Page 98 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

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.

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