Текст книги "The Bronze Horseman"

Автор книги: Paullina Simons

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Book Two

The Golden Door

Part Three

Lazarevo

Scenting Spring

ALEXANDER went to Lazarevo on faith.

He had nothing else. Literally nothing else, not a letter, not a single piece of correspondence from either Dasha or Tatiana to let him know they had arrived in Molotov. He had grave doubts about Dasha, but he had seen Slavin survive the winter, so anything was possible. It was the absence of letters from Dasha that worried Alexander. While she was in Leningrad, she wrote to him constantly. Here the rest of January and February sped on, and not a word.

A week after the girls had left, Alexander had driven a truck across the ice to Kobona and searched for them among the sick and dispossessed on the Kobona shores. He found nothing.

In March, anxious and depressed, Alexander wrote a letter to Dasha in Molotov. He also had telegraphed the Soviet office in Molotov asking them for information on a Daria or a Tatiana Metanova but did not hear back until May and by regular post. A one-sentence letter from the Molotov Soviet informed Alexander that there was no information on a Daria or a Tatiana Metanova. He telegraphed again, asking if the Lazarevo village Soviet could receive telegraphs. Here the two-word telegram came the next day: no. stop.

Every off-duty hour he got, Alexander went back to Fifth Soviet, letting himself in with the key Dasha had left him. He cleaned the rooms, swept and washed the floors, and washed the linen when the city council repaired the pipes in March. He installed new glass panes in the second bedroom. He found an old photo album of the Metanovs and started looking through it, then suddenly closed it and put it away. What was he thinking? It was like seeing ghosts.

That’s how Alexander felt. He saw their ghosts everywhere.

Each time he was back in Leningrad, Alexander went to the post office on Old Nevsky to see if there were any letters to the Metanovs. The old postmaster was sick of the sight of him.

At the garrison, Alexander constantly asked the sergeant in charge of the army mail if there was anything for him from the Metanovs. The sergeant in charge of the army mail was sick of the sight of him.

But there was nothing for Alexander, no letters, no telegrams, and no news. In April the Old Nevsky postmaster died. No one had been notified of his death, and, in fact, he remained in his chair behind the desk, with mail on the floor, and on the counter, and in boxes, and in unopened mail sacks.

Alexander smoked thirty cigarettes as he searched through all the mail. He found nothing.

He went back to Lake Ladoga, continued protecting the Road of Life—now a water road—and waited for furlough, seeing Tatiana’s ghost everywhere.

Leningrad slowly came out of the grip of death, and the city council became afraid—with good reason—that the proliferation of dead bodies, of clogged sewers, of raw sewage on the streets would result in a mass epidemic once the weather warmed up. The council initiated a full frontal assault on the city. Every living and able person cleared the debris from the bombing and the bodies from the streets. The burst pipes were fixed, the electricity restored. Trams and then trolleybuses began running. With new tulips and cabbage seedlings growing in front of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, Leningrad seemed to be temporarily reborn. Tania would have liked to see the tulips in front of St. Isaac’s, Alexander thought. The civilian ration was increased to three hundred grams of bread for dependents. Not because there was more flour. Because there were fewer people.

At the start of war, on June 22, 1941, the day Alexander met Tatiana, there were three million civilians in Leningrad. When the Germans blockaded the city on September 8, 1941, there were two and a half million civilians in Leningrad.

In the spring of 1942 a million people remained.

The ice road over Ladoga had so far evacuated half a million people from the city, leaving them in Kobona to their dubious fate.

And the siege was not over.

After the snow melted, Alexander was put in charge of dynamiting a dozen mass graves in Piskarev Cemetery, to which nearly half a million corpses were transported on Funeral Trust trucks and eventually buried. Piskarev was just one of seven cemeteries in Leningrad to which the bodies were carried like cordwood.

And the siege was not over.

American foodstuffs—courtesy of Lend-Lease—were slowly making their twisted way into Leningrad. A few times during spring, Leningraders received dehydrated milk, dehydrated soup, dehydrated eggs. Alexander picked up some items himself, including an English-Russian phrase book he bought from a Lend-Lease truck driver in Kobona. Tania might like a new phrase book, he thought. She had been doing so well with her English.

The city rebuilt Nevsky Prospekt with false fronts to cover up the gaping holes left by German shells, and Leningrad went on slowly, neatly, and mostly quietly, into the summer of 1942.

German shelling and bombing continued daily and unabated.

January, February, March, April, May.

How many months could Alexander not hear? How many months of no news, of not a word, of not a breath? How many months of carrying hope in his heart and of admitting to himself that the inevitable and the unimaginable could have happened, might have happened, and—finally—must have happened? He saw death everywhere. At the front most of all, but hopeless death on the streets of Leningrad, too. He saw mutilated bodies and mangled bodies, frozen bodies and famished bodies. He saw it all. But through it all Alexander still believed.

2

In June, Dimitri came to see him at the garrison. Alexander was shocked and hoped his face didn’t show it. Dimitri looked older by years, not just by months. He walked with a distinct limp, hunched over a little on his right side. His body looked wearied and thin, and there was a tremor in his fingers Alexander had not seen before.

And when Alexander stared at Dimitri, he thought, Dimitri survived, why not Dasha and Tania, too? If he could, why not them? If I could, why not them?

“My only good foot is now the left foot,” Dimitri told him. “What stupidity on my part, don’t you think?” He smiled warmly at Alexander, who reluctantly invited him to sit on one of the bunks. He had been hoping he was done with Dimitri. No such luck, he could see. They were alone, and Dimitri had a thoughtful flare in his eye that Alexander did not care for.

“At least,” Dimitri said cheerfully, “I’ll never have to see real combat again. I much prefer it this way.”

“Good,” said Alexander. “It’s what you wanted. To work in the rear.”

“Some rear,” Dimitri snorted. “Do you know that first they put me on evacuation detail in Kobona—”

“Kobona!”

“Yes,” Dimitri drew out slowly. “Why? Does Kobona have some special significance other than the American Lend-Lease trucks that come through there?”

Alexander studied Dimitri. “Yes. I didn’t know you worked in Kobona.”

“We had fallen a little out of touch.”

“Were you there back in January?”

“I can’t even remember anymore,” said Dimitri. “That was such a long time ago.”

Alexander got up and came toward him. “Dima! I got Dasha and Tatiana out through the ice—”

“They must be so grateful.”

“I don’t know if they’re grateful. Did you see them, perhaps?”

“You’re asking me if I saw two girls in Kobona, through which thousands of evacuees came?” Dimitri laughed.

“Not two girls,” Alexander said coldly. “Tania and Dasha. You’d recognize them, wouldn’t you?”

“Alexander, I would—”

“Did you see them?” He raised his voice.

“No, I didn’t,” said Dimitri. “Stop shouting. But I must say…” He shook his head. “To put two helpless girls in a truck to try to make it to—Where were they headed again?”

“East, somewhere.” He wasn’t about to tell Dimitri where they had been headed.

“Somewhere deep in the country? I don’t know, Alexander, what were you thinking?” Dimitri chuckled. “I can’t imagine you wanted them to die.”

“Dimitri, what are you talking about?” Alexander snapped. “What choice did I have? Have you not heard what happened to Leningrad last winter? What’s still happening now?”

Dimitri smiled. “I heard. Wasn’t there something else you could have done? Couldn’t Colonel Stepanov do anything for you?”

“No, he couldn’t.” Alexander was fed up. “Listen, I’ve got—”

“I’m just saying, Alexander, the evacuees that came our way were all at death’s door. I know Dasha is made of strong stuff, but Tania? I’m surprised she made it long enough for you to get her across the ice.” Dimitri shrugged. “I thought she’d be the first to– I mean, even I got dystrophy. And most of the people coming through Kobona were sick and starved. Then they were forced to get on more trucks to be transported sixty kilometers to the nearest trains, which were all cattle trains.” Lowering his voice, Dimitri said, “I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard through the grapevine that seventy percent of all the people we put on the trains died of either cold or disease.” He shook his head. “And you wanted Dasha and Tania to go through that? Some future husband you are!” Dimitri laughed.

Alexander clenched his teeth.

“Listen, I’m glad I’m out of there,” Dimitri said. “Didn’t like Kobona much.”

“What?” said Alexander. “Was Kobona too dangerous?”

“No, that wasn’t it. The trucks were usually backed up onto the Ladoga ice, because the evacuees were so damn slow. We were expected to go out and help unload them. But they couldn’t walk. They were all near death.” Staring at Alexander, Dimitri said, “Just last month the Germans blew up three of the six trucks on the ice.” He sighed. “Some rear. Finally I asked to be transferred into supplies.”

Turning his back to Dimitri, Alexander began folding his clothes. “Supplies is not the safest thing either. On the other hand,” he said, thinking to himself, what am I saying? Let him go into fucking supplies, “supplies might be good for you. You’ll be the guy selling the cigarettes. Everybody will love you.” The yawning chasm between what had been between them and what was now was too great. There were no boats and no bridges. Alexander waited for Dimitri either to leave or to ask after Tatiana’s family. He did neither.

Finally Alexander couldn’t take it anymore. “Dima, are you even remotely interested in what happened to the Metanovs?”

Shrugging, Dimitri said, “I figured the same thing that happened to most of Leningrad. Everybody died, no?” He could have been saying, everyone went shopping, no? Alexander lowered his head.

“This is war, Alexander,” Dimitri said. “Only the strongest survive. That’s why I finally had to give up on Tania. I didn’t want to, I quite liked her, and I still do; I have fond memories of her, but I had barely enough strength to keep myself going. I couldn’t be worrying about her, too, without food or warm clothes.”

How clearly Tatiana saw right through Dimitri. He never did care for her at all, Alexander thought, putting his clothes into his locker and avoiding Dimitri’s gaze.

“Alexander, speaking of surviving, there is something I wanted to talk to you about,” Dimitri began.

Here it comes. Alexander did not look up while he waited for it.

“Since the Americans have joined the war—it’s better for us, yes?”

Nodding, Alexander replied, “Certainly. Lend-Lease is a great help.”

“No, no.” Getting up off the bed, Dimitri said in an excited and anxious voice, “I don’t mean for us, I mean for you and me. For our plans.”

Getting up off the floor, Alexander faced Dimitri. “I haven’t seen too many Americans on this side,” he said slowly, pretending not to understand.

“Yes,” exclaimed Dimitri, “but they’re all over Kobona! They’re trucking and shipping supplies, tanks, jeeps, boots, through Murmansk and down the whole east coast of Lake Ladoga, to Petrozavodsk, to Lodeinoye Pole. There are dozens of them in Kobona.”

“Is that true? Dozens?”

“Maybe not dozens. But Americans!” He paused. “Maybe they can help us?”

Alexander came up closer to Dimitri. “In what way?” he said sharply.

Smiling, and keeping his thin voice low, Dimitri said, “In what way? In that American way. Perhaps you can go to Kobona—”

“Dima, go to Kobona and what? Who am I going to talk to? The truck drivers? You think if a Soviet soldier starts talking English to them, they’ll just say, oh, sure, come with us on our steamer. We’ll take you back home.” Alexander paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “And even if somehow that were not impossible, how do you suggest we get you out? Even if a stranger was willing to risk his neck for me because of what you perceive as some American bond, how do you think that would help you?”

Taken aback, Dimitri said hastily, “I’m not saying it’s a good plan. But it’s a start.”

“Dima, you’re injured. Look at you.” Alexander looked him up and down. “You are in no condition to fight, nor are you in any condition to… run. We need to forget our plans.”

In a frantic voice, Dimitri said, “What are you talking about? I know you still want to—”

“Dimitri!”

“What? We have to do something, Alexander,” Dimitri said. “You and I had plans—”

“Dimitri!” Alexander exclaimed. “Our plans involved fighting through NKVD border troops and hiding out in the mined swamps in Finland! Now that you’ve shot yourself in the foot, how do you think that will be possible?”

Alexander was grateful that Dimitri did not have any immediate answers. He backed away.

Dimitri said, “I agree, maybe the Lisiy Nos route is harder, but I think we have a good chance of bribing the Lend-Lease delivery boys.”

“They’re not delivery boys!” Alexander said angrily. He paused. It was not worth it. “These men are trained fighters, and they subject themselves to submarine torpedoes every day as they trudge 2,000 kilometers through the Arctic and North Russia to bring you tushonka.”

“Yes, and they are the very men who can help us. And, Alexander”– Dimitri stepped closer—”I need somebody to help me.” He stepped closer still. “And very soon. I have no intention whatsoever of dying in this fucking war.” He paused, his slit eyes on Alexander. “Do you?”

“I will die if I have to,” said an unyielding Alexander.

Dimitri studied him. Alexander hated to be studied. He lit a cigarette and stared icily at Dimitri, who retreated. “Do you still have your money on you?” Dimitri asked.

“No.”

“Can you get to it?”

“I don’t know,” said Alexander. He took out another cigarette. This conversation was over.

“You have an unsmoked one in your mouth,” Dimitri remarked dryly.

Alexander received a generous furlough of thirty days. He asked Stepanov for more time. He got a little more time, from June 15 until July 24.

“Is that enough time?” asked Stepanov, smiling lightly.

“It’s either too much time, sir,” replied Alexander, “or not enough.”

“Captain,” said Stepanov, lighting a cigarette and giving one to Alexander, “when you come back…” He sighed. “We can no longer stay at the garrison. You see what has happened to our city. We cannot spend another winter like the last one. It simply cannot happen.” He paused. “We are going to have to break the blockade. All of us. This fall.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Do you, Alexander? Have you seen what’s happened to our men at Tikhvin and Mga last winter and this spring?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard what’s been happening to our men in Nevsky Patch across the river from Dubrovka?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said. Nevsky Patch was a Red Army enclave inside enemy lines—a place the Germans used for daily target practice. Russian soldiers were dying there at a rate of 200 a day.

Shaking his head, Stepanov said, “We’re going to move across the Neva in pontoon boats. We have limited artillery—you. We have single-shot rifles—”

“Not me, sir, I have a Shpagin machine gun. And my rifle is an automatic.” Alexander smiled.

Smiling himself, Stepanov nodded. “I’m making it sound brutal.”

“It is, sir.”

“Captain, don’t get scared off by the good fight, an unequal fight though it may be.”

Alexander, raising his eyes to Stepanov and squaring his shoulders, said, “Sir. When have I ever?”

Coming up to him, Stepanov said, “If we had more men like you, we would have won this war long ago.” He shook Alexander’s hand. “Go. Have a good trip. Nothing will be the same when you come back.”

3

Alexander thought as he traveled halfway across the Soviet Union: Dasha, Tania—wouldn’t they have written to him if they were alive?

His doubt attacked him like shell fire.

To go sixteen hundred miles east, across Lake Ladoga, over the Onega River and the Dvina River, over the Sukhona River and the Unzha River, to the Kama River and the Ural Mountains, to go having heard nothing for six months, for half a year, for all those minutes in between, having heard not a sound from her mouth or a word from her pen, was it lunacy?

Yes, yes, it was.

During his four-day journey to Molotov, Alexander recalled every breath he took with her. Sixteen hundred kilometers of the Obvodnoy Canal, of coming to see her at Kirov, of his tent in Luga, of her holding on to his back, of the hospital room, of St. Isaac’s, of her eating ice cream, of her lying in the sled as he pulled her, nearly out of life. Sixteen hundred kilometers of her giving her food to everyone, of her jumping up and down on the roof under German planes. There were some memories of last winter from which Alexander flinched, recalling them all nonetheless. Her walking alongside him after burying her mother. Her standing motionless in front of three boys with knives.

Two images continually sprang to his mind in a restless, frantic refrain.

Tatiana in a helmet, in strange clothes, covered with blood, covered with stone and beams and glass and dead bodies, herself still warm, herself still breathing.

And

Tatiana on the bed in the hospital, bare under his hands, moaning under his mouth.

If anyone could make it, would it not be the girl who every morning for four months got up at six-thirty and trudged through dying Leningrad to get her family their bread?

But if she had made it, how could she not have written to him?

The girl who kissed his hand, who served him tea, and who gazed at him, not breathing as he talked, gazed at him with eyes he had never seen before—was that girl gone?

Was her heart gone?

Please, God, Alexander prayed. Let her not love me anymore, but let her live.

That was a hard prayer for Alexander, but he could not imagine living in a world without Tatiana.

Unwashed and undernourished, having spent over four days on five different trains and four military jeeps, Alexander got off at Molotov on Friday, June 19, 1942. He arrived at noon and then sat on a wooden bench near the station.

Alexander couldn’t bring himself to walk to Lazarevo.

He could not bear the thought of her dying in Kobona, getting out of the collapsed city and then dying so close to salvation. He could not face it.

And worse—he knew that he could not face himself if he found out that she did not make it. He could not face returning—returning to what?

Alexander actually thought of getting on the next train and going back immediately. The courage to move forward was much more than the courage he needed to stand behind a Katyusha rocket launcher or a Zenith antiaircraft gun on Lake Ladoga and know that any of the Luftwaffe planes flying overhead could instantly bring about his death.

He was not afraid of his own death.

He was afraid of hers. The specter of her death took away his courage.

If Tatiana was dead, it meant God was dead, and Alexander knew he could not survive an instant during war in a universe governed by chaos, not purpose. He would not live any longer than poor, hapless Grinkov, who had been cut down by a stray bullet as he headed back to the rear.

War was the ultimate chaos, a pounding, soul-destroying snarl, ending in blown-apart men lying unburied on the cold earth. There was nothing more cosmically chaotic than war.

But Tatiana was order. She was finite matter in infinite space. Tatiana was the standard-bearer for the flag of grace and valor that she carried forward with bounty and perfection in herself, the flag Alexander had followed sixteen hundred kilometers east to the Kama River, to the Ural Mountains, to Lazarevo.

For two hours Alexander sat on the bench in unpaved, provincial, oak-lined Molotov.

To go back was impossible.

To go forward was unthinkable.

Yet he had nowhere else to go.

He crossed himself and stood up, gathering his belongings.

When Alexander finally walked in the direction of Lazarevo, not knowing whether Tatiana was alive or dead, he felt he was a man walking to his own execution.

4

Lazarevo was ten kilometers through deep pine woods.

The forest wasn’t just pine; it was mixed with elms and oaks and birches and nettles and blueberries all drifting their pleasing way into his senses. Alexander walked carrying his rucksack, his rifle, his sidearm and ammunition, his large tent and blanket, his helmet, and a sack filled with food from Kobona. He could hear the nearby rush of the Kama River through the trees. He thought of going and washing, but by this point he needed to keep moving forward.

He picked a few blueberries off the low bushes as he walked. He was hungry. It was very warm, very sunny, and Alexander was suddenly filled with a pounding hope. He walked faster.

The woods ended, and in front of him was a dusty village road, flanked on both sides by small wooden huts, overgrown grasses, and old falling-down fences.

To the left, past pines and elms, he could see the glimmer of the river, and past the river, past more voluminous, voluptuous forest, the round-topped, evergreen-covered Ural Mountains.

He inhaled deeply. Did Lazarevo smell of Tatiana? He smelled firewood burning and fresh water and pine needles. And fish. Alexander saw the smokestack of a fishing plant on the outskirts of the village.

He continued down the road, passing a woman sitting on the bench outside her house. She stared at him; he understood. How often did these people see a Red Army officer? The woman got up and said, “Oh, no! You’re not Alexander, are you?”

Alexander didn’t know how to answer that. “Oh, yes,” he finally said. “I am Alexander. I’m looking for Tatiana and Dasha Metanova. Do you know where they live?”

The woman started to cry.

Alexander stared at her. “I’ll just ask someone else,” he muttered, walking on.

The woman ran after him in small steps. “Wait, wait!” She pointed down the road. “On Fridays they have a sewing circle in the village square. Straight ahead, over there.” Shaking her head, she walked back.

“So they are alive?” Alexander said in a weak voice, flooded with relief.

The woman could not answer. Covering her face, she ran back to her house.

She said they? They meaning… he asked for two sisters; she replied they. Alexander slowed down, lighting a cigarette and taking a drink out of his flask. He walked on but stopped before he got to the village square thirty meters ahead.

He couldn’t come straight up the road. Not yet.

If they were alive, then in a moment he was going to have different problems from the ones he had imagined, and he thought he had imagined them all. He would deal with this one as he dealt with everything, but first—

Alexander walked through someone’s garden, apologizing hastily, opened the back gate, and was on the village back path. He wanted to come a roundabout way to the square. He wanted to see Tatiana for a moment without her seeing him. Before there was Dasha, he wanted an instant of being able to look at Tatiana the way he wanted to look at her, without hiding.

He wanted proof of God before God looked upon the man with His own eyes.

The elms were standing tall in a green canopy around the small square. A group of people sat beneath the trees at a long wooden table. Most were women; there was, in fact, only one young man. It was a sewing circle, thought Alexander, moving nearer to the table to get a better look.

He was obstructed from their view by a fence and a sprawling lilac tree. The flowers got into his face and nose. Breathing in their ripe fragrance, he peeked out. He did not see Dasha anywhere. He saw four old women seated around the table, a young boy, an older girl, and a standing Tatiana.

At first Alexander could not believe it was his Tania. He blinked and tried to refocus his eyes. She was walking around the table, gesturing, showing, leaning forward, bending over. At one point she straightened out and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a short-sleeved yellow peasant dress. She was barefoot, and her slender legs were exposed above her knee. Her bare arms were lightly tanned. Her blonde hair looked bleached by the sun and was parted into two shoulder-length braids tucked behind her ears. Even from a distance he could see the summer freckles on her nose. She was achingly beautiful.

And alive.

Alexander closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there, bending over the boy’s work. She said something, everyone laughed loudly, and Alexander watched as the boy’s arm touched Tatiana’s back. Tatiana smiled. Her white teeth sparkled like the rest of her. Alexander didn’t know what to do.

She was alive, that was obvious.

Then why hadn’t she written him?

And where was Dasha?

Alexander couldn’t very well continue to stand under a lilac tree.

He went back out onto the main road, took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked toward the square, never taking his eyes off her braids. His heart was thundering in his chest, as if he were going into battle.

Tatiana looked up, saw him, and covered her face with her hands. Alexander watched everyone get up and rush to her, the old ladies showing unexpected agility and speed. She pushed them all away, pushed the table away, pushed the bench away, and ran to him. Alexander was paralyzed by his emotion. He wanted to smile, but he thought any second he was going to fall to his knees and cry. He dropped all his gear, including his rifle. God, he thought, in a second I’m going to feel her. And that’s when he smiled.

Tatiana sprang into his open arms, and Alexander, lifting her off her feet with the force of his embrace, couldn’t hug her tight enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his bearded cheek. Dry sobs racked her entire body. She was heavier than the last time he felt her in all her clothes as he lifted her into the Lake Ladoga truck. She, with her boots, her clothes, coats, and coverings, had not weighed what she weighed now.

She smelled incredible. She smelled of soap and sunshine and caramelized sugar.

She felt incredible. Holding her to him, Alexander rubbed his face into her braids, murmuring a few pointless words. “Shh, shh… come on, now, shh, Tatia. Please…” His voice broke.

“Oh, Alexander,” Tatiana said softly into his neck. She was clutching the back of his head. “You’re alive. Thank God.”

“Oh, Tatiana,” Alexander said, hugging her tighter, if that were possible, his arms swaddling her summer body. “You’re alive. Thank God.” His hands ran up to her neck and down to the small of her back. Her dress was made of very thin cotton. He could almost feel her skin through it. She felt very soft.

Finally he let her feet touch the ground. Tatiana looked up at him. His hands remained around her little waist. He wasn’t letting go of her. Was she always this tiny, standing barefoot in front of him?

“I like your beard,” Tatiana said, smiling shyly and touching his face.

“I love your hair,” Alexander said, pulling on a braid and smiling back.

“You’re messy…”

He looked her over. “And you’re stunning.” He could not take his eyes off her glorious, eager, vivid lips. They were the color of July tomatoes—

He bent to her—

With a deep breath Alexander remembered Dasha. He stopped smiling, letting go of Tatiana and stepping slightly away.

She frowned, looking at him.

“Where’s Dasha, Tania?” he asked.

What Alexander saw pass through her eyes then… there was hurt and sadness and grief and guilt, and anger—at him?—all of it, and in a blink it was all gone, and then an icy veil clouded her eyes. Alexander watched something in Tatiana shut against him. She looked at him coolly, and though her hands were still trembling, her voice was steady and low. “Dasha died, Alexander. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Tania. I’m sorry.” Alexander reached out to touch her, but she backed away from him. She didn’t just back away from him. She staggered away from him.

“What?” he said, perplexed. “What?”

“Alexander, I’m really sorry about Dasha,” Tatiana said, unable to meet his eyes. “You came all this way…”

“What are you talking—”

But before he had a chance to continue or Tatiana a chance to respond, the other members of her sewing circle surrounded them. “Tanechka?” said a small, round salt-and-pepper woman with small, round eyes. “Who is this? Is this Dasha’s Alexander?”

“Yes,” said Tatiana. “This is Dasha’s Alexander.” Glancing at him, she said, “Alexander—meet Naira Mikhailovna.”

Naira started to cry. “Oh, you poor man.” She didn’t just shake Alexander’s hand, she hugged him. Poor man? He stared at Tatiana.

“Naira, please,” Tatiana said, backing farther away from him.

Sniffling, Naira whispered to Tatiana, “Did he know?”

“He didn’t know. But he does now,” replied Tatiana. That provoked a sustained wail out of Naira.

Tatiana made further introductions. “Alexander, meet Vova, Naira’s grandson, and Zoe, Vova’s sister.”

Vova was precisely the kind of strapping lad Alexander hated to think about. Round-faced, round-eyed, round-mouthed, a dark-haired version of his small and compact grandmother, Vova shook Alexander’s hand.

Zoe, a large, black-haired village girl, hugged him, shoving her big breasts into his uniform tunic. She held Alexander’s hand in hers and said, “We’re so pleased to meet you, Alexander. We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Everything,” said a bright, curly-haired woman, whom Tatiana introduced as Naira’s older sister, Axinya. “We’ve heard everything about you,” Axinya said energetically and vocally. She hugged Alexander, too.

Then two more women moved front and center. They were both gray-haired and frail. One of them had a shaking disorder. Her hands shook, her head shook, her mouth shook as she spoke. Raisa was her name. Her mother’s name was Dusia, who was taller and broader than her daughter and wore a large silver cross over her dark dress. Dusia made the sign of the cross on Alexander, and said, “God will take care of you, Alexander. Don’t you worry.”