The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

“Forget it,” said Irina, grasping me by the arm. “Let’s go.” We went out into the street. “All the evacuation trains are headed south now,” she said. “Most likely we’ll go to the Caucuses; we’ll warm ourselves in the sun and eat all kinds of fruit.”

“Eat fruit?” I was amazed. It wouldn’t enter my head that somewhere there’s fruit which can be held in one’s hands, smelled, and even eaten.

28 February 1942. Irina lived in a large, handsome apartment house on Mayakovsky Street. The courtyard was flooded with excrement. A narrow path lead to the entrance. The door to the apartment was wide open. It was quiet in the hall. The sound of my steps rolled ahead of me, like a bowling ball. Irina sat, squatting before her makeshift stove, cooking something. A large black sheep’s skin was tied to her back and chest.

“I never take it off. It sort of became part of me,” she said, noticing my stare.

“You need a cat to match your colorful outfit.”

“I had a cat, but I ate it.”

Elena I. Kochina, Blockade Diary

249

“What are you cooking?”

“Carpenter’s glue broth.”

When the broth was ready, she began to eat. Of course, she did not offer me any. The tradition of offering food to your guests had long since vanished in Leningrad. In order to get food off my mind I asked a question. “Why is it so quiet here?”

“Some people have left, others have died. They’re lying about in every room.”

“Who?” I was confused.

“The corpses.”

“Why don’t they remove them?”

“Who? I told the concierge, but he said that they can lie there a long time without smelling, since it’s cold now.”

“Are you alone in this apartment?”

“There’s some guy living at the end of the hallway. Every night he tries to force my door. Probably wants to eat me . . . I sleep with a knife.”

She showed me a large chef’s knife which she pulled from beneath her pillow. We went to the institute, but there was almost nobody there, and nobody knew anything.

2 March 1942. Every day Irina and I go to the institute, so as not to miss the evacuation day. But so far, nothing is known.

9 March 1942. I dropped by [the old apartment on] Moscow Street to grab a few things for the trip. Wistfully, I walked through the rooms. Almost my whole life was spent here, but I’ll never live here again.

My gaze slipped along the bookcase: Bagritskii, Mandelshtam, Pasternak . . .

I chose one of the small volumes and leafed through the pages. Familiar lines came to life beneath my fingers. But they aroused nothing in me now except irritation. I snuffed the lines, slamming the book shut. Photographs tumbled out from somewhere. They fell in a fan-shape on the floor before me. The faces looking up from them seemed alien to me. Was that really me? Dima? Did we really have such fat mugs and smug, feckless eyes? A shiver ran up my spine. No, we would not have understood each other now.

I left the photographs lying on the floor.

29 March 1942. Upon arriving at the institute, we discovered that the convoy was to leave at six that evening. We had four hours to ourselves.

“Let’s run to a bakery and eat our rations to the end of the month,” Irina shouted.

After eating my portion right there at the counter, I ran home.

We went into a frenzy, feverishly stuffing things into sacks, afraid of being late. We had to get to the Finland [railway] Station on foot.

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Chapter Twenty-Four

For the trip I put on Galia’s [a neighbor] knickers from a wardrobe which stood in our room. After all, I couldn’t go with my knees showing. Having put them on, I recalled how indignant I had been quite recently when Dima took a pair of pants that weren’t his. And now I was doing exactly the same thing. The concept of honor had become an empty sound for us.

Finally we left. Left like swine, not saying farewell to our hosts and leaving our room in chaos and filth.

The sky was covered with clouds. One could see the outline of the sun wandering behind them, searching for an opening. Having found one, it would pour onto the street in streams of bright light. The snow would turn to slush; the sled would get stuck. Sometimes it would turn over, spilling all our “junk” along the road.

We’d fuss over it, angry, accusing each other. Finally, all in a lather, we arrived at the station. Irina was already there.

“Come quick. They’re going to feed us,” she said in agitation.

We were given two serving spoons of millet porridge with butter and a hunk of bread. With his plate in his hands, Dima ran around the tables looking for a seat. His frighteningly agitated face was covered with blue streaks. I gave him my chair and ate standing. Having finished the porridge, we scrupulously licked the plates clean. The next feeding was to take place only on the other side of Lake Ladoga.

Chapter Twenty-Five

N. Ianevich, Literary Politics