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“I can’t,” said Elena, as she watched Olga undo the top two buttons of her blouse. “Thank you,” she added, “you’re a good friend, but I fear he wants to sample a new dish.” She passed the plate across to Olga.
“I’d happily kill him,” Olga said, before returning to the dining room.
The major had already pushed his empty soup bowl to one side by the time she placed the plate of hot stew in front of him.
“If you’re still on the premises by the time I’ve finished,” he said, “you’ll be serving the scum in the works canteen on Monday.”
Olga returned to the kitchen, surprised by how calm her friend appeared to be, even though she couldn’t be in any doubt what was about to happen. But then, Elena couldn’t tell her why she was willing to endure even that if it meant she and her son would be able to escape from his clutches.
“I’m so sorry,” said Olga, as she slipped on her coat, “but there’s nothing I can do about it. See you on Monday,” she added, before giving Elena a longer than usual hug.
“Let’s hope not,” mouthed Elena as Olga closed the door behind her. She was just about to turn off the stove when she heard the dining-room door open behind her. She turned to see the major walking slowly toward her, still chewing a last mouthful of stew. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before unbuttoning a jacket that was covered in medals that hadn’t been won on any battlefield. He unbuckled his belt and placed it on the table beside his pistol, then kicked off his boots before starting to unbutton his trousers, which in turn fell to the floor. He stood there, no longer able to hide the rolls of surplus flesh that were usually disguised beneath a well-tailored uniform.
“There are two ways we can do this,” said the KGB chief, as he continued w
alking toward her until their bodies were almost touching, “but I’ll leave the choice to you.”
Elena forced a smile, wanting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. She took off her apron and began to unbutton her blouse.
Polyakov smirked as he clumsily fondled her breasts. “You’re just like the rest of them,” he said as he began to push her toward the table while trying to kiss her at the same time. Elena could smell his stinking breath and turned her head so their lips didn’t touch. She felt his stubby fingers fumbling under her skirt, but this time she didn’t resist, staring blankly over his shoulder as a sweaty hand moved up the inside of her thigh.
He shoved her up against the table, lifted her skirt, and thrust her legs apart. Elena closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She could feel his panting breath on her neck, and prayed it would be over quickly.
The two o’clock siren sounded, and she let out a sigh of relief. “I haven’t finished yet, bitch,” Polyakov said, and in one swift movement forced her down on her knees.
Elena looked up when she heard the door on the far side of the room open. She stared in horror as her son came charging toward them. Polyakov turned around, pushed Elena quickly to one side, and reached for his gun, but the young man was now only a yard away. Alexander lifted the pot off the stove, and hurled the remains of the hot stew in his face. The major staggered back, and as he fell on the floor delivered a stream of invective that Elena feared would be heard on the far side of the yard.
“You’ll hang for this,” Polyakov yelled as he grabbed the edge of the table and tried to pull himself up. But before he could utter another word, Alexander swung the base of the iron pot straight into his face and Polyakov collapsed to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Mother and son didn’t move as they stared in horror at their fallen adversary.
Alexander was the first to recover. He picked up Polyakov’s tie from the floor and bound his hands behind his back then grabbed a napkin from the table and stuffed it in his mouth. Elena hadn’t moved. She was just staring ahead, as if paralyzed.
“Be ready to leave the moment I get back,” Alexander said, grabbing Polyakov by the ankles. He dragged him out of the room, not stopping until he reached the lavatory. He opened the door of the end cubicle; it took all his strength to lift him up onto the toilet, and tie him to the pipe. He locked the door from the inside, and clambering up onto the major’s legs, pulled himself over the top and lowered himself down onto the floor. He ran back to the kitchen to find his mother on her knees sobbing.
He knelt down beside her. “No time for tears, Mama,” he said gently. “We have to get going before the bastard has the chance to come after us.” He helped her slowly to her feet, and while she put on her coat and collected her small suitcase from the larder, he gathered up Polyakov’s uniform, belt, and gun and dumped them in the nearest waste bin. He took his mother firmly by the hand and led her out of the kitchen toward the back door. He opened it tentatively, stepped outside, and checked in every direction before standing aside to allow her to join him.
“Where did you agree to meet Niko?” he asked, responsibility once again changing hands.
“Head toward those two cranes,” Elena said, pointing to the far end of the dock. “Whatever you do, Alexander, don’t mention what just happened to your uncle. As long as everyone else thinks he was at the match, there will be no way of connecting him with us.”
As Alexander led his mother toward dock 3, her legs felt so weak she could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Even if she had considered changing her mind at the last moment, she now realized they had no choice but to go on. She kept her eyes on the two idle cranes that Niko had said would be her signpost, and as they drew nearer, they saw a lone figure standing by the entrance of a deserted warehouse. Niko stepped forward from between two large wooden crates, his eyes darting in every direction like a cornered animal.
“What kept you?” he said even before Elena had reached him.
“We came as quickly as we could,” said Elena, without explanation.
Alexander stared down into the two crates to see half a dozen cases of vodka neatly stacked in each one. The agreed tariff for a one-way trip to …
“All you have to do now,” said Niko, “is decide whether you want to go to America or England.”
“Why don’t we let fate decide?” said Alexander as he took a small coin out of his pocket. He balanced it on the end of his thumb, “Heads America, tails England.” He said as he flipped it high into the air. He watched as the coin bounced on the dockside, before coming to rest at his feet. Alexander bent down and looked at the image for a moment, before he picked up his mother’s suitcase and his lunch box and put them in the bottom of the chosen crate. He then climbed inside and waited for his mother to join him.
They crouched down and clung to each other as Niko placed the lid firmly on top of the crate. Although it took only a few moments for him to hammer a dozen nails into the top, Elena was already listening for another sound. The sound of boots running toward them, the lid of the crate being dragged off, and the two of them being pulled out to face a triumphant Major Polyakov.
Niko tapped the side of the crate with the palm of his hand, and suddenly they were yanked off the ground. The crate swung gently from side to side as they were lifted higher and higher into the air. Just as suddenly, they began the slow descent toward the hold of one of the ships, and then, without warning, they landed with a thud.
Elena could only wonder if they would spend the rest of their lives regretting not climbing into the other crate.
