The Dogs of Winter (8 page)

The world had turned white and cold during my time in the cellar. Snow covered the trash and weeds in the alley. The sun hurt my eyes.

My toes — one set living in only a sock, the other living in one Famous Basketball Player shoe — pointed their way down the alley. I followed. I went the only way I knew to go: back to Leningradsky Station.

I watched for faces I might know and for a smoke-colored dog as I clumped my way through the frozen streets. I saw the faces of children going to school and the faces of children sleeping in doorways and in cardboard boxes. But I did not see the faces of Pasha or Tanya or Yula.

I stood at the top of the stairs leading down and down into the belly of Leningradsky Station. I clung to the cold metal of the handrail. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would burst through my chest.

Someone pushed me from behind. “Move it, kid.” I stumbled down two steps, then four, five, and then I was swept down in the current of legs and bags and carrying cases until I was at the long, gleaming cavern of the station. There stood the statue of the man on the horse. There were
the sparkling glass lights that made it always daytime in the station.

I stopped before my bench over the heat vent, the place I had slept night after night after night since coming to The City, and the place where I'd lost that one piece of my mother: the shiny black button. Tears stung my eyes. “You are a stupid, stupid little boy,” I muttered.

Something fluttered beneath the bench. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled under. Pages from my book of fairy tales were just where I'd left them. I smiled as I gathered them to me. There was the firebird soaring high above the shining city. There, on the other page, was the evil witch, Baba Yaga, with her house on chicken legs. The eyes of the Little Match Girl stared up at me, asking — what was she asking? I brought the page close to my face and whispered, “What?”

“So the little mouse is back.”

A chill ran through me. I knew that voice. I knew this time it belonged not to a giant rat but to a rat-faced boy.

I tucked my pages under my sweater and crawled out from under the bench.

Viktor sneered at me through the smoke of his cigarette. His face was many colors of black and purple and green and yellow, all fading. His head had been shaved.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

I pointed. “Your hair,” I said. “It's gone.”

He ran his hand over his nearly bald head. “Yeah, well,
that's what they do to you at the police station. It's better. The lice are gone.”

I thought it looked sad and painful. I touched the pages beneath my sweater. “Where are the others?” I asked.

Viktor tossed his cigarette to the floor. “I found Rudy, Tanya, and Yula at Kurskaya Station.”

“Pasha too?”

Viktor spit on the floor. “Who cares where he is.”

He pointed at my one shoe and my one foot with just a sock and laughed. “You, on the other hand, look pathetic.”

“What's ‘pathetic'?” I asked.

“It means lots of people will feel sorry for you and you'll bring us plenty of money.”

Trains pulled in and out of the station. People poured into the trains and people poured out of the trains. They hurried around us and past us and through us without looking. Nothing had changed.

“Money for new shoes?” I asked.

Viktor studied my feet — one with shoe, one without shoe — his hands on his hips. “I think you'll do even better without
any
shoes.” Before I could puzzle out what he'd meant, he knocked me to the ground and wrenched my one Famous Basketball Player shoe from my foot.

“No!” I cried. “Give me back my shoe!”

He held the once-white shoe above my head. “Jump for it, little circus mouse,” he said as he laughed.

I did. I jumped and I jumped. Without Famous Basketball Player shoes, I could not jump very high. “Give me my shoe,” I sobbed.

I kicked Viktor's shin. He shoved me to the floor. He kicked my side. “I'll teach you, you little runt.”

He swung his leg back. I curled into a ball. Even before it came, I could feel the toe of his pointed black boot in my side. I knew how it would feel when it came, so I waited.

But it didn't come. Instead, Viktor screamed in pain. “Get off me!”

A whirling fury of silver and gray and black flew all over Viktor. It grabbed first his arm and then his leg. It grabbed his coat and shook it and shook it.

“No!” Viktor screamed.

“Smoke!” I cried.

The dog dropped Viktor's arm.

A train screeched to a halt. People poured out.

Smoke shook himself and trotted toward the train.

Viktor scrambled to his feet. The sleeve of his coat hung in shreds. He grabbed for me. “Come on,” he said.

I jumped away.

Smoke barked. He stood at the door of the train. He barked again.

Viktor made another lunge for me. “You come with me, Mishka! Now!”

Mishka? There was no button; there was no mother.

There was no Mishka.

I ran as fast as I have ever run down that long platform. The train whistle blew. The tracks whirred. The white tip of Smoke's tail disappeared into the last train car.

“Smoke! Wait for me!”

I dove through the train doors just as they closed. I lay in a panting heap on the floor as the train rattled its way out of Leningradsky Station.

A wet nose nudged my face. I rose and followed Smoke to the back of the train. We sat together, a small boy and a smoke-colored dog, and watched the world click by on the other side of the windows.

And so it was, I threw in my lot with the dogs.

The day Smoke led me from Leningradsky Station, he took me farther into The City. All this time, I'd thought I was already living deep in The City, with its tall glass buildings and everything made of steel and bricks and concrete.

When at last we pulled into a train station and the voice that was not a voice announced, “Last stop,” Smoke stood. With barely a glance at me, he left the train car and set out. I trotted as fast as my socks would carry me, trying to keep him in sight.

“Wait,” I called as I raced up the stairs and out of the station. Smoke paused at the top of the stairs just long enough for me to catch up, then he was off again.

I ran alongside him. My feet quickly became wet and cold through the socks. I barely noticed my new surroundings. All I knew was we ran and ran, up one narrow street and down another, past old buildings and long, black cars so shiny I could see Smoke and myself running on the side of the car. I waved. The car slid past.

Finally, we came to a small wooden shed. I bent over, breathing hard, my hands on my knees.

Woof!

I straightened and looked around. The shed lived in a small forest of trees and overgrown brambles. The door to the shed sagged to one side. The one window lay in many pieces on the ground.

I followed Smoke behind the shed. We climbed over a crumbling brick wall and pushed our way through vines and bushes.

I gasped. It stood before me, shining in the sun. A house made of glass!

And out of the Glass House tumbled two little puppies followed by Lucky, Rip, and Grandmother.

“Lucky!” I cried. I threw my arms around the neck of the big brown and black dog. I buried my cold face in his warm fur.

Grandmother licked my fingers and Rip barked and danced and twirled on his hind legs. I laughed. I dropped to my knees and scooped the puppies into my arms. They kissed and kissed my face with their little pink tongues. We rolled in the snow, Rip barking and dancing, the puppies nip-ping and tugging on my clothes. Lucky sat with Grandmother and wagged his tail.

Finally, I sat up and shook the snow from my hair. “Where is the other puppy?” I asked. “Where is Little Mother? Where is Patches?”

And where was Smoke?

I followed his tracks into the Glass House, past wooden
tables and rows of empty flowerpots. There, under a table, lay Little Mother in a nest of empty sacks. Smoke stood beside her, his amber eyes filled with worry. She was much thinner than I remembered. Her big brown eyes were filled with sorrow and with questions.

I knelt down next to her. Pressed into the fur of her belly was the third puppy. It did not move. Little Mother whimpered and nosed the still puppy. I touched the little body with my finger. It was cold and stiff.

“Oh, Little Mother,” I sighed. I stroked her side. There was nothing between her fur and her bones.

Smoke whined. He looked from me to the puppy and back again.

“Is this why you brought me here?” I asked him. I shook my head. “There is nothing I can do for him now,” I said to Smoke and Little Mother. “The puppy is dead. I cannot help.”

Woof,
said Smoke.

“I am just a boy,” I said to Smoke. “A small, pathetic boy.”

I picked the puppy up and held it to my chest. So soft, so silent. All the dogs watched as I wrapped the tiny body in a page from my fairy tale book. I folded his body in the wings of the bright angel that came for the Little Match Girl.

The dogs trailed solemnly behind as I carried the paper-wrapped body out into the fading light. I dug a hole with a rusted spade. Even the puppies were silent as I lay the body in the dirt. I covered the puppy and sat back. “The angels have him now,” I said to the dogs. “He has gone to a place
that is warm and where there is more food than he can ever eat. Everyone is kind there,” I said to the dogs and the first stars. “He will be filled with love.”

The dogs and I sat that way on the cold ground beside the little grave. We watched the stars come out one by one. Finally, Little Mother took her two remaining puppies back into the Glass House. I followed behind. I lay down beside her. Grandmother lay on the other side. We watched as the puppies pushed against their mother's belly crying for milk. I ran my hand over her belly. Her nipples were dry.

“I am just a boy,” I said to Little Mother. “A small, pathetic boy with no mother.”

I curled myself closer to her and the puppies. Rip and Grandmother pressed in close to me.

“But tomorrow,” I promised her, “tomorrow I will get food so you can make food for your babies.”

Where we now lived in The City long black cars purred up and down the streets with beautiful ladies and fine gentlemen inside. They stepped out of the long black cars wrapped in fur coats and fur hats and fur gloves and paraded inside the finest restaurants. The first time I tried to beg money from the beautiful ladies, the doorman chased me away. “Get away, you filthy little beggar boy,” he growled. “Get away or I'll call the
militsiya
.”

I watched the long black car waiting by the curb, Smoke and Lucky by my side. “The beautiful ladies and their gentlemen are so rich they don't even have to open a door for themselves. Surely they can give a shoeless, pathetic boy a ruble.” I tucked my feet under my bottom. My stomach pressed into my spine. I could not remember the last time I had eaten.

I leaned into the warmth of Lucky and watched the sun on the golden domes and crosses rising in the sky. Surely any minute a firebird would swoop across the towers and —

Woof!

Smoke watched the entrance of the restaurant. The beautiful women and fine gentlemen swept through the door held
open by the doorman in his white gloves. A gentleman in a long gray coat handed the doorman a ruble.

Smoke whined. I thought about the two puppies and Little Mother. I leapt to my feet and raced across the wide plaza, the red bricks bruising my feet.

I skidded to a stop in front of the man with the long gray coat just as they reached the car.

“
Pozhalsta
, please,” I said, panting. “I am just a small, pathetic boy with no shoes. Could you please spare a ruble?”

The doorman rushed over, waving his arms. “Go away, you filthy little beggar! Leave these good people alone!”

I dodged the white gloves of the doorman.
“Pozhalsta,”
I said, looking from the gentleman in the gray coat to one of the beautiful women.

“Leave the boy alone,” the woman snapped. She nodded to the gentleman in the gray coat. “For God's sake, Renni, give the poor creature some money for shoes.”

“You mustn't,
madame
,” the doorman said. “It will only encourage more begging.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” she said. Then, “Renni, the money.”

With a sigh, the man named Renni opened his wallet and pulled out some money.

“More,” the woman commanded.

The man shook his head and handed over a fistful of bills.

“
Spasibo
, sir,” I said, using my best manners. I bowed to the beautiful lady. “
Spasibo
, madam.” They slid into the
long black car and drove away. I watched them go, my hand full of rubles and my heart filled with joy.

The doorman cuffed me on the side of the head. “Hand it over,” he said. He held his fine white glove under my nose and the back of my sweater with the other hand.

“It's mine!” I cried. I squirmed under his hand. “Let me go!”

He shook me harder.

A low growl came from behind the doorman and then another. Smoke and Lucky stepped beside me. They pulled their lips back. Their long teeth gleamed in the winter sun. Smoke crouched as if to spring.

“What the hell is this?” the doorman said, his eyes darting like rats from Smoke to Lucky. Lucky growled louder and stepped closer to the doorman.

The doorman dropped his hands.

I sprinted as fast as I could away from the angry doorman and his white gloves.

“Don't you ever come back here again,” the doorman called as we ran and ran and ran.

Finally, we stopped on the other side of the great city square. My feet and my head and my stomach hurt, but I did not care. I held more money in my hand than I had ever seen in my life.

“Look,” I said to Smoke and Lucky. “We can eat like kings! We can eat like kings and queens for the rest of the winter! I can buy shoes!” I tossed the rubles up in the air and
let them fall about me like snow. I laughed and laughed. Lucky yipped and nipped my sleeve. I chased him around the stone benches and statues. We rolled in the rubles. “I am a small, pathetic boy,” I said, laughing. Lucky squirmed on his back in the snow, waving his legs in the air.

Smoke let out a low, gruff bark.

I sat up and gathered the rubles off the ground. “Okay, okay,” I said.

I soon discovered there were no carts with men who sold potatoes and sausages and sandwiches in the great town square with the red bricks and gold domes. A few stalls lined the low brick wall just outside the train station doors. There I could buy only bread. The other stalls sold cigarettes and magazines and cheap wooden dolls. I went to the bread stall and bought thick black bread.

I had to visit the shops for anything else, and they were very expensive. One shop had strings of cooked sausages hanging in the window and jars of pickled eggs and bins of potatoes and cabbages. But I had no way to cook potatoes and cabbages.

I counted on my fingers: Little Mother, Smoke, Lucky, Rip, and Grandmother. And me.

“How much for six sausages?” I asked the man behind the counter.

“Twenty-five rubles,” he said.

I counted my money. My heart sank. “I don't have enough for six sausages,” I said.

He took my money. He wrapped five sausages and two pickled eggs in brown paper.

All my money was gone. There would be no new shoes today.

That afternoon, it was black bread and pickled eggs for me and sausages for the dogs. Lucky and Smoke had left me as soon as the Glass House was within sight. I gave two sausages to Little Mother and one each to Rip and Grandmother. I put the remaining sausage away for Lucky and Smoke.

I broke off pieces of black bread and fed it to the dogs.

“I thought I had all the money in the world today.” I sighed.

Grandmother licked my fingers in thanks. Then she curled up with a groan.

“But the food in shops costs so very much. We need more food and I need shoes.” A cold wind blew against the Glass House. A gap between the ground and the bottom of the Glass House welcomed the cold. Little Mother and Grandmother shivered.

“Soon it will be much colder than this,” I said. I remembered my mother stuffing old newspapers and rags around our leaky window in the bedroom.

“Let's see what we can find,” I said to Rip.

We found nothing but wet, crumpled newspapers and an old towel in the Glass House. The towel I stuffed in the gap, but it was not enough.

“Let's check that shed.”

Rip followed me through the brambles and over the crumbling brick wall. The shed brooded in the weak afternoon light. It looked dark and like the kind of place a troll or an evil witch might live. I licked my lips. “I don't know if we should go in there, Rip.”

But Rip was already pushing his way through the sagging door, his stub of a tail wagging. He poked his head back out and looked at me as if to say, “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

The shed was filled with all kinds of things — buckets and shovels and empty burlap sacks that had once held rich-smelling dirt. A wheelbarrow leaned against one corner. And inside the wheelbarrow the most wonderful sight: a pair of leather gloves! They were much too big for my small hands, and something had chewed away most of the fingertips on the gloves. But still, they were gloves.

“If only I would find shoes,” I said as Rip poked his nose beneath a wooden crate. His tail wagged with great excitement.

Above a long wooden shelf running the length of the shed was a cupboard.

“Do you think there could be food in that cupboard?” I asked. Rip dug furiously beneath the wooden crate.

“If I can get up on the shelf, I can reach the cupboard,” I said. But I was too small a boy to pull myself up onto the shelf. The cupboard and what might be in the cupboard called to me.

I grabbed a bucket and turned it over. I climbed onto the bucket and up on the shelf. I laughed. “Look at me up here,” I called to Rip, waving my hands. Rip barked.

I stood on tiptoe and pulled open the cupboard door. I peered inside.

“No food,” I called down to Rip in disappointment. But then, something even better: matches. Matches and lighter fluid and a long, sharp knife. A package of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka crouched in a dusty corner. These I left behind. But the matches, knife, and lighter fluid I tossed down to the wheelbarrow. I reached my hand to the back of the cupboard to see if there was anything I'd missed. I had. I had missed three long candles and a dented, rusted cup.

I climbed back down with my new treasures and loaded everything into the wheelbarrow with all the burlap sacks I could find.

Suddenly, Rip barked and yipped and lunged at something running across the shed floor. I jumped behind the wheelbarrow. Rip crashed this way and that. Finally, he grabbed the something up in his mouth and shook it, hard. Then he dropped it to the floor. I inched out from behind the wheelbarrow. A rat — a large rat — lay dead on the dirt floor. Rip looked up at me, eyes shining, tail wagging.

I smiled. “You are a fine hunter, Rip,” I said.

So we returned to the Glass House, me with my wheelbarrow full of treasure and Rip with his bloody rat. As I stuffed burlap sacks into every crack I could find, Rip shared
his rat with Little Mother. I shuddered at the sound of snapping bones and the
crunch
and
smack
as they ate. But I laughed as the two puppies played tug of war with the rat's long, naked tail.

Later, Smoke and Lucky returned with more food. Smoke dropped a meaty bone on the dirt floor, Lucky a raw potato. Little Mother and the puppies gnawed the bone, the puppies muttering and growling to themselves. Rip crunched the potato. Grandmother looked on with milky, hopeful eyes.

“Grandmother,” I said, stroking the top of her silvered head, “you must eat too.” I snatched the raw potato away from Rip, who had, after all, shared a rat with Little Mother.

I offered the potato to Grandmother. She took it gently in her mouth, rolled it about, and then dropped it. She pinned her ears back in apology and wagged the tip of her tail.

Why had she not eaten the potato? I carefully lifted her lips. I looked and looked for the long white teeth I had seen in Lucky and Smoke's mouth. The teeth of the dog. The teeth of the wolf. But Grandmother had no teeth, or very few. And the few she had were broken or worn to nothing more than nubs.

I pulled her to me and hugged her. She rested her head against mine. “Don't worry, Grandmother,” I said. “I will take care of you.” With my new knife I cut the one sausage into tiny pieces and cut what was left of the black bread up as well. I mixed it all together in an empty flowerpot with a bit of water until it formed a gruel.

“My Babushka Ina would fix soft food for me too when I was too sick to chew,” I said to her. “She would mix honey with mine to make it sweet. If I had honey, I would do that.”

I set the pot of gruel down for Grandmother. Rip and Lucky pushed her aside.

“No!” I said.

Lucky and Rip looked from me to the pot of food. They inched forward. I stepped between Grandmother and the pot of food and the two hungry dogs. “No,” I said in a low growl.

I locked eyes with these two dogs who were my friends and who could tear me to pieces.

“No,” I said again and took one step toward them.

A look passed between Rip and Lucky. It was brief as a shooting star and full of questions.

Finally, they lay down and licked their paws as if nothing had happened, nothing at all.