City of Thieves by David Benioff Page B

always hated, fake dialogue invented by some Party-approved journalist for one of those buoyant “Heroes at the Front!” articles Truth for Young Pioneers always ran.
    “So he stopped crying?”
    “Well, he stopped right then. Just sniffled for a bit. But that night he was at it again. That’s not really the point.”
    “What’s the point?”
    “There’s no time for grieving. The Nazis want us dead. We can cry about it as much as we want, but that won’t help us fight them.”
    “Who’s crying? I’m not crying.”
    Kolya wasn’t listening to me. Something was caught between his two front teeth and he tried to pry it out with his fingernail.
    “Belak stepped on a land mine a few days later. Nasty business, land mines. What they do to a man’s body. . . .”
    His voice trailed off, contemplating his old officer’s mangled body, and I felt bad that I had insulted the lieutenant in my mind. Maybe his words were clichéd, but he was trying to help the young soldier, to distract him from the tragedy at home, and that mattered more than original phrasing.
    Kolya banged on the building door again. He waited for a moment, sighed, stared at the solitary cloud drifting across the sky.
    “I’d like to live in Argentina for a year or two. I’ve never seen the ocean. Have you?”
    “No.”
    “You are grumpy, my Israelite. Tell me why.”
    “Go fuck a pig.”
    “Ah! There it is!” He gave me a little shove, danced away, moving his hands like a boxer, pretending to spar with me.
    I sat down on the doorstep. Even that small movement caused a swarm of sparks to fly across my vision. We had drunk more tea at Sonya’s when we woke up, but there was no food, and I was saving the rest of my library candy. I looked up at Kolya, who was now watching me with some concern.
    “What were you saying last night?” I asked him. “When you were, you know, when you were with her.”
    Kolya squinted, confused at the question.
    “With whom? With Sonya? What did I say?”
    “You were talking to her the whole time.”
    “When we made love?”
    The phrase itself was embarrassing. I nodded. Kolya frowned.
    “I didn’t know I said anything.”
    “You were talking the whole time!”
    “The usual stuff, I suppose.” A sudden smile lit his face. He sat beside me on the lintel step. “But of course, if you’ve never visited a country, you probably don’t know the customs. You want to know what to say.”
    “I was just asking a question.”
    “Yes, but you’re curious. Why are you curious? Because you’re a little bit nervous. You want to do things properly when you get the chance. This is very smart of you. I’m serious! Quit your scowling. You take compliments worse than anyone I know. Now, listen: women don’t like silent lovers. They’re giving you something precious and they want to know you appreciate it. Give me a little nod to show you’re listening.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Every woman has a dream lover and a nightmare lover. The nightmare lover, he just lies on top of her, crushing her with his belly, jabbing his little tool in and out till he’s finished. He’s got his eyes clenched shut, he doesn’t say a word; essentially he’s just jerking off in the poor girl’s pussy. Now the dream lover—”
    We heard the shush of sled runners on hard-packed snow and turned to see two girls dragging a sled loaded down with buckets of ice from the river. They were heading straight toward us and I stood, brushing off my coat, relieved that Kolya’s lecture had been interrupted. Kolya stood beside me.
    “Ladies! Do you need a hand carrying that ice?”
    The girls exchanged a glance. They were both about my age, sisters or cousins, with the same broad faces and downy upper lips. They were Piter girls, untrusting of strangers, but at the same time, climbing the stairs to their apartment with four pails of ice . . .
    “Who are you here to see?” asked one of them, with a librarian’s prim correctitude.
    “We’d