Текст книги "The Bronze Horseman"
Автор книги: Paullina Simons
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 47 страниц)
“Give up and then what?” Alexander exclaimed. “Dasha, the Germans have no use for us. Certainly they will have no use for you.” He paused. “Have you read about what they have done to the Ukrainian countryside?”
“I’m trying not to,” said Dasha.
“But now I have,” said Tatiana quietly.
Alexander continued. “Dimitri for a while there thought it might be a good idea to become a prisoner in a German camp. Until he learned how the Nazis shot the prisoners, looted and burned the villages, slaughtered the cattle, razed the barns, killed all the Jews and then all the women and children, too.”
“Not before they raped all the women,” Tatiana said.
Dasha and Alexander stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Tania,” said Dasha, “pass me the blueberry jam, will you?”
“Yes, and stop reading so much, Tania,” said Alexander quietly. He stared into his teacup.
Spooning some blueberry jam into her mouth, Dasha asked, “Well, if we are blockaded, how is the food going to get into Leningrad?”
Mama said, “We have plenty. We’ve saved quite a lot.”
Dasha stated firmly, “I don’t know, Mama. I think I’m with Dimitri on this. I think we should hand over—”
Looking bleakly at Tatiana, Alexander shook his head. “No,” he said. “Right, Tania? . . . We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end… We shall fight on the seas and the oceans… . In the air, we shall defend our island whatever the cost may be.”
“We shall fight on the beaches,” continued Tatiana bravely, her eyes all over Alexander. “We shall fight in the fields and in the streets… We shall fight in the hills.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “We shall never surrender,” she finished, realizing her hands were trembling. “Churchill.”
Dasha heaved herself up in frustration and said, “Can you just go and make us a little more tea, Churchill?”
Marina came out to the kitchen to help Tatiana clean up and whispered, “Tania, I have never in my life seen anybody more dense and dumb than your sister.”
“Don’t know what you mean,” Tatiana said, pale and still.
A few days later Tatiana and Dasha counted what was left of their provisions, most of which Tatiana had purchased with Alexander’s help on the first day of war.
Their ephemeral first day of war.
That day seemed so far away, as if it belonged in another life, in another time. Two months ago, and yet already so irretrievably in the past.
In the present the Metanovs had forty-three kilo cans of ham. They had nine cans of stewed tomatoes and seven bottles of vodka. Tatiana realized with a shock that they had had eleven bottles of vodka when the Badayev warehouses burned down eight days ago. Papa must be drinking more than they knew, she thought.
They had two kilos of coffee, four kilos of tea, and a ten-kilo bag of sugar divided into thirty plastic sacks. Tatiana also counted fifteen small cans of smoked sardines. They had a four-kilo bag of barley, six kilos of oats, and a ten-kilo bag of flour.
“Seems like plenty, doesn’t it?” said Dasha. “How long can the siege possibly last?”
“According to Alexander, until the end,” said Tatiana.
They had seven boxes of 250 matches each.
Mama said that they also had 900 rubles in cash, enough to buy food on the black market. “Let’s go and buy some, Mama,” said Tatiana. “Right now.”
The sisters went with their mother to a commercial store, which had opened in August in Oktabrski Rayon, near St. Nicholas’s Cathedral. It took them over an hour to walk there, and they stared with disbelief at the prices of the few products on the shelves. There were eggs and cheese and butter and ham and even caviar. But sugar cost seventeen rubles a kilo. Mama laughed, turning toward the door until Tatiana grabbed her arm, and said, “Mama, don’t be cheap. Buy the food.”
“Let go of me, idiot,” said Mama roughly. “What kind of fool do you think I am, buying sugar for seventeen rubles a kilo? Look at the cheese, ten rubles for a hundred grams. Are they joking?” She yelled to the store clerk, “Are you joking? That’s why you don’t have lines in this store, you know, unlike the regular Russian stores! Who will buy the food at these prices?”
The young store clerk smirked and shook his head. “Girls, girls. Buy or leave the store.”
“We’re leaving,” said Mama. “Let’s go.”
Tatiana didn’t move. “Mama, do you remember what Alexander told us?” She took out the rubles she had saved from her job at Kirov and the hospital. There wasn’t much. She received only twenty rubles a week, and ten of it went to her parents. But she had managed to save a hundred rubles, and with that money she bought a five-kilo bag of flour for an outrageous forty rubles (“What do we need more flour for?”), four packets of yeast for ten rubles, a bag of sugar for seventeen, and one kilo of canned ham for thirty. She had three rubles left and asked what she could get. The clerk said a box of matches, 500 grams of tea, or some old bread that she could toast and make into crackers. Tatiana thought carefully and opted for the bread.
She spent the rest of Saturday cutting the bread into small pieces and toasting it in the oven, while Mama and Papa, and even Dasha, laughed at her. “She spent three rubles on stale bread, and now she is toasting it. She thinks we’re going to eat it!” Tatiana ignored them all, thinking only of Alexander’s words in the Voentorg store. Buy the food as if you’re never going to see it again.
That evening Alexander listened to the story and then said, “Irina Fedorovna, you should’ve spent every last kopeck of your nine hundred rubles buying up that stale bread.” He paused. “Just like Tania.”
Thank you, Alexander, thought Tatiana. She was on the other side of the room, and the room was filled with people. She hadn’t touched him in days. She was trying so hard to stay away from him, as he had asked her to.
Mama waved him off. “I was not brought up to spend seventeen rubles on sugar. Right, Georgi?”
Georgi was already asleep on the couch. He’d had too much to drink again.
“Right, Mama?”
Babushka Maya was painting. “I guess, Irina,” she said. “But what if Alexander is the one who is right?”
5
The Germans were virtuously punctual. Every evening at five the air-raid sirens went off and the radio’s metronome pounded at 200 beats a minute.
The frightening monotony of the shells falling on Leningrad was surpassed only by the frightening monotony of the lies Tatiana was living with inside herself, and the unyielding fear for Alexander’s life, and the frustration with Papa, who had so thoroughly left the family that he no longer even knew it was still September. “That’s impossible,” he said one evening as the siren sounded. “They’ve been bombing us for what seems like a thousand days.”
“No, just eleven, Papa,” said Tatiana quietly. “Just eleven.”
Tatiana’s frustration was not just with Papa these days. Mama had withdrawn into her work. Babushka painted as if the war were not going on. Marina was wrapped up in anxiety over her mother—and, besides, Tatiana didn’t want to be talking too much to Marina. And Dasha… well, Dasha was wrapped up in Alexander.
Deda and Babushka were safely in Molotov. She had just received a letter from them. Pasha was gone.
Dimitri was brooding and unhappy, drinking more and more the few times he came over. One evening he had actually pushed Tatiana against the wall near the kitchen window, and if Dasha hadn’t come out, Tatiana didn’t know where that would have led.
Tatiana’s only comfort were her friends on the roof and Alexander.
When she came out onto the roof, little Mariska was hopping around as usual, hoping for more planes, more bombs. The seven-year-old semi-abandoned child ran around happily, waving at the plane formations. “Here, here!” she kept squealing, her curly hair bouncing with her.
Anton stood at the ready with his cement cap on a stick to extinguish the incendiaries. “But, Anton,” Tatiana said, sinking down onto the tar and pulling out a cracker, “what if the bomb falls on your head? You’re holding the cap on your stupid stick, but if the bomb falls on your poor head, what are you going to do then? Why don’t you just put a helmet on your head right now and sit down next to me?”
He wouldn’t, as he continued to talk excitedly about the fragmentation bombs, which could slice you before you even lifted your head to see what was coming. Tatiana could swear Anton wanted to see someone sliced.
Tatiana watched Mariska—her little frame impossibly small—with tired amusement as she chewed her cracker.
Mariska ran up to Tatiana and said, “Hey, Tanechka, what are you chewing?”
“Just a bread cracker,” replied Tatiana, sticking her hand in her pocket. “Want one?”
Mariska nodded fervently and then grabbed the cracker out of Tatiana’s hand, and before Tatiana could say, “Don’t snatch!” the little girl swallowed the thing whole and said, “Got any more?”
Suddenly Tatiana saw something in Mariska she had not seen before. She got up and took Mariska’s hand. “Your mama and papa, where are they?” she asked, walking with the little girl to the stairs.
Shrugging, Mariska said, “Sleeping, I think.”
Anton called after Tatiana, “Don’t, Tania. Leave her be.”
Tatiana took Mariska downstairs to her room. “Mama, Papochka, look, someone here to see you,” the girl said.
Mama and Papochka did not move from the one bed in the room. Both were facedown in the filthy pillows. The room smelled like Tatiana’s communal toilet. “Come upstairs with me, Mariska,” she said. “I’ll find you something to eat.”
The next morning at six-thirty Tatiana, already washed and dressed, stood over her sister’s sleeping body. “Dashenka,” said Tatiana, “may I suggest that you don’t use the eight o’clock air-raid siren as your own personal alarm clock? Get up with me right now and come to the store.”
Dasha barely stirred. “Why, Tania?” she said. “You’re doing so well by yourself.”
“Come on,” Tatiana said, pulling back the covers on Marina and Dasha. “Come and see the early show.”
The girls didn’t move.
“Or,” said Tatiana, covering them back up, “you can just catch the main event promptly at five.”
Dasha’s and Marina’s eyes didn’t open.
“If you miss that, try for the late show,” Tatiana said, leaving the room. “Nine o’clock sharp.”
Maybe Alexander is in Leningrad, Tatiana thought. Maybe he will come by tonight and talk to me as if he is still alive, as if I am still alive. Can’t somebody talk to me? No one feels me near them anymore; they’ve all disappeared inside themselves, as if I’m no longer here. Come by, Alexander, Tatiana thought, as she buttoned her coat and walked briskly down Nekrasova to the ration store. Come by and remind me I am still living.
That evening, between air raids, Alexander did come by, bringing his rations and a very moody Dimitri with him. The room was filled with people, as always. Tatiana went out to the kitchen to make a dinner of beans and rice. Alexander followed her, and her heart beat faster, but then Zhanna Sarkova came into the kitchen, and Petr Petrov, and then Dasha and Marina. And Alexander left the kitchen.
During dinner the entire family was around the table except for Papa, who was intoxicated in the next room. Tatiana could speak to Alexander, but she could not look at Alexander, with all those eyes, all those faces. She looked at her food, or at Mama. She could not look at Dasha, or Marina, or Babushka—who seemed to have a sense about everything.
While talking about how badly prepared the Soviet Army was to defend the Neva from the Germans, Alexander said, “Two days ago my battalion went up the Neva, across from Shlisselburg, to dig some trenches. We got some mortars up, but, you know, nothing was in place. Even the”—he lowered his voice a notch—”the ubiquitous NKVD barely had a presence there.”
“They can’t be everywhere at once,” said Tatiana. “They have too many functions. Border troops, Kirov factory guards, street militia—”
“The Gestapo,” finished Alexander. “Oh, and let’s not forget the ministers of all internal affairs and the guardians of internal safety.”
They managed a small smile, she into her food. Tatiana needed to touch his hand to ease him away from his past and into their present. She could not touch him: her family was around the table, and so was Dimitri. But Alexander needed to be touched. In a moment she was going to get up and give him what he needed, and let the rest of them who needed nothing from her be damned.
Standing up, she started clearing the table. Coming around to take his plate, she pressed her hip into his elbow for one slow moment and then quickly moved on.
“Tania, you know, if the Germans had attacked properly in the first two weeks of September,” Alexander continued, “I think they would have been assured success. We had no tanks, no guns in place. The only armies we had across the river from Shlisselburg were remnants of the Karelian force, some underarmed People’s Volunteers.” He paused. “How well trained were the People’s Volunteers in Luga, Tania? As we know, not everyone has Tania’s presence of mind during a bombing.”
Dasha interrupted, “What are you talking to her about war for? She couldn’t be less interested. Talk to her about Pushkin or something. Maybe cooking. She likes to cook now. She thinks the war is not even going on.”
With a serious face Alexander said, “All right, Tania. Would you like to talk about Pushkin?”
Flustered, Tatiana said, “Wait, speaking of cooking—of food, rather—where do you think a safe store for me to go to would be? No matter where I go to get rations, I’m getting bombed. It’s… inconvenient,” she finished, and Alexander laughed.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay in the shelter during bombing.”
No one said a word.
“My question is,” Tatiana continued quickly in order not to let Dasha say a word, “where are they shooting at me from?”
“Pulkovo Heights,” replied Alexander. “They don’t even need to fly the planes. Have you noticed how comparatively few planes we’ve seen?”
“Well, no, there were about a hundred last night.”
“Yes, at night, because it’s harder for us to hit their planes at night. But they don’t want to waste their precious airpower. They’re sitting very nicely and comfortably at Pulkovo Heights, and their bombs reach all the way to Smolny. You know where Pulkovo is, don’t you, Tania? It’s right by Kirov.”
She blushed—into the dirty dishes she was carrying. He had to stop that. No, don’t stop it. I need it to continue breathing. When she came back from the kitchen, Mama said, “Well, thank God you don’t work all the way in Kirov anymore, Tanechka.”
Alexander suggested that Tatiana not go down Suvorovsky for her rations. Tatiana told him she didn’t. “I go to a store on Fontanka and Nekrasova,” she said pointedly. “I’m there every morning promptly at seven. Right, Dasha?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dasha said. “I never go.”
“Don’t walk on any north-south roads if you can help it,” Alexander repeated, glancing at Tatiana.
Dasha laughed. “But, darling! That’s about half of the roads in Leningrad!”
“How would you know?” asked Tatiana mildly. “You don’t go out until the bombing stops.”
Putting her arms around Alexander’s neck, Dasha stuck out her tongue at Tatiana. “That’s because I have sense.”
“Do you, Tania?” Alexander asked quietly, holding Dasha’s arms away from his face. “Do you go out only when the bombing stops?”
Dasha said, “Are you joking? She’s got absolutely no sense. Ask her how often she goes to the shelters.”
There was a silence in the crowded room.
Alexander’s eyes flashed.
“Oh, look,” Tatiana said uncomfortably, “I go.” She shrugged. “Yesterday I sat under the stairs.”
“Yes, for three minutes. Alex, she can’t sit still.”
“She hasn’t been out on the roof, has she?”
No one said anything. To avoid Alexander’s gaze, Tatiana busied herself with the sewing machine. “Can I go on Nevsky Prospekt?” she asked him, not looking up.
“Never. They’re bombing that the heaviest. But they are being very careful not to hit the Astoria Hotel. You know where the Astoria is, Tania. It’s right by St. Isaac’s.”
Tatiana’s whole face turned red.
Alexander went on hurriedly. “Never mind. Hitler booked the Astoria for his victory celebration after he marches with his flag down Nevsky. Stay away from Nevsky. And don’t ever walk on the north side of an east-west street. You all understand?”
Tatiana was quiet. “When is the celebration in the Astoria scheduled for?” she asked at last.
“October,” said Alexander. “He thinks the people of Leningrad are going to abandon their city by October. But I will tell you that Hitler is going to be late.”
Marina said, “What would we all do without you, Alexander?”
Dasha went over and, hugging him tight, said to Marina, “Stop it. Go and flirt with Tania’s soldier.”
“Yes, Marina, go ahead,” muttered Tatiana, looking over at Dimitri, half conscious on the couch.
But Marina said, “What do you think, Tania, should I go and flirt with your soldier?”
Not far enough of a retreat, Alexander, Tatiana thought. Not far enough.
As she was cleaning up after tea, Dimitri awoke and in a stupor pulled Tatiana on top of him. “Tanechka,” he muttered, “Tanechka…”
Tatiana struggled to get up, but he was holding her to him. “Tania,” he whispered. “When, when?” His breath reeked. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Dima, come on, let me go,” Tatiana said, starting to hyperventilate. “I’m holding a wet rag in my hands.”
“Really, Dima,” said Mama. “Tania, I think he is having too much to drink.”
Tatiana felt Alexander right behind her. She heard Alexander’s voice right behind her. “Yes,” he said, pulling Dimitri’s arms away from Tatiana, and helping her stand. “He is definitely drinking too much.” His hand remained on her long enough for him to squeeze her arm and let go.
“What’s the matter with him, Tania?” inquired Mama. “He seems peculiar these days. Grumpy. Not talkative. And not as nice to you.”
Out of breath, Tatiana watched Dimitri for a moment. “He is getting less interested in me,” she said to her mother, “the closer he is feeling to his own death.” She turned and went to the kitchen without glancing at Alexander, but catching Marina’s eyes and Babushka’s. Dasha was in the next room, tending to Papa.
6
Tatiana thought she could take it. Tatiana thought she could take it all. But one night—two weeks after the burning of Badayev warehouses—when they all came home from work and instead of making dinner were sitting in the bomb shelter, hungry and tired, Dasha plopped down next to Tatiana and in a thrilled voice exclaimed, “Guess what, everybody? Alexander and I are getting married!”
The kerosene lamps gave too much light to hide what exploded inside Tatiana. Marina gasped. But the jubilant Dasha, who continued to smile while the bombs fell outside, remained oblivious to Tatiana’s feelings.
Marina said, “That’s great, Dasha. Congratulations!”
Mama said, “Dashenka, finally, one of my daughters is going to have a family of her own. When?”
Papa, sitting next to Mama, mumbled something.
“Tania? Did you hear me?” asked Dasha. “I’m getting married!”
“I heard you, Dasha,” Tatiana said. Turning away, she was faced with Marina’s sympathetic, pitying glance. Tatiana didn’t know which was worse. She turned back to her smiling sister. “Congratulations. You must be so happy.”
“Happy? I’m delirious! Can you imagine? I’m going to be Dasha Belova.” She giggled. “As soon as he gets a couple of days’ furlough, we’ll go to the registry office.”
“You’re not worried?”
“I’m not worried,” said Dasha with a wave of her healthy-looking arm. “Worried about what? Alexander is not worried. We’ll make it.”
“I’m glad you’re so sure.”
“What’s the matter?” Dasha put her arm around Tatiana, who didn’t know how she was still sitting. “I won’t kick you out of your bed. Babushka will give us her room for a couple of days.” Dasha kissed her. “Married, Tania! Can you believe it?”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know!” Dasha exclaimed excitedly. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
“It’s war. He could die, Dasha.”
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t be flip about him dying.”
“I’m not flip,” said Tatiana, trembling. About him dying. She shut her eyes.
“Thank God, he’s finally out of that awful Dubrovka and up across from Shlisselburg. It’s quieter there.” Dasha smiled. “You know, that’s what I do now—I close my eyes and I feel for him out there somewhere, and I know he’s still alive.” She added with pride, “I have a sixth sense, you know.”
Marina coughed loudly. Opening her eyes, Tatiana glared at Marina with an expression that instantly stifled Marina’s coughing fit.
“What do you want, Dash?” she whispered. “You want to be a widow, instead of just a dead soldier’s girl?”
“Tania!”
Tatiana said nothing. Where was relief going to come from? Not from the night, not from Mama or Papa, not from Deda and Babushka, far away, not from Babushka Maya, too old to care, not from Marina, who knew too much without knowing anything, not from Dimitri, who was mired in his own hell, and certainly not from Alexander, the impossible, maddening, unforgivable Alexander.
The absence of comfort was so compelling that Tatiana could no longer continue to sit. She left the shelter in the middle of the raid, hearing only Dasha’s puzzled voice: “What is wrong with her?”
How did she spend the night next to her wall, next to Marina, next to Dasha? How did she do it? She didn’t know. It was the worst night of Tatiana’s life.
The next morning she got up late and, instead of going to her regular store on Fontanka and Nekrasova, went to one on Old Nevsky, near her former school. She’d heard they had good bread there. The air-raid siren sounded. She didn’t even take cover.
Tatiana walked with her eyes to the ground. The whistling bombs, the wind-induced piercing shrieks, followed by the sound of brick exploding and then distant human cries were nothing compared to the screaming hurt inside her body.
Tatiana realized that war no longer scared her. This was new to her, the acknowledgment of the absence of fear. It was Pasha who had always been intrepid. Dasha was confident. Deda was ruthlessly honest, Papa was strict—and drunk—Mama bossy, and Babushka Anna arrogant. Tatiana carried everyone’s hidden insecurities on her thin shoulders. Insecurities, yes. Timidity, yes. Their fears, yes again. But not her own. She wasn’t afraid of random war. It was like being struck by lightning, even if the lightning did strike a thousand times a day. No, it wasn’t war that terrified Tatiana. It was the resolute chaos of her broken heart.
She went to work, and when five o’clock came, she stayed at work, and when six came, she stayed at work, and when seven came, she stayed at work. At eight o’clock she was washing the floor in the nurses’ station when she saw Marina come through the doors and head in her direction. Tatiana did not want to see Marina.
“Tania, what are you doing?” Marina said. “Everybody is worried sick about you. They think you’ve been killed.”
“I haven’t been killed,” Tatiana said. “I’m right here, washing the floor.”
“It’s three hours past quitting time. Why aren’t you home?”
“I’m washing the floor, Marina, can’t you see? Step out of my way. Your shoes will get wet.” Tatiana did not look up from the mop.
“Tania, they’re all waiting. Dimitri is there, Alexander is there. You’re being selfish. The family can’t celebrate Dasha’s betrothal, because they’re so worried about you.”
“All right,” Tatiana said through her teeth as she pushed the mop back and forth. “You found me. I’m right here. Tell them not to worry and go and celebrate. I have work to do. I’m doing a double shift. I’ll be home later.”
“Tania,” said Marina, “come on now, honey. I know it’s hard. But you have to come home and raise a glass to your sister. What are you thinking?”
“I’m working!” Tatiana yelled. “Can you leave me alone, please!” And she looked back down at her soapy mop, blinded by her tears.
“Tania, please.”
“Leave me alone!” repeated Tatiana. “Please.”
Reluctantly Marina left.
Tatiana mopped the nurses’ station, and the corridor nearby, and the bathrooms, and some of the patient rooms. And then a doctor asked her for help in bandaging five bomb victims, and Tatiana went with him. Four of the victims died within the hour. Tatiana sat with the last one, an old man of about eighty, until he died, too. He died holding her hand, and before he died, he turned to her and smiled.
By the time she came home, everyone was asleep, and Dimitri and Alexander were long gone. Tatiana slept on the small sofa in the hall, waking up before the rest of the family, washing, and again going to get their rations on Old Nevsky.
When she got home after work, Papa was in a fit. At first Tatiana couldn’t figure out what it was that was making him upset, nor did she care to find out. As her father came into the room, still shouting, Tatiana concluded that he must be upset with her.
“What did I do now?” she said tiredly. She couldn’t have cared less.
He was slurring his words, but Mama, who was also angry—but sober—came in from the hallway and told Tatiana that last night when she was God knows where while the family was celebrating Dasha’s imminent marriage, a little girl named Mariska came by, asking for some food. “Mariska said that someone named Tania has been feeding her for a week!” Mama shouted. “A week with our food!”
“Oh.” Tatiana looked at her parents. “Yes. Mariska’s parents are both drunk, and they’re not feeding her. She needed some food. I gave her a little. Mama, I thought we have plenty.” She went into the kitchen to get a knife. Papa and Mama followed her, still shouting and shouting and shouting.
The following day Alexander and Dimitri came by after dinner to take the girls for a short walk before the air raid and curfew. Tatiana did not raise her eyes to Dimitri, nor to Dasha, and certainly not to Alexander.
“What happened to you yesterday?” Dimitri asked. “We were waiting forever for you.”
“I was working yesterday,” said Tatiana, grabbing her cardigan from the hook on the wall and walking out past Alexander, her eyes to the floor.
It was quiet in Leningrad that evening. The four of them walked in peace down Suvorovsky heading toward Tauride Park. Relative peace, for on Eighth Soviet a corner building was shattered and glass was spread like fractured ice all over the street.
Dimitri and Tatiana walked in front of Alexander and Dasha. Dimitri asked why Tatiana kept staring at the ground. Tatiana shrugged and said nothing, her growing-out blonde hair covering half her face.
“Isn’t it fantastic about Alexander and Dasha?” Dimitri asked, putting his arm around Tatiana.
“Yes,” said Tatiana coldly and loudly. “It’s fantastic about Alexander and Dasha.” She did not look up, nor did she look back. She could feel Alexander’s eyes on her, and she simply did not know how she was going to continue walking straight.
Dasha giggled and said, “I sent Deda and Babushka a letter in Molotov. They’ll be so happy. They’ve always liked you, Alexander.” There were some chuckling noises from behind Tatiana. She stumbled on the curb. Dimitri grabbed her arm.
Dasha said, “Tania is a little glum these days, Dima. I think she wants you to propose, too.”
Squeezing her arm, Dimitri said, “Should I, Tanechka? What do you think? Should I ask you to marry me?”
Tatiana did not reply. They stopped at an intersection to let a tram pass. Tatiana said, “Want to hear a joke?” She continued before anyone had a chance to speak. “ ‘Honey, when we get married, I’ll be there to share all your troubles and sorrows,’ says the man. ‘But I don’t have any, my love,’ says the woman. ‘I said, when we get married,’ says the man.”
“Oh, nice, Tania,” said Dasha from behind.
Tatiana laughed mirthlessly, and when she laughed, her hair bobbed back just long enough to reveal a black swollen bruise over her eyebrow. Dimitri gasped. Tatiana lowered her head, brushing her hair back into her face. Alexander said, “What’s the matter, Dima?”
Dimitri didn’t reply, but Alexander walked around and stood in front of Tatiana. She looked down at the pavement. “It’s nothing,” she muttered.
“Can you look up, please?” Alexander demanded.
Tatiana wanted to look up and scream. But Dasha was standing on one side of her and Dimitri on the other, and she could not look up into the face she loved. Simply could not. The best she could do was repeat quietly that it was nothing.
“Ah, Tania,” said Alexander, paling under the effort of keeping himself in check. “Ah, Tania.”
“It’s totally her fault,” said Dasha, taking Alexander’s arm. “She perfectly well knew that Papa was drunk. Yet she couldn’t help talking back to him. He yelled at her a little bit for feeding a waif—”
“He yelled at me for Mariska, but he hit me for not washing his sheets,” Tatiana said. “Which was your job.”
“How did he open your brow like that?” Dimitri asked with concern.
“That was my fault,” Tatiana said. “I lost my balance and fell. The kitchen drawer was open. It’s not a big thing.”
“Ah, Tania,” Alexander repeated again.
“What?” said Tatiana, raising her livid, broken eyes at him.
He lowered his gaze.
“Hey, listen,” Dasha said, defending herself, “I didn’t care what Papa said. He was drunk. I wasn’t going to get into a fight with him over nothing.”
“You mean over me?” Tatiana said. “You mean you weren’t going to come forward and say, ‘Papa, I should’ve washed your sheets, and I’m sorry I didn’t’?”
“What for? He was drunk!”
“He’s always drunk!” yelled Tatiana. “Always, and it’s war, Dasha! Have we not got enough trouble, you think?” She panted. “Believe me, we’ve got enough trouble.” She stared at her sister. “Forget it. Let’s cross.”
As they crossed the street, Tatiana could hear Alexander’s seething breaths. “Dasha, let’s go,” he said suddenly, pulling her quickly by the arm down the street, away from Tatiana. He started running with Dasha beside him.
Dimitri and Tatiana were left on Suvorovsky, and Tatiana said, trying to smile, “So, Dima, how are you? I hear the Germans are completely entrenched. Has the fighting stopped?”
“Tania, you don’t want to be talking about the fighting,” said Dimitri.
