Free Despite the Falling Snow by Shamim Sarif Page B

as her civic duty. That had gotten her some points for “heroism” in the Party records. Even then, at that age, with no idea of how she could ever effect a sort of revenge for her parents’ deaths, she was clear in her own mind that she wanted to do so. It was always simply a question of how, not whether or not she should.
    She glances once more at Sveltana. Her light brown eyes hold streaks of gold within them, and they are superficially striking, but they are always darting, watching; and her delicate mouse-like ears are always twitching. There is plenty of use for unassuming, steady people like her; the local resident’s associations, the work councils, the police – they all use observations from people like that all the time. Katya glances at the clock on the wall behind her. Five minutes to go.
    She begins packing up her things.
    “It’s only five minutes to,” Svetlana points out, helpfully.
    “I can read a clock,” Katya tells her. “I am going home.”
    Svetlana watches Katya’s swift, easy movements. Her admiration of her beautiful superior, with her tall, slim figure and her ink-black hair and eyes has turned to envy over the past year, and even dislike. Svetlana too is pretty in her own way, and as helpful as she can be, and she has tried to make Katya like her, but she will not.
    The school bell rings, and a dulled scraping of chairs in thirty rooms above and around them penetrates the thick, solid blocks of the office walls. Katya looks up at her co-worker, and smiles, more kindly. The girl is pleased, and smiles back, coyly, but not without a desperation behind her light eyes that makes Katya shiver inwardly. But Katya smiles again, anyway, before looking back to her own desk, where she picks up her bag. She waits for a moment and listens. Outside the office door, a hundred pairs of feet hustle through the corridor. There is no stampede for the door; even getting out of this place cannot inspire these children with enthusiasm, Katya thinks.
    She pushes back her own metal chair, and reaches for her coat.
    “Bye, Svetlana,” she says.
    “Bye, Katya.” There is a pause – enough to mark a change of subject, but not enough to allow Katya to escape.
    “Doing anything tonight?” Svetlana asks, and her sugary friendliness makes Katya’s skin crawl.
    “No.” She is seeing Alexander. She will go to his apartment, where he wants to cook dinner for her. But that is something private. Even when it has nothing to do with her clandestine work, Katya has never been one to speak of her internal life, of thoughts and feelings, even to her few friends.
    “No,” she repeats. “You?” she asks, politely, although she does not really care.
    “I am re-reading Comrade Stalin’s speeches. A little every evening,” Svetlana replies.
    That should be a stimulating night, thinks Katya, but her eyes lose nothing of their polite smile. “They are very interesting,” she says. “Very good.”
    “I know, they….”
    “I have to go.”
    “Going home, Katya?” she asks.
    “I already said that,” is the curt reply.
    “Oh.” Svetlana looks down at her account books once again. “It’s just… you don’t always go straight home after work. Do you?”
    Katya resists the impulsive response, which is to turn and stare sharply at the girl, to evaluate the meaning of her words. Instead, she keeps her head down where it was, in her bag, looking for her hat, and when she finds it, she pulls it out and looks at her with a sigh and says, “Don’t you have anything else to worry about?”
    Taking a step or two forward, so that she is standing even nearer to the girl in the oppressive office that they share, Katya puts on the hat, and dons her coat and gloves, slowly and methodically, pulling each woollen casing over each of her own slender fingers. Her eyes are softer now, dancing, with a hint of smiling flirtation in them, and they are fixed upon the girl’s eyes. It is a dirty trick, and Katya knows it, but