She recalled what Petr had claimed—things didn’t make happiness; people did. And, Karen hoped, maybe music. Otherwise, her father had died in vain.
“We should dance,” Petr suggested.
Karen was horrified. Petr couldn’t be serious, could he? She looked at him, and although he was smiling, he was serious. And he was beautiful. His eyes were sparkling, and his joy and enthusiasm were infectious.
Karen attempted to inoculate herself from that infection. “But I don’t know how to dance.”
Petr, still smiling, looked her over with an appraising eye. “That’s a lie,” he playfully accused her. “You’re a musician. You probably dance all the time.”
Karen did dance and quite often, in New York. She loved to dance at her father’s parties, after concerts. She loved jazz and Big Band music, and she especially loved dancing with Bobby.
But that was years ago, and this was different. “I don’t know how to dance like that.” She pointed.
Several soldiers were dancing, but they were thrusting their hands out before them and squatting and kicking out their heels in an impressive acrobatic display.
Petr laughed. “No one but the Cossacks know how to dance like that.”
He grabbed Karen’s hand and pulled her to her feet despite her resistance. He kept dragging her and didn’t stop until they’d broken through the ring of clapping soldiers and joined the Cossacks. The soldiers cheered at the sight of Karen—she wasn’t the only girl present, but she was the only one dancing. Her appearance reinvigorated the accordion player, and he increased the tempo.
Karen tried to mimic Petr as he placed her arm in his and led her back and forth. It felt more like skipping than dancing to Karen, and she was reminded of the square dances she’d seen in cowboy movies. But this was much faster than a square dance, and she had to admit it was thrilling to be the center of attention. Even the Cossacks turned toward her, jumping and yelling and clapping and smiling at her. The music got faster, and Petr swung her more quickly. She felt dizzy.
But she didn’t stop. Her legs tired underneath her, but she didn’t feel the sharp pain that usually accompanies exhaustion. Something about the music and the clapping and the cheering transformed the pain into euphoria. She didn’t realize she couldn’t keep going until her feet collapsed beneath her, and she tumbled, gasping, into the grass. But the crowd just cheered even louder. She looked over and saw that Petr had fallen beside her. They gazed at each other, smiling and trying to catch their breath.
And then the cheering changed. It became a chant. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!” yelled the crowd, clapping to accentuate each word, and the accordion player played along with the chant.
Karen saw that Petr had stopped smiling. He’d turned beet red with embarrassment. But that only made him look cuter. So she decided to rescue him from his predicament. She grabbed him by his hair and kissed him on the lips. She’d intended it as a simple gesture to help a friend out of a jam. But when their mouths touched, she had a sudden guilty urge to kiss him harder, like she’d once kissed Bobby. The thought of Bobby shamed Karen, and she reluctantly pulled her lips away. The crowd erupted into cheers of joy and finally parted to let Karen and Petr escape their impromptu dance circle.
“Thank you,” Petr said to her when they’d settled back onto the grass of the railroad embankment. “They wouldn’t have let us go otherwise.”
“No, thank you,” Karen insisted. “You were right. That was fun.”
The train still wasn’t repaired by dusk. The engineers didn’t really know what they were doing, it seemed. They’d banged on the locomotive with a crowbar for about an hour before declaring that they needed to wait for specialized equipment.
They used the train tracks as a telegraph device, reporting their condition to the next station down the line. But even they couldn’t predict when help would arrive. Like the soldiers, the engineers didn’t really seem to be in any hurry at all.
That night Karen, Petr, and the rest of the soldiers ate gruel. The provisions were stored on the train, and military cooks lit fires to boil the oats seasoned with beef bouillon. It was really more soup than gruel, the oats thin and unfulfilling. Karen, remembering her meals of axle grease and wallpaper glue, found it delicious. But most of the soldiers complained, including Petr.
The moon rose, and still no help arrived. The soldiers lay back on the hill. Those lucky enough to have bedrolls used them, while others used the grass as their mattress and their bread bags as pillows.
Karen was tired, but she found it hard to sleep. Bugs were in the grass and in the air, buzzing near her ears and nostrils. They didn’t bite—they were harmless—but they tickled when they landed on her nose or crawled over her legs.
Giving up on sleep, she turned on her side and looked at Petr. “How was the hunt?”
Petr opened his eyes and looked back at her. His expression made it clear he had no idea what she was talking about. “My what?”
“Your hunt. You know, when I left you, you’d gone hunting, looking for a deer.”
“Oh yeah, that. It didn’t go well.”
Karen was disappointed. In her fantasy, Petr was such a good hunter he could keep them both well fed while hiding from the Nazis. “You couldn’t find a deer?”
“No, I found one all right. I just couldn’t get close enough to kill it. It kept smelling me or hearing me or something and running away.”
“Didn’t you have the pistol?”
“Yes, but you have to get close to use a pistol. They’re not really accurate enough for hunting.”
Karen’s optimism returned. He could hunt—he just needed a better weapon. “What about this? Would it have helped?” She held up the MP40 she’d taken from the Germans.
Petr shook his head. “That’s just like a pistol. It even uses the same type of ammunition. Throws out a lot of lead but not very accurately. What you really need for hunting is one of those.” He pointed at a nearby Mosin-Nagant, the standard Red Army infantryman’s rifle. They were everywhere.
“Maybe we could trade for one,” Karen suggested.
“Why?” Petr said. “You planning to go hunting?” There was a twinkle in his eye, as though he thought it was a joke.
“Anything to keep from starving.”
The twinkle disappeared. He’d forgotten how close she’d been to dying in Leningrad. He hadn’t meant to be insensitive. “You don’t have to worry about that, not anymore. You’ll be safe in Moscow.”
“In a few months, Moscow could be just like Leningrad.” Karen spoke the truth, even Petr had to admit—his face scrunched up thinking about it. “Why Moscow, anyway?” Karen added.
“I don’t know. I guess because it’s the capital?” Petr responded, misinterpreting the question. “The Nazis probably figure if they can conquer Moscow, they’ll have conquered Russia.”
“No, I mean, why are you going to Moscow? You don’t have to. You’re a soldier. You could have rejoined the army in Tikhvin. You didn’t need to get on the train.”
“You’re right.”
“So why did you? Are you afraid of fighting?”
Petr thought hard about his response. It was a complicated question, with no clear answer. There was a part of him that wanted to get back into the fight, that wanted once again to experience that altered state of consciousness he’d felt in deadly combat. But he also knew he couldn’t survive the war, and returning to it would eventually mean his own death. The problem was, meeting Karen had made his life matter again to him. “No, not afraid, not exactly,” he told her. “I mean, everyone’s afraid; even the Germans are afraid. You’d have to be insane not to be. But I’m no more afraid than anyone else.”