She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the sheet wrapped tight in her small, white fist. There was whispering. Low, urgent voices. The wind whistled through the treetops. From somewhere, out in the darkness, she heard the sound of a dog howling. A fearful chill ran down her spine. She drew the sheet up to her lips. There were footsteps, the sound of bare feet slapping on the cold, wooden floorboards. And then a thump on the door. The sound echoed through the quiet house. Dying away slowly in the furthest, darkest corners. The feet were still. The whispering staunched.
The fist pounded on the door again, steady in its furious insistence. A man called, his voice muffled. Open the door. Voices were whispering in her parents’ room. Get dressed, her father said. She could hear her mother whispering, whispering. Get dressed, said her father again. His voice shaking, but loud, determined. The apartment rang to the sound of the pounding fists. She covered her ears. Men were calling. Angry orders. Open the door. Open the door.
Svetlana woke. The room was quiet. Nikolai was sleeping in the corner, tucked in the thin sheet. Beside her lay Ivan. She wiped the droplet of perspiration from her forehead. Waited for her pulse to slow. She eased herself out of bed slowly. Quietly she walked across to the door and opened it. The courtyard was illuminated faintly by moonlight. She leaned against the doorframe and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply the raw, scorching smoke.
*
Fine, her father said, moving down the corridor to the door. They moved into the apartment quickly, pushing him before them. She heard their boots on the floorboards. A grunt as her father tried to protest. A small cry from her mother. Somebody said her father’s name. Yes, he said, that’s me. Again the sound of scuffling. It’s fine, it’s fine, her father said, breathless, scared, I’m not fighting. Svetlana curled into her bed. Her heart thudded. She pulled the covers over her head, hiding in the darkness.
The books, she heard a voice demand. We know that you have samizdat literature. The papers, get them out.
Give them, show them. Her mother’s voice was tight with fear.
The darkness was hot, airless. She hugged her legs tight against her chest. Pressed her forehead against her sharp knees. She whispered the prayer her father had taught her. Over and over she said the words.
For God’s sake, just give them the books, it’s what they want. Her mother’s voice was faint as though she was in the apartment below. Her father said nothing.
Beneath the sheets she whispered her prayers. Their secret. If she told anybody he had been teaching her the prayers he would be in trouble, he had said to her. She did not tell, it was their secret.
Her mother was crying. Svetlana waited until the echo of the boots had faded, the voices gone. Peeling back the sheet she peered out into the still darkness. She slipped out of the bed and stood in the doorway. Her mother was on the bed, a dressing gown pulled with careless haste around her. Her face was pressed into the sheets. Her body heaved as the sobs tore her. The apartment door was closed. Her father’s suitcase was beside the bed, ciothes falling from it. Her mother sobbed. Her father was gone. His shoes had gone but his umbrella was still there, by the door. And his scarf hung on the coat hook. But he was gone. She looked at her mother sobbing on the bed. A sharp pain cut her heart. She felt bile rising in her throat. Her small fists tightened. A cry escaped her. The squawk of a frightened, angry crow. She flew across the room and lashed at her mother with her small clenched fists. Her mother looked up, startled.
Svetlana flicked the butt of the cigarette out into the courtyard. The night was quiet. A car drove slowly down Pylimo, the soft snarl growing then fading away.