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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Petyr

T he loom beside mine had been silent for a week. The cold steel frame, usually shuddering and wheezing like an old man with bronchitis, now just stood there like a coffin no one wanted to look at.

Dimitri’s name was still chalked on the clipboard clipped to the side.

D. MOROZOV in smudged handwriting. Every time I glanced over I expected to see him there again, tall and silent, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grimly feeding the warp threads through the tension rollers like he always did.

A line between his brows and oil on his knuckles.

That slight hitch in his breathing when he caught me watching.

But the seat stayed empty.

I kept waiting anyway, like a stray dog waiting outside the butcher’s, hoping for meat that wasn’t coming.

Where was he?

My stomach twisted for the hundredth time today. Did his father do something? Did the police take him again? Was I next?

Every day that passed without a word from him chipped away another piece of me. And there weren’t many pieces to start with.

I felt the pressure building behind my eyes again. Not now, and not here. Don’t cry in front of them. Not in front of Oleg, who already watched me like I was glass. Not in front of Anton, who made that crack about my limp yesterday, then acted surprised when I didn’t laugh.

They all saw the bruises. The split lip. The way I winced when I reached too far or breathed too deep. No one asked outright, but the questions were thick in the air.

No one dared to speak them aloud.

When Vera opened the door that night, she’d pulled me in so fast I nearly tripped.

“Shhh,” she hissed, finger to her lips as I stumbled over the threshold. “Pavel and Nina are home.”

I barely got the words out when she pulled me into our room and shut the door.

“We were walking by the church,” I whispered. “The police—” I swallowed. “They beat us. Bad.”

She stared for a moment, then her face crumpled. She sank down beside me on the edge of the bed and just cried.

Then she wiped her face with the heel of her hand and said in an icy voice: “I’ll take care of this.”

I never asked what that meant, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I stayed home for the next two days, on her orders. She even brought me food like I was a child. She also told me Dimitri hadn’t called the factory. Hadn’t come in. Hadn’t even left a note.

Just vanished.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “You and him, it’s not safe anymore. Not now. Never.”

I wanted to punch something. Instead, I nodded.

But inside, I was sinking. Fast.

Not seeing Dimitri was tearing something open in me, but the idea of bringing more danger to his door kept my hands in my pockets. My mouth shut and my head down.

The whistle blew—shrill, final, like the end of a funeral. Everyone jumped, and then there was the usual shuffle and clank of quitting time.

I limped to my locker. My leg still hadn’t fully recovered. Neither had my ribs.

My fingers trembled as I opened the door. Jacket. Gloves. Nothing more. Then I reached out—couldn’t help it—and brushed my fingers over the locker beside mine.

Dimitri’s locker.

The padlock still hung open, unused.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, forced a breath, and turned away.

Outside, the air felt rough against my bruised cheek. Vera was already waiting by the gate. She said nothing as I approached, only held out her arm and we began to walk.

Just across the street stood the gate to the train platform. Our usual route home. But then, I saw him.

Dimitri’s father.

Ivan Morozov. Tall, stony-faced. Leaning against that battered blue Lada like a statue carved from frost.

My blood turned to ice.

He saw us and pushed off from the car.

“Comrade,” he said to me. His tone was unreadable. “Get in.” His voice lowered. “Your wife too.”

No choice. I glanced at Vera, and she gave a tiny nod.

We slid into the back seat, and Ivan started the engine. The car rumbled, coughing smoke. Then he turned in his seat, his gaze falling on Vera like a soldier appraising a fellow officer.

“I need to speak to your husband in private, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Where can I take you, Comrade?”

* * *

We drove in silence, the city melting away behind us until the rattling of the Lada was the only sound. The road was narrow and quiet, lined with crooked birch trees and sagging telephone wires. Ivan’s hands stayed clenched at ten and two, white-knuckled. I didn’t dare speak.

Eventually, we turned onto a smaller road, then into the driveway of a sagging dacha that looked as though it hadn’t hosted laughter or life in years.

Ivan muttered, “It belongs to a friend,” and killed the engine.

He got out. I followed, pulse hammering, the pain in my ribs flaring with every step. The dacha door creaked open, revealing emptiness. No furniture, no decorations, just bare wooden floors and the smell of mildew and old cigarettes.

Ivan began to pace, and my stomach churned. I felt like a rabbit caught in a steel trap, waiting for the teeth to close. My voice cracked when I asked, “Why have you brought me here? What is this about?”

He stopped pacing, turned, and looked at me like I was an idiot. “You are going to persuade Dimitri to defect. To Finland.”

I blinked. “Defect?” The word came out thin and ridiculous. “Dimitri?”

Ivan gave a curt nod. “From there, Europe. America, if he’s lucky.”

I stared at him. “Why?” My voice was quiet, cautious. “Why do you want to send him away?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, though I was beginning to. “Why me? Why would you want me to help him? You know the last thing Dimitri needs is to be seen with me.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed, and I flushed hot down to my toes.

There it was. The quiet confirmation. He knew.

Ivan crossed the room and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. Not painfully, but with a steadiness that sent panic straight down my spine. His voice was calm, almost eerily so. “Because thanks to you, my son has a target on his back.”

I swallowed hard. “I never wanted…”

“You have the luxury of camouflage,” he cut in. “A pretty wife with a Party job. No one will touch you. Maybe they whisper behind your back, but they won’t arrest you in the middle of the night.”

He paused, voice thickening. “Dimitri has no one. If you had left him alone, none of this would’ve happened.”

I didn’t argue. Because what if he was right?

“But you didn’t leave him alone,” Ivan went on, stepping back. “And now my son’s got a police record that says he was arrested outside a faggot club.”

“There weren’t any charges,” I mumbled. “They let us go.”

Ivan barked a laugh that had nothing funny in it. “You stupid, gullible fool.” He shook his head. “They don’t need charges. It’s written down somewhere now, stamped and filed. And it will follow him. Forever.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t have to ask what he meant, because I understood the danger.

“You?” Ivan said, circling me like a general before war. “You’ll be fine. Make a baby with your wife. Get promoted. One day, this will all be a strange memory. But my son?” He exhaled hard through his nose. “My son’s life is over if he stays here.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re asking me to say goodbye to him?”

“I’m telling you,” Ivan said, voice cracking for the first time, “that you’re going to.”

He paused, glancing out the dirty window at the gray sky.

When he turned back to me, his voice was hoarse.

“You’re coming back with me tonight. I’ll drop you off at my apartment, and then I’ll be gone.

I won’t come back until morning. You’ll have a few hours.

Just the two of you, and during that time, you’re going to make him understand. Make him leave.”

Tears burned my eyes. “You can’t do this to me,” I whispered. “You can’t do this to Dimitri. We’ll never…”

“You fucking fool!” Ivan roared. The echo rang through the empty dacha like a gunshot. “If you care one little bit about him, then you’ll make sure he gets on that boat. My son deserves freedom.”

I swallowed my sob, and my chest burned.

Ivan stepped forward again, but this time his hands didn’t touch me. They just hovered in the air, trembling.

“You’ll tell Dimitri you’re going with him, if that’s what it takes. Lie. I don’t care. Make him believe it. But if my son’s not on that boat, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

The room spun slightly. I nodded—just once—because I couldn’t speak.

“Saturday morning. Three a.m. Finnish freighter. Two miles off the Port of Leningrad. There’ll be a rowboat waiting. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the details tomorrow night.”

Ivan didn’t move. Didn’t storm out like I expected. Just stood there with his jaw set, breathing hard through his nose, like he hadn’t meant to say so much.

I stared at him, this gruff, dangerous man, and I croaked, “Why?”

Ivan looked at me like he didn’t understand.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. My voice shook. “You could’ve turned me in. You still could. Just tell me why, damn it.”

Ivan’s breath hitched, barely audible, and he glanced away. Then, after a long moment, he asked, “What’s your wife’s name?”

The question caught me off guard. “Vera,” I breathed.

Ivan’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp and unreadable. Then he gave a slow, bitter nod. “My wife’s name is Elina.”

He turned back toward the window, his silhouette tense and tired in the gray evening light.

“Elina and Vera have much in common.”