Free Sapphire Skies by Belinda Alexandra Page A

book from her to admire it.
    ‘Ah, Sveta, what a perfectionist you are!’
    ‘What about you?’ she replied, picking Ponchik up and cuddling him on her lap. ‘You practise the piano for hours! When you are playing, the building could catch fire and you wouldn’t notice!’
    What Svetlana had said was true. Since I was a young child, music had been my passion and I had planned to study at the Conservatory. But these days I was more interested in flying. Svetlana and I had finished our homework when our maid, Zoya, came in carrying the special food parcel that we received twice a month. She smiled at us, patted Ponchik and hummed softly as she filled the shelves with cheese, caviar, sugar, flour, tea, canned vegetables and eggs. She pulled out a bottle of red sauce.
    ‘What’s that?’ asked Svetlana.
    ‘Something called ke-tch-up,’ replied Zoya, squinting at the label.
    ‘Oh, I’ve seen that advertised in the newspaper,’ I said. ‘It’s a condiment that every American family keeps on their table.’
    Zoya was still unpacking when Mama and Lydia appeared at the door.
    ‘Come on, Svetochka,’ Lydia said, using the familiar form of Svetlana’s name. ‘We must go home now so you can study for the history examination tomorrow.’
    Lydia’s gaze fell on the cakes of finely milled soap Zoya was stacking on the kitchen bench. As far as I knew, while Svetlana’s family could shop in closed distribution stores, they never received special parcels like us. Although they also had an apartment of their own, it was smaller than ours. It was darker too because all the windows faced the wall of an adjacent building. They had to share the bathroom with a man from Georgia whom Lydia complained was vile and dirty and who spat on the floor.
    When Mama noticed what Lydia was looking at, she picked up a cake of the soap and handed it to her.
    ‘No! No!’ Lydia protested.
    ‘I insist,’ said my mother, pressing the soap into Lydia’s hand. ‘It smells beautiful and is soft on your skin.’
    I picked up another cake of the soap from the bench and inhaled a breath before handing it to Svetlana to smell. Indeed, the fragrance was heavenly: honey and almonds.
    ‘I have something for Svetlana too,’ Mama said, disappearing into the corridor and returning with a length of woollen cloth. ‘I bought this the other day from my neighbour. I’ve made a skirt for Natasha. There’s enough left over for you to make one for Svetlana too.’
    Mama had obtained the material from a woman in our street, Galina, whose husband had been killed in the Civil War. Galina would hear a rumour that material was available and buy it, then sell it for a small profit. Speculation, as it was known, was a crime but there was often no other way for us to obtain certain goods. Sometimes the State produced rolls of material but no buttons, zippers or needles and thread. At other times, the opposite was true. Of course, none of this was Comrade Stalin’s fault. It was the result of spies and saboteurs who didn’t want the Soviet Union to succeed. ‘Really, Sofia, you know I can’t accept this,’ Lydia said. ‘I could get Pyotr into trouble.’
    ‘Yes, you can,’ said my mother. ‘Think of keeping Svetlana warm.’
    Lydia acquiesced and she and my mother kissed each other’s cheeks. Svetlana and I did the same.
    ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I told Svetlana.
    Once they were gone, Alexander — Sasha we called him — came into the kitchen and helped himself to some of Mama’s ginger cookies.
    ‘Listen, you two,’ said Mama, ‘I have a message from your father. He received a package today at the factory. He wants you to go and collect it. Why don’t you go now while Zoya and I make dinner.’
    ‘Really?’ I replied, perking up. ‘Who is the package from?’
    Mama smiled at me. ‘From Comrade Stalin. Natasha, I think you made a good impression on our leader when you met him last week.’
    The Red October chocolate factory was situated on