Death of a Nightingale by Lene Kaaberbøl Page A

embarrassing for both Oxana and her. Comrade Semienova would definitely frown and might even get angry.
    And that must not happen.
    Comrade Semienova was the most beautiful thing Olga had ever seen, and she knew that Oxana felt the same way. Small and straight and with hair as fair and shiny as stalks of wheat. When someone answered correctly or when there was particularly good news from Uncle Stalin in Moscow, her glowing smile brought out two lovely dimples in her soft cheeks. She smoked cigarettes like a man, which somehow seemed incredible and wonderful.
    She had come from Leningrad, arriving in the early spring to replace old Volodymyr Pavlenko, who had died of hunger-typhoid sometime during the winter.
    The school had been closed until April because there wasn’t wood or petroleum, and therefore no one knew how long old Pavlenko had lain dead and frozen solid in the house at the back of the school. Because he was frozen, he didn’t smell like Grandmother had, but Olga couldn’t help shuddering when she thought about it. Still, that was long ago, and now it was autumn.
    “Fedir? How does the religious person think?”
    Comrade Semienova let her gaze rest on Fedir, who sat all the way at the back of the class. He was thirteen and strong as an ox but also similarly slow.
    “They are stupid.” Fedir grasped for more words. “They want to steal from the people.”
    Jana, who sat next to Olga, groaned quietly and imitated Fedir’s slightly out-of-focus gaze and open mouth. But Comrade Semienova was satisfied.
    “Correct, Fedir,” she said and lit up with her wonderful smile. “But you can also express it in a different way. Oxana?”
    “They are counterrevolutionary parasites who do not wish to have a strong state.”
    Now it was Olga’s turn to groan. Oxana was good at remembering all the long words. The best in the entire class, and that was probably why she also sometimes dared to stand next to Comrade Semienova’s desk after class to speak with her at length. Oxana was neither shy nor afraid she might blush and stammer. It was annoying and disgusting to watch, Olga thought, because Oxana wasn’t that much better than Olga and Jana. She just had no shame. But the worst thing was that Comrade Semienova couldn’t see that Oxana was sucking up to her. On the contrary, it seemed as if she liked speaking with Oxana and in fact listened to what she said, even though Oxana was only ten and Comrade Semienova at least twenty. As if they were friends.
    Now she nodded to Oxana with a confidentiality she didn’t share with any of the other children. Then she raised her voice.
    “Comrade Oxana is the best student in this school,” she said, offering a slender hand in Oxana’s direction. “Therefore, I have decided that she is to accompany me next week to a group meeting with Komsomol and the pioneer division in Kharkiv. I would like Oxana to sing the Internationale.”
    The class was completely silent. Even that little worm Sergej, whosat next to Jana, had for once stopped rolling boogers on the table and was keeping his arms and legs still at the same time.
    Now Oxana was blushing. It was from pride, not shame, thought Olga.
    “Oxana is talented,” Semienova continued. “But you should know that we all, regardless of abilities, must strive to be better comrades, to work harder for Uncle Stalin’s ideas about the dictatorship of the proletariat. Next time it could be one of you going along to Kharkiv if you work hard and improve yourselves.”
    Jana bent her head toward Olga and stuck her index and middle fingers into her mouth with a telling gagging gesture. Olga giggled deliberately. But inside something had begin to gnaw and rub, like the many truths she saw. Were you allowed to hate your own sister? She had a feeling that both Uncle Stalin and Semienova would disapprove of her thoughts if they knew of them, but it was hard enough to control her words and behavior. To control her thoughts was completely