vanished for ever. He never even found their graves.”
9
YOU CAN’T LIVE IN DREAMS FOR EVER
S chool was wonderfully familiar. As she stepped through the doorway into a green-painted hall smelling of cabbage, Safi felt for the first time in Crimea that she was in a place she knew. It was just like her school in Samarkand: there were the rows of faded black and white photographs of war heroes on the walls; there were even exactly the same old Soviet notices about Keeping Clean and Working Hard and Growing Up to Become a Good Communist. It was several months since the Soviet Union had finally collapsed and Uzbekistan and Ukraine had become different countries, but no one seemed to have told the teachers in Bakhchisaray that.
The children milling about and shouting looked pretty much the same too, although there were no Uzbeks with their close-cropped black heads. Safi watched them shyly, wondering which ones might become her friends. She couldn’t understand why Papa had made a fuss about Russian and Ukrainian girls, when back in Samarkand she’d gone to school with Russians and Uzbeks and no one had said anything. But the best thing happened when she got to her class.
“Safinar Ismailova.” The teacher read out her name rather disapprovingly. “You’d better sit next to Ayshe. No doubt you’ll get along.”
Safi went to her seat eagerly. She knew at once from the name that Ayshe was Tatar too.
Ayshe smiled. She had black hair in a long ponytail, and was wearing a beautifully pressed dress. “Where are you from?” she whispered.
“Uzbekistan.”
“Me too. We came to Crimea two years ago. My father managed to buy a house in Bakhchisaray.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky.” Safi felt wildly envious, and suddenly rather self-conscious next to Ayshe’s tidy dress and glossy ponytail. Mama had dug out her old school clothes from the container, steaming the creases out over the boiling kettle before hanging them carefully on the end of one of the beds overnight. The result wasn’t entirely successful. “We’ve been here just a few weeks. We’re still building our house.”
“That explains—” Ayshe broke off suddenly.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Ayshe had her hand up over her nose but now she dropped it. “Shh. We’ll get told off.”
Safi sat through a pleasantly easy maths lesson and half a history lesson before she realized. There was a smell in the air, a sort of damp, scorched smell. She peered under the desk, and furtively over her shoulder, and then her heart lurched as if someone had thrown a large stone at her chest. It was coming from her. In the stuffy warmth of the classroom, all the dirt and smoke from their horrible stove was oozing out of her clothes. Back at Adym-Chokrak she was so used to the smoke she hardly noticed it any more. Now it seemed like the most overpoweringly awful smell in the world. Safi’s cheeks and ears burned. She hunched down in her seat and wished for a disaster. A fire, a revolution, the end of the world – anything to get her out of there.
Ayshe caught her eye and gave her a rueful, sympathetic smile. “It’s OK,” she murmured encouragingly. “It’s not that bad.”
Somehow that just made Safi feel even worse. There were still twenty minutes till the end of the lesson. She picked up her book and hid her flaming face behind it, trying to concentrate on the bit of text they were supposed to be reading.
It was about the partisans in the Second World War; guerrilla fighters who had fought against the Germans when they occupied Crimea. It reminded Safi of Grandpa’s friend Ayder, and other stories too. She frowned at the book, forgetting her clothes, and nudged Ayshe.
“What?”
“Look. This book’s wrong.”
“Safinar.” The teacher was glaring at her over his glasses. “Would you like to share whatever you’re whispering about with the whole class?”
“Sorry, sir. It was nothing.”
“I’m sure it was something. Perhaps you’ve found
9
YOU CAN’T LIVE IN DREAMS FOR EVER
S chool was wonderfully familiar. As she stepped through the doorway into a green-painted hall smelling of cabbage, Safi felt for the first time in Crimea that she was in a place she knew. It was just like her school in Samarkand: there were the rows of faded black and white photographs of war heroes on the walls; there were even exactly the same old Soviet notices about Keeping Clean and Working Hard and Growing Up to Become a Good Communist. It was several months since the Soviet Union had finally collapsed and Uzbekistan and Ukraine had become different countries, but no one seemed to have told the teachers in Bakhchisaray that.
The children milling about and shouting looked pretty much the same too, although there were no Uzbeks with their close-cropped black heads. Safi watched them shyly, wondering which ones might become her friends. She couldn’t understand why Papa had made a fuss about Russian and Ukrainian girls, when back in Samarkand she’d gone to school with Russians and Uzbeks and no one had said anything. But the best thing happened when she got to her class.
“Safinar Ismailova.” The teacher read out her name rather disapprovingly. “You’d better sit next to Ayshe. No doubt you’ll get along.”
Safi went to her seat eagerly. She knew at once from the name that Ayshe was Tatar too.
Ayshe smiled. She had black hair in a long ponytail, and was wearing a beautifully pressed dress. “Where are you from?” she whispered.
“Uzbekistan.”
“Me too. We came to Crimea two years ago. My father managed to buy a house in Bakhchisaray.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky.” Safi felt wildly envious, and suddenly rather self-conscious next to Ayshe’s tidy dress and glossy ponytail. Mama had dug out her old school clothes from the container, steaming the creases out over the boiling kettle before hanging them carefully on the end of one of the beds overnight. The result wasn’t entirely successful. “We’ve been here just a few weeks. We’re still building our house.”
“That explains—” Ayshe broke off suddenly.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Ayshe had her hand up over her nose but now she dropped it. “Shh. We’ll get told off.”
Safi sat through a pleasantly easy maths lesson and half a history lesson before she realized. There was a smell in the air, a sort of damp, scorched smell. She peered under the desk, and furtively over her shoulder, and then her heart lurched as if someone had thrown a large stone at her chest. It was coming from her. In the stuffy warmth of the classroom, all the dirt and smoke from their horrible stove was oozing out of her clothes. Back at Adym-Chokrak she was so used to the smoke she hardly noticed it any more. Now it seemed like the most overpoweringly awful smell in the world. Safi’s cheeks and ears burned. She hunched down in her seat and wished for a disaster. A fire, a revolution, the end of the world – anything to get her out of there.
Ayshe caught her eye and gave her a rueful, sympathetic smile. “It’s OK,” she murmured encouragingly. “It’s not that bad.”
Somehow that just made Safi feel even worse. There were still twenty minutes till the end of the lesson. She picked up her book and hid her flaming face behind it, trying to concentrate on the bit of text they were supposed to be reading.
It was about the partisans in the Second World War; guerrilla fighters who had fought against the Germans when they occupied Crimea. It reminded Safi of Grandpa’s friend Ayder, and other stories too. She frowned at the book, forgetting her clothes, and nudged Ayshe.
“What?”
“Look. This book’s wrong.”
“Safinar.” The teacher was glaring at her over his glasses. “Would you like to share whatever you’re whispering about with the whole class?”
“Sorry, sir. It was nothing.”
“I’m sure it was something. Perhaps you’ve found
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