The Knife Sharpener's Bell (19 page)

My hands steady now, I button my coat, then find myself
stopped, stalled on the staircase down to the street. It's a vault of ice – the sun never gets in here.

I'm not afraid.

Now that there's something to do, I'm all right.

When I reach the sidewalk, I have to wrap my scarf around my mouth and nose: the air's choked with the smoke from bonfires. The government departments and all the foreign embassies have been ordered to burn their archives. They're all packing up, withdrawing east to safety in Kuybyshev, the temporary capital. Fifteen hundred miles between the bureaucrats and the front.

Briefly, I smell another smoke, the green smoke of lilac branches, the smudge fires that were set to counter the mosquito plagues of Winnipeg; the sultry sidewalks of Selkirk Avenue, the crackle of sunflower seed shells.

But it's cold. I'm walking on glass from smashed shop windows. I'm alone. I can't remember ever being alone in the street in Moscow before. The road is empty of traffic, the normal, everyday traffic of life. The broad sidewalk is all mine; Moscow's mine.

And then a truck hurtles by, inches from me. I step back, catch a glimpse of blurred faces in the open back, panicked, stricken. The roads out of town are clogged with evacuees.

There's a little cluster of people at the corner, whispering. Across the street three men, no, four, are hauling furniture onto laden trucks. Are they owners or thieves? I walk more quickly.

Half a block down there's another knot of men standing in the arched entrance to an apartment block: two of them in worn caps, and then an older gentleman with an old-fashioned moustache. Something glitters in his hand. A necklace? Diamonds? One of the men wearing a cap pockets it,
hands the older man some kind of paper . . . I must be staring, because they turn my way. I walk quickly ahead.

There's a man with a rifle standing in a doorway across the street. He's not in uniform. Must be from one of the People's Army units . . . Ben reported to his unit early in the morning. He's probably at the station, helping load the trains.

A shopkeeper is standing in the middle of the street in a white apron.
Poppa.
He looks at me, puts something in my hands.

“Here.”

What is it?

“Here, take it.”

A saucepan. Better than gold. I see his wares are at his feet – that shop window with the broken glass, does he work there?

“Here, better you have it than the Germans.”

I hug it against my chest, walk blindly. Stop. A log in the middle of the street; someone has left a log – no. A body, a man, an older man with white hair, lying quietly in the middle of the street. A fat little determined current of blood running from his head.

Dead.

I've never seen a dead body before.

Why do they call that colour red? It's black against the grey pavement. Everything around me is black and grey, no colour anywhere. Just the black blood. It's not a colour, black; it's the absence of light. Absence flooding from his body.

A woman's voice whispers in my ear: “He was looting. They shot him.”

“Who? He . . .”

“A looter. Don't stop. Just walk on.”

I turn round. A stranger, her red hair tucked into a babushka.

“Don't turn around. Don't stop. Just walk on.”

I feel a hand grasp my elbow.

“Just keep walking.”

A breathless, wordless block and the hand is gone. I turn, see her disappearing around a corner.

The saucepan in my hands – will they think I'm a looter too?

Everything is very bright, very clear and still. Am I alone again? No. Up ahead, there's a man in a worn grey overcoat, something familiar about him, though I can only see his back.

There's a faint popping noise somewhere to the south of us. Pop, pop. So far away. The man turns, and I recognize him. “Comrade Polankov!” I call.

“You, girl, what are you doing here? Where did you get that?” He points to the saucepan. “You shouldn't be here.” He grabs me roughly by the shoulders. People keep telling me what to do.

I shrug off his hands. “I have to go.”

“Didn't you hear the shots?” His sour breath is in my face. I hear the popping noise again, faint, harmless. I'm used to the firecracker whiz of the shells.

“Shots? The Germans? They're here?”

He laughs. “No, not those sons of bitches. The NKVD. They're shooting prisoners in Lubyanka . . .”

Lubyanka – the prison's only a block away.

“Shooting prisoners . . . ?”

“They're less trouble that way. I told you, girl: go home.”

“I can't. I have to fetch Raisa . . . Comrade Efron. There
were people in the building, stealing things, looting, and Olga Moiseyevna from the fourth floor, she's been hurt. My uncle Pavel thinks she needs stitches.”

“Olga Moiseyevna hurt?”

“They were stealing her phonograph.”

His face changes. “You go home now, child.” His voice is oily, solicitous. Now he wants to seem obliging, helpful. He knows he'll be held responsible for any looting in the building. “Don't you worry; I'll go and fetch Comrade Efron.”

I hesitate.

“My dear child. I'll go straight to the clinic. We'll be back in your apartment before you know it.” He smiles hard, pats me on the shoulder. “You go home.”

I come quietly into the apartment, set the saucepan on the table. Pavel comes in from the bedroom. “I'm so glad you're back. It really wasn't wise, letting you go out . . .”

“I met Polankov in the street. He said he'd get Raisa. They should be back soon.”

“Very good. Excellent.”

“A shopkeeper gave me a saucepan.”

“He did?”

“How is Olga Moiseyevna?”

“The brandy seems to have calmed her.” Pavel's face breaks into a quiet smile. “I think she may even be dozing. And Vladimir's keeping an eye on her. But she will need those stitches.” He puts his arm around me. “You're white. Maybe you should have a sip of brandy yourself?”

“Pavel, I saw a body in the street.”

“You did?”

“And I heard shots.”

“Shots? Surely the Germans can't be here in the city – ”

“No, Pavel. It wasn't the Germans. Polankov said the NKVD were shooting prisoners in Lubyanka to get them out of the way.”

Pavel swallows, turns from me. “Annette . . .”

The door opens. It's Ben; he's flushed from running. “I met Raisa and Polankov at the corner. I ran. They'll be here in a minute.”

“Shouldn't you be with your unit?”

“They sent us home, Pavel. I need Annette to help me. We're supposed to go to the
gastronom
. They're distributing all the food to local families.”

“Distributing food?”

Ben stuffs his hands in his pockets, mutters something.

“What did you say?” Pavel asks.

“So it doesn't . . .”

“Doesn't what?”

Ben looks up. “Doesn't fall into enemy hands.”

The sun's so bright that Raisa's kitchen is almost warm. I'm chewing on a heel of rye, daydreaming Winnipeg, food, my mother's roast chicken, the potatoes and carrots braised in the chicken juices, cream soda in the fancy stemmed goblets from the delicatessen, the bubbles lazing their way to the surface.

A week ago, during the panic, when I was lugging bags of flour home with Ben, stacking tinned goods in the cupboards, it all seemed hopeless.

On one of our treks, we stopped to watch an apartment building burn down. It had been hit by a stray bomb. Some of those who stood were just passersby, but there were also families from the building, a few belongings at their feet: an
album of photographs, a tin bucket, a pair of battered, leather-bound books. Even they stood dully, as though what was happening had nothing to do with them. Nothing to do but watch as it all went down.

But Moscow still hasn't been taken. Five armies are defending the city, the Siberian troops in their white padded uniforms immune to the cold. Comrade Stalin has been on the radio again, vowing Moscow will stand, refusing to leave. Everybody says that he'll be at Red Square, no matter what, for the November ? celebrations.

So we've gone on, made our way through each day listening for the sound of the shells, the gunfire, waiting for the sky to fall.

But it hasn't, not yet.

A key at the door. Vladimir, his cheeks bitten bright pink by the cold, runs over to kiss me. “Are you working with the women's brigade tomorrow?”

I nod.

“Poppa doesn't want you to go. It's dangerous. Some of the women ended up behind the lines and saw the German troops go by.”

“He's your father, not mine. He can't tell me what to do.”

Vladimir loosens his scarf. “I stayed most of the afternoon at Momma's clinic; it's warmer there. Look what I brought you – an Englishman gave it to me!” He hands me what at first seems a misshapen apple. A pomegranate. I set the lumpy, ruddy globe on the table. It's the first time I've ever seen one. An
Englishman
has given Vladimir a
pomegranate
. Before the war, one was as improbable as the other. And now these foreigners are on the streets of Moscow, neither enemies nor spies nor saboteurs, but our allies. A couple of weeks ago, before the panic, I'd seen a man and woman, stylishly dressed,
standing at the doorway of one of the cinemas where a British film was being shown, speaking in strong English accents. I touched the woman's sleeve, but she looked me up and down with such a detached gaze that I just shook my head and walked away. What would I have said?

I cut the pomegranate carefully in two, break one of the halves into pieces. The honeycomb of waxy white skin wraps seeds bright as rubies. The taste is tart and sweet in my mouth. Vladimir takes a section, licks the clear red juice from his fingers. The more I break it open, the more I find.

Late in the afternoon the electricity, which has been off all morning, comes back on. Though we're not supposed to use it for cooking, Raisa has made an illicit borscht of beets, cabbage, onion – no meat of course. Pavel's late for dinner, so we wait. Raisa gives Vladimir a piece of bread to hold him off. At last we hear slow footsteps on the stairs.

“Pavel, come in. What is it? Is something wrong?” Raisa asks. Pavel sits at the table. Raisa ladles the borscht into bowls, sets one at each place, resting a hand briefly on the nape of Pavel's neck. She leaves just enough for Ben, who's out with his unit.

“Pavel. Please tell us.”

“Let's eat our dinner. We'll talk later.”

Vladimir is at the soup. Raisa tears him off another piece of bread. Pavel sips, swallows, keeping his eyes on the bowl. Another sip, another swallow. Raisa hasn't touched hers. I've been watching them, but find that I've eaten most of the borscht, am chasing the last shreds of cabbage across the bowl with my spoon.

“This is delicious, Raisa.” Pavel sets his spoon down. “But I'll finish it later. I'm going to lie down for a while.” He walks into the bedroom.

Raisa watches Vladimir finish his soup, carefully pours her own into his bowl. He doesn't seem to notice, just keeps eating. I should have saved him some of mine . . .

She goes to the bedroom; I follow. Pavel is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, face wet with tears.

“They took Odessa, the Germans and the Romanians.”

“Are you sure?” Raisa's voice is sharp. “It isn't just another rumour?”

“I heard on a street loudspeaker. It's official. On October 16, the Red Army, the Navy, withdrew. The Romanian army just walked in.”

“The Navy withdrew? They withdrew?”

“Without a fight. Comrade Stalin ordered the withdrawal.” He's crying still, the tears running down his face.

“It's not true,” I say. “Comrade Stalin wouldn't let them go without even putting up a fight.”

“I'm sorry, Annette. Raisa – ”

“What is it?”

“Raisa, Annette can help us.” He looks up at me, his eyes searching mine as though he will find in them something incalculably precious he has lost. He doesn't seem to notice the handkerchief Raisa is offering him.

“She can help us what, Pavel? Please, try to calm yourself. I'll get you a small glass of brandy.” She turns quickly, goes to the cupboard.

Pavel looks up. “We have to pack our bags.”

“Our bags?” I ask.

“We have to pack our bags.” But he sits on the bed, only his long tapered fingers moving, fidgeting with the bedspread.

“Why, Pavel?” It doesn't make any sense – Raisa has always refused even to contemplate being evacuated . . .

“We have to go there. To Odessa. We have to find them.”

“Pavel . . . Uncle Pavel . . .”

“Your mother, your father.” His voice is so low I can barely hear.

Raisa's back, a small tumbler of brandy in her hand.

“Lev, Manya . . .” The words are dry; he licks his lips. “We have to pack and go to Odessa and save them all.”

“Save them?” Raisa asks.

“We have to bring them home.”

Home. I'm looking down on the top of his head, the thinning blond hair, the thin gold frames of his spectacles. My uncle Pavel. Lost. Gone, vanished into grief. Collapsed, his whole self sagged.

I sit. Home. Winnipeg. Odessa. Moscow. It doesn't matter what city I've dreamt myself into or what someone else has dreamt for me. “Pavel.” I take his hands. They're smooth, dry, uncallused. Raisa stands in the doorway. Two grown-ups helpless. I put my hand on his. “Pavel, we're Jews. There is no home.”

Then, suddenly, I can't look at them. I pull my hand away, walk out of the room, away from their helplessness, uselessness. Walk past Vladimir, out of the apartment, down the stairs, into the street. If I don't stop, if I keep walking, if I can keep my mind at bay, I won't have to think about Poppa, my mother, what these useless grown-ups have done to me.