Tatiana listened to him, her hand on his back, her bones chilled, her heart chilled. “But you did fix them, comrade,” she breathed out.

“Yes, but what if I didn’t?” he said. “Isn’t the cold, the hunger, the Germans enough? How many more ways are there to kill us?”

Tatiana backed away. “I’m sorry about your wife,” she uttered, opening the door.

That afternoon as she was coming back home, his door was still open. Tatiana glanced in. Petr Pavlovich Petrov was still sitting behind his desk, the half-smoked cigarette Tatiana had rolled for him in his hands. He was dead. With trembling fingers Tatiana made the sign of the cross and closed the door.



They stared at each other from the couch, from the bed, across the room. The four of them. They slept and ate in one room now. They would put the plates on their laps and they would have their evening bread. And then they would sit in front of the bourzhuika and watch the flames through the small window in the stove. That was the only light in the room. They had plenty of wick, and they had matches, but they had nothing to burn. If only they had some—

Nothing to burn. Oh, no. Tatiana remembered.

The motor oil. The motor oil Alexander had told her to buy on the Sunday in June when there was still ice cream, and sunshine, and a glimmer of joy. He had told her — and she hadn’t listened.

And now look.

No tick tock, tick tock anymore.

“Marina, what are you doing?”

Marina was peeling the wallpaper off the wall one December afternoon. Ripping off a chunk, she went to the bucket of water, dipped her hand in it, and moistened the backing.

“What are you doing?” Tatiana repeated.

Taking a spoon, Marina started to scrape off the wallpaper paste. “The woman in front of me in line today said some of the wallpaper paste was made with potato flour.” She was scraping frantically at the paper.

Carefully Tatiana took the paper away from Marina. “Potato flour and glue,” Tatiana said.

Marina ripped the paper back from Tatiana. “Don’t touch that. Get your own.”

Tatiana repeated, “Potato flour and glue.”

“So?”

“Glue is poison.”

Marina laughed soundlessly, scraping off the damp paste and spooning it into her mouth.



“Dasha, what are you doing?”

“I’m lighting the bourzhuika.” Dasha was standing in front of the stove window, throwing books onto the flames.

“You’re burning books?”

“Why not? We have to be warm.”

Tatiana grabbed Dasha’s hand. “No, Dasha. Stop. Don’t burn books, please. We haven’t been reduced to that.”

“Tania! If I had more energy, I would kill you and slice you open and eat you,” Dasha said, throwing another book onto the fire. “Don’t tell me—”

“No, Dasha,” Tatiana said, holding on to her sister’s wrist. “Not books.”

“We have no wood,” said Dasha matter-of-factly.

As quickly as she could, Tatiana went and checked under her bed. Her Zoshchenko, John Stuart Mill, the English dictionary. She remembered that on Saturday afternoon she had been reading Pushkin and had carelessly left the precious volume by the couch. She turned to Dasha, who kept relentlessly throwing more books onto the fire.

In horror, Tatiana saw The Bronze Horseman in her sister’s hands. “Dasha, no!” she screamed, and lunged at her sister. Where did she find the strength to scream, to lunge? Where did she find the strength for emotion?

She grabbed it, YANKED it out of Dasha’s hands. “No!” She clutched her book to her chest. “Oh, my God, Dasha,” Tatiana said trembling. “That’s my book.”

“They’re all our books, Tania,” Dasha said apathetically. “Who cares now? To stay warm is everything.”

Licking her lips, Tatiana couldn’t speak for a while, she was so shaken. “Dasha, why books? We have the whole dining room set. A table and six chairs. It will last us the winter if we’re careful.” She wiped her mouth and stared at her hand. It was streaked with blood.

“You want to saw up the dining room set?” Dasha said, throwing Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto onto the fire. “Be my guest.”

Something was happening to Tatiana. She didn’t want to scare her mother or her sister. She knew that Marina was beyond fear. Tatiana waited for Alexander. She would ask him what was happening to her. But before he came back and she had a chance to ask him, she noticed that Marina, too, was bleeding from her mouth. “Let’s go, Marina,” she said. “Let’s go to the hospital.”

Finally a doctor came to take a look at them. “Scurvy,” the doctor said flatly. “It’s scurvy, girls. Everybody has it. You’re bleeding from the inside out. Your capillaries are getting too thin, and they’re breaking. You need vitamin C. Let’s see if we can get you a shot.”

They both got a shot of vitamin C.

Tatiana got better.

Marina didn’t.

In the night she whispered to Tatiana, “Tania, you listening?”

“What, Marinka?”

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered, and if she could have cried, she would have. She was barely able to emit a low wail. “I don’t want to die, Tania! If I hadn’t stayed here with Mama, I would be in Molotov right now with Babushka, and I wouldn’t die.”

“You’re not going to die,” said Tatiana, putting her hand on Marina’s head.

“I don’t want to die,” whispered Marina, “and not feel just once what you feel.” She struggled for her breath. “Just once in my life, Tania!”

As if from a distance, Dasha’s voice came at them. “What does Tania feel?”

Marina didn’t reply. “Tanechka . . .” she whispered. “What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?” asked Dasha. “Indifference? Cold? Wasting away?”

Tatiana continued to gently caress Marina’s forehead. “It feels,” she whispered, “as if you’re not alone. Now, come on, where is your strength? Do you remember us with Pasha, me rowing and you and Pasha swimming alongside trying to keep up? Where is that strength, Marinka?”

The next morning Marina lay dead beside Tatiana.

Dasha said, “We have her rations until the end of the month,” barely blinking at the sight of her dead cousin.

Tatiana shook her head. “As you know, she has already eaten them. It’s the middle of the month. She’s got nothing left until the end of December.”

Tatiana wrapped her cousin in a white sheet, Mama sewed up the top and bottom, and they slid Marina down the stairs and onto the street. They tried to put her in the sled, but they couldn’t lift her. After Tatiana made the sign of the cross on Marina, they left her on the snowy pavement.


2


One more day, another shot of vitamin C. Another two hundred grams of blackened bread. Tatiana pretended to go to work so she could continue to receive a worker’s ration, but there was nothing for her to do at work, except sit by the dying.

A week after Marina died, Tatiana, Dasha, and Mama were sitting on the sofa in the quiet night in front of a nearly extinguished bourzhuika. All the books were gone, except for what Tatiana hid under her bed. The embers did not light up the room. Mama was sewing in the dark.

“What are you sewing, Mama?” Tatiana asked.

“Nothing,” Mama said. “Nothing important. Where are my girls?”

“Here, Mama.”

“Dasha, remember Luga?”

Dasha remembered.

“Dashenka, remember when Tania got a fish bone stuck in her throat, and we couldn’t get it out for anything?”

Dasha remembered. “She was five.”

“Who got it out, Mama?”

“Pasha. He had such small hands. He just stuck his hand in your throat and pulled it out.”

“Mama,” Dasha said, “remember when our Tania fell out of the boat in Lake Ilmen, and we all jumped after her, because we thought she couldn’t swim, and she was already dog-paddling away from the boat?”

Mama remembered. “Tania was two.”

“Mama,” Tatiana said, “remember how I dug that big hole in our yard to trap Pasha and then forgot to fill it up, and you fell in?”

“Don’t remind me,” said Mama. “I’m still angry about that.”

They tried to laugh.

“Tania,” said Mama, her hands moving on her sewing work, “when you and Pasha were born, we were in Luga, and while the whole family was clucking around our new boy Pasha, saying what a great boy he was and what a fine boy, Dasha over here, all seven years of her, picked you up and said, ‘Well, you can all have the black one. I’m taking the white one. This baby is mine.’ And we all teased her and said, ‘Fine then. Dasha, you want her? You can name her.’ ” Mama’s voice cracked once, twice. “And our Dasha said, ‘I want to name my baby Tatiana . . . ’ ”



One more day, one more shot of vitamin C for Tatiana, whose fingers trickled blood onto the two hundred grams of bread she cut up for her mother and sister.

One more day, a bomb fell in the corner of the Fifth Soviet roof. No Anton to put it out, no Mariska, no Kirill, no Kostia, and no Tatiana. It caught fire and burned through the fourth floor, which faced the church on Grechesky Prospekt. No one came to put it out. It smoldered for a day and then gradually burned itself out.

Was it Tatiana’s imagination, or was the city quieter? Either she was going deaf or there was less bombing. There was still some every day, but shorter in duration, milder in intensity, almost as if the Germans were bored with the whole thing. And why not? Who was left to bomb?

Well, Tatiana.

And Dasha.

And Mama.

No, not Mama.



Her hands still held the white camouflage uniform she was sewing, and underneath her wool hat she wore her kerchief. In front of the frail fire from the small bourzhuika, Mama said, “I can’t anymore. I just can’t.” Her hands stopped moving, and her head, too. Her eyes remained open. Tatiana could see short spasms of breath leaving her mouth, short, brief, then gone.

Tatiana and Dasha kneeled by their mother. “I wish we knew a prayer, Dasha.”

“I think I know part of something called the Lord’s Prayer,” said Dasha.

Tatiana’s back was to the fire, and her back was warm, but her front was cold. “Which part do you know?”

“Only the part with Give us this day our daily bread.”

Tatiana placed her hand on her mother’s lap. “We’ll bury Mama with her sewing.”

“We’ll have to bury her in her sewing,” Dasha said, and her voice was weak. “Look, she was sewing herself a sack.”

“Dear Lord,” said Tatiana, holding her mother’s cold leg. “Give us this day our daily bread . . .” She paused. “What else, Dasha?”

“That’s all I know. What about Amen?”

“Amen,” said Tatiana.

For dinner they cut the bread into three pieces. Tatiana ate hers. Dasha ate hers. They left their mother’s on her plate.

That night Tatiana and Dasha held each other in their bed. “Don’t leave me, Tania. I can’t make it without you.”

“I’m not going to leave you, Dasha. We are not going to leave each other. We can’t be left alone. You know that we all need one other person. One other person to remind us we are still human beings and not beasts.”

“We’re the only two left, Tania,” said Dasha. “Just you and me.”

Tatiana held her sister closer. You. Me. And Alexander.


3


Alexander returned a few days later. The dark circles around his eyes and his thick black beard gave him a robber baron look, but otherwise he seemed to be holding up. That made Tatiana warmer on the inside. Seeing him, in fact . . . well, what could she say? Dasha stood in the hallway, and his arms were around Dasha, while Tatiana stood back and watched them. And he watched her.

“How are you?” she said faintly.

“I’m fine,” he said. ‘How are my girls?’

“Not so good, Alexander,” said Dasha. “Not so good. Come, look at our mother. She’s been dead for five days. The council doesn’t come anymore. We can’t move her.”

Behind Dasha, Alexander walked past Tatiana and glided his gloved hand across her face.

He placed their mother in the white camouflage uniform cape and carried her — taking care not to slip on the ice — down the stairs, put her on Tatiana’s red and blue shiny sled, and pulled her to the cemetery on Starorusskaya as the girls walked beside him. He moved the frozen bodies at the entrance gate to make way for the sled and pulled Mama all the way inside, where he gently laid her in the snow. He broke off two small branches and held them in front of Tatiana, who with a piece of twine tied them together in a cross, which they laid on top of Mama.

“Do you know a prayer, Alexander?” asked Tatiana. “For our mother?”

Alexander stared at Tatiana, then shook his head. She watched him cross himself and mutter a few words under his cold breath.