whispered.
“Cooking on a little Primus stove with kerosene got us down. Living in the dark. Living with unclean smells, it blackened our spirits in ways we never imagined. My mother took to drink. Well, why not? Everyone drank.”
“Yes,” said Tatiana. Her father drank.
“And after she drank, and the toilet was occupied by other foreigners living in our Moscow palace”—he paused—”
not
like the European—my mother would trot to the local park and relieve herself in the public toilets there—just a hole in the ground for my mother.” He shivered at those words, and Tatiana shivered, too, in the balmy Leningrad evening. Gently she touched Alexander’s shoulder again, and because he didn’t move away, and because they sat canopied under the covering trees, and because there was not another soul around, Tatiana pressed her slender fingers against the fabric of his uniform and did not take them away.
“On Saturdays,” Alexander continued, “my father and I—like you, your mother, and sister—would go to the public baths and wait two hours in line to get in. My mother went by herself on Fridays, wishing, I think, that she had given birth to a daughter, so she wouldn’t be all alone, so she wouldn’t suffer over me so much.”
“Did she suffer over you?”
“Tremendously. At first I was all right, but as the years went by, I started to blame them for my life. We were living in Moscow at the time. Seventy of us, idealists—and not just idealists, but idealists with children—lived as you do, sharing three toilets and three small kitchens on one long floor.”
“Hmm,” Tatiana said.
“How do
you
like it?”
She thought. “There are only twenty-five of us on our floor. But… what can I say? I like our
dacha
in Luga better.” She glanced at him. “The tomatoes are fresh, and the morning air smells so clean.”
“Yes!” Alexander exclaimed, as if she had said the magic word:
clean.
“And,” she added, “I like not being on top of other people all the time. Having a little bit of…” She trailed off. She couldn’t think of the right word.
His legs outstretched, Alexander turned a little more to her, looking into her face.
“You know what I mean?” Tatiana said diffidently.
He nodded. “I do, Tania.”
“So should we rejoice that the Germans attacked us?”
“That’s just trading Satan for the devil.”
Shaking her head, Tatiana said, “Don’t let them catch you talking like that.” But she was youthfully curious. “Which is Satan?”
“Stalin. He is marginally more sane.”
“You and my grandfather,” Tatiana murmured.
“What, your grandfather agrees with me?” Alexander smiled.
“No.” She smiled back. “You agree with my grandfather.”
“Tania, don’t go kidding yourself for a minute. Hitler may be viewed by some people, especially down in the Ukraine, as their deliverer from Stalin, but you’ll see how quickly he will destroy those illusions. The way he destroyed them in Austria and Czechoslovakia and Poland. In any case, after the war is over, whatever the outcome for the world, I have a feeling that here in the Soviet Union we will all go back to the same place.” Alexander struggled with his words. “Have you been… protected by your family?” he asked with concern. “From the way it has been?”
Pressing her fingers into his shoulder, Tatiana said, “We really haven’t had much personal experience with it.” She didn’t like to talk about it. It frightened her a little. “I once heard that someone at Papa’s work was arrested. And a man and his daughter at the apartment vanished a few years ago, and the Sarkovs came to live in their place.” She contemplated her words. Her father maintained that the mordant and heavyset Sarkovs were NKVD informers. “I have been somewhat protected, yes.”
“Well, not me,” said Alexander, taking out a cigarette and his lighter. “Not at all. And so I cannot turn my mind away from my parents, who
“Cooking on a little Primus stove with kerosene got us down. Living in the dark. Living with unclean smells, it blackened our spirits in ways we never imagined. My mother took to drink. Well, why not? Everyone drank.”
“Yes,” said Tatiana. Her father drank.
“And after she drank, and the toilet was occupied by other foreigners living in our Moscow palace”—he paused—”
not
like the European—my mother would trot to the local park and relieve herself in the public toilets there—just a hole in the ground for my mother.” He shivered at those words, and Tatiana shivered, too, in the balmy Leningrad evening. Gently she touched Alexander’s shoulder again, and because he didn’t move away, and because they sat canopied under the covering trees, and because there was not another soul around, Tatiana pressed her slender fingers against the fabric of his uniform and did not take them away.
“On Saturdays,” Alexander continued, “my father and I—like you, your mother, and sister—would go to the public baths and wait two hours in line to get in. My mother went by herself on Fridays, wishing, I think, that she had given birth to a daughter, so she wouldn’t be all alone, so she wouldn’t suffer over me so much.”
“Did she suffer over you?”
“Tremendously. At first I was all right, but as the years went by, I started to blame them for my life. We were living in Moscow at the time. Seventy of us, idealists—and not just idealists, but idealists with children—lived as you do, sharing three toilets and three small kitchens on one long floor.”
“Hmm,” Tatiana said.
“How do
you
like it?”
She thought. “There are only twenty-five of us on our floor. But… what can I say? I like our
dacha
in Luga better.” She glanced at him. “The tomatoes are fresh, and the morning air smells so clean.”
“Yes!” Alexander exclaimed, as if she had said the magic word:
clean.
“And,” she added, “I like not being on top of other people all the time. Having a little bit of…” She trailed off. She couldn’t think of the right word.
His legs outstretched, Alexander turned a little more to her, looking into her face.
“You know what I mean?” Tatiana said diffidently.
He nodded. “I do, Tania.”
“So should we rejoice that the Germans attacked us?”
“That’s just trading Satan for the devil.”
Shaking her head, Tatiana said, “Don’t let them catch you talking like that.” But she was youthfully curious. “Which is Satan?”
“Stalin. He is marginally more sane.”
“You and my grandfather,” Tatiana murmured.
“What, your grandfather agrees with me?” Alexander smiled.
“No.” She smiled back. “You agree with my grandfather.”
“Tania, don’t go kidding yourself for a minute. Hitler may be viewed by some people, especially down in the Ukraine, as their deliverer from Stalin, but you’ll see how quickly he will destroy those illusions. The way he destroyed them in Austria and Czechoslovakia and Poland. In any case, after the war is over, whatever the outcome for the world, I have a feeling that here in the Soviet Union we will all go back to the same place.” Alexander struggled with his words. “Have you been… protected by your family?” he asked with concern. “From the way it has been?”
Pressing her fingers into his shoulder, Tatiana said, “We really haven’t had much personal experience with it.” She didn’t like to talk about it. It frightened her a little. “I once heard that someone at Papa’s work was arrested. And a man and his daughter at the apartment vanished a few years ago, and the Sarkovs came to live in their place.” She contemplated her words. Her father maintained that the mordant and heavyset Sarkovs were NKVD informers. “I have been somewhat protected, yes.”
“Well, not me,” said Alexander, taking out a cigarette and his lighter. “Not at all. And so I cannot turn my mind away from my parents, who
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