The Girl from the Hermitage E-Book

Molly Gartland

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Galina was born into a world of horrors. So why does she mourn its passing?SHORTLISTED: Impress PrizeLONGLISTED: Bath Novel AwardLONGLISTED: Grindstone Novel AwardIt is December 1941, and eight-year-old Galina and her friend Vera are caught in the siege of Leningrad, eating soup made of wallpaper, with the occasional luxury of a dead rat. Galina's artist father Mikhail has been kept away from the front to help save the treasures of the Hermitage. Its cellars could now provide a safe haven, provided Mikhail can navigate the perils of a portrait commission from one of Stalin's colonels.Nearly forty years later, Galina herself is a teacher at the Leningrad Art Institute. What ought to be a celebratory weekend at her forest dacha turns sour when she makes an unwelcome discovery. The painting she embarks upon that day will hold a grim significance for the rest of her life, as the old Soviet Union makes way for the new Russia and Galina's familiar world changes out of all recognition.Warm, wise and utterly enthralling, Molly Gartland's debut novel guides us from the old communist world, with its obvious terrors and its more surprising comforts, into the glitz and bling of 21st-century St Petersburg. Galina's story is at once a compelling page-turner and an insightful meditation on ageing and nostalgia.'A beautifully written book that takes you right into the characters' world. Highly recommended' LUCINDA HAWKSLEY

Leseprobe

Published in 2020

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of EyeStorm Media

312 Uxbridge Road

Rickmansworth

Hertfordshire

WD3 8YL

www.lightning-books.com

Copyright © Molly Gartland 2020

Cover by Ifan Bates

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

ISBN: 9781785631887

For LMS

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Glossary

Part one

1

December 1941

Mikhail scrapes a knife against the wall and a strip of yellowing floral wallpaper curls on the metal edge, peeling away from the plaster. Cradling it in his palms, glue side up, he returns to the kitchen. He holds the paper over a pot of water and scratches the knife across the brittle surface. Flakes of paste drop into the liquid. Hissing gas fuels a flame. Mikhail clasps his hands around the warm pot. Heat grows, pricking his palms and fingers. He lingers another fraction of a second before pulling them away. Pressing his warm hands to his cold cheeks, heat transfers through his skin, disappearing into his core.

Using a wooden spoon, he stirs and the flakes disintegrate. The smell, papier mâché, reminds him of his student years at Leningrad Academy of Art. As he waits for it to boil, rubbing his hands together in the warm steam, he thinks of his daughter, Galya. This stale old glue is not enough nourishment for her. He scrapes another strip from the corridor wall and scratches more paste into the pot. Holding it in the steam, the paper softens. The water begins to boil. It is not enough. He is useless.

Above the stained sink, three teacups hang from hooks. He scoops a cup into the broth and envelops his hands around it. The warmth seeps through the thin porcelain. Just as the heat starts to bite, he sets the cup on the kitchen table. He unwraps a newspaper parcel and cuts three pieces of bread, each about the size of a die, and places them in a shallow bowl. He folds paper around the remaining bread, which is smaller than his palm, and sets it aside. Hunger stabs at his stomach.

Taking the broth and bread, Mikhail walks down the kommunalka’s dark corridor. As he passes the door of the Kamerovs’ room to his left, Vera’s eyes meet his. The little girl, covered in several blankets, wears a pink knitted hat. She waves to him.

‘Can I get up, Mikhail Tarasovich?’ she asks.

‘Stay nice and warm in bed, Vera. You must rest. Conserve your energy.’

‘I’m bored.’

‘Your mother will be home soon, don’t worry.’

‘Can’t I play with Galya?’

‘Not now. She’s not well. We don’t want you to get ill too.’

Vera sighs and her lower lip pouts. Her head, which looks too big for her tiny frame, drops.

Mikhail continues down the hall, past the flat’s main entrance on his right, and enters his room at the end of the corridor, leaving the door open behind him. Galya, buried under wool blankets, lies in her bed at the foot of his mattress. Only her brown hair is visible. He sets the cup and bread on a table beside her and presses his hand to her forehead and cheeks. She shivers from his touch.

‘Drink this slowly,’ he says, propping up her pillow and pulling the blankets around her. He hands her the cup, which has already cooled in the chilly flat.

Galya purses her chapped lips and takes a sip. Limp hair frames her gaunt face. Mikhail pinches one of the pieces of bread in half and gives it to Galya. She puts it in her mouth, leaving it on her tongue; she does not chew. She waits for it to dissolve slowly, making it last. Her hands, streaked with blue veins, cradle the porcelain cup. They look smaller but Mikhail knows this is impossible. Her bones cannot be shrinking.

He stands, walks to the window and pulls back the black fabric covering the glass. Although it is only one o’clock, the light is growing dim.

‘Galya, I have to go for more water. It’s getting dark.’

She takes another sip and nods.

‘Anna Petrovna should be back soon. I don’t like to leave you but we need water.’ He knows it is dangerous to procrastinate; tomorrow brings uncertainty. It can, and probably will, be worse.

Setting the cup on the table, Galya sinks beneath the blankets and closes her eyes.

Mikhail looks again at the snowy street below, hoping to see Anna. Worry creeps into his thoughts. She has been out longer than he expected.

‘I’ll be as fast as I can.’ But he knows he will move slowly along the icy road.

He kisses her cheek and she smiles.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after Vera,’ she whispers.

‘Stay in bed and rest. And finish your soup.’

He returns to the kitchen, collects a pail and the kettle, and he walks down the corridor.

‘I heard you,’ calls Vera.

Mikhail stops at the Kamerovs’ door.

‘Will Mama be back soon?’ she asks.

He nods. ‘Don’t be afraid. Galya is in our room.’

He puts on his heavy coat. His scarf is draped over the radiator, which has not worked in weeks. The wool is still damp and will quickly turn icy cold in the wind. His wife’s loosely knit angora shawl hangs on the peg beside his coat. He winds the cloud of creamy soft fibres around his neck, immediately feeling its warmth. The scent of her hair and lilac perfume makes his throat tighten. How long will Elena’s scent linger now that she is gone?

‘Don’t open the door to anyone. Anna Petrovna has a key. I’ll be right back,’ he says, fastening his buttons.

Mikhail takes off his slippers, slides his feet into tall felt boots and stomps, willing them to warm quickly. He opens the door, steps out onto the landing and hesitates, hoping to hear Anna’s footsteps scuffing the dusty stairs. But the stairway is silent. He locks the door and heads down the four flights.

The wind slaps Mikhail’s cheeks as he steps out of the building. Few people are out on Mokhovaya Street. Across the road, a fresh layer of snow covers the crumbling remains of a bombed-out building. He looks right and then left, hoping to see the familiar flash of Anna’s red scarf. She is not there. He takes a breath and dry, frigid air crystallises deep in his lungs. He pulls Elena’s shawl closer to his skin. Head down, he shuffles along the snow-covered road.

The day is slipping away quickly and Mikhail must hurry and return before temperatures drop and the bombs fall. He must not leave Galya for long. His gaze does not linger on the snow-covered corpses along the road. He ignores the pain in his back and his weak muscles. At the end of Mokhovaya Street, he turns right onto Belinskogo Street where a handful of people, dark against the white snow, congregate around a water pump. Carefully stepping across the ice, he joins the queue.

A figure pumps the metal handle, which cries with every stroke. A stream of water fills her bucket and she picks it up. Shuffling on the ice, she slips. Mikhail grabs her, holding her steady, preventing her fall. She pulls her arm away sharply and glares at him.

‘Why aren’t you at the front, like a real man?’

Her comment stings.

Not waiting for a response, she pushes past him.

The next woman in the queue approaches the pump. She grasps the handle and water cascades from the tap, upending her pail. Mikhail steps forward.

‘Hold it,’ he says, pointing at her bucket.

A distrustful scowl flashes, partially hidden by her fur hat and scarf.

‘I’ll pump,’ he insists.

She holds the pail while he pushes and pulls the stiff handle. His back and arm muscles ache and warm under his coat. Cold seeps from the metal through his gloves.

‘Spasibo,’ she mumbles without looking up. She takes it, gingerly shuffling along the ice.

Mikhail motions for the next figure to step up and hands her his kettle. She steadies it below the tap and he begins to draw. She places his pail beneath the tap and then fills her own bucket. Mikhail slows as his muscles cramp and tire. The next woman steps forward, placing her vessel beneath the pump, but he steps away, taking his pail and kettle with him.

‘Can’t you do one more?’ she mumbles.

Unable to continue, he shakes his head and walks away, leaving the pump’s lonesome whine behind him.

He heads down Belinskogo Street. The woman’s question – ‘Why aren’t you at the front?’ – lingers in his mind. She is right, he should be defending his city. But he cannot leave Galya, especially now.

The heavy load pulls his arms as he shuffles along. Unable to go on, he stops, setting the pail on the snow. He stomps his feet, waking up his numb toes. The shawl, icy from his breath, is frozen to his beard. He pulls it, tugging his facial hair. Forcing himself to carry on, he edges closer to home.

Mikhail stops at the archway which leads to his building’s courtyard. A pile of corpses is peacefully silhouetted in the evening haze. He takes a deep breath. Pressing his nose into the soft angora scarf, he holds Elena’s scent deep in his lungs. No snow has fallen to blanket her. It has been too cold. He exhales and studies the dusky sky, wishing for heavy snowfall. A warm tear slides down his cheek and quickly cools in the frosty air. He shivers, forcing himself to return to Galya.

Anna’s scarf is draped on the cold radiator and her boots are beside it. Melted snow puddles beneath her boots.

‘I’m back here,’ she calls from the kitchen.

He strips off his layers, puts on his slippers and quickly checks on Galya, who is fast asleep. He takes the water to the kitchen and finds Anna sitting at the table. Her dry, papery face is covered with a layer of powder and rouge, and lipstick seeps into the wrinkles around her lips. She seems much older, as if she has aged many years in just a few months.

‘I went for water,’ Mikhail says, placing the pail beside the sink.

‘I saw Director Orbelli at the Hermitage.’

‘Oh?’ Mikhail sits on the stool opposite Anna.

He has not bothered going to the museum since they finished packing away all the artefacts.

‘Many of our colleagues are living in the museum, Misha. Orbelli said we should join them.’

‘I don’t want to leave the flat. Everything will be stolen.’

Her brow furrows as she scans the empty shelves.

He looks towards the kitchen window, covered in heavy fabric, which overlooks the courtyard.

Anna follows his gaze.

‘Elena wanted Galya to live. More than anything.’ She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. ‘We’ll die here, Misha. We can’t survive on our own. There’s food at the Hermitage.’ She opens a canvas bag and places a newspaper parcel on the table. Patches of moisture seep through the paper. ‘Orbelli gave me this.’

The newspaper is still cold from her journey home. Mikhail peels back the layers of damp paper, revealing a dead rat. He does not waste time. Picking up a knife, he slides the rat closer, makes a shallow cut from the chest to the belly and pulls the fur away.

‘There is even a school, Misha, for the girls.’ She waits for him to respond but he is silent. ‘Director Orbelli is sending a car tomorrow. We have to take our mattresses.’

The first time Mikhail skinned a rat, the result was messy. Patches of fur stubbornly clung to the carcass and pieces of hair floated in the soup. Now he makes incisions lengthwise along the rat’s body and pulls the fur in strips. It comes away easily, leaving a neat, naked carcass. Cutting deeper, he reveals the rat’s organs. He pulls out the guts and collects them on the newspaper. Firmly pressing on the knife, he cuts off the head and drops it beside the organs. The bright red liver and pale intestines quiver on the rickety table. The knife hovers over the tail, which is still intact. He pinches it, wondering how much nourishment could be found in the long, naked tail.

‘Misha, what do you think?’

Standing, Mikhail nods and adds more water to the pot on the stove. He lights the gas ring and drops the rat in the pot.

‘Misha, there’s another thing.’ She puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘He needs you to do some work.’

This seems impossible to Mikhail. All the masterpieces have been packed up and shipped away. There is nothing for him to conserve, no paintings to be cleaned or repaired. Mikhail stirs the soup gently. The tail curves along the side of the pot.

‘Someone, I don’t know who, has asked Orbelli for a portrait artist,’ she says.

‘I’m not a portrait artist. I haven’t painted in years.’

As the steam rises from the pot, his stomach groans.

Who the hell would think about having a portrait painted at a time like this?

‘Misha, if we go to the Hermitage, you must paint a portrait.’

2

Director Orbelli sits behind a massive mahogany desk, surrounded by stacks of books and files. Candles flicker from an ornate silver candelabra, casting shadows on the low, vaulted ceiling of his cellar office. Orbelli’s full grey beard, which he strokes as he speaks, rests on his quilted jacket and plaid scarf.

‘Colonel Shishkin asked me to send him a portrait artist,’ Orbelli says.

‘But sir, I’m not a portrait artist,’ Mikhail says.

‘You’re all we have. Were you not classically trained at the best art academy in the Soviet Union?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘But nothing. You must do this. He’s an important man. If he is happy with the portrait, it will be very good for the museum and everyone here.’

‘I haven’t painted in years, sir. I’m better suited to conservation and restoration.’

Orbelli sits back with his fingers laced together.

‘Everyone else has been evacuated. I’m counting on you, Mikhail Tarasovich. If it weren’t important, the colonel wouldn’t have asked.’

Mikhail has been given his role and Orbelli will not be persuaded otherwise.

‘Shishkin wants to meet you. He’s sending a car at eleven. He’s an influential man, Mikhail. Don’t let me down,’ Orbelli says, opening a thick leather-bound book. ‘Now, I must get back to my research.’

Mikhail’s empty stomach knots as he turns towards the door.

The black Emka pulls up in front of the museum promptly at eleven. Snow clings to the fender’s elegant curve. Mikhail steps onto the street and a sharp wind whistles across the Neva River, penetrating his coat. He opens the car door and slides into the back seat. The driver mumbles and puts the car in gear. Still feeling the chill from the wind, Mikhail shivers.

He sits, disbelieving his situation. He cannot possibly produce a portrait which will satisfy the colonel. He must come clean and tell the colonel the truth. Yes, he is a trained artist but he has not painted in years. He slumps into the seat.

The car slips along the icy roads through Leningrad, which has become a ghost town. Much of the population has evacuated and the rest stay indoors, hiding. With petrol in short supply, only military vehicles travel along the wide avenues. An abandoned tram sits frozen on the track with its overhead cables disconnected. It is completely entombed in a thick layer of ice. Many shops, boarded up or bombed, are closed. The only people along the road stand in a long queue which snakes from a bakery. Mikhail knows what it is like to stand in the queue, slowly edging towards the woody aroma of the sawdust bread, hoping there is still a ration when he arrives at the counter.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the driver’s rear-view mirror. At first he does not recognise his reflection. An untidy beard covers his long, thin cheeks. His eyes protrude from the sockets. He glides his fingers through his greasy hair. He looks as if he has been living in a cave. He brushes dust from his trousers and coat and the car comes to a halt.

He clenches his jaw. He is going to tell Shishkin the truth.

The colonel is shorter than Mikhail had imagined and strangely plump. His healthy cheeks, kissed with a rosy glow, look alive, warm and vibrant. His dark hair, streaked with grey and slicked back, is perfectly groomed.

Shishkin extends his hand. ‘Mikhail Tarasovich Senotrusov, I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you.’ He squeezes Mikhail’s bony fingers.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Shishkin.’

‘I need a portrait painted. Orbelli says you’re the best.’ He smiles, revealing his tobacco-stained teeth.

Mikhail recognises his chance to set the record straight. ‘At the moment, yes, the best in Leningrad.’ He takes a breath, preparing to clarify his statement.

‘My wife has a birthday very soon. She is everything to me. I want to give her something special.’

Mikhail has missed his chance. The role as the best is his.

A spark pops from a log in the fireplace. Mikhail adjusts his arms, feeling sticky moisture start to grow under his suit jacket, sweater and wool undershirt. He cannot remember the last time he felt warm. Above the mantelpiece, a portrait of Lenin hangs on the wall. One hand rests on his bearded chin, the other grasps his lapel.

‘Do you have a wife?’ the colonel asks.

‘Yes,’ he answers but quickly realises his lie, born out of habit, rather than deceit.

A maid enters carrying a tray, sets it down on the spotless, varnished coffee table and pours two cups of tea.

‘Priyanik?’ The colonel motions to a plate of cookies.

Mikhail has not seen anything like them in months. He takes a bite, savouring the allspice and nutmeg as he slowly chews. He heaps two teaspoons of sugar into the strong tea and stirs. The earthy aroma lingers in his nostrils as he takes a sip. Sweetness coats his tongue.

‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes. A gift for my wife.’ The colonel sits back on the velvet chair. ‘I’d like you to paint a portrait of our two sons.’

The tea warms Mikhail’s core. He hopes the boys are not young and fidgety.

‘How old are they?’

‘Maxim is ten and Vladimir thirteen.’ The colonel bites into a second priyanik and the crumbs fall into his lap. ‘It must be ready for her birthday on the thirteenth of January.’

Only two weeks.

‘The boys will be here after New Year. So, you can get started on the second.’

‘And the composition, is there anything in particular that you’d like?’

‘I’ll leave it for you to decide, Mikhail Tarasovich. We’ll have them dressed and ready. I’ll send a car to fetch you at nine.’ He leans back and strokes his smooth chin. ‘Senotrusov, I’ve come across that name before. It’s not a common name.’ He pauses and the fire sputters in the fireplace. ‘Ah, yes. I remember. Andrei Tarasovich Senotrusov. He must be your brother.’

‘Yes, he is. How do you know Andrei?’

‘We have common acquaintances, shall we say. Haven’t seen him in ages. How is he?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mikhail shifts on his chair, uncertain of what to say. ‘I haven’t seen him in years.’

Shishkin does not react or seem surprised. He pauses momentarily as if considering Mikhail’s words and brushes crumbs from his lap.

‘I can see what I can find out. Perhaps I’ll have some information for you when you deliver the painting.’ He stands and offers Mikhail his hand. ‘I have to get back to work.’

Mikhail pushes himself up, taking Shishkin’s hand.

‘Have a Happy New Year, Mikhail Tarasovich. Elizaveta will show you out.’ He rings a brass bell and exits the room.

Three priyaniki remain on the plate. Mikhail quickly grabs a page from the Pravda on the desk and wraps them up. Hearing someone clear their throat, he freezes. He looks up and finds a woman in a maid’s uniform.

‘I’ll show you out.’ She lowers her gaze and motions towards the door.

Mikhail places the newspaper parcel in his jacket pocket and heads towards the door.

‘You must be Elizaveta,’ he says.

She nods, retrieves his coat from the closet and holds it for him as he puts it on.

‘They aren’t for me,’ he whispers. ‘My daughter is very ill. The priyaniki are for her.’

‘I understand,’ she whispers, opening the door. ‘Until next time, Mikhail Tarasovich.’

Mikhail pushes open the door and steps onto the snowy stairs. Snowflakes collect on his coat as he makes his way to the Emka. He settles in the back seat and his thoughts return to the conversation with Shishkin. He should have asked him more about the portrait. He does not know exactly what the colonel wants. Why the hell didn’t he tell him the truth? He is not a portrait artist. What if the boys are uncooperative? Anger swells as he pictures the colonel brushing the priyaniki crumbs from his lap. Of course, he knows that people in privileged positions live better, but to experience it, feel the fire and taste the sweet tea, is another matter. And there was that unexpected mention of Andrei.

The snow starts falling heavier and it reminds Mikhail of that day, long ago, when he followed Andrei down a path at the dacha. Fluffy snowflakes just like these drifted around them. He seemed like a giant to young Mikhail. But really, he was only on the brink of manhood. His long strides took him quickly down the path and Mikhail slid behind, struggling to keep up. They wove through the leafless birch trees, past clusters of slant-roofed, sleepy dachas. Mikhail stopped for a moment, out of breath from trudging in the deep drifts. Andrei scooped up some snow, pressed it into an icy ball and hurled it at him. He ducked too late and the snowball smacked his arm. Brushing crystals from his sleeve, he gathered his strength and ran to catch up with his brother, excited to be included.

Together, they crouched down behind a fallen oak tree. Andrei’s eyes were fixed on a windowless shed, the Manakovs’ sauna. Smoke billowed from the chimney. Mikhail’s heart pounded inside his coat. It was the only sound in the snowy, still forest. Their breath clouded together as they waited.

‘Why are we here?’ Mikhail whispered.

‘Larissa.’

Even Mikhail, at the tender age of ten, was aware of Larissa. She was beautiful.

A crack of laughter filled the silence. The sauna door opened and a slender, rosy foot appeared. Larissa darted out, with steam rising off her body. Mikhail giggled and Andrei jabbed his sharp elbow into Mikhail’s side. Larissa’s sweaty breasts jiggled as she ran, naked and glistening, out of the sauna, throwing herself onto the snow pile.

A larger, hairy foot appeared from the sauna door. A hirsute man flung himself onto the snow beside her, rolling and laughing with pleasure. The boys recognised the voice immediately. Mikhail turned to his big brother, whose mouth hung open with surprise.

It was their father.

‘Kazyol,’ muttered Andrei, picking up a handful of snow and forming an icy ball. He threw it and the ball smashed on his father’s bare arse.

Papa looked up, surprised. Mikhail’s heart froze, expecting his father to tear Andrei limb from limb.

‘Boys, go home,’ his deep voice boomed through the trees. ‘Now.’

‘Go to hell,’ Andrei shouted as he calmly turned and walked down the path, full of righteous courage.

On the way home, Mikhail begged him to leave the secret in the forest and not to tell Mama. But Andrei, who saw everything as black and white, pushed him aside. He was determined to set the record straight.

Mikhail’s thoughts return to the strangely pleasant exchange with the colonel, who was far more cultured and polished than he had expected. Shishkin is a military man, disciplined and prepared, but he puts Mikhail dangerously at ease. Mikhail shivers. He should not relax. Despite Shishkin’s demeanour, he is part of the establishment and could turn Mikhail’s life upside down with a single phone call. He is a man who could unexpectedly issue an invitation to the theatre or to prison and neither would be surprising.

As the car crosses the Neva Bridge, the façade of the Hermitage comes into view, scarred and cracked. Patches of render have fallen away from the building, exposing bare bricks. This stubbornly imperial building, which was once Catherine the Great’s dream palace, is crumbling from the abuse of the war. The window panes are crisscrossed with diagonal strips of pasted newspaper. The trellis pattern is out of place with the gilded frames and cherubs. Mikhail turns away from the damaged building, focusing instead on the thick ice covering the river.

The Emka comes to a halt in front of the Hermitage. Mikhail steps out of the car and shuffles up the snowy path to the entrance. He follows the corridor to the Hall of Twenty Columns. Dull winter sunlight filters through the windows, reflecting on the rows of massive black granite columns. Beneath his boots, gritty dust and plaster scratches and scuffs the patterned mosaic floor. He passes empty glass display cases, pushed tight against the wall. He enters an internal courtyard and slides along an icy path to an archway where a flight of stairs takes him deep beneath the Hermitage.

Three bare bulbs hang from the low, vaulted ceiling. Groups of people gather along the perimeter of the cellar, clustered around furniture brought down from the Hermitage offices. Near the end of the tubular cellar, Anna and the girls lie on mattresses on the compacted earth floor. Anna has rigged up bedsheets around their area, but Mikhail can see them through the gaps between the sheets. Galya is sleeping, under blankets. Anna is reading to Vera.

‘That was quick,’ says Anna.

Mikhail takes off his coat and hangs it on a nail in the wall.

‘How’s my Galya?’ He kneels beside her and presses his hand to her hot forehead.

Her eyes open and she pulls away. ‘Your hands are cold.’

‘I have a special treat.’ He removes the parcel from his coat pocket and unwraps the newspaper.

‘Priyaniki!’ says Vera, leaning over his shoulder.

‘Shhh,’ Anna whispers, firmly pinning the bedsheets shut. ‘We only have a few.’

Anna breaks one cookie into three pieces. Taking the smallest for herself, she hands a piece to Vera and nudges Galya.

‘Galochka, try to eat,’ she says.

Galya stirs and Mikhail helps her sit up. He breaks her piece in half and hands it to her.

‘Eat slowly, girls. Don’t chew. Make it last,’ he says.

‘We’re so lucky,’ Vera says, smiling broadly.

‘What did the colonel say?’ asks Anna.

‘He wants a portrait of his sons. It’s a birthday gift for his wife,’ he says with a chuckle.

Her eyebrows lace. ‘How charming. But it’s no laughing matter, Misha. You must be very careful. This is serious.’

‘Of course it’s serious.’ He attempts to compose himself. ‘But all of Leningrad is wretched and starving and he’s thinking about birthday gifts for his wife.’ His laughter returns. ‘Beyond absurd.’

‘All the same, you must be careful, Misha. Did he give you the priyaniki?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Misha, it’s very dangerous.’

Mikhail shrugs. As Galya takes another bite, his pride swells. He has provided food.

‘The colonel knows Andrei,’ whispers Mikhail.

‘Your brother?’

He nods.

‘Is he alive? Where is he?’

‘Shishkin hasn’t seen him in a long time. He’s going to see what he can find out.’

Anna leans closer to him. ‘It was a long time ago. Maybe it is best to leave it in the past?’

He pulls away, not responding to her remark.

Mikhail tucks the blankets around Galya and rubs her shoulder. She is so weak. He must keep her alive. He cannot lose her, too.

Several days later, Galya and Vera hover over bowls of soup. They giggle, counting carrot slivers floating in the watery broth. A candle on the table flickers.

‘Papa! I have four pieces,’ says Galya. ‘How many do you have?’ She leans over his bowl and stirs, searching for the little orange surprises. ‘Seven! You’re so lucky.’

Mikhail stirs the soup in his bowl and shreds of pale meat swirl. It smells of stale dishwater. He collects a few carrot pieces on his spoon and transfers them into Galya’s broth.

She smiles but her shoulders droop. Dark circles under her eyes contrast with her face. Mikhail is encouraged to see her out of bed and sitting at the table but he can see her beginning to fatigue. He wonders how much longer she will last before she must return to the cellar.

‘How many do you have, Anna Petrovna?’ Galya asks.

Anna pushes her bowl towards the girls. ‘You count them.’

They lean over her portion, searching.

Anna’s dark hair, streaked with grey, hangs loose, framing her face.

‘Ten, Mama!’

Anna spoons a couple of pieces into Vera and Galya’s soup and pulls her bowl back in front of her.

‘How did they manage to find carrots? We are so fortunate,’ Anna says. ‘This is a very good New Year’s Eve. I’m glad we’re here in the Hermitage. Better than being all by ourselves at home. Don’t you think, Misha?’

Mikhail leans his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm. He misses the flat but Anna is right, it is warmer and there is more food here. The soup tastes better when you do not know exactly what is in it. He eats a bit of the stringy meat. Slightly sweet and tender, it must be cat.

‘Yeh,’ he replies.

Last New Year, it was just Mikhail, Elena and Galya in their room. Even with the door shut, they could hear Anna and Ivan in the kitchen with a couple of their friends. Elena and Mikhail had been invited to join the party but declined, wanting to be on their own. They had a simple meal and Galya fell asleep, long before midnight, in her cot at the foot of their bed. Not wanting to leave their room, even for a moment, and go to the kitchen to wash their dirty dishes, they left the plates and cutlery stacked on the bookshelf.

Mikhail and Elena did not even notice the arrival of 1941. Elena suddenly sat upright and grabbed the clock beside the bedside table. ‘Misha, it’s twelve thirty! We missed it!’ She hopped out of the bed, ran towards the window and pulled back the curtain. The glow of the street lights gently lit her naked body. She opened the window and grabbed the Sovetskoye Shampanskoye, which she had stowed between the two panes of frosty glass. Closing it and squealing in the cold, she darted back to bed. Frigid air swirled through the warm room. She quickly dived under the blankets, pressed her cold body against Mikhail and handed him the bottle. ‘We have to toast the New Year!’

He pushed the cork with his thumb and it popped suddenly, hitting the ceiling. She shrieked and took a drink straight from the bottle. He kissed her sweet champagne lips.

‘Misha?’ Anna says, bringing him back to the cold Hermitage. ‘Where did you fly off to? You’re a million miles away.’

He shrugs, hiding his thoughts of Elena, and takes another spoonful of soup.

Anna turns to Vera. ‘So, what do you wish for in 1942?’

‘The children are going to plant a garden in the spring. I want a beautiful garden,’ says Vera. ‘With cucumbers, tomatoes and an apple tree!’

‘Is that what your teacher is planning for the spring?’ Anna raises her eyebrows. ‘That would be nice to have vegetables. Like at your dacha, Misha.’

‘I hope I can go to school soon,’ says Galya, leaning her elbows on the table. ‘I want to help in the garden.’

Mikhail sits back, arms folded. A garden takes time. Surely, they will not be here long enough to harvest the vegetables next autumn. It is impossible.

Galya takes the last spoonful of soup and pushes her bowl to the centre of the table. She leans forward, resting her head on her arms, eyelids heavy.

‘And you, Anna, what do you wish for this year?’ Galya asks, yawning.

‘Of course, most important is for Ivan to be safe at the front,’ says Anna.

Vera’s smile fades and she climbs onto Anna’s lap.

‘But for me, my dream is to take a bath. I want to sit in the steam of the banya, breathe in the smell of birch tree twigs and scrub every centimetre of my body. I miss water. Clean, fresh, hot water.’

‘Me too,’ sighs Galya.

‘And you, Misha. What is your New Year’s wish?’

‘I want to go home,’ he says. And bury Elena properly.

They return to their mattresses in the cellar. Galya crawls under her blanket while Vera somersaults the length of her bed. Anna pulls the bedsheet curtains together, and pins them shut. Once closed, it feels like a tent and it is surprisingly quiet in the crowded basement.

Mikhail lies beside Galya.

‘I have something special for you, girlies,’ whispers Anna. She pulls her closed fists from behind her back. ‘Choose a hand. Vera, you are the youngest, you first.’

Vera taps her right fist and Anna opens it, revealing a beautifully wrapped domino-sized chocolate. The wrapper features a polar bear surrounded by the warm green glow of the northern lights. She recognises the Mishka Na Severe chocolate and her face lights up.

Galya sits up and taps the other fist. Anna gives her an identical chocolate.

‘I’ll have a bit now, and leave the rest for another day,’ Galya says.

Vera hesitates, clearly wanting to eat the whole piece, and shrugs. ‘OK I’ll eat just choot choot too.’

The girls unwrap the chocolates and take a small bite. Savouring the sweetness, they wait for the chocolate to melt on their tongues and re-fold the wrappers around the remaining chocolate.

‘Put them here.’ Anna opens an old cigarette tin and waits for the girls to drop them into the container. She closes the lid tightly and pushes the box between the mattress and the wall.

Anna must have saved this secret surprise just in case the siege took them to New Year. It seems impossible to Mikhail that during all the weeks of painful hunger scratching and tugging at her stomach that Anna resisted eating the chocolates. He could not have done the same.

‘I have gifts too.’ Mikhail hands them each a paper scroll tied with a piece of string.

Anna helps Vera ease the fraying lace from the paper and unroll it.

‘Mama, it’s us!’

Several weeks ago, Mikhail sketched them while they were reading in the flat. Anna was sitting cross-legged on the bed with Vera nestled in her lap. Simple pencil lines outline their entwined figures. Heads down, they focus on the book in front of them.

Galya opens hers and finds a sketch of Misha holding her hand on the beach. He drew this sketch from a photo which was taken on their last trip to the Black Sea. Walking away from the photographer, their bodies are in silhouette.

Galya immediately recognises the scene. ‘I remember this day, Papa. Mama took this photo.’ Tears well in her eyes and her chin quivers.

Mikhail had hoped the sketch would not bring back memories of Elena but she was the first thing Galya thought of when she looked at the sketch. His shoulders slump with failure.

‘It was nice at the seaside,’ Galya says, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

‘Misha, the sketches are wonderful,’ Anna says, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

She pulls the string from her gift, which is larger than the girls’ sketches, and reveals a watercolour he painted years ago, when the garden at the dacha was bursting with ripe vegetables. In the foreground, a fat watermelon on a thick stem lies on the ground. Behind it, tomato plants bend from the weight of the plump fruit.

Anna laughs and gets up. Stretching it open, she holds it on the wall. ‘This will be our new window. Let’s put it up and forget about the snow and the cold. From our window, we will see this beautiful garden.’