Read Online Metronome, The by D. R. Bell - Free Book Online
Authors: D. R. Bell
Tags: Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Political, Conspiracies, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, russian, Financial
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taking Serafima to a cemetery when they got caught in German bombardment. Nastya survived, but she is the only one left from their family.
It’s very cold. The three of us sleep in the same bed, in our clothes and covered by all the blankets we have. My mother is in the middle for propriety, although I am not sure how much this matters. All we care about, all we can think about, is food. Our little stash is down to only a few frozen potatoes. We are now scraping the wallpaper paste and boiling any leather we can find.
Makar and I are still doing our patrols. We shuffle on swollen feet. In this cold, it’s important to keep moving. You stop, you die. Some of the militziamen have died, and we can’t cover their territory. Makar says the city is slipping into anarchy.
It hits me: If this Nastya is, as I suspect, my mother, then I just read how my maternal grandmother died. I just knew that she was killed in the war.
16 November, 1941
There are four of us now. Three days ago, my mother went to check on Leontsev’s and found Andrei barely alive, his mother’s body frozen on the bed. She’d been beaten to death with a can of ham. Whoever did this must have had plenty of food, as he left the bloody mangled can lying next to the body. Andrei told us that men were coming to see his mother. The last one was in a military uniform; Andrei saw his face through a little opening in the curtain that covered Andrei’s bed.
There is no water or heating in our building any longer. Nastya is responsible for the water. Every day she goes to the river and brings two buckets back on Andrei’s sled. She has to climb down to the ice, fill the buckets, then climb back onto the embankment, one bucket at a time. Every day I wonder if she’ll make it. Then we have to boil the water. We brought in the burzhuika stove from the Leontsevs’ apartment. I think between heating and boiling water we only have enough books and furniture to burn for a month.
Anna Akhmatova was on the radio, reading her new poetry:
Birds of death are high in the sky.
Who will come to help Leningrad?
Be quiet – he is breathing,
He is still alive, he hears everything.
Hears how his people lament in their sleep,
How out of his depth screams “Bread!”
Reach out to heaven.
But the steel has no pity
And death is looking from every window .
The rations have been cut again, to only 125 grams per day for dependents. I used to suffer from hunger, but now the pain stopped. You have to prolong the process of eating the little that you have, fool your body, cut the bread into small pieces, let the bread melt in your mouth for as long as possible. Two months ago, we were human. Now, we are starving animals. I don’t understand, for years we sacrificed in order to be ready for the war. We’ve been singing how we’ll swiftly defeat any invader! How come we are surrounded and starving?
Some pages were torn here. They had been torn carefully, slowly, but you can see that at least two pages are missing.
5 December, 1941
It’s only the three of us: Nastya, Andrei and I. We have no food supplies left, it’s just the bread rations. Andrei is in bed most of the time; we force him to get up and walk around once a day. Nastya’s breathing is shallow, it takes all her strength to bring in a bucket of water. We manage with one bucket a day. There is enough fuel left for perhaps two weeks. We are skeletons, covered by yellow skin with red spots. Our unwashed bodies smell, our breaths sour. Because we wear hats all the time, our hair is dirty and matted. It is freezing cold, the thermometer outside the window is stuck on -40 degrees. My feet are so swollen, it’s difficult to squeeze them into the boots. Nastya massages them at night, I am embarrassed that she handles my grimy stinky feet.
Makar and I continue our patrols. Have to walk carefully, for ice is hiding treacherously under the snow. You fall, break your ankle, you are
It’s very cold. The three of us sleep in the same bed, in our clothes and covered by all the blankets we have. My mother is in the middle for propriety, although I am not sure how much this matters. All we care about, all we can think about, is food. Our little stash is down to only a few frozen potatoes. We are now scraping the wallpaper paste and boiling any leather we can find.
Makar and I are still doing our patrols. We shuffle on swollen feet. In this cold, it’s important to keep moving. You stop, you die. Some of the militziamen have died, and we can’t cover their territory. Makar says the city is slipping into anarchy.
It hits me: If this Nastya is, as I suspect, my mother, then I just read how my maternal grandmother died. I just knew that she was killed in the war.
16 November, 1941
There are four of us now. Three days ago, my mother went to check on Leontsev’s and found Andrei barely alive, his mother’s body frozen on the bed. She’d been beaten to death with a can of ham. Whoever did this must have had plenty of food, as he left the bloody mangled can lying next to the body. Andrei told us that men were coming to see his mother. The last one was in a military uniform; Andrei saw his face through a little opening in the curtain that covered Andrei’s bed.
There is no water or heating in our building any longer. Nastya is responsible for the water. Every day she goes to the river and brings two buckets back on Andrei’s sled. She has to climb down to the ice, fill the buckets, then climb back onto the embankment, one bucket at a time. Every day I wonder if she’ll make it. Then we have to boil the water. We brought in the burzhuika stove from the Leontsevs’ apartment. I think between heating and boiling water we only have enough books and furniture to burn for a month.
Anna Akhmatova was on the radio, reading her new poetry:
Birds of death are high in the sky.
Who will come to help Leningrad?
Be quiet – he is breathing,
He is still alive, he hears everything.
Hears how his people lament in their sleep,
How out of his depth screams “Bread!”
Reach out to heaven.
But the steel has no pity
And death is looking from every window .
The rations have been cut again, to only 125 grams per day for dependents. I used to suffer from hunger, but now the pain stopped. You have to prolong the process of eating the little that you have, fool your body, cut the bread into small pieces, let the bread melt in your mouth for as long as possible. Two months ago, we were human. Now, we are starving animals. I don’t understand, for years we sacrificed in order to be ready for the war. We’ve been singing how we’ll swiftly defeat any invader! How come we are surrounded and starving?
Some pages were torn here. They had been torn carefully, slowly, but you can see that at least two pages are missing.
5 December, 1941
It’s only the three of us: Nastya, Andrei and I. We have no food supplies left, it’s just the bread rations. Andrei is in bed most of the time; we force him to get up and walk around once a day. Nastya’s breathing is shallow, it takes all her strength to bring in a bucket of water. We manage with one bucket a day. There is enough fuel left for perhaps two weeks. We are skeletons, covered by yellow skin with red spots. Our unwashed bodies smell, our breaths sour. Because we wear hats all the time, our hair is dirty and matted. It is freezing cold, the thermometer outside the window is stuck on -40 degrees. My feet are so swollen, it’s difficult to squeeze them into the boots. Nastya massages them at night, I am embarrassed that she handles my grimy stinky feet.
Makar and I continue our patrols. Have to walk carefully, for ice is hiding treacherously under the snow. You fall, break your ankle, you are
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