Becomings Read online

  She reached to loosen the gag around his mouth, and then stopped, staring at the gashes on the back of her hand. They were no longer bleeding, and had even seemed to begin to close. She touched them, her face expressionless, hiding the new thoughts emerging behind it. The fingernails she remembered being torn away the night before, when she had been crawling across the floor to Alyosha, had also regrown.

  She turned and rushed from the cellar, racing through the broken ruins with a newfound sense of urgency.

  She arrived soon at the place where she had left Alyosha. She skidded down the slide of broken concrete to the bottom and knelt beside him. The blanket had been pulled half off him, but he lay as she had last seen him. His face was peaceful, the lines smoothed of any thought of worry or pain, as though he had been captured by a dream.

  She hesitated, then pulled out her bayonet and slashed at her wrist. She held it to his lips, feeling their cold seem to fight back against the warm blood now spilling across them.

  “Drink, Alyosha,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Drink. It will make you better. I promise.” She caressed his hair with her other hand, as she rocked back and forth. “Please . . .”

  She bent low to kiss his cheek, still stroking his head. Her eyes fell on his chest, lying so still now, neither rising nor falling.

  Breathing heavily, she looked at his face. She slowly drew her wrist away, staring at her blood that had spilled on his skin.

  Her shoulders began to shake as she bent her head low as though in prayer, her tears mingling with the blood on his skin. She held up his hand, kissing it, rubbing it against her face, seeking to bring back warmth that was now forever lost.

  “Alyosha,” she whispered in a broken voice. Her body was wracked by sobs as she cried pitifully. She collapsed beside him, holding onto him, afraid to let go. “Please. Please don’t leave me alone.”

  * * * *

  LENINGRAD SEEMED almost barren as Darya walked its darkened streets. The long siege had finally lifted, having endured for almost three years. The war had moved west, taking with it any illusions of glory, and leaving behind only the reality of tragic suffering in its wake.

  As she walked, her worn boots made dull thumps on the snowpacked sidewalk, its pillowed surface barely disturbed. The utter stillness struck her, as stark as the white shadows cast by the moon across the many darkened buildings. It seemed not a city, but rather the memory of what had once been a city. Only the muted sound of her footfalls disturbed this sense that something irrevocable had occurred, replacing the past with something less tangible and more fragile.

  She slowed as she neared the familiar apartment block. It seemed an artifact to her now, more worn and decrepit than she remembered. She wondered whether memories were meant to serve only to remind her of loss, and whether memories really mattered anymore.

  An old woman stared at her as she passed, perhaps seeing her only as another soldier going about some unknown business. Darya turned her head to look back, realizing the emaciated woman was little older than herself, but had become aged in a way she could never imagine.

  She paused before the building. And then she entered and began to trudge up the stairs, her footsteps sounding like sodden clumps of clay falling. She sensed almost no movement within the apartments of the floors she passed.

  She stopped at her landing and opened the door to the hallway. She walked slowly down to a door that seemed at least as familiar as her memories recalled. She hesitated, then touched the doorknob. The door came open, unlocked. The stillness inside greeted her with the sound an empty box makes when folded up for the last time.

  “Papa?” she called out softly. “Baba?”

  She stepped inside.

  The apartment was empty. She felt her knees begin to shake and she reached out to brace herself. The floor had been stripped of its rugs, and only broken pieces of furniture remained. Drawers in the kitchen had been emptied onto the floor, their contents strewn about like scattered grass.

  She walked in a daze to the room she had shared with her grandmother. The mattress lay askew on the floor, the bedframe gone. Filthy blankets were bunched to one side. A few stray pages from a book were scattered across the floor, like the last leaves that had grimly held on until winter.

  She heard a noise behind her and spun around, her gun drawn and leveled at the man who stood now in the doorway. He was gaunt with bulging eyes, and held a mesh bag in a half-forgotten way, its barely sagging bottom speaking of its meager sum. They stared across the room at one another.

  “Where are they?” Darya demanded, her gun beginning to shake. “Where are they!”

  He shook his head dumbly, and backed away, then turned and stumbled out of the apartment.

  She stood watching him go, the air heaving in her chest. She suddenly collapsed, folding like a petal to the floor, her hands clasped to her head. She began to rock slowly back and forth, aware only of the small sound her breath made in the stillness.

  A long while later, she got up and began retracing her footsteps, looking down but not seeing. She left the door open and went down the hall, then down one floor to another hall and another doorway. This one, too, was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped into what had once been a comfortable and tidy room, but now lay mostly bare, its few remaining belongings all picked over or discarded.

  The furniture was gone, with only splintered fragments left behind in a bitter search for usable fuel. Yet the piano remained, covered by a dustcloth and pushed against one wall.

  She found herself standing in front of it. She pulled at the edge of the cloth. It fell away, like a worn veil that covered an imperfectly remembered past. She ran her hand over the wood, seeking whatever it still held, wondering if anything would awaken anew. She set the gun beside her on the bench and adjusted the seat, a movement so practiced she didn’t notice. Her fingers paused over the keys, where they stayed aloft for a long while, afraid to descend and dispel another memory.

  She bowed her head, then picked up her gun and walked out of the apartment.

  * * * *

  DARYA UNFOLDED the letter and smoothed out the many creases with an absent hand. Her eyes moved slowly over the words, although she had long committed them to heart.

  My Dearest Dasha, I had hoped and prayed for the life together I know we both wanted. But if you are reading this letter, it means that our dream can no longer be true for us. So I ask that you set yourself free, and learn to live again. If you find a way to the west, a part of me will be with you as you find happiness again. With love, your Alyosha.

  She had opened his letter shortly after his death, expecting it to be addressed to a relative, just as the letter he held for her had been intended for her father and grandmother.

  She folded the letter and put it away into the small, worn suitcase, and snapped the locks closed. She had made her way to France as the war ground slowly to a close, and from there to England, where she found work at night playing the piano in a club frequented by the many American servicemen still stationed nearby. The owner paid little attention to her lack of documents or her vague answers about herself, finding more value instead in her reliability to show up each night and to work for a pittance.

  Her main income came from the tips she received from the soldiers, although even these were less than she could have earned had she chosen as many girls did to flirt, accept dances, or perhaps more. Still, she did what she could, making a study of the popular songs and rendering them through the tinny, inexpensive upright piano in a way that evoked a sense of nostalgia for home within the men, whether it was a wistful Autumn in New York or a more uptempo Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly.

  Once, when she was playing Near You, a young soldier whose cropped flaxen hair showed a hint of pink scalp took a seat nearby, waiting for her to finish before offering to buy her a drink.

  “I don’t drink,” she said, as her fingers moved on to the next song.

  “Where are you from?” he asked, seeming unper
turbed by her abruptness.

  “Nowhere.”

  “That’s where I’m from.” His face broadened into a smile. “Kansas. Right in the center of the country. Middle of nowhere, USA.”

  “I was hired to play the piano,” she said. “Not to talk.” She began to draw out the notes of Oh, What It Seemed To Be in a lingering way that seemed to speak of bittersweet memories.

  He leaned closer. “Maybe I could take you to dinner tomorrow. I’m on leave for the weekend.”

  “I’m busy during the day.” She flipped her braid back and turned her head away, waiting for him to leave. When he eventually did, she continued playing, launching into an even more melancholic La Vie En Rose. But her sensitive ears followed his conversation with others nearby, noting the tonal qualities of his speech and memorizing them in the same way she had trained herself to do with music.

  Over the next several months, as she played through a well-rehearsed repertoire of songs, interrupted by an occasional request, she listened attentively to the men who crowded the club, isolating accents and seeking out the bland, anonymous tones of the American Midwest.

  One night, she overheard a short conversation between a swarthy, dark-haired soldier and another man. She kept her attention on him as she played, tracking his movements within the club. During a break between songs, she got up and wove her way through the room toward him, avoiding contact with the soldiers, some of whom by this late hour were well into varying stages of inebriation.

  When she reached the man, she gave him a frank stare. “I heard your family can get things for people.”

  He uttered a short laugh. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Can they?”

  He studied her for a long while before answering. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I want papers.”

  “What kind?”

  “I want to go to America.”

  He laughed again. “You had me fooled. You sound like an American, but I guess you’re not. Got a name?”

  “Darya.”

  “Well, Darya, some things cost money.” He leaned a thick arm on the chair beside him. “Do you have money?”

  “I’m not looking for charity. I’ll pay my way. I just need to know who to see when I get there.”

  He drummed his fingers on the wood. “You do anything other than play the piano?”

  “Will you give me a name or not?”

  “Direct.” He leaned back with an expression of approval. He appraised her again, then glanced across the room where the piano stood. He straightened in his chair and dug out a pencil. He wrote something on a napkin and pushed it across the table to her. “Tell you what, if you get to New York, go to this address and tell them what you want. They’ll decide if they can help you or not.”

  “Thank you.” She closed her hand over the napkin without looking at it. She turned and walked back to the piano, aware of him watching her as she made her way across the room.

  A drunken soldier stumbled into her path, prodded by two of his buddies. He grinned at her, then tried to grab her.

  “How about a dance . . .”

  She swept her arm in a short arc, shoving him hard into the other two and sending all three toppling to the floor. She stepped over them as they struggled to untangle themselves from each other, and took her place at the piano once more. She stared forward, and began playing . . .

  She cleared her mind now of these musings as she picked up her suitcase and climbed out of the small Anderson shelter that had served as her home for the past two years, its upper walls and roof overgrown with vegetation. Another birthday had passed unacknowledged with the end of this year, a tradition lost to time along with all she had once been. She would forever be unchanging to any other who saw her, and none would see beyond the guise that served as a bitter reminder to her of a night she could never forget.

  She didn’t look back as she made her way to the street and began walking, her worn shoes clopping on the cobblestone path.

  * * * *

  DARYA AWAKENED in the darkened and cramped windowless space of her tourist class cabin of the Queen Mary, aware that the ship had slowed. She got to her feet and lifted her small suitcase, which was now wrapped in multiple layers of oilskin. She unlocked her door, and began to make her way topside.

  When she emerged on deck, she found herself staring for a long while at the lighted city that shone across the water from her. Other passengers stood around, pointing and talking among themselves. Darya breathed in the chill air of January, stirring a memory of the biting cold of the city in which she had been raised. She was only lightly dressed and barefoot, but this kind of cold didn’t really bother her much anymore.

  She looked closer in and saw the white froth of a tugboat maneuvering past the ship, dwarfed by the massive liner like a child’s toy. She turned her attention again to look at the city, measuring the distance.

  She tightened her grip on the suitcase and began running, her bare feet pounding on the teak deck as she picked up speed. She vaulted high over the railing and folded her arms closed over her suitcase as she fell. It seemed she fell for a long time as cries erupted from the deck behind her, muffled by the sound of the wind rushing past her ears.

  She struck the water hard, the impact forcing the air from her as she sank deep below the surface. She felt her descent gradually slow from the resistance of the cold water, until she sensed herself hanging suspended. The dark water clung tightly to her, enveloping her in its icy embrace as she listened. Below the high-pitched trill of pressure in her ears, she could hear the deeper rhythmic thrum of propellers turning overhead, the sound slowly receding. She began to kick toward the surface, her suitcase still clutched tightly against her body.

  When she emerged, she took in deep breaths, treading water as she looked about to orient herself. The ship was moving away from her, the wake rocking her up and down in its swells. She began to swim through the darkened, brackish water, its oily sheen reflecting back the lights of the city. Her limbs pulled hard at the water, whose temperature sought in vain to sap away her strength and determination.

  When she reached the lengths of docks, she circled them until she found a place to climb up. She listened warily for signs of activity, before stiffly hauling herself upward. At the top, she threaded her way between cargo containers, her wet feet slapping on the rough boards while she wrung her long braid. She found a shadowed area and took a final glance around. Then she knelt and began unwrapping the wet oilskins enclosing her suitcase.

  When she had it exposed, she opened it and checked the contents. She stood up and began taking off her sodden clothes, tossing them indifferently aside. Steam rose from her bare skin as it tried to shed the cold still clinging to it. She began to dress in dry clothes from her suitcase. She slipped on shoes, then lifted out the pendant and slipped it over her head. She stuffed money and papers into her pockets, and walked away, leaving the empty suitcase and wet clothes behind.

  When she made it to the main streets she began to ask passersby for directions. The neutral accent she had adopted seemed as much a part of her now as the other changes she had come to accept about herself. The people she spoke with gave varying degrees of assistance, but none seemed to see her any differently than they might have another visitor from elsewhere in the land. She could have been from anywhere, or nowhere.

  She began to breathe easier as she made her way further into the city, working her way toward where she had been directed to go. The tall buildings closed around her like dark sentinels guarding the darkness that fell beneath them in pools of shadows. She maintained her steady pace, walking crisply as one neighborhood yielded to the next, the gradual signs of affluence transforming into areas of palpable decay. She felt a stirring inside that she had chosen to defer until now, but could no longer ignore.

  She glanced around, her gaze settling on a man walking alone toward her. She timed her approach, drawing his attention to her eyes just as they met, and led him into an
alley. When she was finished, she contemplated his drowsing form for a moment, before walking back to the street and resuming her resolute pace.

  The air held a mix of scents that she found both familiar and strange. The natural smell of Central Park merged with the heavier smell of the nearby river, both more subtle than the pungent odor of exhaust and old accumulations of garbage that lingered behind. She slowed down and checked a street sign before turning. She crossed the street and surveyed the rows of similar-looking four-story brownstones before settling on one with an unmarked door, just beside a small liquor store jammed incongruously between it and the adjoining building.

  She walked up to it and knocked, hearing the dull thud of her knuckles against the thick door. When the door opened, she handed the folded napkin to the man who stood there. He glanced at it, then back at her with unblinking eyes the color of mahogany.

  “You want immigration papers?” he asked. “You go through Ellis Island for that, and you need a sponsor. There’s a quota, you know.”

  “I want the real thing.”

  “You want a different past, you mean.” He peered into the street behind her, looking both ways, then back at her once more. “That isn’t easy.”

  “Everything has a price,” she said, her grey eyes cool and unwavering. “Can you help me?”

  He considered that for a moment, and waved her inside. He closed the door behind them and motioned for her to follow him upstairs.

  “Is someone after you?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “If you bring trouble to me, you know what happens.” He ushered her into a small room that was mostly bare, other than a lone desk and chair.

  “I have no connections here. I only want papers, and then I’m leaving.”

  He sat heavily in the chair. “Where?”

  “West.”

  He studied her now for a long time. “Where are you really from?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I have to begin with something.” He pulled out a pad and pen. “Do you have someplace in mind?”