Page 24 of Winter Garden

The apartment is warm. She notices instantly that another chair is broken. It lies on its side, two legs missing and the back hacked up. They cannot all sit at the table now, but what does it matter? There’s precious little to eat .

Leo is wearing his coat and his boots. He is sprawled on the kitchen floor, playing war with a pair of metal trucks. At her entrance, he cocks his head and looks at her. For a second it is as if she’s been gone a month instead of a day. She sees the way his cheeks have caved in on themselves, the way his eyes seem too big for his bony face. He doesn’t look like a baby boy at all anymore .

“Did you get food?” he says .

“Did you?” Anya says, rising from her place on the bed, carrying her blanket with her .

“Oil cakes,” Vera says .

Anya frowns. “Oh, no, Mama.”

Vera’s heart actually hurts when she hears this. What she wouldn’t give to bring home potatoes or butter or even buckwheat. But oil cake is what they have now. No matter that it used to be fed to cattle, or that it tastes like sawdust or that it’s so hard that only an ax will cut it. They use shavings to make pancakes that are barely edible. But none of that matters. What matters is that you have something to eat .

Vera knows that comfort will not help her children. This is a lesson she has learned since the snow began to fall on Leningrad. Her children need strength and courage now, as they all do. It does no good to cry or whine for that which cannot be had. She goes over to the fallen chair and breaks off another leg. Cracking it in two pieces, she feeds it into the burzhuika and puts the water she brought home in a pot to boil. She will put yeast in it to fill their bellies. It won’t help, of course, but they’ll feel better for a while .

She bends down, feeling the hot popping in her joints at the movement, and puts a hand on Leo’s curls. His hair, like all of theirs, is stiff from dirt. Baths are luxuries these days. “I have some more of the story for tonight,” she says, waiting for his enthusiasm, but he just nods a little and shrugs .

“Okay.”

It is wearing all of them away, the cold and the hunger. With a sigh, she gets back to her feet, rising like an old woman. She glances across the room at her mother, who is still in bed. To Anya she says, “How is she today?”

Anya stands there, her pale, thin face so drawn that her eyes seem to protrude. “Quiet,” is all she says. “I made her drink water.”

Vera goes to her small, serious daughter and picks her up, hugging her tightly. Even through the bulk of her coat, she can feel Anya’s boniness, and it breaks her heart. “You are my best girl,” she whispers. “You are taking such good care of everyone.”

“I’m trying,” Anya says, and the earnestness in her voice almost makes Vera feel ill .

Vera hugs her again and then lets go .

As she crosses the room, Vera can feel her mother’s eyes on her, following her movements like a hawk. Everything about Mama is pale and shrunken and colorless except for those dark eyes that hold on to Vera like a fist .

She sits down at her bedside. “I got some oil cakes today. And a little sunflower oil.”

“I am not hungry. Give mine to our babies.”

It is what Mama says every night. At first Vera argued, but then she started to see Anya’s cheekbones, and heard the way her son cried in his sleep for food .

“I’ll make you some tea.”

“That would be nice,” Mama says, letting her eyes drift shut .

Vera knows how hard her mother has worked to stay awake in the hours that Vera is gone. It takes every scrap of Mama’s will and courage simply to lie here and watch her grandchildren during the day, though she hasn’t gotten out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time in weeks .

“There will be more food next week,” Vera says. “I heard they’re sending a transport across Lake Ladoga as soon as the water freezes. Then we’ll all be fine.”

Her mother says nothing to that, but her breathing doesn’t even out, either. “Do you remember how your papa used to pace when he was working, how he muttered words to himself and laughed when he found what he wanted?”

Vera reaches out to touch her mother’s dry forehead, strokes it gently. “He used to read his poetry to me sometimes, when he was working. He’d say, ‘Verushka, when you are old enough to write your own stories, you’ll be ready. Now listen to this....’ ”

“Sometimes I feel him in here. And Olga. I can hear them talking, moving. I think they’re dancing. There’s a fire in the stove when they’re here, and it’s warm.”

Vera nods but says nothing. More and more often lately Mama sees ghosts; sometimes she talks to them. It is only when Leo starts to cry that she stops .

“I’ll add a drop of honey into your tea. And you need to eat today, okay? Just today.”

Mama pats Vera’s hand and sighs quietly .

Every day that winter Vera wakes thinking one of two things: it will get better today or it will be over soon. She doesn’t know how it is possible to believe simultaneously that her situation will improve and that she will die, but there it is. Each cold morning, she wakens with a start and reaches for her children, who are in bed with her. When she feels the slow, steady beating of their hearts, she breathes easily again .

It takes courage to get out of bed. Even wearing every piece of clothing she owns and layered beneath all their blankets she isn’t warm, and once she climbs from bed, she will be freezing. While they sleep, water freezes in pots in the kitchen and their eyelashes stick to skin, sometimes so hard that blood is drawn when they open their eyes .

Still, she eases the blankets back and climbs out over her children, who moan in their sleep. Mama, on her other side, doesn’t make a sound, but she shifts almost imperceptibly to the left. They all sleep together for warmth now, in the bed that had once been her grandmother’s .

In stockinged feet, Vera goes to the stove. It is not far; they have moved their bed as close to the burzhuika as possible. The remaining furniture is cluttered together, unimportant except for the wood from which it is made. She grabs an ax from the closet and hacks through the last of the bed that was once her own. Then she starts a fire in the little burzhuika and puts water on to boil .

While she’s waiting, she kneels in the corner of the kitchen and pries up a floorboard. There, hidden in the dark, she counts up their stores. It is something she does every day, sometimes four times a day. A nervous habit now .

A bag of onions, a half a bottle of sunflower oil, some oil cakes, a nearly empty jar of honey, two jars of pickles, three potatoes, and the last of the sugar. She carefully takes out one large yellow onion and the honey, then replaces the floorboard. She will boil half an onion for breakfast, and add a drop of honey to their tea. She has just measured out a small amount of tea when there is a knock at the door .

At first she hardly recognizes the sound, it is so foreign. There is no talking in Leningrad anymore, no neighbors stopping by. Not here, at least, where their whole family is together .

But there is danger. People who will kill for a gram of butter or a spoonful of sugar .

She reaches for the ax again, holds it to her chest as she goes to the door. Her heart is beating so fast and hard she feels dizzy. For the first time in months, she forgets that she is hungry. With a trembling hand, she reaches for the doorknob and turns it .

He stands there like a stranger .

Vera stares up at him and shakes her head. She has become like her mama, hungry enough and sick enough to see ghosts. The ax falls from her grasp, thunks on the floor at her feet .

“Verushka?” he says, frowning .

At the sound of his voice, she feels herself start to fall. Her legs are giving out on her. If this is dying, she wants to give in, and when his arms come around her and hold her up, she is sure she is dead. She can feel the warmth of his breath on her throat; he is holding her upright. No one has held her in so long .

“Verushka,” he says again, and she hears the question in his voice, the worry. He doesn’t know why she hasn’t spoken .

She laughs. It is a cracked, papery sound, rusty from disuse. “Sasha,” she says. “Am I dreaming you?”

“I’m here,” he says .

She clings to him, but when he goes to kiss her, she draws back in shame. Her breath is terrible; hunger has made her smell foul .

But he won’t let her pull away. He kisses her as he used to, and for a sweet, perfect moment, she is Vera again, a twenty-two-year-old girl in love with her prince....

When finally she can bear to let him go, she stares up at him in awe. His hair is gone, shaved down to nothing, and his cheekbones are more pronounced, and there is something new in his eyes—a sadness, she thinks—that will now be a mark of their generation. “You didn’t write,” she says .

“I wrote. Every week. There is no one to deliver the letters.”

“Are you done? Are you back now?”

“Oh, Vera. No.” He closes the door behind him. “Christ, it’s cold in here.”

“And we’re lucky. We have a burzhuika . ”

He opens his ragged coat. Hidden beneath it are half a ham, six sausage links, and a jar of honey .

Vera goes almost light-headed at the sight of meat. She cannot remember the last time she tasted it .

He sets the food down on the table. Taking her hand, he walks over to the bed, stepping around the broken furniture on the floor. At the bedside, he stares down at his sleeping children .

Vera sees the tears that come to his eyes and she understands: they do not look like his babies anymore. They look like children who are starving .

Anya rolls over in bed, bringing her baby brother with her. She smacks her lips together and chews in her sleep—dreaming—and then she slowly opens her eyes. “Papa?” she says. She looks like a little fox, with her sharp nose and pointed chin and sunken cheeks. “Papa?” she says again, elbowing Leo .

Leo rolls over and opens his eyes. He doesn’t seem to understand, or doesn’t recognize Sasha. “Quit hitting me,” he whines .

“Are these my little mushrooms?” Sasha says .

Leo sits up. “Papa?”

Sasha leans down and scoops his children into his arms as if they weigh nothing. For the first time in months, the sound of their laughter fills the apartment. They fight to get his attention, squirming like a pair of puppies in his arms. As he takes them over toward the stove, Vera can hear snippets of their conversation .

“I learned to make a fire, Papa—”

“I can cut wood—”

“Ham! You brought us ham!”

Vera sits down beside her mother, who smiles .

“He’s back,” Mama says .

“He brought food,” Vera says .

Mama struggles to sit up. Vera helps her, repositions her pillows behind her .

Once she’s upright, Mama’s foul breath taints the air between them. “Go spend the day with your family, Vera. No lines. No getting water from the Neva. No war. Just go.” She coughs into a gray handkerchief. They both pretend not to see the bloody spots .

Vera strokes her mother’s brow. “I’ll make you some sweet tea. And you will eat some ham.”

Mama nods and closes her eyes again .

Vera sits there a moment longer, listening to the strange mix of Mama’s troubled breathing and her children’s laughter and her husband’s voice. It all leaves her feeling vaguely out of place. Still she covers her mother’s frail body and stands up .

“He is so proud of you,” Mama says on a sigh .

“Sasha?”

“Your papa.”

Vera feels an unexpected tightness in her throat. Saying nothing, she walks forward, and Leo’s laughter warms her more than the burning legs of any old desk ever could. She gets out her cast-iron frying pan and fries up some of the ham in a tiny spot of sunflower oil and adds sliced onions at the last minute .

A feast .

The whole room smells of rich, sizzling ham and sweet, caramelized onions. She even adds extra honey to their tea, and when they all sit on the old mattress to eat (there are no chairs anymore), no one says anything. Even Mama is lost in the unfamiliar sensation of eating .

“Can I have more, Mama?” Leo says, wiping his finger in the empty cup, looking for any trace of honey .

“No more,” Vera says quietly, knowing that as kingly as this breakfast is, it is not enough for any of them .

“I say we go to the park,” Sasha says .

“It’s all boarded up,” Anya tells him. “Like a prison. No one plays there anymore.”

“We do,” Sasha says, smiling as if this is an ordinary day .

Outside, the snow is falling. A veil of white obscures the city, softens it. The dragon’s teeth and trenches are just mounds of snow and hollowed-out white valleys, respectively. Every now and then a white hillock sits on a park bench or lies by the side of the road, but it is easy to miss. Vera hopes her children do not know what is beneath the cover of snow .

In the park, everything is sparkling and white. The sandbagged Bronze Horseman is only visible in pieces. The trees are frosted white and strung with icicles. It amazes Vera that not a tree has been cut down here. There are no wooden fences or benches or railings left in the city, but no tree has been cut down for firewood .

The children immediately rush forward and drop onto their backs, making snow angels and giggling .

Vera sits by Sasha on a black iron bench. A tree shivers beside them, dropping ice and snow. She takes his hand, and although she cannot feel his flesh beneath her glove, the solid feel of him is more than enough .

“They are making an ice road across Ladoga,” he says at last, and she knows it is what he has come to tell her .

“I hear trucks keep falling through the ice.”

“For now. But it will work. They will get food into the city. And people out of it.”

“Will they?”

“It’s the only evacuation route .”

“Is it?” She glances sideways, deciding not to tell him about their other evacuation, how she almost lost their children .

“I will get all of you passes as soon as it’s safe.”

She does not want to talk about any of this. It doesn’t matter. Only food matters now, and heat. She wishes he would just hold her and kiss her .

Maybe they will make love tonight, she thinks, closing her eyes. But how could she? She is too weak to sit up sometimes....

“Vera,” he says, making her look at him .

She blinks. It is hard sometimes to stay concentrated, even now. “What?” She stares into his bright green eyes, sharp with both fear and worry, and suddenly she is remembering the first time they met. The poetry. He said something to her, a line about roses. And later, in the library, he said he’d waited for her to grow up .

“You stay alive,” he says .

She frowns, trying to listen carefully; then he starts to cry and she understands .

“I will,” she says, crying now, too .

“And keep them well. I’ll find you a way out. I promise. You just have to hang on a little while longer. Promise me.” He shakes her. “Promise me. The three of you will make it to the end.”

She licks her cracked, dry lips. “I will,” she says, believing it, believing in it .

He pulls her close and kisses her. He tastes like sweet summer peaches, and when he draws back they are both done with crying .

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she says .

“Twenty-six,” he says .

She leans against him; his arm comes around her. For a few hours, they are just a young family playing in the park. People hear the children laughing and come to see; they stand at the edges of the park like confused mental patients suddenly set free. It has been a long time since any of them heard a child laugh .

It is the best day of Vera’s life—as impossible as that sounds. The memory of it is golden, and as she walks home, holding his hand, she can feel herself protecting it. It is a light she will need in the months to come .

But when she gets home, she knows instantly that something is wrong .

The apartment is dark and freezing. She can see her breath. On the table, a pitcher of water is frozen solid. Frost shines on the metal stove. The fire has gone out .

She hears her mother coughing in bed and she runs to her, yelling at Sasha to build a fire .

Her mother’s breathing is noisy and strained. It sounds like old fruit being pushed through a sieve. Her skin is as pale as dirty snow. The flesh around her mouth is darkening, turning blue. “Verushka,” she whispers .

Or did she really speak? Vera doesn’t know. “Mama,” she says .

“I waited for Sasha,” Mama says .

Vera wants to beg with her, to plead, to say that he is not back, he is only visiting, and that she needs her mother, but she —

I can’t say anything .

All I can do is sit there, staring down at my mother, loving her so much I don’t even remember how hungry I am .

“I love you,” Mama says softly. “Never forget that.”

“How could I?”

“Don’t try. That’s what I mean.” Mama struggles to lean forward and it’s terrible to watch the effort it takes, so I lean forward and take her in my arms. She’s like a stick doll now. Her head lolls back .

“I love you, Mama,” I say. It is not enough, those three little words that suddenly mean good-bye, and I am not ready for good-bye. So I keep talking. I hold her close and say, “Remember when you taught me to make borscht, Mama? And we argued about how small to cut the onions and why to cook them first? You made a pot and put the vegetables in raw so I could taste the difference? And you smiled at me then, and touched my cheek, and said, ‘Do not forget how much I know, Verushka.’ I am not done learning from you....”

At that, I feel my throat tighten and I can’t say anything more.

She is gone .

I hear my son say, “Mama, what’s wrong with Baba?” and it takes all my strength not to cry. But what good will crying do?

Tears are useless now in Leningrad .