The colonel stood quietly for a few moments, studying Alexander, and finally said, “Go attend to your duties. I’ll see what I can find out. I’m not promising anything.”

Alexander saluted him. “Thank you, sir.”



Later that evening Dimitri came to the quarters Alexander shared with three other officers. They were all playing cards. A cigarette hung languidly in Alexander’s mouth as he was shuffling. He barely turned his head to look at Dimitri.

Crouching beside Alexander’s chair, Dimitri cleared his throat.

“Salute your commanding officer, Chernenko,” said Second Lieutenant Anatoly Marazov, not looking up from his cards. Dimitri stood and saluted Marazov. “Sir,” he said.

“At ease, Private.”

“What’s going on, Dima?” Alexander asked.

“Not much,” said Dimitri quietly, crouching again. “Nowhere to go and talk?”

“Talk right here. Everything all right?”

“Fine, fine. Rumors are we’re staying put.”

“We’re not staying put, Chernenko,” said Marazov. “We’re staying to defend Leningrad.”

“The Finns are calling themselves co-belligerents.” Dimitri snorted derisively. “If they ally with the Germans, we’re as good as dead. We might as well hang up our arms.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Marazov. “Belov, did you give me this soldier?”

Alexander turned to Dimitri. “Lieutenant Marazov is right. Dima, I’m surprised by your attitude. Frankly, it’s not like you.” Alexander stopped his voice from inflection.

Dimitri smiled slyly. “Alexander,” he said, “not quite what we hoped for when we joined the army?”

When Alexander didn’t reply, Dimitri said, “I mean, war.”

“No, war was not what I hoped for. Is it what anyone hopes for?” Alexander paused. “Is it what you hoped for?”

“Not at all, as you know. But I had far fewer choices than you.”

“You had choices, Belov?” asked Marazov.

Putting down his cards, Alexander stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the other officers and strode out. With smaller footsteps Dimitri followed behind. There were too many officers in the corridor; they walked downstairs and through the side door, out onto the cobbled courtyard. It was past one in the morning. The sky was three shades darker than gray.

A few feet away from them three soldiers stood smoking. But this was as alone as they were going to get. Alexander said, “Dima, you need to stop this nonsense. I had no choices. Don’t go believing that. What choices did I have?”

“The choice to be somewhere else.”

Alexander made no reply. He wished he were anywhere else, other than standing in front of Dimitri, who said, “Finland is too dangerous for us right now.”

“I know.” Alexander did not want to talk about Finland.

“Too many men on both sides, NKVD border troops everywhere. The Lisiy Nos area is full of troops — theirs and ours — and barbed wire and mines. It’s not safe at all. I don’t know what we’re going to do. Are you sure the Finns will come down to Lisiy Nos from Vyborg?”

Alexander smoked and said nothing. Finally he spoke. “Yes. Eventually. They will want their old borders back. They’ll come to Lisiy Nos.”

“What else can we do? We’ll bide our time then,” Dimitri said. When Alexander didn’t comment, Dimitri continued. “Will the right time ever come again, Alex?”

“I don’t know, Dima. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Dimitri sighed. “Well, in the meantime, can you move me out of the First Rifle Regiment?”

“Dima, I already got you out of the Second Infantry Battalion.”

“I know, but I’m still too close to possible attack. Marazov’s men are the second line. I’d rather be recon, or clean-up. Or running supplies, something like that.” He paused. “Best chance for success in running, don’t you think?”

“You want to be running supplies? Ammunition to front-line troops?” Alexander asked with surprise.

“I was thinking more of mail and cigarettes to rear units.”

Alexander smiled. “I’ll see what I can do, all right?”

“Come on,” Dimitri said, stubbing out his cigarette on the pavement. “Try to be more cheerful. What’s the matter with you these days? Everything is all right still. The Germans aren’t here; we’re having a great summer.”

Alexander said nothing.

“Alex,” said Dimitri, “I wanted to talk to you about something. . . . Tania is such a nice girl.”

“What?”

“Tania. She is such a nice girl.”

“Yes.”

Dimitri said nothing for a while. “And I want her to stay that way. She really shouldn’t be coming here. And talking to you, of all people.”

“I agree.”

“I know we’re all good friends, and she is the kid sister of your fancy-woman, but frankly, I don’t want your reputation rubbing off on my nice girl. After all,” Dimitri said, “she is not like one of your garrison hacks—”

Taking a step toward Dimitri, Alexander said, “That’s enough.”

Dimitri laughed. “I’m just joking. Is Dasha still coming to see you? I haven’t been over there much. Tania works crazy hours. Dasha still comes, though, right?”

“Yes.” Every night without fail Dasha would show up, trying everything she knew to get him back. But he wasn’t about to tell Dimitri his business with Dasha.

“Well, all the more reason Tania shouldn’t come here. It would upset Dasha needlessly, wouldn’t it, if she were to find out?”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Alexander stared at Dimitri, who did not blanch. “Have you got another cigarette?”

Dimitri immediately reached into the pocket of his khaki trousers. “Love it. A first lieutenant asking a lowly private for a fag. I always like it when you ask me to do something for you.”

Alexander took the cigarette and said nothing.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had some feelings for the diminutive Tanechka.”

“But you know better, don’t you?”

Dimitri shrugged. “I guess. Just the way you were looking at her—”

“Forget it,” said Alexander, cutting him off and taking a deep drag of the cigarette. “It’s in your head.”

Dimitri gave a sigh. “I know, I know,” he said. “What can I say? I’ve fallen bad for that girl.”

The cigarette slowly burned to ash between Alexander’s fingers. “You have?” he asked at last.

“Yes. Why is that such a surprise?” Dimitri laughed wholeheartedly. “You think a cad like me is too low for a girl like Tania?”

“No, not at all,” Alexander said. “But from what I’ve heard, you haven’t stopped your Sadko activities.”

Dimitri shrugged. “What does that have to do with anything?” Before Alexander could reply, Dimitri came a little closer to him, lowered his voice, and said, “Tania is young and has asked me to go slow. I am very respectful of her wishes and patient with her.” He arched his eyebrows. “She is really coming around, though—”

Alexander threw down the cigarette butt and stamped it out with his boot. “All right, then,” he said. “We’re finished here.” He started walking back to his building.

Dimitri caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.

Alexander whirled around, yanking his arm easily from Dimitri’s grip. “Don’t grab me, Dimitri.” His eyes flashed. The sky turned another shade of gray. “I’m not Tatiana.”

Taking a few quick steps back from Alexander, Dimitri said, “All right, all right. Stop it.” He took another step back. “You’ve really got to do something about that temper of yours, Alexander Barrington.” He enunciated every syllable. And then he backed farther away and smiled. He seemed smaller, his little teeth sharper and more yellow, his hair more greasy, his eyes narrower in the coming of night.


3


Tatiana ran to work the next morning, carrying hope with her. She had learned to ignore the ignoble, ever-present, blue-uniformed NKVD militia troops standing by the front doors of Kirov with their obscene rifles, walking through the factory floors, almost marching, carrying their weapons close to their hips. A few of them would look at her as she passed by, and it was the only time in her life when she wished she were smaller than she already was and less noticeable. With their grave, unyielding faces, they stared at Tatiana, hardly blinking, while she blinked frequently as she hurried past them, pushing through the doors, to the relative anonymity of the assembly line.

So that the workers didn’t get bored and therefore negligent on any one production facet of the KV-1, they were moved around every two hours. Tatiana went from working the pulley that lifted the treadless tank and placed it on tread, to painting the red star on a finished tank ready to be flatbedded and put into production. She spray-painted not only the red star but the white words for stalin! on the hull that stood out markedly against the glossy green paint.

Ilya, the skinny boy with the crew cut, had not left Tatiana alone after Alexander stopped coming at night. He would ask her all sorts of questions that she was too polite not to answer, but in the end even Tatiana gave way to slight rudeness. I have to concentrate on my work, she would tell him, wondering how in the world he always managed to get a position next to her, no matter how many times she got transferred during the day to different tank-building responsibilities. In the canteen Ilya would get his plate and sit next to her and Zina, who could not stand him and frequently told him so.

But today Tatiana felt sorrier for him. “He is just lonely,” she said, biting into her meat cutlet, lapping up the gravy, her mouth full. “He doesn’t seem to have anybody. Stay, Ilya.” So Ilya stayed.

Tatiana could afford to be generous. She couldn’t wait for her day to end. After going to see Alexander yesterday, she was certain he would come after work to see her at Kirov. She wore her lightest skirt and her lightest, softest blouse, and even had a bath in the morning, having just taken one the night before.

That evening she ran out of the Kirov doors, her golden hair shining and down, her face scrubbed and pink, and turned her smiling head, breathless for Alexander.

He wasn’t there.

It was after eight, and she sat on the bench until after nine with her hands on her lap. Then she got up and walked home.

There was no news of Pasha, and Mama and Papa were miserable. They kept crying intermittently. Dasha was not home. Deda and Babushka were slowly packing their things. Tatiana went out onto the roof and sat watching the airships float like white whales across the northern sky, listening to Anton and Kirill reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace, evoking their brother Volodya, lost in Tolmachevo. Tatiana listened with half an ear, thinking of her brother Pasha, lost in Tolmachevo.

Alexander didn’t come to see her. He had no news. Or the news he had was bad and he couldn’t face her. But Tatiana knew the truth: he didn’t come to see her because he was done. Done with her, with her childish ways, done with that part of his life. They had been friends walking in the Summer Garden, but he was a man, and now he was done.

He was right, of course, not to come. And she would not cry.

But to face Kirov day after day without him and without Pasha, too, to face evening after evening without him and without Pasha, to face war, to face herself without Alexander and without Pasha filled Tatiana with such a pervasive emptiness that she nearly groaned out loud, right in front of the laughing Anton and Kirill.

She needed just one thing now — to lay her eyes on the boy who had breathed the same air as her for seventeen years, in the same school, in the same class, in the same room, in the same womb. She wanted her friend and her twin back.

Tatiana thought she could feel Pasha while sitting out on the roof under the darkening sky; the white nights had ended on July 16. Her brother was not harmed. He was waiting for Tatiana to come for him, and she would not fail him. She wasn’t going to be like the rest of her family, sitting around, smoking, fretting. Doing nothing. Tatiana knew: five minutes with Pasha’s light heart and she would forget much of the last month.

She would forget Alexander. And she needed to do something to forget Alexander.

After everyone had gone to bed, Tatiana went downstairs, got a pair of kitchen scissors, and began to mercilessly lop off her blonde hair, watching it fall in long strands into the communal sink. Afterward the small, grimy mirror showed only a vague reflection. All she saw was her sulky lips and her sad, hollow eyes that glowed greener without the hair to frame her face. The freckles on her nose and under her eyes stood out even more prominently. Did she look like a boy? All the better. Did she look younger? More frail? What would Alexander think of all her hair gone? Who cared? She knew what he would think. Shura, Shura, Shura.