The Bronze Horseman (52 page)

“I fight for you every day,” said Alexander, walking faster again.

Pulling on him to slow down, Tatiana laughed soundlessly, the spirit taken away from her by the weakness of her body. “Oh, asking Dasha to marry you is fighting for me, is it?”

From above, Tatiana heard the thunderous burst of clapping followed by a high-pitched warble, becoming more insistent, but not nearly as insistent as the sirens of her heart. “Now that Dimitri is a wounded dystrophic and out of the picture, you’re getting brave!” Tatiana exclaimed. “Now that you think you don’t have to worry about him, you are allowing yourself all sorts of liberties in front of my family, and now you’re getting angry with me over what’s long passed. Well, I won’t have it. You’re feeling bad? Go and marry Dasha. That’ll make you feel better.”

Alexander stopped walking and pulled her into a doorway.

They got caught in the downpour. Bombs bombs bombs.

“I didn’t
ask
her to marry me!” he yelled. “I
agreed
to marry Dasha to get Dimitri off your back! Or have you forgotten?”

Tatiana yelled, “Oh, so
that
was your grand plan! You were going to marry Dasha for
me
! How thoughtful of you, Alexander, how
humane
!”

The words were coming out angry, hurled at him between her frozen breaths, and Tatiana grabbed his coat as she pulled her body against him and pressed her face into his chest. “How could you!” she yelled. “How could you…” she whispered. “You asked her to
marry
you, Alexander…” Did she yell that or whisper it? Tatiana shook him—it was weak and pathetic—and she pounded his chest with her small mittened fists, but it wasn’t pounding, it was tapping. Alexander grabbed her and hugged her to him so hard that the breath left her body.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “What are we doing?” He didn’t let go. She closed her eyes, her fists remaining on his chest.

Waiting it out in the doorway, she said, looking up at him, “What’s the matter, Shura? Are you afraid for me? Do you feel I’m close to death?”

“No,” he said, not looking down at her.

“Do you have a clear picture of me dying?” she asked, pulling away and going to stand on the other side of the doorway.

When at last Alexander spoke, his choking voice revealed his emotion. “When you die, you’ll be wearing your white dress with red roses, and your hair will be long and falling around your shoulders. When they shoot you, up on your damn roof or walking alone on the street, your blood will look like another red rose on your dress, and no one will notice, not even you when you bleed out for Mother Russia.”

Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, Tatiana said, “I took the dress off, didn’t I?”

Alexander stared onto the street. “It doesn’t matter. Think about how little actually matters now. Look what’s happening. Why are we even standing here? Let’s walk home. Walk home, holding your 300 grams of bread. Let’s go.”

Tatiana didn’t move.

He didn’t move. “Tania, why are we still pretending?” he asked. “Why? For whose sake? We have minutes left. And not good minutes. All the layers of our life are being stripped away, and most of our pretenses, too, even mine, and yet we still continue with the lies. Why?”

“I’ll tell you why! I’ll tell you for whose sake!” Tatiana exclaimed. “For
her
sake. Because she loves you. Because you want to comfort her in the minutes she has left. That’s why.”

“What about you, Tania?” Alexander asked, his voice cracking. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, staring at her as if he wanted her to say something. She said nothing.

At last he spoke. “Don’t
you
want comfort in the minutes you have left?”

“No,” she said weakly. “This isn’t about me or you and me anymore.” She lowered her head. “I can take it. She can’t.”

“I can’t take it either,” said Alexander.

Tatiana raised her eyes and said intensely, “You can take it, Alexander Barrington. And more. Now, stop it.”

“Fine,” he said, “I’ll stop it.”

“I want you to promise me something.”

His weary eyes blinked at her.

“Promise me you won’t…”

“Won’t what?” Alexander asked from across the doorway. “Marry her or break her heart?”

A small tear ran down Tatiana’s face. Gulping and pulling her coat tighter around herself, she whispered, “Break her heart.”

He looked at her in disbelief. She couldn’t believe herself either. “Tania, don’t torture me,” Alexander said.

“Shura, promise me.”

“One of your promises or one of mine?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not hearing a promise.”

“Fine. I promise, if you will promise me…”

“What?”

“That you will never wear your white dress again, never give away your bread, never go out onto the roof. If you do, I will tell her everything instantly. Instantly, do you hear?”

“I hear,” Tatiana muttered, thinking that really wasn’t very fair.

“Promise me,” Alexander said, taking her hand and pulling her to him, “that you will never do any less than your best to survive.”

“All right,” she said, looking up, her eyes pouring her heart into him. “I promise.”

“Is that one of your promises or one of mine?”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

He took her face in his hands. “If you stay alive, then I swear to you,” Alexander whispered, pressing her to him, “I won’t break your sister’s heart.”

The following morning Tatiana went without him to the store. She had just gotten the family their kilo of bread, light even in her weak arms, and was about to walk out when suddenly she felt a blow to the back of her head and another blow to her right ear. She buckled and watched helplessly as a young boy of maybe fifteen grabbed her bread and before she could utter a sound, shoved it into his hyena mouth, his eyes wild and desperate. The other customers beat him with their purses, but under their blows he continued to swallow her bread until it was all gone, every last bite. One of the store managers came out and hit him with a stick. Tatiana yelled, “No!” but he fell, and his eyes from the floor were still wild, a destroyed animal’s eyes. Blood dripping out of her ear where he had hit her, Tatiana bent down to help him up, but he shoved her away, got up, and ran out the door.

The salesclerk couldn’t give her more bread. “Please,” said Tatiana. “How can I go home with nothing?”

The clerk, her eyes sympathetic, said, “I can do nothing. The
NKVD
will shoot me for giving away bread. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Please,” she begged. “For my family.”

“Tanechka, I would give you bread, but I can’t. The other day they shot three women for forging ration cards. Right on the street. And left them there. Go on, honey. Come back tomorrow.”

“Come back tomorrow,” muttered Tatiana as she left the store.

She could not go home. In fact, she did not go home, but sat in the bomb shelter and then appeared at the hospital to work. Vera was gone; Tatiana’s punch card was gone; no one cared. She went and slept in one of the cold rooms, and in the cafeteria she received some clear liquid and a few spoonfuls of gruel, but there was no extra for her to take home. She looked for Vera to no avail. She sat at the nurses’ station, then went into one of the rooms and sat with a dying soldier. As she held his hand, he asked if she was a nun. She said no, not really, but you can tell me anything.

“I have nothing to tell you,” the man said. “Why are you bleeding?”

She began to explain, but really there was nothing to say, except “for the same reason you’re lying here in the hospital.”

Tatiana thought of Alexander, how he kept trying to protect her. From Leningrad, from Dimitri, from working at the hospital—the brutal, infectious, contagious place. From the bricks in Luga. From the German bombs, from the hunger. He didn’t want her to do duty on the roof. He didn’t want her to walk to Fontanka alone or without the absurd helmet he had given her, or to sleep without all her clothes. He wanted her to clean herself, even with cold water, and he wanted her to brush her teeth even though they had no food on them. He wanted just one thing.

He wanted her to live.

That brought a bit of relief.

A bit of comfort.

That would have to be good enough.

When she got home, around seven in the evening, she found her family frantic with worry. After she told them what had happened, they were upset that she hadn’t just come home. “We would have understood,” said Mama. “We don’t care about the bread.”

Dasha said she had sent Alexander out to look for her.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, Dasha,” said Tatiana wearily. “You’re bound to get him killed.”

Tatiana was surprised her family was not
more
upset with her. Then she found out why. Alexander had brought them some oil—and soybeans—and half an onion. Dasha had made a delicious stew, adding a tablespoon of flour and a bit of salt. “Where is this stew?” Tatiana asked.

“There wasn’t a lot, Tanechka,” said Dasha.

“We thought you’d eat wherever you were,” added Mama.

“You ate, right?” asked Babushka.

“We were so hungry,” said Marina.

“Yes,” Tatiana said, deeply discouraged. “Don’t worry about me.”

Alexander came back around eight. He had been out for three hours. The first thing he said was, “What happened to you?”

Tatiana told him.

“Where have you been all day?” he demanded, talking to her as if there were no one else in the room.

“I went to the hospital. To see if they had some food there.”

“They didn’t.”

“Not much. I did have some oatmeal.” White water.

“It’s all right,” Alexander said, taking off his coat. “There’s some stew.”

Coughs. Averted eyes.

Alexander didn’t understand. He turned to Dasha. “I brought you soybeans. Dasha? You said you were making stew.”

“We did, Alexander,” said Dasha sheepishly. “But there was so little. We ate it.”

“You ate it and didn’t leave
her
any?” He turned red.

“Alexander, it’s all right,” said Tatiana anxiously. “They didn’t leave you any either.”

Dasha laughed nervously. “You can eat at the barracks, and she said she ate, dear.”

“She is a liar!” he screamed.

“I did eat,” Tatiana put in.

“You’re a liar!” Alexander screamed at her. “I forbid you,” he yelled to Tatiana, “I forbid you to get their food for them. Give them back their ration cards and tell them all to get their own damn food. I never want to see you getting their bread for them if they can’t save you some of the food I bring!”

Tatiana stood quietly, her entire heart so full that for a moment she did not need any bread at all.

Turning to Dasha, Alexander said, out of breath, “Who is going to get your bread for you if she dies? Who is going to carry soup back home in a pail? Who is going to bring you porridge?”

Mama said disagreeably, “I bring porridge from the factory.”

“You eat half of it before you set foot in the house!” yelled Alexander. “What, you think I don’t understand? You think I don’t know that Marina finishes her coupons before the month is out and then demands bread from Tania, who is getting beaten up while you’re still sleeping?”

“I’m not sleeping. I sew,” said Mama. “I sew every morning.”

“Tania,” Alexander stated, glaring at her, “you are not getting them their rations again. Understand?” Again he was talking to her as if there were no one else present.

Tatiana muttered that she was going to go and wash. When she came back, Alexander was sitting at the table smoking. He was calmer. “Come here,” he said quietly.

Marina was in the other room with Mama. Babushka was down the hall with Nina Iglenko.

“Where is Dasha?” Tatiana said, moving slowly toward him. She saw his eyes.

“Getting a can opener from Nina. Come closer.”

Standing in front of him, Tatiana said quietly, “Shura, please. Where is your indifferent face? You promised me.”

He stared into her sweater.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right.”

“You’re making me feel worse,” Alexander said. “Don’t do it.” Reaching out, he placed his hand on her hip. A small groan of anguish escaped him. Tatiana leaned into him and pressed her forehead to his forehead.

For a moment they stood still.

She took her forehead away.

He took his hand away. “Look what I have for you, Tania.” He pulled out a small metal can from his coat.

Dasha came into the room, saying, “Here’s the can opener. What do you need it for anyway?”

Alexander used it to open the small can and, taking a knife, cut the product inside into little morsels. He passed the can to Tatiana. “Go ahead, try it.”

“What is it?” she asked, wanting to smile. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. Not quite ham, not quite bologna, not quite pork, but all three, covered with lard and aspic. The can was small, maybe a hundred grams. “What
is
that?” she said, her eyes showing the delight that her body, her lips could not muster.

“Spam.”

“Spam? What is Spam?”

“Like ham. In Russian it’s
tushonka.
”

“Oh, it’s much better than ham.”

“Can I try it?” asked Dasha.

“No.” Alexander didn’t turn to Dasha. “I want your sister to eat the whole can. Dasha, you already ate. You can’t possibly want more after all that stew.”

“I just want a little bite,” said Dasha. “To taste.”

“No.”

“Tania?” Dasha said. “Please? I’m sorry I ate your stew. I know you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset, Dasha.”

“I am, though,” said Alexander, turning to her. “You’re a grown woman. I expect better from you.”

Dasha said grumpily, “I said I was sorry.”

Tatiana took another bite, and another. Half a can left. “Alexander?”

“No, Tatiana.”

She had one more bite. Two small pieces left. Tatiana licked up all the lard and the aspic, and then she took one piece out of the can and handed it to Alexander. He shook his head. “Please,” Tatiana said. “One for you, one for Dasha?”