Disclaimer: The Man from U.N.C.L.E and characters are the property of MGM. This fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit will be made from it. Thanks to Fiction2 for being my beta.
I know that Illya's second name causes some controversy. Please rest assured that I believe that by Season 1 Episode 1 his name is 'Nicovech', but I do not think it would have started out like that. Hence, I have used 'Nicolayevich' here.
"Papa?"
The child's father turned his head. His son was in the doorway of the kitchen they shared with the other families on the third floor.
"What are you doing out of bed?" the man asked.
"I've lost my truck," the boy replied.
"Where did you last have it?"
"In bed. I think Sonya took it."
"Why would Sonya...?"
"She's so annoying!"
"Illyusha, come here." The man beckoned and the child approached him. "Firstly, she's your little sister; of course she's annoying, you'll get used to it. Secondly, you're supposed to be in bed."
"I'm tired of bed, I've been in bed for weeks."
"It's been three days."
However Illya was not to be deflected from his concern for his truck, he turned to the old man sitting at the table.
"Have you seen it?" he asked.
Anton smiled at the eager young boy. Living just across the corridor from the Kuryakins he was used to being asked this kind of thing. "I'm afraid not, Illyusha," he replied.
"Can I ask the Lychenkos if they have it?" Illya asked his father.
Nicolai felt his son's forehead and sighed quietly.
"I'll ask them," he replied. "You don't want to be giving them your germs now do you?"
"I wouldn't be a minute," Illya argued.
"Bed!" Nicolai commanded.
It looked for a moment as if the child was going to continue to protest.
"You should do as your father says Illyusha," Anton suggested.
Illya hesitated, suddenly looking a little ashamed of himself, then he left quietly.
"Chess?" Anton asked after the boy had disappeared back into the Kuryakin's room.
"Why not?" Nicolai replied as the other man got out the board. "I'd better check on him in a few minutes though, he's liable to be tearing the place apart in there looking for that truck of his."
The old man chuckled as he set out the pieces.
Having returned to his family's room the last thing on Illya's mind was bed. For the second time that evening he started searching, more carefully this time. He looked around the fold up beds first but, finding nothing, he moved on to his parents' bed and then the sofa and under its cushions. Next he switched his attention to the chest of drawers, then behind it, and finally underneath.
Illya paused. Taped to the underside of the chest of drawers were several colourful pieces of cardboard. On the only one he could see clearly there was a stylised drawing of a woman with the words 'Jolly Fellows' written underneath. Fascinated, Illya carefully peeled away the tape and, clutching the collection, sat down on the floor. He laid them out in front of him, looking intently at each one as he did so. A variety of pictures and photographs presented themselves, mostly of men; one was playing a piano, another held a clarinet. He chose the most brightly coloured one and was just starting to pull the contents out of the cardboard envelope when his father walked in. The moment Illya saw Nicolai Kuryakin's face he knew he had done something wrong.
"Hey!" his father snapped. "Put that down!"
The boy obeyed and scuttled backwards against the skirting board.
"What are you doing with these?"
As Nicolai spoke he carefully inspected the gleaming vinyl. After a moment he looked at his son, who was regarding him with that look he wore when he knew he was in big trouble. It had its usual effect; that of making Nicolai feel unreasonably guilty.
"I'm sorry, Illyusha. I didn't mean to shout. I just thought you might have scratched it. You didn't take the other records out?"
Illya shook his head furiously.
"Or drop them?"
"No, I just saw them and wondered what they were. I was careful...I promise," the child added emphatically.
"Good," his father replied as he gathered them up.
"Why were they taped under the chest of drawers?" Illya asked.
'Well that question was inevitable,' Nicolai thought.
"Because your mother doesn't approve. Or, more accurately, her mother doesn't approve."
"Why? Are they banned?"
"No. No, they're not banned. The Party approves, it's just some people who think they're 'uncultured' apparently."
"Oh."
"When your grandmother stayed with us she told me to get rid of them. And she thought I had, but I'd rescued them from the bin and put them under there. You remember when she lived with us don't you?"
Illya thought for a moment.
"I think so, a little."
"Well I certainly do," his father continued ruefully. "Still, you were only four when she left, and she liked you."
"Oh yes, I remember now. She lived with us after Grandfather died."
"Yes, that's right."
"I like Grandma."
"Yes, so do I," Nicolai replied. "In moderation," he added, under his breath.
"Do you listen to them?" Illya asked, gesturing towards the records.
"No, I haven't since then. I was worried your mother would find out and I...well I'd told her I'd thrown them away."
"Oh."
"Which means this is our little secret, all right?"
Illya thought that through for a moment, then nodded his head earnestly.
"Can we listen to them now?" he asked.
"No."
"Please."
"The neighbours don't like them and the walls are like paper."
"Very quietly?"
"No."
"But I really, really want to listen to them."
"Illyu...""
"Please, please, please, please..."
"Illya Nicolayevich!" his father cut in harshly. "What have I told you about that?"
The boy looked at the floor for a moment before mumbling,
"Sorry."
Unfortunately for Nicolai, his son was not the only person in the room who 'really, really' wanted to listen to the records. It had been almost five years since he'd hidden them. It was hard to believe how time had flown; he'd almost forgotten they were there. He was fairly certain he was going to cave in and the mixture of disappointment and pleading on Illya's face wasn't helping.
"Just one?" Illya asked quietly.
It was uncanny how his son seemed to be able to read Nicolai's mind.
"All right, just one song."
"Oh, thank you!" Illya broke into an enormous grin and bounced up and down a couple of times before his father put a hand on his shoulder.
"Look Illyusha, you mustn't tell anybody, you understand?"
"All right," the child replied, still grinning.
"I could get in a lot of trouble."
"Big trouble?" Illya's smile faded a little.
"Big trouble."
"Like Comrade Chernenko?" he whispered. His smile was completely gone now.
"No!" Nicolai replied quickly. "Not like....I just meant with your mother."
There was a moment's silence before Illya spoke again.
"Why did Comrade Chernenko have a flag under his bed?"
"What? Who said that?"
"Some of the boys at school. They said he was a Ukrainian Nationalist."
"Illyusha," Nicolai cut in sharply. "You're not to listen to gossip at school. Do you hear me?"
"Yes Papa," Illya replied a little sulkily.
Illya watched his father as he slipped a record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.
"What's a Ukrainian Nationalist?"
Nicolai Kuryakin sighed slightly. Sometimes it was worrying how inquisitive his son was.
"Someone who would like Ukraine to be a country again."
"Why?"
"Well it was, a long time ago, but since then it's been part of different empires and now it's in the Soviet Union."
"Oh."
Nicolai turned on the record player and waited for the light to come on.
"Is Mama a Ukrainian Nationalist?" Illya asked.
"No," Nicolai replied, a little more harshly than he'd meant to.
"But she's Ukrainian."
"That doesn't mean anything. She works at the Party offices for goodness sake."
"So they won't arrest her?"
"No, of course not." Nicolai replied. "Come here."
He drew his son into a hug.
"You liked Comrade Chernenko, didn't you?" Nicolai asked.
Illya nodded mutely.
"I know he was a good teacher but sometimes nice people have wrong ideas, that's all. But your mother and I don't, so you have nothing to worry about, all right?"
"All right."
"So, do you want to listen to this or not?" Nicolai asked, hastily changing the subject.
Illya looked up, the small smile reappearing on his face.
"Well," his father continued, "we had better be quick because your mother will be back soon."
He turned the volume down as far as it would go and placed the needle on the vinyl. It crackled for a few seconds before bursting into life, albeit very quietly. Illya put his ear up to the speaker, straining to hear, his smile broadening. Suddenly he looked up at his father.
"I remember this. You used to listen to it all the time when I was little."
"Yes, that's right. It's Utyosov. What a great voice! It's from the film 'Jolly Fellows', I saw it three times."
Illya grinned at his father, his head moving to the music.
"It's fantastic! What is it?" he asked.
"Jazz. The finest music in existence."
His son nodded in agreement.
"Can we turn it up?" Illya asked.
His father frowned for a moment before turning the dial a fraction. Suddenly free from having to keep his ear to the speaker Illya began to jump up and down in what his father could only assume was an attempt at dancing. Nicolai couldn't help laughing.
"This is great!" his son enthused. "Much better than Prokofiev."
"Don't let your mother hear you say that, you little heathen!" Nicolai replied jovially.
"But you can't dance to Prokofiev!"
"Really? Try telling that to the Kirov."
But Illya wasn't listening. He had his ear up to the speaker again, engrossed in the music. He couldn't hide his disappointment when the track ended.
"Another?" he asked hopefully.
Nicolai shook his head regretfully.
"They'll be back any minute and you need to be in bed," he explained.
"But..."
"No buts."
Illya seemed to sense he had pushed his luck as far as it would go and reluctantly crawled onto his parents' bed, which he had been occupying since his illness. As he began to pull back the covers he turned, his face stricken.
"What about my truck?"
"It's not my fault if you spent your time rifling through my record collection instead of looking for your truck."
"But what if it's gone forever?"
Nicolai sighed again before replying,
"You get into bed, I'll look for the truck. It's the one Misha made for you, right?"
"Yes, it's red and about this big." Illya held his fingers about a hand's width apart.
"I'll find it. Now, bed."
Illya paused for a moment, possibly considering supplying a more detailed description, before climbing under the blankets. Nicolai gathered up the records and quietly taped them back underneath the chest of drawers. He wondered for a moment if he shouldn't just confess to his wife and have done with it, but a small part of him liked having this little secret with Illya, he was delighted his son had enjoyed the music so much. Maybe they could listen to it again sometime? With that thought in mind he started his search for his son's toy truck; however he had barely begun when he heard Illya yell out.
"What is it now?" Nicolai asked.
"I found it!" Illya said from under the sheets, a moment later he emerged holding up the small red truck.
"It was in the bed. I rolled on top of it." Illya was grinning widely.
"Why didn't you look there in the first place," Nicolai asked, unable to entirely keep the exasperation from his voice.
"I didn't think it would be in the bed."
Nicolai drummed his fingers against the chest of drawers.
"And I found Stas' plane." He held it out to show his father. "Can I have a glass of water?" Illya asked without missing a beat.
"You get into bed properly and I'll bring you some water."
"All right."
Illya began straightening out the blankets and he was all tucked in when Nicolai returned a minute later with the water. The boy was gulping it down when they heard voices coming up the stairs. Tanya, Nicolai's wife, called out to Ekaterina Lychenko across the hall as Stanislav, Illya's elder brother, burst into the room and jumped on the bed.
"Stas, I found your plane!" Illya said excitedly.
"Where was it?"
"In the bed."
Stanislav threw the blankets over his head and crawled underneath.
"I've found something else!" he shouted.
"What is it?" Illya yelled back, throwing the sheets further off the bed.
"Your brain!"
"At least I have one," Illya retorted, jumping on his elder brother.
"Stas! Illyusha!"
Both boys froze at the sound of their mother's voice and looked up to see her standing in the doorway.
"You're supposed to be resting!" She pointed a stern finger at Illya, who beat a hasty retreat across the mattress. "And you Stas, go and get your sisters... Now!"
Stanislav leaped up and ran out of the door.
Tanya felt her son's forehead. "How is he?" she asked Nicolai.
"I'm fine Mama," Illya replied as he attempted to straighten the sheets.
She looked pointedly at her husband.
"He's much better, Tanya," he replied.
"So I see. I'll get some tea on," she said as she gave Illya a quick kiss.
"I'll be there in a minute," Nicolai said as his wife left.
"Try to calm Illyusha down, Nico. Stas has got him over excited," Tanya said over her shoulder. "And help him sort out the bed clothes."
Nicolai turned to Illya and winked.
"Can I go out to the park tomorrow?" the child asked.
"If your temperature stays down."
"If not, can we listen to your records again?"
"I have to work."
"Oh." Illya couldn't hide his disappointment.
"Maybe another time," Nicolai said.
"Only maybe?"
"All right, definitely. But it might not be for a while."
"When you're back from Moscow?"
"Perhaps."
"Why can't I go?"
"Illyusha, we've been through this, you're too young and my mother can barely cope with Stas without throwing you into the mix as well. Maybe next time, when you're a little older, all right?"
Illya pouted, just a little.
"You wouldn't be able to listen to jazz in Moscow," his father added. "Now try to get some rest. I'll bring you some tea in a little while."
"All right," Illya replied, "and thank you Papa."
Nicolai Kuryakin smiled as he headed out of the room.
Illya Kuryakin had been in Cambridge less than two months. It had been one of the most confusing experiences of his life. He had resorted to his usual tactic when faced with difficult times and thrown himself into his work. As a consequence it had been past midnight when he had left the lab and he had, on a whim, chosen a different route home. His journey had come to a sudden halt at the sound of music coming from a basement club across the road.
He had recognized it immediately. The style was different but it was unmistakably jazz. He'd been transported back to the last time he'd listened to it, a long time ago, one evening in early June.
Three weeks later the Germans had invaded, two weeks after that Nicolai had been recalled into the army. Within three months the Nazis had taken Kiev. It was years before Illya returned to the room where his father had introduced him to jazz and almost the first thing he did was to look to see if the records had survived. Their personal belongings were gone but the other occupants had kept the furniture and nobody had ever had reason to search underneath the chest of drawers. Illya had ripped the tape away and shown the discs to his mother.
She had smiled quietly and said 'I wondered where he'd hidden them'. Then she'd said Illya should put them back, they'd play them when his father came home. Except he never did. There was no official notification and little information was available, so as time wore on the family had been forced to accept that Nicolai was never coming back. By the time Illya had come to terms with that it was too late. In 1946 jazz was banned.
"Illya?"
It took a moment for him to realise someone was talking to him even though he was gradually getting used to the mispronunciation of his name. He looked up to see Tom, a student he recognised from the Physics department, alongside his girlfriend.
"Oh, hello," he managed to reply past the lump that had been in his throat since he'd first heard the sounds from across the street.
"Were you going in?" Tom nodded towards the club.
"Er...yes." Illya got up from a bench he didn't remember sitting on.
"You like jazz?" Tom's girlfriend sounded a little incredulous, Kuryakin couldn't remember her name.
Illya could feel a smile forming on his face.
"I love jazz," he replied as he strode across the street, down the steps and through the nightclub door.
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