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Back A Train to Moscow: A Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. ACT 1 IVANOVO
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. ACT 2 MOSCOW
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. ACT 3 LENINGRAD
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. ACT 4 IVANOVO-LENINGRAD
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  58. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Screams ripped through the air; clouds of smoke rose up and screened the rising sun; gasoline mixed with blood poured onto the ground. The explosions were so powerful that the fire blew into our faces and scorched our skin. The blast ushered in a familiar smell of heat from rusted radiators mixed with the alien stench of burned human flesh. Martians, Martians, Martians was beating in my temple as the motorcycles in the back turned around to drive away.

“That was lucky,” said Seryoga and rubbed his singed eyebrow with the heel of his hand.

On the lieutenant’s orders, some of us killed the wounded and others set fire to the undamaged motorcycles. I knew Seryoga saw that I was relieved when I was ordered to kill the motorcycles rather than the wounded Germans. He gave me a sideways look of disappointment, the look my sister, Galya, had when I walked out of the morgue at her medical school the first time I saw corpses floating in wooden tubs of formaldehyde. “This is what’s required here,” Seryoga’s eyes seemed to be saying. “Our main objective is to kill people. Or those people will kill us.”

7

7

She stops after the first entry, closes the notebook, and stares at its violated cover. Everything is quiet downstairs. She is relieved that no one is home, but Grandpa or her mother could be back from work any minute. Sasha holds her breath and listens.

She is not yet ready to confront her mother and fling her anger into her face, her slow-boiling indignation at the way her mother treated her brother’s war journal. And what about Grandma? Does she even know that her son’s notebook has been hidden in this loft full of junk, behind a box with her prerevolutionary hat?

Why isn’t there a monument to Kolya in their house, Sasha thinks, the same way there is a monument to all those war heroes in Ivanovo’s main square? Why don’t they light candles to celebrate his courage, the way Grandma lights a candle by the icon in the corner of her room depicting the gaunt face of someone from the religious canon Sasha cannot even name?

She hides the notebook under her sweater and slips out of the empty house into the yard. A rooster the color of rust, marked across the neck with Grandpa’s indelible pencil, struts under the clothing line full of their neighbors’ underwear blowing in the wind. A neighbor is smoking on a bench by the shed, the visor of his cap over his eyes so that she can only see his nose swollen with purple veins.