Turning to Mama, Alexander said, “Irina Fedorovna, Peterhof is indeed in German hands. The Nazis have taken the carpets out of the palace and are lining their trenches with them.”

“Darling,” said Dasha, sipping her tea, “maybe Dimitri was right. There are three million people still left in Leningrad. That’s too many to sacrifice, don’t you think?” She paused. “Has the Leningrad command considered giving up?”

Alexander studied Dasha. Tatiana was trying to figure out what was in his eyes.

“I mean,” Dasha continued, “if we give up—”

“Give up and then what?” Alexander exclaimed. “Dasha, the Germans have no use for us. Certainly they will have no use for you.” He paused. “Have you read about what they have done to the Ukrainian countryside?”

“I’m trying not to,” said Dasha.

“But now I have,” said Tatiana quietly.

Alexander continued. “Dimitri for a while there thought it might be a good idea to become a prisoner in a German camp. Until he learned how the Nazis shot the prisoners, looted and burned the villages, slaughtered the cattle, razed the barns, killed all the Jews and then all the women and children, too.”

“Not before they raped all the women,” Tatiana said.

Dasha and Alexander stared at her, dumbstruck.

“Tania,” said Dasha, “pass me the blueberry jam, will you?”

“Yes, and stop reading so much, Tania,” said Alexander quietly. He stared into his teacup.

Spooning some blueberry jam into her mouth, Dasha asked, “Well, if we are blockaded, how is the food going to get into Leningrad?”

Mama said, “We have plenty. We’ve saved quite a lot.”

Dasha stated firmly, “I don’t know, Mama. I think I’m with Dimitri on this. I think we should hand over—”

Looking bleakly at Tatiana, Alexander shook his head. “No,” he said. “Right, Tania? . . . We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end… We shall fight on the seas and the oceans… . In the air, we shall defend our island whatever the cost may be.”

“We shall fight on the beaches,” continued Tatiana bravely, her eyes all over Alexander. “We shall fight in the fields and in the streets… We shall fight in the hills.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “We shall never surrender,” she finished, realizing her hands were trembling. “Churchill.”

Dasha heaved herself up in frustration and said, “Can you just go and make us a little more tea, Churchill?”

Marina came out to the kitchen to help Tatiana clean up and whispered, “Tania, I have never in my life seen anybody more dense and dumb than your sister.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Tatiana said, pale and still.

A few days later Tatiana and Dasha counted what was left of their provisions, most of which Tatiana had purchased with Alexander’s help on the first day of war.

Their ephemeral first day of war.

That day seemed so far away, as if it belonged in another life, in another time. Two months ago, and yet already so irretrievably in the past.

In the present the Metanovs had forty-three kilo cans of ham. They had nine cans of stewed tomatoes and seven bottles of vodka. Tatiana realized with a shock that they had had eleven bottles of vodka when the Badayev warehouses burned down eight days ago. Papa must be drinking more than they knew, she thought.

They had two kilos of coffee, four kilos of tea, and a ten-kilo bag of sugar divided into thirty plastic sacks. Tatiana also counted fifteen small cans of smoked sardines. They had a four-kilo bag of barley, six kilos of oats, and a ten-kilo bag of flour.

“Seems like plenty, doesn’t it?” said Dasha. “How long can the siege possibly last?”

“According to Alexander, until the end,” said Tatiana.

They had seven boxes of 250 matches each.

Mama said that they also had 900 rubles in cash, enough to buy food on the black market. “Let’s go and buy some, Mama,” said Tatiana. “Right now.”

The sisters went with their mother to a commercial store, which had opened in August in Oktabrski Rayon, near St. Nicholas’s Cathedral. It took them over an hour to walk there, and they stared with disbelief at the prices of the few products on the shelves. There were eggs and cheese and butter and ham and even caviar. But sugar cost seventeen rubles a kilo. Mama laughed, turning toward the door until Tatiana grabbed her arm, and said, “Mama, don’t be cheap. Buy the food.”

“Let go of me, idiot,” said Mama roughly. “What kind of fool do you think I am, buying sugar for seventeen rubles a kilo? Look at the cheese, ten rubles for a hundred grams. Are they joking?” She yelled to the store clerk, “Are you joking? That’s why you don’t have lines in this store, you know, unlike the regular Russian stores! Who will buy the food at these prices?”

The young store clerk smirked and shook his head. “Girls, girls. Buy or leave the store.”

“We’re leaving,” said Mama. “Let’s go.”

Tatiana didn’t move. “Mama, do you remember what Alexander told us?” She took out the rubles she had saved from her job at Kirov and the hospital. There wasn’t much. She received only twenty rubles a week, and ten of it went to her parents. But she had managed to save a hundred rubles, and with that money she bought a five-kilo bag of flour for an outrageous forty rubles (“What do we need more flour for?”), four packets of yeast for ten rubles, a bag of sugar for seventeen, and one kilo of canned ham for thirty. She had three rubles left and asked what she could get. The clerk said a box of matches, 500 grams of tea, or some old bread that she could toast and make into crackers. Tatiana thought carefully and opted for the bread.

She spent the rest of Saturday cutting the bread into small pieces and toasting it in the oven, while Mama and Papa, and even Dasha, laughed at her. “She spent three rubles on stale bread, and now she is toasting it. She thinks we’re going to eat it!” Tatiana ignored them all, thinking only of Alexander’s words in the Voentorg store. Buy the food as if you’re never going to see it again.

That evening Alexander listened to the story and then said, “Irina Fedorovna, you should’ve spent every last kopeck of your nine hundred rubles buying up that stale bread.” He paused. “Just like Tania.”

Thank you, Alexander, thought Tatiana. She was on the other side of the room, and the room was filled with people. She hadn’t touched him in days. She was trying so hard to stay away from him, as he had asked her to.

Mama waved him off. “I was not brought up to spend seventeen rubles on sugar. Right, Georgi?”

Georgi was already asleep on the couch. He’d had too much to drink again.

“Right, Mama?”

Babushka Maya was painting. “I guess, Irina,” she said. “But what if Alexander is the one who is right?”

5

The Germans were virtuously punctual. Every evening at five the air-raid sirens went off and the radio’s metronome pounded at 200 beats a minute.

The frightening monotony of the shells falling on Leningrad was surpassed only by the frightening monotony of the lies Tatiana was living with inside herself, and the unyielding fear for Alexander’s life, and the frustration with Papa, who had so thoroughly left the family that he no longer even knew it was still September. “That’s impossible,” he said one evening as the siren sounded. “They’ve been bombing us for what seems like a thousand days.”

“No, just eleven, Papa,” said Tatiana quietly. “Just eleven.”

Tatiana’s frustration was not just with Papa these days. Mama had withdrawn into her work. Babushka painted as if the war were not going on. Marina was wrapped up in anxiety over her mother—and, besides, Tatiana didn’t want to be talking too much to Marina. And Dasha… well, Dasha was wrapped up in Alexander.

Deda and Babushka were safely in Molotov. She had just received a letter from them. Pasha was gone.