‘Supper’, Peter answered.
There was no food here; that much Yuri knew, but it didn’t stop him from hoping that all he’d have to do was wait and something would be produced.
‘I hope you’re both hungry,’ the woman sang out.
In spite of his misgivings, Yuri exclaimed, ‘Yes, starving!’ The unripe apple seemed to have triggered an enormous appetite rather than reduce it.
His eyes filled with tears, for the second time that day, when she turned around, holding out absolutely nothing in her arms and said, ‘Mind your hands, the plates are hot.’
Yuri scrunched up his face in disgust. How can she play a trick like this? We’re really hungry. It isn’t right. Is this some game because we are children?
She held out the dusty palm of her hand – the plate – and began to spoon nothing from nothing into it. Yuri felt one boiling hot tear trickle down the side of his cheek, and wanted to slap Peter hard when he obediently held out his hands for his ‘plate’.
‘Thank you, Mama!’
This was ridiculous. Yuri snapped in a whisper, ‘She’s not your mother, is she?!’ Peter barely shook his head, but it was enough to make Yuri feel he had won something at least.
‘Eat up, boys. No fighting now, you’ll wake the baby.’
As she said this, there was a sudden explosion a few streets away. The ground trembled briefly beneath their feet. Instinctively Yuri looked at the baby, expecting it to start howling with fright, just like Anna would have done during the weeks in the coal cellar, but it never made a sound.
The woman sat down on the ground and gestured for him to start eating. There was nothing for it but to imitate Peter’s shoving of fake food into his mouth. However, he was free to inspect his host as she started on her invisible supper. Her clothes were filthy, just like theirs, and her messy hair couldn’t hide the large bump over her left ear. It had bled a lot, but she hadn’t bothered washing any of it away. The blood was dull and black, almost the same colour as her hair.
Yuri felt embarrassed for all of them sitting there playing with fresh air. Her eyes were strange. She was staring at them, yet Yuri couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t really seeing them.
‘Chew your food, Aleksia, or you’ll get indigestion.’
Something stopped him from telling her that his name wasn’t Aleksia. Her mouth twisted into what she must have thought was a smile. The silence was so dreadful, Yuri had to break it. ‘This is lovely. Thank you.’
If he expected to be complimented on his table manners, he was very much mistaken.
‘NO, NO! This won’t do at all. We don’t talk with food in our mouths.’
In shock, Yuri pretended to chew as vigorously as he could, making a big gulping sound as he swallowed, before saying, ‘I’m sorry!’
She was really angry. ‘Now, look what you’ve done! You’ve woken the baby, you selfish little boy.’
Yuri was completely confused now. This game of pretence was no longer just a game, and she was the only one who seemed to know what was going on.
Peter tugged on his sleeve, ‘Yuri’. It was just a whisper, Yuri heard him alright but he was too busy trying to work out what to do next. Was he to keep ‘eating’? Was he to leave the ‘table’ in disgrace?
The woman swooped down and carefully gathered up the baby in its blankets. How many seconds passed before Yuri realised that it wasn’t crying at all?
‘Yuri?’
Peter was getting on Yuri’s nerves; did he not understand that Yuri was trying to think? Yuri hissed back at him, ‘Just eat your bloody potatoes!’ Yuri knew he was being mean, but he couldn’t help it; it was Peter’s fault that they were sitting there in the first place.
Another explosion shook the ground, this time sounding a little nearer to them, and it was followed by a long burst of gun fire that didn’t frighten Yuri as much as the woman did. Feeling that perhaps he should take charge of whatever was going on, he stood up slowly and said, ‘Excuse me, but perhaps you and the baby should try and hide from the fighting?’
The woman simply closed her eyes, pressed the baby closer to her, and began to sing the same song again.
Peter stood up beside him and took his hand. Yuri heard his name being called, but he couldn’t move. It was as if another explosion had sounded but this time it was inside his head. Whatever way the woman was cradling the baby, one of the blankets had got caught in her sleeve, exposing where Yuri’d expected to see the child’s feet – and there was one alright, pudgy just like Anna’s, but that was all, just the one. The right leg had apparently lost its foot; there was nothing below the ankle bone, which Yuri was sure he could see. And not a sound did that baby make. It never stirred.
‘Yuri?’ Peter spoke louder to get his attention. ‘The baby is dead.’
Yuri shrugged him off. ‘No! It just has a sore leg.’
He knew that Peter was right but was prepared to put off accepting the truth for as long as he could, willing himself to see the baby breathe, just as he had willed himself to see food where there was none. Thoughts raced in his head: babies are too small to die in war. They haven’t done anything bad or wrong. How can something die when it has only been born?
He realised he was wasting precious time; the guns were getting closer. He asked the mother, ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’
Only Peter answered him, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Yuri gazed at him, shocked by his words. ‘What?’
The boy stared at the ground, mumbling, ‘Nothing. Can we go now?’
Of course Peter was right. Why were they still standing here with this mad woman when they could plainly hear German voices and Russian insults? It was far too dangerous to remain here any longer. However, Yuri had to try one more time, ‘Why won’t you look for shelter? The soldiers are coming. Don’t you hear them?’
The woman stopped singing and opened her eyes, which were shining with tears that she couldn’t seem to release, ‘You run along now, boys. Baby is tired and needs to sleep.’ Her voice cracked and for no more than two seconds, she showed them her crushing sadness. Three seconds later, she closed her eyes again and continued with the song.
The wind picked up, as if the soldiers were bringing it with them, or even creating it with their bullets. A man screamed out in pain, and Peter pulled on Yuri’s arm; it was time to leave.
They raced to the wall. Yuri dragged Peter over it, never once letting go of his hand and never once looking back. He had no idea where to go, only that they needed to escape the deadly bullets. Somehow, without his realising it, Peter took over and led the way, not stopping until they had reached the statue of the laughing children again.
‘See, Yuri, they’re still playing!’
TANYA
Tanya had no interest in politics. For her mother’s sake she had tried to do what was expected of her. On her fifteenth birthday she’d applied to join the Komsomol, the Communist Youth League, to camouflage her lack of interest in following the rules and orders of Russia’s Communist Party. She had expected it to be worse than school and knew she might be asked to do things like report on her neighbours if they showed any signs of loving something else more than their country, even if that something else was their family.
She had deliberately arrived late at the admission meeting which had annoyed the secretary of the Komsomol, a young man who looked like he never ever enjoyed himself. He had scolded her in front of everyone, saying, ‘Since you couldn’t bother to be here on time, you are clearly not mature enough to join the Komosol.’
Her application had been denied there and then. Tanya had done her best to look upset, at least until she’d left the hall. At home she’d told her mother what had happened, feeling free to laugh about it all.