Dasha laughed. “But, darling! That’s about half of the roads in Leningrad!”

“How would you know?” asked Tatiana mildly. “You don’t go out until the bombing stops.”

Putting her arms around Alexander’s neck, Dasha stuck out her tongue at Tatiana. “That’s because I have sense.”

“Do you, Tania?” Alexander asked quietly, holding Dasha’s arms away from his face. “Do you go out only when the bombing stops?”

Dasha said, “Are you joking? She’s got absolutely no sense. Ask her how often she goes to the shelters.”

There was a silence in the crowded room.

Alexander’s eyes flashed.

“Oh, look,” Tatiana said uncomfortably, “I go.” She shrugged. “Yesterday I sat under the stairs.”

“Yes, for three minutes. Alex, she can’t sit still.”

“She hasn’t been out on the roof, has she?”

No one said anything. To avoid Alexander’s gaze, Tatiana busied herself with the sewing machine. “Can I go on Nevsky Prospekt?” she asked him, not looking up.

“Never. They’re bombing that the heaviest. But they are being very careful not to hit the Astoria Hotel. You know where the Astoria is, Tania. It’s right by St. Isaac’s.”

Tatiana’s whole face turned red.

Alexander went on hurriedly. “Never mind. Hitler booked the Astoria for his victory celebration after he marches with his flag down Nevsky. Stay away from Nevsky. And don’t ever walk on the north side of an east-west street. You all understand?”

Tatiana was quiet. “When is the celebration in the Astoria scheduled for?” she asked at last.

“October,” said Alexander. “He thinks the people of Leningrad are going to abandon their city by October. But I will tell you that Hitler is going to be late.”

Marina said, “What would we all do without you, Alexander?”

Dasha went over and, hugging him tight, said to Marina, “Stop it. Go and flirt with Tania’s soldier.”

“Yes, Marina, go ahead,” muttered Tatiana, looking over at Dimitri, half conscious on the couch.

But Marina said, “What do you think, Tania, should I go and flirt with your soldier?”

Not far enough of a retreat, Alexander, Tatiana thought. Not far enough.

As she was cleaning up after tea, Dimitri awoke and in a stupor pulled Tatiana on top of him. “Tanechka,” he muttered, “Tanechka…”

Tatiana struggled to get up, but he was holding her to him. “Tania,” he whispered. “When, when?” His breath reeked. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Dima, come on, let me go,” Tatiana said, starting to hyperventilate. “I’m holding a wet rag in my hands.”

“Really, Dima,” said Mama. “Tania, I think he is having too much to drink.”

Tatiana felt Alexander right behind her. She heard Alexander’s voice right behind her. “Yes,” he said, pulling Dimitri’s arms away from Tatiana, and helping her stand. “He is definitely drinking too much.” His hand remained on her long enough for him to squeeze her arm and let go.

“What’s the matter with him, Tania?” inquired Mama. “He seems peculiar these days. Grumpy. Not talkative. And not as nice to you.”

Out of breath, Tatiana watched Dimitri for a moment. “He is getting less interested in me,” she said to her mother, “the closer he is feeling to his own death.” She turned and went to the kitchen without glancing at Alexander, but catching Marina’s eyes and Babushka’s. Dasha was in the next room, tending to Papa.

6

Tatiana thought she could take it. Tatiana thought she could take it all. But one night—two weeks after the burning of Badayev warehouses—when they all came home from work and instead of making dinner were sitting in the bomb shelter, hungry and tired, Dasha plopped down next to Tatiana and in a thrilled voice exclaimed, “Guess what, everybody? Alexander and I are getting married!”

The kerosene lamps gave too much light to hide what exploded inside Tatiana. Marina gasped. But the jubilant Dasha, who continued to smile while the bombs fell outside, remained oblivious to Tatiana’s feelings.

Marina said, “That’s great, Dasha. Congratulations!”

Mama said, “Dashenka, finally, one of my daughters is going to have a family of her own. When?”

Papa, sitting next to Mama, mumbled something.

“Tania? Did you hear me?” asked Dasha. “I’m getting married!”

“I heard you, Dasha,” Tatiana said. Turning away, she was faced with Marina’s sympathetic, pitying glance. Tatiana didn’t know which was worse. She turned back to her smiling sister. “Congratulations. You must be so happy.”

“Happy? I’m delirious! Can you imagine? I’m going to be Dasha Belova.” She giggled. “As soon as he gets a couple of days’ furlough, we’ll go to the registry office.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I’m not worried,” said Dasha with a wave of her healthy-looking arm. “Worried about what? Alexander is not worried. We’ll make it.”

“I’m glad you’re so sure.”

“What’s the matter?” Dasha put her arm around Tatiana, who didn’t know how she was still sitting. “I won’t kick you out of your bed. Babushka will give us her room for a couple of days.” Dasha kissed her. “Married, Tania! Can you believe it?”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know!” Dasha exclaimed excitedly. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

“It’s war. He could die, Dasha.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t be flip about him dying.”

“I’m not flip,” said Tatiana, trembling. About him dying. She shut her eyes.

“Thank God, he’s finally out of that awful Dubrovka and up across from Shlisselburg. It’s quieter there.” Dasha smiled. “You know, that’s what I do now—I close my eyes and I feel for him out there somewhere, and I know he’s still alive.” She added with pride, “I have a sixth sense, you know.”

Marina coughed loudly. Opening her eyes, Tatiana glared at Marina with an expression that instantly stifled Marina’s coughing fit.

“What do you want, Dash?” she whispered. “You want to be a widow, instead of just a dead soldier’s girl?”

“Tania!”

Tatiana said nothing. Where was relief going to come from? Not from the night, not from Mama or Papa, not from Deda and Babushka, far away, not from Babushka Maya, too old to care, not from Marina, who knew too much without knowing anything, not from Dimitri, who was mired in his own hell, and certainly not from Alexander, the impossible, maddening, unforgivable Alexander.

The absence of comfort was so compelling that Tatiana could no longer continue to sit. She left the shelter in the middle of the raid, hearing only Dasha’s puzzled voice: “What is wrong with her?”

How did she spend the night next to her wall, next to Marina, next to Dasha? How did she do it? She didn’t know. It was the worst night of Tatiana’s life.

The next morning she got up late and, instead of going to her regular store on Fontanka and Nekrasova, went to one on Old Nevsky, near her former school. She’d heard they had good bread there. The air-raid siren sounded. She didn’t even take cover.

Tatiana walked with her eyes to the ground. The whistling bombs, the wind-induced piercing shrieks, followed by the sound of brick exploding and then distant human cries were nothing compared to the screaming hurt inside her body.

Tatiana realized that war no longer scared her. This was new to her, the acknowledgment of the absence of fear. It was Pasha who had always been intrepid. Dasha was confident. Deda was ruthlessly honest, Papa was strict—and drunk—Mama bossy, and Babushka Anna arrogant. Tatiana carried everyone’s hidden insecurities on her thin shoulders. Insecurities, yes. Timidity, yes. Their fears, yes again. But not her own. She wasn’t afraid of random war. It was like being struck by lightning, even if the lightning did strike a thousand times a day. No, it wasn’t war that terrified Tatiana. It was the resolute chaos of her broken heart.

She went to work, and when five o’clock came, she stayed at work, and when six came, she stayed at work, and when seven came, she stayed at work. At eight o’clock she was washing the floor in the nurses’ station when she saw Marina come through the doors and head in her direction. Tatiana did not want to see Marina.