Chapter Three

The snow was thick and the cellar damp and clammy. It was the kind of day where a cat just wants warmth and dryness. Koshka was no exception. He lay curled near the heat pipe in the back corner of the lobby. Through a foggy sleep he heard car doors slam, then footsteps on the pavement.

Danger! Danger! The word flashed like an alarm through Koshka's brain. His heart pounded as he leaped into the air and landed on all fours. It was the monster Zil again, the very same Zil! By the time the hotel doors opened, Koshka stood concealed behind the sagging sofa with rusted springs sticking out at all angles.

"Well, here we are comrades--I mean, gentlemen!" said Byelkin. "This--we'll call this a preliminary tour, a 'before-and-after tour'--that's what we'll call it."

Koshka was all ears. The other cats would want to know every word these humans uttered.

Next to Byelkin a silent Dmitry Borisovich scowled and squinted, and next to Dmitry Borisovich stood two of the strangest creatures Koshka had ever seen. A tall man puffed on a long white cigarette. He was wearing a bright yellow coat with matching yellow hat. His skin was dark and textured like leather, and gold rings flashed on every bony finger.

"Well, Nick," said the voice from under the yellow hat. "What do you think?" The voice sounded like someone had dragged in through gravel.

"It's a dump, Boss," came the answer from a short skinny man with no hat and no hair. "And it stinks in here too. Who picked this joint?"

"Winston Hale did," answered the voice from under the yellow hat. "That guy--he knows everything. He's a real estate guy--what you call 'em--a real estate mogul."

"Johnny, you mean the mogul picked a dump like this?" asked Nick.

Johnny shrugged, and the yellow hat waved in the air. "Yeah. He says it's the best for location. 'Real estate,' says Winston Hale--I've seen his programs on TV. 'Real estate,' he says. 'It's three things. Location. Location. And location.' That Winston Hale, he's real smart. You ever seen his program on TV?"

"No," said Nick. "Too busy."

"You should watch TV. You'd know what was going on. 'Now this here place,' like Winston Hale says, it has location."

"But it's a dump," protested Nick, looking around the lobby. "They're ain't nothing in here worth nothing!"

"Ah, that's what dumb people like you and me might think," said Johnny, gripping his yellow hat brim. "Winston Hale says this place has the--the gestalt, he calls it."

"Whatever gestalt is, I hope I don't ever catch it."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" chimed in a smiling Byelkin. "Let us take our tour. Let's begin our, our--we'll call it our before-and-after tour."

He led Johnny and Nick up the stairs. A scowling Dmitry Borisovich followed. Koshka took up the rear of the strange procession.

"Get that fat cat out of here!" Dmitry grumbled. "Step on it! Kill it! Just get it out of here! I hate cats!"

Byelkin dashed towards Koshka.

Discretion being the better part of valor, Koshka leapt straight into the air and dived for the cellar door.

"I've never seen no dump like this!" said Nick. His voice filtered down to the cellar. "I've seen jails better than this!"

Koshka feared for his life, but curiosity was too strong. And the other cats needed to know. Koshka crept up the stairway, his paws barely brushing the concrete. He slid under the sofa and peered out at the scene.

Byelkin was swallowing hard and his face was turning redder and redder. Dmitry Borisovich stood silent, but the blue veins in his forehead pounded, and he clenched his fists until his knuckles looked like thick white grubs.

"We will, of course, do everything we can to expedite the renovation," said Byelkin. "You have our full support!"

Johnny shook his head. "Excuse me, I gotta talk to my partner, Nick, here. In private."

Nick and Johnny stepped over to the sofa.

"I think it's a real dump, boss," whispered Nick.

Johnny stepped forward so that the two men's noses almost touched. "Yeah, it is, and they know it too. Look at that fat one there--the one who ain't talking. He knows the score. And that other guy--that Byelkin fellah--he's squirming like a fish on the line. You know, Nicky, we can get this place for a song. And it'll be perfect base for our operations here, mark my words. Who'd think of looking in a dump like this for drugs and laundered money, huh?"

Koshka's ears pricked up. He'd seen enough gangster movies and documentaries about the decadent West on Soviet TV to know what these foreigners were up to.

"Nobody?" asked Nick. He smiled so that all his gold fillings showed.

"Right!" said a smiling Johnny Frisco. "Nobody."

"But our cover, it has to work," said Nick, his brows furrowing. "This place has to be a hotel, you know, and people--they gotta want to come here. The grand jury in Oakland, we gotta make this look legit."

"You know, you're right, Nick," said Johnny, lowering his hat on his forehead. "What we need is a good cover--say, a partner who's--who's nothing like us." Johnny's brows furrowed and he scratched his chin.

"Yeah, we need some kind of partner--say, like one of our boys from the valley," said Nick.

"Naw! The partner--he's gotta come from somewhere else. And he's gotta be somebody else, not like us. Somebody as different from us as possible." He scratched his ear. "Say, you ever watch TV?"

"No," said Nick. "Too busy."

"You should. Then you'd know what's going on." Then a big smile spread across Johnny's face. "Say, I think I got a great idea--a wonderful idea!"

"What is it, boss?"

"Well, when I get back to California, I'm gonna set it up with Winston Hale. He's a real estate mogul, you know. And a TV star too."

Johnny smiled, as if he'd solved a great problem, and Nick tried to smile too. "You know," said Johnny, putting his arm around his companion. "Here's part of my idea. I got somebody in mind. No grand jury anywhere would think of looking at us twice."

They walked back to Byelkin and Dmitry.

"It's a deal, gentlemen," said Johnny.

Byelkin smiled and rubbed his hands together. Dmitry Borisovich stood motionless.

"But only if you cut the price in half," Johnny added in a low voice. "This place is falling apart."

"But-" protested Byelkin.

"It is a deal," said Dmitry Borisovich, and the four men walked out the door into the falling snow.

#

The snow that seemed would never stop falling did stop falling by late afternoon, and when the pale sun finally hung low on the horizon, cats appeared from everywhere, at the corner of Popov Street and Kirovsky Prospekt, in the empty lot that had been surrounded by "under construction" barriers since the l970's. As if answering a bugle call, cats scaled fences, climbed out of cellars, jumped from windows and doors--all heading for the gathering place.

Avvakuum, the senior cat, called the meeting to order. "Settle down now," he said. "And tonight we will have a recitation from our beloved Cat Chronicles."

Koshka leapt over the fence. He was running late, having just finished an unexpected snack from the widow Petrova. Misha and Grisha already scaled the construction barrier. Almaz the Persian sat on a wood pile with his troupe from the north end of Kirovsky Prospekt. There were about thirty cats in all--sixty eyes blinking in the fading twilight.

"I have news," said a panting Koshka. "I saw them with my very own eyes!"

"Who? What?" asked the cats.

"Kalifornians. Two of them. Both had skins like leather. One had a yellow hat and a yellow coat, and both smelled like they fell into a vat of Babushka Shura's perfume, 'Midnight in Moscow.'"

"Ugh!" said the cats. "Not 'Midnight in Moscow!'"

Koshka caught his breath. "And both wore gold rings and bracelets and chains around their necks and thick gold watches."

"They had a gold rush in Kalifornia," said Masha the house cat wisely. "I saw a program about it on Soviet TV. Whole mountains are filled with gold, like--like chocolate-covered cherries."

"Hmm," said Avvakuum. "And what happened with these, these Kalifornians?"

Koshka told them all that transpired.

"It sounds like a 'beezness'," said Misha, and Grisha nodded knowingly.

"A what?" asked Avvakuum.

"A beezness," Misha repeated. "You see, now with glasnost and perestroika, the kapitalists we used to hate are coming over here to show us how to be kapitalists. And they do everything they do through a thing they call a beezness. That's what's happening, and that's what going on here. The Crumbling Sputnik is now the Glasnost Hotel, and it's now a beezness."

"Whatever you call it, things do not bode well for us," said Avvakuum.

"Or anybody," said Almaz the gloomy Persian.

"Maybe we should just wait and see," offered Koshka.

"Oh there you go again!" snapped Avvakuum. "The eternal kitten, the optimist! When will you learn?"

"Learn to be gloomy and pessimistic and always seek out the worst in things?" Koshka asked. "Never, I hope."

"No, that's not what I meant," said Avvakuum. "Learn to be a realist. That's all I meant. The history of us cats--it's not such a pleasant thing, you know. Humans are stupid and cruel."

"Not always, and not all of them," Koshka protested.

"Let's hear a tale from the chronicles!" begged Misha.

"Yes, let's hear a Russian tale tonight!" added Grisha.

"Yes," said Avvakuum. "Then our optimist young friends will not be so optimistic." He glared right at Koshka. "The more we know, the more gloomy we become," he offered wisely.

Koshka did not want to argue. He felt sorry for the old red cat, who was always so gloomy and unhappy. And he felt sorry for Masha, who was trembling so. After all, he, Koshka was still an optimist, and he had more reason to be gloomy than any cat.

Avvakuum smoothed down his fur and stepped out onto an overturned wheelbarrow. All movement stopped. His reddish fur almost glowed in the fading light. Heads bent low to the ground and ears pressed forward. Koshka's lids became heavy, ever so heavy, and his eyes closed. His breathing took on the slow, steady rhythm of Avvakuum's chant. Koshka's body fell into a deep slumber, but his mind remained strangely, but calmly alert.

"I now recite from the Cat Chronicles," sang Avvakuum. "From the collection of wisdom handed down from cat to cat, from generation to generation. Tonight we go back--back to the very beginnings of Russian catdom," he intoned. "By looking at the past, we discover our present," he chanted, as if almost bored by the words he repeated so often. "By discovering our present, we learn about the future," he sang. "If we have any, that is," he added, barely audibly.

Cat heads nodded.

Avvakuum stretched slowly, his spine arching from front to back. Then he settled down for chronicle time.

"It is the year 988," he began. "And the sun is setting much like it is setting this evening, except it is further south, in Kievan Rus. Close your eyes and see this place, this Kievan Rus."

The cats obeyed.

"Now this Kievan Rus is a pagan land peopled by Slavs but ruled by Vikings, who invaded from the north. The Viking cats are haughty and crude, the Slavic cats meek and overweight, for the most part. Olya, the royal cat, is an exception, perhaps because her father was a Viking, her mother Slav, and she has traveled with his master, Prince Vladimir, to far-away lands. Olya is trim and fast.

Now her master, Prince Vladimir, is looking for allies. He wants to break free from the northern control, and he wants to give his Kievan Rus an identity.

'I will convert to a religion!' he tells his advisors, and Olya the royal cat overhears.

'Bring me delegates from the all the world's religions!' commands Prince Vladimir. And three weeks later, as Olya the cat reclines on the royal throw-rug, religious leaders parade their various religions before Vladimir.

A rabbi reads from his books, and when he has finished, Vladimir rises from the throne. 'I can't be Jewish!' he exclaims. 'I love pork too much, and it gets very cold here!'

Olya nods. She too likes pork.

An Islamic holy man reads from his book.

'I can't be Moslem!' Vladimir exclaims. 'I love vodka too much, and it gets very cold here!'

A priest reads from his book.

'I can't be Roman Catholic!' Vladimir exclaims. 'My men love women too much to be priests, and it gets very cold here!'

A Byzantine priest in a long beard and jeweled robe chants a mass, and the choir sings.

Olya the cat purrs on the carpet, and Vladimir stoops down to pick her up. 'Olya, my beloved cat, loves this music!' he exclaims. 'So I will be a Byzantine! My country, my beloved Kievan Rus, will be Byzantine too! And, here!' he hands Olya over to the priest. 'Baptize my beloved cat first!'

'We don't baptize cats, your lordship,' says the priest.

'Then all is off!' Vladimir proclaims, grabbing Olya out of the priest's hairy hands. 'This is my favorite cat, my pet and companion, and if you will not baptize my cat, then you will not baptize me!'

The priest grins shyly and his eyes close. 'Perhaps, your lordship, I can bless your beloved cat and baptize you?'

'Let it be done!'"

Avvakuum rubbed his paw wearily across his forehead. "And so that is how Olya, the Viking/Slavic cat, came to be blessed by a Byzantine priest, long before Kievan Rus converted to Christianity."

"That is a happy story, for a change!" Koshka told Avvakuum, stretching out after the long session.

"It is happy not at all!" Avvakuum snapped. "The very next month, Byzantine monks with black beards and black robes charged down on Kiev, took babies from their mothers' arms, and threw them into the water while their mothers screamed on the river banks and tore hair from their heads."

"That was baptism," Koshka offered. "I've heard about it. It's just a simple and harmless Christian ritual."

"It wasn't harmless to those who didn't want to be baptized!" Avvakuum snapped, his fur bristling. "Baptism, schmaptism!" he growled. "Monks and priests hauled young men off to monasteries and young women off to convents! They roamed the villages, smashing balalaikas and mandolins, saying musical instruments were the work of the devil! They outlawed wood-carving and painting. They broke up circuses, and puppet shows, and minstrel shows! And, they killed cats too. 'Allies of the devil,' they called us!"

Koshka was shocked. He didn't know what to say. He didn't always believe Avvakuum's gloomy pronouncements anyway. "I didn't know that," he said finally.

"You know, Koshka, you're an intelligent cat," Avvakuum answered, rubbing his whiskers. "But you are not wise. You are too much an optimist. You trust too much in humans. You think kindness comes naturally to them. It does not. Cruelty does!"

"No, dear elder cat," Koshka said softly, standing his ground. "I cannot adopt such a negative attitude. Maybe when I am older, but maybe not even then."

Avvakuum shook his head. "The more you learn about how the world functions, the less you believe in kindness."

"Maybe so," said Koshka, hoping to sound conciliatory.

"And this baptism thing was horrible for cats!" said Avvakuum. "Monks and priests and men they appointed roamed the countryside, drowning cats!"

"Why?" asked Misha and Grisha, their mouths and eyes wide open.

"'Cats are agents of the devil!' said the monks and the priests."

"Oh, why do those humans always pick on us?" Almaz the Persian lamented.

"Because we never strike back, never talk back!" said Avvakuum. "That's why!"

It was best to remain silent, Koshka decided. But he wondered if what Avvakuum said was true. Now, the widow Petrova was a wonderful, kind-hearted person, and he had known many such humans. But what about others, like the man who tried to evict the widow, for example? And what about the Moscow officials coming to the Glasnost Hotel? Time would tell what they were like, and what needed to be done. If need be, he, the Wonder Cat in disguise, would fight back. Time would test him, he feared. And all his cat instincts told him the test was coming soon.

#

Morning came. A snow had dusted the streets overnight and thick frost lined the cellar windows. The time for testing was already at hand, Koshka feared, bounding up the stairs. A long black Volga sedan had just pulled up to the entrance of the Glasnost Hotel. Koshka could tell by the "MOK" on the license plate that this was no ordinary sedan. This car was from central Moscow. The driver was wearing bright orange and green glasses. Those were not socialist sun glasses, to be sure--this human had connections in high places. Inside the car, a man sat in the back seat, grimaced, and stuck his nose against the frosty window. The driver jumped out of the car, ran around and opened the door on the other side. A short man in a leather overcoat that hung down to his ankles alighted from the car, puffing. "Damned slush!" he said. "Why is there slush?" he demanded.

"Because it is winter?" the driver asked, as if taking a first-grade examination.

"Because you are a dunderhead!" the man snapped. "And because you are so stupid that you park my limousine in puddles, that's why!" He whacked the driver on the head with a walking stick. "Now, idiot, open the door for me and prepare to wipe the slush from my boots! They are Italian, and much too delicate for the likes of you and your slush!"

"Yes, Comrade Rassolnikov," the driver said meekly, but he was gritting his teeth.

Koshka's ears pricked up. This was the dreaded Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov, whose arrival had been predicted. This was Rassolnikov, Moscow official and holder of government's worst temper. The man was surprisingly short, and his neck was stiff and twisted, as if contorted from years of looking up at people while pretending not to look up at them.

The comrade chauffeur knelt down in the foyer and wiped the slush from Rassolnikov's boots. They were thin-soled boots, low to the ground--hardly made for a Russian winter.

"The administrator!" Rassolnikov shouted after the chauffeur had finished. "Where is your administrator?"

"Asleep," said Rodion, the janitor, who himself was almost asleep. "And who the devil's name is yelling loud enough to wake up Lenin himself?"

"Who in the devil are you?" demanded Rassolnikov.

"Rodion."

"Rodion who?"

"Rodion the janitor."

Rassolnikov held a pince nez to his face and peered around the shabby little lobby. "You mean, you are the person responsible for the dust balls on the carpet there, the dirt on the floor over there, the finger marks on the counter, the cigarette butts on the floor, and the mud on the entry carpet?"

"I'm not responsible for any of it," said Rodion, eyes still closed. "I didn't put any of it there, except maybe one or two cigarette butts."

Rassolnikov took in a deep breath, as if getting ready to dive into a pool, and his nostrils pinched nearly shut. "I will have your job, young man!"

"You can have my god-forsaken job," Rodion said, opening his eyes for the first time. "And don't call me a young man. I'm forty years older than you are."

"Such--such insolence!" Rassolnikov thundered, slamming his pince nez back into his breast pocket. A thin line of foam ran down his chin. "Get me the administrator!"

Rodion motioned towards the office door. "He's in there. Probably on the telephone. He's probably begging for pipe or cord or tools or roofing shingles."

"How do you know?" demanded Rassolnikov.

"I know, because he's always begging for something. This place is falling apart. The whole country's falling apart."

"Young man, your attitude needs changing!" challenged Rassolnikov. He adjusted his pince-nez and marched into the office, without knocking.

Koshka followed, at a safe distance.

"Get off that phone!" Rassolnikov commanded.

"I can't!" whispered Perezhitkov, putting his hand over the receiver. "I've been ringing the Central Housing Office for months. This is the first time they've answered the phone!"

"So, why aren't you talking then?"

"They put me on hold," said Perezhitkov.

"Well, hang up then!"

"I can't. If I don't speak to the director, I'll have to close down the building. The roof beams are sagging. It's too dangerous."

"Hang up!" commanded Rassolnikov. "Do you know who I am? Do you know how rude it is for you to be on the phone when you have an important visitor?"

Silence. Rassolnikov passed Perezhitkov a card. Perezhitkov's lips moved, as he read aloud, but barely audibly, "Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov, Special Deputy for Profitable and Productive Enterprises." Perezhitkov smiled, bowed, read aloud the acronym for the organization. "ProfAndProdEnt." He shuddered, looking as if his whole world was at that moment lost. He put the phone receiver back in its cradle as gently as if it were a baby.

"Now, let us clarify a few things!" Rassolnikov said in a low voice.

Perezhitkov slipped low into his chair, and his face turned red.

"First things first!" Rassolnikov said. "From here on, this is a profitable and productive enterprise! Do you understand what that means?"

Perezhitkov nodded. "Yes. Profitable. One that makes money, right?"

"Yes, idiot!" Rassolnikov looked around the office, frowning at everything that caught his eye, including Koshka. "And get that beast out of here, and keep it out of my sight!" he snapped. "I hate cats! Especially sneaky-eyed, fat cats! And that's a sneaky-eyed fat cat if I've every seen one!"

Koshka could take a hint. He was out of the room and down the hall before anyone could say 'perestroika.'

#

It was a dark morning in the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar.

"We're done for!" Perezhitkov whispered into his morning tea.

"Look!" Osip the Waiter said nervously. "I've got ten--fifteen other enterprises on the side! I--I need this job as a cover!" He wiped his eyes. "My--my mistresses! Nadya will lose her apartment! And there's Vera who loves nylon stockings, and Natasha who insists on real soap, and-" Osip was breaking down now, and his hands went to his face. "I--I need this job!" he sobbed. "They'll put me somewhere else, in another job--a real one, and I don't have time to be employed! I'll--I'll lose too much money!"

"I'm in the same bucket of herring you are," Perezhitkov said, shaking his head. "Why, I spend sixty hours a week trying to keep this building open and working. The only way I can do it is by taking care of my friends and others in high places. My whole network will come crashing down! We'll never get parts or wood or restaurant equipment now. And my dear son, little Perezhitkov--he gets tutoring from a professor who gets paid in roast beef."

"So that's where the roast beef goes!" Osip said.

"And he gets his piano lessons from a lady who takes payment in cucumbers."

Osip nodded consolingly. "For three oranges, I got two pairs of Czech nylon stockings and two Polish condoms."

Perezhitkov moaned. "For one tin of coffee, I got two refrigerator compressors for the snack bar."

"Two?" Osip asked in amazement.

"And now it's over!" Perezhitkov moaned. "My wife, my son, little Perezhitkov--I don't know how we'll survive!" He emptied his tea glass. "And we had planned to close, to keep our yearly revenues down! We should have acted sooner! It's too late. We're done for!"

They walked towards the office in the back, by the pot-washing platform. Perezhitkov pulled a bottle of vodka from the dirty rag pile. Both men sighed, and lifted the bottle to their lips, in turns.

Koshka headed for the door. The gloom of the two nice men was infecting him.

He spotted to narrow eyes in the darkness. "I thought I told you to stay out of here!" It was a hiss from across the buffet. Hagia Sophia stood poised in the doorway, her back arched high and her tail bushed out. "The likes of you have no place in an establishment of this calibre!" she snarled. "Get back down to the alley and the trash piles where you belong!"

Koshka swallowed, and stood his ground. "Look, we both live here. We both can live here, so why can't you-"

"Get out of here, alley cat!" She hissed, then lunged. "Go back to the trash pile, where you and all the other riff-raff belong!"

Koshka backed off, walked down the steps, and turned for an instant, catching another glimpse of the cat who hated him. She stood at the top of the stairs, cleaning herself, as if just splashed with mud.

#

Koshka had never seen the poor old building in such a sorry state. The gloom was infectious. He needed cheering up. He needed to seek out the last refuge of peace and quiet and harmony--the flat of the widow Petrova. He crept up the stairs, softly, so that his paws hardly made a sound. There was yelling and screaming on every floor, and luckily, no one noticed him.

But on the fourth floor, things were quieter. Cabbage and onion smells came from the communal kitchen. Koshka followed his nose.

"Kitty! Kitty! Snack time! I have a little herring for you!" It was the widow Petrova, and before Koshka knew it, he was across the room and savoring the herring.

"Why waste perfectly good herring on a fat beast like that?" Liuba Smetanova called out from a primus stove on the other side of the kitchen.

"Here, kitty!" the widow said, as if she hadn't heard Liuba. "Have some more herring."

The good widow stroked his fur. Koshka felt so warm inside, he forgot about the humans yelling and screaming and even about Avvakuum's gloomy predictions. The herring was delicious, a real delicacy.

"So they're pushing you out, eh?" Liuba asked the widow, shaking salt into her kettle.

"I'm not going anywhere," the widow answered. "Besides, I have nowhere to go," she added under her breath.

"Progress is pain!" Liuba called out cheerfully. "Progress is pain. That's what the leadership is telling us these days."

"Well, I've had my share of progress, and my share of pain too, I suppose, but I am not moving."

There were footsteps in the hallway--unfamiliar footsteps. Koshka crouched, ready to run, if necessary.

"Auntie!" a tall young woman called out from the hall. "Auntie Nina!"

The widow gasped. Her hands went up to her face, and her eyes filled with water. "Anna! Anna! My darling grand niece Anna! I didn't even know you were in town!"

The two women hugged. "Oh Auntie, it's so good to see you!" said Anna, wiping tears from her eyes. "I just arrived from the train station, and I am on my way to the hotel."

"I'll hear none of that!" the widow said. "You stay with me--right here! It's called 'the Glasnost Hotel' now!"

"Okay, Auntie," Anna said finally. "I'll help with your house work. And then we can discuss old times."

"Indeed! Indeed," said the widow Petrova, wiping her eye with the tip of her apron. "I know how much you like to hear stories about grandfather and his brothers."

"Oh, what a pretty cat!" said Anna, bending down towards Koshka.

He took an instant liking to the woman, and he purred to show it. Then he did figure-eights around her legs.

"He's a wonderful cat!" said the widow.

Koshka purred louder.

"He's a dirty alley cat!" said Liuba from across the kitchen. "Not at all a pure-bred, like my Hagia Sophia!"

"What's his name!" asked Anna, as if she hadn't heard Liuba.

"I don't think he has one," said the widow. "At least, I've never heard anyone call him by a name. We just call him 'Koshka'."

"Well, in that case," said Anna. "I'll just call him 'Koshka, the cat at the Glasnost Hotel!'" She stooped down. "Here, nice Koshka!"

Koshka lost no time approaching Anna. She picked him up, cradled him against her warm bosom, and scratched behind his ears. Koshka purred louder than he ever purred before.

"See, Auntie!" said Anna. "He likes the name! Koshka, the cat at the Glasnost Hotel!"

He purred as deep as he'd ever purred before, and his whole body vibrated with pleasure. He was in love with this Anna, and he never wanted her to put him down.

#

Anna had settled in with her great aunt, the widow Petrova. She would be at the Glasnost Hotel for one month, she announced, then she would go back to her teaching job in Moscow. How did Koshka know? He was the Wonder Cat. He tried to find out everything. He agreed with Lenin, who said that information was a weapon, and that victors had to be well-armed.

Koshka spent much time with Anna and the widow--as much as possible without wearing out his welcome. He sat on the widow's Persian carpet for hours, studying the faces of the women as they talked. He saw a bit of a resemblance between the two, although the widow's hair was short and white, and Anna's hair was thick, shiny, black, and long. They both had lively, deep-set, dark eyes that glowed with a kind warmth, and they both had soft features and long, graceful fingers.

Anna poured tea for the widow, who was clearing the table.

"Sit, Auntie! Please sit!" Anna said. "You are always working. Just relax, I will pour us tea and then I will clean up."

"Just let me clear these dishes, then-"

"Sit!" Anna insisted, smiling. She handed Koshka some table scraps. Oh, how he loved that beautiful woman!

The widow shrugged her shoulders and smiled. They sat down at the small, crooked table. They talked about the weather, about prices, about living in Leningrad (now Saint Petersburg) and living in Moscow. The widow mentioned the war, as humans are wont to mention such things. There was a pause.

"Tell me what it was like, Auntie," said Anna softly. She reached across the table and touched the widow's wrist.

"You mean, the war?"

"Yes, if you want to talk about it, I mean. Sometimes it helps to talk, doesn't it?"

"I can talk about it, but it doesn't help. This is such a great grief, my child--such a deep and pervasive sadness," the widow said softly. "It's not the type of grief that ever goes away."

Anna nodded, saying nothing.

"I had a daughter," the widow said abruptly.

Anna's eyes opened wide, then closed. "Oh," she whispered. "I didn't know."

"She was a beautiful, young daughter."

"I didn't know, Auntie."

The widow took a deep breath. "Not many people knew, and it's something I don't talk about."

"Tell me, if you want," Anna whispered.

"Tanya was born in l938, here, in Saint Petersburg. The Germans came in l941. They were shelling the city, and we were cut off from food, from coal for heat, from everything. Except," the widow continued, her words gathering force and her phrases now flowing. "Except, in the winter, when Lake Ladoga froze over, endless convoys of trucks slipped around the German siege and carried in supplies for us."

Anna nodded. "They called it 'The Road of Life,' didn't they?"

"Yes. Except that for me, it was a road of death." She breathed in deeply. "In the spring of l942, it was decided that all children should be evacuated from the city before the next winter that would be worse than the previous one. So I was told to bring Tanya to the train station. A train would take her to Lake Ladoga, and from there a boat would take her across the lake, and she would be safe, deep in the protective bosom of the Ural Mountains.

"It was a busy time, I remember. We were planting every possible square centimeter of land, knowing the food would save us later, and we were cleaning and sweeping--making sure we remained a civilized city, although a city surrounded by barbarians. And I took Tanya to the train station. It was packed. Not only with children and with mothers, but with old people, with ill people, with invalids, with wounded soldiers.

"I decided Tanya should not go alone. I found the station master, and with luck, I got a ticket for the train, along with my Tanya."

The widow's eyes filled with water. Anna reached across the table again and took the widow's hand. "You don't need to tell me, Auntie."

"I do," said the widow. "You have always reminded me of my Tanya. You look so much like her." The widow wiped her eyes, and her face tightened. "I will tell you, so that you know. The train was jammed with people. It was so crowded that you could not see the seats or the windows even. We arrived at the shore of the lake, and I saw that I was not the only mother who had come along. There were many mothers, each holding on the hand of their son or their daughter. I cannot decide if there was more fear in the eyes of the mothers or in the eyes of the children, but it was very quiet. Hardly anyone talked, and there was no crying.

"A band started playing, I remember--military music, happy songs. It was a good idea, I believe. And ladies passed out white party hats to the children. It helped calm the children. 'It is now departure time,' a woman announced through a bullhorn. The music played louder now--a rousing march. 'Please bring your children to the pier.'

"I walked with Tanya. She was leaning into me, I recall, and her small hand was locked into mine. A big woman in a gray coat with a red arm band walked up to us, and put her hand on Tanya's shoulder. 'Come now, young lady. We are going for our boat ride! It's windy, so hold on to your party hat.'

"Tanya's hand grasped mine harder. I bent down to her. 'This war will end soon,' I said. 'And you and I will be back here, eating the cucumbers and radishes we planted yesterday.'

"I--I started to cry then, and Tanya hugged me. I always hear her voice--that voice. 'It will be alright, Mama. Don't cry.'"

"And I'm crying too," Anna told the widow. "Please, you don't need to go on. It was cruel of me to stir up things, to-"

"It's alright. It is not a matter of stirring up anything. I live with these memories every day, and I shall, until I die." The widow leaned forward at the table. "The children filed onto the boat while the mothers stood at the pier and along the shore. It was cold, and a wind came blowing up, I recall. I held at my coat collar, I remember, because I had lost the top button, and there were no spare buttons to be had in all the city. And aboard the ferry, ladies in red arm bands stooped over the children, tightening their scarfs, checking their mittens, buttoning their coats. The boat pulled out. No one made a sound, so you could hear the slow, steady engine fighting the waves and the wind, pulling the boat from the pier. The mothers stood on the shore, in silence, and the children stood on the ferry, in silence. I think I caught Tanya's gaze from middle of the crowd of children, but I am not sure. The wind blew harder off the lake, and the boat started getting smaller and smaller as it backed from the pier.

"A half-hour passed, maybe. Maybe it was less, or more--I don't know. The boat was out of view now, totally--not even a speck on the horizon, but no one moved. No mothers left the shoreline. We were motionless and quiet. Then we heard a low, distant roar in the distance. It got louder. And then we saw a formation of planes overhead, heading out over the lake. We knew that hostile roar. Each of us had heard it from our air raid shelters. They were not our planes. There were bright flashes of light. Then booms echoing across the lake.

"We mothers waited. One or two cried out, or sobbed, but mostly it was quiet. We waited for--we-"

The widow's voice gave out. Anna was sobbing.

"We waited in the cold spring air for hours," the widow said. "It was getting dark, and the harsh wind was still blowing into our faces as we looked out on the lake."

The widow cupped her head in her hands, then put her hands back on the table. "We stood there, looking out over the flat, endless lake with its wind blowing at us. And we saw a spot on the water that then grew bigger and bigger. And we saw what it was. It was a sea of little white hats that rocked in and out with the waves, then washed up onto shore."

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