The Knife Sharpener's Bell

by Rhea Tregebov

  “And the story?” Pavel asks.

  “The story? The story was that the entire Jewish population of the town had been rounded up and taken to the countryside, told to undress, lined up and shot – old women, children, babies. Her own two children had been shot in her arms, she said, but the bullets had somehow missed her. When night came she’d crawled naked out of the mound of bodies. She somehow made it to Moscow, babbling her story all the way.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “What could I do? I sent her to the psychiatric ward.”

  Though it’s been another day of brilliantly blue sky, the room filled with sunlight, it’s freezing, inside and out, and we’re bundled in sweaters, Pavel and Vladimir in fingerless gloves. Pavel says he can’t remember an October this cold. Till this freeze, the German trucks and tanks were mired in the mud from the endless rain. But the frost has made the roads easier for them, and the Germans are moving quickly. There are rumours that stray troops have been seen right at the outskirts of the city.

  “But if it stays cold like this, the weather is on our side,” Vladimir is saying. The Russian winter. Napoleon. The best ally of the Russian people – it’s as if the loudspeaker were blaring inside Vladimir’s head, inside mine. Rubbish. But Vladimir goes on, his childish voice vehement. “And Hitler was so sure they’d take Moscow in a few days that he only gave the troops their light summer uniforms – ”

  “And I heard that the Tsar’s ghost was seen in the Kremlin,” I say, “but we mustn’t pay any attention to this nonsense.”

  “– and their hobnailed boots are freezing to the ice. So they’re throwing them away and making shoes out of straw. And when we capture them, we’re going to feed their shoes to the horses because they’re so hungry! And we’ll make the German soldiers walk barefoot!”

  “Vladimir, stop it!”

  “What?”

  “It’s cruel talking like that, even about the enemy.”

  Vladimir just looks at me. Pavel doesn’t say anything. He’s at the table, his papers scattered over the polished surface. Though the university is closed, he’s still working, making notes for the research paper he’s been writing all fall.

  My pencil traces Poppa’s face over and over. I can’t draw my mother, can never get her right. My head’s aching – more bad dreams. Last night I dreamt we’d all gone down into the catacombs again, me and Ben and Poppa and my mother, Manya and Lev. Joseph and Daisy and their little Nathan were somehow there too, though Nathan looked like Vladimir, was and wasn’t Vladimir. I’d felt the air clinging to the inside of my throat, the smell of dust and moths.

  Someone’s at the door. Pavel and I look up.

  Another knock, heavier. Vladimir starts to get up, but I put my hand on his shoulder. I hear it, full bellied, swaying. Two beats. The sound again coming into me, tight. Right there on the other side of the door, what I’ve been of afraid of, what I’ve been waiting for. I can’t. I can’t look it in the face.

  “Don’t answer it.”

  “What is it, Annette?” Pavel’s still at the table.

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “Pavel, they say German troops are within twenty miles of the city . . .”

  “Annette.” Pavel is quiet at the table. “Annette, dear, we don’t want to alarm Vladimir . . .”

  “Should I open the door, Poppa?” Vladimir asks.

  The knocking has become banging; whoever is at the door is frantic. It’s a solid door, oak panelling. The brass doorknob is battered, but recently polished. Right here.

  “Poppa?”

  “It’s all right, Vladimir.” Pavel gets up. “I’ll get it.”

  Pavel crosses the room and reaches for the knob, and Vladimir is suddenly at his side. Pavel gestures for him to step back, but Vladimir stands his ground, takes Pavel’s free hand.

  It’s Olga Moiseyevna, our neighbour, leaning in the doorway, blood coursing down the side of her face.

  “Olga Moiseyevna, come in. Let me help you . . .”

  “I was so afraid you’d gone, Comrade Efron. So many families have been evacuated. I’ve knocked on six doors and no one answered.”

  “You’re bleeding . . . What happened? Annette, please get a wet washcloth from the kitchen.”

  “Those hooligans! Cannibals! Fascists!”

  Vladimir is beside me. He takes my hand. “It’s all right, Annette. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Comrade Efron, they were taking everything, everything!” She looks around. “What’s the boy doing here? Hasn’t your son been sent east? Didn’t they give him a ticket? They’ve organized special trains. Surely you know that?”

  “My wife persuaded the authorities to let her keep the clinic open. And we want Vladimir to stay with us.”

  “Good for her. Well, I wasn’t leaving either. I’m sixty-two years old but I’m still strong and I know how to shoot a rifle!”

  Vladimir squeezes my hand. I can’t move, can’t take my eyes off of Olga Moiseyevna who, despite the cut on her forehead, the blood, is standing upright as a little soldier in the middle of the room.

  “What happened?” Pavel asks. “How were you hurt?”

  “I’m telling you! I won’t leave my home to be ransacked by those criminals! I’m gone for maybe an hour, and they think I’ve left with all the other dirty cowards. I come back and they have my phonograph in their grubby hands, every drawer in the apartment turned upside down . . .”

  “Poppa, Poppa, I’d heard there was looting all over the city!”

  “But surely not in our building . . . Where was Polankov?”

  “Polankov? That mouse? Hiding in his apartment. I knocked on his door first. Those imbeciles, I shouted at them to stop and look what they did –”

  “Please, sit down. Let me have a better look at your head.” Pavel puts his hands on her shoulders, leads her to the davenport.

  I hand him the washcloth.

  “Thank you, dear. Can you pour a small glass of brandy for Olga Moiseyevna? There’s some at the back of the cupboard.”

  I’m shivering all over; I can’t move.

  “I’ll get it, Poppa.”

  “No, it’s all right, Vladimir,” I say. “I can reach it easier.”

  “It’s still bleeding,” Pavel says. “We’ll have to go find Raisa. I’m sure this needs stitches. It’s too bad Ben isn’t here . . .”

  “I can go, Pavel,” I say. “It’s only fifteen minutes from here.” And before he can say anything, I’ve got my coat on, am out the door.

  My hands steady now, I button my coat, then find myself stopped, stalled on the staircase down to the street. It’s a vault of ice – the sun never gets in here.

  I’m not afraid.

  Now that there’s something to do, I’m all right.

  When I reach the sidewalk, I have to wrap my scarf around my mouth and nose: the air’s choked with the smoke from bonfires. The government departments and all the foreign embassies have been ordered to burn their archives. They’re all packing up, withdrawing east to safety in Kuybyshev, the temporary capital. Fifteen hundred miles between the bureaucrats and the front.

  Briefly, I smell another smoke, the green smoke of lilac branches, the smudge fires that were set to counter the mosquito plagues of Winnipeg; the sultry sidewalks of Selkirk Avenue, the crackle of sunflower seed shells.

  But it’s cold. I’m walking on glass from smashed shop windows. I’m alone. I can’t remember ever being alone in the street in Moscow before. The road is empty of traffic, the normal, everyday traffic of life. The broad sidewalk is all mine; Moscow’s mine.

  And then a truck hurtles by, inches from me. I step back, catch a glimpse of blurred faces in the open back, panicked, stricken. The roads out of town are clogged with evacuees.

  There’s a little cluster of people at the corner, whispering. Across the street three men, no, four, are hauling furniture onto laden trucks. Are they owners or thieves? I walk more quickly.

  Half a block down there’s another kno
t of men standing in the arched entrance to an apartment block: two of them in worn caps, and then an older gentleman with an old-fashioned moustache. Something glitters in his hand. A necklace? Diamonds? One of the men wearing a cap pockets it,hands the older man some kind of paper . . . I must be staring, because they turn my way. I walk quickly ahead.

  There’s a man with a rifle standing in a doorway across the street. He’s not in uniform. Must be from one of the People’s Army units . . . Ben reported to his unit early in the morning. He’s probably at the station, helping load the trains.

  A shopkeeper is standing in the middle of the street in a white apron. Poppa. He looks at me, puts something in my hands.

  “Here.”

  What is it?

  “Here, take it.”

  A saucepan. Better than gold. I see his wares are at his feet – that shop window with the broken glass, does he work there?

  “Here, better you have it than the Germans.”

  I hug it against my chest, walk blindly. Stop. A log in the middle of the street; someone has left a log – no. A body, a man, an older man with white hair, lying quietly in the middle of the street. A fat little determined current of blood running from his head.

  Dead.

  I’ve never seen a dead body before.

  Why do they call that colour red? It’s black against the grey pavement. Everything around me is black and grey, no colour anywhere. Just the black blood. It’s not a colour, black; it’s the absence of light. Absence flooding from his body.

  A woman’s voice whispers in my ear: “He was looting. They shot him.”

  “Who? He . . .”

  “A looter. Don’t stop. Just walk on.”

  I turn round. A stranger, her red hair tucked into a babushka.

  “Don’t turn around. Don’t stop. Just walk on.”

  I feel a hand grasp my elbow.

  “Just keep walking.”

  A breathless, wordless block and the hand is gone. I turn, see her disappearing around a corner.

  The saucepan in my hands – will they think I’m a looter too?

  Everything is very bright, very clear and still. Am I alone again? No. Up ahead, there’s a man in a worn grey overcoat, something familiar about him, though I can only see his back.

  There’s a faint popping noise somewhere to the south of us. Pop, pop. So far away. The man turns, and I recognize him. “Comrade Polankov!” I call.

  “You, girl, what are you doing here? Where did you get that?” He points to the saucepan. “You shouldn’t be here.” He grabs me roughly by the shoulders. People keep telling me what to do.

  I shrug off his hands. “I have to go.”

  “Didn’t you hear the shots?” His sour breath is in my face. I hear the popping noise again, faint, harmless. I’m used to the firecracker whiz of the shells.

  “Shots? The Germans? They’re here?”

  He laughs. “No, not those sons of bitches. The NKVD. They’re shooting prisoners in Lubyanka . . .”

  Lubyanka – the prison’s only a block away.

  “Shooting prisoners . . . ?”

  “They’re less trouble that way. I told you, girl: go home.”

  “I can’t. I have to fetch Raisa . . . Comrade Efron. There were people in the building, stealing things, looting, and Olga Moiseyevna from the fourth floor, she’s been hurt. My uncle Pavel thinks she needs stitches.”

  “Olga Moiseyevna hurt?”

  “They were stealing her phonograph.”

  His face changes. “You go home now, child.” His voice is oily, solicitous. Now he wants to seem obliging, helpful. He knows he’ll be held responsible for any looting in the building. “Don’t you worry; I’ll go and fetch Comrade Efron.”

  I hesitate.

  “My dear child. I’ll go straight to the clinic. We’ll be back in your apartment before you know it.” He smiles hard, pats me on the shoulder. “You go home.”

  I come quietly into the apartment, set the saucepan on the table. Pavel comes in from the bedroom. “I’m so glad you’re back. It really wasn’t wise, letting you go out . . .”

  “I met Polankov in the street. He said he’d get Raisa. They should be back soon.”

  “Very good. Excellent.”

  “A shopkeeper gave me a saucepan.”

  “He did?”

  “How is Olga Moiseyevna?”

  “The brandy seems to have calmed her.” Pavel’s face breaks into a quiet smile. “I think she may even be dozing. And Vladimir’s keeping an eye on her. But she will need those stitches.” He puts his arm around me. “You’re white. Maybe you should have a sip of brandy yourself?”

  “Pavel, I saw a body in the street.”

  “You did?”

  “And I heard shots.”

  “Shots? Surely the Germans can’t be here in the city – ”

  “No, Pavel. It wasn’t the Germans. Polankov said the NKVD were shooting prisoners in Lubyanka to get them out of the way.”

  Pavel swallows, turns from me. “Annette . . .”

  The door opens. It’s Ben; he’s flushed from running. “I met Raisa and Polankov at the corner. I ran. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with your unit?”

  “They sent us home, Pavel. I need Annette to help me. We’re supposed to go to the gastronom. They’re distributing all the food to local families.”

  “Distributing food?”

  Ben stuffs his hands in his pockets, mutters something.

  “What did you say?” Pavel asks.

  “So it doesn’t . . .”

  “Doesn’t what?”

  Ben looks up. “Doesn’t fall into enemy hands.”

  The sun’s so bright that Raisa’s kitchen is almost warm. I’m chewing on a heel of rye, daydreaming Winnipeg, food, my mother’s roast chicken, the potatoes and carrots braised in the chicken juices, cream soda in the fancy stemmed goblets from the delicatessen, the bubbles lazing their way to the surface.

  A week ago, during the panic, when I was lugging bags of flour home with Ben, stacking tinned goods in the cupboards, it all seemed hopeless.

  On one of our treks, we stopped to watch an apartment building burn down. It had been hit by a stray bomb. Some of those who stood were just passersby, but there were also families from the building, a few belongings at their feet: an album of photographs, a tin bucket, a pair of battered, leather-bound books. Even they stood dully, as though what was happening had nothing to do with them. Nothing to do but watch as it all went down.

  But Moscow still hasn’t been taken. Five armies are defending the city, the Siberian troops in their white padded uniforms immune to the cold. Comrade Stalin has been on the radio again, vowing Moscow will stand, refusing to leave. Everybody says that he’ll be at Red Square, no matter what, for the November ? celebrations.

  So we’ve gone on, made our way through each day listening for the sound of the shells, the gunfire, waiting for the sky to fall.

  But it hasn’t, not yet.

  A key at the door. Vladimir, his cheeks bitten bright pink by the cold, runs over to kiss me. “Are you working with the women’s brigade tomorrow?”

  I nod.

  “Poppa doesn’t want you to go. It’s dangerous. Some of the women ended up behind the lines and saw the German troops go by.”

  “He’s your father, not mine. He can’t tell me what to do.”

  Vladimir loosens his scarf. “I stayed most of the afternoon at Momma’s clinic; it’s warmer there. Look what I brought you – an Englishman gave it to me!” He hands me what at first seems a misshapen apple. A pomegranate. I set the lumpy, ruddy globe on the table. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one. An Englishman has given Vladimir a pomegranate. Before the war, one was as improbable as the other. And now these foreigners are on the streets of Moscow, neither enemies nor spies nor saboteurs, but our allies. A couple of weeks ago, before the panic, I’d seen a man and woman, stylishly dressed, standing at the doorway of one of the
cinemas where a British film was being shown, speaking in strong English accents. I touched the woman’s sleeve, but she looked me up and down with such a detached gaze that I just shook my head and walked away. What would I have said?

  I cut the pomegranate carefully in two, break one of the halves into pieces. The honeycomb of waxy white skin wraps seeds bright as rubies. The taste is tart and sweet in my mouth. Vladimir takes a section, licks the clear red juice from his fingers. The more I break it open, the more I find.

  Late in the afternoon the electricity, which has been off all morning, comes back on. Though we’re not supposed to use it for cooking, Raisa has made an illicit borscht of beets, cabbage, onion – no meat of course. Pavel’s late for dinner, so we wait. Raisa gives Vladimir a piece of bread to hold him off. At last we hear slow footsteps on the stairs.

  “Pavel, come in. What is it? Is something wrong?” Raisa asks. Pavel sits at the table. Raisa ladles the borscht into bowls, sets one at each place, resting a hand briefly on the nape of Pavel’s neck. She leaves just enough for Ben, who’s out with his unit.

  “Pavel. Please tell us.”

  “Let’s eat our dinner. We’ll talk later.”

  Vladimir is at the soup. Raisa tears him off another piece of bread. Pavel sips, swallows, keeping his eyes on the bowl. Another sip, another swallow. Raisa hasn’t touched hers. I’ve been watching them, but find that I’ve eaten most of the borscht, am chasing the last shreds of cabbage across the bowl with my spoon.

  “This is delicious, Raisa.” Pavel sets his spoon down. “But I’ll finish it later. I’m going to lie down for a while.” He walks into the bedroom.

  Raisa watches Vladimir finish his soup, carefully pours her own into his bowl. He doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps eating. I should have saved him some of mine . . .

  She goes to the bedroom; I follow. Pavel is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, face wet with tears.

  “They took Odessa, the Germans and the Romanians.”