clothes one item at a time and seen—no, not the frostbitten arms or legs, patches of icy infestation, toes that one feared to find porcelain-hard, skin that peeled off as one crust with the fabric—no, none of that. What I saw was just my pale, filthy body, roughened and all too sensitive to warm water, but undamaged. And so, three hours later, I recovered enough self-presence to rejoin my family.
It was my mind. It felt ill. In me, Anna had acquired a patient; a secondone, unfortunately, because, when at long last I emerged from the bathhouse in my brother’s snug-fitting crisp-clean shirt and breeches, my dirty clothes bundled discreetly in one hand and all the coins and banknotes that I had found stashed in my clothes in the other; when I met Anna in the parlor again and surrendered the money to her, and saw—this time—that she was thinner and sadder than I remembered (for my memory grew clearer), and asked, therefore, “Where’s my brother?” she said, “He’s sick.”
• • •
I remember seeing him for the first time since my arrival: gaunt and unshaven, stretched out in bed. The last time he had been outside the city, he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. Now he had a lingering wound and pneumonia. Approaching him, I felt like a teenager to his grown man. “Andrei?” I said.
He considered me. “Did we break the siege?”
I shook my head.
“No troops are coming?”
“They are staging. They will be en route shortly.”
“Staging, my ass.” He reviewed me more thoroughly. “You don’t look too good. You came alone?”
I nodded.
“What for?”
And the teenager that I felt all but apologized: “Just so . . . whatever happens, happens to us together. It felt better that way.”
• • •
The first meal I took with Anna and Andrei Junior was a thin soup of sour cabbage with hints of beef kidney. The soup’s meniscus reached beyond the bowl-shaped part of the plate only in my serving. There was gray bread—two slices for the boy, two for me, one for Anna. A shaving or two of butter on Junior’s and my slices. All this was defiantly served in snow-white, melodiously clinking china, on an immaculate tablecloth.
Anna cut up her son’s bread into tiny pieces. He ate with hungry abandon, but his eyes went an anxious blank just before he shut them, each time, while swallowing. Anna lingered, watching me. Exploring the soup with my spoon, I wondered, just what had I been eating on my march? Nothing, it seemed. It had been two weeks—the calendar claimed—since I’d faced the bandits. The thought was unsettling in and of itself, and worse, how was I to begin eating now? Then, a realization: this was scarcity,and I was an extra, an unsolicited mouth to feed. Anna had taken from herself to give to me. I shrank, my elbows glued to my sides. “Just one piece of bread is good. I am not too hungry. I am sorry. And thank you.”
Anna said, “This is not municipal bread. We bake our own.” She sounded apologetic. I could not understand why and felt bad. I truly wasn’t hungry, my body seemed not to have realized its warm needs yet.
My mind alone was suffering through the disabling stages of thaw. Reperfusion of mind with thought. Return of painful emotions. Necrotizing areas of missing memories. It was hard for me to listen to Anna when she explained that merchant granaries had been municipalized, bread rationed; that the municipal bread dough had been augmented with downer cattle hides, fried and minced, and some people had taken ill. On the black market (there was one still, thank God!), a pound of flour went for sixteen rubles. Andrei had not approved of this and insisted on living as miserably as his soldiers, she said.
I nodded but barely made sense of her words. Anna appeared—on my disabled scale—too new and unfamiliar, a stranger, I could not be at ease with her. I needed, had to fall back to things that were ingrained in my deepest, least frostbitten
It was my mind. It felt ill. In me, Anna had acquired a patient; a secondone, unfortunately, because, when at long last I emerged from the bathhouse in my brother’s snug-fitting crisp-clean shirt and breeches, my dirty clothes bundled discreetly in one hand and all the coins and banknotes that I had found stashed in my clothes in the other; when I met Anna in the parlor again and surrendered the money to her, and saw—this time—that she was thinner and sadder than I remembered (for my memory grew clearer), and asked, therefore, “Where’s my brother?” she said, “He’s sick.”
• • •
I remember seeing him for the first time since my arrival: gaunt and unshaven, stretched out in bed. The last time he had been outside the city, he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. Now he had a lingering wound and pneumonia. Approaching him, I felt like a teenager to his grown man. “Andrei?” I said.
He considered me. “Did we break the siege?”
I shook my head.
“No troops are coming?”
“They are staging. They will be en route shortly.”
“Staging, my ass.” He reviewed me more thoroughly. “You don’t look too good. You came alone?”
I nodded.
“What for?”
And the teenager that I felt all but apologized: “Just so . . . whatever happens, happens to us together. It felt better that way.”
• • •
The first meal I took with Anna and Andrei Junior was a thin soup of sour cabbage with hints of beef kidney. The soup’s meniscus reached beyond the bowl-shaped part of the plate only in my serving. There was gray bread—two slices for the boy, two for me, one for Anna. A shaving or two of butter on Junior’s and my slices. All this was defiantly served in snow-white, melodiously clinking china, on an immaculate tablecloth.
Anna cut up her son’s bread into tiny pieces. He ate with hungry abandon, but his eyes went an anxious blank just before he shut them, each time, while swallowing. Anna lingered, watching me. Exploring the soup with my spoon, I wondered, just what had I been eating on my march? Nothing, it seemed. It had been two weeks—the calendar claimed—since I’d faced the bandits. The thought was unsettling in and of itself, and worse, how was I to begin eating now? Then, a realization: this was scarcity,and I was an extra, an unsolicited mouth to feed. Anna had taken from herself to give to me. I shrank, my elbows glued to my sides. “Just one piece of bread is good. I am not too hungry. I am sorry. And thank you.”
Anna said, “This is not municipal bread. We bake our own.” She sounded apologetic. I could not understand why and felt bad. I truly wasn’t hungry, my body seemed not to have realized its warm needs yet.
My mind alone was suffering through the disabling stages of thaw. Reperfusion of mind with thought. Return of painful emotions. Necrotizing areas of missing memories. It was hard for me to listen to Anna when she explained that merchant granaries had been municipalized, bread rationed; that the municipal bread dough had been augmented with downer cattle hides, fried and minced, and some people had taken ill. On the black market (there was one still, thank God!), a pound of flour went for sixteen rubles. Andrei had not approved of this and insisted on living as miserably as his soldiers, she said.
I nodded but barely made sense of her words. Anna appeared—on my disabled scale—too new and unfamiliar, a stranger, I could not be at ease with her. I needed, had to fall back to things that were ingrained in my deepest, least frostbitten
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