Read Online Metronome, The by D. R. Bell - Free Book Online Page A
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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done for. My beautiful city is now a majestic graveyard. The wind howls through the canyons of stone, piercing us to our bones. Today I saw a man sit on a bench, then slowly roll over and fall. He became one of many frozen corpses, lining the streets like statues. Bare blue legs protrude from snow drifts. Life and death coexist right in front of our eyes; there is only a thin line between the two. People show little emotion. All they talk about is food. It’s mostly a city of women, as men and children die faster.
Winter days are short. I leave in the dark, come back in the dark, crawl onto the mattress where Nastya and Andrei are bundled up. Sometimes I write in this diary, but we are down to the last candle and we have no fuel for the wick lamp. Burzhuika gives out heat, but no light for reading. We try to sleep as much as possible, to save our energy. We still hand crank the radio, listen to occasional music, reading of poetry. Olga Berggoltz read her new work today:
My dear neighbor,
Let’s sit down and talk,
Just the two of us.
Let’s talk about peace,
The peace we want so badly.
Almost six months of war,
Of bombs falling from the dark sky,
Shuddering earth, collapsing buildings,
Tiny rationed slice of bread
That weighs as little as a feather.
To live under siege,
To listen to deadly whistle of bombs,
How much strength do we need,
How much hatred and love .
But mostly it’s a “click, click, click” sound of the metronome, heartbeat of the starving, frozen city. We are not living, we are surviving one day at a time.
What happened to his mother, my grandmother? There were four of them and now only three. It must be in the missing pages. Flight attendants are distributing food. It’s a long day, and I take a break to eat, then go back to the diary.
9 December, 1941
In addition to the water, Nastya takes responsibility for getting our bread rations. It’s a dangerous assignment; people will look to steal your coupons and your bread. Every morning, she goes to the bakery. As she leaves, Nastya carefully locks the door and tells Andrei to not open for anyone.
I convinced Makar to alter our patrol route to pass the bakery. Sometimes we see Nastya in the bread line, and she smiles at us. “Pretty girl,” says Makar.
Yesterday I had a day off. We took Andrei to the Puppet Theater. They only perform during the day now, when the Germans eat their lunch and stop shelling us for a while. There were more adults than children in the frozen theater. For the first time since we took him, I saw Andrei laugh.
I broke the crank handle of our radio. We have to get a new one but we have nothing to trade for it.
Another torn page here.
17 December, 1941
Today, our apartment building took a hit from an artillery shell. The apartment of our third floor neighbor is now laid bare: sofa, burzhuika , half of the bookcase, pictures on the wall. The people that lived there are dead. Our apartment has been spared, except all the windows have been shattered, and we have nothing to close the gaping holes with.
The building is not safe, but it’s dark, and we have nowhere else to go. We spent the night in our place. The wind is shrieking and the whole building is complaining. Andrei is crying, “We are going to die…” Nastya cradles him, says, “If we do, we’ll die together.” We are all on the death row, we just don’t know the exact time. My soul has been exhausted. I’ve never prayed, I’ve been told that religion is the opium for the masses, but I am praying tonight: “God, please get us through this night. Let us see the light of day.”
18 December, 1941
Ivan Mershov arranges for us to move to an empty apartment on Malaya Sadovaya. The previous occupants have all died. He gives me the rest of the day off.
We move the burzhuika , the radio, and a few of our possessions using Andrei’s sled. The good news is that the new apartment has furniture that we
Winter days are short. I leave in the dark, come back in the dark, crawl onto the mattress where Nastya and Andrei are bundled up. Sometimes I write in this diary, but we are down to the last candle and we have no fuel for the wick lamp. Burzhuika gives out heat, but no light for reading. We try to sleep as much as possible, to save our energy. We still hand crank the radio, listen to occasional music, reading of poetry. Olga Berggoltz read her new work today:
My dear neighbor,
Let’s sit down and talk,
Just the two of us.
Let’s talk about peace,
The peace we want so badly.
Almost six months of war,
Of bombs falling from the dark sky,
Shuddering earth, collapsing buildings,
Tiny rationed slice of bread
That weighs as little as a feather.
To live under siege,
To listen to deadly whistle of bombs,
How much strength do we need,
How much hatred and love .
But mostly it’s a “click, click, click” sound of the metronome, heartbeat of the starving, frozen city. We are not living, we are surviving one day at a time.
What happened to his mother, my grandmother? There were four of them and now only three. It must be in the missing pages. Flight attendants are distributing food. It’s a long day, and I take a break to eat, then go back to the diary.
9 December, 1941
In addition to the water, Nastya takes responsibility for getting our bread rations. It’s a dangerous assignment; people will look to steal your coupons and your bread. Every morning, she goes to the bakery. As she leaves, Nastya carefully locks the door and tells Andrei to not open for anyone.
I convinced Makar to alter our patrol route to pass the bakery. Sometimes we see Nastya in the bread line, and she smiles at us. “Pretty girl,” says Makar.
Yesterday I had a day off. We took Andrei to the Puppet Theater. They only perform during the day now, when the Germans eat their lunch and stop shelling us for a while. There were more adults than children in the frozen theater. For the first time since we took him, I saw Andrei laugh.
I broke the crank handle of our radio. We have to get a new one but we have nothing to trade for it.
Another torn page here.
17 December, 1941
Today, our apartment building took a hit from an artillery shell. The apartment of our third floor neighbor is now laid bare: sofa, burzhuika , half of the bookcase, pictures on the wall. The people that lived there are dead. Our apartment has been spared, except all the windows have been shattered, and we have nothing to close the gaping holes with.
The building is not safe, but it’s dark, and we have nowhere else to go. We spent the night in our place. The wind is shrieking and the whole building is complaining. Andrei is crying, “We are going to die…” Nastya cradles him, says, “If we do, we’ll die together.” We are all on the death row, we just don’t know the exact time. My soul has been exhausted. I’ve never prayed, I’ve been told that religion is the opium for the masses, but I am praying tonight: “God, please get us through this night. Let us see the light of day.”
18 December, 1941
Ivan Mershov arranges for us to move to an empty apartment on Malaya Sadovaya. The previous occupants have all died. He gives me the rest of the day off.
We move the burzhuika , the radio, and a few of our possessions using Andrei’s sled. The good news is that the new apartment has furniture that we
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