Dream Land by Lily Hyde Page B

go…”
    “You’re unbelievable. You’d let Russian kids beat you up, slag you off for being a Tatar. They stole our land from us and you’d let them treat you like that.”
    “They don’t all treat me like that. Lena—”
    “That patronizing cow?”
    “She’s not patronizing! Lutfi!” Safi could see that he was going to tell Papa, even though she couldn’t believe it. And if that happened, the growing tension between their parents would blow up in yet another argument. Papa was already unhappy with Mama for insisting on the school; he thought she wasn’t trying hard enough to build their home at Mangup-Kalye. Safi hated them quarrelling.
    She looked at the fierce, angry light she’d never seen before in Lutfi’s eyes. She and her brother had always been best friends. He’d told her his secrets, and she’d kept every one of them. “Lutfi. If you tell Papa about today, I’ll tell about you and Larissa.”
    Lutfi’s face went shocked. Then he turned his back on her. Safi couldn’t catch up with him again all the way to the valley; but anyway, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

12

CRIMEAN SALT
    “…S o here I am all on my own, one woman living with twenty-six men, and I didn’t even know half of them beforehand! Oh, of course people are talking. The men are nothing but kind and respectful to me, though.”
    “But they don’t know about Andrei.”
    “No, not yet…”
    There was someone in the house with Mama, huddled by the stove warming her hands in the dim light of the paraffin lamp. She turned round as Safi dropped her school bag in the corner, holding out her arms with a big smile.
    “Safi,
balam
! How’s my favourite girl?”
    “Zarema
Tata
?”
    Safi returned the hug, astonished and delighted.
    “The very same. Oh, I’ve missed you.”
    “I’ve missed you too.”
    Zarema had changed amazingly. Instead of the pretty, plump figure Safi remembered in its flowered frock, she was thin and gaunt, dressed like Mama in old trousers and coat. Her smooth, creamy coffee-coloured face was all hollows and cheekbones.
    Zarema saw Safi’s startled gaze and laughed wryly. “I know, you’d hardly recognize me, would you? I always did think I was a bit too fat; at least I can’t complain about that any more.”
    It was wonderful to see her. Zarema and her husband, Remzi, had been close family friends in Samarkand. Zarema was several years younger than Mama, and to Safi she’d felt almost like a big sister. When she got married she’d had a proper, huge Crimean Tatar wedding, with a feast of whole roast sheep stuffed with rice and nuts, piles of
lyepushki
nearly reaching the roof, and dancing till dawn. Then two years ago she and Remzi had left with their baby, Ismet, for Crimea. Safi and Mama and a whole crowd of Tatar activists had waved them off at the station with promises to write and phone and meet again in the homeland before too long.
    “We said the next time we’d see each other would be here in Crimea, didn’t we?” Zarema seemed to read Safi’s thoughts. “I didn’t expect it to be quite like this, though, did you? I never thought I’d be all alone with Ismet, no house, no husband.” Zarema’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.
    Mama glanced at Safi. It was the look that said,
Go into the other room; we’ve things to discuss
. Safi, bursting with questions, looked back crossly. Where was she supposed to go? The other rooms were dark and cold and full of building materials, while outside it was mistily damp.
    After a moment, Mama sighed and patted the stool beside her. She rubbed Safi’s cheek briefly when she sat down, before turning again to the Primus stove. It gave a pop and a blue flame shot up before vanishing with a hideous stink of paraffin. “Oh, curse the thing!” Mama exclaimed.
    “Never mind, the water’s hot enough.”
    “I’m sorry; there’s no coffee, and we’ve run out of sugar,” Mama said apologetically.
    “And I’ve turned up empty-handed – what