Page 19

Chapter Sixteen

Dimitri

I woke up smiling.

It took me a moment to realize why. I’d been dreaming of Petyr again—his laugh, his fingers brushing mine in the dark.

This time, we were alone in the blanket factory, but instead of oil-stained floors and roaring looms, there were lilacs blooming out of the machines and sunlight pouring through windows that didn’t exist in real life.

He’d looked at me like he always did now, like I was something holy.

The dream dissolved slowly as I blinked at the ceiling.

The smell of machine oil had been replaced by something better—eggs, maybe, and kasha.

My stomach growled, and I stretched under the covers, letting the morning air nip at my bare chest. A few birds chirped outside the window.

Spring had arrived in Leningrad like a drunk party guest—loud, unexpected, and determined to make up for lost time.

Even the city’s usual grayness had taken on a softer hue.

I rolled out of bed and wrapped myself in my robe, still smiling like a fool.

For the last three weeks, Petyr and I saw each other almost every day.

Mira—bright, clever, carefully constructed Mira—was our cover.

To everyone else, I was the ideal son, finally courting a girl my parents approved of.

Mira had taken to the role well, laughing at my jokes in public, holding my arm during concerts, and blushing on cue when someone teased us.

It was an act that impressed even my mother.

But behind closed doors, it was a different story.

Whenever we were alone—whenever I dared think we might actually talk—Mira would suddenly remember an errand. Or she’d say she was tired. And nearly every time, she’d disappear with Vera.

At first, I thought she just didn’t like me. And honestly, I wasn’t sure I liked her either. Not like that. But it was still strange. After one particularly brief visit, where she’d spent most of the evening giggling with Vera in the corner and left before dessert, I asked Petyr about it.

He gave me this look, part amused, part sharp. Then he said, “Do you want to have to court her for real?”

I blinked. “No…”

“Then let her do as she pleases, as long as it keeps all eyes off of us.”

I didn’t ask again. Petyr always knew what he was doing.

Still, the situation made me uneasy. Mira was clever, and her smiles never reached her eyes when she looked at me. But as long as she kept playing the role, I’d keep playing mine. For now, it was working.

The smell of breakfast tugged me out of my thoughts. I padded down the narrow hall and into the kitchen.

Mama was already at the stove, wearing her favorite pink housecoat and humming a tune I didn’t recognize. She turned as I entered and gave me a smile that made her crow’s feet deepen.

“There’s my sleepy boy,” she said fondly, reaching for a mug. “Sit, sit. I’ll pour you some tea.”

I sat at the table. The chair creaked under me, and I watched her bustle about with unusual cheer. She set a plate of buttered kasha and eggs in front of me, then handed me the tea, her smile unwavering.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re in a good mood.”

She shrugged, too innocently. “It’s spring.”

Before I could press further, Papa entered, already dressed for the day in his pressed uniform and polished boots. He didn’t even glance at the food. Just sat across from me and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket.

He lit it, then exhaled slowly before turning his eyes on me. “Did they teach you how to drive in the army?”

I blinked, confused by the question. “Yes. Why?”

He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a set of keys onto the table. They landed with a clink..

“I’m very busy today,” he said, in that tone that always meant he was absolutely not joking, “and your mother is anxious to get to our dacha.”

I paused, mid-sip. “When did you get a dacha?”

He grunted like it was obvious. “When I was promoted. I got the car, and a postage stamp-sized plot of land with a two-room house in the Vyborg district. Near the Finnish border. It’s nothing grand, but it has a stove that works and a roof that leaks in only one place.”

I set my tea down. “And you want me to drive her there?”

“It’s Saturday. I know you’re not working.” He raised an eyebrow like he dared me to claim otherwise. “Drive her up. Stay the weekend if you want, or come back after you drop her off. She usually spends the entire season there.”

Mama beamed at him, practically glowing. I stared at them in wonder.

A dacha.

It wasn’t just a summer house—not exactly.

For Soviet families, a dacha was an escape.

A little wooden oasis outside the city, usually with a patch of land just big enough to grow vegetables or sunbathe without being seen by your neighbors.

You couldn’t buy one unless the state gave it to you, which meant only Party members or model citizens got them.

The fact that Papa had one meant he was either more trusted than I realized or better at pretending. Probably both.

And now, I was getting the car.

I picked up the keys and turned them over in my hand. “Yes, of course,” I said, nodding toward my mother. “I’d be happy to drive her.”

She smiled wider, reaching over to pat my hand.

Papa stood and straightened his jacket. “Good. She’s already packed. Leave after breakfast.”

As he left the kitchen, I looked at the keys again, this time with excitement threading through my ribs.

No factory. No family. No eyes.

If I played this right, maybe I could be alone with Petyr.

* * *

The blue Lada Samara rattled down a dirt road that looked more like a walking path than anything built for vehicles.

Bushes scraped the sides, and we bounced in our seats like eggs in a carton.

On either side, tiny wooden houses stood in rows like cheerful toys, painted in bright shades of blue and white.

Hand-carved shutters framed crooked windows, and here and there, tulips were poking up from the dirt like shy children.

Even the sun, usually stubbornly hidden behind Leningrad’s ceiling of clouds, made an appearance—squinting through silver haze and dappling the road with reluctant warmth.

We’d been mostly silent on the drive. Mama wasn’t much of a talker unless she had a pot to stir or a neighbor to gossip about. I didn’t mind. I had the wheel in my hands, the wind through the cracked window, and my own thoughts for company.

But then it hit me, like a pothole I hadn’t seen: Mama was going to be gone all summer. Out here. Away from Papa. And it was exactly what she wanted.

“You’re not going to miss Papa, are you?” I blurted, without meaning to.

She shifted in her seat. “Of course I will,” she said after a beat, clearing her throat as if she were swallowing down something bitter. “But a little time apart is always a welcome thing.”

I glanced at her. She was looking out the window with the smallest of smiles. Not cruel, just… resigned.

“What are you going to do all summer?”

At that, her whole demeanor shifted. Excitement warmed her voice like kindling under flame.

“Oh, Dimi, I’ve already started my potatoes from seed.

This year I’ll try an herb garden, too—dill, chives, maybe thyme if the soil behaves.

If I dry them properly, they’ll last all winter. Just imagine the stews I’ll make.”

I tried to imagine it. Mama in a floral apron, humming as she stirred a pot in a dacha that probably didn’t even have a proper kitchen.

She pointed up ahead. “That’s ours. Turn there.”

I did as she said, easing the Lada over a shallow ditch and into the yard of what looked more like a tool shed than a summer home.

The house hadn’t been painted like the others; the weathered wood was a weary gray, with trim that might have once been white.

It had the shape of something built with hope and then promptly forgotten.

A beaten-down shack with a sagging roof and a set of steps that creaked when we walked on them.

It was perfect, in a tragic sort of way.

We opened the trunk, and I helped carry in her things—two burlap sacks of gardening supplies, a battered suitcase, a plastic bag filled with food wrapped in cloth.

The cramped interior of the dacha faintly smelled of dust and something old and dry, as if it had held its breath all winter.

No electricity. No bathroom. Just a stove that ran on wood, two narrow beds, and a window that looked out on a garden with more weeds than rows.

Out the back, I spotted an outhouse. And a shed smaller than most closets.

Still, as I stood there sweating slightly from hauling things inside, I couldn’t help but think… this beat the hell out of the city. It was quiet. The air smelled like soil instead of machine oil. I could understand why she liked it here.

We cleaned for a while. Me sweeping, her wiping windows with vinegar and newspaper. She lit the stove to boil water, and as she unpacked the last bag, she grinned and pulled out something wrapped in oilcloth.

“Dimi, look at these pictures of you as a child.”

She handed me an old photo album. The corners were bent, and the cover had nearly disintegrated. I sat on the bed, flipping through pages filled with foggy black-and-white snapshots, their corners yellowed with age.

There I was—only a few years old, maybe three or four.

Grinning, barefoot, sitting on my father’s shoulders.

There was one of us on a picnic blanket, and another of him helping me fly a kite.

The man in the pictures looked nothing like the one I knew now.

He was smiling, soft around the edges, his arm curled protectively around my tiny body like I was made of glass.

Who was this man?

“What happened to him?” I muttered, not realizing I’d spoken aloud.

Mama looked up from where she was folding linens. “Life got harder,” she said simply. “But for a while, it was easier. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t have a dacha. But we had time.”

She sat beside me and touched a photo. “We thought we were already lucky then. Now, we’ve arrived.”

Arrived where? I wanted to ask. At a two-room shack with no plumbing? But I said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong. In Soviet terms, this was success.

I opened my mouth to ask something else, but the words vanished before they formed. Instead, I looked out the window toward the road. There it was—just a few houses down. A crooked little vegetable stand, and beside it, a public pay phone with a green-painted booth.

“I’ve got to go, Mama,” I said, standing up.

“Go?”

“I want to call …” I almost said Petyr, “Mira. I mean… check in. Let her know where I am.”

She just smiled and kissed my cheek. “Tell her hello for me.”

I slipped out the door into the pale spring sunlight, my boots crunching against the gravel as I crossed the yard. The urge to see Petyr had flared into something almost desperate.

Maybe this summer we’d be able to actually spend quality time alone together? During the summer, at least a third of Leningrad’s residents spent time in the country. Perhaps we’d be able to see each other without the fear of being discovered?

The clouds thinned overhead, and as I reached the road, a bird trilled somewhere high above the trees.

I pulled the Lada off the road beside the battered little payphone. I cut the engine and sat there for a second, letting the stillness sink in. No factory noise, no shouting neighbors—just birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. I stepped out and made my way to the booth.

The phone was sticky, but I didn’t care. I dropped a few kopeks into the slot and dialed the number for Petyr and Vera’s apartment, the one they shared with Nina and Pavel.

It rang twice before a woman answered. “Hello?”

“Nina? It’s Dimitri. Is Petyr there?”

“He just stepped out,” she said. “Sorry, Dima, I can’t stay on the line—we’re heading to the dacha for the weekend. But I’ll leave him a message, alright?”

“Thanks, Nina. Safe trip.”

I hung up and just stood there for a moment, the receiver still warm in my hand. Then a smile broke across my face, wide and stupid.

The city was emptying out, and perhaps we could find a way to get rid of Vera for a day or two?

I felt a twinge of guilt thinking about it, because Vera had grown on me.

She certainly let Petyr do pretty much anything he wanted.

Could he persuade her to spend a night or two at Mira’s house so we could be alone?