The Bronze Horseman (62 page)

And when Alexander stared at Dimitri, he thought, Dimitri survived, why not Dasha and Tania, too? If he could, why not them? If I could, why not them?

“My only good foot is now the left foot,” Dimitri told him. “What stupidity on my part, don’t you think?” He smiled warmly at Alexander, who reluctantly invited him to sit on one of the bunks. He had been hoping he was done with Dimitri. No such luck, he could see. They were alone, and Dimitri had a thoughtful flare in his eye that Alexander did not care for.

“At least,” Dimitri said cheerfully, “I’ll never have to see real combat again. I much prefer it this way.”

“Good,” said Alexander. “It’s what you wanted. To work in the rear.”

“Some rear,” Dimitri snorted. “Do you know that first they put me on evacuation detail in Kobona—”

“Kobona!”

“Yes,” Dimitri drew out slowly. “Why? Does Kobona have some special significance other than the American Lend-Lease trucks that come through there?”

Alexander studied Dimitri. “Yes. I didn’t know you worked in Kobona.”

“We had fallen a little out of touch.”

“Were you there back in January?”

“I can’t even remember anymore,” said Dimitri. “That was such a long time ago.”

Alexander got up and came toward him. “Dima! I got Dasha and Tatiana out through the ice—”

“They must be so grateful.”

“I don’t know if they’re grateful. Did you see them, perhaps?”

“You’re asking me if I saw two girls in Kobona, through which thousands of evacuees came?” Dimitri laughed.

“Not two girls,” Alexander said coldly. “
Tania
and Dasha. You’d recognize
them
, wouldn’t you?”

“Alexander, I would—”

“Did you see them?” He raised his voice.

“No, I didn’t,” said Dimitri. “Stop shouting. But I must say…” He shook his head. “To put two helpless girls in a truck to try to make it to—Where were they headed again?”

“East, somewhere.” He wasn’t about to tell Dimitri where they had been headed.

“Somewhere deep in the country? I don’t know, Alexander,
what
were you thinking?” Dimitri chuckled. “I can’t imagine you wanted them to die.”

“Dimitri, what are you talking about?” Alexander snapped. “What choice did I have? Have you not heard what happened to Leningrad last winter? What’s still happening now?”

Dimitri smiled. “I heard. Wasn’t there something else you could have done? Couldn’t Colonel Stepanov do anything for you?”

“No, he couldn’t.” Alexander was fed up. “Listen, I’ve got—”

“I’m just saying, Alexander, the evacuees that came our way were all at death’s door. I know Dasha is made of strong stuff, but Tania? I’m surprised she made it long enough for you to get her across the ice.” Dimitri shrugged. “I thought she’d be the first to— I mean, even
I
got dystrophy. And most of the people coming through Kobona were sick and starved. Then they were forced to get on more trucks to be transported sixty kilometers to the nearest trains, which were all cattle trains.” Lowering his voice, Dimitri said, “I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard through the grapevine that seventy percent of all the people we put on the trains died of either cold or disease.” He shook his head. “And you wanted Dasha and Tania to go through that? Some future husband you are!” Dimitri laughed.

Alexander clenched his teeth.

“Listen, I’m glad I’m out of there,” Dimitri said. “Didn’t like Kobona much.”

“What?” said Alexander. “Was Kobona too dangerous?”

“No, that wasn’t it. The trucks were usually backed up onto the Ladoga ice, because the evacuees were so damn slow. We were expected to go out and help unload them. But they couldn’t walk. They were all near death.” Staring at Alexander, Dimitri said, “Just last month the Germans blew up three of the six trucks on the ice.” He sighed. “Some rear. Finally I asked to be transferred into supplies.”

Turning his back to Dimitri, Alexander began folding his clothes. “Supplies is not the safest thing either. On the other hand,” he said, thinking to himself,
what am I saying? Let him go into fucking supplies,
“supplies might be good for you. You’ll be the guy selling the cigarettes. Everybody will love you.” The yawning chasm between what had been between them and what was now was too great. There were no boats and no bridges. Alexander waited for Dimitri either to leave or to ask after Tatiana’s family. He did neither.

Finally Alexander couldn’t take it anymore. “Dima, are you even remotely interested in what happened to the Metanovs?”

Shrugging, Dimitri said, “I figured the same thing that happened to most of Leningrad. Everybody died, no?” He could have been saying,
everyone went shopping, no?
Alexander lowered his head.

“This is war, Alexander,” Dimitri said. “Only the strongest survive. That’s why I finally had to give up on Tania. I didn’t want to, I quite liked her, and I still do; I have fond memories of her, but I had barely enough strength to keep myself going. I couldn’t be worrying about her, too, without food or warm clothes.”

How clearly Tatiana saw right through Dimitri. He never did care for her at all, Alexander thought, putting his clothes into his locker and avoiding Dimitri’s gaze.

“Alexander, speaking of surviving, there is something I wanted to talk to you about,” Dimitri began.

Here it comes. Alexander did not look up while he waited for it.

“Since the Americans have joined the war—it’s better for us, yes?”

Nodding, Alexander replied, “Certainly. Lend-Lease is a great help.”

“No, no.” Getting up off the bed, Dimitri said in an excited and anxious voice, “I don’t mean for
us,
I mean for you and me. For our plans.”

Getting up off the floor, Alexander faced Dimitri. “I haven’t seen too many Americans on this side,” he said slowly, pretending not to understand.

“Yes,” exclaimed Dimitri, “but they’re all over Kobona! They’re trucking and shipping supplies, tanks, jeeps, boots, through Murmansk and down the whole east coast of Lake Ladoga, to Petrozavodsk, to Lodeinoye Pole. There are dozens of them in Kobona.”

“Is that true? Dozens?”

“Maybe not dozens. But Americans!” He paused. “Maybe they can help us?”

Alexander came up closer to Dimitri. “In what way?” he said sharply.

Smiling, and keeping his thin voice low, Dimitri said, “In what way? In that
American
way. Perhaps you can go to Kobona—”

“Dima, go to Kobona and what? Who am I going to talk to? The truck drivers? You think if a Soviet soldier starts talking English to them, they’ll just say, oh, sure, come with us on our steamer. We’ll take you back home.” Alexander paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “And even if somehow that were not impossible, how do you suggest we get
you
out? Even if a stranger
was
willing to risk his neck for me because of what you perceive as some American bond, how do you think that would help
you
?”

Taken aback, Dimitri said hastily, “I’m not saying it’s a good plan. But it’s a start.”

“Dima, you’re injured. Look at you.” Alexander looked him up and down. “You are in no condition to fight, nor are you in any condition to… run. We need to forget our plans.”

In a frantic voice, Dimitri said, “What are you talking about? I know you still want to—”

“Dimitri!”

“What? We have to do
something,
Alexander,” Dimitri said. “You and I had plans—”

“Dimitri!” Alexander exclaimed. “Our plans involved fighting through
NKVD
border troops and hiding out in the mined swamps in Finland! Now that you’ve shot yourself in the foot, how do you think
that
will be possible?”

Alexander was grateful that Dimitri did not have any immediate answers. He backed away.

Dimitri said, “I agree, maybe the Lisiy Nos route is harder, but I think we have a good chance of bribing the Lend-Lease delivery boys.”

“They’re not delivery boys!” Alexander said angrily. He paused. It was not worth it. “These men are trained fighters, and they subject themselves to submarine torpedoes every day as they trudge 2,000 kilometers through the Arctic and North Russia to bring
you tushonka.
”

“Yes, and they are the very men who can help us. And, Alexander”— Dimitri stepped closer—”I need somebody to help me.” He stepped closer still. “And very soon. I have no intention whatsoever of dying in this fucking war.” He paused, his slit eyes on Alexander. “Do
you
?”

“I will die if I have to,” said an unyielding Alexander.

Dimitri studied him. Alexander hated to be studied. He lit a cigarette and stared icily at Dimitri, who retreated. “Do you still have your
money
on you?” Dimitri asked.

“No.”

“Can you get to it?”

“I don’t know,” said Alexander. He took out another cigarette. This conversation was over.

“You have an unsmoked one in your mouth,” Dimitri remarked dryly.

Alexander received a generous furlough of thirty days. He asked Stepanov for more time. He got a little more time, from June 15 until July 24.

“Is that enough time?” asked Stepanov, smiling lightly.

“It’s either too much time, sir,” replied Alexander, “or not enough.”

“Captain,” said Stepanov, lighting a cigarette and giving one to Alexander, “when you come back…” He sighed. “We can no longer stay at the garrison. You see what has happened to our city. We cannot spend another winter like the last one. It simply
cannot
happen.” He paused. “We are going to have to break the blockade. All of us. This fall.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Do you, Alexander? Have you seen what’s happened to our men at Tikhvin and Mga last winter and this spring?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard what’s been happening to our men in Nevsky Patch across the river from Dubrovka?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said. Nevsky Patch was a Red Army enclave inside enemy lines—a place the Germans used for daily target practice. Russian soldiers were dying there at a rate of 200 a day.

Shaking his head, Stepanov said, “We’re going to move across the Neva in pontoon boats. We have limited artillery—you. We have single-shot rifles—”

“Not me, sir, I have a Shpagin machine gun. And my rifle is an automatic.” Alexander smiled.

Smiling himself, Stepanov nodded. “I’m making it sound brutal.”

“It is, sir.”

“Captain, don’t get scared off by the good fight, an unequal fight though it may be.”

Alexander, raising his eyes to Stepanov and squaring his shoulders, said, “Sir. When have I ever?”

Coming up to him, Stepanov said, “If we had more men like you, we would have won this war long ago.” He shook Alexander’s hand. “Go. Have a good trip. Nothing will be the same when you come back.”

Alexander thought as he traveled halfway across the Soviet Union: Dasha, Tania—wouldn’t they have written to him if they were alive?

His doubt attacked him like shell fire.

To go sixteen hundred miles east, across Lake Ladoga, over the Onega River and the Dvina River, over the Sukhona River and the Unzha River, to the Kama River and the Ural Mountains, to go having heard nothing for six months, for half a year, for all those minutes in between, having heard not a sound from her mouth or a word from her pen, was it lunacy?

Yes, yes, it was.

During his four-day journey to Molotov, Alexander recalled every breath he took with her. Sixteen hundred kilometers of the Obvodnoy Canal, of coming to see her at Kirov, of his tent in Luga, of her holding on to his back, of the hospital room, of St. Isaac’s, of her eating ice cream, of her lying in the sled as he pulled her, nearly out of life. Sixteen hundred kilometers of her giving her food to everyone, of her jumping up and down on the roof under German planes. There were some memories of last winter from which Alexander flinched, recalling them all nonetheless. Her walking alongside him after burying her mother. Her standing motionless in front of three boys with knives.

Two images continually sprang to his mind in a restless, frantic refrain.

Tatiana in a helmet, in strange clothes, covered with blood, covered with stone and beams and glass and dead bodies, herself still warm, herself still breathing.

And

Tatiana on the bed in the hospital, bare under his hands, moaning under his mouth.

If anyone could make it, would it not be the girl who every morning for four months got up at six-thirty and trudged through dying Leningrad to get her family their bread?

But if she had made it, how could she not have written to him?

The girl who kissed his hand, who served him tea, and who gazed at him, not breathing as he talked, gazed at him with eyes he had never seen before—was that girl gone?

Was her heart gone?

Please, God,
Alexander prayed.
Let her not love me anymore, but let her live.

That was a hard prayer for Alexander, but he could not imagine living in a world without Tatiana.

Unwashed and undernourished, having spent over four days on five different trains and four military jeeps, Alexander got off at Molotov on Friday, June 19, 1942. He arrived at noon and then sat on a wooden bench near the station.

Alexander couldn’t bring himself to walk to Lazarevo.

He could not bear the thought of her dying in Kobona, getting out of the collapsed city and then dying so close to salvation. He could not face it.

And worse—he knew that he could not face himself if he found out that she did not make it. He could not face returning—returning to what?

Alexander actually thought of getting on the next train and going back immediately. The courage to move forward was much more than the courage he needed to stand behind a Katyusha rocket launcher or a Zenith antiaircraft gun on Lake Ladoga and know that any of the Luftwaffe planes flying overhead could instantly bring about his death.

He was not afraid of his own death.

He was afraid of hers. The specter of her death took away his courage.

If Tatiana was dead, it meant God was dead, and Alexander knew he could not survive an instant during war in a universe governed by chaos, not purpose. He would not live any longer than poor, hapless Grinkov, who had been cut down by a stray bullet as he headed back to the rear.