3
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.
War was the ultimate chaos, a pounding, soul-destroying snarl, ending in blown-apart men lying unburied on the cold earth. There was nothing more cosmically chaotic than war.
But Tatiana was order. She was finite matter in infinite space. Tatiana was the standard-bearer for the flag of grace and valor that she carried forward with bounty and perfection in herself, the flag Alexander had followed sixteen hundred kilometers east to the Kama River, to the Ural Mountains, to Lazarevo.
For two hours Alexander sat on the bench in unpaved, provincial, oak-lined Molotov.
To go back was impossible.
To go forward was unthinkable.
Yet he had nowhere else to go.
He crossed himself and stood up, gathering his belongings.
When Alexander finally walked in the direction of Lazarevo, not knowing whether Tatiana was alive or dead, he felt he was a man walking to his own execution.
4
Lazarevo was ten kilometers through deep pine woods.
The forest wasn’t just pine; it was mixed with elms and oaks and birches and nettles and blueberries all drifting their pleasing way into his senses. Alexander walked carrying his rucksack, his rifle, his sidearm and ammunition, his large tent and blanket, his helmet, and a sack filled with food from Kobona. He could hear the nearby rush of the Kama River through the trees. He thought of going and washing, but by this point he needed to keep moving forward.
He picked a few blueberries off the low bushes as he walked. He was hungry. It was very warm, very sunny, and Alexander was suddenly filled with a pounding hope. He walked faster.
The woods ended, and in front of him was a dusty village road, flanked on both sides by small wooden huts, overgrown grasses, and old falling-down fences.
To the left, past pines and elms, he could see the glimmer of the river, and past the river, past more voluminous, voluptuous forest, the round-topped, evergreen-covered Ural Mountains.
He inhaled deeply. Did Lazarevo smell of Tatiana? He smelled firewood burning and fresh water and pine needles. And fish. Alexander saw the smokestack of a fishing plant on the outskirts of the village.
He continued down the road, passing a woman sitting on the bench outside her house. She stared at him; he understood. How often did these people see a Red Army officer? The woman got up and said, “Oh, no! You’re not Alexander, are you?”
Alexander didn’t know how to answer that. “Oh, yes,” he finally said. “I am Alexander. I’m looking for Tatiana and Dasha Metanova. Do you know where they live?”
The woman started to cry.
Alexander stared at her. “I’ll just ask someone else,” he muttered, walking on.
The woman ran after him in small steps. “Wait, wait!” She pointed down the road. “On Fridays they have a sewing circle in the village square. Straight ahead, over there.” Shaking her head, she walked back.
“So they are alive?” Alexander said in a weak voice, flooded with relief.
The woman could not answer. Covering her face, she ran back to her house.
She said they? They meaning . . . he asked for two sisters; she replied they. Alexander slowed down, lighting a cigarette and taking a drink out of his flask. He walked on but stopped before he got to the village square thirty meters ahead.
He couldn’t come straight up the road. Not yet.
If they were alive, then in a moment he was going to have different problems from the ones he had imagined, and he thought he had imagined them all. He would deal with this one as he dealt with everything, but first—
Alexander walked through someone’s garden, apologizing hastily, opened the back gate, and was on the village back path. He wanted to come a roundabout way to the square. He wanted to see Tatiana for a moment without her seeing him. Before there was Dasha, he wanted an instant of being able to look at Tatiana the way he wanted to look at her, without hiding.
He wanted proof of God before God looked upon the man with His own eyes.
The elms were standing tall in a green canopy around the small square. A group of people sat beneath the trees at a long wooden table. Most were women; there was, in fact, only one young man. It was a sewing circle, thought Alexander, moving nearer to the table to get a better look.
He was obstructed from their view by a fence and a sprawling lilac tree. The flowers got into his face and nose. Breathing in their ripe fragrance, he peeked out. He did not see Dasha anywhere. He saw four old women seated around the table, a young boy, an older girl, and a standing T
atiana.
At first Alexander could not believe it was his Tania. He blinked and tried to refocus his eyes. She was walking around the table, gesturing, showing, leaning forward, bending over. At one point she straightened out and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a short-sleeved yellow peasant dress. She was barefoot, and her slender legs were exposed above her knee. Her bare arms were lightly tanned. Her blonde hair looked bleached by the sun and was parted into two shoulder-length braids tucked behind her ears. Even from a distance he could see the summer freckles on her nose. She was achingly beautiful.
And alive.
Alexander closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there, bending over the boy’s work. She said something, everyone laughed loudly, and Alexander watched as the boy’s arm touched Tatiana’s back. Tatiana smiled. Her white teeth sparkled like the rest of her. Alexander didn’t know what to do.
She was alive, that was obvious.
Then why hadn’t she written him?
And where was Dasha?
Alexander couldn’t very well continue to stand under a lilac tree.
He went back out onto the main road, took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked toward the square, never taking his eyes off her braids. His heart was thundering in his chest, as if he were going into battle.
Tatiana looked up, saw him, and covered her face with her hands. Alexander watched everyone get up and rush to her, the old ladies showing unexpected agility and speed. She pushed them all away, pushed the table away, pushed the bench away, and ran to him. Alexander was paralyzed by his emotion. He wanted to smile, but he thought any second he was going to fall to his knees and cry. He dropped all his gear, including his rifle. God, he thought, in a second I’m going to feel her. And that’s when he smiled.
Tatiana sprang into his open arms, and Alexander, lifting her off her feet with the force of his embrace, couldn’t hug her tight enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his bearded cheek. Dry sobs racked her entire body. She was heavier than the last time he felt her in all her clothes as he lifted her into the Lake Ladoga truck. She, with her boots, her clothes, coats, and coverings, had not weighed what she weighed now.
She smelled incredible. She smelled of soap and sunshine and caramelized sugar.
She felt incredible. Holding her to him, Alexander rubbed his face into her braids, murmuring a few pointless words. “Shh, shh . . . come on, now, shh, Tatia. Please . . .” His voice broke.
“Oh, Alexander,” Tatiana said softly into his neck. She was clutching the back of his head. “You’re alive. Thank God.”
“Oh, Tatiana,” Alexander said, hugging her tighter, if that were possible, his arms swaddling her summer body. “You’re alive. Thank God.” His hands ran up to her neck and down to the small of her back. Her dress was made of very thin cotton. He could almost feel her skin through it. She felt very soft.
Finally he let her feet touch the ground. Tatiana looked up at him. His hands remained around her little waist. He wasn’t letting go of her. Was she always this tiny, standing barefoot in front of him?
“I like your beard,” Tatiana said, smiling shyly and touching his face.
“I love your hair,” Alexander said, pulling on a braid and smiling back.
“You’re messy . . .”
He looked her over. “And you’re stunning.” He could not take his eyes off her glorious, eager, vivid lips. They were the color of July tomatoes—
He bent to her—
With a deep breath Alexander remembered Dasha. He stopped smiling, letting go of Tatiana and stepping slightly away.
She frowned, looking at him.
“Where’s Dasha, Tania?” he asked.
What Alexander saw pass through her eyes then . . . there was hurt and sadness and grief and guilt, and anger—at him?—all of it, and in a blink it was all gone, and then an icy veil clouded her eyes. Alexander watched something in Tatiana shut against him. She looked at him coolly, and though her hands were still trembling, her voice was steady and low. “Dasha died, Alexander. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Tania. I’m sorry.” Alexander reached out to touch her, but she backed away from him. She didn’t just back away from him. She staggered away from him.
“What?” he said, perplexed. “What?”
“Alexander, I’m really sorry about Dasha,” Tatiana said, unable to meet his eyes. “You came all this way . . .”
“What are you talking—”
But before he had a chance to continue or Tatiana a chance to respond, the other members of her sewing circle surrounded them. “Tanechka?” said a small, round salt-and-pepper woman with small, round eyes. “Who is this? Is this Dasha’s Alexander?”
“Yes,” said Tatiana. “This is Dasha’s Alexander.” Glancing at him, she said, “Alexander—meet Naira Mikhailovna.”
Naira started to cry. “Oh, you poor man.” She didn’t just shake Alexander’s hand, she hugged him. Poor man? He stared at Tatiana.
“Naira, please,” Tatiana said, backing farther away from him.
Sniffling, Naira whispered to Tatiana, “Did he know?”
“He didn’t know. But he does now,” replied Tatiana. That provoked a sustained wail out of Naira.
Tatiana made further introductions. “Alexander, meet Vova, Naira’s grandson, and Zoe, Vova’s sister.”
Vova was precisely the kind of strapping lad Alexander hated to think about. Round-faced, round-eyed, round-mouthed, a dark-haired version of his small and compact grandmother, Vova shook Alexander’s hand.
Zoe, a large, black-haired village girl, hugged him, shoving her big breasts into his uniform tunic. She held Alexander’s hand in hers and said, “We’re so pleased to meet you, Alexander. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Everything,” said a bright, curly-haired woman, whom Tatiana introduced as Naira’s older sister, Axinya. “We’ve heard everything about you,” Axinya said energetically and vocally. She hugged Alexander, too.
Then two more women moved front and center. They were both gray-haired and frail. One of them had a shaking disorder. Her hands shook, her head shook, her mouth shook as she spoke. Raisa was her name. Her mother’s name was Dusia, who was taller and broader than her daughter and wore a large silver cross over her dark dress. Dusia made the sign of the cross on Alexander, and said, “God will take care of you, Alexander. Don’t you worry.”
Alexander wanted to tell Dusia that having found Tatiana alive, he had nothing to worry about, but before he could say anything, Axinya asked Alexander how he was feeling, which was followed by a second round of hugs and a second round of tears.
“I’m feeling fine,” said Alexander. “Really, there is no need to cry.”
He might as well have been speaking English. They continued to cry.
Alexander looked at Tatiana perplexed. But not only did she stand off to the side, but Vova stood by her.
“You are just the—oh, I can’t, I can’t, I just can’t,” cried Naira.
“Then don’t, Naira Mikhailovna,” Tatiana said mildly. “He is all right. Look. He’ll be fine.”
“Tania is right,” Alexander said. “Really.”
“Oh, dear man,” said Naira, grabbing his sleeve. “You’ve traveled so far. You must be exhausted.”
He wasn’t until five minutes ago. He looked at Tatiana and said, “I am a little hungry.” And smiled.
She did not smile back when she said, “Of course. Let’s go eat.”
Nothing was making any sense to a tired and hungry Alexander, who found himself suddenly losing his patience. “Excuse me, please,” he said, extricating himself from Axinya, who was standing in front of him, and making his way through the sea of people to Tatiana. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Tatiana backed away from him, averting her face. “Come on. I’ll make you dinner.”
“Can we”—Alexander found himself having trouble getting the words out—”ju
st for a moment, talk, Tania?”
“Alexander, of course,” said Naira. “We’ll talk. Come, dear, come to our house.” She took him by the arm. “This must be the worst day of your life.”
Alexander didn’t know what to think about this day.
“Let us take care of you,” Naira continued. “Our Tania is a very good cook.”
Their Tania? “I know,” Alexander said.
“You’ll eat, you’ll drink. We’ll talk. We’ll talk plenty. We’ll tell you everything. How long are you here for?”
“I don’t know,” Alexander said, not even trying to catch Tatiana’s eye anymore.
They started walking, amid all the commotion forgetting their sewing. “Oh, yes,” said Tatiana blankly and went back to the table. Alexander followed her. Zoe ran alongside him, and he said, “Zoe, I need a moment alone with Tania,” and without even waiting for a response, hurried to catch up with Tatiana.
“What’s the matter with you?” he said to her.
“Nothing.”
“Tania!”
“What?”
“Talk to me.”
“How was your trip here?”
“That’s not what I mean. It was fine. Why didn’t you write to me?”
“Alexander,” she said, “why didn’t you write to me?”
Taken aback, he said, “I didn’t know you were alive.”
“I didn’t know you were alive either,” she replied, almost calmly, if only he didn’t see through the veil. Under it there was a storm she was not letting him near.
“You were supposed to write to me and tell me you made it here safely,” Alexander said. “Remember?”
“No,” Tatiana said pointedly. “Dasha was supposed to write to you and tell you. Remember? But she died. So she couldn’t.” She gathered up the material—the needles, the thread, the beads and buttons and paper patterns—stuffing it all into a bag.
“I’m so sorry about Dasha, I’m so sorry. Please.” Alexander touched her back.
Tatiana flinched from him and blinked back tears. “Me, too.”
The Bronze Horseman Page 50