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“It is good you tell them your story,” Mama says to Vera when she comes back into the kitchen

“I couldn’t think of anything else ” She sits down across fro one foot on the eh the s are closed and blacked out, she can still taste ash on her tongue, still se burned sweetness in the smoke The world outside can only be seen in patches, in places where the newspaper droops lier red, but rather a dull orangey gold ray “Papa used to tell me wonderful stories, remember?”

“I prefer not to remember ”

“But—”

“Your baba should have been ho at her

Vera feels a sharp clutch in her stootten about her grandmother

“I am sure she’s fine,” Vera says

“Yes,” Mama says dully

But in the , Baba is still not back; she is one of the thousands who are never seen again And news ht’s flames

The Badayev warehouses are burned; all of the city’s food stores are gone

Leningrad is isolated now, cut off from all help Septeone, replaced by a cold, dark winter Vera still works in the library, but it is for show—and ration cards Few people visit the library or thefor heat In these darkening weeks, inter’s icy breath is always blowing on the back of your neck, there is nothing except the search for food

Every day Vera is up at four o’clock in thea scarf around her neck so high only her eyes show She gets in whatever queue for food she can find; it isn’t easy just getting in line, let alone actually finding food The strong push the weak out of the way You have to be careful always, on guard That nice young girl on the corner could steal fro on the stoop

After work, she comes home to her cold apartment and sits down to a meal at six o’clock Only it is not much of a meal anymore A potato if they are lucky, with some kasha that is more water than buckwheat The children cohs quietly in the corner

In October, the first snow falls Usually this is a tihter, when children run out to the parks with their parents and build snow angels and forts Not in warti over their ruined city Its pretty white layer covers all their defenses—the dragon’s teeth, the iron bars, the trenches Suddenly the city is beautiful again, a wonderland of arching bridges and icy ays and white parks If you don’t look at the crus or burned-out heaps of brick where once a store had stood, you could aletuntil seven o’clock That is when the Gerht, like clockwork

And once the snow starts to fall, it never stops Pipes freeze Trolleys co snow There are no tanks or trucks in the road any troops There are just poor, bundled-up woees in search of anything reserad these days Rations are cut almost every week