night inquiring about a black man and Russian woman who'd visited his eatery earlier. He'd told them exactly what had happened, most of which was witnessed by themilitsya officer. They apparently believed what he said, since they had not returned. Thankfully, no one witnessed the escape from the Okatyabrsky.
Maks also left them a vehicle, a banged-up, cream-colored Mercedes coupe caked in black mud, its leather seats brittle from exposure. And he provided directions to where the son of Kolya Maks lived.
The farmhouse was single-story and built of double planks caulked with a thick layer of oakum, the roof's bark shingles darkened by mildew. A stone chimney puffed a thick column of gray vapor into the cold air. An open field spread in the distance, plows and harrows stored under a lean-to.
The entire scene reminded Akilina of the cabin her grandmother had once occupied, a similar grove of white birch rising to one side. She'd always thought autumn such a sad time of year. The season arrived without warning, then evaporated overnight into winter. Its presence meant the end of green forests and grassy meadows--more reminders of her childhood, the village near the Urals where she was raised, and the school where they all wore matching dresses with pinafores and red ribbons. Between lessons they'd been drilled about the oppression workers suffered during tsarist times, how Lenin had changed all that, why capitalism was evil, and what the collective expected from each of its members. Lenin's portrait had hung in every classroom, in every home. Any challenge to him was wrong. Comfort was derived in knowing that ideas were shared by everyone.
The individual did not exist.
But her father had been an individual.
All he'd wanted was to live with his new wife and child in Romania. But thekollektiv would not allow such a simple thing. Good parents were expected to be party members. They had to be. Those who did not possess "revolutionary ideals" should be reported. One famous story was of a son who informed on his father for selling documents to rebellious farmers. The son testified against the father and was later murdered by the farmers. Songs and poems were subsequently written about him, and all children were taught to idealize such dedication to the Motherland.
But why?
What was admirable about being a traitor to your own family?
"I've only been into rural Russia twice," Lord said, interrupting her thoughts. "Both under controlled circumstances. But this is quite different. It's another world."
"In tsarist times they called the villagemir. Peace. A good description since few ever left their village. It was their world. A place for peace."
Outside, the factory smog of Starodug was gone, replaced with verdant trees, green hills, and hay fields that she imagined in summer were alive with meadowlarks.
Lord parked the car in front of the cabin.
The man who answered the door was short and sturdy with reddish brown hair and a face round and flush like a beet. He was, Akilina estimated, close to seventy, but moved with surprising agility. He studied them with scrutinizing eyes that she thought akin to those of a border guard, then invited them inside.
The cabin was spacious with a single bedroom, kitchen, and a cozy den. The furniture was a mismatched decor of necessity and practicality. The floors were wide planks, sanded smooth, their varnish nearly gone. There were no electric lights. All the rooms were lit by smoky oil lamps and a fireplace.
"I am Vassily Maks. Kolya was my father."
They were seated at a kitchen table. A wood-burning stove was warming a pot oflapsha-- the homemade noodles Akilina had always loved. The scent of roasted meat was strong, lamb if she wasn't mistaken, tempered by the musty smell of cheap tobacco. One corner of the room was devoted to an icon surrounded by candles. Her grandmother had maintained a holy corner until the day she disappeared.
"I prepared lunch," Maks said. "I hope you're hungry."
"A meal would be welcome," Lord said. "It smells good."
"Cooking is one of the few pleasures I have left to enjoy." Maks stood and moved toward the stove. He stirred the simmering pot of noodles, his back to them. "My nephew said you had something to say."
Lord seemed to understand. "He that endureth to the end shall be saved."
The old man tabled the spoon, then sat back down. "I never believed I would hear those words. I thought them a figment of my father's imagination. And to be spoken by a man of color." Maks turned to Akilina.