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  Grasse didn’t expect what happened next. The officer hit him so hard it knocked him over. ‘You are lying.’

  ‘No, no, comrade,’ shouted Grasse. ‘Please, you must believe me. My division will cross the Bug at four this morning.’

  Kicks rained down on him, on his back, in his groin, in his stomach. One of them connected with his head and he could feel blood in his mouth. He thought a tooth had come loose.

  ‘Please, comrade,’ he spat out. ‘I am a communist. My family has suffered enough already under Hitler. I am here to help you.’

  The beating stopped. Through the pain and bewilderment, he heard voices shouting at each other in Russian. Then the officer spoke to him again. ‘I will contact my senior commander. If you are lying, I will kill you myself.’

  Augustus was taken to a cellar room and locked in. Then the lights went out. He crawled his way to the door and politely called for a drink. He flinched when the locks from the door opened and blinding light spilled in. Three Soviet soldiers beat him some more. When they left, he noticed through the shaft of light under the door that there was a tin mug on the floor with water in it.

  Alone in the dark he listened for the quarter-hourly chimes of the town clock, and sank into despair as each chimed off the time to the invasion. Shortly after 3.00 a.m. the door opened and light flooded into the cellar again. Two Soviet soldiers called him up the stairs. When he reached the top, one of them grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back. The other then bound both his hands together with a piece of rough rope. Grasse was surprised when a blindfold was hurriedly tied around his eyes. These Soviets were keen to keep things secret, he thought. He was swiftly ushered outside; he could tell by the drop in temperature and the warmish night breeze that blew over him. Night air, it was so delicious. He prodded his loose tooth with his tongue. It had stopped bleeding. Maybe he wasn’t going to lose it after all.

  Then he heard someone shouting – a barrage of what he guessed were orders. He imagined they were going to take him to talk to a senior officer, maybe even a general. He listened out for the sound of a car engine, but the last thing he ever heard was the crack of six rifles in a firing squad.

  Chapter 12

  Misha lay awake for much of the early hours staring at the ceiling. He hoped desperately that his father and Valya were wrong about the Germans, but in his heart he was sure they were right. Eventually he drifted off but woke to the sound of a ringing telephone. He dimly remembered hearing his father come home sometime in the middle of the night, and had assumed Stalin had had one of his usual late-night meetings. But this telephone call was definitely unusual. The dim light filtering through the drawn curtains told him it was barely dawn.

  He got up to see his father looking exhausted in his dressing gown. ‘Papa, are you all right?’ he asked.

  Yegor nodded. ‘I have to go. Something has happened. Comrade Stalin is meeting the Politburo in half an hour.’

  ‘Do you think the Germans have invaded?’

  Yegor beckoned Misha to come into his arms. He hugged him tight. ‘We have to be brave, Mikhail. This will be our greatest ordeal.’

  Misha made his papa a coffee as he dressed, then sat with him as he ate a hurried breakfast. He left the apartment at five thirty and told Misha he would probably have to cook his own supper. He would try to let him know when he would be back but, whatever happened, Misha was not to come to the office and disturb him.

  As soon as Yegor left the apartment, Misha turned on the radio. He could get nothing from the Soviet stations, so he turned the dial to see what else was being broadcast. Amid the foreign babble he heard city names close to the German border, like Minsk and Odessa, and wondered at once if they had been bombed. Elena, his sister, lived in Odessa. On one radio station he recognised the language as German and the announcer seemed unnaturally strident and excited as military brass-band music played in the background. This time he heard ‘Kiev’, where Viktor lived, and realised that if all three of these big regional cities had been targeted this must be a massive attack.

  Misha felt sick with worry. It was still only six o’clock, so he went back to bed and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Outside he could hear the rumble of cars and lorries. There was a lot of coming and going inside the Kremlin walls. He dreamed of Valya marching off to war dressed as a commune worker and carrying a Simonov rifle. As her squad passed by in a big Red Square parade, she saw him in the crowd. She turned and shouted something he couldn’t hear.

  He woke again around eight and this time it was fully light. The sky was overcast and appropriately glum. Misha wondered if it was too early to go over to see the Golovkins. There was a knock at the door and he knew at once it was Valya. She was wearing the same cotton dress she had worn the day before, with a blue cardigan.

  ‘I have some pastries,’ she announced, marched boldly in, and threw the bag down on the table.

  ‘Papa was summoned at five o’clock,’ she said.

  ‘My papa too,’ said Misha.

  ‘I’m going to volunteer immediately. Will you come with me?’

  ‘They won’t have me, Valya. I’m too young.’

  ‘I don’t mean for you to sign up, Misha. I don’t want you to go to the front. It’s going to be very dangerous, and yes, you are too young. Most of us who go will probably not come back, but I can’t sit here and wait for the Hitlerites to arrive. I have to do something.’

  ‘What does your papa say?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell him.’

  ‘Valentina, if I go down there with you and he finds out, he’ll be furious with me.’

  ‘Misha, I’m going anyway. Come if you like. Don’t come if you don’t like.’

  They ate their pastries in silence. ‘All right, I’ll keep you company,’ said Misha, ‘but let’s just see what’s going on on the radio.’

  This time the Soviet stations were broadcasting. One of the announcers told everyone to be prepared for a very important broadcast at midday.

  ‘Let’s go out into the street,’ said Valya. ‘We know what it’ll be about. But this is history. This is something we’ll remember for the rest of our lives – whatever’s left of them!’

  ‘You’re brave,’ said Misha – half in mockery and half in admiration.

  ‘Actually, Misha, I’m terrified.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Make yourself look presentable, We might be in one of the newsreels, looking stoic and heroic. I’ll meet you back here at half past eleven.’

  Valya turned up in her red dress this time, with the matching red ribbon in her hair. Misha wore his best tweed jacket. She took his arm. They walked out of the Kremlin at Trinity Tower and up Gorky Street, which was packed with grim, anxious people, many huddled together in small groups of friends or family, their arms linked together. Strident brass-band music was playing through the street tannoys, not unlike the music Misha had heard in the Nazi broadcast, but this was entirely unusual for a Sunday morning. Eventually the music stopped and the crowd’s dull murmur turned to a frightened silence.

  Misha expected to hear Stalin, so he was surprised when a hesitant Molotov started to speak.

  ‘Citizens and citizenesses of the Soviet Union. Today at four o’clock in the morning, without a declaration of war, German forces fell on our country . . . an act of treachery unprecedented in the history of civilised nations . . . The Red Army and the whole nation will wage a victorious Patriotic War for our beloved country, for honour, for liberty . . . Our cause is just. The enemy will be beaten. Victory will be ours.’

  Misha and Valya stood close to each other and seemed to be the only ones there who weren’t surprised. People seemed shocked and upset, and some had tears streaming down their faces.

  When the announcement ended, Misha and Valya walked up Gorky Street to the Military Recruitment Office to find there was already a vast queue.

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Valya decided instantly.

  Instead they wandered on through the streets.

  ‘V
alya, I think you are wrong about the Germans getting here in a few weeks. Did you see the people? They looked anxious, of course – who wouldn’t? – but they looked like they were going to fight with everything they’ve got. They looked like they were willing to fight to the death. If I was a German in Moscow, one of the diplomats, there must be some of them left, I’d be terrified. I’d be thinking, “What have we stirred up?”’

  Valya looked unconvinced. ‘Maybe, Misha, maybe. But you can’t stop a tank with stubborn courage. You need something more than that.’

  They listened to the conversations in the street but most people seemed to know very little – ‘Our army will destroy them. The war will be over in a month.’ Or, ‘I have heard our soldiers have already seized Warsaw!’ So far they had heard nothing bad about the government – you wouldn’t expect that in a crowded street. When they rounded the corner of Tverskoy Boulevard and Ulitsa Gertsena, they saw a crowd gathering by the tobacconist’s. An old lady, dressed in a shabby coat and wearing a woollen headscarf despite the warm weather, was haranguing a group of passers-by.

  ‘This is God’s punishment on us all,’ she shouted. ‘Famine, forced labour, mass murder. God has turned his back on us. And so has Comrade Stalin. Why did he not give the speech? Why did he not speak to his people?’

  One man was clenching his fists and looked white with anger. ‘How dare you talk like this when our Revolution is so threatened?’

  Other people in the crowd were jostling her. ‘Get stuffed, you mad old cow,’ said one.

  But worse was coming. Two Militia men were shoving through the far side of the crowd. Much to Misha’s surprise Valya immediately stepped forward and grabbed the old lady by the arm. ‘Come on, Babushka, you cannot say things like this to people. Let me take you home.’

  The woman looked startled, then angry, but just at that moment she too saw the Militia men and flinched. Valya turned to face them and addressed the whole crowd. ‘Comrades, this misguided old lady is my grandmother. I have come out to look for her and take her home. Please ignore her ramblings. She has not been herself since her husband died.’

  The mood of the crowd changed. ‘Keep her locked in, the mad old bat,’ said one young man. But he sounded indulgent rather than angry.

  ‘Come on, Babushka,’ said Valya, and tugged on her arm. The woman shrank, her anger gone, and she began to walk down Ulitsa Gertsena. Misha could barely stand to watch. The Militia men looked undecided. Was this mad old lady worth their time and trouble? They walked towards them and Misha’s heart sank. He wondered whether to intervene but knew this could easily make things worse.

  Instead he tagged behind. One of the Militia men grabbed the woman roughly by the arm. ‘You, you old sow, what have you been saying?’

  Valya turned and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Comrade, my grandmother is unwell. She has these episodes. I am taking her home.’

  The other Militia man was right behind. Misha recognised him. He was one of the two who had spoken to them back in the spring when they had stopped to help the boy who been run over.

  He spoke to the other man and then turned to Valya. ‘Very well, young lady, you may take her home. But keep a close eye on her. We will have to take her away if this happens again.’

  When he was sure the Militia were out of sight, Misha caught up with them. ‘Valya, what on earth are you doing?’

  The old lady turned on him at once. ‘Aren’t you a gallant young man?’ she snapped. ‘Fortunately you have a very brave girlfriend.’

  ‘No, Babushka,’ said Valya. ‘He was right to stay out of this.’ She was looking flustered and her hand trembled a little. ‘Do you remember the tall one, Misha? He stopped us when we helped that boy.’

  She turned to the old lady. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

  The woman looked fearful. ‘Are you NKVD?’ she asked.

  ‘Babushka, do we look like NKVD?’ said Valya.

  The old woman shook her head.

  ‘It’s not this way,’ she said. ‘Strastnoy Boulevard.’

  ‘Babushka, forgive me, but you should keep your opinions to yourself,’ said Valya. ‘Especially at a time like this.’

  The old lady looked dejected. ‘I feel so angry, and sometimes I just snap and it pours out. I know it’s stupid but I can’t help it.’

  They walked on in silence, and when they reached Strastnoy Boulevard she said, ‘Come up to my apartment. I want to thank you.’

  Chapter 13

  Misha and Valya let their curiosity get the better of them. The old lady led them to a grand building overlooking a tree-lined square and they walked up a linoleum staircase to a small apartment facing out on to a dark courtyard. The old lady bustled around her kitchen, talking as she fetched cakes from a tin and prepared a pot of coffee.

  ‘My name is Antonina Ovechkin. You may call me Baba Nina.’

  Misha didn’t quite know what to make of this. He called his own grandmother Baba – Nana – but it seemed a bit overfamiliar for someone they didn’t know.

  Valya seemed comfortable with it. ‘Baba Nina, you put yourself in terrible danger there.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s over now. So don’t fuss about it,’ she said sharply. Then she softened. ‘I do have a terrible temper, I know. But I get so impatient with people. They just swallow everything they hear. They’re like sheep.’

  Valya didn’t want to have a conversation like this with someone she barely knew so she changed the subject. ‘Do you live alone here?’

  ‘My husband was a colonel in the Red Army,’ she replied. ‘He gave his whole life to the Revolution. And now he’s disappeared. He was on Tukhachevsky’s staff. They all vanished. You saved me, just then. If they’d arrested me, they would have checked my file and that would have been it. If they didn’t kill me, they would have sent me to the camps and that would have done for me, just as surely.’

  Baba Nina talked for an age about her grandson Tomil, who she saw only once a month because her son was so busy, and how good he was at walking, and how he had started to say his first few words.

  But she asked them about themselves too, and what they were doing with their lives. When Valya told her she wanted to be a pilot, Nina said, ‘A fine ambition for a Soviet girl. But I wish they would make our planes safer to fly. D’you know half our pilots are killed in training?’

  Valya was unperturbed. ‘I know how to fly already, Baba Nina. I learned with the Pioneers and the Komsomol.’

  As they were leaving, she grabbed Valya’s arm and said, ‘I might be old and a bit cranky, but I still have friends. You are one of my friends now.’

  By the time they walked out into the street, it was mid-afternoon and the overcast sky had cleared a little. It was trying to be a pleasant summer day. ‘Old people like to talk, don’t they?’ said Valya. ‘I imagine she spends a lot of time on her own. You can tell she used to be important though, don’t you think? She has something about her.’

  As they walked back to the Kremlin, they passed long queues outside every shop that sold food.

  After a while, Misha said, ‘That was a brave thing you did, Valya. You could have been arrested.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to let those Militia men beat up an old lady in front of my eyes. Of course she was stupid to talk like that in front of everyone, but could you have walked away while those thugs laid into her?’

  Misha didn’t like to admit it, but he could have done, quite easily. He didn’t say anything.

  Valya leaned closer. ‘And I thought she made at least one good point. Why was Molotov making that speech? Comrade Stalin should have had the courage to speak to his people.’

  Valya went to volunteer for partisan work the next day. Misha asked her to reconsider – she must know she would be murdered by the Nazis if she was caught. They took her name and details and told her to return home to await further orders.

  Misha volunteered for air-raid duties and was given training in aircraft recognition. The German bombers looked far
more sophisticated than anything the Soviets had.

  Valya had been right about the bombers and Yegor Petrov had been wrong. There were air-raid drills in that first week but no bombers appeared in the sky over Moscow. The Nazis were still out of range. But Misha had an awful sinking feeling he would be seeing those angular, sinister-looking planes from the training manuals all too soon.

  Misha barely saw his father in those first few days of war. Yegor Petrov came back in the middle of the night, and when he rose, usually around eight in the morning, he hurried immediately to his office in the Senate block without having breakfast.

  It was almost a week after the invasion when Misha finally sat down with his papa to eat together. He looked haggard and Misha was pleased to be able to cook him a meal. ‘I cannot tell you how terrible these last few days have been. The Vozhd has been shouting and bullying everyone. Even that tough old bastard Zhukov burst into tears. The Hitlerites are five hundred kilometres into our territory – in less than a week. Minsk has gone, and Vilnius . . . Odessa is threatened. They expect Smolensk to fall within a week. And the worst of it is, he won’t let the soldiers retreat. We’ve lost half a million men in a week! And our so-called great air force . . . a thousand planes destroyed on the first day! On the first day . . .’

  His voice petered out, lost in despair. Then he spoke again.

  ‘What will happen to Elena? If only I could have warned her.’

  ‘She might have got out, Papa. Maybe she’s on a train heading to Moscow with Andrey.’

  ‘Mikhail, I tell you now, I never liked that husband of hers. I sometimes wondered if he had anything to do with your mama’s disappearance.’

  Misha felt queasy. He would never be able to look Andrey in the eye again.

  Yegor waved his hand dismissively. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. A whisper to the NKVD about something she’d said, that was all it took a couple of years ago. I think Andrey would betray his own mother if he thought it would advance his career.