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The woman hesitates, her gaze flicking between her daughter and brother. It's clear she doesn't want to say what's on her mind, the truth that hovers in the air like a dark cloud. "We'll do everything we can, sweetheart. But sometimes...sometimes, the game doesn't go according to plan. And you remember what’s to be done when that happens, don’t you?"
The woman inches closer and gets on her knees, taking her daughter’s little hands in her own. She leans over and kisses her daughter on the forehead with a ferocious fever. Then, with urgency in her voice, she demands her answer. “You remember, don’t you?”
“Listen to Uncle,” the little girl replies.
Her mother nods and kisses her again. “Listen to Uncle. Always.”
She then looks at her brother, and he gives her a brief nod, understanding what’s to be done. He grabs his niece and carries her to the back of the large fireplace, her little arms still outstretched for her mother, but the woman turns away.
Watching from the depths of the large hearth, the girl notices her mother rearranging furniture, hiding clothes under floorboards, and casting aside extra plates and cups. She and her uncle are now cowering in the depths of the fireplace, under the shadows and dark of the now steaming wood. She tries protesting against the discomfort, but he clamps his hand shut over her mouth and begins to cover them in soot.
“We’re camouflaging now,” he explains. “To win the game, we must remain hidden, unnoticed.”
The woman quickly walks back and puts the screen gate in front of the fireplace, hiding them in secrecy. She then goes to the turntable, puts on a record as loud as it will allow and rushes to the chair to curl up with a book.
Perhaps if they believed she was alone and didn’t hear the commotion, they’d believe the rest of the truth she plans to portray.
Just then, the door creaks open, the sound echoing through the cottage like a shriek as the howling wind follows burly footsteps. The uncle clamps his hand tighter around the child’s mouth, stifling any chance of her making a sound.
Her heart pounds around her ears, unable to focus on the words coming out of the men’s mouths as they speak with her mother, their faces twisted with malice and cruelty. The song from the turntable drifts through the air, Eremushka’s lullaby, one of Mussorgsky’s opera tragedies that her mother sings to her in bed every night.
‘Sleep, my dear, sleep sweetly, Lullabies-lullabies, a hedgehog is dozing in my hands.
The green forest whispers to him: Sleep, my dear, fall asleep, my dear, sleep, my dear, sleep sweetly,
Lullabies-lullabies, do you hear? The birch is whispering. Sleep, my dear, fall asleep, my dear.’
The song feels grotesque and out of place in this terrifying moment. Just then, the door bangs open again, and someone else enters. The girl can’t see his face, but she notices her mother rise from her seat, eyes wide in recognition..
The man strides across the floor with his big legs; pushing her mother into the wall next to the hearth.
“You,” her mother’s voice sounds strangled. The girl begins to cry, but her uncle has her mouth shut so tight that she needs to stop to get a breath in. She might faint otherwise.
“Where is she,bellissima?” the intruder, with his hand around her neck, asks of the child’s mother. He calls herbellissima –beautiful. The child feels calmer. Her mother calls her that from a place of love. Maybe he’s her their friend.
“She…she died. I swear.”
"Last chance," the man bellows, his voice dripping with menace. "Tell us where she is, or you'll regret it."
“She’s dead,” the woman whispers before looking away toward the window, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Dead?” he asks again, breaking into hysterical laughter.
“Yes,” the she shrieks defiantly. “The cold, the terror, you killed her.”
“Then why have you been running,devochka?” He spits at her feet as he calls her – girl.
“I feared you’d kill me too,” she whispers out the truth.
“Kill you? Angel, I never wanted to kill you. I prized you; I treasured you. I wanted you, and I would have kept you for eternity if only you had done the one little thing I asked for …” he leans over and kisses the woman on her cheek, his hand still clenched around her neck, holding her in place as she tries to move away from him.
“You bastard,” the woman spits out.
He slaps her across the cheek, and she falls to the ground. In one stride, he inches forward and kicks her in the belly. She lies there, clutching her abdomen, gasping for breath. He bends down, his knee on her neck, and he screams at her face.
“You had it so good. You could have been the luckiest woman in the world, and you lost it all for what?” he motions at the empty cottage around her. “Loneliness? Fear? A life on the run? Ungrateful little bitch.”
Tears well up in the child’s eyes, but she forces them back. Her mother is in danger and needs to run, and her uncle isn’t doing anything about it. They’re just sitting here, hiding. She can't cryout, not now, with her uncle keeping her quiet. Mummy told her to listen to him. They must win the game.
