Free Sapphire Skies by Belinda Alexandra Page B

Bolotny Island, opposite the Kremlin. Mama gave Alexander and I string shopping bags to take with us. Everyone carried string bags now and called them ‘just-in-case bags’. Although there were certain staples in the packages we received, some items — kerosene and matches; spoons and forks; paint; nails — were always difficult to obtain. If a person saw a queue outside a store, they joined it. Only after they had secured their place did they ask what was being sold.
    On Vozdvizhenka Street, a group of people were huddled around a store window admiring the goods displayed in red and gold boxes. They were the kinds of things we received in our special packages — cups and saucers, eggs, cheese, pens and hair rollers. A sign on the door of the shop read: Sold Out .
    ‘Don’t you think it’s unfair that we receive things that the rest of our comrades go without?’ I asked Alexander.
    He frowned and stopped on the street corner. ‘Sacrifice is necessary to the building of the Socialist State, Natasha,’ he said. ‘It’s not someone privileged by birth who is receiving those special packages. It is our father, an ordinary citizen who has achieved outstanding success for the Motherland through dedicated work. What he and other innovators, leaders and pioneers receive today, every citizen can expect tomorrow.’
    My brother spoke articulately but the way his gaze shifted downwards made me wonder if he believed what he said. I believed it. It was a lovely dream and I put my faith in it. After a Socialist State had been constructed in Russia, life would be exactly as Comrade Stalin had described it: more fun and more joyous for everyone.
    I could tell when we were nearing the chocolate factory because of the smell of cocoa and roasting nuts that wafted in the air. As well as chocolates, the factory produced caramels, nougat and pralines. But it was the chocolate department that worked three shifts instead of two. My father and the factory’s managers toiled from the late afternoon to early in the morning. Those were the hours that Stalin kept and nobody wanted to risk being absent in case he telephoned to inquire about a new delicacy that was being developed or to ask how the imported machines were performing. Although my father was the chief chocolatier and not responsible for production, Stalin often asked for him. He would speak with Papa about everyday things: family life and the challenges of growing older. Papa told us that he thought Stalin sounded lonely and that he had the impression our leader could not trust the Politburo members around him. My father would tell him jokes to cheer him up and Stalin would laugh and say it was good to speak to him. Although Papa never asked for privileges, it was because Stalin liked him that we had a comfortable apartment and use in the summer of a dacha in the pine forest of Nikolina Gora.
    The workings of the chocolate factory were secret, but as children of the chief chocolatier we had special access. The guard who stood at the kiosk at the front of the factory waved us through, and Maria, who sat in a booth near the office, opened the door to the factory for us. She led us past the clocking-in machines and the cloakroom and out onto the factory floor.
    No matter how many times I visited, I never got tired of the magic of the place. The delicious smell of burnt sugar tickled my nostrils. My eyes opened with wonder at the conveyor belts that whisked chocolate cigars and fruit-filled pillows from one end of the site to the other. The workroom was like a kitchen for giants, with cauldrons that needed ladders and gangways to reach them and enormous vats that bubbled with cherry- and vanilla-scented syrups. Maria led us past the packing department, where women wearing red kerchiefs arranged chocolates into boxes, then the art department, where artists sketched designs for the packaging; sleigh scenes and kittens in baskets being the most popular themes for the New Year. Pavel