July-August, 1941
Moscow
The war didn’t penetrate their athletic cocoon until the capital was bombed on July 21. Until then, locked in their island of peace, Stephen and the other athletes were only dimly aware of the transformation of the city outside their gates. But awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of a fleet of bombers and massive explosions that shook even their dormitory, reality finally found them. For the next month they worked to secure the campus, and now, in late August, it, like the rest of the city was under wraps. From the street it appeared as though a mad giant had covered its buildings with gigantic tarpaulins and made the entire population his slaves.
Yet, they never stopped training. To Stephen’s amazement, Alexsey called all of the athletes together and advised them that as far as the government was concerned, their service on their respective teams was a crucial to the survival of the nation as service in the armed forces. Despite the absurdity of that assertion, they were all relieved to hear it. The campus having been secured, they would be required to help wherever needed throughout the city—while continuing to train. Well before dawn Stephen was off-campus, helping with fortifications and ten hours later he was on the soccer field, practicing. The balmy weather was ideal for outdoor work and for soccer; he found himself enjoying the endless hours of sunshine and physical labor. The weather was also ideal for war, and he, like everyone else in the city, was mystified by the sudden turn of the German war machine to the south. Moscow had been granted a reprieve at precisely the moment when it was most vulnerable. Within a month it would be infinitely more difficult for the Germans to penetrate the fortifications that grew in concentric circles around the city like rings on a sectioned tree.
One afternoon, returning from their work site to the campus, someone pointed out a new anti-Nazi poster, complimenting its ferocity. Stephen gave it a passing glance; war posters, monotonously alike, blanketed every wall in the city. But this one forced him to stop and look. It awakened something he couldn’t define, as though he had forgotten someone’s name whom he had once known very well.
Later that night, in his room, he realized what it was. It might only be his imagination, he thought, yet, there was no mistaking the style—only his sister could have painted that picture.
Because of Alexsey, he couldn’t risk asking questions himself. Spy-mania had infected the entire campus now, and anyone making such an inquiry would be immediately interrogated. She knows where you are, he thought. All you can do is wait for her to find a way to contact you.
* * *
For some time Rachel had been waiting for the right time to ask for Mitya Vodogolin’s help in contacting her brother. But she couldn’t bring herself to that point—he was already risking his career by keeping her on the job. But now September was fast approaching and only an idiot could believe Stalin’s propaganda that the Germans were suffering defeat after defeat. If that were true, why was Moscow under seige? One night Mitya unexpectedly returned to the studio. Having grown accustomed to being left alone after working hours, she had permitted herself the luxury of posting her drawings all around her, providing her with the illusion of being back at Pskov station. Now she watched the pear-shaped officer approach, curious for his reaction.
Vodogolin, acting as if she weren’t there, inspected each of the drawings and then pulled a chair over and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, he lowered himself into another one and leaned toward her, his paunch rolling forward as though he had a bag of apples in his shirt.
“If you go on being as careless as this,” he gestured towards the drawings, “you’ll be in Siberia before the summer ends.” It was a statement of fact that didn’t call for any response. “I came tonight because your friend, Lily, has been attracting too much attention.”
“How?” Rachel asked, although she knew the answer.
“She’s asking too many questions.”
Rachel could see there was no point in pretending ignorance. “She’s trying to contact my brother, Stephen.”
Vodogolin groaned. “Right now you’re like a moth in the closet. I’ve taken great care to keep you hidden. But I’m a plain army man. The N.K.V.D. can chew me up and spit out whatever’s left like a seed.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping, his moustache bent into a frown of discontent. “Against them I have no power. None. If you make any movement that attracts their attention, you and your brother may both be in jeopardy.”
“But we have to speak to him.”
“If you do, it may be the last conversation you ever have.”
He pushed his bulk up from the chair and gathered the sketches, again mulling over each one in turn. Handing them to her, he said, “Guard these well. Someday the world will want to see the truth about our war.”
Back at their room, Rachel told Lily about Mitya’s warning.
“We have no choice,” Lily said. “Time’s running out. If we lose him now, we may not ever see him again. There’s got to be a way to contact him.”
“But how?”
“You know,” Lily said, “it’s possible they might have the athletes helping out around the city . . .”
They both laughed.
It was only later, when Rachel tried, but failed, to fall asleep, that she was struck by a new dilemma: once they located Stephen, what should she do? For she knew that Lily would want to leave with Stephen for Stockholm as soon as they could buy their way out of Russia. But the N.K.V.D. would never let Rachel leave the country. Not now. And after what had happened a year ago, she couldn’t ask Stephen to remain with her.
She glanced at Lily, asleep beside her in the narrow bed. Had the same thought occurred to her? Probably; but she was keeping her thoughts to herself. To Lily it would be a repeat of what had taken place last summer: Rachel refusing to leave and Stephen staying with her. No, Rachel decided, she couldn’t let that happen again.