Tatiana and Alexander by Paullina Simons

and held it close to his body to warm himself up. He didn’t care about losing oxygen any longer.
    The guard saw and yelled not to touch the lamp. Alexander did not put the lamp down. The guard came in and took the lamp out, leaving Alexander cold and in darkness again.
    His back wound, though having been bandaged thoroughly by Tatiana, was throbbing. The dressing was wrapped around his stomach. He wished he could wrap his whole body in the white bandage.
    He needed as little of his body touching the cold as possible. Alexander stood in the middle of his cell, so that only his feet were on the icy floor. He stood and imagined warmth.
    His hands were behind his head, they were behind his back, they were in front of his chest.
    He imagined…
    Tania standing in front of him, her head on his bare chest, listening for his heart, and then lifting her gaze at him and smiling. She was standing tiptoed on his feet holding on to his arms, as she reached up with her neck extended and lifted her head to him.
    Warmth.
    There was no morning and no night. There was no brightness and no light. He had nothing to measure time with. The images of her were constant, he could not measure how long he had been thinking of her. He tried counting and found himself swaying from exhaustion. He needed to sleep.
    Sleep or cold? Sleep or cold?
    Sleep.
    He huddled in the corner and shook uncontrollably, trying to stave off misery. Was it the following day, the following night?
    The following day from what? The following night from what?
    They’re going to starve me to death. They’re going to thirst me to death. Then they will beat me to death. But first my feet will freeze and then my legs and then my insides, they will all turn to ice. And my blood, too, and my heart, and I will forget.
    Tamara and Her Stories, 1935
    There was an old babushka named Tamara who had lived for twenty years on their floor. Her door was always open and sometimes after school Alexander would stop in and talk to her. He noticed that old people loved the company of young people. It gave them an opportunity to impart their life experience to the young. Tamara, sitting in her uncomfortable wooden chair near the window one afternoon, was telling Alexander that her husband was arrested for religious reasons in 1928 and given ten years—
    “Wait, Tamara, Mikhailovna, ten years where?”
    “Forced labor camp, of course. Siberia. Where else?”
    “They convicted him and sent him there to work?”
    “To prison…”
    “To work for free ?”
    “Oh, Alexander, you’re interrupting, and I need to tell you something.”
    He fell quiet.
    “The prostitutes near Arbat were arrested in 1930 and not only were they back on the street months later but had also been reunited with their families in the old cities they used to frequent. But my husband, and the band of religious men, will not be allowed to return, certainly not to Moscow.”
    “Only three more years,” Alexander said slowly. “Three more years of forced labor.”
    Tamara shook her head and lowered her voice. “I received a telegram from the Kolyma authorities in 1932— without right of correspondence , it said. You know what that means, don’t you?”
    Alexander didn’t want even to hazard a guess.
    “It means he is no longer alive to correspond with,” said Tamara, her voice shaking and her head lowering.
    She told him how, from the church down the block, three priests were arrested and given seven years for not putting away the tools of capitalism, which in their case was the organized and personal and unrepentant belief in Jesus Christ.
    “Also forced labor camp?”
    “Oh, Alexander!”
    He stopped. She continued. “But the funny thing is—have you noticed the hotel down the street that had the harlots right outside a few months ago?”
    “Hmm.” Alexander noticed.
    “Well, have you noticed how they all disappeared?”
    “Hmm.” Alexander noticed that too.
    “They were taken away. For disturbing the