That’s why Ouspensky had never left his side. “And did they ask you to be my noose, Ouspensky?” asked Alexander, gripping his leg irons.
Ouspensky didn’t reply.
“Oh, Nikolai,” Alexander said in a dead voice.
“Wait—”
“Don’t tell me anymore.”
“Listen—”
“No!’ Alexander shouted, throwing himself on Ouspensky. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, helpless and irate, Alexander smashed his head against the wall of the train. “Don’t tell me anymore.”
Red and panting, Ouspensky, who did nothing to free himself, whispered hoarsely, “Listen to me—”
Again Alexander smashed Nikolai’s head against the wall.
Someone said, “Keep it down over there,” but feebly. No one wanted to get involved. One less man was one more hunk of bread for someone else.
Ouspensky was choking. His nose was bleeding from the trauma to the back of his head. He did not fight back.
Alexander punched him in the face, and Ouspensky fell off the berth to the floor. Alexander kicked him with the boot that was too small for him. Alexander scared even himself. He was dangerously close to killing another human being in hot blood. It wasn’t like the anger at Slonko that had been immediate and unstoppable. His fury at Ouspensky was tinged with fury at himself for letting his guard down, and tinged even more with the black hurt at being betrayed for so long by the person closest to him. This made Alexander weaker instead of stronger, and he pulled back and moved away, sinking onto the berth. He and Ouspensky remained shackled to one another.
For a few minutes, Ouspensky did not speak as he struggled to get his breath back. When he spoke his voice was quiet. “Back then I didn’t want to die,” he said. “They offered me a way out, they said if I brought them information on you—if you helped your wife to escape, or if you were an American like they suspected, that for that information they would set me free. I would be given back my life and reunited with my wife and children.”
“They certainly offered you enough,” said Alexander.
“I didn’t want to die!” Ouspensky cried. “Surely you of all men can understand that! Every month I had to provide them with reports on everything you said and did. They were very interested in our God discussion. Once a month, I would be called to the NKGB command and questioned about you. Did anything raise my suspicions? Did you do anything to trip yourself up? Did you ever use phrases or words that were either unacceptable or foreign? For all that my wife got an extra monthly ration and an increase in her share of my military pay. And I got a few extra rubles to spend on—”
“You sold me out for a few pieces of silver, Nikolai? You sold me out to buy yourself a couple of whores?”
“You never did trust me.”
“I did trust you,” replied Alexander with clenched fists. “I just didn’t tell you anything. But I had thought you were worthy of my trust. I defended you to my brother-in-law.” And now Alexander understood. “Pasha suspected you from the start, and he kept trying to tell me.” He had a sense about people the way Tatiana had a sense about people. Alexander groaned aloud. He hadn’t listened, and now look. He would have told Ouspensky everything, but he hadn’t wanted to endanger him with information that might have cost him his miserable life.
Ouspensky paused. “I told them everything I knew about you. I told them you talked to the Americans in Colditz in English. I told them you talked to the English in Catowice. I told them you wanted to surrender. I told them everything I knew. Why did I still get twenty-five years?”
“See if you can figure it out.”
“I don’t know why!”
“Because!” Alexander yelled. “You sold your mortal fucking soul for some phantom freedom. Are you really surprised that you now have neither? What do you think they care for their promises? You think they care for you because you gave them a bit of worthless information? They still haven’t found my wife. And they never will. I’m surprised they gave you only twenty-five years.” Alexander lowered his voice. “Their rewards are usually eternal.”
“Oh, you’re taking this all so personally! I’m going to fucking prison and you’re—”
“Nikolai, I’ve been manacled to you for the last two months,” Alexander said in a broken voice. “Manacled! For nearly three years you and I ate out of the same fucking helmet at the front, drank out of the same flask…”
“My allegiance was to the state,” Ouspensky said. “I wanted it to be. I wanted them to protect me. They told me you were as good as dead with or without my help.”
“Why tell me now? Why tell me anything?”
“Why not tell you now?” Ouspensky was down to a whisper.
“God, when am I ever going to learn! Don’t speak to me again, Ouspensky,” said Alexander. “Ever. If you speak to me, I will not answer you. If you persist, I have ways of forcing you to be silent.”
“Then force me.” Ouspensky’s head was lowered.
Alexander kicked the chains at him and moved a full, stretched-out iron meter away. “Death is too good for you,” he said and turned to the wall.
Where they were going it was hard to tell; it was summer outside, and warm, and it didn’t rain, and the night air coming through the small opening smelled of trees. Alexander closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, viscerally recalling the wet towel on his face and Tatiana’s mouth on him. The longer they traveled, the sharper the memory became until he would nearly groan out loud at the sensation of blood from his nose dripping down onto the white sheets and Tatiana cradling his head to her breasts, murmuring, “You were being fed to me alive, Shura.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jeb, November 1945
TATIANA AGREED TO GO to dinner with Edward. Vikki looked after Anthony. Tatiana dressed up a little, putting on a blue skirt and a beige merino wool sweater, but no matter how much Vikki asked her to, she did not let down her hair, leaving it pinned back in one very long braid, and she did not put on any makeup. Then she put on her coat and scarf, sat on the couch and waited with Anthony on her lap and a picture book in front of them.
“What are you worried about?” Vikki asked, milling around them, picking up the newspapers that had piled up. “You go to lunch with him all the time and talk. Only the title of the meal will change.”
“And time of day.”
“Yes, that, too.”
Tatiana didn’t say anymore, pretending to be preoccupied with Anthony’s book.
Edward arrived dressed in a suit. Vikki commented on how handsome he looked. Tatiana agreed that Edward looked nice. Edward was fairly tall, thin, composed. He carried himself well—in a suit, in doctor’s whites. He had serious, kind eyes. She felt comfortable and yet intensely uncomfortable around him.
Edward took her to Sardi’s on 44th Street. Tatiana had a shrimp cocktail and a steak followed by some chocolate cake and coffee.
After an initial awkward silence, she spent the entire dinner asking Edward questions and listening to him. She asked him about medicine and surgery and the wounded and the dying and the sick, she asked him about the hospitals he had worked in and why he chose to be a doctor and whether it still meant something to him to be a doctor. She asked him about where in America he had traveled to and which place out of all he had seen he liked best. She looked him straight in the eye and laughed in all the right places.
And somewhere in the space between the taking way of the chocolate cake and the bringing of the check, Tatiana, while nodding, while listening, her head slightly tilted to one side, saw a color image of herself sitting across a table just like this from Edward, except the table was longer and they were much older, and around the table with them sat their grown children, all daughters.
She leaped up and asked the waiter the time. “Ten o’clock? My, look how late it is. I must get back to Anthony. I had really nice evening, thank you.”
Looking a little shellshocked, Edward took her home in a taxi.
She sat all the way from 44th looking out the side window. Somewhere around 23rd Street, Edward said, “How do you do that? I can’t believe what a bore I must have been, talking only about myself.”
“Not at all,” she said. “You were fascinating. As you know, I like to hear everything.”
“Maybe next time, we can talk about you.”
“I’m so boring,” she said. “Nothing to talk about.”
“Now that you’ve been here a couple of years, what do you like about America?”
“The people,” she said without thinking.
Edward laughed. “But Tania, all the people you know are immigrants!”
She nodded. “True Americans. They are here in New York for all right reasons. New York is great city.”
“What else do you like? What do you like the most?”
“Delicious bacon,” she said. “I guess I like the comfort. Everything Americans do, produce, create is to make life little bit easier. I like that. Music is pleasant, clothes are comfortable. Blankets don’t itch. Milk is right around corner. So is bread. Shoes fit. Chairs are soft. It’s good here.” She looked out the window as they passed through 14th Street. “So much to take for granted,” she added quietly.
The cab pulled up in front of her building. “Well…” she said.
“Tania,” he said in an emotional voice, reaching for her.
She leaned over to Edward, pecked him on the cheek, said, “Thank you so much for lovely evening,” and got hastily out of the car.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” he called out, but she was already running inside the doors, opened instantly and reverentially by Diego from Romania.
Tania Tania.
I hear him shouting for me.
I turn and there he is, still alive and calling my name.
Tania Tania.
I turn, I must turn and there he is, wearing his fatigues, rifle slung on his shoulder, running towards me, out of breath.
Still so young.
Why do I hear him so clearly?
Why is his voice an echo in my head?
In my chest.
In my arms and fingers, in my barely beating heart, in the vapor of my cold breath?
Why is he loud, why is he deafening?
At night all is quiet.
But during the day, amid the crowds…
I walk, always slowly, I sit, always motionlessly, and I hear him calling my name.
Tania, Tania…
Why do I hear it?
Didn’t he tell me to listen for the stellar wind at night?
It will be me, he whispered, calling you back.
To Lazarevo.
Then why is he SHOUTING now?
Here I am, Shura! Stop calling for me. I’m not going anywhere.
Tania Tania…
One cold and sunny Saturday afternoon, a bundled-up Tatiana, Vikki, and Anthony were walking as usual through the outdoor market on Second Avenue. Vikki was idly chatting, Tatiana was idly listening and holding Anthony by the shoulders. He wanted to push his own carriage today—into the ankles of the pedestrians. Vikki carried all their shopping, never missing an opportunity to complain about how unfair it was.
“And explain to me why you refuse to go out with Edward again?”
“I don’t refuse,” Tatiana said gently. “I told him I need little time, little more adjustment. We still have lunch.”
“Lunch shmunch. It’s not dinner, is it? He knows a brush-off when he sees one.”
“No brush-off. Just…slow-off.”
Vikki was already onto something else. “Tania, I know you want bacon for dinner today, bacon and bread, but I was thinking maybe you could make something other than bread and meat. What about spaghetti and meatballs?”
“What is spaghetti made of?”
“How do I know? It grows in Portugal, like olives, and my grandmother buys it in special shops.”
“No. Spaghetti made of flour.”
“So?”
“Meatballs made of meat.”
“So?”
Tatiana didn’t answer. Half a block ahead of her, she saw a tall male shape. She held Anthony’s hand tighter as she stared through the crowds, trying to see. Second Avenue was busy and she tilted her head, then moved three steps to the right, and then tried to speed up.
“So?”
“Come on, little faster. Excuse me,” she said to the people in front of them. “Excuse me, please.”
“Hey, what’s the hurry? Tania! You didn’t answer my question.”
“Question?”
“So? That was my question. So?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs are also bread and meat. Excuse me,” Tatiana said again to the people in front of her, pulling Anthony faster than his short legs could carry him. “Come on, son, let’s not dawdle.” But she wasn’t looking at Anthony, or at Vikki, or at the people she was pushing out of her way with the carriage. No one liked to have their ankles rammed by an aggressive Russian woman, even in a Russian neighborhood—especially in a Russian neighborhood. Tatiana heard some very unkind words in her native tongue. “Hurry, Vikki, hurry.”
She picked up Anthony, thrust the carriage into Vikki’s already full hands and said, “I’ve got to—” Then, breaking off, she started to run. She couldn’t restrain herself. She ran out into the street and alongside the curb, trying to catch two men about a block ahead of her. Short of shouting at their backs, she didn’t know what to do; panting, her heart pounding, she caught up with them at the light and before speaking—because she couldn’t speak—she placed her free hand, the one that wasn’t holding Anthony, on the man’s arm, and tried to say, Alexander? But no words would come out.
The man was very tall and very broad. She kept her hand on him long enough for him to turn around, and see her staring. He smiled. Turning red, Tatiana took away her hand and averted her gaze, but it was too late.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he said. “What can I do you for?”
She backed away. Temporarily forgetting her English, she started yammering in Russian. Then went back to a broken language even she didn’t recognize. “I sorry, I think you was someplace, someone else…”
“For you, I’ll be anyone you want me to be. Who do you want me to be, sweetheart?”
Vikki had caught up by now, with the carriage and shopping bags, flushed and put upon. “Tania! What do you think you’re—” She broke off when she saw the two men, and smiled.
The tall man introduced himself as Jeb and his friend as Vincent.
Jeb was dark-haired, but his face was all wrong. It was Jeb’s face. It wasn’t Tatiana’s husband’s. Nonetheless, on a Saturday afternoon, in standing close to him, in looking up into his friendly smiling eyes, Tatiana felt a twinge of want. A breath of desire.
A few minutes later, as they were walking away, Vikki said, “Tania, why is it feast or famine with you? You completely ignore all men for years, then you knock down old ladies to chase one down the street. What is wrong with you?”
The next day Jeb called.
“Are you crazy?” Vikki said. “You gave him our number? You don’t know where he’s been.”
“I know where he been,” said Tatiana. “Japan. He was sailor.”
“I don’t understand. You don’t know him at all. I’ve been trying to get you to go out with Edward for two years—”
“Vikki, I don’t want Edward to be my rebound. He too good for that.”
“Edward doesn’t think so. You want Jeb to be your rebound?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t like him for you,” Vikki stated flatly. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. I can’t believe of all the men out there, you had to pick the one I don’t like.”
“He will grow on you.”
But he didn’t grow on Vikki. Tatiana was too ashamed of being attracted to Jeb to go out alone with him, but she did invite him for dinner.
“What are you going to make him? Eggs and bacon? Bacon, lettu
ce and tomato on bread? Or stuffed cabbage—with bacon?”
“Stuffed cabbage sounds good. Stuffed cabbage and bread.”
Jeb came and had dinner with them. Vikki would not disappear into her room for a moment, and Anthony was underfoot all evening. Finally, Jeb left.
“I didn’t like the way he looked at you the first time he saw you and I like him even less now,” Vikki declared. “Don’t you find him condescending?”
“What?”
“He cut you off every time you spoke, didn’t you notice? Always with a smile, the fraud. And don’t tell me you didn’t notice how he ignored your boy?”
“How could he ignore him? Thanks to you, Anthony was under table entire night!”
“Don’t you think Anthony is worth a better man than Jeb?”
“I do,” said Tatiana. “But better man is not here. What am I supposed to do?”
“Edward is a better man than Jeb,” Vikki said.
“So why don’t you go for Edward then? He is available.”
“Don’t think I haven’t tried!” rejoined Vikki. “He is not interested in me.”
Vikki was right about Jeb. He was possessive and he was condescending. But Tatiana couldn’t help it—she wanted the agony of his big arms around her.
Tatiana thought of Alexander; she imagined Alexander whole and in the imagining created the kind of hell for herself that only the true masochist can create, the thinking male praying mantis who creeps to the female fully knowing that as soon as she is finished with him, she is going to snap off his head and devour him. And still he creeps, with his eyes closed, with his heart shut tight, creeps to the gates of life and death, and thanks God for being alive.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, when Tatiana came to pick up Anthony from Isabella’s, Isabella sat her down and, giving her a hot cup of tea, said, “What’s wrong, Tania?”
“Nothing.”
Isabella studied her.
Tatiana looked at her hands. “I wish having faith was easier.”
Tatiana and Alexander Page 45
