The Lost Year: Chapters 16–24

The door
 swung open, and Anna Mikhailovna stood in front of me, her brow
 furrowed.

On opposite sides of the room, beneath the eaves of a sloping
 roof, were a pair of narrow beds.

Nadiya had already closed her eyes, but she opened them feebly when Olga Stepanovna returned with a cup of tea and a heel of bread.

But I had prepared for doubts. I marshaled my arguments.

The authorities cordoned off the city a few months ago to prevent starving villagers from pouring in—it’s a wonder your Nadiya even made it through.

“Your father was wise to distance himself from Nadiya, especially
 if she shares his blood. Think of Pavlik Morozov, the martyr of the
 Revolution. What is the lesson of this hideous fable? Even family 
must be sacrificed for the Great Soviet...”

Then I felt the weight of her body sink onto the piano bench next to me, and she began to play. It was a piece I’d never heard before. It was slow and somber, filled with minor chords, and yet not sad.

But how could I close my ears to something so beautiful? The steady procession of chords, the way the notes crescendoed, rising up, like when your spirits start to lift after feeling


 down.

I caught my breath,
 hung up my coat, and smoothed my hair, then wandered into the 
kitchen as if nothing was amiss.

“What are you cooking?” I asked, though I knew the answer from the soup pot on the stove and Dasha’s fingers. They were stained bloodred, like a murderer’s, from peeling beets.
“Borscht,” she said.

Was this another of Dasha’s country superstitions? There were so
 many of them: Never shake hands over a threshold or you’ll have 
bad luck; never sit on the cold ground or you won’t have children; 
never whistle indoors or you’ll lose money.

Papa launched into the tale of how Papa Stalin had just commissioned a new airplane from Andrei Tupolev, the top aircraft designer at the Central Aerohydrodynamic Institute in Moscow.

Inside the main cabin, there would be a propaganda factory with a printing press, a photo lab, a radio set, and even a library.

For its inaugural 
flight, Papa said, forty of the nation’s most productive farmers and
 factory workers would be chosen as passengers.

In GG’s case, my main objective was finding out what had happened, not just to Mila but to her.

I followed Mr. Oleynik into the small living room, which was covered in crocheted doilies, Orthodox saints, and a studio portrait
 of Mrs. Bobrov’s two sons and their children.

We are perishing from hunger...already many people in our village have died.

Her face was still gaunt, her cheeks
 still covered by whitish down, but her skin wasn’t so deathly pale,
 and most important of all, the fear in her eyes was gone.

A loud knock startled us, even Anna Mikhailovna though she was the first to regain her composure.

Finally, Gretchaninoff’s “In the Village” began to play, more jaunty than romantic like it should have been.

It seemed preposterous to think I looked anything like her.

She looked straight at me. Her voice didn’t waver. “Absolutely.”

She looked wild-eyed, flushed, almost feverish.

It had been a week
 since he’d toured that Covid ward, and the TV news had reported
 you could get sick up to ten days after exposure.

“Okay,” I said, scanning his voice for any hoarseness or congestion, relieved when I didn’t hear any.

At least ten
 thousand people have died of Covid in New York City, but there are
 still a lot of Americans who think Covid is a myth or some government conspiracy to take away their freedom. It’s the same thing we 
talked about before—the danger of people getting information from 
unreliable or biased sources.

Not enough people take the time to discern what’s based on facts
 and careful reporting and what’s not.

It’s also why authoritarian regimes like 
the Soviet Union didn’t let their citizens travel—they didn’t want
 multiple viewpoints and debate.

It’s also why authoritarian regimes like 
the Soviet Union didn’t let their citizens travel—they didn’t want
 multiple viewpoints and debate.

He had been gruff at first, but by the end of our interview had ended up wiping
 away tears.

In the darkness, the
 rhythmic chanting of the priest and the floral smell of incense made
 me feel as if I were in a peaceful dream.

She wore a coral-colored dress with a belt and white buttons.

I reread my own words, marveling at how grown-up
 and confident I sounded, then signed my name with a flourish:
 Helen Lomachenko.

The more I’d thought about it, the more farfetched Nadiya’s
 story had seemed.

Sometimes I came to look
 at Mama’s photo on his bureau; she had a direct stare that Papa
 said reminded him of my own.

Lying inside were official reports from the Soviet politburo in Mos
cow.

The only personal items I discovered were a lock of ash-colored hair—presumably Mama’s—and a medal Papa had been awarded after the Revolution for his service, the Order of the Red Banner, which he wore every May Day.

And you're a liar, I thought. But I didn’t dare confront him.

He reached inside it and pulled out a bag of Bumble Bears.
Sweetness, cloying sweetness.

But what was I supposed to do now? Turn in Papa like Dima
 Demchak’s father for concealing his corrupt origins?