Saving Zasha

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  The Black Russian Terrier

  The German Shepherd

  An Interview with Randi Barrow

  Preview: Finding Zasha

  About the Author

  Also By Randi Barrow

  Copyright

  “MIKHAIL! SOMEONE’S COMING!” MY BROTHER, NIKOLAI, SHOUTED, RUNNING INTO THE BARN. “IS SHE HERE?”

  “No,” I answered, barely breathing. “I just put her in the hiding place and came back to get some food.”

  The sharp, grinding sound of a vehicle on the gravel road at the front of our farm grew louder. A battered yellow truck pulled to a stop, and two men jumped out.

  The driver, a heavyset man who looked like he forgot to shave, said, “Hello, boys,” in a friendly way that I knew was not friendly at all. His passenger, a pale-eyed young man, carried a pole with a leather loop on the end. Nikolai and I stood still and silent. They walked through the open barn door uninvited.

  “What do you want?” my brother asked, using his most grown-up voice. The driver didn’t answer right away. He walked slowly around the area where my father had built pens for the geese and the pigs, although it had been four years since we sold our last pig. It seemed very little escaped his attention. The man with the pale eyes stood quietly, but he, too, was looking closely at everything in our barn.

  As casually as I could, I picked up a bucket of feed and walked to the goose pen. “Excuse me, it’s their breakfast time.” The driver reached out and grabbed my upper arm as I passed him, making me stop. I tried not to show my fear as I looked at his hand and then into his eyes.

  “I understand you have a German shepherd here.”

  “You’re wrong. May I?” I asked, looking toward the mother goose and her three little ones as if our conversation were over and I wanted to finish my chores. He let go of my arm.

  “We have no dogs at all. Not since the year before the war started,” Nikolai said. I was just two years younger than my fifteen-year-old brother, and together we had learned to lie well. Not because we were dishonest, but because Russia had been at war for four years and it was sometimes necessary to keep you out of trouble.

  The man with the pale eyes stared hard at us, as if willing and ready to do whatever his companion told him to do. The driver lifted the lid of a grain storage box and peered in.

  “Many dogs starved during the war,” my brother continued, which was unnecessary because everyone remembered how little food there had been and how many people and animals had died of hunger. The pale-eyed man looked at the driver as if to say, These two are idiots; they have nothing to tell us.

  The driver ignored him, then stopped in the middle of the barn, hands on his hips. He looked up at the ceiling where slivers of light came in through the cracks between the planks of the roof.

  “Why, I wonder, would anyone tell us lies about such a thing?”

  My brother and I looked at each other and shook our heads, as if we couldn’t imagine.

  “Not just a dog,” he said, looking at each of us as if we were confidants, “but a German shepherd. Very specific.”

  “Only traitors would keep a German shepherd,” his companion said, practically shouting at us. “Or maybe you are traitors. Maybe you are hiding a German, and not just a German dog.”

  “Stop!” my brother yelled at him. “How dare you accuse us of such a thing! Our father was killed in the war — by Germans!”

  “We’re not sure he’s dead, Nikolai,” I said, angry that he would talk about our father in front of strangers. Even when it was just us together, we never talked about him as if he were gone for good. My voice got louder. “He could be in a prison camp, or a hospital, or —”

  “Settle down, boys,” the big man snapped. To his partner he added, “Pavel, go wait in the truck.”

  Now that Nikolai and I were alone with the driver, my hands started shaking. To keep him from noticing, I put down the feed pail without finishing the chore, walked to the wall where a rake rested, picked it up, and began to tidy the hay on the floor.

  “If you have a German shepherd, we will find him.”

  “We told you,” I said. “We don’t have a —”

  “And when we find him …”

  “We have no dog,” my brother repeated patiently. “We would love one, my sister especially. The war was hard on us. We lost many things.”

  “Yes, well,” he said with a sniffing sound a little like a laugh. “The war was hard on all of us.” Clapping his hands together suddenly, he said, “All right. No dog here. But we’ll be back. Just in case.”

  “Who are you?” my brother demanded.

  “Who do you think we are?”

  “The Red Army?”

  “Do you see an army uniform?”

  “No, but —”

  “A dogcatcher?” I said. “Gypsies? Dog thieves? Show us your identification.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Here’s my identification.” He pulled his coat back to reveal a gun in a holster under his left arm. “And that’s who I am. You figure out the rest.” With one last, angry glance around the barn, he left.

  As he climbed into his truck, he stood momentarily on the running board. “If you are lying, and I find the dog … well, let’s just say there are labor camps that could use the help of two strong young boys such as yourselves. Out in the eastern provinces.” He laughed as he said this last sentence. There was no laughing in my heart, because as everyone knew, few came back from Russia’s eastern provinces.

  “Come on, Yuri,” his passenger called out, which finally got him in the truck. They sped out on the narrow road, spewing dust and pebbles in their wake.

  My brother and I, as if by agreement, collapsed on a bale of hay in the corner of the barn. “If they’d come earlier, they might have found her,” I said, kicking at a wet lump of mud on the floor.

  “I know,” my brother replied softly, as if still recovering from the scare they gave us.

  “How many German shepherds do you think have been killed by now?”

  Nikolai looked at me, but seemed to be far away. “I saw one shot in the street in Leningrad.” He was visiting an aunt when the artillery bombardment began, and barely made his way back home before the city was surrounded and one million died.

  “But that was in the city, and the Germans bombed the people there. How many do you think they’ve killed here in the country?”

  “All they could find.”

  “But the war is over now,” I argued, “and I’m sure Zasha’s never hurt anyone, and never would.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Even though the Germans lost the war, people are angry that they started it. Did you hear that some people are even destroying cuckoo clocks?”

  I laughed for the first time since the men arrived. “Because they’re made in Germany? That’s ridiculous. What’s next — accordions? Nikolai … do you hate the Germans?”

  “Yes, of course…. I don’t know. I’ve promised myself that if Papa comes home, I won’t hate anyone ever again.”

  “I’m going to go see Zasha right now,” I said, getting up, still chilled by the visit from the strange men.

  “No! Wait until we’re sure they’ve gone. They could be watching.”

  “But I know she’s hungry, and —”

  “If you want her to live, you must be clever. And patient.”

  ZASHA HAD COME TO US ONLY TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE VISIT FROM THE MEN IN THE YELLOW TRUCK. THAT CLEAR SUNDAY MORNING, I’D RIDDEN OUR horse, Paku, to the very edge of our land where it meets the forest. I was looking for a patch of wild clover I’d seen; it was Paku’s favorite thing to eat. It was ironic that I had to search for one when our entire farm was supposed to be planted with clover this summer. It was a trick my father knew; after you grow flax for several years, you must stop for a season and grow clover. You bring in cows to eat the clover, they fertilize the soil with their droppings, and — miracle — the soil is rich again and you can go back to farming flax.

  It hadn’t worked out that way, of course. Our papa wasn’t with us to watch over the officials who were supposed to supply us with the clover seed and the cows. But the good thing about not getting to plant clover was that our farm was quiet for a change, peaceful, free of the comings and goings common at this time of year.

  I rode to the forest slowly, toward the line of shade made by pine, fir, and birch. I let Paku stop whenever he wanted to have a bite of grass or a drink from one of the small streams that crossed our farm. It was late June and everything seemed like it was in bloom. I was happy just to ride Paku and spend our morning wandering.

  Suddenly, a man stumbled out from behind a tree and grabbed tight to Paku’s bridle.

  “What do you want?” I could barely speak, I was so surprised and frightened
.

  “Help me,” he said. I looked hard at him, trying to understand what he needed help with, when I saw the cut on the left arm of his coat, rimmed with blood.

  “How?”

  “I’m hurt. I need bandages, medicine, or it will become infected.” I knew how easily a person could die from an infected cut; my mother reminded me of it constantly when Nikolai and I played in unfamiliar places.

  “How did this happen?” I asked.

  “A man tried to steal my … a man tried to steal something from me.”

  “What did he want?”

  The man looked at me with eyes that seemed watery, or almost feverish. It made me think infection had already set in. “Are you alone?”

  I didn’t want to answer, and pulled Paku’s reins slightly to the left. If he tried to hurt me or steal my horse, I could turn faster that way, and he would fall.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that …” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of Paku’s head. “Can I trust you?” he asked suddenly, straightening up.

  “Yes,” I answered, more nervous with every passing moment.

  He turned and whistled softly. Out of the darkness of the forest came the most beautiful German shepherd I had ever seen. Its coat was golden and lustrous, with black hair on its back and black markings on its face. “Someone tried to steal my dog. Zasha, come.” The dog trotted forward and came to rest at his side.

  It was the first time I’d seen a dog in years, and never one this exquisite; I was awestruck. “He’s beautiful.”

  “She,” he said. “Zasha.”

  Then this poor man who had made me so fearful suddenly crumpled into a pile on the ground. I was no longer afraid of him, but only of what might happen to him. I jumped off my horse. Zasha licked the face of her master rapidly; he groaned and managed to sit up.

  “Can you help me?”

  “Yes. Do you think you can get up on my horse?”

  “I don’t know.” I helped him to his feet. He looked at the stirrups and shook his head, as if he didn’t believe he had the strength to accomplish such a huge task.

  “Come,” I said in as bold a tone as I could manage, the one my father used with me when I needed to summon courage. I laced my fingers together, forming a step for him to put his foot in to boost him up and onto Paku. “You’ll ride in back of me, and we’ll be at our farm in no time.”

  He failed on the first try.

  “Use all your strength. Push yourself up, and swing your leg over. That’s all you have to do.” He looked at me doubtfully, but I saw a flash of determination pass over his face. On that try he made it; in fact, he almost slipped off the other side of Paku because he had put so much effort into it. I swung up easily after him.

  “Hold on to me if you need to,” I said as I turned Paku back in the direction from which we’d come. I felt the man lean against me, as an exhausted child might do. Without being told to, Zasha followed closely on our right. Paku didn’t seem too happy about the extra load, but he accepted my lead and in a short time we were within sight of the farmhouse.

  My mother was hanging out clothes on a rope strung between two trees so that they would dry in the sunshine. She stopped her work when she saw me. I could tell by the way she stood up straight and stared that she had seen the man and the dog with me and was wary, maybe even frightened. Her hand went into the pocket of her long, dark skirt. I knew she kept a knife with her always, a precaution she took since we lived on a secluded farm, and especially since my father left for war.

  The weight of the man had grown heavier and heavier against me as we rode. I was afraid that if I dismounted first, he’d fall off Paku.

  “Mama!” I cried as soon as I thought she could hear me. “I have a sick man with me. We have to help him.”

  She ran toward us, which was a good thing because I was pretty sure the man was unconscious given the way he was slowly sliding to the left. My mother lifted her hands up just in time to break his fall. I jumped off Paku and together we laid the man on the ground. Zasha was at his side immediately, disturbed and whimpering.

  “Mikhail,” she said sternly, “tell me what happened. And keep the dog away from him.” I slipped my hand under Zasha’s worn leather collar and dragged her a few feet away. She was strong, and determined to go no farther.

  “I met him near the forest. We were looking for clover and … he said someone attacked him. Look at his coat; it’s cut and bloody.”

  My mother had become a less trusting person since my father had left for the war. “How do you know it’s true? He could be a thief, or a deserter, or a madman.”

  “I know, Mama,” I said softly, “but I don’t think so.” She must have sensed the same thing, because she began unbuttoning his jacket. He moaned in pain and awakened when she tried to ease him out of it to examine his arm.

  When he opened his eyes and saw my mother’s face, his expression was one of hope and relief. “Thanks be to God,” he whispered. “Do you have … water?” He could barely get his words out.

  She didn’t answer right away because she was examining his arm. The cut had gone through his coat and his shirt, deep into his arm.

  “Who did this to you?” my mother asked.

  “A man … a thief. Please help me.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “He wanted … he wanted …”

  “Mother, please!” I interrupted. “It doesn’t matter. Help him!”

  My mother made a decision. “Nikolai!” she cried, looking back at the farmhouse. “Nikolai! Come quickly!”

  He came running out the back door, followed by my nine-year-old sister, Rina. When they reached us they stood as though in shock, gazing at the bloody, ailing man and the restless, anxious dog. “Where did you get that?” Rina asked in a voice just above a whisper, pointing at Zasha.

  Nikolai gazed from man to dog and back again, finally joining me, reaching out to touch the fur on Zasha’s neck just as my mother said, “Boys — help me carry him into the house. We’ll put him in the bedroom at the back.”

  Nikolai grabbed him under the shoulders, which caused the man to cry out. My mother and I each lifted one of his legs, and together the three of us managed to get him up four steps, into the house, and onto the narrow bed in the bedroom at the back. This was the room where workmen sometimes stayed when we had a particularly good harvest.

  “Who is he?” Rina asked, as we stood transfixed by the barely conscious man on the bed.

  “He is a man who needs help,” my mother said. “Mikhail, get me scissors and bandages. Rina, put some water on to boil. Nikolai, go through his coat and his pockets and see if you can find some identification.”

  “Yes, Mother,” we murmured as we began our tasks. I was back with scissors and bandages in seconds, and watched as my mother carefully snipped off the entire arm of his ragged shirt.

  The cut was a savage, dirty red with a yellow liquid oozing from it. She shook her head. “His arm is badly infected. Go see if Rina has the water ready.” Soon, on the table next to the bed sat two bowls of steaming water, soap, and a tin of herbs my mother claimed cured everything from stomachaches to broken bones.

  She dipped a cloth into the hot water and gently dabbed at the cut on his arm. “First, we’re going to clean you up,” my mother told him. He winced as the warm cloth touched his skin, and opened his eyes.

  “Water,” he whispered.

  “Mikhail. Bring me a small pitcher of water. There is whiskey on the top shelf in the kitchen. Bring that, too.” It was then that I knew how serious his condition must be. The half-full bottle of whiskey sat untouched after my father left for the war. My mother always said we would drink the rest on the day he returned. Now we would offer it to a stranger to help save his life.

  I brought the water and the whiskey and the small, thick glass from which my father liked to drink it. “Here,” I said, offering them to my mother.