The Summer Garden. Paullina Simons

won’t think that social interaction is so funny.”

      “Maybe, but I’ll still think you’re so funny.”

      “I’ll show you funny.” Dasha knocked her back on the couch. “You urchin,” she said. “When are you going to grow up? Come, I can’t wait for your impossible brother anymore. Let’s go meet your new best friend, Mademoiselle Kantorova.”

      Saika Kantorova.

      The summer of 1938, when she turned fourteen, was the summer that Tatiana grew up.

      The people who moved in next door were nomads, drifters from parts of the world far removed from Luga. They had odd Central Asian names. The father, Murak Kantorov, too young to be retired, mumbled that he was a retired army man. But his black hair was long and tied in a ponytail. Did soldiers have long hair like that? The mother, Shavtala, said she was a non-retired teacher “of sorts.” The nineteen-year-old son, Stefan, and the fifteen-year-old daughter, Saika, said nothing except to pronounce Saika’s name. “Sah-EE-ka.”

      Was it true that they came from Turkmenistan? Sometimes. Georgia? Occasionally. The Kantorovs answered all questions with vagueness.

      Usually new people were friendlier, not as watchful or silent. Dasha tried. “I’m a dental assistant. I’m twenty-one. What about you, Stefan?”

      Dasha was already flirting! Tatiana coughed loudly. Dasha pinched her. Tatiana wanted to make a joke, but there didn’t seem to be any room for jokes in the crowded dark room where too many people stood awkwardly. The sun was blazing outside, yet inside, the unwashed curtains were drawn over the filthy windows. The Kantorovs had not unpacked their suitcases. The house had been left furnished by the Pavlovs, who seemed not so much to have left as to have stepped out.

      There were some new things on the mantel. Photos, pictures, strange sculptures and small gilded paintings, like icons, though not of Jesus or Mary … but of things with wings.

      “Did you know the Pavlovs?” asked Tatiana.

      “Who?” the father said gruffly.

      “The Pavlovs. This was their house.”

      “Well, it’s not their house anymore, is it?” said the raven mother.

      “They won’t be back,” said Murak. “We have papers from the Soviet. We are registered to stay here. Why so many questions from a child? Who wants to know?” He pretended to smile.

      Tatiana pretended to smile back.

      When they were outside, Dasha hissed, “Stop it! I can’t believe you’re already starting with your inane questions. Keep quiet, or I swear I’ll tell Mama when she comes.”

      Dasha, Stefan, Tatiana and Saika stood in the sunlight.

      Tatiana said nothing. She wasn’t allowed to ask questions.

      Finally Stefan smiled at Dasha.

      Saika watched Tatiana guardedly.

      It was at that moment that Pasha, little and fast, ran up the steps of the house, shoved a bucket with three striped bass into Tatiana’s body and said loudly, “Ha, little smart Miss Know-it-nothing, look what I caught today—”

      “Pasha, meet our new neighbors,” interrupted Dasha. “Pasha—this is Stefan, and Saika. Saika is your age.”

      Now Saika smiled. “Hello, Pasha,” she said.

      Pasha smiled broadly back. “Well, hello, Saika.”

      “And how old are you?” Saika said, appraising him.

      “Well, I’m the same age as this one over here.” Dark-haired Pasha pulled hard on Tatiana’s blonde braid. She shoved him. “We’re fourteen soon.”

      “You’re twins!” exclaimed Saika, looking at them intently. “What do you know. Obviously not identical.” She smirked. “Well, well. You seem so much older than your sister.”

      “Oh, he is so much older than me,” said Tatiana. “Nine minutes older.”

      “You seem older than that, Pasha.”

      “How much older do I seem, Saika?” Pasha grinned. She grinned back.

      “Like twelve minutes older,” Tatiana grumbled, stifling the desire to roll her eyes, and “accidentally” tripping over the bucket, spilling his precious fish onto the grass. Pasha’s attention was loudly and properly diverted.

      To wake up and be still with the morning, to wake up and feel the sun, to not do, to not think, to not fret. Tatiana lived in Luga unbothered by the weather, for when it rained she read, and when it was sunny she swam. She lived in Luga unbothered by life: she never thought about what she wore, for she had nothing, or what she ate, because it was always adequate. She lived in Luga in timeless childhood bliss without a past and without a future. She thought there was nothing in the world that a summer in Luga could not cure.

       The Last Snow, 1946

       “Mama, Mama!”

      Shuddering she came to and swirled around. Anthony was running, pointing to the sloping hill, down which walked Alexander. He was wearing the clothes he left in.

      Tatiana got up. She wanted to run to him, too, but her legs wouldn’t carry her. They couldn’t even support her standing. Anthony, the brave boy, jumped straight into his father’s arms.

      Carrying his son, Alexander walked to Tatiana on the pebbled beach and set him down.

      “Hey, babe,” he said.

      “Hey,” she said, barely able to keep her composed face.

      Unshaven and unclean, Alexander stood and stared at her with gaunt black rings under his eyes, with a barely composed face of his own. Tatiana forgot about herself and went to him. He bent deeply to her, his face pressed into her neck, into the braids of her hair. Her feet remained on the ground and her arms were around him. Tatiana felt such black despair coming from Alexander that she started to convulse.

      Gripping her tighter, his arms surrounding her, he whispered, “Shh, shh, come on, the boy …” When he released her, Tatiana didn’t look up, not wanting him to see the fear for him in her eyes. There was no relief. But he was with her.

      Tugging on his father’s arm, Anthony asked, “Dad, why did you take so long to come back? Mama was so worried.”

      “Was she? I’m sorry Mommy was worried,” Alexander said, not looking at her. “But, Ant, toy soldiers aren’t easy to come by.” He took out three from his bag. Anthony squealed.

      “Did you bring Mama anything?”

      “I didn’t want anything,” said Tatiana.

      “Did you want this?” He took out four heads of garlic.

      She attempted a smile.

      “What about this?” He took out two bars of good chocolate.

      She attempted another smile.

      As they were walking up the hill, Alexander, carrying Anthony, gave Tatiana his arm. Putting her arm through his, she pressed herself against him for a moment before walking on.

      Alexander was cleaned, bathed, shaved, fed. Now in their little narrow bed she was lying on top of him, kissing him, cupping him, caressing him, carrying on, crying over him. He lay motionless, soundless, his eyes closed. The more clutching and desperate her caresses became, the more like a stone he became, until finally, he pushed her off himself. “Come on now,” he said. “Stop it. You’ll wake the boy.”

      “Darling, darling …” she was whispering, reaching for him.

      “Stop it, I said.” He took her hands off him.

      “Take off your vest, darling,” Tatiana whispered, crying. “Look, I’ll