Gidrostroitel City Park, Volgograd, 1932

Yesterday’s storm had left metre deep snowdrifts on the pavements throughout the city, but today’s whisper of snowflakes in the air created a cleansing freshness to each breath Elena took in. Without thinking the girl stopped where she was, at the pedestrian entrance to the park, closed her eyes and bathed in the simplicity of the clean air and the wondrous feeling of the flakes as they melted tenderly on her cheeks. Taking the first steps towards her home and making sure she could not be seen she lifted the remains of a freshly baked loaf to her nose and took in the wonderful scent in several long consuming wondrous breaths. She would endeavour to use that intoxicating smell to dissuade her mother from heavier punishment; that might work? Probably not, still, even with the prospect of a sound beating to look forward to, she could not have lived with herself if she had not given away at least a part of one of her four precious loaves.

The two ladies from the Ukraine were outsiders, not ‘part of the community,’ her mother was sure to announce, but when Elena met them, they were not much more than walking skeletons who had travelled many miles in the hope of taking some food back to their families. They had been surprised by Elena’s approach to them and were noticeably hesitant about entering into a conversation with the young Russian; for after several days of exploration, neither of the women could understand how a city, full of bright red flags and balloons, adorned with preposterous statues and monuments, had so little food to spare.

There was no doubt and clear in her own mind that Elena had done a good deed and as a consequence would be punished. Such was this life under their new leader; punishment sometimes arrived with no crime having been committed.

Stalin’s new regime and doctrines were now biting hard and affected Elena as much as anyone. The crackdown against single parent families and the strict new educational programmes had impacted her twelve-year-old life with force.

As she approached her front door, she was unsettled to note an emaciated beggar lurking outside on the pavement. She had little doubt that if the man had spotted her with the bread she risked being assaulted, so she wrapped the loaves within the folds of her skirt. There were two sorts of men living in Volgograd: those involved in the constructional regeneration of the city and the Moscow-Donbas Railway Line; and the beggars. She noted this ‘beggar,’ even at this distance was studying her intently. As she approached, the man lifted his scrawny body to its full height; revealing he was taller than she had realised. His voice croaked.

“Lena?” Her name; but how did he know? Her face puckered into a frown.

“Lena.” This time the sound of his voice came across as issuing a statement more than a question.

To her juvenile eyes there was a massive contradiction in his facial features; he had an ugly, tired and wrinkled face, but also the kindest of eyes; chocolate brown, soft, caring. Her response was cautious.

“Yes?”

“Hello Lena.” Those two words hung in the air, like an umbrella casting a shadow over them. The man cleared his throat. She could see that his face was lined with uncertainty.

“Elena. I am Vladimir Kubrick. I am the father of Elena Kubrick.”

But that was her name, Elena Kubrick. That was her name.

The man did not rush her. He had waited eight long years for this moment, so a few seconds delay would cost him nothing.

“Do you remember me?” The girl scanned up and down the street; was this her father or a madman? Either way her mother would not be pleased if she spent time with him. The man glanced all around, whilst carefully wiping the snow from his eyelids. His voice was gentle.

“Is your mother in?”

“Yes, yes she is.” She knew she had blurted the words out far too quickly – he would probably guess she was lying. The man turned and stared for a few seconds at the front door, briefly brushing the wooden frame with his fingers.

“I don't think your mother would want me to come in.”

His words were polluted with sadness. Elena remembered the stories her mother would tell. Elena guessed the only reason she would let this man into the house would be so she could batter him with a shovel. He shook his head and reached inside his coat.

“I have a present for you Lena.” From the edge of her vision Elena could sense Fat Ivana from next door watching, her piggy eyes peeping from behind the curtain. The nosey old cow missed nothing, but for once that was almost a comforting fact. The man handed her a package; quite heavy, wrapped in plain crumbled brown paper and tied simply with prickly string. His rough voice dropped to a whisper.

“I made this myself, in the evenings, in the camp.” Her mother had often spoken of the camp. “A place for liberal Leninists. A place for men with big ideas, and bigger mouths to go with them.' Elena slowly undid the string to reveal a beautifully carved wooden statue. She recognised the image immediately.

“It's Scruffy!” The family pet. Her dog. Passed away and gone for the last three years, but now back in her arms. She turned the sculpture around slowly in her trembling hands. One ear up, one ear down, the pointed nose with the tongue slightly poking out from his mouth. This man, this strange man, knew Scruffy. This man was her father. The look of belief and understanding within her eyes gave Vladimir Kubrick the first taste of joy he had known in eight years.

They stood motionless before each other until the spell was broken by Fat Ivana's thrusting nasal bellow.

“Elena – come here, right away!”

A sudden gust of wind threw a curtain of snow between them however Elena managed to snatch one last glance at the man disappearing from view before her angry neighbour hustled her away. Only the briefest of images but enough to ensure, that to her, he would never be forgotten.