cover myself with a blanket.

"'And give us his children too…'" Olga continues, pausing dramatically. My heart starts beating fast, is what she is saying really true? "Because we want to eat them!" Suddenly my sister jumps up from her side of the bed and growls, and I can not help but let out a loud scream as I fall backward to the floor, taking the blanket with me.

My sister's laughter is all I can hear after the thud signaling my fall, and my back becomes a bit sore.

I straighten up with a frown, rubbing my eyes to keep the tears of pain and embarrassment from rolling down my cheeks.

"Aww, Tanya, don't be upset", Olga has stopped laughing, but she still smirking devilishly. Sometimes she can be as naughty as Anastasia.

"It is not true!" I exclaim, trying not to sound scared. "None of what you said is."

"I did make some of it up", Olga admits as I sit back on the bed in front of her, "but the crowd of workers was real", she insists, sounding proud of herself for knowing this. "Papa says it was very big, and that there were people hiding among them who wanted to hurt us, all of us. Me, you, mama, papa, Masha, Nastya, and even the tiny baby Alyosha. That is why our soldiers shot at them."

"Oh no!" I exclaim, covering my mouth. I was not yet aware of this.

"Lots of people died", she nods solemnly, closing her eyes. "Like Cousin Ella, and our soldiers."

"Only the bad ones?" I inquire hopefully.

"The good and the bad ones alike."

"But why?!" My question comes out sounding close to a whine. I hate that.

"Because the soldiers couldn't tell them apart, of course", my sister replies as if the reason were evident, "and if the crowd had kept advancing, more and more people would have joined the procession, eager to meet papa…"

"They would have sent the bad people away!" I argue.

"No", Olga shakes her head, "the crowd would have grown so large that there would have been no space to walk", she speaks quickly, in a hushed tone, her eyes wide open and her arms gesticulating her ominous words. "The people would have pushed each other, and some would have fallen. Tens of thousands would have trampled each other and died!"

"That is impossible", I assert. It sounds too awful to be true.

"It happened during papa's coronation."

"How do you know that?" I ask, horrified, and not quite believing that papa would tell her such a grim story.

"I secretly listened to one of his grown-up conversations", she shrugs before jumping off of the bed.

"Olga!" I open my eyes wide, scandalized, though I cannot quite scold my sister, not really. She is ten years old, almost two years older than me.

I don't understand why Olga likes to spy on grown-ups, and not just because it is a naughty thing to do. When they are alone, adults only speak about boring or scary things, such as the people who made it so Uncle Sergei went to heaven early.

However, I must admit that Olga's story caused me quite a fright.

"Alright", I concede, following her. "Your story was the scariest."

We are already in our white nightshirts, for bedtime is coming soon, but in the meantime, we had decided to tell each other the scariest tales we could think of, only that they needed to be real.

"I told you I was going to win with what I had hidden under my sleeve", Olga laughs.

"Where are you going now?" I ask her when I notice that she is leaving our room.

"Let's visit Alexei before he goes to bed!" She exclaims excitedly.

"Oh, yes!" I follow her to Maria and Anastasia's room, next door to ours. It is very similar in style, for the walls are also full of icons, paintings, and portraits framed in gold. Their floor too is covered in thick carpet, but while above the cornice of our pink-painted room is stenciled a lively frieze with dragonflies soaring through the air, the frieze in the little pair's room shows butterflies in roses stenciled above gray-painted walls.

When Olga and I arrive, we find six-year-old Maria and four-year-old Anastasia dolling up our oblivious one-year-old baby brother, who is sitting on one of the small sofas of the bedroom, smiling.

There are a couple of open keepsake boxes lying on the floor, and my little sisters are taking pretty little bows and ribbons from them to adorn Alexei's golden curls. Our nannies Shura and Maria Vishnyakova are sitting on one of the beds, watching over the three of them to make sure no fights will break out.

So far, everything seems well. Our baby brother looks more adorable than ever with his white nightdress as Masha and Nastasia keep adding adornments to his hair with great enthusiasm, chattering amongst themselves about what colors fit him better.

"Aww!" I coo, picking him up from the sofa. "You have made him look just like a little angel!"

"Say thank you, darling Alyosha", Olga tells him with a smile as she approaches.

"He is the most handsome baby ever!" Maria beams, tilting her head over her clasped hands dreamily.

"He is, isn't he?" I kiss one of his cheeks, making him smile widely and then try to touch my face with his hands. Olenka follows suit and kisses him too.

"He is not, I was!" Anastasia exclaims, pulling Olga's nightdress down, almost ripping it, and then running away. My older sister fixes her dress with an appalled gasp and then hurriedly chases after the little Nastya. Maria and I laugh, and so do Nanny Shura and Nanny Maria.

Alexei learned to walk almost a year ago, and there are plenty of new words that have become part of his vocabulary. His first one was "mama", followed closely by "papa" and "Olga." I am a bit jealous he said Olga's name first, but that is to be expected, since she loves teaching him new words whenever we spend time with him in the Mauve Room, lying cozily on the floor amidst cushions, blankets, and toys.

Olga and I sleep with our nanny Shura, and the little pair and Alexei now share their bedroom with Maria Vishnyakova, so Maria and Anastasia also spend plenty of time playing with him every day.

If my little sisters aren't having lessons, knitting, having fun with their dolls, or running around the corridor playing hide and seek with us, they are making up songs and dances they later sing and perform before our baby brother as Nanny Mary prepares him for bed. They often use their dolls as puppets in improvised plays for his amusement as well.

As for myself, I am as fascinated with him as I was the day he was born. God has been good to us, because so far He has kept Alexei healthy. My baby brother is always so happy and smiling, and he loves being the heir to our beautiful country, he truly does! We have had a few parades since he learned to walk, and nothing brings him more joy than looking up at the soldiers and sailors, or the mere fact that they salute him whenever he passes by. Whenever this happens, he will beam with joy and dissolve into giggles the same way he does when I pick him up and show him the ocean. Oh, we both love the sea so much!

My sisters and I spend a bit more time playing Alexei, also kissing and squeezing his fat, rosy cheeks. When the baby starts showing signs of tiredness, Nanny Maria picks him up and puts him in his crib.

The little pair follows me and Olga back to our room, where we turn off the light fixtures, sit on the floor, and cover ourselves with a blanket, using it as a tent.

We start telling each other more scary stories, made-up tales on this occasion, about ghosts, werewolves, and the witch Baba Yaga.

Olga is the one who tells us about this witch as we hold each other in the darkness, under the cover of the blanket. Baba Yaga was the sister of a woman who had married the widowed father of a girl named Natasha.

My older sister describes in great detail the way poor Natasha was hated and mistreated by her stepmother, causing Maria to gasp in sympathy for the young girl.

One day, the evil stepmother forced Natasha to go to the house of her even more evil older sister Baba Yaga in order to fetch some needles and thread. The house was far away, but Natasha had no choice.

"The hut of Baba Yaga stood high up on giant chicken legs and could walk around the yard by itself", Olga describes, her voice conveying tension. "When it turned to face you, the front windows looked like two eyes and the door looked like a mouth."

"Oh…" Maria shakes with fear, so I wrap my arms around her body and squeeze her. She hugs me back.

"When Natasha opened the gate doors of the fence, they made a terrible squeaking sound", Olga continues, "but fortunately, on the ground, she noticed a rusty oil can and poured the few drops left on the hinges."

"That is so silly", I object, "how come the oil that she needed was just conveniently lying there for her to use?"

"Shh…" Anastasia hushes me.

"The story needs to happen, Tanechka", Olga giggles before continuing.

Natasha then found Baba Yaga's crying servant and offered her a handkerchief. The maid smiled and felt much better.

Resting before the door to the chicken-legged cabin was a huge guard dog chewing an old bone. Natasha gave the poor animal some bread and meat, and the dog enjoyed this meal greatly.

When Natasha got into the cottage, she found Baba Yaga weaving. The witch had scraggly white hair, a very long nose, and a mouth full of iron teeth. She was old, ugly, skinny, and bony.

The girl told Baba Yaga that she had come for needles and thread, to which the witch replied that she was going to go fetch them.

"The evil Baba Yaga had other plans though", Olga starts whispering, "so she told her servant to prepare a cauldron with hot water. She was going to eat Natasha."

My sisters remain silent with dread and expectation as Olga describes the way Natasha outsmarted the witch by begging the servant to take her time preparing the cauldron. The servant was so thankful for the handkerchief that she agreed.

Still, the girl needed to find a way to escape, but she was very scared and didn't know how. That is when she noticed a thin black cat trying to catch a mouse by waiting outside a mousehole. Natasha felt very sorry for him, so she gave him a bit of cheese that she had in her pocket.

"First the oil, then the handkerchief and the meat, and now the cheese?" I ask.

"Do you not believe God can give us what we need in the most unexpected of manners, Tanya?" My older sister retorts, and I feel almost ashamed. "Besides, this is just a story."

"Mmm…. you are right", I concede, trying to keep my voice firm and dignified, "sorry, keep going."

The cat was so grateful that he helped Natasha plan out a way to escape by showing her where to find a couple of magical objects in the house that would enable her to do so.

After taking these objects, a comb and a towel, Natasha quickly ran out of the hut. The guard dog was so thankful for the meat that he let her go without even barking, and when she came to the gate doors, they opened without making any noise due to the oil she had poured into its hinges.

When Baba Yaga found out that Natasha was missing along with the magical towel and comb, she burst into a rage.

"Why didn't you scratch out the little girl's eyes?" She asked the cat. "And where are my magic towel and my magic comb?"

"You have made me hunt for my dinner", the cat replied, "but that girl gave me real cheese."

Baba Yaga growled, and turning to the servant girl, she asked: "Why did you take so long to prepare the cauldron?"

"You have never given me a rag", the maid replied, "but that girl gave me a pretty handkerchief."

Baba Yaga then went to the yard and shrieked when she saw the gate doors wide open. "Gates!" She cried. "Why didn't your doors squeak when she opened you?"

"You never sprinkled a drop of oil on us", the gates replied, "but the girl oiled us, and we can now open without a sound."

I think it is a bit silly how even the gates can talk in this story, but I don't tell Olga anything about it this time. Instead, I brace myself for the grand finale as my sister keeps telling the story.

Baba Yaga scolded the guard dog for not tearing the young Natasha to pieces when she ran away.

"You have never given me anything to eat but an old bone", the dog replied. "The good girl gave me real meat and bread."

Baba Yaga cursed before rushing out of the house on her flying broom.

"You will never escape me!" She chased after the little girl.

Natasha knew what to do. She threw the towel behind her, causing it to grow bigger and bigger and wetter and wetter until it had transformed into a wide, flowing river standing between her and Baba Yaga.

Natasha kept running, but after some time, Baba Yaga managed to cross the river by enchanting all of her cows and making them drink the water.

The witch hopped back onto her broom and flew over the dried-up river to catch the little girl.

My little sisters have grown excited, and neither one of them is able to keep quiet. Maria is cheering for Natasha, and though the little Anastasia too is cheering for her, she also has a habit of giggling maniacally whenever the villain of any story is enjoying a temporary success.

"Just when Natasha thought she was free of Baba Yaga", Olga goes on, "the dark figure of the witch appeared in the sky and sped up behind her!"

At first, Natasha thought that the end had come for her, but then she remembered the magic comb and threw it behind her.

The enchanted object grew bigger and bigger, its teeth sprouting up into a thick forest, so big, thick, and tall that not even Baba Yaga could force her way through it.

The witch screamed with mad rage for minutes before finally turning around and flying back to her chicken-legged hut.

"Yay!" Maria claps.

The story ends soon after Baba Yaga's defeat.

When Natasha arrived back home, she told her father that his wife, the evil stepmother, had set a trap for her. The father was so outraged that he kicked Baba Yaga's sister out of the house. From then on, no stranger came between Natasha and her father.

"And they lived happily ever after", Olga finishes.

Suddenly, before I can thank my dear older sister for the wonderful story and tell her that I deeply enjoyed it, I feel a small, bony hand clutching one of my toes forcefully, and almost at the same time, a strange and loud shrieking sound makes me, Maria, and even Olga leap up from the floor in fright, screaming. I look around to see where the sound came from, removing the blanket covering my body as I do so, but it is too dark to see anything.

"What was that?" Olga's voice sounds different now, unsure, shaky. She is scared, but not as scared as the whimpering Maria sounds. My little sister managed to find me again and is holding me tighter than before.

They must have felt it too… and the shriek… what…?

It is Anastasia's laughter that breaks the tension, a peculiar admission of guilt. My little sister's laughter is high, loud, and wild, like that of a squirrel or even a fairytale imp would probably be. There might not be a similar laughter in the whole wide world. I love it and hate it at the same time.

For a brief moment, Maria has trouble grasping what just happened, so Olga soothingly explains to her that the lovely little Nastya has tricked us yet again, that the bony hands and the horrible shriek belonged to her and not any ghost or witch.

We don't have time to forgive Anastasia and laugh off the fright caused by her clever stunt though, because Alexei starts crying next door, rousing outrage within me.

"Look what you did, Nastya!" I yell, unsure if I am actually facing my youngest sister.

"Time for bed", the lights come back on unexpectedly the moment Nanny Shura pronounces those words sternly. "Your yelling has woken up your brother."

"And your Nanny Maria is having a hard time getting him back to sleep", mama adds, moving to stand next to her. Probably back from that formal reception she was complaining about this morning, mama is still elegantly dressed. Her long dress is adorned with pearls and other jewels, her hair is up, and her head is crowned with a small diadem. She must have come to tuck us in. I look up at her and then down at my feet with shame.

"I am sorry, mama", I apologize. I hate nothing more than disappointing her.

Nanny Shura goes back to the other room to help Nanny Maria calm Alexei, but mama comes over to me and strokes my cheek gently with her hand, also raising my head upwards for me to look her in the eye. "It is too late to be making such noise, my girlies, but now that you have heard the story", she pulls back her hand and addresses all of us, "what did you learn from it?"

"Did you listen to the story, mama?" Maria cocks her head.

Mama approaches her with a smile. "I have been here for quite some time, listening to Olga's wonderful narration in silence, I wanted to pay you a visit before bedtime."

Olga beams at mama's praise. "The story is from one of the folktale books Mr. P.V.P made me read."

"I think the lesson is that we should not go to strange houses", I say, "because it could be dangerous."

"Houses with chicken legs are the most dangerous!" Anastasia exclaims, making mama laugh.

"I think the lesson is that you shouldn't be mean and try to eat people like the witch", Maria suggests.

"That is very true, Maria", mama keeps laughing at that. She doesn't sound too convinced by the answer, but she indulges my little sister nonetheless.

"The lesson is that you should be nice to people and they will be nice to you in return", Olga says.

"Well said, my darling", mama grins, looking genuinely satisfied with the reply this time. "Why don't you all sit here with me?"

I should have known that Olga would have the correct answer.

My sisters and I take a seat with mama on my bed, where she elaborates further on my older sister's response: "Small acts of kindness can mean a lot to people, especially those who have little. Those you help may someday reward you as the grateful animals and the servant did Natasha's kindness, but it is important to be generous either way."

"Because God is always watching", I assert, "right?"

"He is", mama agrees. She then prays with us four before taking Maria and Anastasia back to their room and tucking them in.

I am extremely pleased to see her return to do the same with me and Olenka, not surprised, but very pleased. I love mama's hugs and forehead kisses, and most of all I love when she caresses my hair.

"I will do many nice things for others, mama", I tell her as she moves away from my bed and closer to Olga's. Mama blows me another kiss in response.

I close my eyes, and as mama tucks Olga in, I cannot help but listen to their conversation. They are not speaking in low whispers after all.

"How is the Duma going?" My sister asks. I open one of my eyes out of curiosity, only to catch sight of mama struggling visibly not to scowl or roll her eyes. I love it when people say that I am the one most like my mother, but in moments such as these, it is hard not to compare the facial expressions mama makes when she is angry about a thing or simply fatigued with something to those of my sister.

"Those are not the concerns of little children", mama says with almost mock harshness. She doesn't seem to want to scold Olga for being nosy, but it is clear she would rather not talk about such things with her.

Things don't always go that way. Sometimes mama and Olga fight. That is why I like to listen to them, so that I can learn from my older sister's mistakes and never have fights with my dear mama, ever. She worries so much over so many things already… especially about baby Alexei. I want her to always be happy with me.

All of my teachers prefer Olga. None have ever said so, but Olenka and I have classes together, and I know by the way their eyes light up whenever she makes a joke or answers one of their questions. They shine in a way they really do not shine with me.

I couldn't blame them. My older sister is smarter and funnier, and she barely ever gets as shy as I do, but mama doesn't care about those things. She loves us either way. She only wants us to be kind and obedient.

"I am not a little child", Olga argues, "I am ten years old, and I have heard that the Duma is full of revolutionaries who want to kill us."

"Where did you hear such nonsense?" Mama asks, appalled. "Because I will have a word with whoever it was that spoke this way around you, and as for that vocabulary…"

"You mean the word 'revolutionaries'?"

"Sleep well darling, and do not dream about them", mama smiles, and with a gentle caress, she closes Olga's eyes. "You are all safe and sound."

Oo

Western Siberia. September, 1906.

Gleb Stephanovich Vaganov.

I hop off the borrowed horse, a beautiful and tall creature of dark gray hair that I affectionately call "Ivan", and sit on top of the hill to watch the early morning horizon, tapping my foot to the beat of a melody that for now exists only in my mind.

The security is ridiculously loose. There are barely any guards around, one or two dozens of meters away. I could escape if I wanted to, easily so. I could take Ivan and gallop for hours through the forest, find shelter at different locations in exchange for labor, and slowly make my way out of the country. It is possible, it is often done, but I have already decided that I won't do it.

I don't like to admit as much, even to myself, but it is not so bad here. It is peaceful. This stunning landscape reminds me of my childhood trips to the countryside, when mama, father, and I would visit our small extended family.

Long pines forest the ridges before me as far as I can see, and no building, wooden or otherwise, is in sight. Our barracks are back in the village, or at least close enough to the village for me and my fellow prisoners to easily travel back and forth almost every day to perform our assigned chores, which consist mainly of helping local peasant families and landowners with farm work, plowing, planting, irrigating, fertilizing, and taking care of the animals and stored crops.

We dress in loose brown trousers, black leather boots and caps, and different colored plain cotton shirts of skewed collars that open to one side. This makes us blend in with the rest of the population. Back this winter, fur coats were also provided to those who hadn't brought them. Our three daily meals are simple yet filling, the sentries agreeable enough, and our overall existence tolerable.

I get along with one of the guards particularly well. He is a cavalry officer and veteran of the Russo-Japanese War who goes by the name of Pyotr. When I first arrived at the camp, scared and prone to weeping, Pyotr took me under his wing almost immediately, helping me settle in and become accustomed to life as a political prisoner. A couple of months into my confinement, he even started teaching me how to ride. He now trusts me enough to let me use his horse once in a while for both farm tasks such as herding and recreational purposes.

I never assured Pyotr that I wouldn't escape, he just seemed to know somehow. I wonder if he can tell how much I appreciate having a stable routine. That is a possibility, or perhaps the emptiness in my soul reaches my eyes. Maybe he sees that I am not a threat, that I have given up, that I am broken. I have been so since the day I saw those children die, failing to save even one. I see their faces all the time, the faces of those who died during the shelling. I cry myself to sleep thinking about them every night, only to dream of drowning in that bucket again and then wake up covered in sweat. I miss Igor too, and my mother even more. I haven't seen her since I left to fight for the revolution, although she has sent me letters and pictures that I have eagerly replied to.

The icy water used to torture me ended up causing me to catch a strong cold that soon evolved into pneumonia. I barely survived and recovered to witness my trial and subsequent sentence, five years of exile at one of the many labor camps I had grown up dreading.

Mine is unquestionably a pretty lenient sentence though, this in part because I am only fifteen, sixteen in a week. My friend Sergei Pavlovich will be staying here for the same amount of time, so at least I am not alone. He always comforts me when I have nightmares. Peter, on the other hand, was spared punishment. We still exchange letters, which is how I learned that his father interceded on his behalf, pulling some strings and using his influence as a local government official to get him off the hook.

I am glad to know that Peter wasn't punished for following my lead, though I hope to always have an ally in him if another revolution ever breaks out, as unlikely as that seems now…

I must not think about that. It is too painful to dwell on last year's failure.

Peter and Leonid went back to school earlier this year, as if nothing had happened. I too retain some sense of normalcy, for I have been allowed and even encouraged to resume my education. Keeping up with the prescribed course of studies is surprisingly a lot easier than before now that I can rely mainly on assigned books instead of having to sit through endless noisy lessons. I shall eventually pass the tests required to access further schooling, all while being allowed to fish and swim in the lake by the sleeping quarters, which I share solely with Sergei and other boys around our age.

It is hard not to feel guilty and even confused about the kindness the government has shown me. A strange and humiliating way to break a strong will.

Winters are awfully chilly in Siberia, and the stoves of the cabins hardly help. The camp's rudimentary wooden installations are simply not well-equipped to keep out the biting wind. We don't have indoor plumbing, only a few outhouses and a banya building used for steam baths and washing up after our daily chores. The water is brought from a nearby river, one of our many tasks.

Still, that is the way the vast majority of peasants live in this country, and the guards share our grievances. Some of them are more stern than others, and though in principle they could lash you if they wished, no such incident has yet occurred during my stay.

The only real torture I can complain about is the obligatory nature of the religious lessons imparted to us every Sunday after mass. I also miss playing the piano.

I can see through the conditional kindness though. I have not yet forgotten what they are, the system their evil, false God protects. The murders, the subjugation, the theft of our fruits of labor and the poverty that follows, which I grew up witnessing and learning about from my father.

I know that some penal labor camps are worse than others, that not all of us have been as lucky.

There are older, adult dissidents, both men and women, being held in barracks not too far away from ours, and though they are not treated differently from us juveniles in any significant way, they have told me horror stories regarding comrades being held in other camps.

They have urged me, Sergei, and the other boys not to give up the struggle, lending us books and asking us challenging questions about their contents once we have read them. The destitution of the workers, the mistreatment of the peasants by the landowners, beatings and even extrajudicial executions.

My convictions have matured and solidified, but all hope is lost. Every newspaper that arrives reinforces the idea. The Tsar dissolved the much-waited-for Duma parliament just this summer, a depressing yet predictable turn of events, and the government is slowly but surely regaining control. There will never be change.

Every day is a struggle to accept that the ones who murdered those children will never be punished. Everything I have lived for since as long as I can remember is gone, and as much as I try to be objective, it is hard not to blame myself for my lack of spine or wish I could turn back time instead of moving forward. I didn't pull the trigger on that fleeing Cossack when doing so could have mattered.

Only being around horses helps. Ivan has a calming effect on me, and he is one of the many reasons I am not escaping. What good could it do now that the Tsar is securing his power either way? I dread to see more people die. I dread the thought of another failure. I just want to feel the air against my skin and hear another creature's heartbeat. For now, I just desire predictability. I am unhappy, disillusioned, and exhausted.

I look back at the gray animal as he grazes on the grass and smile before taking out my stack of letters from the pocket of my baggy brown trousers. Today's mail.

I beam with happiness the moment I start reading the first letter. It is Feodosia's, and there is a lovely new picture of her there too that I will surely put under my pillow.

Dear Glebka,

I loved the poem you made with me in mind! How sweet of you to compare the color of my eyes to a pot of honey. I always considered my light brown eyes boring when compared to your piercing gray ones, but not anymore.

My family is doing fine, thank you a lot for asking. The police came yesterday to search the house, but they couldn't find you know what.

I visited your mother today and brought her some money to help her pay for the debt accumulated last year after your father was arrested and she was fired. You don't have to thank me, I know you worry for her every day and I needed to do something. She is writing to you as well, by the way.

There is not much to tell you, everything is pretty much the same around here. The buildings that were damaged during the uprising have all been restored, which I guess is the case everywhere, and the soldiers have become ruder and more violent as of late when apprehending suspects, but that is pretty much it.

The history classes I am taking at the academy are very interesting, and I don't have to do much homework, which is nice. Today they told us about Darya Nikolayevna Saltykova, a noblewoman who beat and tortured at least 38 of her serfs to death. When her evil deeds were finally uncovered, Empress Catherine the Great sentenced her to life imprisonment.

I cannot help but wonder how many landlords and nobles whose names we will never know have gotten away with similar crimes, using their wealth, power, and privilege to hide them. That is why you and I must not give up.

There is a lot more I wish I could tell you about, but I cannot do so through letters since I know the people working at the camp probably read them before delivering them to you.

But how are you doing? How fast can you ride on Ivan now? Say hello to Sergei.

P.D. I miss smooching you.

I kiss both the letter and the picture dozens of times and delight in smelling her perfume on them. Touching her lips with mine once again is the only thing I can hope for and look forward to in this wretched life now, and the nights I dream of her are free from terrors and instead filled with fantasies that my cheeks burn at the thought of.

I could thank her a million times for what she did, and I will once I get back to my barracks. Mama has struggled economically like never before. The bastards fired her due to her involvement with the party and for trying to unionize her fellow kitchen workers. It took long before she was able to find another job.

I fold Feodosia's letter and put it back in my pocket before picking the next one. There is one from Peter, but I want to read mama's first.

My beautiful boy!

Your friend Feodosia is a real treasure, a treasure you should work hard to keep. She just came to provide me with the sum I needed to pay all of my debts, so don't worry for me anymore, darling. My new work is a bit further from home than I am used to, but things are fine.

Tell me, how are you doing? I have been told such awful things about those camps and how they treat you, my love, are any of them true? Make sure to listen to the guards, dear. Don't talk back, I know that is not like you, but please be obedient for the sake of your poor mama, who worries so much for you. Take advantage of your time there to study hard.

Well dear, I hope you will write back soon.

I definitely will, mama. I regret every fight we have had so much…

I read Peter's letter next. He writes to me almost every day, which can be kind of annoying. There are always two or three letters from him when the mail comes, and they are often repetitive. I am certain now that he is a true friend though, and I will always, always appreciate that.

Gleb,

You won't believe this, as you have always been unpretentious, but the kids at the gymnasium are still talking about you. Leonid and I have made sure to introduce the younger kids to your story (And everything else, you know what), so that may be in part why, but even those from our generations are speaking about you and your words, and they consider you a hero. That is because I have told them about the seven soldiers you shot all by yourself. Some others do hate you, Maksim and his friends among them, but they cannot honestly say that they have forgotten about you! So rest assured that our glorious dream is not dead.

How are you doing? What do you and Sergei use to distract yourselves with other than books? And speaking of books, can you recommend any?

My father and brother say hi, they are still very grateful to you. Papa is going to try to arrange something for you to get out earlier, you will see. Hang in there, my friend.

With love,

Peter.

I laugh at his embellishment of my actions during the last days of the uprising. There were only five soldiers, and I had help from several other snipers.

It is a short letter, not like the one I received yesterday, where even Leonid added a few words describing how everything is going back in Ekaterinburg, but my friend's brief greeting brings a smile to my face nonetheless, making me feel a lot less alone, like everything is going to be fine. I am glad at least Peter and Leonid haven't given up our struggle.

The next letter is from a seemingly foreign address, an address written in English that I do not recognize… but I do recognize who it is from, Yakov! I am so glad that he is alive! It has been months since I last heard of him, is he alright? Did his wound heal properly? I sent a letter to Samuel a long time ago asking if his grandson had arrived safely, but he never replied.

Despite resenting the fact that I got his son involved in revolutionary activities, Peter's father is grateful for what I did during the uprising. He knows that I saved Peter's life more than once because my friend just won't stop talking about it. Mr. Zeldovich, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have taken things quite as lightly. Troublemakers are dangerous for his already despised community, and he must have also feared for Yakov... I am starting to suspect that he will never again offer me free candy.

I begin reading.

Dear Gleb,

I am sorry it took me this long to write to you, but I simply hadn't had the time. Can you forgive me, my friend?

I arrived home safely, but it took some time for me to fully heal. My leg still hurts, I don't know why, but I can walk just fine. In case you ask, yes, my parents were furious. I think they still are, but they don't show it much because they are more glad to have me back than angry about what I did.

Shortly after my recovery, my family decided to use the money given to us after the shop was broken into to move to New York, where Lev had a friend.

Yakov goes on to talk about his new life in America, and how much better and freer everything is there. He talks about the new businesses his parents and grandfather have built, about his siblings and cousins, about his new school, and about the journalism he wants to pursue.

While I shall certainly send Yakov a letter telling him how glad I am that he is safe and happy, I cannot help but feel a rush of depression and even anger at the thought of a comrade abandoning the cause to work happily within a capitalist economic system, and not only that, abandoning Russia. I would never leave my beautiful Russia, so it is very hard for me to accept his choice even knowing that it was probably not his at all and that he hasn't given up on our cause.

I truly am starting to accept that it is over, at least for now.

My heart stops when I see who the last letter is from. Stephen Viktorovich Vaganov.

"Father…" I whisper in disbelief, not knowing how to even feel. I have been mad at him for so long, growing to hate him despite also admiring his steadfast convictions. I despise nothing more than the fact that he made me who I am today.

The first time I heard from him since leaving for Moscow was months ago, when mama sent a letter informing me that he too had been arrested and sentenced to a number of years in a Siberian prison camp. His punishment was set to be longer, and the camp, even further from Ekaterinburg.

One of the many reasons for the government's comparatively lacking leniency was that my father's crime had been considerably more serious than mine. In early 1906, during a snowy day of January, father had assassinated an important government official working for the Governorate-General of the region.

The murder was carried out as the bureaucrat walked out of an administration building along with several of his co-workers. Aiming mainly for the Governorate-General himself, father rained bullets on them all without warning and then took off running. His attack was only half successful, for though many were wounded, only one of the men died, and not the most important. Still, this was another blow to the system, a small yet significant blow.

Later on, mama sent another letter informing me that my father had escaped the camp along with another prisoner. She had been notified of this not by him, but by his new comrade, a man named Vladimir Konstantinovich Gorlinsky.

Father hasn't written her a single letter since he and Vladimir escaped and moved abroad to keep the flames of the revolution alive in exile. He hasn't written me any letters at all. He hasn't told us where he is. The last news of him came from France, but he could be anywhere in Europe right now.

I hate him. I hate him so much. Not a single letter, not a word of concern, not a ruble sent, all while mama struggled to make ends meet. What is worse, he left without taking me, not that I would have wanted to leave anyway… but still, he had little clue of how I was being treated. He escaped before either mama or I could inform him. Why didn't he try to help me escape too? I am still his son. Does he really care for us so little?

I consider ripping the letter into pieces. What excuse could he give? But then I hesitate. Maybe he has had no time to write, like Yakov. Maybe he had trouble with foreign authorities, maybe… there is only one way to know, I guess.

The letter comes from Switzerland. I wonder how my father communicates there. He knows no German or French. Perhaps this Gorlinsky fellow knows a few words, or maybe father has gotten in touch with other Russian political dissidents. They could be helping him learn.

I start reading.

Son,

I am sorry I hit you. I realize now that I might have put too much pressure on you all of these years. You were only a boy, you still are.

Tell your mother to stop asking me for money. I just started working regularly at a factory again, and the additional profit I get from the articles I have been writing is not much. I need to save before sending anything. Tell her to be patient.

The letter ends abruptly, leaving me waiting for more. It has been almost a year since we last saw each other, is that all he has to say? I don't even know if I believe him.

I didn't know he and mama had exchanged letters either. They must have, otherwise, I don't see how mama could have learned about his Swiss address and then sent him a letter asking for money.

I don't understand why he hasn't written to me then, and why didn't mama tell me? I was worried about him. Was my father still angry at me? Could it be that she was the one who asked him to apologize?

The thought makes me so unhappy that my eyes fill with tears. I don't need him, I don't need him, I don't need him…

I am rocking again… how many times must I stop myself from doing that? I really thought I was far behind such things.

I stand up, fold father's letter, and put it in my pocket.

"Ivan!" I approach the animal with a grin. "Come here, boy!"

I pet the horse gently on his head before mounting him and heading back to work. My break must have already ended.

As I ride towards the village my mind clears and shifts back to my father. Stephen. Perhaps I should think of him that way. He has not been much of a father these past couple of years, but I think it is time to accept that gracefully. I have to be strong and stop being a little boy.

It took me too long to realize that every triumph requires sacrifice, to come to terms with the fact that I have no brilliant ideas, no clue as to how to save the world without the losses this entails.

My father seems to grasp the value of sacrifice in a way I still fail to fully comprehend. Perhaps that is why I have been so angry at him for something as inconsequential in the large scheme of things as his absence.

He once told me that not all battles are fought on the battlefield. I think that I understand what that means a lot better now. What my father did at the steps of that government building was partake in one of those battles.

Nothing would have considerably changed if I had shot that Cossack, that is true. I was only one person. The revolution would have still failed.

But if another opportunity were to come, the less weakness and hesitation, the better. People need to collectively follow orders from the more knowledgeable and experienced members of the party, and yes that will mean annihilating threats, wherever they may come from. Those armed and unarmed. Tsarist soldiers fighting back, the reactionary giving them orders, a landowner refusing to cooperate. Even someone like Pyotr, a likable man, more of a father to me these past few months than the progenitor I may never see again, but a soldier of the Tsar nonetheless.

I am no longer shocked by my father's actions, neither the assassination nor his subsequent neglect, though the latter still stings. I am not even mad about the smack he gave me anymore. Any action can be just for the right end, a world where the weak and helpless don't have to suffer.

I am just a bit worried. Though I can admire the way Stephen unhesitantly raised his weapon and gunned down that official, that unarmed official, I fail to see myself in his shoes, as if my weakness were more ingrained in my heart than in my mind.

Could I have pulled the trigger if I'd been told?

Oo

St. Petersburg. December, 1906.

Dmitri Ivanovich Sudayev.

I had never before bathed baby Sonya. I had never had to, but ever since those mean men beat papa and took him away, Mrs. Smirnova has been really rude, saying that my sister and I eat too much and make too much noise and work too little and take too much time and effort, which is really stupid because she has barely given me anything to eat in months. Only Sonya gets to be fed three times a day daily, whereas I just get lunch if I help with the household chores. It is really not fair.

Sometimes I get so hungry that my tummy aches, and at school it has become hard to focus, because food is usually the sole thing on my mind nowadays. Not only do the letters and the numbers on the sheets of paper dance in front of me, but my fingers shake too much for me to even hold a pen. I am the only one in my class who still can't read or write, and I hate it! I hate everyone who can do it! I hate them even more if they find it easy, those show-offs, especially stupid Natalia with the pretty hair!

Oh, papa would be so very disappointed in me… I can only hope he will help me learn once he gets out.

I am losing many of my school friends too, and not just because I sometimes steal their lunches or because I am jealous of them for being able to read now, which I am. I am simply too tired to play during recess, and even if I weren't, I would still spend most of my free time crying for my papa. I always miss him. Some of the teachers worry, so they sit with me as I weep, but I know that the religion professor is secretly happy that I don't do pranks anymore. I hate him so much.

"Why don't you do something for once?!" Mrs. Smirnova yelled when I told her earlier today that Sophia hadn't been bathed in weeks, that she was dirty.

She often grumbles that papa used to pay her and her husband for taking care of us, that he doesn't do that anymore, and that I cannot expect her to look after two young children for free, at least not forever.

I am beginning to grow scared, because all of that is true. Papa can't pay anymore. After he was taken, Valentina took me to court to see him, so I know that he was sentenced to fifteen years of imprisonment with hard labor. I sobbed for hours when I learned that. Uncle Ilya was also punished. He was given ten years.

I don't know what I am going to do if Sonya and I get kicked out or how I am going to wait fifteen entire years for papa to be free. It is so, so long! I will be a grown-up then, and I already miss papa so much… I have nightmares every day of the way he was beaten, of how ugly and bloody his face looked the last time I saw him, when he told me that he would come to look for me as soon as he was out, and asked me to take care of Sonya, to study hard, and to be a good boy. Only his tender voice was recognizable. He looked so awful that I always cry at the mere reminder, so awful. Poor papa. I wonder if he feels as lonely as I do now.

If only all of the Tsar's soldiers and policemen would die. I weep every day because I miss papa and Uncle Ilya and Andrei and Aunt Maria so much. I wish someone would soothe me the way they used to when I was upset, but no one does. Sophia is just a baby who needs me to be the one holding her when she is scared, the other children of the flat could stop looking up to me for seeking comfort like a baby, and Mrs. Smirnova is just plain scary. Valentina is really nice, she even helped Sophia potty train, but she doesn't treat me like her boy. She has her own children to take care of, the three of them younger than me. She is always focused on them.

At least bathing Sonya was not that hard. There is not always running water in the flat, because the pipes freeze sometimes during winter, and ours are not the best either way. I managed to fetch some water from the nearest public bathhouse though. It was far away from home, and carrying those metal buckets was really, really rough, especially after I filled them, but once I arrived, it was not that difficult to heat up the water, take the wooden tub out to the small backyard, and use it to wash my little sister and then myself. It was even fun to splash the water! And there is barely anything fun to do now that Mrs. Smirnova has sold all of my and Sophia's toys. She says she did so as a form of payment for everything I make her put up with. She also sold our new clothes, everything new that papa has given us, which is why I hate her too. When papa gets out of prison, I will ask him to make her return everything. We will have so much fun together after that!

I am putting my white shirt back on when Valentina comes out of the flat and gasps. I look up at her in startlement, wondering if I have done something wrong, but when her eyes meet mine, she smiles.

"Are you not hungry, dear?" She asks.

"I am", I reply, opening my brown eyes wide and blinking repeatedly. I have learned by listening in on several secret grown-up conversations that people actually find this adorable, so I hope that she will feel sorry for me and give me her scraps like she did last week, "but Svetlana says that since I didn't help her cook today because I was busy preparing Sonya's bath…"

"Forget Mrs. Smirnova!" Valentina exclaims.

I do get to eat with the other children, my friend Pavel among them. We sit on the floor while the adults eat at the table, but even as I swallow everything I am served with great relish and pleasure, I start to regret accepting Valentina's offer.

Mr. Smirnov must think that I am stupid, whispering about me when I am right here.

"We can not afford this", he says in his wife's ear. "One meal is not that big of a deal, Svetlana, but you have to think in the long term, our fifth baby is on its way."

I have never liked him. Even before papa's payments stopped coming, he was a severe man who rarely had a word for me or Sonya. Svetlana was different before, she used to play with me, Pavel, and her other children. I miss those days. Now there is nothing I can do that doesn't upset her. Everything has gone wrong. I can't wait for papa to get out of prison.

"I do pity the boy sometimes though", Mrs. Smirnova replies, "and our children like him."

"The children will find other friends."

"Please", Valentina interrupts the Smirnovsʼ conversation with a stern whisper. She is sitting opposite to them. "Not in front of the boy, he just lost his father."

"Fyodor is right, love", Viktor says. He is Valentina's husband. "I know you have a big heart, but use your head. Every kopek counts."

They want to kick me out. Papa would be so mad, and he would be furious with Svetlana for being so mean to me, though at first he wouldn't believe me if I told him the horrible things she has shouted. Papa always said that we should all be treated fairly, and that is not what they are doing at all. I don't understand why my neighbors seem to care for me so little all of the sudden. They were all papa's friends! They used to joke together after work and be sweet to me and Sonya! Seems like most of them were evil all along, but just wait until papa finds out…

The other children finish eating a few minutes after I do. This always happens because I have started eating very, very quickly every day, "as if the food could disappear at any moment", Valentina often jokes.

Pavel invites me and the others to play hide and seek out in the street with the other neighbors, and I readily accept. Sophia too joins the children, for at two she can already run really fast and somewhat understand what the game is about. I really love hearing her giggle.

As usual these days, I become tired rather quickly, so I go back inside, intending to lie down for just a few seconds. The adult conversation that resumes at the dining table distracts me though, and while the other children keep searching for me anywhere but in our own home, I hide behind a wall and listen.

Fyodor has just suggested that I be taken to work at a factory. Oh, no! Please no! My eyes fill with tears, and I become so scared that I start feeling faint, as though I am about to pass out. I don't want to end up like poor Andrei. That would hurt so much, I want to stay here…

"That is illegal", Valentina objects, "the child is only seven!"

"I know a place where they are a bit more flexible with the law", Fyodor retorts. "He and his sister could live there until we are better off."

"Your compassion for him is understandable, Valentina", Mrs. Alekseyeva says as she picks up the plates, "but it is misplaced. All of us either work all day or are struggling to find another job. We barely have time to take good care of our own children, let alone two more. He is not going to get the attention he needs from us."

"But he will from a greedy employer who hires children under twelve?" Valentina asks sarcastically. "Just listen to yourselves! The child needs schooling, not work!"

"He is not doing well in school from what I have heard. The school utensils were another waste of money."

"I visited the landlord yesterday", Viktor points out. "He is raising the rent again."

Worried murmurs and curses fill the air. Even Valentina closes her eyes briefly, trying to collect herself before speaking again. "Dmitri has always been playful and silly", she begins, "so whenever he complained about how hungry he was or I caught him stealing bread, I simply scolded him, assuming that there was nothing more to his behavior than a discipline problem. God forgive me for not seeing what was really going on until now." Valentina's darkening gaze becomes fixed on Mrs. Smirnova. "I just don't understand what difference two small children could make", her voice becomes louder and louder. "They don't eat that much, Svetlana, and yet you are starving the poor boy!" She cries, sounding scandalized.

I hold my breath so that they don't hear me, hoping that she will go on, that she will convince Mrs. Smirnova to serve me a bigger portion next time.

"I am doing what I can for those children", Svetlana defends herself. "It's better than living on the streets, and you are not the one whose job is going to the marketplace, only to find that you can't afford half of the products, or cooking, or assessing how much of each ingredient we need per person. My husband lost his job because of his association with Ivan, and our children haven't been satiated with their meals in weeks, so don't lecture me about the difference two hungry, growing children could or could not make!"

"I saw him today as he dressed up, and his ribs could not have been more noticeable!" Valentina cries with indignation. "Ivan was you friend, he was friends with all of us. We cannot forsake his children just to have ten more grains of rice. Have you no fear of God?"

"I respected Ivan", Fyodor assures her. "I still do, but we simply cannot afford these many children in the flat at this moment."

"I will give him half my plate every day, mend his clothes, and make sure we don't need to buy new school utensils, you don't have to worry."

"That is not the issue."

"Then what?"

"I have been offered a great deal of money for him, and even more for his sister, enough to pay for what I owe", Fyodor lays his chin on his fists and stares down at the table, looking ashamed of himself.

The room grows silent, and I become confused. Why would the factory pay so much for me? And why would they pay for Sophia at all? She is only two!

"Have you been gambling again?" Valentina asks Fyodor accusingly.

"Love", Viktor places a hand on his wife's shoulder reluctantly, as if knowing she is about to explode. "I think maybe you should calm down. We had to take the chance, we were struggling to pay the rent even before…"

"You too?!" Valentina cries, turning her head towards him and standing up from her chair in anger. "How could you be so irresponsible? How could you do such a foolish thing after everything I told you about those people?! Every policeman in the city is either afraid of them or in their pocket, for God's sake!" How much do you owe them?!"

"Valentina…" Viktor rises from his own chair, approaches her, and tries to touch her shoulders.

"Don't you `Valentina´ me", she snaps at him, slapping his hands away. "How much do you owe Michael Petrovich Savin?! How much?!"

My eyes fill with tears as I listen to them fight. How will I avoid getting sent to the factory now if Mr. Smirnov owes money? Papa won't be back for me in about… fifteen years, and each year has 365 days, which means papa won't be back until… 5,475 days have passed! That is so much time! I will have been injured countless times by then… or died like Andrei, and papa won't see me again…

The tears roll down from my eyes. I just want my daddy now…

The men and women in front of me keep yelling at each other, unaware that I am trying to hold back my sobs to avoid being caught.

"I won't let you take them to that so-called factory, you monsters!" Valentina cries. "I won't! Ivan would find a way to escape just to kill you all if he found out!"

Suddenly someone touches my back, and I almost jump out of my skin as I turn around to face them.

"Found you!" Pavel exclaims.

"Shh", I put a finger in front of my lips before wiping my tears.

"What is going on?" He asks, seemingly worried. I didn't want him to notice that I was crying, but it seems that he did anyway.

"Nothing", I say.

Oo

Valentina shakes me awake before the sun rises, interrupting the amazing dream I was having. Papa was back, he had escaped to take me and Sophia to Finland and then abroad to explore the world. The three of us were dancing and playing on the deck of a cruise. He would carry me over his shoulders, and like he used to, say: "Bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!" I was so happy.

"Don't make any noise, darling", Valentina whispers as she kneels on the floor where I lie and uncovers my blankets. "Dress up quickly, and make sure not to wake the others."

"What is happening?" I whisper back, rubbing my eyes, but she just goes to fetch my and my sister's day clothes without answering.

I am not irritated enough to snap at her, because the curiosity I feel is greater. This is all so strange. Today is Sunday, not a school day. There is no reason for anyone to be waking me up so early. The fear that she could be taking us to the factory fades away quickly, because there is no reason why she would hide that from the others.

When Valentina returns, she amazes me greatly by carefully dressing Sophia without waking her up.

My little sister will be wearing her usual black stockings, gray dress, violet woolen scarf and mittens, and brown fur coat, hat, and boots, while I shall wear my loose brown trousers, my black leather boots, the white shirt which has a collar that opens to the side, and a red woolen scarf to cover my neck.

I have an itchy black woolen coat reaching my knees that Valentina also forces me to put on.

"It is very cold outside", she says, pointing out that she is also wearing a big coat over her plain white shirt and black skirt. This sucks.

Valentina extends one of her arms to take my hand and picks up my sleeping sister with the other before we leave the flat. It is snowing and still dark outside, only the streetlamps illuminating the road ahead. The cold is so harsh and brutal that for a moment I wish I had taken my fur hat with me instead of papa's dark khaki English golf cap, but I would never say that to Valentina. She would tell me "I told you so", and I don't actually regret my decision at all. My cap is the only thing I have left from papa besides a black-and-white picture I keep in my pocket.

The snow on the street reaches my ankles, and I can only just keep up with Valentina. She doesn't let go of my hand, and if I look up at her, she smiles down at me somewhat nervously.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"You will see when we get there", she replies softly and with a sad expression that makes me grow scared. Perhaps she is taking us to the factory after all.

I consider running off, but doing so would mean abandoning Sonya, and what would I do alone on the streets? Would I be able to beg for a living? I don't think my dad would like that. I do remember having fun panhandling back when my family and I didn't have a house, but later on, papa started saying that he didn't want me to do so ever again.

No, I think it is better to wait and see where we are going.

The sun begins rising almost at the same time horse-drawn sleds slowly start appearing on the roads, carrying passengers or merchandise on the back. Valentina lets go of my hand, puts some of her fingers inside her mouth, and whistles to stop one of them. After she pays the driver, we hop on and move forward, heading even faster towards our mysterious destination.

Sophia wakes up and cries weakly upon feeling the sharp wind in her face, but she soon recovers and starts looking around in wonder as she sits on Valentina's lap.

"Horse!" My baby sister exclaims with a huge smile, pointing at the large and beautiful white animal pulling another sled in front of us. "Horsey, hello!" Our seats are not covered like carriages usually are, so we can see everything that surrounds us clearly.

"Yes, Sonya, well done, that is a horse", I lean forward and pat her head gently. Valentina smiles and kisses her on top of the head, an unusual gesture for her.

The snow has stopped falling by the time our horse begins slowing down. It does so in front of a tall and wide structure painted pale orange, with many white columns and small windows framed in wood. I hate the building almost immediately. It is too big. It is too fancy. It makes me think of a smaller, uglier version of the Winter Palace, and I hate the Winter Palace.

There are letters plastered onto the walls in white paint: "O", "R", or… yes, I think that is an "R", but I cannot be sure… ugh, I hate letters!

The sled is no longer moving, but the stupid letters are. It irritates me.

"Where are we?" I ask with a huge frown, finally growing impatient.

When Valentina turns to look at me, I notice that her eyes have filled with tears.

"What is wrong?" I panic. "Oh, it is the factory, isn't it? I couldn't help but listen in, I was just curious, I…"

"I am so sorry, Dmitri", she wipes away her tears with her forearm before they fall. "I am doing this for you, for Sonya, to protect you."

"What? Why?" My questions come out louder than I intended, like a series of whines.

"You will be staying here", she uses her hand to point at the building.

"What is this place, tell me!" My eyes rapidly fill with tears. "I cannot read!"

"It is a home for children", she answers softly. My eyes grow wide.

"It is an orphanage!" I cry in accusation. The tears roll down from my face, and the sound of Valentina's voice as she tries to calm me becomes muffled by that of my sobs and angry screams. This is more awful than anything I could have predicted.

"This is the only thing I could do, darling", she strokes my hair, "they will take good care of you two here, you will see."

"But this is an orphanage", I pant, rubbing my eyes and runny nose on the sleeve of my coat, "and I am not an orphan!" I cry out loudly. "My papa is still alive!"

"I know."

"He is!"

"I am sure he is, sweetheart, but…"

"We are not orphans!"

"Of course not."

"He said he would try to escape, and that no matter how long it took he would come back someday and take us to Europe on a boat!"

"Yes, darling, but you need someone to take care of you and Sonya in the meantime", Valentina insists. "Your father will know where to look when he comes back, I made sure of it by leaving a note with the address to one of the neighbors, someone of trust."

"Take me to the factory", I stop rubbing my eyes and look at her. "I will work hard and help you all pay for everything you need, just don't leave me here, please!"

"This is a better place for you than any factory could be."

"It is not true, it is not true", I shake my head furiously, and more and more tears keep falling as I do. "This is a place for children who don't have parents, and I will see papa again, I will, I have to. I don't want him to die!"

"This place is not just for children whose parents have died", she explains gently, "there are children like you here, whose parents are not able to care for them for a good number of different reasons, at least not currently."

When I try to speak again, my voice is initially cut off by a series of sobs, pants, and coughs. "What about school?" I eventually ask amidst sniffles. "Papa wanted me to go to school."

"The orphanage has its own school."

"But I will miss my friends…" I object, knowing too well that most of them will probably be happy when I am gone.

"I am sure you will make new friends here, sweet thing, now come", Valentina steps out of the sled and offers me the hand she is not using to hold Sophia.

"Wait!" A great idea occurs to me. "We have relatives in the countryside, you could take us to them, could you not?"

"Wait a moment here, please", Valentina tells the driver, but she doesn't get back up on the sleigh. "Do you know where they live?" She asks me.

"In the countryside", I repeat.

"Do you know the name of the village, darling?"

The question takes me off guard. I remember the full names of my aunts, uncles, and cousins… well, second cousins that is, because they are the children of papa's cousins, but I always thought of them as simply cousins. I remember the names of the other villagers too. I remember the correct way to call the animals, the flowers, and the trees. But I can not remember the name of the village. Papa barely ever mentioned it. He always talked about "visiting some cousins" when discussing his future plans with friends, rarely specifying where he was going.

"No…" I lament, lowering my head and letting out a loud sob. "I don't know…"

"Alright, alright, let's try this again", Valentina says. "Do you know how to get there? Could you tell me how?"

My mind works hard to remember the way, but I never once traveled without assuming that my dear papa would always be there to guide me on the right path. I never once tried to memorize the direction to the other highest place in the world, the first one. Never. Worst of all, I was always distracted while on the road, playing with Sophia or with my toys.

"No", I weep, shaking my head, "I don't know how", I wipe the slime from my nose, "I just want my dad…"

But he is not coming, not in 5,475 days, not unless he escapes, and nobody loves me or cares for me anymore, not even Valentina. That is the reason why she is abandoning me here. She doesn't care. No one around me cares. I won't see my papa's family again, not until Uncle Ilya comes out of prison and tells me where the stupid village is, and he is not coming out in 3,650 days!

Oh, I want my dad, I want my dad, please, I just want my dad…

Oo

I fell to the ground and screamed for minutes, crying out amidst painful sobs that I only wanted my dad. There, by the side of the road, I rocked back and forth and stomped my feet and hands on the ground, refusing to move in any other manner.

Valentina tried to be nice at first. She told me that she understood how I felt perfectly well and then compared me to the sweet and calm Sophia, who wasn't making any noise. My two-year-old sister was only staring at me with sadness and confusion.

I screamed out loud on the ground for so long that Valentina's patience eventually ran out, and she pulled me by one arm through the street all the way to the front door of the orphanage, saying that I was embarrassing her by making a scene.

Having rang the doorbell, she left me and Sophia alone.

My sister and I are now waiting for the door to open, standing side by side and staring forward with expectation.

I knew Valentina didn't really care. I no longer think that anyone other than papa, Sophia, and Uncle Ilya really could. I have nonetheless wiped my nose, eyes, and cheeks. I don't want whoever will answer to see me cry. I don't know why.

I take my sister's hand and kiss her on the cheek. She smiles at me for a moment before staring back ahead. No one cares for me, but she will always have in me someone to care for her.

The door opens.

I was very, very inspired by the "Blonde" Marilyn Monroe movie starring Ana de Armas in this chapter. I watched it and couldn't help but think that someone like Dmitri would probably have had a similar childhood to that of the main character, so I imagined him in one or two scenarios shown in the movie, etc. I did switch it up a bit so it is not exactly the same though. Hope it was not too obvious for those of you who have seen the movie.

Obednya - Russian for Full mass with Holy Communion.
Banya - A sauna or steam bath traditionally used in Russia for hygiene.

Trigger warnings: Terrorism mention, police brutality, child neglect and verbal abuse, people conspiring to traffic children (Implied).