That night, Bogdan entered our room and climbed into my sister’s bed, taking over Licky’s role. I was victim to their sweet murmurs and the sounds of their limbs settling into sleep and knew there was no chance I could rest under these circumstances. This just proved that Bogdan did not mean all that business about preferring me over my sister. I pictured him standing at the edge of the tracks with Polya, not shielding her from the darkness. I wondered what the look he gave me then meant—was he thinking of what I was thinking of now, the long-ago evening when he held me on the train, protecting me from some nasty truth? And if so, was he finding that it was easier to win over my weakling sister by letting her stare at her dead grandmother, to show her he knew she could handle it, after all?
I was not naïve: I knew it was likely Bogdan was not thinking of me at all, that he had been hardened by the war and was more interested in reality than comfort. I knew I needed to get out of there, that it was untoward to stay below them. Mama had a big, empty apartment all to herself now, and I could have joined her, but I stayed in my closet room out of stubbornness. Night after night, after my reading sessions with Misha, the only bright spot in my days besides the news that Kharkov and Kiev had been taken back by the Red Army, I would return to my post below the non-lovers, just to unsettle them. But as the days wore on, I heard fewer sweet murmurs, and more of Bogdan’s criticism of our dear government.
“Stalin is a madman and a narcissist,” he’d whisper. “He’s no more a man of the people than a chimp; his cronies are as fat as cows before the slaughter, while we’re starving to death. Once the war is over, I want to get out of here—to go somewhere enlightened.” My sister would mostly just murmur, but she never disagreed with him. “That sounds nice, darling,” she would say. “Quite nice.” Part of me wondered if he was babbling on for my benefit, to provoke me to defend our fathers, to remember the T-34, the importance of winning the war, of being on the side of Stalin and not some foreigner’s.
As far as I could see, only kissing and Stalinist critique went on above me; lovemaking wasn’t in the picture yet. My sister, who was once entertained by my grandmother’s talk of balls, now heard Bogdan talk about the peasants, the Famine of the ’30s, which was caused by our government, the purges, anti-Semitism, party corruption, and seemed even more engrossed in what he had to say, and who knew why; perhaps it was because he let her see the state my grandmother was in, because he felt she could handle anything and wasn’t as weak as she appeared, perhaps confirming this on the nights when he would get back to the room late because of his wanderings and my sister didn’t seem to care, understanding it was for the good of us all. He continued to sleep above me with my sister for months, swiftly claiming my grandmother’s role as Polya’s nighttime companion and entertainer as summer caved into fall and eventually yet another winter, and that was how we slept until one fine morning, when Uncle Konstantin burst through the door to tell us that though the war was not quite over, it was time to go home.
I pressed my head against the window of the train car, wondering what going home would mean. It was the beginning of January 1944, thus far a hopeless, freezing year. The workers of the Institute packed up their things, leaving the factory in the hands of the local workers once more. Kiev was safe, but the war raged on. Who knew what condition the city would be in by then, or if our apartment was even standing? I wasn’t thrilled about returning home with Mama and Polya. Mama was functional but never showed weakness; sometimes, I’d catch her gazing out the balcony with longing and expect her to mention Papa, but she would just turn to me and say something like, “The dishes need a bit more scrubbing.” Polina was also a near stranger to me. At night, I heard the wet smacks of her and Bogdan’s kisses, so they had progressed from friends to lovebirds. Not only did I feel a million miles away from Mama and Polya, but the thought of entering our communalka without Papa would only widen the hole in my heart.
It was hard to believe this was the same train that had carried us to the mountains over two years earlier, when I was just a girl. The train brought back more innocent memories, of trepidation but also the sense that nothing could be too terrible because Papa was beside me. Now Misha was holding my hand in his warm, comforting one, bringing some solace. Evening was turning into night and everyone was settling in to rest. But I was not yet tired. I was content watching the barren fields roll by, their patches of snow catching the moonlight.
Our car was emptier now, courtesy of the dead as well as Aunt Yulia, who had taken a different car home. What was I to make of this wreck of a coterie? I had always believed, perhaps from Tolstoy, that the strong survive, that character means something, while weakness is what gets you thrown under a train. And perhaps that was true in my grandmother’s case, but then why did Uncle Pasha survive over my dear papa? Why did a wench like Aunt Yulia survive while her sweet husband and daughter perished long ago? No, no. Life was random and cruel, and none of us would get out alive. We were all its playthings.
Misha understood me. He knew I wanted quiet. I did not want to read or discuss what had passed or even quietly mock our siblings. I could feel him studying my face, as if to divine the contents of my mind. Or, perhaps, to find the right moment to speak to me. He cleared his throat but said nothing, though the sound did make me turn to him. He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. I unfolded it slowly, slowly, so the sound of the rustling paper did not wake anyone up. It was a poem of Tsvetaeva’s we had read together. He had copied it on a thick piece of parchment, in fine ink. I wondered how he had the means to do such a thing.
It was meant to be a sweet gesture, but the poem unsettled me. Why write so much about kissing instead of doing it? Though it was hard to build up much romantic momentum after everything we had been through, of course. And why end on the bit about erasing memory? What is it that the speaker wanted to so badly forget? All of us could stand to forget a thing or two, but surely this was not what Misha had hoped to communicate. I didn’t have a chance to ask before he opened his mouth.
“You and I make a suitable match, Larissa Fyodorovna,” he said. “You are my equal in spirit and mind. You are a serious, studious woman with a sense of proportion. Once order returns, I have a promising future ahead of me at the Institute and hope to take over one day. You have a promising future ahead of you as well, and I would be honored to have you by my side. Together, we can achieve greatness.”
Though I watched his lips as he spoke, he hardly looked at me. He delivered this speech with a wavering voice I had never heard before, staring straight ahead. His hands were shaking, but I was certain it was from nervousness, not hunger. We were passing an icy lake, one of the few bodies of water along our route.
“I would like you to be my wife,” he said, and then I laughed, because it was clear this was what he was after, and then I kissed him. I knew the poor boy had been planning to kiss me at last, and he seemed so scared that I wanted to take some of the pressure off him. His kiss was warm and comforting—it was like holding his hand, only better. I had never been kissed before but I could tell he wasn’t exactly Vronsky—it wasn’t the world’s most romantic display of affection, but it was hardly the time for romance. And besides, if Vronsky was to be a signpost, then I knew where too much romance would get you.