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By Sunday June the seventh nature came to life and the sun grew ever brighter, the vegetable gardens in the city greener and yet all this served only to bring back Yalena’s grief for Edith and hopeless guilt. Her emotions had frozen in winter and were now thawing. But she allowed herself to feel fully the pain and despair. She deserved this after all. Penance. Perhaps in some way Edith knows this? Yalena closed her eyes and saw her face, she smiled, she smiled, my baby smiled. And behind her, a hundred thousand ghostly children watch over the desolate mothers of Leningrad.
Joseph had become more withdrawn and seethed with something, an inner anger, a guilt, a regret. Yalena asked if it was Irina.
-No, he said, then after taking a sip of his tea, -I admit I do feel saddened by her death, but it is you I love, if that is what you are asking.
-No that’s not what I’m asking Joseph. I am asking if you, you are well?
-No. No, I’m not.
-And can I do anything to help?
-I will work it out.
-I’m here, she said.
As they took their places Katya Mattus was flirting with Petrov, he laughed and she laughed, reaching out and laying her hand on his forearm. Yalena realised sexuality was returning to the city. Hers had been resurrected by lying in bed with Joseph, lust had slowly awoken from its frozen slumber. She watched the players; men’s eyes followed women as they passed. This simple thing made her smile and she played briskly.
Rehearsals had grown longer with the days and it was quite late when they got home to find Alexei with a girl and Stasia smiling over their heads. The girl had long curly blonde hair and white skin lightly sprinkled with freckles, her breasts were nubile and her eyes bright as clear water. Aleksei couldn’t take his eyes off her.
-We’ve eaten, said Stasia indicating two meals set out on the table.
Joseph and Yalena sat and Stasia put two mugs of coffee beside them.
-Coffee? Said Joseph.
-Smells nice, said Yalena, her nose hovering over the cup.
-Veronika brought it.
-Thank you Veronica, said Joseph.
-So, introduce us, said Yalena.
-This is Veronika, said Aleksei.
Veronika smiled at each of them in turn. So charming. Absolutely charming.
So, where did you two meet? asked Yalena, raising her eyes to Stasia.
-We are Pioneers, Veronika said and her voice was as sweet as a flute.
-And we haven’t met you before?
-She was on the Petersburg side, said Aleksei, until…
-My family, she said and stopped, -I have moved here to my father’s sister.
-Ah, said Yalena.
Joseph broke the silence that followed.
-So, Veronika, what have you been doing during the war?
-I sat on our roof, watching.
All the time?
Most nights. Up there like a cat.
-A cat?
-But if I was a cat I wouldn’t be here would I? All the cats have been eaten.
-You spent the whole year on the roof?
Veronika spoke excitedly, through nerves, without pause.
-The roof was my post. I stayed at my post. Night after night. Read poetry in the moonlight. Pushkin, Byron, Achmatova.(she said Achmatova’s name quietly) It was so still I could hear my own heart beating. Now and then a car would move in the streets. If I leaned out I felt like I was flying over the city. Over roof and spire. Or the sky was a sea where giant grey whales swam, that’s what the blimps looked like.
She stopped abruptly feeling she’d gone too far into her imagination. Aleksei stepped in to save her.
-She is a dancer but she wants to be a poet.
A poet? Yalena writes poetry, said Stasia.
-Do you?
-Sometimes, said Yalena.
-I should like to read it.
-Someday, said Yalena, -Thank you for the coffee.
-We’ve got cabbages to take care of, said Aleksei and led Veronika out.
-Well, said Yalena.
Well indeed, said Stasia.
Joseph finished his meal and left the room with a nod. Yalena took the plates to the sink and emptied some water from a bucket.
-My period has started again, said Stasia.
No.
-I have.
-Not me but I have felt, you know.
I know, said Stasia, -I know. I have heard.
Yalena blushed.
-You are blushing, said Stasia.
-Yes, I am.
They laughed and when the laughter tapered off Stasia’s thoughts went to Viktor and Yalena thought how futile love making was in these tragic circumstances.
On Thursday June the eleventh Anna Petrovna-Ostroumova-Lebedeva, stood in the bathroom thinking. She had been taken to The Party Committee and shown a makeshift album that had been sent to the women of Leningrad from Scotland. She was asked if she would take on the project of a reply album and said she would if she could work at home on her favourite Birchwood table.
Repeated bombings followed by artillery attacks followed by incendiary bombs had been the pattern of recent days and on the thirteenth Vera Milyutina was finishing a sketch she had begun that morning inside the Hermitage. It was a stark drawing of a shattered window. The inner frames were swung into the room, the glass miraculously intact while the outer window, a shattering of ice-like shards, framed the scaffold bound Alexander Column. Inside, rubble lay scattered by the window, the frames of paintings leaned against the wall and, hanging from a rail, two walking sticks. Everything spoke of war and injury, except, to the right where a soot covered a display case stood intact.
The door, because the building had tilted slightly, hung open so it was only when it swung wide she turned to see Andrei Andreyevich Bartashevich.
-Vera.
-Andrei!
-Do you have the strength to take part in an urgent and important task?
-I have some strength, yes, she said, -Some.
-This task would see you representing the women who are defending Leningrad.
-In what way? She asked and he closed the door.
On Sunday the fourteenth of June rehearsals were filled with talk about the Seventh. Rumour was they would be performing at the end of July or early August. That meant they would have to begin work on it soon.
-Stasia, it looks like we will be playing Shostakovich.
-When?
-Early August, said Joseph.
-Aren’t you excited? The first to play it in Leningrad?
-Yes, I suppose I am, said Joseph.
-And Britain has signed a twenty year peace treaty with Russia, said Stasia, pointing at the Pravda on the table, ¾Maybe the British will send weapons. Troops even?
Yalena thought of the times to come when she would walk through the shimmering leaves on the lindens, a summer breeze in her hair, then, the noxious smell of spent explosives tugged her back.
-And, said Stasia, -They are talking of the Americans coming into the war.
-Joe won’t let one American set foot on Russian soil, said Joseph, astonishing himself.
It says it here, said Stasia, hiding her surprise at Joseph’s open criticism of Stalin.
-He’ll take the weapons, the money, but he won’t let them in. Not to Leningrad.
-Maybe you’re right said Stasia, Maybe we’re on our own. Women shelled by men, and Stalin in his…
Four sharp raps on the door and Yalena’s heart leapt. The three looked at each other. Was someone listening? Can it happen so quickly? Joseph opened up and two well dressed, well fed men walked past concentrating on the women.
-Stasia Petrovna Paramonova? Said the smallest, who had eyes like a cat.
February rushed back to her. It had taken time, but that’s what The Party had on their side, time. Yalena took a step but Stasia moved in front.
-I am she, said Stasia.
-You are Stasia Petrovna Paramonova?
-Yes.
-The artist?
-I used to be an artist, she said, now confused and afraid.
-You used to live at twenty-five Bolshaya Konyushennaya
Yes.
-And you moved here January twenty-seven, twenty-eight?
-Yes, our building was bombed, she said, turning her head to Yalena and moving her features into a question. How do they know the date we moved here? Do they know everything? Do they actually know everything?
-You are to report here in the morning, said the tallest one who had a scar crossing both lips, handing her a piece of paper, ¾You will be given extra rations.
They handed her a pass and turned to leave before she could formulate any questions.
-Take any artist materials you have to that address.
Then they were gone. The three looked at each other with genuine open mouths. They listened to the footfalls leave the building and Joseph stood a metre from the window watching them get into a large black car which melted into the city.
-They’re gone, he said.
Stasia read the address.
-Ten Academician Lebedev Street. That’s in the Vyborg district isn’t it?
Joseph shrugged.
-Why, said Yalena, pausing between questions, -Who? What is this about?
Stasia studied the materials.
Anna Ostroumova, she suddenly said, -The artist. Anna Petrovna-Ostroumova-Lebedeva!
The puzzle dissolved into a new one.
-And if it is her, why? Asked Yalena.
Stasia sat down. Into night they talked. Perhaps Anna Ostroumova needed assistance?
-Remember the crowds who turned up at Radio House demanding music? The Party, perhaps they’ve noticed this, perhaps they are to provide art for the citizens, as a way to save us.
-Art never saved anyone, Yalena, -The only thing that ever saved anyone was someone. Usually themselves.
-Or savagery, said Joseph.
-Pardon?
-Savagery, others have been saved by their own brutality.
They thought about this truth for a moment.
-That’s right, said Stasia, -He’s right, it’s those in the middle, those who won’t stoop so low and can’t heighten their passion, it’s those who die.
As they discussed Stasia’s task the light faded and came up again without darkness. They came to the conclusion that these two men would have taken her away if it was something bad.
-It must be good, said Stasia, -It has to be something good, yes it is something good. I can feel it in my bones.
-You’d better get some sleep, Yalena said and when she woke Stasia was gone.
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Esto nos demuestra que la desesperacion lleva a los “artistas” cuando su carrera esta en el hoyo a la busqueda de los reflectores y de la atencion, Enrique Iglesias tan X como lo ha sido en toda su carrera intento filmar su pelicula porno con una profesional y con David Lachapelle como director, el resultado un grito desesperado por decir “hey se acuerdan de mi, sigo vivo y lo que mas importa, estoy muy bueno joder”!… juzguen ustedes mismos
