Natasha's Dream Read Online Free Page A

sound to her.
    ‘No, I don’t think I’m a heathen,’ he said, and she was plainly relieved to hear that. He watched her then. For all that she was devouring the food ravenously, she had little touches of gracefulness. But she was desperately thin. Her ankles were thin, her wrists thin, her facial bones thrusting and sharp. Her right cheek, smudged, showed a slight bruise from contact with the parapet. She had been handled with lethal brutality. ‘You haven’t finished your cognac,’ he said. ‘Put the rest of it in the soup.’
    ‘Cognac in soup?’ she said in amazement, but did as he suggested. It gave a royal flavour to the soup. ‘Kind sir—’
    ‘My name is Gibson. Philip Gibson. Mr Gibson, or Herr Gibson, will do. And what is your name?’
    She cast a hesitant glance at him. In his suit of charcoal grey, he seemed to her a distinguished-looking man. His own eyes were very direct, his mouth firm, his smile still encouraging.
    ‘I am Natasha Petrovna,’ she said.
    ‘Natasha Petrovna? You’re Russian, then?’
    ‘Yes, but not Bolshevik,’ she said quickly.
    ‘Oh, I’m quite sure you don’t have bombs in your pocket,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Natasha Petrovna are your given names? What is your other name?’
    ‘Chevensky,’ she said, after a moment.
    ‘So, Natasha Chevensky, you’re Russian and you speak excellent German and perfect English. May I ask what you’re doing in Berlin?’
    ‘I am a goose,’ said Natasha.
    ‘A goose?’ he said gravely. ‘Why are you a goose?’
    ‘Because there are too many Russians in Berlin.’ Natasha became sad. ‘There is no workhere for thousands of Germans, so how can there be any work for Russians? I should have gone to a small town, where there are only Germans. One Russian would not have mattered too much, and might have found work.’
    ‘Why did you leave Russia?’
    Natasha finished the last portion of bread. She had consumed a whole loaf. She looked down at the empty plate.
    ‘Bolsheviks,’ she said, and there was pain in her voice.
    ‘I’ve heard they can be rather unpleasant,’ said Mr Gibson.
    ‘Thousands of Russians have left,’ said Natasha, head still bent. ‘Millions more would leave if they could. Kind sir, you do not know. They said the Tsar was a terrible man, a tyrant of evil and cruelty. But he was not evil and cruel to me. They were. They would have murdered me. I was young. I have never been young since.’
    ‘Why would they have murdered you?’ asked Mr Gibson.
    ‘Who can tell with Bolsheviks?’ Natasha did not lift her head. ‘They have murdered millions of people, yes, millions, and yet they still say it was only the Tsar who was cruel. They—’Her voice was full of pain. ‘They murdered my family, my mother and father and my two brothers. I escaped. But I have since thought – oh, many times I have thought – that I should have stayed and let them put me to death beside my mother and father. God would have received all of us together.’
    Mr Gibson sensed her pain was unbearable.
    ‘I am sorry, Natasha,’ he said, ‘I am very sorry. And I’m not helping by asking questions, am I? But why did they do such a thing? Your whole family? Why?’
    ‘Because they are afraid for their Revolution, because they hate everyone who does not think as they do,’ said Natasha. ‘To disagree with one of their commissars is to commit yourself to death. The Revolution is more important to the Bolsheviks than ten million Russian lives. Twenty million. I know, kind sir. I hid for two years, in many different places, and many times with good people. Then I escaped into Poland, but in Poland the Bolsheviks are everywhere. I managed to get to Germany, and came to Berlin four years ago. I tried on my way to get work on German farms, but German farmers chase Russians away, and who can blame them?If they have work to offer, they must first offer it to their own.’
    ‘You grew up on a farm?’ asked Mr Gibson, absorbed.
    Natasha shook her