Saving Zasha by Randi Barrow

Author:Randi Barrow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2010-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

“CAREFUL OF THE STEP,” HE SAID, WHICH WAS GOOD BECAUSE THE ENTIRE RIGHT HALF OF IT WAS MISSING. “AND YOU — GO CATCH SOME MICE,” HE TOLD A skinny tabby cat who was reluctant to leave her spot by the back door. The screen door, which was full of holes, creaked when it opened and banged when it closed.

We passed through a small pantry and into the kitchen. It was immediately clear that no woman lived in the house with him. The windows were covered with years’ worth of dust and water stains. I guessed that every dish he owned was either on the counter or in the sink, all of them dirty. The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept since the Orlovs left years before. He leaned his rifle against an old icebox.

“Sit down,” he said as he pulled a cigarette out of an almost empty pack and lit it. “Oh — did you want one?” He held the pack out toward us.

I shook my head; Nikolai said, “No thanks.”

He shrugged. “A little young, perhaps. But I saw German boys your age in Berlin, all soldiers. Tea?”

“Please,” I said, remembering my mother’s teaching that you always say yes to someone’s hospitality, no matter how humble. The man opened cupboards, looking for extra cups, I assumed. They were mostly empty, although I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of a mouse.

I watched him as he moved. He didn’t seem embarrassed that he didn’t have a shirt on. His muscles looked so hard and tight, they almost scared me. Or maybe it was the scars that marked him. I stole a glance at Nikolai, who was examining him as intently as I was.

The cigarette dangled from his lips as he said, “Aha!” and turned toward us holding up two cups he’d dug out from the pile in the sink. He ran the water and rinsed them well, but there was no soap. He didn’t dry them before pouring tea into them from a pan on the stove. “It should still be hot. There’s no sugar.”

We murmured our thanks as he set the cups in front of us. He grabbed his chair at the top, turned it around, straddled it, and folded his arms across the top. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette onto the floor.

“Tell me what you’ve heard.”

Nikolai was taking his first sip of tea, so I answered. “About what, sir?”

“Dimitri. My name’s Dimitri.”

He pointed at me. I said, “Mikhail.” Nikolai gave his name quickly. The gun was nearby, and we were eager to please.

“Tell me what you’ve heard about a kennel.” He inhaled his cigarette deeply, held it for a second, and exhaled it in a long stream.

“Not much,” I said, shrugging and showing my open hands. “Just what our friend Katia told us.”

“Is she the one from the newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“I thought her name was Irina.”

“Oh, she’s the real reporter,” Nikolai said. “Katia’s the editor’s daughter who trails along behind her.”

“Ah, yes. The little girl who asked too many questions.

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