9
On Saturday, Tatiana went to the Leningrad public library and borrowed a Russian-English phrase book. She was already somewhat familiar with the odd alphabet, having learned it in school. She spent most of the afternoon trying to speak some of the more ridiculous phrases out loud. The Ths, Ws, and the soft Rs were very difficult. “The weather will be thunder and rain tomorrow” was constructed to torment her. She could say “be” pretty well.
On Sunday, when Alexander came by, he single-handedly glued paper strips on their windows to keep the glass from shattering in the explosive waves that might come during shelling, if and when bombs fell on Leningrad. “Everyone must tape their windows,” he said. “Soon the patrols are going to walk around the city to check that all the windows have been taped. We won’t be able to find replacement glass anywhere if the Germans get to Leningrad.”
The Metanovs watched him with great interest, with Mama commenting every few minutes on how tall he was, and on his good work and how steady his hands were, and how solidly he stood on the windowsill. Mama wanted to know where he’d learned how to do that. Dasha replied impatiently, “Well, he is in the Red Army, Mama!”
“Did they teach you to stand on the windowsill in the Red Army, Alexander?” Tatiana asked.
“Oh, shut up, Tania,” Dasha said, laughing, but Alexander laughed, too, and he did not say shut up, Tania.
“What is that design you made on our windows?” Mama said as Alexander jumped down from the sill.
Tatiana, Dasha, Mama, and Babushka looked at the shape of the glued paper on the window. Instead of being the white crisscross that the women had seen on other windows in Leningrad, Alexander’s design looked like a tree. A thick trunk, slightly bent to one side, with elongated leaves growing from it, longer at the bottom, tapering off at the top.
“What is that, young man?” Babushka demanded imperiously.
Alexander said, “That, Anna Lvovna, is a palm tree.”
“A what?” said Dasha, standing close to him. Why always so close?
“A palm tree.”
Tatiana, standing by the door, watched him without blinking.
“A palm tree?” Dasha said quizzically.
“It’s a tropical tree. Grows in the Americas and the South Pacific.”
“Hmm,” said Mama. “Strange choice for our windows, don’t you think?”
“Better than just an old crisscross,” muttered Tatiana.
Alexander smiled at her. And lightly she smiled back.
Gruffly, Babushka said, “Well, young man, when you do my windows, don’t do any fancy things. Just a simple crisscross for me. I don’t need any palm trees.”
Afterward Alexander and Dasha went out by themselves, leaving Tatiana with her moody and exhausted family. Tatiana went to the Leningrad library, where she spent hours mouthing alien English sounds to herself. It seemed extremely difficult: to read in this language, to speak it, to write it. Next time she saw Alexander, she would ask him to say a few things to her in English. Just to hear how they sounded. She was already thinking about the next time she saw Alexander, as if it were a certainty. She vowed to tell him that maybe, perhaps, he shouldn’t come to Kirov anymore. She made the promise to herself that night as she lay in bed and faced the wall, she made the promise to the wall, touching the old wallpaper with her fingers, stroking it up and down and saying, I promise, I promise, I promise. Then she reached down to the floor between the bed and the wall and touched the Bronze Horseman book Alexander had given her. Maybe she would tell him that another day. After she heard some English from him, and after he talked to her about the war, and after—
There was another air-raid siren. Dasha returned home well after it, waking Tatiana, whose fingers remained on the listening wall.
