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“It doesn’t count—he’s alive!”
“Oh.”
“Before he came back I had been going dancing every weekend, but now I can’t do anything. God!” she exclaimed. “Being married is a real drag.”
“Do you love him?”
“Sure.” Vikki shrugged. “But I love Chris, too. And two weeks ago, I met a radiologist who was nice … but it’s all over for that now.”
“You right,” Tatiana said. “Marriage very inconvenient.” She paused. “Why do you not get, what is it called?”
“A divorce?”
“Yes.”
“What are you, crazy? What kind of country do you come from? What kind of customs do you have there?”
“In my country,” said Tatiana, “we faithful to our husbands.”
“He wasn’t here! Surely I can’t be expected to be faithful to him when he is thousands of miles away, and getting up to no good in the Far East? As far as divorce … I’m too young to get divorced.”
“But not too young to be widow?” Tatiana flinched when she said it.
“No! There is an honor that comes with being a widow. I can’t be a divorcée. What am I, Wallis Simpson?”
“Who?”
“Tania, you’re doing well. Brenda tells me, albeit grudgingly”—Edward smiled—“that you are very good with the patients.” Edward and Tatiana were walking between the patient beds. Tatiana was carrying an awake and alert Anthony.
“Thank you, Edward.”
“Are you afraid your boy is going to get sick from being around sick people?”
“They not sick,” Tatiana replied. “Right, Anthony? They wounded. I bring my boy, and he makes them happy. Some of them have wives and sons back home. They touch him and they happy.”
Edward smiled. “He is a very fine boy.” Edward stroked Anthony’s dark head. Anthony paid Edward back by grinning toothlessly. “You take him outside?”
“All time.”
“Good. Babies need fresh air. And you, too.” He cleared his throat. “You know, on Sundays the doctors from NYU and PHD play softball in Sheep Meadow, in Central Park, and the nurses come to cheer us on. Would you like to come this Sunday with Anthony?”
Tatiana was too flustered to answer. They were on the stairs when they heard the clomping of high heels. “Edward?” a voice screeched from the ground floor. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sweetheart, it’s me.” Edward’s voice was calm.
“Well, thank goodness I found you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I’m right here, sweetheart.”
Mrs. Ludlow walked up the stairs, panting, and the three of them stopped on the landing. Tatiana held her baby closer. Disapprovingly, Edward’s wife eyed Tatiana and said, “A new nurse, Edward?”
“Nurse Barrington? Have you met Marion?”
“Yes,” said Tatiana.
“No, we never met,” declared Marion. “I never forget a face.”
“Mrs. Ludlow,” said Tatiana. “We meet every Tuesday in dining room. You ask me where Edward, and I say I don’t know.”
“We have never met,” repeated Mrs. Ludlow, with extra firmness to her voice.
Tatiana said nothing. Edward said nothing.
“Edward, can I talk to you in private? And you,” she added, glaring at Tatiana, “are too young to be carrying a child. You’re not carrying him correctly. You’re not holding his head. Where is the baby’s mother?”
“Marion, she is the baby’s mother,” said Edward.
Mrs. Ludlow was critically silent for a moment, then tutted and before anyone could say anything, she tutted again with emphasis, muttered the word “immigrants” and dragged Edward away.
Vikki stormed into the hospital ward, grabbed Tatiana by the arm and pulled her out into the corridor. “He asked me for a divorce!” Vikki whispered in an indignant and offended hiss. “Can you believe it?”
“Um—”
“I said I wasn’t giving him a divorce, it wasn’t proper, and he said he would sue me for a divorce and win because I—I don’t even know what he said—broke some covenant. Oh, I said to him, like you weren’t with Far Eastern whores while you were away from me, and you know what he said?”
“Um—”
“He said yes! But it’s different for soldiers, he said. Do you even believe it?” Vikki shook, Vikki shrugged, Vikki warded off the insulted glint in her eyes. Her mascara did not run, and her lips never lost their shine. “Fine, I said, just fine, you’re the one who is going to be sorry, and he said he was already sorry. Ugh.” She shuddered and brightened. “Hey, come for dinner on Sunday. Grammy is making Sunday lasagna.”
But Tatiana didn’t.
Come for dinner, Tania. Come to New York, Tania. Come play softball in Sheep Meadow with us, Tania. Come on the ferry ride with us, Tania, come for a car ride to Bear Mountain with us, Tania. Come, Tania, come back to us, the living.
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_cc89770d-1d18-5b11-a84c-132826022800)
With Stepanov, 1943
WHEN ALEXANDER OPENED HIS eyes—did he open them?—it was still black, still cold. He was shaking, his arms around himself. There is no shame in dying in war, in dying young, in dying in a cold cell, in saving your body from humiliation.
Once, when he was convalescing, Tatiana asked without looking at him as she was dressing his wound, did you see the light? And he replied, no, he had not seen.
It was only a partial truth.
Because he had heard …
The gallop of the red horse.
But here all the colors had run dry.
As if in a stupor, Alexander dimly heard the sliding of the metal bolt, the turning of the key. His commander, Colonel Mikhail Stepanov, came into his cell with a flashlight. Alexander was hunched in the corner.
“Ah,” said Stepanov. “So it’s true. You are alive.”
Alexander wanted to shake Stepanov’s hand, but he was too cold and his back was too sore. He did not move and said nothing.
Stepanov crouched by him. “What in the world happened to that truck? And I saw the Red Cross doctor’s death certificate for you myself. I told your wife you were dead. Your pregnant wife thinks you’re dead!”
“Everything is as it should be,” replied Alexander. “It’s good to see you, sir. Try not to inhale. There is not enough oxygen here for both of us.”
“Alexander,” said Stepanov. “You didn’t want to tell her what was happening to you?”
Alexander shook his head.
“But why the truck explosion, the death certificate?”
“I wanted her to think there was no hope for me.”
“Why?”
Alexander didn’t answer.
“Anywhere you go—I will go with you,” Tatiana says. “But if you are staying, then I’m staying, too. I’m not leaving my baby’s father in the Soviet Union.” She bends over an overwhelmed Alexander. “What did you say to me in Leningrad? What kind of a life can I build, you said, knowing I have left you to die—or to rot—in the Soviet Union? I’m quoting you back to you. Those were your words.” She smiles. “And on this one point, I will have to agree with you.” She lowers her voice. “If I left you, no matter which road I took, with ponderous clatter indeed, the Bronze Horseman would pursue me all through that long night into my own maddening dust.”
He couldn’t tell that to his commander. He didn’t know if Tatiana had left the Soviet Union.
“You want a smoke?”
“Yes,” replied Alexander. “But can’t here. Not enough oxygen for a smoke.”
Stepanov pulled Alexander up to his feet. “Stand for a few minutes,” Stepanov said. “Stretch your legs.” He looked at Alexander’s bent-sideways head. “This cell is too small for you. They didn’t expect that.”
“Oh, they did. That’s why they put me here.”
Stepanov stood with his back to the door, while Alexander stood across from him.
“What day is it, sir?” asked Alexander. “How long have I been here? Four, five days?”
“The morning of the sixteenth of March,” said Stepanov. “The morning of your third day.”
Third day! Alexander thought with shock.
Third day! Alexander thought with excitement. That would probably mean that Tania …
He didn’t continue with his thoughts. Very quietly, almost inaudibly, Stepanov leaned forward and Alexander thought he said, “Keep talking loudly, so they can hear, but listen to me so that I can laugh with you when you come back in the clover field, and I will show you how to eat clover.”
Alexander looked at Stepanov’s face, more drawn than ever, his eyes gray, his mouth turned down with sympathy and anxiety. “Sir?”
“I didn’t say anything, Major.”
Shaking off the hallucination in his head, of a meadow, of sun, of clover, Alexander repeated in a low voice, “Sir?”
“Everything’s gone to shit, Major,” whispered Stepanov. “They’re already looking for your wife, but … she seems to have disappeared. I convinced her to go back to Leningrad with Dr. Sayers, just as you asked me. I made it easy for her to leave.”
Alexander said nothing, digging his nails into the palms of his hands.
“But now she’s gone. You know who else disappeared? Dr. Sayers. He had informed me he was going back to Leningrad with your wife.”
Alexander dug his nails harder into his palms to keep himself from looking at Stepanov and from speaking.
“He was on his way to Helsinki, but he was supposed to have gone to Leningrad first!” Stepanov exclaimed. “To drop her off, to pick up his own Red Cross nurse he had left in Grechesky hospital. Listen to me, are you listening? They never reached Leningrad. Two days ago his Red Cross truck was found burned, pillaged and turned over on the Finnish-Soviet border at Lisiy Nos. There was an incident with the Finnish troops and four of our men were shot and killed. No sign of Sayers, or of Nurse Metanova.”
Alexander said nothing. He wanted to pick up his heart from the floor. But it was dark, and he couldn’t find it. He heard it roll away from him, he heard it beating, bleeding, pulsing in the corner.
Stepanov lowered his voice another notch. “And Finnish troops shot and killed, too.”
Silence from Alexander.
“And that’s not all.”
“No?” Alexander thought he said.
“No sign of Dr. Sayers. But …” Stepanov paused. “Your good friend, Dimitri Chernenko, was found shot dead in the snow.”
That was small comfort to Alexander.
But it was some comfort.
“Major, why was Chernenko at the border?”
Alexander did not answer. Where was Tatiana? All he wanted to do was ask that question. Without a truck how could they have gotten anywhere? Without a truck what were they doing—walking on foot through the marshes of Karelia?
“Major, your wife is missing. Sayers is gone, Chernenko is dead—” Stepanov hesitated. “And not just dead. But shot dead in a Finn’s uniform. He was wearing a Finnish pilot’s uniform and carrying Finnish ID papers instead of his domestic passport!”
Alexander said nothing. He had nothing to hide except the information that would cost Stepanov his life.
“Alexander!” Stepanov exclaimed in a hissing whisper. “Don’t shut me out. I’m trying to help.”
“Sir,” Alexander said, attempting to mute his fear. “I’m asking you please not to help me anymore.” He wished he had a picture of her. He wanted to touch her white dress with red roses one more time. Wanted to see her young and with him, standing newly married on the steps of the Molotov church.
The fear, the stabbing panic he felt prohibited Alexander from thinking of Tania past. That’s what he would have to learn to do: forbid himself from looking at her even in his memory.
With trembling hands he made a sign of the cross on himself. “I was all right,” he finally managed to say, “until you came here and told me my wife was missing.” He began to shiver uncontrollably.
Stepanov came closer to Alexander. He took off his own coat and gave it to him. “Here, put this around your shoulders.”
Immediately he heard a voice from the outside yell, “It’s time!”
In a whisper, Stepanov said, “Tell me the truth, did you tell your wife to leave with Sayers for Helsinki? Was that your plan all along?”
