“We should have sent you to the authorities to get the rights to the land, instead of picketing for months. Trust a woman to get exactly what she wants in one afternoon.” But Safi could see he was really quite annoyed. He wanted his children to help rebuild a Tatar Crimea before going off to get a Russian education. “We’ll open proper Tatar schools, or at least classes, in Crimea soon,” he said. “Then they can go to school.”
Mama was adamant. In Bakhchisaray she’d also called Jemile’s mother and talked to Lenara, who was staying at their house. There were still tears in her eyes when she got back to the valley, and she wasn’t in the mood for teasing or arguing. “It’s not right for Safi to be stuck here all the time: the only girl, the only child. She helps as much as she can, but she’s still young, and you know an education’s important, Russian or Ukrainian or Tatar. If we’re going to live here, we’ll have to try and fit in with the local people. Lutfi really should go as well.”
“Lutfi stays and works on the house. We need him.”
“Flipping house,” Lutfi muttered, too low for anyone except Safi to hear. But he looked a bit proud too, because Papa had said he was needed, like a man. Lutfi had never been much interested in school anyway, except as a place to meet friends, and in Samarkand Papa had often shouted at him about his grades.
“All right then, until it’s built.” Mama clearly understood there was no point arguing about Lutfi. “But I insist on Safi going now, at least a couple of days a week. There’s a school bus from Krasniy Mak. It goes right past here, so we can arrange for it to stop for her.”
“Well, we’ll try it. Just as long as I don’t see my daughter behaving like a Russian schoolgirl.” Papa gave in with a short laugh.
Despite their failure at the town hall, Papa and Mehmed had returned in a fiercely jubilant mood, because the authorities had finally granted permission for the Tatars from the Bakhchisaray camp to build houses. There was going to be a big meeting in Simferopol in two days’ time to celebrate, and to demand the same rights for the other squatter settlements like their own. They talked excitedly about it all evening. No one seemed to want to discuss Safi’s school any more. She sat in the corner and worried. What was she going to wear? Would she have learnt completely different things in Uzbekistan, and be way behind the other children? Would they like her?
At last it was Refat who noticed. He came to sit beside her. “So, did you go up on Mangup-Kalye? What did you find?”
“A cemetery,” Safi said glumly. She didn’t really want to be reminded of those tombstones, mossy and tumbled on their cold carpet of flowers.
But Refat was interested. “I wonder who’s buried there. Let’s ask your grandfather about it.”
Grandpa was silent for a long time, and Safi wondered if he was angry at their questions. The ivy tendrils across the path had been a warning, a sign to keep out.
“We didn’t go in,” she said. “We weren’t expecting to find it.”
“My best friend once came looking for my grave there,” said Grandpa.
Safi went cold. She was glad when Refat pointed out, “But you’re not dead, Ismail
Aga
.”
“But I was so far away, so gone without a trace, I might as well have been.” Grandpa’s gaze was distant, turned back to a painful past. “My friend Ayder came from the war to find us, but he was too late, and we had all gone.”
“You mean Ayder
Aga
?” Safi remembered him, a crumpled, sad-eyed man who had often come to visit Grandpa in Samarkand before he died.
“Was he in the Red Army?” Ibrahim asked.
“That’s right. He defended the Soviet Union against the Germans. Alongside him fought Russians and Chechens, Ukrainians and Uzbeks, Azeris and Armenians. It didn’t matter. They were all from the Soviet Union. They all wanted the same thing: to get the German fascists out of their country so
Mama was adamant. In Bakhchisaray she’d also called Jemile’s mother and talked to Lenara, who was staying at their house. There were still tears in her eyes when she got back to the valley, and she wasn’t in the mood for teasing or arguing. “It’s not right for Safi to be stuck here all the time: the only girl, the only child. She helps as much as she can, but she’s still young, and you know an education’s important, Russian or Ukrainian or Tatar. If we’re going to live here, we’ll have to try and fit in with the local people. Lutfi really should go as well.”
“Lutfi stays and works on the house. We need him.”
“Flipping house,” Lutfi muttered, too low for anyone except Safi to hear. But he looked a bit proud too, because Papa had said he was needed, like a man. Lutfi had never been much interested in school anyway, except as a place to meet friends, and in Samarkand Papa had often shouted at him about his grades.
“All right then, until it’s built.” Mama clearly understood there was no point arguing about Lutfi. “But I insist on Safi going now, at least a couple of days a week. There’s a school bus from Krasniy Mak. It goes right past here, so we can arrange for it to stop for her.”
“Well, we’ll try it. Just as long as I don’t see my daughter behaving like a Russian schoolgirl.” Papa gave in with a short laugh.
Despite their failure at the town hall, Papa and Mehmed had returned in a fiercely jubilant mood, because the authorities had finally granted permission for the Tatars from the Bakhchisaray camp to build houses. There was going to be a big meeting in Simferopol in two days’ time to celebrate, and to demand the same rights for the other squatter settlements like their own. They talked excitedly about it all evening. No one seemed to want to discuss Safi’s school any more. She sat in the corner and worried. What was she going to wear? Would she have learnt completely different things in Uzbekistan, and be way behind the other children? Would they like her?
At last it was Refat who noticed. He came to sit beside her. “So, did you go up on Mangup-Kalye? What did you find?”
“A cemetery,” Safi said glumly. She didn’t really want to be reminded of those tombstones, mossy and tumbled on their cold carpet of flowers.
But Refat was interested. “I wonder who’s buried there. Let’s ask your grandfather about it.”
Grandpa was silent for a long time, and Safi wondered if he was angry at their questions. The ivy tendrils across the path had been a warning, a sign to keep out.
“We didn’t go in,” she said. “We weren’t expecting to find it.”
“My best friend once came looking for my grave there,” said Grandpa.
Safi went cold. She was glad when Refat pointed out, “But you’re not dead, Ismail
Aga
.”
“But I was so far away, so gone without a trace, I might as well have been.” Grandpa’s gaze was distant, turned back to a painful past. “My friend Ayder came from the war to find us, but he was too late, and we had all gone.”
“You mean Ayder
Aga
?” Safi remembered him, a crumpled, sad-eyed man who had often come to visit Grandpa in Samarkand before he died.
“Was he in the Red Army?” Ibrahim asked.
“That’s right. He defended the Soviet Union against the Germans. Alongside him fought Russians and Chechens, Ukrainians and Uzbeks, Azeris and Armenians. It didn’t matter. They were all from the Soviet Union. They all wanted the same thing: to get the German fascists out of their country so
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