LITMIR.BIZ

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      He ran his finger along the line of his jaw, frowning. ‘I was hoping you could enlighten me. The archive is a bequest from a Russian collector, Gennady Litkin. It consists mostly of wartime papers from what became the USSR, but there is some material relating to this country. It’s a fascinating resource, but completely undocumented. The Centre controls access, and I only found out this morning that Helen had formally applied to look at some papers. It is my responsibility and, normally, these applications come to me, but I’ve been away, so I don’t know what she had in mind.’ He picked up a form from his in-tray and studied it. ‘Does the Ruabon Coal Company mean anything to you?’

      Faith shook her head. ‘I’m positive Helen’s research was complete. She wanted to discuss her writing schedule with me.’ She might as well clear this with Yevanov now. ‘I was going to get a few of her teaching hours covered to help her catch up.’

      He nodded, as if he agreed with this. ‘But the archive?’

      ‘I think she must have been looking for some additional data.’

      He raised his eyebrows as he studied the paper in his hand. ‘Possibly.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

      ‘Or maybe it was research for something else,’ she said. ‘Her PhD was on the decline of the coal industry. She was preparing it for publication.’

      He was still reading the form. ‘No. She wouldn’t have got permission for unauthorized research. There are legal problems over the ownership and, until the papers are properly archived, access to the collection is closely controlled.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged it in frustration. ‘I explained all of this…’ He tossed the form back on to the desk in exasperation.

      His phone rang. He excused himself and picked it up. ‘Yevanov…Yes, I am aware of that…As soon as she arrives, please…’

      She glanced at his bookshelves while he was talking. He had books on international law, books on the recent Balkan wars, books on Rwanda, books on Iraq. She saw a copy of Mein Kampf and heavy tomes on the Nuremberg trials. He also had, incongruously, some collections of fairy stories and folk tales, including the Russian collection that Grandpapa used to read to her. She went across to the shelves for a closer look.

      Russian Fairy Tales. Faded gold lettering on green binding. She heard the phone being put down, and turned. He smiled when he saw the book in her hands. ‘You think this is an odd thing for an historian to have?’ he said.

      She shrugged. ‘They’re part of history, in a way. They’re beautiful stories.’

      ‘They are. And they are very old, probably the oldest records we have.’ She gave him the book and he turned it over in his hands, a faint smile on his face. ‘Not many people are familiar with them these days.’

      ‘I grew up with them,’ she said.

      He looked across at her in surprise. ‘So did I.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘“Once upon a time, deep in the dark forest where the bears roamed and the wolves hunted, there lived an evil witch…”’ He raised an eyebrow and looked at the line of books on the shelf behind him: The Nuremberg Trials; The Fall of Srebrenica; Inside Al-Qaeda. ‘It’s a simple explanation, but I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever come up with anything better.’ He smiled. ‘It’s unusual to find someone who knows of these. We have something in common.’ He held the book out to her.

      She took it and turned the pages, scanning the familiar titles: The Snow Child, Havroshechka, The Firebird. ‘My grandfather used to read them to me.’

      ‘Your grandfather is Russian?’

      ‘Polish. He was a refugee.’

      ‘Then it’s interesting he read you those stories. There is little love lost between the Poles and the Russians. But we have something else in common. My mother is also a refugee, though she didn’t get out until after the war. Those were dreadful times.’

      ‘Is she…?’…still alive, Faith wanted to ask, but didn’t know how to word her query.

      ‘Her health is poor. She’s lived in this city for many years, but now she needs caring for–something she does not admit.’ His smile was rueful. Then he looked at her, and his face was cool and professional again. ‘Don’t worry about the meeting this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Helen’s problem will wait for a different occasion. I’m aware of her situation–I’ll do what I can. Once again–I’m delighted you have joined our team.’

      He stood up as she moved to leave, giving a slight bow. ‘Make an appointment to see me…’ he looked quickly at the board ‘…in a couple of weeks and we can talk about your work.’ He held the door open for her. She was aware of Trish watching her as she left the office.

      As soon as she was in the corridor she tried Helen’s mobile, but the phone was switched off. There was nothing she could do for now. She felt exhausted, as though she’d just run a few miles, but at least her encounter with Yevanov seemed to have gone well. It was odd that he had collections of the same stories that Grandpapa used to read to her when she was small. She had grown up with stories–Grandpapa reading to her during quiet evenings, the long walks together when he told her stories about his childhood: the house that Great-Grandpapa built, the orchard, the trains in the forest, the witch in the wood…

       The Red Train

      This is the story of how the trains came to the forest.

      It was spring, and there were men in the forest, strangers. The sound of axes rang through the air as they cut the trees. They were clearing the land for the railway, Stanislau said. Marek took Eva along the paths to watch as the men worked, watching the tree they were cutting as it swayed and rustled, its branches whispering as it fell until it crashed down to the forest floor. And the men would shout to each other, and the chains would clank as the horses pulled away the tree that had fallen.

      Eva would watch and listen. The tree seemed to struggle as the axes bit into its trunk, and then the sigh as it fell was sad, and the leaves of the other trees would rustle in agitation as the fallen one was dragged away. Sometimes the men would call to the children, and they would run back to the house in the clearing.

      When the trees had gone, the rails came, long tracks that wound their way through the forest. And the men who built the rails built a bridge that crossed the river–much bigger than the wooden bridge where Stanislau led the horse carrying the orchard fruit to market.

      Then the trains came, huge metal engines pulling wagon after wagon after wagon. The wagons were made of wood, apart from the wheels which were iron and sped along the track, making sparks fly up into the air. And the train carried a fire in its heart to make it go, and the fireman shovelled in the fuel and the train moved, sometimes slowly as if the engine was tired of pulling the long line of trucks, sometimes flying along through the forests, the smoke from the engine trailing behind it.

      First, there was the sound of the whistle, then the smoke through the trees and the line would start to sing as the train came nearer and nearer and then burst along the track. Da da dah, da da dah, Marek would sing the song of the train. West to east and east to west, the trains ran night and day.

      Eva loved the trains. Before she was old enough to walk the woods on her own, she would dawdle behind her brother, carefully, infuriatingly, holding him back from the things he wanted to do, until he became distracted and she could slip through the undergrowth and into the shadows and make her way through the trees with their shivering fronds that hung down and ran their fingers across her face and tangled in her hair.

      She knew the times and the places. She would come to the clearings, the places where the trees had been cut and the ground built up with stones to carry the iron rails. And she would crouch by the line with her fingers on the rail, waiting. And then the iron would begin to hum beneath her fingers, before her ears could hear it, and she would leave her fingers there a bit longer and a bit

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