Dad! he wanted to say. Once when I was barely seven, you, me and Mom went to Revere Beach, remember? I swam until my teeth chattered, and you and I dug a large sand hole and built a sand bar and waited for the rising tide to wash the ocean in. We got so burned those hours on the beach, and then we went on the awesome Cyclone—three times—and ate cotton candy and ice cream until my stomach hurt and you smelled of sand and salt water and the sun, and you held my hand and said I too smelled like the sea. It was the happiest day of my life, and you gave that day to me, and when I close my eyes that’s what I will remember. Don’t worry about me. I will be all right. Don’t worry about anything.
But he wasn’t alone with his father for a moment to say those words to him, in any language. Alexander became afraid that Harold’s emotion would alert the guard. Fortunately the apathetic sentry wasn’t looking for subterfuge.
His father was the only one who spoke, in English, with a little lead-in help from Alexander. “Could the prisoner say something to us in English?” Alexander had asked the guard, who grunted and said, “All right. But make it short. I don’t have time to waste.”
“I’ll say something short in English,” said Harold. His voice barely strong enough to get the words out, he grasped Alexander by the hands and whispered, holding him tight, his eyes spilling over, “Would that I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!”
Saying nothing, Alexander stepped away and blinked back his father. At the end of those few short minutes in a bare concrete cell, Alexander’s cost for keeping himself in control was a chipped tooth and a bit of his immortal soul. I love you, he mouthed silently, and then the door closed.
After that, Dimitri never left Alexander’s side, which was all right with Alexander: he needed a friend.
It didn’t take long for Dimitri to start formulating plans to get him and Alexander out of the Soviet Union. Since much of what Dimitri was saying echoed what Alexander already had been thinking and planning, Alexander saw no reason to stop him. And he saw no reason not to get Dimitri out with him. Two could fight better than one, could cover each other, could watch each other’s back. That’s what Alexander imagined. That Dimitri would be like a battle buddy. That Dimitri would watch his back.
But Alexander was patient, and Dimitri was not. Alexander knew the right time had to come, and would. They talked about taking trains down to Turkey, they talked about making their way to Siberia in the winter and walking across the Bering Strait ice. They talked about Finland and finally settled on it. It was the nearest and most accessible.
Alexander went every week to check on his Bronze Horseman book. What if someone checked it out? What if someone kept it? He couldn’t help but feel that his money was not safe.
Having graduated secondary school, Alexander and Dimitri decided to enroll in the three-month program at the Officer Candidate School of the Red Army. The OCS was Dimitri’s idea. He thought it would be a good way to impress girls. Alexander thought it would be an entry way into Finland if the Soviet Union and Finland went to war, which seemed likely: Russia did not like having a foreign country, a historical enemy, only twenty kilometers from Leningrad, arguably Russia’s greatest city.
OCS was nothing like Alexander had imagined. The brutality of the instructors, the grueling schedule of the training, the constant humiliation by the sergeants in charge were all meant to break your spirit before war could. The humiliation was harder to bear than the running, the sweating in the cold, the rain. But worse than everything was being awoken after taps and told to stand for hours while some fucking cadet got taken to task for forgetting to shine his boots.
Alexander learned about imperfection in OCS, and about leadership, and about respect. He learned about keeping his mouth shut and about keeping his locker spotless and about being on time and about saying yes, sir when he wanted to say fuck you. He also learned that he was stronger and faster and quicker than other trainees, that he was neater, that he was more calm under pressure, and that he was less afraid.
He also learned that words spoken to him that were meant to rattle him actually did.
After experiencing the grunt duality of officer school—they wanted to make a man out of you by breaking your spirit until you had none left—Alexander was grateful only that he wasn’t an enlisted man: they must have had it even harder.
And then Dimitri flunked OCS.
“Can you believe it? What bastards they all are, after putting me through such hell, to not let me graduate! What kind of stupid bullshit is that? I’ve got a good mind to write the commander a letter—who is the commander of OCS, Alexander? Do you see this letter? They’re telling me I unloaded and loaded my weapon too slowly, and that I crawled on my belly like a fucking snake too slowly, and that in battle tests I didn’t keep quiet enough, or exhibit enough leadership quality to be considered for an officer rank. Look at this: they’re inviting me to join the enlisted ranks. Well, if I can’t load my weapon fast enough for them as an officer, what good am I going to be as a fucking grunt?”
“Perhaps the standards are different for officers and regular soldiers.”
“Sure they are! But they should be tougher for the frontoviks! After all, those are the guys who are first at the battle line. So they’re flunking me out of a program that would have kept me in the rear where I would do the least damage, but instead offering me a position where I’m going to be thrown into the fucking war zone? No, thanks.” Dimitri looked up at Alexander. “Did you get your letter?”
He had gotten it, of course, and was informed of his impending graduation as a second lieutenant, but he didn’t think Dimitri was in any mood to hear that. To lie was impractical. Alexander told Dimitri the truth.
“Alexander, this is just idiotic. Our plans are completely fucked. What good are we to each other, with you an officer and me a private?” Dimitri hit himself on the head for emphasis. “I’ve got it! Great idea. Only one thing left to do—do you see it?”
“I don’t see it.”
“You’ve got to reject your second lieutenantship. Tell them you’re honored and grateful, but you’ve reconsidered. They’ll enlist you as a private in a few days, and then we’ll be together in one unit and able to run together when the opportunity arises.” He was gleefully smiling. “And for a moment I thought all was lost and our plans were as good as dead.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Alexander looked at Dimitri askance. “Dima, you want me to what?”
“Decline your officership.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So we can execute our plans.”
“Our plans haven’t changed. If I’m second lieutenant, then I’m commanding a unit that has a sergeant who’s in charge of your squad. We’ll go to Finland together no matter what.”
“Yes, but what good is it if we’re not in the same unit? Those were our plans, Alexander.”
“Our plans were to become officers together. We didn’t say anything about becoming privates.”
“All right, but our plans changed. We have to be flexible.”
“Yes. But if we’re both privates, we’ve got no power whatsoever.”
“Who said anything about power? Who wants power?” Dimitri narrowed his eyes. “You?”
“I don’t want power,” Alexander said. “I want to be in a position to help us. You’ve got to admit, one of us being an officer gives us more options, more opportunity to get to where we need to be. I mean, if it were reversed and I flunked and you became an officer, I’d definitely want you to stay an officer. You could do so much for us.”
“Yes,” Dimitri said slowly, “but I didn’t become an officer, did I?”
“Just dumb luck, Dima,” Alexander said. “I’d think no more about it.”
“I’m hardly going to be able to help thinking about it,” said Dimitri, “since I’m about to become everybody’s shitting pot.”
Alexander said nothing. Dimitri spoke again. “I think it would be better if you and I were in the same squad.�
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“There is no guarantee of being in the same squad,” Alexander said. “They’ll send you to Karelia and me to the Crimea…” Alexander broke off. It was ridiculous. There was no way he was declining his officership. But by the look in Dimitri’s eyes, by the hunched manner of Dimitri’s shoulders, by the unpersuaded sneer of Dimitri’s mouth, Alexander heard the first tear in the fabric of his and Dimitri’s friendship. Shoddy Soviet workmanship, Alexander decided, and worked harder to convince Dimitri that this was going to work out. “Dima, think how much better your life will be in the army if I’m in the commissioned ranks, helping you out every step of the way. Better food. Better cigarettes. Better vodka. Better assignments. Better girls.”
Dimitri looked skeptical.
“I’m your ally and your friend, and I’ll be in a position to help you.”
Dimitri still looked skeptical.
And rightly so, for, despite Alexander’s proffered hand, life was only marginally easier for Dimitri. But there was no denying it—it was considerably easier for Alexander. He was quartered better, he was fed better, he was allowed more privileges and liberties, he was paid better, he received better weapons, he was privy to sensitive military information, and a better class of woman threw herself at him at the officers’ club. The benefit to Dimitri was that Alexander was his commanding officer at the Leningrad garrison—with two sergeants and a corporal in between. But it was a dubious benefit the first time Alexander shouted at Dimitri for not maintaining order during a forward march and saw Dimitri coil up. Alexander knew he was either going to continue to shout orders at everyone including Dimitri, which was clearly not acceptable to Dimitri, or not shout orders at anyone, which was clearly not acceptable to the Red Army.
Alexander transferred Dimitri into another unit, placing him under the command of one of his quartermates, Lieutenant Sergei Komkov—permanently damaging his relationship with Komkov.
“Belov, you ought to be drawn and quartered,” the short, nearly bald Komkov said to him one evening at cards. “What were you thinking asking me to take Chernenko? He is the biggest pussy I’ve ever seen! He is a worthless excuse for a soldier. My little sister is braver. He can’t do anything right but hates to be told what to do. Can we court martial him for cowardice?”
Alexander laughed. “Come on, he’s a good guy. You’ll see he’ll be good in battle.”
“Belov, cut the shit. Today I was nearly going to shoot him for desertion when he dropped his rifle during a march and then had to step three paces out of formation to pick it up. I actually cocked my weapon at him, for which I was sorry. Then, to make it up to him, I put him in charge of cleaning the officers’ latrine.”
“Stop it, Komkov. He’ll be all right.”
“Do you know that one of our rifles was accidentally fired and Chernenko dropped to the ground in the courtyard and covered his head? Didn’t protect his assigned buddy, I might add. I don’t know why you defend him all the time as you do. He’ll be the death of us in battle.”
Here Come the Girls, 1939
When they first started going to clubs, he got together with a girl named Luba and she started coming around more often, and Alexander started being less interested in meeting new girls, but then he found Dimitri talking to her, and then Dimitri expressed an interest in her and Alexander nodded and stepped away. Luba was hurt, while Dimitri played with her for a while and dropped her.
That happened twice, three times more. Alexander didn’t mind; he could always find himself another girl. He tried leaving Dimitri at the Sadko bar and going to the officers’ club instead, but Dimitri disapproved. So Alexander continued to go to Sadko with Dimitri and to pretend that he wasn’t that interested in any specific girl. And that was true. He quite liked all women.
Oksana only liked to be on top and did not want to be touched.
Olga liked to be touched. Only touched.
Milla talked too much about communism and economics.
Agafia talked too much period.
Isabel came once, returned for more, and on the third try, asked if he wanted to be married.
Dina said she liked him more than any other man she’d ever been with, and then he found her with Anatoly Marazov the next weekend.
Maya wanted it any which way, and he gave it to her any which way, and then again, and again, and afterward she said all he cared about was himself.
Megan talked all the while she was using her mouth on him.
Nina talked all the while he was using his mouth on her.
Nadia wanted to play cards, not before, not after, but instead of.
Kyra said she would do it only if her best friend Lena could join in.
Zoe was brazen all around and was done in fifteen minutes.
Masha was brazen all around and was done in two hours.
Marisa was the girl who liked to be talked to, and Marta was the girl who didn’t.
Sofia was the girl who liked most everything as long as she had to do nothing herself.
Sonia was the almost funny girl until suddenly, after one Saturday night too many, she became the girl with a broken heart, and suddenly she wasn’t funny and she wasn’t broken-hearted. She was just livid.
Valentina wanted to know if he ever killed another human being.
Zhenya wanted to know if he wanted to have a baby.
And then Alexander started forgetting their names.
That happened when he started to keep himself from release longer and longer. He kept coming back to them, looking into their eyes, their mouths, trying to get them completely naked, wanting a connection, wanting something else, but wanting and forgetting and continuing. A few a night, Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night, and sentry evenings, and Sunday afternoons—not many during daylight, much to his dissatisfaction, for he so liked to look at them in their fervor.
Alexander started to withdraw from them, still liking them, still needing them, still wanting them, but with a resigned face, an unsmiling face, with a detached manner and a growing indifference to their pleasure, and suddenly and inexplicably their attachment to him grew!
There seemed to be more and more of the girls who liked his company, who wanted to walk with him along Nevsky Prospekt and hold his arm, who squeezed him gratefully at the end, and whispered thank you, who would come back the following weekend when he would already be on his next girl, on his next three. More and more of them seemed to want something from him—what, he did not know and, more to the point, could not give.
“I want more, Alexander,” she said to him. “I want more.”
And he smiled and said, “Believe me, I gave you all I got.”
“No,” she said. “I want more.”
As they were walking back, he said in a resigned voice, “I’m sorry, but—what you want, it’s just not possible. This is about as much as I’m capable of.”
Still every girl he looked at, every girl he said hello to, every girl he touched, he thought, is she the one? I’ve had nearly all of them, has the one come and gone? Come—and gone, and I did not know?
But every once in a while, before dreams, before the black of night took him, for a moment, for a second, under the stars, on trains, and barges, and in other people’s carriages, Alexander saw the barn and smelled Larissa, and heard her pleasure breath, and felt regret for something lost he was afraid would never come again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dinner at the Sabatellas’, 1943
FINALLY, ON A SUNDAY in late October, Tatiana agreed to come for dinner at Vikki’s. The Sabatellas lived in Little Italy, at the corner of Mulberry and Grand.
As they walked through the door, Tatiana heard a bellow and a screech and then an alto voice hollered, “Gelso-MEE-nah!” A dark-haired, tanned woman of large size and short stature came out from the kitchen. “You said you were going to be here three hours ago.”
“I’m sorry, Grammy. Tania wasn’t done with—I don’t even know what she does in that hospital. Tania, meet my grandmoth
er, Isabella, oh, and this is Tania’s little boy, Anthony.”
Tatiana was hugged but Anthony was scooped up by the floury hands, and taken, all three and a half months of him, into the kitchen, where he was splayed out on the counter, on his back, and Tatiana thought if she didn’t instantly come to her son’s rescue, Isabella might just make a zeppole out of him.
“Gelsomina?” Tatiana inquired quietly of Vikki as they stood in the kitchen and drank wine.
“Don’t ask. It means jasmine. It has something to do with my dead mother.”
“Your mother is not dead!” Isabella shouted without rancor, caressing the baby. “She is in California.”
“She’s in California,” Vikki explained. “That means purgatory in Italian.”
“Stop it. You know how ill she is.”
“Your mother is ill?” Tatiana whispered.
“Yes,” Vikki whispered back, “mentally ill.”
“Stop it, you impossible child,” Isabella boomed, beaming at Anthony.
“I told them under no circumstances to ask you about the baby’s father,” Vikki loudly whispered. “Is that good?”
“That’s good, Vikki,” Tatiana quietly whispered back.
Tatiana liked the apartment, which was large and lived-in, with oversized windows and tall bookshelves and big furniture, but she was slightly unsettled by the decorating colors: the entire apartment from the carpeted floors to the walls to the crown molding to the velvet curtains was the color of the red wine she was drinking.
In the burgundy and dark-wood parlor room, she met Travis, Isabella’s thin, small and less-boisterous-than-his-wife husband.
“When I met my Travis,” Isabella said over dinner, holding Anthony with one hand and serving lasagna to Tatiana with the other, “Vikki, pass the bread to Tania, and the salad, and don’t just sit there, pour her some wine for the sake of Mary and Jesus, where was I? When I met Travis—”
“You already said that, woman,” said Travis, glancing at Tatiana and scratching his bald head as if in apology.
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