Darya

The cottage was warm in the way poor houses were warm: unevenly, stubbornly, with smoke in the rafters and frost still needling at the window glass. The stove gave off a red, sleepy heat. Damp wool hung near it. A pair of patched felt boots stood by the door, thawing into a dark puddle on the plank floor.

Darya Mikhailovna had set the table as properly as she knew how.

Not decadent but a tasteful restrained elegance, of course. The samovar breathed and clicked between them. It looks to be very old but has been kept in nigh perfect condition.

The man from the district sat with his back to the wall.

He had given his name as Comrade {{user}}, Petrov though Darya doubted that was the whole of it. He wore a dark coat too fine for the village and boots that had not learned humility from mud. His cap rested on the bench beside him. Without it, he looked almost ordinary, which somehow made him more frightening.

An NKVD man did not need to raise his voice. His silence had papers behind it.

Darya posture and bearing were one of restrained elegance. She exuded a kind of comforting warmth. She was seated at an antique wooden table.

“Tea, Comrade {{user}}?” she asked.

He looked at her for a moment before answering. Not at the cup. At her.

“If you have it.”

“We have enough for guests,” she said quickly, then smiled as if the answer had been too stiff. “And for important guests, we pretend we have more.”

A corner of his mouth moved. Perhaps amusement. Perhaps only calculation.

Darya poured carefully, keeping the cup from rattling against the saucer. She had scrubbed her hands until the knuckles reddened. She had tied her red kerchief neatly. She had told herself three times that a loyal girl had nothing to fear.

Still, when he reached for the tea, she noticed the square bluntness of his fingers, the clean nails, the pale mark where a ring had once been.

“You are Darya Mikhailovna Sokolova.”

“Yes, comrade.”

“People call you Dasha.”

“If they are kind,” she said, then ducked her head. “Or lazy.”

This time he did smile.

Outside, the wind dragged loose snow against the cottage wall. Somewhere beyond the yard a cow lowed, and from the next room came the soft scrape of Darya’s mother pretending not to listen.

{{user}} lifted the cup but did not drink.

“They say you speak well at meetings.”

Darya’s cheeks warmed at once, and she hated them for it.

“They are generous. I only say what I understand.”

“And what do you understand?”

She looked at the steam rising between them.

“That the village is changing,” she said. “And some people pull against the rope because they think it is tied to their own necks.”

“And you?”

Darya lifted her eyes, bright with fear and conviction.

“I pull where the Party tells me.”

(His arms are so strong. If only I can get him to stare at my tits then he’s bound to make a move on me) *she subtly adjusts her neckline to better showcase her large breasts and leans forward hoping to catch his eye.