This is my place I love to go beyond the reach of daily chores. My special virtual reality deep within the gripping leaves of a must-finish read. Daphne Kalotay's "Russian Winter" tantalises the youthful ballerina, russian major and intrepid explorer in me.
I begin my sisonne pas de bourre fouette rond de jambe en l'air. Tchaikovsky's patriotic tones mellowing those tyrannical Stalin-era wounds. I soar into jete pirouette pas de basque, oblivious of the bruised and battered toes, knees, hips, heart and soul. "Now whenever Nina suffered the pain there, she told herself that it was the knot in her old wool scarf, and that her grandmother's hands had tied it, and then the pain, though no less severe, was at least not a bad one."
Outside winter pours its bleak icy blanket of covering over gossiping party informers, komsomol treachery commandant dehumanising deceiving arrest, pre-judged punishment and consignment to barbaric gulag and certain death. "Frightened feeling - a dark chill that blows through the building and dims the grown-ups faces."
Long after I have exhausted each chapter twice, I toss and turn unable to sleep, still second guessing my first impressions and the author's cunning ploy of historical timeplay. Did the heroine make the right life-shattering assumption? Have we all more to learn from the personal and political manipulation interfering with our own imaginations? Read on for your own detective satisfaction. You will not be disappointed.
