City of Fate (5 page)

A head popped through the hole, the singer herself: ‘Is that you, Aleksia? Don’t forget to wash your hands. Supper is almost ready.’

Yuri jumped in fright, but before he could say anything she disappeared again.
Had she really been speaking to him?
He turned his head to check that he was definitely alone in the garden, and he was. There was nothing for it, except to follow her. Just hearing the word ‘supper’ made his mouth water. He couldn’t smell any cooking, but maybe she had a basement full of food. Stepping through into what used to be the house, he heard Peter’s voice, at long last. ‘I love potatoes. Thank you!’

He wanted to run towards the familiar voice out of pure relief, but the amount of rubble, and deadly shards of glass that twinkled in the dirt, forced him to watch his step. Even so, he made his way, as quickly as he could, through what used to be a doorway and on into what perhaps was once a kitchen. Stupidly, he actually pictured Peter sitting at a
rectangular
wooden table, like the one at home, while this
mystery
woman ladled out stew and potatoes. During the next few seconds he mentally prepared himself for the smell of
shchi
, his favourite soup made of cabbage, meat and whatever spices his mother had in the press. Mrs Bogdanov marvelled at how it remained his favourite dish even after she married his stepfather and had more money for fancier foods. Maybe there was even a grandfather clock, like the one that had stood in the hall at home, with carpet on the smashed floor, while netted curtains hid the yawning gaps in the walls. Yuri was overcome with a ferocious longing to see either his home or someone else’s.

But there was nothing, only Peter, hunched down, his knees under his chin, sitting in front of upturned bricks. Yuri was so disappointed, so angry, that he felt like throwing a proper tantrum, like flinging himself down on the ground and kicking his feet in the air, all the while wailing at the top of his voice. The woman had her back to him; he couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but it did seem like she was playing with a pile of stones.

Peter smiled calmly at him, as if he was sitting down at a normal table in a normal kitchen. Yuri could not smile back.

‘Sit beside me, Yuri.’

Still hoping there was going to be food, he did what Peter told him to do, despite his irritation, but took the time to mutter, ‘You shouldn’t wander off like that. I didn’t know where you were.’

Of course Peter ignored him and instead watched the woman, who had begun to sing quietly again. Determined that he should have Peter’s full attention, Yuri continued, ‘Look, you cannot walk off without letting me know where you are going!’

‘Hush now, boys, you’ll wake the baby.’

Used to hearing his mother say the very same thing, Yuri immediately shut up but continued to glare at the silly smile on Peter’s face. After a minute or two, however, he found himself thinking
What baby?

Peter stared straight ahead as Yuri quickly scanned their surroundings and, indeed, saw a baby wrapped in a blanket, on the ground, near the woman’s feet. The hairs on the back of his neck began to itch. He couldn’t explain why, but he began to feel uneasy. What was she doing? Was she just pretending to be busy? She appeared to be stirring mud and pebbles with one hand while pinching the air with the other. Naturally, Peter was no help at all, plainly refusing to meet Yuri’s eye. Yuri nudged him and whispered, ‘What
are we waiting for?’

‘Supper’, Peter answered.

There was no food here; that much Yuri knew, but it didn’t stop him from hoping that all he’d have to do was wait and something would be produced.

‘I hope you’re both hungry,’ the woman sang out.

In spite of his misgivings, Yuri exclaimed, ‘Yes, starving!’ The unripe apple seemed to have triggered an enormous appetite rather than reduce it.

His eyes filled with tears, for the second time that day, when she turned around, holding out absolutely nothing in her arms and said, ‘Mind your hands, the plates are hot.’

Yuri scrunched up his face in disgust.
How can she play a trick like this? We’re really hungry. It isn’t right. Is this some game because we are children?

She held out the dusty palm of her hand – the plate – and began to spoon nothing from nothing into it. Yuri felt one boiling hot tear trickle down the side of his cheek, and wanted to slap Peter hard when he obediently held out his hands for his ‘plate’.

‘Thank you, Mama!’

This was ridiculous. Yuri snapped in a whisper, ‘She’s not your mother, is she?!’ Peter barely shook his head, but it was enough to make Yuri feel he had won something at least.

‘Eat up, boys. No fighting now, you’ll wake the baby.’

As she said this, there was a sudden explosion a few streets away. The ground trembled briefly beneath their feet.
Instinctively
Yuri looked at the baby, expecting it to start
howling
with fright, just like Anna would have done during the weeks in the coal cellar, but it never made a sound.

The woman sat down on the ground and gestured for him to start eating. There was nothing for it but to imitate Peter’s shoving of fake food into his mouth. However, he was free to inspect his host as she started on her invisible supper. Her clothes were filthy, just like theirs, and her messy hair couldn’t hide the large bump over her left ear. It had bled a lot, but she hadn’t bothered washing any of it away. The blood was dull and black, almost the same colour as her hair.

Yuri felt embarrassed for all of them sitting there
playing
with fresh air. Her eyes were strange. She was staring at them, yet Yuri couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t really seeing them.

‘Chew your food, Aleksia, or you’ll get indigestion.’

Something stopped him from telling her that his name wasn’t Aleksia. Her mouth twisted into what she must have thought was a smile. The silence was so dreadful, Yuri had to break it. ‘This is lovely. Thank you.’

If he expected to be complimented on his table manners, he was very much mistaken.

‘NO, NO! This won’t do at all. We don’t talk with food in our mouths.’

In shock, Yuri pretended to chew as vigorously as he could, making a big gulping sound as he swallowed, before saying, ‘I’m sorry!’

She was really angry. ‘Now, look what you’ve done! You’ve woken the baby, you selfish little boy.’

Yuri was completely confused now. This game of pretence was no longer just a game, and she was the only one who seemed to know what was going on.

Peter tugged on his sleeve, ‘Yuri’. It was just a whisper, Yuri heard him alright but he was too busy trying to work out what to do next. Was he to keep ‘eating’? Was he to leave the ‘table’ in disgrace?

The woman swooped down and carefully gathered up the baby in its blankets. How many seconds passed before Yuri realised that it wasn’t crying at all?

‘Yuri?’

Peter was getting on Yuri’s nerves; did he not understand that Yuri was trying to think? Yuri hissed back at him, ‘Just eat your bloody potatoes!’ Yuri knew he was being mean, but he couldn’t help it; it was Peter’s fault that they were sitting there in the first place.

Another explosion shook the ground, this time sounding a little nearer to them, and it was followed by a long burst of gun fire that didn’t frighten Yuri as much as the woman did. Feeling that perhaps he should take charge of
whatever
was going on, he stood up slowly and said, ‘Excuse me,
but perhaps you and the baby should try and hide from the fighting?’

The woman simply closed her eyes, pressed the baby closer to her, and began to sing the same song again.

Peter stood up beside him and took his hand. Yuri heard his name being called, but he couldn’t move. It was as if another explosion had sounded but this time it was inside his head. Whatever way the woman was cradling the baby, one of the blankets had got caught in her sleeve, exposing where Yuri’d expected to see the child’s feet – and there was
one
alright, pudgy just like Anna’s, but that was all, just the one. The right leg had apparently lost its foot; there was nothing below the ankle bone, which Yuri was sure he could see. And not a sound did that baby make. It never stirred.

‘Yuri?’ Peter spoke louder to get his attention. ‘The baby is dead.’

Yuri shrugged him off. ‘No! It just has a sore leg.’

He knew that Peter was right but was prepared to put off accepting the truth for as long as he could, willing himself to see the baby breathe, just as he had willed himself to see food where there was none. Thoughts raced in his head:
babies are too small to die in war. They haven’t done anything bad or wrong. How can something die when it has only been born?

He realised he was wasting precious time; the guns were getting closer. He asked the mother, ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’

Only Peter answered him, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Yuri gazed at him, shocked by his words. ‘What?’

The boy stared at the ground, mumbling, ‘Nothing. Can we go now?’

Of course Peter was right. Why were they still standing here with this mad woman when they could plainly hear German voices and Russian insults? It was far too
dangerous
to remain here any longer. However, Yuri had to try one more time, ‘Why won’t you look for shelter? The soldiers are coming. Don’t you hear them?’

The woman stopped singing and opened her eyes, which were shining with tears that she couldn’t seem to release, ‘You run along now, boys. Baby is tired and needs to sleep.’ Her voice cracked and for no more than two seconds, she showed them her crushing sadness. Three seconds later, she closed her eyes again and continued with the song.

The wind picked up, as if the soldiers were bringing it with them, or even creating it with their bullets. A man screamed out in pain, and Peter pulled on Yuri’s arm; it was time to leave.

They raced to the wall. Yuri dragged Peter over it, never once letting go of his hand and never once looking back. He had no idea where to go, only that they needed to escape the deadly bullets. Somehow, without his realising it, Peter took over and led the way, not stopping until they had reached the statue of the laughing children again.

‘See, Yuri, they’re still playing!’

TANYA

T
anya had no interest in politics. For her mother’s sake she had tried to do what was expected of her. On her fifteenth birthday she’d applied to join the Komsomol, the Communist Youth League, to camouflage her lack of interest in following the rules and orders of Russia’s
Communist
Party. She had expected it to be worse than school and knew she might be asked to do things like report on her neighbours if they showed any signs of loving something else more than their country, even if that something else was their family.

She had deliberately arrived late at the admission meeting which had annoyed the secretary of the Komsomol, a young man who looked like he never ever enjoyed himself. He had scolded her in front of everyone, saying, ‘Since you couldn’t bother to be here on time, you are clearly not mature enough to join the Komosol.’

Her application had been denied there and then. Tanya
had done her best to look upset, at least until she’d left the hall. At home she’d told her mother what had happened, feeling free to laugh about it all.

Her mother, however, had been nervous. ‘Be careful, daughter. They will be watching you from now on.’

Tanya hadn’t been worried, even when some of her school friends had suddenly become too busy to spend time with her. She had always believed in the largeness of life and had often lamented to herself how such an immense country like Russia expected its citizens to lead such small and narrow lives.

The day before the Nazis had arrived she had been trying to decide what to do with her life, writing out her options in her diary:

1. Go to college, and study what?
   
2. Travel, where?
   
3. Stay in Stalingrad and get a job, doing what?
   
4. Get engaged to Boris?
   

How much easier it would have been if she could have tried out all four ideas, for a week or so, and then make a decision.
How did everyone else work out what they wanted to do?

The only thing she’d known for certain was that her mother would want her to do number four. Boris had never failed to send her mother a present from wherever he’d been stationed. Sometimes she’d wondered if he should marry her mother instead.

Tanya’s father had died soon after she was born and his widow had been amazed not to have found another
husband
. Tanya had learned not to laugh out loud whenever her mother had gazed into the mirror and had said to no one in particular, ‘And I’m still so young looking!’

Tanya had been somewhat perplexed by her mother’s fondness for Boris. Yes, she’d realised that her mother wanted the best for her daughter … but was Boris really the best?

Boris was twenty-seven years old, ten years older than her, and held an important position in the army. In fact, he’d said it was so important he couldn’t possibly tell her about it. ‘Besides, my dear, the details would only bore a pretty girl like you.’

Whenever Tanya thought about herself and Boris, she was struck by the fact that they had little in common with one another.

‘Nonsense!’ her mother would say, ‘You’ll have plenty in common after you get married and have children.’

Meanwhile, Tanya hadn’t been sure if she even wanted to have children. Elena, her older sister, had four and though Tanya loved her nieces and nephews, she couldn’t help noticing how much work they created, and how tired Elena would look by early evening, and how often plans, like going to theatre, would have to be cancelled when one of the
children
got a fever.

During one visit she’d remarked, as gently as she could, to
Elena, ‘Being a mother just seems so hard.’

Her sister, sounding a little hurt, had replied, ‘It isn’t hard at all. Whatever gave you that idea! Just wait until you have your own children, you’ll understand things better then.’

Boris had hinted to Mrs Karmanova that they should both expect a ring for Tanya’s eighteenth birthday.

The mother had been very glad to hear this while the daughter had counted up the days she’d had left to discover what she wanted to do. It had given her a headache. Her future, which had once seemed so open and mysterious, had begun to resemble the long, narrow street outside her house. She’d loved her street but had walked up and down it nearly every day of her life until she knew every little crack in the pavement and was left curious about the many other streets that she knew nothing about.

Whenever she’d spoken to Boris about wanting to see other parts of Russia, outside Stalingrad, he had described to her, in detail, the house she would share with him. When she’d spoken about a possible wish to study nursing, or
history
, or anything at all, he’d immediately talked about
his
career,
his
dreams and
his
ambitions. He hadn’t listened to her, not really. Nevertheless, he’d always told her she was pretty and had loved buying her treats. He’d even taken an interest in how she’d done her hair, and in the clothes she wore, which was unexpected.

Naturally her mother had appreciated such attention to
details, such as the colour of a new dress and the length of a new skirt.

Tanya, however, had found it a little worrying. One time she’d deliberately ignored his suggestion to wear her hair up in a bun. When he’d collected her for their walk in the park and had seen her brown hair curling around her shoulders, he’d seemed quite put out, unwilling to make cheerful
conversation
until the walk was nearly done.

Weeks earlier, he had written to her, urging her to leave Stalingrad. He hadn’t told her outright that the city would be attacked, either he hadn’t known it at the time or he hadn’t been allowed to give out information. She was to go, he’d written, to his own mother’s house where he promised she would be well taken care off.

Her reaction hadn’t been one of gratitude:
Hmphh! Did I ask to be taken care of? What about my own mother? Am I to stalk off and leave her alone here?

When she next had gone for a walk around the city, her city, it’d struck her that the tall, white buildings, the streets lined with trees, the green parks and the impressive
universities
were altogether far too precious to leave behind. No, she would not walk away from Stalingrad, or her mother, for Boris.

She realised now that just before she had heard those first engines, seconds before the first bomb had exploded, as she and her mother had been returning from the market, she had
shortened her list to three options. Then it had been just the matter of working out how to escape his expectations for her future with him.

His long letters, with his plans for her, him, them, had been sitting on her desk as the roof of her home had fallen in, scorching and shredding them until they looked like burnt confetti. In the minutes that had followed, when it had seemed like the world was collapsing all around them, in the midst of terror and confusion, Tanya had felt that she had been miraculously freed of something. Her mind had been made up. She would not survive this in order to live by someone else’s rules.