The Bronze Horseman (The Bronze Horseman #1)

The Bronze Horseman (The Bronze Horseman #1) Page 32

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 Mama had withdrawn into her work.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.