Through her father, she came to learn English, and a love of culture that released a longing within her heart when she heard him speak of what he had seen during his formative years abroad. When he described Mahler directing the Philharmonic in Carnegie Hall, her eyes lit up as though she was experiencing for herself the music’s melodic echoes resonating through that storied space. She likewise saw within her mind’s eye the vibrant paintings among the collections of the Metropolitan Museum, and the Grecian statues that seemed as if they might yet come to life.
Art, for her, seemed an ideal frozen for all time, a timelessness she found appealing because it seemed as though art alone could transcend the inevitable fate of any who created it.
Her father’s passion for art, which had been his own field of study, had yielded to the more practical realities of their survival. It was a lesson he tried to shield from his daughter while he encouraged her to follow what her own heart desired. Yet even his smiles for her could never disguise the tired look on his face when he arrived home grimy each day from long hours in the factory. His fingers became coarse, stubbed, no longer able to wield a brush or a pencil with the flourish they once had done.
Still, she was a happy child, albeit shy and carrying a reserve when among others. She discovered the piano at the age of seven. It brought something to life within her, stirring her passion in the way it was able to breach the solitude of the instrument and the small form behind it. She could find herself in the music, where it seemed she was simply awakening the potential of the notes that flew like captured raindrops beneath her fingers.
Her father bartered music lessons for her. She practiced on an old and battered upright piano owned by a pensioner in the same building, the pedals beneath her feet creaking as she sought to bring out through her fingers what she could hear in the space of her mind. Her father told her once that she had inherited her mother’s sense of dedication in pursuit of her dreams, words that left her with a warm sense that lasted well past the time she snuggled later beneath her blankets for sleep.
When she was ten, she was chosen for the role of Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden, in a school play. She had worn her blonde hair in a long single braid that night, reflecting like brilliant gold against the aquamarine of her dress. As she looked out across the audience filling the small auditorium, she felt only a studied sense of calm wash over her. It was then she discovered that the discipline she gave of herself in her practice had yielded fruit, now masking away the fears that caused others to falter when practice was finally put to the test.
She was accepted into the conservatory, and the long hours now seemed as nothing because she was doing what she loved. During times when she would let her mind idle, she imagined herself playing at some of the places she had only so far seen within her dreams, and wondering whether she would ever come to know them with her own eyes. She was troubled at other times by a sense that her hands, like those of her father, might be forced into another path, and that choice might lie outside her own desire or control.
In the beginning of 1940, as war was breaking out in Europe, her father took her to see Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet performed by the Kirov as his birthday present to her. No longer under the pressures of practice or performance, she was able to allow herself to experience the music in the way it had once captured her. As she listened to the melodies play out their story, visualized into dance whose graceful movements found each note with an inseparable intimacy, she began to cry, a swell of tears that seemed to tap a deeper well of sorrow she kept hidden inside. Behind the handkerchief her father lent her, she sought to find that part of herself to let her mask this expression of her feelings, and gradually, her tears had subsided.
Graduation brought small recognition through a handful of concerts she performed for various local officials and dignitaries. To help her father, she accepted a school position teaching music, an activity that offered her a new avenue of fulfillment, as she found gratification in working with the more gifted students whose motivation, like hers, began within.
Throughout this time, she had never yet had a real boyfriend. Her innate shyness had kept her from pursuing those opportunities, and she had come to convince herself that her studies occupied too much of her time.
In the early part of the summer of 1941, her world changed irrevocably with the German invasion of her country. She would remember always her last conversation with her father, and come to wonder whether her choices really mattered as she thought they once had, or whether only fate and random chance determined where one’s life would lead.
“Papa,” she said patiently. “I’ve made my decision.” She made a helpless gesture. “What else is there here now?”
“Perhaps our army can stop them,” he said, words that held a small measure of hope, but little conviction.
“You’ve heard how far they’ve come already. You and Baba should evacuate, while there’s still time.”
“Where would we go?”
For the first time, this steady and sure man seemed at a loss. It caused Darya’s own sureness to waver for a moment, seeing the way her father glanced to the kitchen where she was sure Baba was listening to every word spoken between them.
“Stay here, Darya, with us,” he said. “Your Baba is in no condition to leave, even if we wished it.”
Her hesitation faded, and her grey eyes regained their look of self-assuredness developed in her life of focus and self-discipline. “I might make a difference, Papa,” she said. “They told us it will take all of us together. The oldest of my students have already gone. Surely if enough of the rest of us make a choice, it will be enough to change the tide.”
He sighed, a soft note of recognition that any further words he spoke wouldn’t change anything, but only prolong hope that they would. “If that is what you want to do,” he said at last.
“It isn’t what I want,” she said quietly, as she turned away. “But what I want doesn’t really matter anymore.”
* * * *
DARYA SAT by herself, her rifle close by her side, as she surveyed the raw recruits filtering into the converted basement. Many of their faces were anxious, as if already trying to anticipate a reality they knew they could never truly prepare themselves for. In a few, she noted an almost misplaced sense of calm, perhaps an acceptance of fate that might prove either beneficial or a detriment when its resolve was tested.
Her own expression betrayed nothing of her feelings or what thoughts went on inside of her.
Her home city of Leningrad had been encircled by the Germans less than two months after she had said goodbye to her father and grandmother and departed to join the swelling ranks of the military. Now, over a year later, she found herself in the namesake city of their country’s leader, one of a few hundred thousand others who had managed to force a stalemate for the time being, halting the German advance.
One of her team, a dark-haired Ukrainian girl named Marta, approached. She was leading a broad young man whose careful steps hinted more at caution as he evaluated his new circumstances, rather than from a sense of trepidation.
“Your new partner,” Marta said, as they stopped in front of her. “Alexei, this is Darya.”
Darya appraised him, carefully searching for any signs she had come to recognize might prove a liability or a danger. In her work, she couldn’t afford to take chances anymore, with anything or anyone. The only thing left she had was her confidence in her abilities, along with her sense of certainty.
For his part, Alexei appeared more at ease than he undoubtedly felt. Probably a farm boy, she decided, noting his rugged build and the easy way he shouldered his pack of heavy equipment. His face was open and pleasant, framed by an unruly mop of hair the color of the burnished sun as it set each evening over the ruins of the former city. She decided she liked what she saw, and nodded at Marta that she could leave the two of them together.
She gestured beside her and Alexei settled down easily, a smooth and practiced movement she took noti
ce of.
“What’s next?” he asked. He was still looking around, taking stock of his surroundings as they had been trained to do, and memorizing the paths to the exits in the event of the unexpected.
She gave a slight nod of approval before answering. “We have a forward position between the lines. We’ll go out soon, when it’s dark, and stay for four days if all goes well.”
He glanced back over his shoulder briefly at Marta’s retreating form. “Marta says I’m in good hands.”
“You’re not the first new one I’ve worked with.”
He turned toward her now, but he was looking down, and he noticed her hands first. She would always remember that.
The rest of her was swaddled in thick and shapeless clothing the color of earth that had just been turned over beneath a plow blade, a raw and rich blend of shades. Her blonde hair lay concealed beneath her cap, her long braid run down beneath her clothing. But her graceful fingers were exposed. Even with their grimy nails, she noticed him watching them, with an expression that made her feel self-conscious. It seemed to stir something else that she quickly forced away with practiced ease before she was able to identify what it was.
“You’ll begin as my observer,” she continued, watching for signs of either contention or disappointment.
Instead, he simply acknowledged with a ready nod. He turned his eyes up to her face now, studying her as carefully as she had just been studying him. She felt a warm flush rise, hidden beneath the film of dirt that darkened her pale skin.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said after a moment, and offered his hand.
She took it, surprising herself, and for a moment marveled at his firm but sensitive grip. She tried to place from her experience what it represented, and after a moment thought it reminded her of the way she held the rifle that had become such a part of her. She decided he might work out after all.
* * * *
THEY BEGAN to make their way after darkness fell, past their front lines into the barren moonscaped wasteland beyond. In other parts of the ruined and broken city, artillery bursts lit up the night sky in brief flashes, like lightning captured in all its violence, before dissipating away in a rumble of thunder. They picked their way through the uneven rubble of a ruined city, pausing to listen.
“How do you know your way?” he asked in a low voice that barely carried to her ears. “I can’t see anything.”
“I can’t, either,” she whispered back. She grasped for his hand, finding it to lead him through a slide of concrete and twisted metal. “But we study everything during the day to know where things lie, and when things are out of place. Remember your training.”
He squeezed her hand twice to let her know he understood. She released his hand as they passed into less tricky terrain. She listened to the sounds of the night she had become so familiar with over these past several months. Their footsteps were muffled by a blanket of snow that covered much of their way, its surface no longer white, but darkened by the accumulation of grit, disrupted earth, and concrete dust that coated everything.
They slipped around a large mound of rubble, strewn bricks thrown about like toys from a child’s play. Darya paused, listening again, then gestured for Alexei to follow as she slithered through a narrow entrance down into a former cellar. After they were inside, Darya reached back to pull a heavy piece of canvas over the entrance, and secured its edges with fragments of brick. That done, she straightened up and flicked a lighter, holding it at arm’s length as she surveyed the interior. She nodded to herself, and touched the lighter to a single candle secured to a worn and stubby table by a thick gob of melted wax. She put the lighter away into an inside pocket.
“They haven’t found this one yet,” she said. “I’m very careful. One, maybe two a day from here.”
“And if they find it?” he asked, curious.
She sat on the floor with her back to the wall. “We’ll move to another one.”
He settled beside her, his rifle held close like hers. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. In the flickering glow of the candle, it gleamed like burnished copper. He glanced at Darya.
“What did you do?” he asked. “Before?”
“I’m a pianist,” she said.
“And I’m a writer.”
She looked at him, thinking he was having light at her, but he was staring at her hands once more, his face reflective.
“Strange how things turn out,” he mused.
“When this is all over, I will still be a pianist,” she said with certainty.
“You really believe that? You believe you can just leave all this.” He gestured. “Behind? And pick up again where you left off?”
She was silent for a moment, watching him. “Are you really a writer?”
“I write for myself, mainly.” He smiled. “It’s safer that way.”
She nodded, then turned her attention to her pack. She retrieved a bundle and unwrapped it carefully on the table. She stared at the rations for a moment, and then broke the hard black loaf in two. She handed half to him. She settled back, holding hers in her hand, and staring at the shadows gathered along the far wall.
“I’ve never eaten so well in my entire life,” he remarked. “My parents died in the great famine, in the Ukraine. I’ve been on my own the past ten years.”
“That must be really hard,” she said, still looking across the distance, as though trying to peer beyond.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She ran a hand across her face and slipped her own cap off. She set it on the table beside her. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, and I’m tired. We’d best get some sleep.”
She wrapped her bread up again and put it away. She shook a blanket out on the floor and wrapped herself in another one as she lay down, pulling her pack beneath her head for a pillow. “You can blow the candle out when you’re finished.”
She heard a small exhalation of breath, and the light reflecting on the wall shuddered for a moment, before going out like a sigh as darkness settled in once more.
“I’m finished,” he said.
She heard a rustle as he shook out his own blankets, and then shifting sounds as he lay down close beside her.
She felt a light touch on her arm.
“Each of us knows only our own sorrow,” he whispered. “Until we’re awakened to the sorrow of another. Only then can we share. It makes the burden easier.”
She bit her lip and nodded, without replying. Warm tears followed familiar paths down her cheeks as she lay, alone with her thoughts. She had learned to cry without ever being heard.
* * * *
HER RIFLE bucked in her hands. She waited, counting silently to herself, only her eyes moving, searching for any sign she had been spotted. Then she began to withdraw with exquisite slow movements, following a path that would keep her shielded from view. When she reached Alexei, she tapped his shoulder and continued, with him crawling just behind her, his hand occasionally brushing the sole of her boot.
They reached the cellar entrance and slipped inside once more.
“I didn’t see it,” he said. “I didn’t have the vantage point.”
She was making a notation in a small book. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How many?” he asked, indicating the book in her hands.
She finished and slipped it back into a pocket. “I don’t count them. I only shoot them. And record them because that’s what they told us to do.”
He was silent for a moment. “What now?”
“We’ll wait until just before sunset. They sometimes get more complacent then.”
He nodded and sat down, tucking his legs loosely around one another, and rested his hands on his knees.
“You’re in no hurry,” she noted. “That hasn’t been my experience with others.”
“You can’t rush fate.” His smile held a wistful note. “It arrives on its own terms, and never with an invitation.”
“You didn’t join
?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said simply. “I left just ahead of the Germans, until fate found me once more.” His eyes searched around the small space, as though this represented only the sum of his world according to someone else’s dream, one in which he had been given to participate for only a while. He looked back at her. “What about you?”
She felt something stir inside, beneath his direct gaze, but she met it without changing expression. “I’m just a soldier in a war, like you.”
“You’re like me, Dasha. But you’re no soldier.” His smile transformed his face, warming it in the dim light like a stray sunbeam captured and held as it passes over the water on its journey toward night. “You have something more inside you, but you choose to hide it.”
She smiled shyly at his use of this familiar name, and glanced away for a moment.
“You aren’t like what they say,” he said, still watching her with a gaze that seemed to see past enclosed spaces, into whatever awaited free in the beyond.
“What do they say about me?”
“That your discipline is your strength. I think it’s only your shield, and your passion is your real strength.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features. She sought to distract herself by busying herself with her rifle.
“How old are you Dasha?” he asked, curious.
She hesitated, and answered without turning. “I’ll be twenty-five at the end of the year. If it ever comes.”
“They say twenty-five is the beginning of a long springtime in our lives.”
Becomings Page 4
