It was all Popov needed. He did not know the details but the sense was clear. Someone was coming to get him, and the landowner was terrified. Very well, he would stay ahead.

'If I could completely neutralize Suvorin for you, what would you give?' he mildly enquired. And in answer to Misha's look of desperate hope, told him about the existence of the letter from Peter Suvorin to Nicolai and explained its contents.

'You have this letter?' Misha asked eagerly.

'It's hidden, but I can get it for a price.'

'How much?'

'Two thousand roubles.'

'Two thousand?' The poor man looked flabbergasted. 'I haven't got it.'

He was so nervous that Popov thought he was probably telling the truth. 'How much have you?' he asked.

'About fifteen hundred, I think.'

'Very well. That will do.'

Misha looked relieved; then anxious again. 'There's one other thing,' he said nervously. 'If I give you money, you must leave right away.'

'What, you mean now, in the middle of the night?'

'Yes. At once. It's essential.'

Popov smiled faintly. It must be as he had guessed, then. Fancy this fool having the courage to have me killed, he thought. And how typical to panic afterwards. Aloud he said, 'You'll have to give me a horse. A good one.'

'Yes, of course.'

That would be worth some money too. It was amazing what power someone's guilt gave you over them.

'Go and get the money,' he commanded.

A quarter of an hour later, he was ready to go. He was riding Misha Bobrov's best horse. He had fifteen hundred roubles in his pocket, and Misha had the precious letter. Before leaving the house, Popov had paused for a moment, wondering whether to go and wake Nicolai, to say goodbye. But he had decided against it. His friend had served his purpose. He had nothing to say to him. He looked down at the anxious landowner.

'Well, goodbye until the revolution,' he said pleasantly. Then he was gone.

It was an hour later that the two Romanovs appeared at Bobrovo to ask if Popov had been there. To make sure they didn't try to follow Popov, the landowner told them he had not seen him.

The fire at Russka took both the warehouse, another next door, and four of the little row-houses in whose roofs flying embers had lodged. Only the following morning did anyone realize that Natalia and Grigory had gone missing; their charred remains were found hours later.

Because of an interview which took place in the early morning between Savva Suvorin and Mikhail Bobrov, no police investigation of the fire ever took place. It was declared an accident. How Natalia and Grigory came to be trapped inside was never explained. It was remarked, however, that the local police chief and his family all had new clothes a few weeks later.

Varya Romanov had her baby at the end of the year. It was a little girl whom they decided to call Arina. Varya was so attached to the baby, which replaced her only daughter, that the little girl came safely through the winter, entirely unaware that her grandmother and namesake had more than once stood over her cradle and murmured: 'I know I ought to leave you out there, but I haven't the heart.'

Nor was the child ever aware of another minor event that had taken place just a week after winter ended.

It was the habit of Misha Bobrov, each spring, to sort out his papers. Since this was a yearly event, there were always plenty to sort. Letters, notes he had made to himself, memoranda from zemstvo zemstvo officials, unpaid bills ... the papers accumulated on the big table in his study, on top of the books that lined the walls, and in the drawers of his desk. He enjoyed this business: it allowed him to survey the previous year of his life and, proceeding in a leisurely fashion, the review often took him three or four days. The letters, in particular, he liked to read over; and many of these he would then tie up with ribbon and store in boxes in the attic. When his wife suggested this was a waste of time he would calmly reply, 'You never know,' and continue happily with his work. officials, unpaid bills ... the papers accumulated on the big table in his study, on top of the books that lined the walls, and in the drawers of his desk. He enjoyed this business: it allowed him to survey the previous year of his life and, proceeding in a leisurely fashion, the review often took him three or four days. The letters, in particular, he liked to read over; and many of these he would then tie up with ribbon and store in boxes in the attic. When his wife suggested this was a waste of time he would calmly reply, 'You never know,' and continue happily with his work.

There had been much to read and ponder this last year. He had even considered writing up an account of the extraordinary events of the last summer. How strange and interesting for Nicolai's grandchildren to read about one day, he had thought. However, he had put this task off for the time being 'until I'm not so busy' and so the only memorial of those days amongst the papers was the letter from Peter Suvorin which Popov had given him. I must certainly keep that, Misha considered. After all, one never knew when it might come in handy against the Suvorins in the future. And since the strange document did not belong with anything else, he tied a piece of red ribbon round it, labelled it 'Suvorin Fire', and put it up in the attic with the other letters.

It was the day after he had finished this task that he received an unexpected visitor young Boris Romanov. The landlord had not seen the young peasant for some time and was surprised that he was not accompanied by his father; but he had him shown into his study, smiled at him pleasantly enough, and enquired: 'Well, Boris, what is it?'

The speech that Boris had prepared was so slow and convoluted that at first Misha could not make out what he wanted; but there was a look of sullen awkwardness on the peasant's face that made the landowner uneasy. Carefully Boris reminded him of the family's poverty, their need for more land, and their loyalty to the Bobrovs. Then, finally, he came to the point. 'I was thinking about last summer, sir,' he said.

So that was it. Misha was cautious. 'Well?'

'We had an agreement then, sir. About helping my father and giving my sister a dowry.' Still Misha said nothing. 'My sister's dead now, sir.'

'God rest her soul.'

'But as you know, we have a new baby in the family.' He looked at the floor. 'So I wondered if you could see your way to helping us like you said, sir? Natalia's dowry could go to the baby Arina, you see.'

Misha gazed at him thoughtfully. In truth, the young man's speech had touched a raw nerve. Since that terrible night the previous summer, no word had ever been spoken about the evil bargain he had made with the Romanovs; after all, the murder had not taken place, poor Natalia had died, and Misha had tried to blot the whole episode from his mind. Apart from some help with his repayments, Misha had not thought it necessary to give any substantial sum of money to Timofei Romanov, nor had the peasant dared to ask. Yet more than once Misha had secretly thought to himself: It's we, really, who brought misfortune on the Romanovs. I ought to do something for them one day. Young Boris's suggestion of a present of money for the child appealed to him. Perhaps, quite soon, he would give one ... And because he was turning the matter over in his mind, he did not trouble, at first, to reply to the peasant.

It was then that Boris Romanov made his great mistake. For misunderstanding Misha's hesitation, he suddenly looked up and announced: 'After all, sir, what with my sister being killed in the fire, we wouldn't want you getting into trouble now, would we?' With which he gave the landowner a nasty grin.

Misha stared at him in amazement, then he blushed. What the devil did the fellow know?

In fact, young Boris knew nothing at all. But had Misha possessed any idea of what the young peasant suspected, he would have been shaken indeed.

For if the authorities had dismissed the fire at Russka as an accident, Boris certainly had not. The memory of his poor sister Natalia seemed to haunt him; and the more he brooded on it, the more sure he was that the whole business was suspicious. Time and again that winter he had challenged his father. 'If it was an accident, then how come Natalia and Grigory were locked inside?' he would demand. Why would anyone want to kill them? 'Maybe they knew too much.' And the identity of the killer? 'That redheaded devil, Popov. It must have been.' Even old Timofei conceded that this last was possible. But it was the next step in Boris's logic that his father was unwilling to take.

'For,' Boris reasoned, 'there's still more to this than meets the eye. Think about it.' He would jab his finger down on the table. 'Bobrov let us go after Popov, but we never caught him. Who tipped that devil off? Must have been Bobrov himself. Sent a servant, or even Nicolai, round to warn him. And how come Popov escapes vanishes? And nothing's ever said about either the fire or Nicolai Bobrov? There has to be something going on that we don't know about. And that landowner's hiding it. He knows who lit the fire; he knows who killed my sister and maybe a lot more besides.'

To which Timofei would only listen sadly, shake his head and reply: 'I still don't believe it. But even if it is so, what can you do about it?'

And here Boris was stuck. He had no proof. The authorities would never listen to him. He'd only get into trouble. Yet as the winter months went by, his sullen conviction became an obsession. He could not let it go. And finally, just as the snows were melting, he decided: I'll shake down that damned landlord, anyway. I bet I can frighten something out of him.

Though he had blushed, Misha collected himself quickly. In a moment, he was outwardly calm. His mind, however, was working rapidly.

The fire ... the peasant was insinuating something about the fire. Yet Misha's only crime lay in concealing the letter that Popov had given him which revealed the culprit. Was it possible the peasant knew about that? It seemed unlikely. With a face which, he hoped, was completely serene, Misha gazed at Boris and remarked: 'I don't think I understand you.'

'I just mean, sir, you and I know who did it,' Boris said boldly.

'Do I? And who might that be?' It was said with a faint smile, but to his annoyance Misha could feel his heart pounding. Could the fellow really know?

'That red-haired devil Popov,' Boris replied with confidence.

Thank God! He knew nothing. The insolent young peasant was bluffing.

'Then you know more than I do,' Misha replied blandly. 'And now, since you are being impertinent, you'd better get out.' He glowered at Boris. 'If I hear another word of this, I'll lodge a complaint with the police,' he added, then turned his back while, crimson and furious, Boris departed.

This interview marked the beginning of an unspoken but permanent coolness between the Bobrovs and the Romanovs. No further help came from Misha Bobrov even to Timofei: the landlord preferred to ignore them. Timofei regretted this, but as he said to his son: 'After what you did, I can hardly look him in the eye.'

As for Boris, though he had been humiliated, the interview had done nothing to shake his suspicions. Indeed, as time went on and he brooded about the subject further, he found more and more reasons to confirm his belief. I saw him blush, he remembered. He knew something, all right. And it seemed ever clearer to him that even if he could not fathom the business there had been a conspiracy. That red-head, those damned Bobrovs, maybe even the Suvorins too for all I know they're all in it somehow, he concluded. They killed Natalia.

And in his rage he came to two decisions which he would never alter as long as he lived. The first, which he shared with his father, was very simple: One day, I'll meet that accursed red-head Popov again: and when I do, I'll kill him.

The second decision he kept to himself, though he was no less determined to carry it out. I'll ruin that landowner who sits on the land that should be ours, he promised himself. Before I die I'll see those damned Bobrovs thrown out. I'll do it for Natalia. And so, in the village below their house, the Bobrov family acquired a mortal enemy.

But these undercurrents caused no ripple on the placid surface of the village's life. By the following year, it seemed that the events of 1874 had receded into obscurity. The red-headed student Popov was apparently forgotten; and in the town of Russka, only occasionally did anyone trouble to ask: whatever became of young Peter Suvorin?

Revolution 1881, September The Tsar was dead: assassinated. Even now, months later, the ten-year-old girl found it hard to believe.

Why were there such wicked people in the world? For the last three years there had been killings policemen, officials, even a governor. And now, with a terrible bomb, they had killed the good man, the reforming Tsar Alexander II himself. Rosa could not understand it.

Who would do such a thing? A terrible group, it seemed: the People's Will, they called themselves. No one had known who they were or how many: perhaps twenty, perhaps ten thousand. What did they want? Revolution: the destruction of the whole apparatus of the Russian state that ruled its people from on high. Month after month, the People's Will had hunted the Tsar; now they had destroyed him, as if to say: 'See, your mighty state is only a sham. Against us, even the Tsar himself is impotent, to be destroyed when we wish.' And now, with the poor Tsar dead, they had supposed the people would rise up.

'Which shows how little these revolutionaries know,' her father had said.

For nothing had happened. Not a village had risen, nor a single factory. The shocking event had been greeted only by a huge Russian silence. The Tsar's son the third Alexander had succeeded to the throne and at once imposed order. There had been a huge crackdown; many of the revolutionaries had been arrested and most of the Russian Empire was at present under martial law. The People's Will had failed, God be praised. Russia was calm and at peace.

Or so it had seemed. Until this new and horrible business so inexplicable to her, so terrifying had begun. And once again, as she had done so many times in recent months, Rosa wondered why there were such wicked people in the world.

'They will not come here,' her father had promised. But what if he were wrong?

It was early afternoon a quiet time in this peaceful southern village at the border of forest and steppe. Few people were moving about; Rosa's parents were resting on the upper floor of the solid, thatched house. Although it was autumn, down here in the Ukraine the weather was still warm. Through the open window, Rosa could see the apple tree in the courtyard and smell the sweet scent of a honeysuckle bush nearby.

Rosa was a beautiful girl. Her pale, oval face, long neck, and a certain slow grace in her movements had made some of the villagers call her 'the swan maiden'. Her raven hair was worn in a thick braid down her back. She had a long nose and full lips. But her most striking features were her eyes. Dark-lidded, framed under the strong, black arch of her eyebrows, they were huge, blue-grey and luminous, gazing solemnly out at the world like a figure in an ancient mosaic.

She sat by a piano. She was not playing, now, but the music she had been practising that morning a piece by Tchaikovsky was echoing in her mind. As she stared out at the blue sky, she went over each phrase, each haunting melody, trying them this way and that until she was satisfied.

Hers was the only piano in the village. She would never forget the magical day when it arrived on a little barge coming upriver. Her father had saved for a year to buy it and brought it all the way from Kiev. All the neighbours had come out to watch as he and her two brothers proudly escorted this wonder to their house. She had been only seven when a visiting cousin, a musician, had told them she was a prodigy. The very next year she had gone to live with that family, during term time, down in the big city of Odessa on the Black Sea coast, where there were fine music teachers. Already she had given a public performance and people were saying she would be a professional musician.

'As long as her health holds up,' her mother would gloomily say. It was true: that nagging problem with her chest was often with her. Sometimes she would have to rest for days at a time, when she was longing to go back to school. 'You'll grow out of it,' her father promised her: and how she prayed that he was right. How she wanted to live her life for music.

For once Rosa stepped into that kingdom, everything else became unimportant. Sometimes it seemed to her that music was in everything: as absolute as mathematics, as infinite as the universe itself. Music was in the trees, in the flowers, in the endless steppe; music filled the whole sky. She wanted only to pray, and to learn.

And here was the strange conundrum which had puzzled her for several months, and which today made her thoughtful and melancholy.

For if God had made this beautiful world, and given it music, and if she, it seemed, might have been chosen to serve His musical purpose and to play for Him, then why were there evil men, planning to kill her?

Laid out on the east side of the little river, the village's comfortable thatched houses with their whitewashed walls stretched on each side of the broad dirt road for nearly a mile. Several, like the house where her parents lived, had little orchards behind them. Near the river there was a market square; and just downstream stood a distillery. Indeed, in the poorer Russian north where settlements were smaller than in the Ukraine, such a place would have been called a town.

It was also quite prosperous. To the huge fields of wheat on the rich black earth of the steppe, two new and valuable crops had been added in recent times: sugarbeet and tobacco. Both were sold to merchants who exported them through the ports on the warm Black Sea, and thanks to this trade and the region's natural abundance, the peasants lived well.

Rosa's grandfather had first come to the region to farm. He had died five years ago and her father had taken over. An enterprising man, he also traded wheat and acted as local agent for a firm that manufactured agricultural equipment down in Odessa, so that they were now amongst the better-off families in the village.

She was not aware that once, in former times, this southern settlement had borne the name of Russka.

It was not surprising. The settlement had had two names since then; of its past few signs remained. The little fort on the western bank was only some marks upon the turf; of the church the Mongols had burned down, there was not a trace. Even the landscape had altered somewhat, for centuries of farming had led to the cutting down of many trees, and there were no woods on the eastern side of the river now. The pool and its haunting spirits had gone, dried up. Even the bee forest had disappeared. From the last house in the village, the open steppe of south Russia extended to the horizon, and the only way that the place might have been identified from ancient times was by the tiny mound of an ancient kurgan kurgan that appeared upon the steppe in the middle distance. that appeared upon the steppe in the middle distance.

Rosa walked until she receded the end of the village, where she stopped to gaze over the steppe. There was a pale sun. High overhead, trailing white clouds coming from the west receded over the endless, browning grassland towards a violet horizon.

She had been standing there for some time when the cart came in sight. It was a stout affair, containing two people: a huge, thickset man with big black moustaches, who was driving; and a slim, handsome boy, also dark-haired and just a year older than Rosa. These were Taras Karpenko, a Cossack farmer, and his youngest son, Ivan.

Seeing them, Rosa smiled. For as long as she could remember, she had played Cossacks and Robbers with the Karpenko boys and the other village children; young Ivan was her special playmate. And ever since, some years before, her father had sold Taras some farm equipment which had proved successful, the burly Cossack had looked upon the family with a kindly eye.

There was also another reason why Rosa's father had found favour with Taras.

It was strange to think that the heavyset farmer was the nephew of the illustrious poet Karpenko, whose delicate features still looked out from drawings or prints on the walls of several local houses. Taras was enormously proud of this fact, however, and would mention his uncle's name in the same breath, and with the same reverence, as that of the most famous of all Ukrainian poets, the great Shevchenko. When he discovered, therefore, that Rosa's father not only possessed a copy of Karpenko's verses, but genuinely loved them and knew many by heart, he had clapped him on the back and always thereafter, if anyone mentioned Rosa's family, he would announce: 'Not a bad fellow, that.' Which stood them in good stead in the village and often caused Rosa's mother to remark: 'Your father is very wise.'

He was indeed wise and very unusual since this knowledge which formed a bond between him and the Cossack was becoming increasingly rare.

For the rule of the Tsars in the Ukraine, with each decade that passed, had become even more heavy-handed. The Tsars liked uniformity. True, in their huge empire it could not always be achieved. In Poland and the westernmost parts of the Ukraine, they had to put up with the Catholics; as the empire continued to expand eastwards into Asia, they had to tolerate increasing numbers of Moslems. But insofar as possible, everything should be Russified: autocracy, orthodoxy, nationality those were the things. In 1863 therefore, with that genius for official blindness in which it specialized, the Russian government announced that the Ukrainian language, which was spoken by much of the southern population, did not exist! In the years following, Ukrainian language books, newspaper, theatres, schools and even Ukrainian music were banned. The works of Shevchenko, Karpenko and other Ukrainian national heroes passed out of sight. Intellectuals spoke and wrote in Russian. As for the people, while in the north education was spreading, in the south it declined; and by the late-nineteenth century, eighty per cent of Ukrainians were illiterate. The Tsars were pleased: the Ukraine was not disturbed by discordant voices. No wonder then if the proud Cossack Karpenko would occasionally remark to Rosa's father: 'Well, my friend, at least you and I seem to know what's what.'

As the two Cossacks drove by, therefore, they acknowledged her in a friendly manner: young Ivan with a happy grin and his father with a smile and a nod; and seeing this, Rosa felt a sense of reassurance.

They will not come here. There was nothing to be afraid of, she reminded herself.

For Rosa Abramovich was Jewish.

Until a century before when Catherine the Great took most of Poland, there had been hardly any Jews in the empire of Russia. By adding these western lands, however, Russia gained a large Jewish community.

Where did they come from? The history of the Diaspora is confused and often obscure, but the Jews of Russia derived from Germany, the Mediterranean and Black Sea ports; and also, it can hardly be doubted, from the remnants of the Turkish Khazar community that had spread into many parts of south-east Europe. Of their racial origins therefore, it is hard to say anything except that they were mixed.

But they believed in the one God of Israel.

What should be done with them? Some thought the Jews devious, like the Catholics; others called them obstinate, like the Old Believers. But two things were certain: they were not Slavs and they were not Christians, and therefore they were suspect. Like every other nonconformist element in the Tsar's empire, they must first be contained, then Russified. And so it was, in 1833, that the Tsar decreed that henceforth the Jews must be confined within a particular area: the Jewish Pale of Settlement.

In fact, the famous Jewish Pale was not the ghetto it sounded like. It was a vast territory comprising Poland, Lithuania, the western provinces known as White Russia, and much of the Ukraine, including all the Black Sea ports in other words, the lands where the Jews already resided, and some more besides. The purpose of the Pale was, mainly, to limit the immigration of Jews into traditional, Orthodox north Russia, although even in this respect it was often only loosely enforced, and there were sizeable Jewish groups in both Moscow and St Petersburg.

The Jews lived mostly in towns or in their own villages the traditional, tightly knit shtetl shtetl communities. They usually spoke Yiddish amongst themselves. Some were craftsmen or traders; many were poor, and partly supported by their fellows. But there were also those who, like Rosa's grandfather, went to live in ordinary country villages to farm the land. communities. They usually spoke Yiddish amongst themselves. Some were craftsmen or traders; many were poor, and partly supported by their fellows. But there were also those who, like Rosa's grandfather, went to live in ordinary country villages to farm the land.

But still they were not conformist: something had to be done about that. And the solution of successive tsarist governments was always the same: 'Let them convert.'

It was a steady pressure that the regime applied, over decades. Jews paid extra taxes; their own system of community government the kahal kahal was made illegal; their representation in local elections, limited by unfair quotas. More subtly, they were allowed into the school system, then encouraged to convert; less subtly, they were recruited into the army, then beaten if they didn't. Conversion was enough. Though some people might be suspicious of one whose ancestry was Jewish, as far as the state was concerned, once the Jew had converted to Orthodoxy, he was a good Russian. was made illegal; their representation in local elections, limited by unfair quotas. More subtly, they were allowed into the school system, then encouraged to convert; less subtly, they were recruited into the army, then beaten if they didn't. Conversion was enough. Though some people might be suspicious of one whose ancestry was Jewish, as far as the state was concerned, once the Jew had converted to Orthodoxy, he was a good Russian.

This policy met with some success: numbers of Jews did convert. More important, a gradual process of assimilation had begun, for amongst the younger generation there had arisen a liberal movement, the Haskalah Haskalah, which argued that Jews should participate more actively in gentile society. Rosa's eldest brother, who was married and lived in Kiev, had told her all about it. 'If Jews are going to get anywhere in the Russian Empire, then we should go to Russian schools and universities. We have to take part. That doesn't stop us being Jews.' But her father was very suspicious. Though he did not take the view of many strict Jews, who isolated themselves as far as possible from the gentile world, he frowned on the Haskalah Haskalah. 'It's the first step down the slippery slope,' he would say firmly. 'First you put secular learning on an equal footing with religious education. In no time, the world comes first, religion second. Then you forget even your religion. And at last you have nothing.' Rosa knew there was truth in this: she had heard of a number of these liberals turning into little better than atheists. So while Rosa's family kept on good terms with their Ukrainian neighbours, they always observed their religion strictly with the other Jewish families in the area. Both Rosa's brothers received a religious education, the elder reaching the highest rung, the Yeshiva Yeshiva; and her father had even hoped the young man might become a religious teacher.

There was one exception to her father's strict rule, however, for which Rosa thanked God. 'Studying music in Russian schools is different,' he had always said. That did not compromise one's faith. It was the best way for a Jew to advance in Russia.

They will not come here. Why should they? The village was such an out-of-the-way little place. Besides, they had done nothing wrong.

Of course, she knew there had always been bad feeling between her people and the Ukrainians. The Ukrainians remembered the Jews as the agents of the Polish landlords. They also usually lived in towns instead of in the country they were foreign heretics. To the Jews, on the other hand, the Ukrainians were not only gentiles the despised goyim goyim they were also, mostly, illiterate peasants. Yet even so, they might have lived at peace but for one thing: their relative numbers. they were also, mostly, illiterate peasants. Yet even so, they might have lived at peace but for one thing: their relative numbers.

Perhaps it was the Jewish tradition of having large families; perhaps their communal self-help saved children's lives; perhaps their respect for learning led them to pay more scientific attention to hygiene or make more use of doctors: whatever the reason, it was a fact that in the Ukraine in the last sixty years, while the general population had risen by a factor of about two and a half times, the number of Jews had risen by a factor of over eight times. And the cry was beginning to be heard: 'These Jews will take our work and ruin us all.'

It was that year that the trouble had begun. No one could say exactly what started it. 'When people get angry,' her father had told Rosa, 'almost anything can set them off.' But whatever the true causes might be, it was in the year that the Tsar was assassinated that, all over the south, a series of disturbances began which made the world familiar with a grim and ugly word.

The pogrom.

Surely not here though? Not in the quiet village at the border of forest and steppe. With this thought in mind, Rosa turned to go home.

People were moving about in the village as she retraced her steps, but the place was still quiet. A cloudbank had arisen in the west and its shadow was advancing towards her. There was a faint chill now in the breeze.