Lifting his black eyes to her, as if measuring her emotions, Deda spoke. “Tanechka, what are you even thinking?”
She tried to make her face calm. “Nothing.”
“What’s going on in that head of yours? It’s war. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Somehow I don’t think you do.” Deda paused. “Tania, the life you know is over. Mark my words. From this day forward, nothing will be as you have imagined.”
Pasha exclaimed, “Yes! We’re going to boot the Germans back to hell, where they belong.” He smiled at Tatiana, who smiled back.
Mama and Papa were quiet.
Papa said, “Yes. And then what?”
Babushka went to sit on the sofa next to Deda. Placing her large hand on his, she pursed her lips and nodded, in a way that showed Tatiana that Babushka knew things and was keeping them to herself. Deda knew, too, but whatever it was they knew did not measure up to Tatiana’s tumult. That’s all right, she thought. They don’t understand. They are not young.
Mama broke the silence of seven people. “What are you doing, Georgi Vasilievich?”
“Too many children, Irina Fedorovna. Too many children to worry about,” he said dolefully to her, struggling with Pasha’s suitcase.
“Really, Papa?” said Tatiana. “Which of your children would you like not to worry about?”
Without replying, Papa went to Pasha’s drawers in the armoire they all shared and started haphazardly throwing the boy’s clothes into the suitcase.
“I’m sending him away, Irina. I’m sending him away to camp in Tolmachevo. He was going to go anyway next week with Volodya Iglenko. He’ll just go a little sooner. Volodya will go with him. Nina will be glad to have them go a week early. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”
Mama opened her mouth and shook her head. “Tolmachevo? He will be safe there? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” said Papa.
“Absolutely not,” said Pasha. “Papa, war has started! I’m not going to camp. I’m going to enlist.”
Good for you, Pasha, thought Tatiana, but Papa whipped around to glare at her brother, and, sucking in her breath, Tatiana suddenly understood everything.
Grabbing Pasha by the shoulders, Papa started to shake him. “What are you saying? Are you crazy? Enlist?”
Pasha fought to break free. Papa would not let go.
“Papa, let go of me.”
“Pavel, you’re my son, and you will listen to me. The first thing you’re going to do is get out of Leningrad. Then we’ll discuss enlisting. Right now we have a train to catch.”
There was something embarrassing and awkward about a physical scene in a small room with so many people watching. Tatiana wanted to turn away, but there was nowhere to turn. Across from her were her grandmother and grandfather, behind her was Dasha, to the left of her were her mother and father and brother. She looked down at her hands and closed her eyes. She imagined lying on her back in the middle of a summer field eating sweet clover. No one was around her.
How did things change in a matter of seconds?
She opened her eyes and blinked. One second. She blinked again. Another second.
Seconds ago she was sleeping.
Seconds ago Molotov spoke.
Seconds ago she was exhilarated.
Seconds ago Papa spoke.
And now Pasha was leaving. Blink, blink, blink.
Deda and Babushka were diplomatically silent, as always. Deda, God love him, never missed an opportunity to keep quiet. Babushka was quite the opposite of him in that respect, but in this particular instance she had obviously decided to follow his lead. Perhaps it was his hand tightly squeezing her leg each time she opened her mouth, but for whatever reason, she did not speak.
Dasha, unafraid of their father and not discouraged by the distant prospect of war, got up and said, “Papa, this is crazy. Why are you sending him away? The Germans are nowhere near Leningrad. You heard Comrade Molotov. They’re at the Crimea. That’s thousands of kilometers from here.”
“Be quiet, Dashenka,” said Papa. “You have no idea about the Germans.”
“They’re not here, Papa,” Dasha repeated in her strong voice that allowed for no argument. Tatiana wished she could speak as persuasively as Dasha. Her own voice was echo soft, as if some female hormone hadn’t come her way yet. In many ways it barely had. She’d got her monthlies only last year, and even then . . . she barely got her monthlies. They were more like quarterlies. They came in the winter, decided they didn’t like it, and left till fall. In the fall they came and stayed as if they were never leaving. Since then Tatiana had seen them twice. Maybe if they came more often, Tatiana would have a meaningful voice like Dasha’s. You could set the clock by Dasha’s monthlies.
“Daria! I’m not going to argue with you on this point!” exclaimed Papa. “Your brother is not staying in Leningrad. Pasha, get dressed. Put on some trousers and a nice shirt.”
“Papa, please.”
“Pasha! I said get dressed. We cannot waste time. I guarantee those children’s camps are going to completely fill up in one hour, and then I won’t be able to get you in.”
Perhaps it was a mistake to tell that to Pasha, because Tatiana had never seen her brother move more slowly. He must have spent a good ten minutes looking for the one dress shirt he owned. They all averted their eyes while Pasha changed. Tatiana closed her eyes again, searching for her meadow, for the pleasant summer smell of white cherry and nettles. She wanted some blueberries. She realized she was a little hungry. Opening her eyes, she glanced around the room. “I don’t want to go,” complained Pasha.
“It’s just for a little while, son,” said Papa. “It’s a precaution. You’ll be safe in camp, out of harm’s way. You’ll stay maybe a month, until we see how the war is going. Then you’ll come back, and if there’s evacuation, we’ll get you and your sisters out.”
Yes! Tatiana wanted to hear that.
“Georg.” Deda spoke softly. “Georg.”
“Yes, Papochka?” Tatiana’s father said respectfully. No one loved Deda more than Papa, not even Tatiana.
“Georg. You cannot keep the boy out of conscription. You can’t.”
“Of course I can. He is only seventeen.”
Deda shook his neat gray head. “Exactly—seventeen. They’ll take him.”
The look of trapped fear slid across Papa’s face and was gone. “They won’t take him, Papochka,” said Papa hoarsely. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” He was clearly unable to say what he felt: everyone stop talking and let me save my son the only way I know how. Deda sat back against the sofa cushions.
Feeling bad for her father and wanting to be helpful, Tatiana began to say, “We’re not yet—” but Mama cut in with, “Pashechka, take a sweater, darling.”
“I’m not taking a sweater, Mama,” he exclaimed. “It’s the middle of summer!”
“We had frost two weeks ago.”
“And now it’s hot. I’m not taking it.”
“Listen to your mother, Pavel,” said Papa. “The nights will be cold in Tolmachevo. Take the sweater.” Pasha sighed deeply, rebelliously, but took the sweater and threw it inside the suitcase. Papa closed it and locked it. “Everyone, listen. Here’s my plan . . .”
“What plan?” Tatiana said with mild frustration. “I hope this plan includes some food. Because—”
“I know why,” Papa snapped. “Now, be quiet and listen. This concerns you, too.” He started telling them what he needed them to do.
Tatiana fell back on the bed. If they weren’t evacuating this instant, she didn’t want to hear any more.
Pasha went to boys’ camp every summer, in Tolmachevo, Luga, or Gatchina. Pasha preferred Luga because it had the best river for swimming. Tatiana preferred Pasha in Luga because he was close to their dacha, their summer house, and she could go and visit him. The Luga camp was only five kilometers from their dacha straight through the woods. Tolmachevo,
on the other hand, was twenty kilometers from Luga, and there the counselors were strict and expected you up by sunrise. Pasha said it was a bit like being in the army. Well, now it would be almost like enlisting, she thought, not listening to her father speak.
She felt Dasha pinch her hard on the leg. “Ouch!” she said, deliberately loudly, hoping her sister would get into trouble for hurting her. No one cared. No one said anything. They didn’t even look her way. All eyes were on Pasha as he stood—reedy and awkward in his brown trousers and frayed beige shirt—in the middle of the room, in the half bloom of late adolescence, so beloved. And he knew it.
He was everyone’s favorite child, favorite grandchild, favorite brother.
Because he was the only son.
Tatiana lifted herself off the bed and came to stand by Pasha. Putting her arm around him, she said, “Cheer up. You’re so lucky. You’re going to camp. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stepped slightly away from her, but only slightly; stepped away not because he was uncomfortable with her, Tatiana knew, but because he did not feel himself to be lucky. She knew that her brother wanted to become a soldier more than anything. He didn’t want to be in some silly camp. “Pasha,” she said cheerfully, “first you have to beat me in war. Then you can enlist and fight the Germans.”
“Shut up, Tania,” said Pasha.
“Shut up, Tania,” said Papa.
“Papa,” said Tatiana, “can I pack my suitcase? I want to go to camp, too.”
“Pasha, are you ready? Let’s go,” said Papa, not even replying to Tatiana. There were no girls’ camps.
“I have a joke for you, dear Pasha,” said Tatiana, not wanting to give up and not put off by her brother’s reluctance.
“Don’t want to hear your stupid jokes, dear Tania.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Why do I doubt it?”
Papa said, “Tatiana! This is no time for jokes.”
Deda intervened on Tatiana’s behalf. “Georg, let the girl speak.”
Nodding at Deda, Tatiana said, “A soldier is being led to his execution. ‘Some bad weather we’re having,’ he says to his convoy. ‘Look who’s complaining,’ they say. ‘We have to go back.’ ”
Nobody moved. No one even smiled.
Pasha raised his eyebrows, pinched her, and whispered, “Nice going, Tania.”
She sighed. Someday her spirit would soar, she thought, but not this day.
2
“Tatiana, no long good-byes. You’ll see your brother in a month. Come downstairs and hold the front door open for us. Your mother’s back is bothering her,” Papa told her as they got ready to carry Pasha’s things along with bags of extra food for camp.
“All right, Papa.”
The apartment was laid out like a train—a long corridor with nine rooms attached. There were two kitchens, one at the front of the apartment, one at the back. The bathrooms and the toilets were attached to the kitchens. In the nine rooms lived twenty-five people. Five years ago there were thirty-three people in the apartment, but eight people had moved or died or—
Tatiana’s family lived in the back. It was better to live in the back. The rear kitchen was the bigger of the two, and it had stairs leading up to the roof and down to the courtyard; Tatiana liked taking the rear stairs because she could sneak out without passing crazy Slavin’s room.
The rear kitchen had a bigger stove than the front kitchen and a bigger bath. And only three other families shared the rear kitchen and bathroom with the Metanovs—the Petrovs, the Sarkovs, and crazy Slavin, who never cooked and never bathed.
Slavin was not in the hall at the moment. Good.
As Tatiana walked down the corridor to the front door, she passed the shared telephone. Petr Petrov was using it, and Tatiana had time to think how lucky they were that their telephone worked. Tatiana’s cousin Marina lived in an apartment where the telephone was broken all the time—faulty wiring. It was difficult to get in touch with her, unless Tatiana wrote or went to see her personally, which she did not do often, since Marina lived on the other side of town, across the river Neva.
As Tatiana neared Petr, she saw that he was very agitated. He was obviously waiting for a connection, and though the cord was too short to allow him to pace, he was pacing with his whole body while standing in one place. Petr got his connection just as Tatiana was passing him in the narrow corridor; Tatiana knew this because he screamed into the phone. “Luba! Is that you? Is that you, Luba?”
So unexpected and sharp was his cry that Tatiana jumped away from him, knocking into the wall. Getting her bearings, she passed him quickly and then slowed down to listen.
“Luba, can you hear me? We have a bad connection. Everyone is trying to get through. Luba, come back to Leningrad! Did you hear? War has started. Take whatever you can, leave the rest, and get the next train. Luba! No, not in an hour, not tomorrow—now, do you understand? Come back immediately!” Short pause. “Forget our things, I tell you! Are you listening to me, woman?”
Turning around, Tatiana caught a glimpse of Petr’s stiff back.
“Tatiana!” Papa was glaring at her with an expression that said, if you don’t come here right now . . .
But Tatiana dawdled to hear more. Her father yelled across the corridor, “Tatiana Georgievna! Come here and help.” Like her mother, her father said her full name only when he wanted Tatiana to know how serious he was. Tatiana hurried, wondering about Petr Petrov and about why her brother couldn’t open the front door himself.
Volodya Iglenko, who was Pasha’s age and was going to the Tolmachevo camp with him, walked downstairs with the Metanovs, holding his own suitcase and opening his own door. He was one of four brothers. He had to do things for himself. “Pasha, let me show you,” Tatiana said quietly. “It’s like this. You put your hand on the handle, and you pull. The door opens. You walk outside. It shuts behind you. Let’s see if you can do it.”
“Just open the door, Tania,” said Pasha. “Can’t you see I’m carrying my suitcase?”
Out on the street they stood still for a moment.
“Tania,” said Papa. “Take the hundred and fifty rubles I gave you and go and buy us some food. But don’t dawdle, like always. Go immediately. Do you hear?”
“I hear, Papa. I’ll go immediately.”
Pasha snorted. “You’re going back to bed,” he whispered to her.
Mama said, “Come on, we better go.”
“Yes,” Papa said. “Come on, Pasha.”
“So long,” Tatiana said, knocking Pasha on the arm.
He grunted unhappily in reply and pulled her hair. “Tie your hair up before you go out, will you?” he said. “You’ll scare off the passersby.”
“Shut up,” Tatiana said lightly. “Or I’ll cut it off completely.”
“All right, let’s go now,” said Papa, tugging at Pasha.
Tatiana said good-bye to Volodya, waved to her mother, took one last look at Pasha’s reluctant back, and returned upstairs.
Deda and Babushka were on their way out with Dasha. They were going to the bank to get their savings out.
Tatiana was left alone.
She breathed a sigh of relief and fell onto her bed.
Tatiana knew she had been born too late into the family. She and Pasha. She should have been born in 1917, like Dasha. After her there were other children, but not for long: two brothers, one born in 1919 and one in 1921, died of typhus. A girl, born in 1922, died of scarlet fever in 1923. Then in 1924, as Lenin was dying and the New Economic Plan—that short-lived return to free enterprise—was coming to an end, while Stalin was scheming to enlarge his power base in the presidium through the firing squad, Pasha and Tatiana were born seven minutes apart to a very tired twenty-five-year-old Irina Fedorovna. The family wanted Pasha, their boy, but Tatiana was a stunning surprise. No one had twins. Who had twins? Twins were almost unheard of. And there was no room for her. She and Pasha had to share a crib for the first three years of their life. Si
nce then Tatiana slept with Dasha.
But the fact remained—she was taking up valuable bed space. Dasha couldn’t get married because Tania took up the space where Dasha’s prospective husband would lie. Dasha often expressed this to Tatiana. She would say, “Because of you I’m going to die an old maid.” To which Tatiana would immediately reply, “Soon, I hope. So I can marry and have my husband sleep next to me.”
After graduating from school last month, Tatiana had gotten a job so she wouldn’t have to spend another idle summer in Luga reading and rowing boats and playing silly games with the kids down the dusty road. Tatiana had spent all of her childhood summers at their dacha in Luga and on nearby Lake Ilmen in Novgorod, where her cousin Marina had a dacha with her parents.
In the past Tatiana had looked forward to cucumbers in June, tomatoes in July, and maybe some raspberries in August, looked forward to mushroom picking and blueberry picking, to fishing on the river—all such small pleasures. But this summer was going to be different.
Tatiana realized she was tired of being a child. At the same time she didn’t know how to be anything else, so she got a job at the Kirov factory, in the south of Leningrad. That was nearly adult. She now worked and constantly read the newspaper, shaking her head at France, at Marshal Pétain, at Dunkirk, at Neville Chamberlain. She tried to be very serious, nodding purposefully at the crises in the Low Countries and the Far East. Those were Tatiana’s concessions to adulthood—Kirov and Pravda.
She liked her job at Kirov, the biggest industrial plant in Leningrad and probably in all of the Soviet Union. Tatiana had heard that somewhere in that factory workers built tanks. But she was skeptical. She had not seen one.
She made silverware. Her job was to put the knives, forks, and spoons into boxes. She was the second-to-last person in the assembly line. The girl after her taped the boxes shut. Tatiana felt bad for that girl; taping was just so boring. At least Tatiana got to handle three different types of utensils.
Working at Kirov was going to be fun this summer, Tatiana thought, lying on her bed, but not as much fun as evacuation would have been.