Полина Саймонс – Tatiana and Alexander (страница 30)

“I do not know,” said Tatiana, looking at Anthony with swelling pride. “I do not know boys his age.”

“Trust me, he is gigantic. When are you going to come for dinner? How about tomorrow? I don’t want to hear it from Grammy about my divorce anymore. It’s official, you know. I’m divorced. And my grandmother every Sunday dinner says to me that no man shall ever want me again, a tainted divorced woman.” Vikki rolled her eyes.

“Vikki, but why do you have to prove her so wrong?” said Edward. Tatiana stifled a laugh.

“I have eyes but for one man. Chris Pandolfi.”

Tatiana snorted. Edward smiled. “Our Tania doesn’t much like Chris, do you, Tania?”

“Why?” asked Vikki.

“Because he calls me Nurse Buttercup. I think he make fun of me. What is this buttercup?”

Shaking his head and smiling, Edward placed his arm on Tatiana’s back and said, “Happy yellow flower,” but Vikki was already talking about how Chris was going to take her to Cape Cod for Thanksgiving weekend, and how she had found the most exquisite chiffon dress to go dancing in next Saturday.

The market in front of Battery Park was teeming with people.

Tatiana, Vikki, and Edward pushed a sleeping Anthony past the market, through Church Street and then turned down Wall Street and crossed downtown to go to South Street, through the Fulton Fish Market and then up to Chinatown and Little Italy. Edward and Vikki were exhausted. Tatiana walked on, mesmerized by the tall buildings, by the swarming crowds, everyone shouting, cheerful, hot, by the street vendors selling candlesticks, candles, old books, apples, by the musicians on street corners, playing harmonica and accordion. She walked as if her feet did not belong to her and did not touch the hard pavement. She was amazed at the potatoes and peas and cabbages spilling out of bushels onto the sidewalks, by the peaches and apples and grapes, by the horse-drawn carriages selling cottons and linens, by the cabs and cars, thousands of them, millions of them, by the double-decker buses, by the constant clang of the el on Third Avenue, on Second Avenue, amazed, open-mouthed by it all.

They stopped at a coffee house on Mulberry Street, and Vikki and Edward sank into the sidewalk chairs. Tatiana remained standing, her hand on the carriage. She was looking at the bride and groom descending the church steps into the courtyard across the street. There were many people around them. They looked happy.

“You know she’s a tiny girl and looks deceptively as if she will fall down any second, but look at her, Edward. She’s not even out of breath,” said Vikki.

“I, however, have lost several pounds. I have not walked this much since my days in the army,” said Edward.

Ah, so Edward was a military man. “Edward, you walk this much through hospital beds every day,” Tatiana said, not turning away from the couple at the church. “But your New York, it is something.”

“How does it compare to the Soviet Union?” asked Vikki.

“Favorably,” Tatiana replied.

“Someday, you’ll have to tell me about it,” said Vikki. “Oh, look, peaches! Let’s go buy some.”

“New York is always like this?” said Tatiana, trying not to sound wide-eyed.

“Oh, no. It’s only like this because of the war. Usually it’s very lively.”

Two Sundays later, Tatiana went with Anthony and Vikki to Central Park to watch Edward play softball against the health officials at PHD, including Chris Pandolfi. Edward’s wife did not come. He said she was resting.

Tatiana smiled at the passers-by and at the fruit stand sellers. The birds were joyous overhead and life bustled forward in freshwater color spurts, and she bowed her head and held her son with one hand and the peaches in the other, and said, yes, these are ripe and smell sweet. She was contemplating taking a ride with Vikki and Edward up to Bear Mountain one Sunday, when Edward had a few gallons of rationed gasoline and his wife was home resting and the leaves were changing. But this Sunday Tatiana was in Central Park, in New York, in the United States of America, holding Anthony while the sun was bright and Edward played softball, and Vikki jumped up and down at every hit and every catch, and Tatiana was not dreaming.

But where is Anthony’s mom? What’s happened to her? Tatiana wanted that girl back, the girl before June 22, 1941, the girl who sat on the bench in her French-made, Polish-bought white dress with red roses and ate ice cream on the day war started for Russia. The girl who swam with her brother, Pasha, who read away her summer days, the girl with everything in front of her. With the Red Army first lieutenant in his Sunday best Class As standing across the sunlit street in front of her. She could have not bought the ice cream, she could have gotten on the earlier bus and hurtled across town in a different direction toward a different life. Except she had to have bought the ice cream. That was who she was. And because of that ice cream now she was here.

Now, wartime New York with its bustling fervor and Vikki with her brightest laugh and Anthony with his fiercest cry, and Edward with his gentle good humor were all trying to bring that girl back. Everything that had been in front of Tatiana was behind her now. The very worst and the very best, too. She lifted her freckled face at a loud and jumping Vikki on the baseline and smiled and went to the drink stand to buy some Coca Cola for her friends. Tatiana’s long blonde hair was in a long braid, as always. She was wearing a simple blue sundress that was too big for her, too long and too wide.

Edward caught up with her and asked if he could carry Anthony for a bit. Tatiana nodded. She bent her head low so she wouldn’t see Edward carrying Alexander’s boy, so the ancient ruins would stay in Rome where they belonged, far away from an afternoon in Sheep Meadow with Vikki and Edward.

He bought the Cokes, water and some strawberries, and the three of them slowly walked back to her blanket on the grass. Tatiana didn’t speak.

“Tania,” said Edward. “Look at how he’s smiling.” He laughed. “The infant smile, nothing quite like it, is there?”

“Hmm,” said Tatiana, not looking. She knew Anthony’s toothless ear-to-ear smile. She’d seen it in action in the infirmary at Ellis. The German and Italian soldiers worshipped Anthony.

“I bought something nice for you and him. You think it’s too early for him to eat strawberries?”

“I do, yes.”

“But look—aren’t they nice? I bought too many. Have some. Maybe you can cook them up or something.”

“I can,” Tatiana said quietly, taking a long drink of water. “I can make jam, I can make jelly, I can preserve them whole in sugar, I can make pie out of them, and crumble, I can cook them and freeze them for winter. I am queen of preserving fruit.”

“Tania—how many ways are there of cooking blueberries?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I’m already surprised. What are you making me now?”

“Blueberry jam.”

“I like the skim off them.”

“Come here and have some.”

She brings the spoon to his mouth and lets him taste. He licks his lips. “I love that.”

“Hmm.” She sees the look in his eyes. “Shura, no. I have to finish this. It needs to be stirred constantly. This is for the old women for the winter.”

“Tania …”

“Shura …”

His arms go around her. “Did I mention that I’m sick to death of blueberries?”

“You’re impossible.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Conversations with Slonko, 1943

“MAJOR!”

Instantly, Alexander opened his eyes. He was still in the interrogation classroom, still in the wooden chair, still guarded by Ivanov. In walked Slonko with grim strides.

“Well, Major, it looks like you’re going to have to stop playing games.”

“That’ll be fine,” said Alexander. “I’m not in a playing mood.”

“Major!”

“Why is everyone shouting?” Alexander rubbed his head. His skull was cracking.

“Major, do you know a woman by the name of Tatiana Metanova?”

It was harder for Alexander to stay composed. He kept still through willpower. If I can live through this, he thought, I can live through anything. If I can live through this, I will live through anything. He wasn’t sure whether to lie, whether to tell the truth. Slonko was obviously planning something.

“Yes,” said Alexander.

“And who would she be?”

“She was one of the nurses at Morozovo hospital.”

“Was?”

“Well, I’m not there anymore, am I?” Alexander said mildly.

“Turns out she is not there either.”

That was not a question. Alexander said nothing.

“She is more than just a nurse, though, isn’t she, Major?” said Slonko, producing Alexander’s domestic passport out of his pocket. “Why, right in here, it says that she is your wife.”

“Yes,” Alexander said. His whole life in one line. He steadied himself. He knew Slonko was not done by a long shot. He needed to be ready.

“Ah. And where is she at the moment?”

“I would have to be omniscient to know that,” Alexander said.

“She is with us,” said Slonko, bending forward. “We have her in our custody.” He laughed with satisfaction. “What do you think of that, Major?”