False Images

By Patricia Morgan

Running from the harshness of life in her native Rural Siberia, Anya Petroya catches the early morning train that begins her journey through Mongolia and China to search for her mother's sister in Hong Kong.

 

Innocent in the ways of the world beyond her small village, Anya, disguised as a 19-year-old agricultural worker, meets

• Language: English
• Publisher: PM Publishing
• Release date: Dec 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987515129

Book preview

Chapter 1

The black sky appeared endless in the night as it enveloped the vast Siberian countryside. No lights from the capital city, Irkutsk, shone as far as the rural village of Meget. None of the city’s fame reached the desolate fields that stretched to the north. Within such space, squat and paintless log cabins hugged the frozen ground in thawing snow. The birches leaned with the wind, and their constant rustling penetrated the walls of the wretched shelters.

Along one of the muddy paths, a dim light from a small window reflected on an icy puddle created by the May thaw. The light came from an oil lamp in a cabin where three people sat in earnest conversation. One was a strong young girl whose face appeared luminous in the glow of the lamp. Her deeply shadowed eyes captured its yellow rays as she listened to her older sister.

You must go tonight! You can’t expect another chance. Father is getting worse. We can’t trust him any longer. The train stopping at the commune is the miracle we needed. She rose from the table and crossed to one of the two doors leading to other rooms in the cabin. Silently, she listened to the deep snoring coming from the other side. No one spoke until she returned to the table.

Your sister is right, Anya. You must go now, tonight! Her brother moved his heavy frame from the chair, making a creaking sound.

Be careful! If we wake Father, we’ll never get her out of here.

Dimitri placed a package on the table and untied the string, stuffing it carefully in the pocket of his workpants. Things are getting bad in the village. We might never get a set of clothes and a passport that fits. He lifted the heavy uniform out of the wrappings and spread it on the table, almost tipping the lamp.

Careful! whispered Dunyasha as she listened again for sounds in the other room. She studied the beautiful girl in front of her. She knew they had to get her out of the maddening poverty that surrounded them. She had to be saved from the fieldwork and the escapades of their drunken father. The hungry eyes of the fieldworkers followed her closely. Every day, you attract more attention. One of these days, our father will run out of vodka, and he’ll sell you to be a wife to the highest bidder just to buy more.

Dimitri picked up the roughened hand of his sister. He studied the long, tapered fingers and winced as he felt the callouses and ragged nails. You’re meant for a better life than what we have here. You are good, Anya; ever since you were a baby, we all knew you were different. You are strong, and gentle, and kind like mother was. His voice rose. Well, this land killed her, and we’re not going to let it kill you. You don’t belong here anymore than she did. Dunyasha and I are different. We’re like father. Somehow, we’ll survive.

With your hair cropped, you’ll look like any other youth, said her sister, standing behind her and curling her fingers in the long auburn locks.

We can’t cut her hair! She can tuck it up under her cap. It’s too wonderful to cut. Leave it!

Idiot! And what if it falls out of the cap? It has to be cut.

Anya looked from one to the other and softly sighed. She’s right, Dimitri, it has to be cut. If I must go, I have to do everything to keep from getting caught. It will grow again.

Dunyasha reached for the scissors and grimaced as she hacked off the first chunk. Dimitri, as if he could not bear the sight of her beautiful hair being destroyed, left the room.

When she had finished, he reappeared in the doorway with a packet in one hand and a shard of mirror in the other. Anya rose and went to him slowly; taking the mirror, she turned toward the lamp and gazed at herself. At first, a slight flush flickered across her face, but then an inner strength shielded her real thoughts, and she nervously smiled. No soldiers will bother me now. I might as well stay here. Her voice was low.

Don’t fool yourself. Dimitri stepped further into the room. There is no haircut in the world that can take away your looks. In fact, I’m a little worried these clothes won’t cover you enough.

Anya gathered the rough, olive drab uniform and took it into the room she had shared with her sister all her life. She dropped her heavy wool skirt and large sweater onto the floor. She rolled down her woolen socks and removed her thick leather working boots. Beneath the coarseness of her cotton slip, Anya appeared as a woman in a girl. Full hips and rounded, firm breasts filled her sensuous frame. The fact that her genealogy was not entirely Russian appeared evident in her long muscles and slightly olive complexion that showed no blemishes.

She pulled on the trousers and jacket, fumbling with the buttons. It fit fine except for a slight tautness across her breasts. Then she replaced her thick stockings and heavy boots.

When she appeared in the doorway, Dimitri gasped at the sister he no longer recognized. Walking around the newly created young man, he smiled. I would never suspect.

Men often don’t see what’s right in front of them. Remember that, Anya, her sister commented with a slight tinge of anger to her voice. And once on the train, whispered Dunyasha, you must become Ivan Gromovich in all ways.

It’s like going to the moon. Anya moved silently to the window and peered into the inky blackness. Even in the dark, she knew well the three miles to the railway station, but it was what lay beyond that she feared. There are some things I want to take. She went into her room and returned shortly, carrying a few books.

They’ll be too heavy, said Dimitri. Your precious books will have to stay with us.

Not all of them, only these. Anya showed them her atlas by her American grandmother and two small dictionaries, English and Mandarin. She tucked them in a satchel with the other things her sister had packed.

We’d better go. There’ll soon be enough light on the horizon to see by. Dimitri waited in the open doorway. He knew the lingering spring light would cast a protecting shadow into the day. It would make their trek to the station easier; usually, no one walked in the woods at this hour.

He held a large military coat up for Anya, which weighed her down as she slipped into it. The cap fit fine, but the gloves left her fingers roaming inside the hard leather.

Dunyasha stood at the door, tears streaming down her lined face. She took Anya’s hand and placed a large envelope in it. It’s the proof you might need to claim family in America. Then, after she hugged Anya, she turned her back.

It was the first time Anya had ever seen her sister-mother cry, and it gave her the courage to step into the night.

The door swung shut, and Dimitri struck out down the frozen path with Anya close behind.

The two shadows moved through the birch forest, the crunch of ice beneath their feet and the dawn glow lighting their way. If anyone had seen them, they would have been described as two men who moved slowly but deliberately toward a chosen goal. When they reached the edge of the forest near the farming commune, they stopped and spoke awhile, then they parted. The slighter one moved on toward the train station. The other returned to the woods but stopped to watch his friend until the dim light swallowed him.

Anya stumbled over the shadows on the rough road, and with each step, she repeated her new name, Ivan Gromovich. She gathered strength as she drew near the station. Her mother had given her love until she was five years old, then the Siberian hardships had taught her to be a survivor. As she approached the shadows of the building, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her head, trying to physically develop an inner courage.

Muffled sounds penetrated the night as she stepped silently onto the platform. Keeping in the shadows, she walked to the side of the station and found a window where she could see the occupants. Her attention went to the sounds; they were English words. They must be the tourists the train is picking up. She heard her own words and realized she had spoken aloud.

Inside, the laughing young tour members were exchanging stories about their visit to the commune and complaining of the early morning train.

Anya could hear many of their words, but some she didn’t understand. Her mother had spoken English to her until she was five, but that had ended with her mother’s death. Since that time, she had read over and over the English storybooks and the dictionary her mother had left her. Still, some of the words were unfamiliar. However, she could tell by their animated smiles and boisterous gestures that they were used to speaking freely. They were laughing at something in a Russian magazine.

She shifted her feet in the cold and hunched closer to the window as she studied their mannerisms. So free and rude, she thought. Their parents must have thought so too, for a man who appeared to be their father took the magazine from them. He was different from her father in his small, neat stature. He was almost obscured by his oversized coat. His friendly face spoke of love and pride even as he reprimanded his daughters.

Her father was large and puffy from too much vodka, and the lines in his face were indelibly creased into anger and hurt. Seldom had Anya seen him smile since her mother’s death. She thought of him back there in the cabin, snoring in his drunken sleep while they had planned her escape. Now she would be gone. Her older brother and sister would have to withstand his anger.

She moved to the darker side of the window, and her eyes caught another group who stood quietly observing the tourists with disdain. They were Russian officials. These were the men she was frightened of. If they discovered her disguise or questioned her passport, not only she, but her whole family, would be severely punished. She wondered what more they could do when her family was already exiled in Siberia because of the manufactured sins of her father. Patting the pocket that held her stolen passport, she thought she could feel the evil heat of it burning her chest.

Her concentration was interrupted when the door opened, and Anya watched a tall man in a Russian lamb hat and heavy coat join the group. At first, she thought he was a Russian, but when he spoke, it was in English. He laughed at something the girls said, showing a broad, boyish smile that didn’t match his imposing stature. Anya found herself fascinated by his carefree mannerism. She watched as he moved from the group of tourists to the Russians.

The officials greeted him cordially but coolly when he spoke to them in Russian. Then his appearance seemed to change. He was more formal and carried himself rather regally, as if to tell them he was a better man. That annoyed the officials, and their eyes followed him as he walked to the opposite wall, dropped his one piece of luggage, and silently leaned against the frame of the very window she was looking through.

Had he seen her? She stepped back, almost tripping over a station attendant.

Better go inside; you’ll freeze out here.

Without answering, she moved reluctantly to the door and entered the now smokey waiting room. She walked as calmly as she could toward a shadowy corner, hoping not to attract attention. The coarse wool of the stolen uniform she wore scratched her legs. Could the officials tell she wasn’t used to the trousers? Were her shoulders broad enough to resemble a man’s? These and other doubts darted through her mind as she painfully strolled across the concrete floor, her boots making sounds of thunder in her ears. She didn’t want to have to talk to the other agriculture agents nor the officials who might ask for papers. She wanted to hide or fly or do anything but be standing alone in this room. She mustered what courage she had and tried to will away her fright by leaning against the wall.

She had not been there long when the tall foreigner walked directly toward her. She felt a flush come to her cheeks when she realized he was going to speak to her.

Taking the Mongolian train? His voice was deep and friendly, his Russian clear.

Anya looked directly into a pair of clear blue eyes that startled her with their candidness. Yes, was all her voice could control. She pulled her cap a little lower and hoped he wouldn’t say any more. His height made her own five feet nine inches seem small, a feeling she wasn’t used to.

Where in Mongolia are you heading?

Ulan Bator, whispered Anya.

Of course! Everyone goes to Ulan Bator in Mongolia. I see you’re with the Agricultural Agency. The tall stranger’s eyes roamed over the uniform slowly, stopping to study the face of the young man in front of him. What do you do in the agency?

Anya turned to ice. Does he know I’m not a man? Why does he stare so? I’d better say something. Her mind raced. Her face flushed hot while the rest of her frigidly pushed on the wall they were standing against. Then, from somewhere within, she found her voice.

I—I’m an assistant to a produce officer. He’s sick, so I must go alone to Ulan Bator to buy some farm implements. She dared not look into his eyes. She knew they would read the truth.

She looked instead at the Russian official slowly coming toward them. She felt trapped. He, too, was studying her. Did she stand out so much? Surely it couldn’t be so obvious that she wasn’t a man.

Smiling broadly, the stranger offered a cigarette and was mildly surprised when the boy refused. It was the first time on his trip that his cigarettes were not eagerly taken. He stared at the young man, and an eerie feeling came over him. So many of the peasants looked alike, but not this boy. Why, by any standard, would he be handsome?

Were you born in Irkutsk? You have unusual features for a Siberian.

Yes, I was born right here— She stopped abruptly when she realized she was about to give away her real identity. She swallowed hard, gripping the satchel close to her.

The tall man noticed her hesitancy, and mistakenly thought the boy was intimidated because of the officials nearby. Again, he offered the cigarettes. Go on, take them. Put ’em in your pocket for later. He noticed the long, tapered fingers when she pulled her hand from the glove to take the pack.

Anya saw him studying her hand and quickly put the cigarettes in her pocket and replaced her glove.

Hey, you, boy! You have papers?

The voice startled her. She gave a slight jump as the heavy official marched up to them. She took a step away from the wall and summoned all her courage as she fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons on her jacket. She reached into the warmth where her heart was pressing with each beat against her bound breasts. She pulled out her papers and handed them to the official who was now standing between her and the foreigner.

After studying the papers, he gave her a long scrutinizing look. Suddenly, he turned and demanded the stranger’s papers as well.

Anya didn’t move as she watched this fat and slovenly man try to degrade the tourist. His chubby hands still held her papers, and she knew he could feel the lies they held. But there was nothing she could do except watch and pray.

Saying nothing, Robert Lawrence handed his journalism permits along with his American passport and various visas to the official. Quickly, they were read and passed back to him with no comment.

However, still holding Anya’s forms, the obese official introduced himself to her, ignoring Robert Lawrence. I am Zerkov Antonovich who works out of Irkutsk. I have not met you before, have I?

But before Anya could scrape together an answer, the whistle of the train blew, and its steaming engines made hearing impossible. The station came to life as everyone started milling toward the doors.

You will come with me, shouted Zerkov Antonovich as he shook her papers in her face. You are not to travel alone. It is not good policy.

But my village officer sent me. I have permission, cried Anya.

Robert Lawrence had picked up his luggage and was about to leave the two when he saw the pleading eyes of the boy. Something tugged at the American’s imagination. Here was a story, if he listened to his intuition. He looked at the grossness of Antonovich and wondered if he was a man who liked boys. On the other hand, he couldn’t put himself in jeopardy. After all, he had spent two years working for his visas to travel freely in Russia and China. But what good would he be as a journalist if he passed up a real story? On impulse, he turned to Antonovich. Look, this recruit has been assigned to look after me in Ulan Bator while I write about the agricultural trade of your country.

You lie! I saw you enter separately. The office would not do that. He smiled wantingly at the boy. The young man will travel with me in my compartment. I will help him with his work. I might even get him a promotion. Having caught their attention, he continued with an air of his own importance, You are a foolish American; these peasants are too stupid to be guided. You will need an interpreter. Look elsewhere.

Each vertebra of Anya’s spine locked in fear at the way the man was looking at her. All she knew was that she had to get out of Russia. Instinctively, she felt she would be safer with the American. Give me my papers, she shouted. I must board now. The only thought spinning in her mind was escape. She felt as if she was going to explode.

Antonovich looked at her in dismay. You will be reported for insubordination!

No! It is you, Zerkov Antonovich, who will be reported. The journalist’s voice was quiet and authoritative. I am a bona fide guest journalist of your country and you aren’t about to take my guide away for your perverted purposes. He saw his insult register in the puffy face. You must be very sure of yourself, Mr. Official, or else you know more people in Moscow than I do. It was the journalist’s second lie.

The train whistle blew, and the three stood staring at each other at an impasse in the empty station.

My papers, please? Anya’s gloved hand reached toward the official.

Be careful, American, whispered Antonovich, and he slapped the papers in Anya’s outstretched hand.

Without a word, journalist Robert Lawrence, with his new guide Ivan Gromovich following close behind, left Antonovich standing alone in the waiting room. They hurriedly boarded the train to locate their sleeping compartment for the journey to Mongolia.

Chapter 2

Anya held her breath as the journalist lumbered his way through the crowded cars. While trying to appear masculine herself, she measured the man in front of her. His clothes were neat compared to the wrinkled heavy woolens worn by the Russian travelers. Her eyes moved up from the belted waist of his coat to where his broad shoulders connected at the neckline. His hair was untrimmed, and sandy strands curled lightly over the cashmere muffler that hung loosely at the collar.

She heard his deep voice churning out terms of excuse as the startled passengers ahead of them moved aside. Her steps faltered. How was she going to share a sleeping compartment with this foreigner? What if he discovers I’m a woman? But what else can I do? She studied the faces of the other passengers; most were men who looked weather-worn and surly. No, she must stay with the American. At least he had saved her from that horrid Antonovich. After all, he thinks I’m a male. As long as I can stay awake, I’ll be