City of Fate

by Nicola Pierce

  It was a noble performance, the boys smiled and nodded as their parents, siblings, grannies and anyone else waved gaily, each doing their best to convince the other that all was as it should be. Only the teacher stared straight ahead, determined, no matter what, that he would not look back, and, in doing so, he accidentally obeyed Stalin’s order, ‘Not One Step Back’.

  YURI AND PETER SEARCH FOR FOOD

  A statue of six children: three boys, three girls, laugh, sing and dance their way round and around, in a merry circle that can never be broken. In the centre of the Barmaley Fountain is a large crocodile, an alarming sight to be sure, but the children take no notice of him nor his long jaws of sharp teeth. Maybe that’s how to stay safe: keep laughing and dancing no matter what. It had certainly worked for the statue since it was the only thing for miles around that had not been destroyed by the German bombs.

  Peter leads Yuri to the Barmaley Fountain every day, or as close as they dared to get to it. It sits in front of the city’s main train station or what’s left of it now. The building was the location for many a prolonged battle, which sometimes the Russians won and sometimes the Germans did. This was war: bits of concrete space being fought over again and again. At the height of the fighting, the train station changed hands fifteen times in five days.

  Yuri was fascinated by Peter’s reverence for the silent children, stuck forever in a state of supreme delight. Their flamboyant poses jarred with the destruction around them. At least, that was one way of looking at it, but a more positive interpretation was that they were wonderfully defiant in the face of so much destruction.

  Every day Peter made the same comment, ‘They are still playing, Yuri!’

  Did he really expect them to be doing anything else, or maybe he expected them to be gone, like his mother and his apartment block. ‘Yes, I see them,’ said Yuri, as usual.

  Yuri’s thoughts were on food. Allowing Peter a few minutes to stare solemnly at the fountain, he looked around, wondering where best to try find anything at all to eat. Some days, when Yuri was feeling a little low, he resented Peter for not knowing that they needed to eat, that they needed constantly to find food and shelter. At times like this Yuri actually envied the boy having someone older like him around. He would not have considered himself to be big-headed or egotistical but still, there it was, as far as Yuri was concerned, Peter was very lucky indeed.

  The shooting sounded as though it was a few broken streets away from where they were. At some point they just stopped listening to it; the noise had become like a dog that barks the same boring bark for hours and hours. It drives you demented for the first hour but then you hardly notice it after that.

  ‘Come on, Peter. It’s time to go. Say goodbye. Keep your head down, alright? The guns are close by.’

  All these orders were too much for Peter; he felt he had to make a stand, ‘I know that!’

  Yuri didn’t bother to apologise for stating the obvious. He found it comforting to keep talking while wondering what to do. They headed away from the fountain and the shooting, walking for a while before reaching an area where bits of houses still tottered. There had to be something to scavenge; every little bit of food couldn’t just have disappeared.

  They stopped in front of the first one. Peter looked bored while Yuri cast his eyes around for anything of interest, quickly spying something that made him say, ‘Let’s try in here.’

  The boy didn’t say a word but allowed himself to be helped over the smashed-up garden wall. Bits of torn, dirty flowers, pinks, yellows and purples, peeped out here and there from beneath the rubble of tiles and shards of glass. Feigning disinterest, Peter, nevertheless, glanced quickly all around him.

  Meanwhile, Yuri approached a lone apple tree that was still in one piece. The lower branches had been plucked bare but above them, quite a bit above them, he could see apples, enough to make a climb worthwhile.

  As Yuri stared upwards, Peter found half a charred bench to sit on. ‘It’s nice here’ was his only remark.

  Playing along, Yuri took the time to see what he meant by this. The house was in ruins, with most of its walls sitting in uneven piles all over the garden. ‘Well, it used to be,’ Yuri said, not wanting to lie. ‘Look, I’m going to climb this tree and get those apples at the top there. You just sit here and don’t move, unless you see soldiers. If you do, go hide in those bushes there. Just don’t shout out my name. Okay?’

  ‘I like apples!’ announced Peter agreeably and gave his friend a quick smile.

  Nervous about whether he could do this, Yuri simply nodded as he took off his jacket and said, ‘Mind that for me, and, if you have to go to the toilet, don’t wee anywhere near it.’

  Peter was dumbfounded, as if he would ever do something like that, ‘I’m not a baby!’

  Yuri had his doubts about this but had no time to argue the matter. He could have reminded Peter that he had, during a particularly bad night, peed all over their shoes.

  Returning to the foot of the tree, Yuri reached up to the nearest, thickest branch and hung on it while he hoisted the rest of his body towards it, using the shredded trunk like a ladder, walking his feet unsteadily up it. Actually, he was a pretty good climber, in spite of his bad leg, and had regularly won climbing competitions against Grigori and Anatoly because he took his time. Anatoly always raced ahead and then got himself stuck while Grigori was much too lazy to go beyond a couple of branches. Anatoly would tell him he was too fat to climb, at which Grigori would sulk, until Yuri won, and then they’d go and find something else to do.

  Yuri hadn’t thought about his friends in a while. He’d lost sight of them that day the planes came, believing they were somewhere in front of him as they ran into the city. They surely went to find their own mothers and, in doing so, missed out on having a slice of his birthday cake. He, his sister and his mother had eaten it in little pieces over the next couple of weeks. Yuri hoped his friends were okay somewhere and that they’d get to play with one another again. Anything that had taken place before the bombing seemed so very far away now. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what they looked like. But they had to be okay and maybe one of these days he would bump into them and introduce them to Peter … maybe?

  As he moved further up the tree, escaping into its foliage, Yuri began to relax. Hardly realising it, he felt relaxed because he felt safe. Nothing had changed in the world up here. Ants, flies and spiders carried on living their perfectly normal lives, as if Stalingrad had never been attacked. Imagine being an insect for a day. No matter what was going on beyond this tree, they continued to run up and down the branches, and nibble on leaves; there were plenty of them up here. One particular ant caught Yuri’s eye. He had trailed away from his fellow ants and was racing around, inspecting every bump in his path. He knew nothing about bombs or soldiers, and probably knew nothing about being afraid. His life had not been affected in any way by the war, the lucky thing.

  The smell was intoxicating. If peace had a smell, it would be like this: fresh, green and full of promise. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could build a tree-house here? thought Yuri. It would make a great fort; I’d be able to see the soldiers coming and would know when to hide, but … what about him? He instantly pictured Peter smashing to the ground, either having rolled off in his sleep or slipped when climbing. He remembered Anatoly trying to outdo him once, and falling when a too small branch refused to take his weight. His arm had bent back the wrong way, the sound of the bone snapping had made Yuri feel sick.

  The apples were smaller, harder and paler than he would have liked, yet they were better than no apples at all. Wishing he had a shopping bag or basket, he carefully picked five of them and then peered down through the leaves to look for Peter. The half bench was where he had left it, but Peter was no longer sitting on it or anywhere near it. Yuri realised that he had forgotten to tell Peter to be ready to catch the apples that he would drop down to him. Now, what am I going to do? Knowing him, he’s probably pestering some poor spi
der. Just then he thought he spied a flash of colour, Peter’s blue coat. Well, just as long as he stays in the garden. Yuri couldn’t call down to him; it was much too dangerous since the Germans could be nearby.

  The only thing to do was tuck the apples, as best he could, into his trouser pockets, before inching his way back down the tree as slowly as he could. In truth he was in no rush to reach the ground again, where the dirt, the broken houses and the shattered streets were waiting for him. Therefore, he took his time, musing on how he’d go about building the tree-house-fort which he believed was a genuinely fine idea. Could it work? Some people had burrowed below the ground to escape the fighting, so why not head in the opposite direction, as an alternative? His only problem was making Peter take care of himself, but he could teach him to be safe. When Yuri finally stepped away from the tree, he retrieved his coat and moved the apples into its pockets instead, where they couldn’t be seen. It was best to hide everything away. He had heard stories about the Germans taking food from children.

  Peter was nowhere in sight, but Yuri didn’t worry. He wouldn’t have gone far. He took out one of the apples, gave it a poor excuse of a rub with his coat sleeve, which wasn’t too clean either, and bit into it. The bitterness of the unripe fruit stole every drop of moisture from his mouth, making his tongue feel like it had instantly doubled in size.

  Apart from the shooting, all was still and quiet. He and Peter had come to the conclusion that the bombs and flames scared off the birds. Neither of them could remember hearing bird song in such a long time. As the minutes passed, Yuri reluctantly acknowledged that it might be time to start worrying about Peter. Where was he? If he’s playing a stupid joke, by hiding from me, I’ll give him an earful, even if it means his ignoring me for the next month.

  Staying as close as he could to the wall, Yuri slowly picked his way around the garden. Not wanting to trample the last of the flowers, he had to crunch, as softly as possible, across the upturned hills of stones and bits of bricks. Still he couldn’t see the boy anywhere and was desperate enough to break his own rule by whispering his name twice, ‘Peter? Peter?’

  It was strange – no, it was worse than that, it seemed impossible to Yuri that Peter simply wasn’t there in the garden with him. This was the first time in many weeks that he couldn’t see the small boy’s mucky face. Trying not to panic, Yuri took a moment to consider the possibilities: perhaps he’s climbed back over the wall – without me! And gone walking? But … he wouldn’t leave me; he’d be much too scared to go off by himself. Wouldn’t he?

  Making his way to the gap in the wall, Yuri stuck his head through and half-heartedly scanned the landscape as far as he could see for the figure of a small boy. After everything Yuri had done for him, this just wasn’t good enough. An unpleasant thought popped into his mind: has the ungrateful brat gone to find Tanya to beg her to take him in? To his horror his eyes clouded over with tears. Could he really have left me here all by myself?

  And then Yuri heard something peculiar. Well, it was only peculiar now, in the middle of a war; otherwise it was quite an ordinary sound. A woman was singing. He couldn’t make out the words of the song, nor did he recognise the tune but he couldn’t walk away from it. Rooted where he stood, he was fascinated by the difference between the two sounds: her genteel voice and the pounding din of the guns in the distance. As he listened to her, he became more and more certain that Peter was somehow involved. He didn’t know how he knew it, he just did.

  The singing was coming from the ruin of the house. Crouching down, he made his way slowly and carefully towards a large hole in what was probably the back wall of the kitchen. Suddenly the singing stopped, making him nervous. Was he being watched? It was a reasonable assumption since there were still plenty of people living in the city. There had to be. A whole city could not have emptied out leaving just the soldiers behind. Yuri figured that most of them had moved underground, away from the bullets and bombs. He and Peter had stumbled upon little groups who were living in the sewers. They stayed there for a few nights, but the smell was too bad and then, there were the hungry rats – not that Yuri would have admitted to being scared of them; it’s just hard to sleep if you’re waiting for a rat to nibble at your fingers or nose. Besides, the rats were rowdy too, always fighting and screaming, just like the soldiers outside. Peter also pretended he wasn’t frightened of the creatures, but he was, so they went out looking for another place to sleep, finding the big crater that they shared with whoever turned up. These big holes were caused by the bombs that the Germans had dropped. They were like caves, only they were made out of muck and grass, instead of rock.

  A head popped through the hole, the singer herself: ‘Is that you, Aleksia? Don’t forget to wash your hands. Supper is almost ready.’

  Yuri jumped in fright, but before he could say anything she disappeared again. Had she really been speaking to him? He turned his head to check that he was definitely alone in the garden, and he was. There was nothing for it, except to follow her. Just hearing the word ‘supper’ made his mouth water. He couldn’t smell any cooking, but maybe she had a basement full of food. Stepping through into what used to be the house, he heard Peter’s voice, at long last. ‘I love potatoes. Thank you!’

  He wanted to run towards the familiar voice out of pure relief, but the amount of rubble, and deadly shards of glass that twinkled in the dirt, forced him to watch his step. Even so, he made his way, as quickly as he could, through what used to be a doorway and on into what perhaps was once a kitchen. Stupidly, he actually pictured Peter sitting at a rectangular wooden table, like the one at home, while this mystery woman ladled out stew and potatoes. During the next few seconds he mentally prepared himself for the smell of shchi, his favourite soup made of cabbage, meat and whatever spices his mother had in the press. Mrs Bogdanov marvelled at how it remained his favourite dish even after she married his stepfather and had more money for fancier foods. Maybe there was even a grandfather clock, like the one that had stood in the hall at home, with carpet on the smashed floor, while netted curtains hid the yawning gaps in the walls. Yuri was overcome with a ferocious longing to see either his home or someone else’s.

  But there was nothing, only Peter, hunched down, his knees under his chin, sitting in front of upturned bricks. Yuri was so disappointed, so angry, that he felt like throwing a proper tantrum, like flinging himself down on the ground and kicking his feet in the air, all the while wailing at the top of his voice. The woman had her back to him; he couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but it did seem like she was playing with a pile of stones.

  Peter smiled calmly at him, as if he was sitting down at a normal table in a normal kitchen. Yuri could not smile back.

  ‘Sit beside me, Yuri.’

  Still hoping there was going to be food, he did what Peter told him to do, despite his irritation, but took the time to mutter, ‘You shouldn’t wander off like that. I didn’t know where you were.’

  Of course Peter ignored him and instead watched the woman, who had begun to sing quietly again. Determined that he should have Peter’s full attention, Yuri continued, ‘Look, you cannot walk off without letting me know where you are going!’

  ‘Hush now, boys, you’ll wake the baby.’

  Used to hearing his mother say the very same thing, Yuri immediately shut up but continued to glare at the silly smile on Peter’s face. After a minute or two, however, he found himself thinking What baby?

  Peter stared straight ahead as Yuri quickly scanned their surroundings and, indeed, saw a baby wrapped in a blanket, on the ground, near the woman’s feet. The hairs on the back of his neck began to itch. He couldn’t explain why, but he began to feel uneasy. What was she doing? Was she just pretending to be busy? She appeared to be stirring mud and pebbles with one hand while pinching the air with the other. Naturally, Peter was no help at all, plainly refusing to meet Yuri’s eye. Yuri nudged him and whispered, ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Supper’, Peter answere
d.

  There was no food here; that much Yuri knew, but it didn’t stop him from hoping that all he’d have to do was wait and something would be produced.

  ‘I hope you’re both hungry,’ the woman sang out.

  In spite of his misgivings, Yuri exclaimed, ‘Yes, starving!’ The unripe apple seemed to have triggered an enormous appetite rather than reduce it.

  His eyes filled with tears, for the second time that day, when she turned around, holding out absolutely nothing in her arms and said, ‘Mind your hands, the plates are hot.’

  Yuri scrunched up his face in disgust. How can she play a trick like this? We’re really hungry. It isn’t right. Is this some game because we are children?

  She held out the dusty palm of her hand – the plate – and began to spoon nothing from nothing into it. Yuri felt one boiling hot tear trickle down the side of his cheek, and wanted to slap Peter hard when he obediently held out his hands for his ‘plate’.

  ‘Thank you, Mama!’

  This was ridiculous. Yuri snapped in a whisper, ‘She’s not your mother, is she?!’ Peter barely shook his head, but it was enough to make Yuri feel he had won something at least.

  ‘Eat up, boys. No fighting now, you’ll wake the baby.’

  As she said this, there was a sudden explosion a few streets away. The ground trembled briefly beneath their feet. Instinctively Yuri looked at the baby, expecting it to start howling with fright, just like Anna would have done during the weeks in the coal cellar, but it never made a sound.

  The woman sat down on the ground and gestured for him to start eating. There was nothing for it but to imitate Peter’s shoving of fake food into his mouth. However, he was free to inspect his host as she started on her invisible supper. Her clothes were filthy, just like theirs, and her messy hair couldn’t hide the large bump over her left ear. It had bled a lot, but she hadn’t bothered washing any of it away. The blood was dull and black, almost the same colour as her hair.