It was Easter, and another bitterly cold day in St. Petersburg. Dasha got dressed as quickly as she could in the clothes she had warmed overnight on the radiator; socks, jeans, woollen jumper, scarf and then coat.

“I’m ready Papa,” she called. “Look. Less than two minutes.” She tapped the face of her Mickey Mouse wristwatch and did a playful, but very expert pirouette.

“Your head will be spinning for sure in this cold if you don’t wear your hat.”

“I have it here, Papa,” she said, extracting the woollen hat from her muffs as if performing magic.

“Good,” he said, “Now we can go.”

They were pulling on their boots at the door of the apartment, when Dasha knowingly reminded her father. “Papa, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Forgetting?”

“The eggs Papa.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, “I’m forgetting the eggs.”

He threw off his boots and went over to a bureau in the corner of the main room, took out a small box, and checked the contents.

“The eggs,” he said, holding up the box, “I have them here.”

“Good,” Dasha said, “now we can go”.

He padded over the parquet floor in his stocking feet, the loose wooden blocks chinking underfoot like a xylophone, and pulled on his boots again.

"I must get that floor fixed," he said.

"First you must sell the eggs, Papa."

They stepped out into the crisp morning snow and crossed the bleak communal square where comrade Stalin looked down with grim foreboding. Dasha looked up at the cold, stern face set in concrete, and suddenly began to smile.

“Look Papa! – His face,” she said gleefully. Dasha was pointing to the long icicles that had set on either side of Stalin’s mouth to form a perfect Mandarin moustache. “He looks just like the ghost of Genghis Khan,” she said.

Dimitri was horrified. He could remember a time, not so long ago, when such talk was considered subversive to the State.

“Shush”,he said, “Dasha, please, you mustn’t talk like that. How many times do I have to tell you?” he implored.

“Yes Papa, I know what you're going to say,” she said, “”In Russia the walls have ears.”” But they don’t really, and anyway, it’s not a wall – it’s a statue.”

“You’re so sharp my girl,” he said, “ they’ll have you to cut the ice on the Neva if you’re not careful.” -Then a thought struck him. - “How do you know about Genghis Khan?” he said.

“It was in one of your books Papa,” she said, “there was a very beautiful picture of a horse, with him on it, and it said that he ruled in a land all the way from Russia to China. Which I suppose must be a long way. And his moustache looked exactly like Stalin’s - with the icicles on.”

He put his arm around her shoulder as they trudged through the snow. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think you know more than all the young girls in St. Petersburg put together. But I do wish you would practice your English more. That is a very important thing.”

“Oh I don’t know,” she said insouciantly.

“What do you mean, “”Oh I don’t know””, he said. “Now you sound just like some silly country girl with no education.” “”Oh I don’t know!"“, he said, mimicking her childishness.

They entered the Metro station on St. Peter’s Island, kicking the snow from their boots and arguing playfully.

“Capital of Uzbekistan,” he said.

“Tashkent,” she said.

“Capital of Belarus,” he said.

“Minsk,” she said, “Papa, this is too easy.”

“Capital of Armenia,” he said.

She was silent. “Ha ha,” he said triumphantly, “I have you now. And your grandfather from Armenia. What would he think if he could see his granddaughter right now?” The train arrived for town pushing a wall of hot air up the tunnel before it, and they squashed into one of its packed carriages, thankful to be joining the heat of a crowd.

When they emerged on the Nevsky Prospekt, they were pleased to see that the snow had all but disappeared. There was brilliant sunshine and a cobalt blue sky. Underneath the busy thoroughfare the narrow canals were still frozen, and here and there, local people could be seen taking a precarious shortcut across the ice. Outside the Grand Hotel Europa, a group of tourists had gathered to watch, and looked on with incredulity.

“Look at those dangerous fools,” Dimitri said. “Crossing over on ice as thin as that. That’s why they call us crazy Russians you see.”

But his words were lost on European ears, and he seemed only to add to the unfolding spectacle.

Dasha gripped his hand. “You have your business to attend to Papa. And there’s not much time. Babanov will expect you to be punctual. Let them be crazy fools if they want.”

She led the way across the broad prospekt to where the most exclusive jewellers in all of Russia stood. Andrey Babanov’s was guarded by two surly-faced young men in blazer jackets. As Dimitri approached through the crowds of tourists, he did not look wealthy enough to have any business in such a distinguished store as Babanov’s, and in the end, only his appointment papers would satisfy the hard-eyed boys on the door.

“I won’t be long,” he said. “Give me an hour or so. And practice your English. Look; the English, the Americans.” (He could discern them from their dress and not their accents) “They like to talk. Talk to them. Give me an hour,” he said, and went inside.

Dasha watched him go, and then turned her attention to the fabulous objects in the window. Babanov had built his reputation by setting the highest standards in craftsmanship, producing fine ornamental jewellery in the style of Faberge – a style also reflected in the prices – which Dasha had heard English voices describe as “telephone numbers” although she didn’t understand. To her, the ubiquitous dollar sign was just like a snake on a ladder – just like the picture on the box of her game at home.

She was staring through the window into the brilliant array of colours. There were jewelled flower baskets, chalices, miniature animals, and sea anemones in pale-blue crystal spheres. But most of all, there were eggs. Eggs of all description: turquoise blue with golden speckles. Ruby-studded mother-of-pearl. There were eggs with clock faces and tiny cuckoos perched on top ready to sing the hour. Another egg lay open to reveal a tiny ballerina in a tutu of gold flake, turning and turning, mechanically, without expression, without life. She let the burning colours merge before her eyes, like staring into the embers of a campfire, and she tried to imagine herself as the ballerina in the egg, with all the fiery stars of the universe spinning around her head.

A voice from behind her said in English, “She looks so sad.” Dasha turned and almost said, “No I’m not”, before she realised that the two old ladies standing behind her, were looking straight past her, into the window, at the figure of her dreams.

“She sure is beautiful,” the other one said. “But look at this one here. Is that the most amazing thing you ever did see? A church inside the egg.”

They were looking at an egg that was quite exquisite in all ways, and Dasha, because she knew that it was one of her father’s eggs, was filled with pride.

The two ladies leaned forward to look more closely at the detail of the church inside the egg, and one of them said, “Just look at that stained glass. And just look at those onion domes; they must be in amber at least.”

“Amber at least,” said the other.

“And just look at that price. That’s what you pay for amber these days,” she said.

Dasha could contain herself no longer. “They are yellow sapphires,” she said, “from the Ural Mountains.”

“Well I never,” the one said to the other, “there you go Sally-Lou, I guess that just about explains the ten thousand bucks.”

Dasha instinctively liked them, they both had kind faces, and a readiness to smile at almost anything, as if their happiness came in a box.

“What’s your name little girl, and how old are you?”

“My name is Dasha, and I am eleven years old. What is your name, and how old are you?”

There was an impromptu innocence in her reply that made the Americans feel suddenly ashamed. As if by chance they had been caught in the act of conspiring to patronise, and were very much guilty.

“Well, Dasha,” the tall one said, determined to make amends “this is my name right here; but you know girlie, we ladies like to keep our age a little secret.”

She leant forward and held up the plastic card hanging around her neck for Dasha to read. There was a photograph and a name. Dasha looked carefully at the card, and then said with confidence, “You are Saint Paul Minnesota.”

“Hell no, girlie,” the American said, “that’s where I’m from. Saint Paul is like Saint Petersburg. You see? This here’s the name.”

Dasha, unperturbed, looked again. “Sally-Lou Deckard,” she said, “I am very sorry.”

“No need to be girlie, it’s just a silly old name anyway – but tell me, how do you know about the yellow sapphires?”

“Because my father made the egg,” she said, “I watched him.”

“And this church in the egg; is it a real church, Dasha?”

“You bet,” she said, proud to know the vernacular, “it’s the Church of the Saviour on the Spilt Blood.”

The Americans thought for a moment, and then the tall one said, “Is it far from here? Could we see it today?”

“It is not far,” Dasha said, “across the prospekt and up the canal. Yes, you could see it today. I could show you.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s this way if you want to go now. We can cross here. But be careful of the trams. They stop for nothing.”

They crossed over to the Grand Hotel Europa, avoiding the flooded potholes in the road as best they could, as if walking on stepping- stones. On the other side, beggars stood in line along the length of the narrow canal bridge, making whispered supplications and gesticulating the sign of the cross. And at the far end of the bridge, in a small paved area set back from the crowd, a group of street artists stood around a brazier warming their outstretched hands in the flames. One of them broke free of the circle, and by means of a sweeping, chivalrous bow, he offered his services.

“A portrait of the beautiful lady,” he said. “In twenty minutes I can do. I can do for twenty dollars.”

“No thanks,” Sally-Lou said. She was repelled by the smell of strong drink on his breath.

“Perhaps the beautiful young girl,” he said. Then, taking in the clothes, the deportment, and the lines of her young, but inscrutable face, he realised with some annoyance the extent of his mistake.

“Ah. Ruski,” he said, almost accusingly, and with a spiteful look, returned to the warmth of the fire. Once past the paved area, they turned left, and then, the church in all its glory came into view.

The Americans stood for a moment, absorbed by the sheer beauty of the structure and the dazzling sunlight on the golden domes. They walked towards the church in the silence of their own thoughts. Then, the one called Sally-Lou said, “My word; it’s like a dream. It’s like the egg in that window just hatched, and the church came out right here.” She smiled inwardly; at what she thought must be a revelation.

“Just like a dream,” the other one echoed. Then in a voice full of emptiness she said, “Do you have dreams, Dasha?” Dasha looked at her and said nothing.

“Of course she has dreams,” Sally-Lou said, “what kind a’fool question is that?”

“Yes,” Dasha said quietly, “I do.”

“Told you so.” Sally-Lou said, “Just like the rest of us Dasha, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, that is so,” Dasha said, “but mostly I would dream to dance.”

“To dance?”

“Yes”, she said, “at the Maryinsky.”

“You would dream to be a ballet dancer?”

“Yes,” Dasha said.

“Just like the one in the egg,” Sally-Lou said.

Dasha blushed at the thought of someone knowing her thoughts, and for a moment, she could do no more than stare down at the ground, childishly, unable to look the American in the eye.

“It’s a beautiful, beautiful dream, Dasha,” she said, “just like this beautiful church. Would you walk with us? Would you come inside with us?”

“My grandfather’s people closed it,” she said, “they were communists. Now it is very pretty again. My father says it will fly some day, like a bird from an egg. One day, he told me, they will say prayers in the church, and the prayers will fly up like a bird.”

She looked at her watch. “I must go, “ she said, “my father will be waiting.”

The tall one opened her purse and took out a coin. “Take this, please Dasha, it’s just a small gift.”

“No, I mustn’t,” she said.

“You could make a wish,” Sally-Lou said. “Remember your dream?”

“I can throw the coin in the river,” Dasha said, “ to make a dream.”

“To make a wish, yes. Yes, to make a dream.”

She took the coin and said “spaceba” – thank you – then placed it safely in the warmth of a mitten.

“Das vedanya,” the American said, and Dasha smiled at the strangeness of the Russian words.

“Goodbye,” she said, “and thank you.”

She turned and walked back towards the canal bridge, and then broke into a carefree hop and skip. She stopped; looked back, and from the doors of the church, the Americans gave an immediate and synchronised wave, turned away, and were gone.

There was a feeling of happiness and gladness in her heart, as if someone or something had determined her future, once and for all. To think of dreams was one thing, but to talk of dreams…perhaps some day to even live the dream. She thought of her own words spoken in English to the two strangers - “I would dream to dance” -and how she had never before uttered those same words in Russian to anyone. How could she talk of such things as dreams to her Mama, who was working seven days of the week in a factory to make ends meet? And how could she talk to her father, who was a dreamer himself, and had very little to show for it? Her own dreams seemed unimportant and trivial compared to their struggle. They would be angry, and rightly so, if they knew about her dreams. She resented Babanov and the way he treated her father, and she resented the factory that made her mother too tired to talk. If she became a great ballerina, she would buy Babanov’s, and make her father the boss. And she would take her mother to see the Black Sea, and she would get the floor fixed at home. Yes, that’s what she would do.

There were tears in her eyes as she crossed the canal bridge, and she suddenly became self-conscious of her own self-pity. What would her grandfather have made of this? He had been a revolutionary; a brave and courageous man, and had even changed the name of this city. She felt sure that if he were alive today, he would say to her, “Dasha-be a dancer,” and that would be that. The thought of his imagined words filled her heart with hope. She wiped away a tear from her cheek, and took a short sniff of the bitter cold air. Then she spoke to herself as if at prayer; “I will,” she said, “ Please, if you can hear me, I will.”

*             *             *

Dimitri stood outside of Babanov's on the other side of the prospekt, and Dasha could see that he still had the plain cardboard box tucked under his arm. The Easter eggs had either been rejected, or Babanov, as always, was demanding that improvements be made. Her Papa was always philosophical about Babanov, and understood his obsessive drive towards perfection - to be the best. And her Papa would always make the usual excuses on his behalf. Babanov was never to blame - he only wanted to be better than Peter Carl Faberge - and that was a truly wonderful thing; something that the people of St. Petersburg should be proud of.

She crossed the prospekt to where her Papa stood alone. It was always difficult to imagine what he was feeling inside, but Dasha knew how much his work meant to him, and how important it was for him to get things just right. That was why he never got angry with Babanov. It was the only reason that made any sense to her. It seemed strange that he could become quite upset by trivial things – like those stupid fools on the ice – and yet here he was again, standing outside in the cold, hurt and rejected, and she knew before he spoke that his words would be kind, tolerant, and even peaceful.

“My beautiful girl,” he said, “where have you been? I’ve been waiting for a lifetime. Is this a tear?” he said, touching her gently beneath one eye.

“No Papa, it’s just the cold,” she said. “I was a long time near the canal. I took Americans to the church.”

“Americans?”

“Yes. Two ladies.”

“Good,” he said. “And did you practice your American?

“Papa,” she said, “I spoke English.”

“Good, good,” he said, “my daughter practices her English. This is good.”

She reached into her mitten and pulled out the coin. “They gave me this,” she said, “to make a wish.”

“A coin?” he said. “Can I see it?”

She handed him the coin. “It’s a golden dollar,” she said, “and they said I could make a wish.”

He held it in his hand and looked at it closely. “I certainly wish it was a gold dollar,” he said, “but I’m afraid Dasha, all that glitters is not gold.” He bit hard on the gold coloured coin, looked closely at it again, and then handed it back to her. “You see? It’s just as I would expect. There are no marks.”

“What does it mean, Papa?” she asked.

“It means you can throw your coin in the river and make your wish.”

“Good,” she said, “ then I shall.”

They set off up the prospekt walking hand in hand towards home. It was their custom to return this way, slowly, no matter what the weather, talking about this and that and looking at things of interest on the way before they met Mama at the factory. But on this occasion, Dasha was aware once more of an unusual silence. Perhaps she was beginning to feel his innermost feelings for the very first time. Unselfishness was a sign of maturity and growing up, and if her own feelings were anything to go by, she now felt that she was sharing in one of his deepest disappointments. She had seen him like this only once or twice before, and she wanted desperately to talk about the Easter eggs. She wanted to tell him how much the Americans had admired his work, but most of all, she wanted to tell him in their exact words – Is that the most amazing thing you ever did see? And yet, to look at him now was like looking once again at the ballerina in the window, mechanical and lifeless, turning in a silent world of his own, and she wished she could somehow reach through the panes of silence that seemed to slip between them, and once again, touch him.

They were standing on Palace Bridge above the ice flow. Here, for centuries, the water had tumbled down from the great lake, oblivious of both man and Tsar alike. This was nature’s own cycle, under the hand of God’s will; this was creation. The thought made Dimitri shiver, as though someone had taken a futuristic step across his grave.  He turned, and looked downriver towards the Gulf of Finland, to where the ice was breaking up and moving out to sea. Far away in the distance, beyond the breakwater, the icebergs sat still in the pale-blue water, basking like solitary white birds.

“There goes our stream of pearls,” he said. Dasha nodded her understanding. “And very soon they will be water. And soon after that, they will be clouds, and soon after that….”

“They will be rain,” she said.

“Yes; they will be rain. Water to water, tiny drops of creation, forever more coming back to us.”

She looked at the box under his arm, trying to imagine his sense of failure. The Easter eggs were a creation of his, and they were every bit as beautiful as those blocks of ice. If only she had the strength to say it. She looked at him as he looked out across the water, and she decided that now was the time to be brave. Now was the time to say something. But just as she was about to speak, he turned, and handed her the cardboard box. Then he put both his hands on her shoulders.

“I have a confession,” he said, pulling away his hands and reaching inside his coat. “A letter for you, addressed in the care of me.”

“A letter?”

“An invitation,” he said, and proceeded to read.

“12^th April 2001. Rossiysky Prospekt, St Petersburg etc etc. We are pleased to inform you that, following the final auditions, the committee of adjudicators hereby make formal petition through you as parent, that Stepanova Darjya avail herself for the purpose of rehearsal for the forthcoming production of “The Little Humpbacked Horse”, and thereafter, entry on probation, and upon rendition of fees for the set period, to the Vaganova  Academy of Ballet.”

“Well,” he said, “I can just see it. My little humpbacked horse. How very charming it is. But look – why do I not see a smile? Do you not like the idea of dancing….what are they? - ” He was so excited, he couldn’t think of the words.

“Animated frescoes, Papa,” she said, “a female quartet.”

“Exactly; that’s what I’m trying to say, animated frescoes.”

She raised the box she was holding as if to resist the happiness.

“Oh I see,” he said, ” you think your old Papa can’t sell a few eggs, do you? Well, perhaps you should open the box. Go ahead and open it.”

She opened the box, and to her astonishment, there were two new ballet shoes.

“A present from Mr Andrey Babanov,” he said, “who tells me that if my daughter can dance as well as I can manufacture eggs, then the whole of St. Petersburg will soon have another daughter to be proud of. And that is a very important thing.”

“It’s like a dream Papa,” she said, “but it’s like the dream is real.”

“Dreams are real, Dasha,” he said, “When real people dream them.”

“People like you,” she said.

He smiled. “No,” he said, “ not like me at all. More like your Mama. Working in the factory, hoping and praying that we come through against all odds. It takes strong people to have the strength to dream, and I think your Mama has strength for all of us.”

She held the box close to her chest and remembered the coin in her mitten. She took it out from the warmth of her hand and felt its smooth heat against her lips, and then she said to him, “There’s no need for this now, is there?”

“There never really was,” he said. “But you could throw it now all the same, just for fun.”

She looked carefully at the coin. There was an eagle soaring with outstretched wings and surrounded by stars, and on the other side, a young woman was looking back over her shoulder and carrying a tiny baby. She read the words on the coin.

“In God we trust,” she said, and threw the coin into the icy water below.

He held out his hand to her, and she took hold of it once again. The factory wasn’t far away, and there would be Mama. Waiting.