My name was Natalia back then, Natalia Alianovna Romanova. They always give me a new forename, but the surname seems to stick, or stay to the roots at least. I was Russian too, I'm Canadian now.

I was an orphan and fell into the hands of a generous and caring middle aged gentleman named Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov after being deserted by my birth parents. Ivan worked as a chauffeur for the upper class and was paid handsomely. We lived inside of Stalingrad (now known as Volgograd) on the banks of the Grand River Volga, in a comfortable well-furnished establishment that overlooked the tremendous span of the astounding body of water. The river was a pure shiny blue mirror that spanned as far as the horizon; it looked like a sheet of polished stainless steel that reflected the skyline, with buildings, factory chimneys and antennae that looked like sharp pins piercing the sky protruding above it on the opposite bank.

The city would grow blisteringly hot in the summer, with lengthy raw days, full of light stretching out into the evenings. In the winter it would be plunged into a big freeze and buried beneath a thick blanket of dusty white snow, sitting at hostile kelvin temperatures for many short dark days on end. The climate was stable, but could vary greatly.

I always loved the winter as a child; I loved the way every silhouetted shadowy building's windows brightly burned with light when the early darkness crept into the town like a dense fog. Each window was like a brilliant beacon, a lighthouse to a boat out at sea. Their warm lights shined out in the bleak blackness as vigilantly and as proudly as the powerful ancient stars that deigned the midnight sky overhead.

I used to love how every pathway, road and pavement was coated with a glistening glaze of ice, a thin sheet of irreproachable crystals that sparkled in the daylight and caused the pedestrians and vehicles to stumble and slide on its treacherous surface. You could always tell the tourists from the indigenous folk by how well they coped with the cold.

I once marvelled at how the city looked when it was drowned in snow, deluged in its thick fluffy winter coat of white. Everything would be tainted with its unforgiving touch; nothing could escape its glacial grip, its icy hold extended to every rooftop, every windows frame, and every doorway. Being Russian, we always prepared the roads as a precaution, right from the tail end of autumn. The roads were always functional, and sprinkled with a light dusting of grit, that monstrous beastly trucks would lay down as they chugged down the roads. Everything was showered in snow, and it sparkled under the cold light of the white heatless sun, devoid of radiating heat amidst the earlier season.

For hours on end I would stare catatonically out of my bedroom window, bathed in the warm orange glow of the candle light that sat upon the windowsill, that casted a hazy warm reflection in the frosted flimsy metal crossed window pane. I was completely captivated by the wonderland that the city became, hypnotised by the dainty dance of the snowflakes as they gracefully twirled and effortlessly floated to the ground, becoming one with their brothers and sisters as they reunited as a sea of white.

The skies would be veritably ablaze with the jewels and diamonds that embellished the night sky, but they would unfortunately be barely visible amidst the fluffy weightless veil of the puffy snow clouds that hung, suspended, over Stalingrad.

"Natalia!" Ivan would say, with his hands cynically sat on his hips, "Are you still up?"

To which I would gleefully reply "Yes Ivan, isn't it beautiful?" My voice was still full of passionate and naive childish wonder.

Then he would laugh heartily, not able to find the heart to tell me off for how amazed I was at the natural world, and come and stand next to me and share the splendorous view with me. We would watch for hours until the air was completely dry of snowflakes, and my eyes grew bloodshot, sore and dry from forcing myself to remain awake just so I could watch them glide.

I wanted to be just like the snowflakes: beautiful. Perfect. Pure, untainted. I wanted to be able to move like them, to twirl and dart and twist and spiral. It was a dream I held close to my heart and told no one, except Ivan. I told Ivan everything. Perhaps that was my downfall? If it wasn't for him, selling me down the river, I never would have got caught up in this.

One bleak frosty winter day, when a fog had engulfed Starlingrad, Ivan and I were out, travelling through the mist. The clouds of condensation were so dense that you could see much further than across the street. As you exhaled, every breath was automatically churned into vapour and made visible. We had gone into the town for food, to stock up for the winter in case we got snowed in. And on a street corner, as we negotiated the slippery road to the grocery store, by chance, I spotted a poster.

"Ivan!" I squeaked, from beneath a bundle of curly red locks that the wind had swept into my face. "Look! look! I cried, tugging insistently at his sleeve.

I yanked him across the road to where I had seen the poster. It was a picture of a girl in a flamingo pink tutu, with gorgeous satin ballet slippers, with thick ribbon that wound up her stick thin, pale, hairless legs. She looked stunning. It was similar to the way vines of ivy wrapped themselves around tree trunks. I froze to the spot, as if my feet had been irreversibly welded to the pavement, fused with the stone. I completely unbelieving of what I saw before my young eyes. She was beautiful. I decided there and then I wanted to be her.

"The Bolshoi Russian ballet?" He read off the brightly coloured poster. "Do you want to go and see that 'Talia?"

My heart fluttered and butterflies burned in my belly, excitement making my pulse quicken and setting my face alight with a large grin.

"Yes! Yes! Please, Ivan!"

I ran at him, slinging my arms around his waist and burying my face in his stomach. I cuddled him tight.

"Thank you!" I mumbled into his muffling coat, my words dulled by the muting material.

"You're welcome darling, Natalia. It would make a wonderful christmas present. How about that?"

"Yes, Ivan!"

I finally let go, he patted me sentimentally on the shoulder, and guided me further through the blinding fog to the store.

~

Ivan kept his promise. He was a good man; a man of his word; right until the end.

On Christmas Day, he led me intrepidly through the snow that came up to my knees and off to the theatre.

He dragged me into the grand building by the hand and I remember vividly being astounded by the remarkable height of the ceiling in the theatre, the glass large domed that was on that particular day, clear. Pure clean white light poured in, illuminating the vast guilt room.

Ivan lead me through the lobby, and into the the theatre. He already had the tickets in his pocket. He produced them to gain entry and then we wandered into the seating area. We sat right at the front, we had the best view. It was a bit of a strain on my young neck, looking up at such a sharp angle, my nape and shoulders ached and throbbed after the show, rest assured.

"We have the best seats in the house. We're as close to the dancers as we can possibly get!"

Ivan helped me remove my coat, I managed to shimmy it off of my shoulders and then peeled my gloves off of my hands, freeing each individual finger and then the entire hand of the accessory.

"It's excellent, Ivan!" I shrieked.

I clambered adventurously into the chair; shifting on my legs until I was comfortable and settled down.

"Thank you. This is perfect, everything is perfect."

I tugged off my long pink scarf, tearing it from my neck and stuffing it in Ivan's hands as he sat next to me.

I sat impatiently for five minutes, shuffling and shifting in the seat that was way too big for me, whilst the theatre packed out with even more people until it was full to the brim. I was shoved shoulder-to-shoulder with complete strangers, jostled about uncomfortably by the brutish audience. I was the youngest there for sure.

The audience was diverse, people of all walks of life, social status, ethnic variety and wealth; all come together to witness a truly astounding show of talent.

Then slowly, the lights dimmed, the room also fell silent. I slipped my hand into Ivan's and the show began.

The heavy red curtains were raised, floating mysteriously, and lifting to reveal a squad of elegantly poised dancers, young girls, with makeup caked on, and tight tutus. They were all in pink, tangled in ribbons and bows, with the very same ribbons winding up their legs. Some of the girls were probably my age, the younger ones, but the oldest looked in her mid-twenties.

And then, the music began.

The dancers were raised to life as the tune was belted out by the ensemble sat on the corner of the stage. They began their weightless dance, spinning on the tips of their toes, twirling on their feet, rising and falling in a rotation around one another. They were just like the snowflakes, in the way they spun so effortless, the way they floated and danced.

They would leap and bounce until the tune ended, they would extend their limbs so gracefully, reaching out and spinning.

I was mesmerised, my young eyes fixated upon the amazing performance that was being played out before my eyes. It was a sight to behold.

And after two hours of intriguing, inspiring and incredible dancing, the show ended and the curtain fell.

"Did you enjoy that Natalia?

I was speechless, and nodded wordlessly." That was incredible."

"I have an extra surprise for you. Come along."