High · Spirits

Kajetchka~

You'll find this and worry. Sorry

Sudden important business—can't explain—hope to be back soon
Have taken Sasha and Yong
Please donate books and instruments to orphanage

Christmas presents for you and Odeta in wardrobe—already wrapped, don't worry
Give something nice to Kseniya Borisovna with my thanks—money for this and other stuff in bedside table

Please don't worry too much
Am very sorry about the suddenness
Hug Odetka for me {тебя люблю, голубка!!!♥} 

Love, Janek 

~*~

If I don't come back in a few weeks, get out of the USSR while the borders are still permeable. Stay together. I will find you.

Everything happens at once, and it's overwhelming.

I have an urge to start listing all of the awful things that have happened lately—or at least, that I have lately become aware of—because usually, looking at the list would force me to see how short it really is and how easy it would be to just fix everything and make everyone happy again. Only... this time... I'm very much afraid that staring at a catalog of our suffering would be disheartening. I'm very much afraid that I won't be able to fix things. It is very disheartening indeed.

But on the other hand... Suboshi came to me today!

And a right mess I made of it, too, but it worked out for the best in the end. Things always do. And I can't help but believe that they always will.

It's an odd feeling, this—like feeling happy and sad at once... Feeling overcome by depression, yet energized and restless and eager to do something... I keep thinking that if I go to sleep, when I wake up, everything will have undone itself.

There is so much suffering in the world, and it's not just my own. Everybody is in pain, because life is painful. Even a person who has never seen death or poverty or hate still has a tragic life. Sin is everywhere, and I can't escape from it—it's in myself—and all that is ugly and unnatural haunts mankind with a kind of sick mockery... The consequences of our actions are grotesque... My sisters...

I wish I could just find out what I am doing here, and then I could do it, and it would be done, and I could kill myself in peace.

No, I couldn't, though, not as long as I have my brother. Besides, it didn't work so very well that last time, did it?

I don't think we've gotten up off the floor since he suddenly remembered everything. Actually, he's sleeping right now; he's exhausted, and I intend to let him sleep as long as he likes. We don't have to do anything unless we want to do it, and I've come to believe that there's no need to rush things. He's had a hard day—such an understatement—and watching him sleep is nice. He's relaxed for now.  And we are together in all of the important ways, which is, well, a relief.

I'm not sleeping. There are too many questions to ponder. For one thing, what are we going to do next? Where will we go? I certainly think it's a bad idea to let him go off to his death on the front lines of the Red Army; I'll kill Stalin myself if he wastes Suboshi on some stupid campaign as a foot soldier. We have more important things to do. Like find our priestess—she must be somewhere, waiting to be found. And, possibly, we could do something to end the war? I would be a great assassin! And I might just possibly enjoy getting rid of a couple of high-ranked Germans.

I can't get over how incredibly cool we are. Really, how many people have superpowers?

Another thing to think about is, what is true anymore? I'm not quite sure how to reconcile Seiryuu and Christianity. And I have thought about it a great deal. All I can think is, for now, that I am dealing with two separate worlds, each of which has its own Truth. I feel at peace with this idea and am tempted to accept it as is, but of course, everyone reasonable knows that feelings ought never to be the basis for important decisions, &c. I too often ignore reason and decide things based on my feelings, and this gets me in trouble.

Not that anything bad happens to me... only to the people I care about.

I think I remember saying something to Sasha about not feeling as though I've had my share of the suffering? Or something like that. It's true, you know. Ach, I'm all incoherent and have been babbling and letting my thoughts fly in all directions.  But... I must let them coalesce into this:  I will do something about all of the suffering; I will stop all of the pain in the world even if I have to single-handedly save everyone in some kind of heroic explosion. Didn't I say that everything will work out for the best?

I think that I would like being a hero...

Today has been... stressful.

Among other things, I had to tell my little sister that she is an orphan. Kaja offered to do it, but Kaja's method is “quick and hard”, and Odetuchna doesn't usually respond well to that sort of thing... I had to spend about twenty minutes prepping her for the news, then another thirty holding her while she sobbed.

All things considered, though, I think she's doing pretty well. We spent the rest of the afternoon singing vapid duets together; I brought all of the sheet music I could find in our apartment, so at least she had that to comfort her. I played “Beat Me, Daddy, Eight to the Bar” for her, and she asked me if it was jazz. Jazz! Imagine! I mean, even if she had thought it was blues, that would have been better. But how can you mistake boogie-woogie for jazz? My little sister has had her education seriously neglected.

I have one of those American songs stuck in my head. They're so simplistic, but they're catchy. I keep hearing it over and over. Odeta says she likes it, but I doubt she has any idea what it's actually about. “You go to my head, and you linger like a haunting refrain, and I find you spinning round in my brain like the bubbles in a glass of champagne. You go to my head like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew, and I find the very mention of you like the kicker in a julep or two...” It's weird to have the song stuck in your head be about things that stick in your head.

Also, leaving today was really hard. I've left before, obviously—sometimes for months or years at a time—but I always knew I was going back. It's an odd feeling, not knowing if I'll ever go back there. It'll be looted and probably completely destroyed soon. It's better that Kaja's not living there now—it wasn't safe—but still... I feel like there's an empty pit where most of my internal organs should be.

Where is home now? I don't think we have one.

And... I also had a fight with Sasha today. It's been building, but I'd been trying to siphon off the tension so it wouldn't explode. But he almost went and did something completely idiotic, so I was forced to try to stop him.

He hates me now. I know he does.

He finds it objectionable that I tell him what to do. But what I am supposed to do? Allow him to go out and get himself killed? I don't understand why he can't just act like a normal, civilized person.

I'm not sure how to feel about the situation. I sort of feel guilty. He's right, I have been a bit of a bully: manipulating him, making plans for him without asking his permission, &c. And I have been treating him like a child, which shows that I don't respect him. But... I somehow can't stop thinking that he is a child, and somebody who needs taking care of.

So the question is, how can I get him to behave the way I think he ought to without making him feel patronized?

Things That Didn't Work
Calming words
Putting a hand on his shoulder
Helping him with things
Gallant promises
Commands/threats
Patronizing him
Reasoning with him
Ignoring him
Refusing to speak to him
Implying that he's not utterly self-sufficient

Things That Worked
Taking personal risks
Begging
Pretending to give into his idiotic demands
Flattery
Apologizing for things that I'm not sorry for
Desperation
Taking all of the blame
Behaving as though it's a favor he would be ever-so-kind to do for me
Acting on my plans as though he's agreed to them and hoping he'll go along
Manipulating his energy with the dizi (don't do this again; he was incensed)

Things I Haven't Tried
Imprisonment
Physical violence
Crying
Acting like my feelings are hurt
Pretending to be injured (on second thought, he'd know I was faking, so never mind)

Looking over this list is disheartening. All of the nice things didn't work, and all of the things I haven't tried yet are vastly beneath me. I'm going to be reduced to begging and flattery, which I find repulsive.

But he really ought to obey me—he obviously can't be trusted to make good decisions on his own. Maybe I can be really, really nice to him until he can't help but adore me, and then he'll want to do what I say. That's how it works with Odetuchna—she worships me, and I dote on her.

But with this, I'm not sure how to begin. I don't think his opinion of me is very high. Actually, as I said before, I'm sure he hates me. This sounds rather silly—and I would die before verbalizing this—but my feelings are kind of hurt. I do like him very much, and so now I feel more or less idiotic. He seems to disdain my family, my upbringing, and all of my innate little habits. The phrases “goodie-fancy pants”, “pansy ass”, and “upright snob”, were, I believe, used in reference to me. In addition, he has made it quite clear that he thinks I am physically incapable of defending myself and my family, completely out of touch with common sense, and overeducated. (He also called me a womanizer and a freak, but he was only teasing. At least, I thought he was at the time, but maybe not...)

On the other hand, he hasn't objected to being called Aleczek or Sashenka, and those are pretty intimate diminutives. But suppose he sees them as childish, rather than affectionate?

Anyway, I won't think about it any more.

( OOC )

When I woke up this morning, it was still dark. For maybe the first time ever, I could see stars through my bedroom window. There's no electricity and the streetlights are out--that's why. I wish the electricity had gone out once or twice when I was a kid. I had this telescope that Papa bought me in Paris--you could actually see stars from our villa in Verneuil-sur-Avre--and I would have liked to have been able to use it to see the stars over my own home city.

Papa and I were amateur astronomers then; at least, that's what we said. It was nice to be able to do something with just him and not the girls. None of my sisters were really interested, so it was just the two of us. He taught me the star patterns over most of Europe and how to tell the date and location from the sky. I remember watching eclipses with him. We used to spend the nights before my birthdays stargazing--there's always a big meteor shower leading up to that date: the Perseids. They've been visible for thousands of years, and used to be called the Tears of St. Lawrence. I always tried to see the meteors Papa pointed out, but they go so fast... Anyway, during the Perseids, there are so many that I saw plenty on my own. I used to imagine what it would feel like to be a shooting star, to blaze through the sky so fast... even after I understood what they really are and how they really move.

I got up and dressed in the dark. Kaja still has some of my clothes here. It is so nice to be able to wear something besides the same button-down shirt and khaki trousers. All the sweaters Mama and Odeta made me were folded up in a trunk at the end of my bed. It amazes me that Kaja's gone to the trouble of keeping all this stuff. She's been using my room for storage, since it's still in decent shape.

She hasn't been heating this part of the house. She's managed to rig up some sort of wood-burning stove in the kitchen (I'm amazed; I didn't know she was so handy), so that half of the apartment is warm enough. She's been burning wood she finds in the rubble. I feel somewhat better, knowing she's been able to take care of herself. It was worrying in Moscow, to not know--but now I know, and I can take care of what's mine. I think that I'll just take Kaja back to Saratov to stay with Yong and Kseniya Borisovna. Odeta likes it there, and, more importantly, it's safe. I don't think Yong will mind another pair of capable hands. Kaja might object--she's been acting so oddly--but I'm sure she'll come 'round once she's made to see the truth of the situation. At any rate, I figure, I'll just do whatever I think is best, and everybody else will fall in line. That's pretty much how it always works.

Anyway... sweaters. Yeah. It's really cold where I slept, so I pulled out all of the quilts and layered myself in about four of the sweaters. And I wore mittens. I'm getting really sick of being cold all the time. I thought that I'd be glad to be home, and that I wouldn't miss Moscow, but... there it is.

Kaja was already up and dressed, which didn't surprise me. She's always been so practical and driven. She had to get to work, but she gave me the key so I could come and go. We didn't say much to each other. I told her what I'd decided--about Kseniya Borisovna's, I mean--and she just sighed.

I didn't want to spend the entire day in the house, so I thought I'd go see the rest of the city--I mean the parts that I care about. The first place I went was St. Jan's Cathedral, since it was still early enough to get there before mass. I hadn't been to mass or confession since I left Moscow, and that was over a week ago.

The cathedral has been a little damaged by the bombs, but, much like our apartment building, it still stands. The Gothic façade (of which we are so proud) is all right. It's comforting to see that it's standing when everything else around here has been blasted to bits. It's so much taller than anything else around... though it's shorter than I remember. Maybe I'm just taller now. Ha ha ha.  (You have to imagine that you just heard dry, cynical almost-laughing.) 

I'd forgotten it was Advent until I walked in and saw all of the purple--the banners, the curtains, the wall hangings... only two weeks now until Christmas Day. There's a little crèche in the north transept under the watching eyes of our patron Saint Jan.

The things I've done automatically so many times...  I did not have to try to make them meaningful.  I dipped my fingers in the holy water, crossed myself; then I walked halfway down the nave, chose a pew, crossed myself again, genuflected, and knelt to pray.  I prayed the Rosary--the creed, the Our Fathers, the Hail Marys...  I lingered over those.  It seems a little silly, but there's nothing the world could use more of than the faith, hope, and love the prayer asks for.  Then the Glory Be, and that little prayer Papa taught me.  I completed the decades, meditating:  I desire a strong faith, I desire the virtue of hope, I desire zeal for the glory of God... the grace of a holy death... a greater love for the Blessed Virgin.  Then I said the Hail Holy Queen and finished with the final prayer.

I tried not to be distracted by the other worshipers.  There were maybe twenty or twenty-five people there.  (It was still early.)  Nobody was making too much noise--other than a girl crying in the third row--but I kept looking at them and wondering if I'd see anyone I had known.

After a while I rose and crossed myself, making my way to the confessionals.  There wasn't a line.  (I could think of some apt and sardonic commentary, but I'll leave it at that.)

The priest greeted me.  He was one I didn't know.  We prayed together, and he invited me to share my sins.  I was surprised--and somewhat ashamed--to realize that it had been eleven days since my last confession.

I had a lot to confess.  Well, not more than usual, I guess.  I always have to confess pride and hatred and lying and envy, but this time I had to add controlling and manipulative behavior--which, yeah, I suppose I also do all the time, but usually it's not bad, and it has to be done, so I'm not sorry, and I don't confess it.  I was thinking of my new-found powers, though--forcing people to do what I want is probably not how I'm meant to use them.

The priest put his hands on my head to bless me, and I felt relief wash through me.  I really am sorry for the things I do, and I wish I could be better than I am.  My penance is to meditate on the love and mercy of God.  I infer that I'm supposed to emulate it.  I've been too busy--no, too distracted--to pray very much lately, so this will be incentive.

I returned to my pew to meditate until the service began.  It's a weekday, so the service was simple--just the usual prayers and the liturgy.  The music was only the organ and some congregational singing.  It was so good to hear Polish voices together that it didn't bother me that they were out of tune.  (Okay, I noticed that they were out of tune, but I wasn't annoyed.)

The petitions were all along similar lines:  end the war, bring back my son/father/husband, &c.  I'm so tired of feeling sorry for people, and I'm getting cynical.  Can't people at least be creative in their tragedies?  Well, that's probably another instance of pride.  I'm no better than they are even if I am more interesting.  (That doesn't sound quite right, but you understand.)  Anyhow, I mustn't forget the tragedy that exists in even the happiest of lives, and how even the smallest bad thing can hurt in the very depth of you.  And everyone here is in pain:  everyone in the entire world.  There's no escaping it until death takes us.  But I can heal some of it--I can ease some of it--I really should try to be more understanding and caring, especially toward my sisters.  I guess taking care of them includes treating them tenderly.  Especially since I'm the one in charge--noblesse oblige, no?

On a totally unrelated topic, there is no milk to be found in this whole city.  I went out looking for some after mass, only to discover that it doesn't exist and all I had in my pockets were rubles.  But darn it, my sister should have milk--and, okay, I want it, too.  I know, I know, it's weird for Slavs, but those crazy Ruszkowski kids love milk.  What can I say?  It's our mama's influence.

Tomorrow morning, I'll find someplace that will convert rubles into Reichsmarks.  I hope.  Otherwise I'll have to go to the bank and get money from Mama's account.  I have the pass code for it, which I haven't told Kaja--she's been supporting herself for the last while, and she'll be mad that she didn't have access to the money.  Never mind that I have no idea how much it's worth now, anyway, considering inflation and the general mess of things.

After my unsuccessful quest, I came home; I didn't feel much like going anywhere else.  I played the flute and meditated on the nature of God.  I do want to be more like him--not, you know, omnipotent or anything, but humble and unselfish.  Upon consideration, I do have some things that I don't have to worry about--I'm good at forgiving and admitting when I'm wrong and treating people kindly and gently.  Now, if only I could fix everything else about myself, then I'd be perfect!

The symbol on my shoulder appears now whenever I use my powers.  I've been practicing every day since I met Yong, and I've sort of started to see what I can do and how much energy it takes.  It's so much less tiring when I use the flute--or blow air through anything, really--it's like some kind of amplifier.  Anyway, the symbol is weird--I should find out what it means, because it's obviously something deliberate and meaningful--but I don't think I'll tell anyone about it just yet.  It's like I've been marked.  And it's obviously connected to the use of my powers, since they coincide, and they both glow with that faint blue light.  It's a pretty symbol, though--I like it.  If I have to have a mark on my body, I can't think of anything I'd rather choose.  It's more or less symmetrical, at least, so it looks very reposed and balanced.  I can't imagine that it means anything like a verb or a participle.  It has to be a noun or an adjective--something stable and self-controlled.  I've copied it down:  亢

Anyway, still no sign of Yong and Sasha, and I'm worried.  I'll check again tonight, and twice tomorrow, or however long it takes.  I'm sure Yong will come; he's the responsible type.

It was nice, for a while, to have a friend my own age.  I mean, not a child or someone as old as my parents.  I've been spending all my time with older colleagues and their sons and daughters.  I think I spent too much time with grown-ups even when I was a child.  But Yong made it so easy to be friends...  I forgot I'm shy.  Yong makes everyone so comfortable, like whatever you're already doing is exactly the right thing to do.  And Sasha was very easy for me to talk with, too.  I don't feel threatened at all by him any more.  Yong had better bring Sasha along; I still haven't had a chance to figure out him out.

Well, Kaja will be home soon, and this apartment is a mess, so...  I have things to do that are more pressing than is journaling.

It seems like everything has begun to happen at once, so quickly that it’s overwhelming and difficult to understand. The past few days have been smacking me in the face and knocking me around so that I can’t see which way is forward anymore.

This is the first chance I’ve gotten to write since early this morning. But I have to put down everything that’s happened because it’s so strange that I’m sure I’ll get it muddled in my head and someday be telling lies to my grandchildren.

Almost immediately after the last entry, I arrived in Warsaw. I gained time moving west, so it was very early in the morning—still dark and still cold. When I left the hospital, Yong and Aleksandr were with me, but I was the only one who stumbled into the park here. I waited until sunrise. I hope Yong explained things to Aleksandr; I promised that I would do it when we arrived, but obviously, that didn’t happen.

I’m not sure what happened. It’s probably just that Yong got interrupted and had to stop the spell. I hope he’s not injured or anything, although if he’s imprisoned, that won’t be a problem. Unless he’s dead… he’ll come to take me back. And if he doesn’t, well, I’ll start walking, I guess. I will miss him and Sasha, if only because it was nice for once to be with people who are like me. I shouldn’t have let go of Sasha's hand; next time—if there is one—I’ll be more careful with whomever I have. Anyway, I’m sure Yong doesn’t know Warsaw at all, and if he comes back, it’ll be to the coordinates of the park, so I’ve been going back twice a day since.

Ogród Saski is destroyed. I was a little upset to see it. All right; that’s under-exaggerating, but I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s ugly, and if I wanted to describe the difference, it would take me pages and pages of words. Instead, I’ve been sitting in the apartment and playing the flute… Lots of Slavic Church modes, lots of atonality, lots of repetition… it sounds like part a block construction piece by Stravinsky.

That’s right: the apartment. After sunrise, when I decided I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, I started walking. It normally takes less than fifteen minutes to walk home, but I kept stopping to stare at things—and the streets were so changed that I lost my way more than once—so this time it took nearly an hour.

The city is eerie. The buildings are familiar, even in their twisted new shapes, but the people who inhabited them are gone. There’s no League of Nations. There’s no government. Everything’s moved to London, but how long will it be safe there? They couldn’t stay safe in Paris… And now they’ve gone and made a pact with Stalin, which is ridiculous. Hitler kills the racially inferior; Stalin kills class enemies. And don't the Polish fall into both categories?

Things I’d read about, I can now see. I can tell where the bombs have fallen, although it’s quiet now. There’s no running water or electricity in this part of the city—the water treatment plant was destroyed. Fifty thousand wounded in the just the first few days, and half that many dead. Thirty percent of the city’s population confined in a ghetto… at least I haven’t had to see that yet. Terror bombings, civilian facilities in ruins, &c. All institutions of higher education have been closed—even the Faculty of Modern Languages and Oriental Studies at my university. Some of the destruction is not as bad as I’d imagined; some is worse.

Our building still has walls and a roof (sort of), though as I said, there’s no running water or electricity. It’s close to the river, though, so if you can steel yourself to drink that stuff, you won’t die of thirst. I’d rather melt snow. Thank God I brought matches and bleach.

There are stairs up to the third floor, but I had to hoist myself up to the fourth and fifth floors. Up here, the carpet has been ripped from the hallway floors, which is much better than the moldy-smelling ones on the lower floors. Doesn’t living like this give everyone respiratory problems? All of the windows are broken, so I don’t know how anybody expects to keep the weather out.

Our apartment is still here. The numbers are even still on the door. 

The door was locked, which made me laugh in a horrible way—it was easy enough for me to just climb in through the enormous hole in the front wall. The living room is dirty and stained from the rain and the snow. As I’d suspected, many of our things are gone or ruined by bad weather. Mama's upright piano is covered in dust and half-rotted from the rain.

I looked into Ksenya and Odeta’s old room; it is mostly not there any more. It’s on the corner of the building, which is now gone. Somebody—I assume Kaja—has taken all of their things away and probably given them to other families. My room is next to theirs, and it is similarly empty, although in better shape because, well, the walls aren’t missing. There is still a bookshelf with some of my books on it—I guess Kaja hadn’t been able to sell them—and I sat on the floor for a minute and flipped through them before deciding that I would rather not get too sentimental before I saw the rest of the apartment. When I stood up, I realized that I was covered in grime.  (I don't know how to say how disgusted I was without sounding like a complete pansy.)

I opened the door into the entryway, and that was when I could tell that somebody had been living here. The air was warmer in here, so I shut the living room door tightly behind me. The entryway is tidy and clean, and I could see a pair of slippers tucked under the bench. They’re Kaja’s. I hoped that it was she who had been living here and not just somebody who had borrowed her slippers.

I did a quick check of the kitchen and of the bedroom that used to be Mama and Kaja’s. Definitely occupied, but nobody was home at the moment. I guessed whoever it was had decided that they didn’t need the living room or the other two bedrooms.

I figured, it’s my house, so I can eat whatever’s in the kitchen, right? There isn’t very much, of course—I shouldn’t have been surprised. But at least there aren’t rats climbing all through the cupboards, and for that I am grateful.

I went back into my room to wait. I thought I should stay and be there when whoever-it-was got home, but it felt awkward to hover around in what is really not my home any more. That’s a sad little thought, isn’t it? I’m rolling my eyes at myself. Wow, I’m getting really cynical. Anyway, of course, it’s Kaja who’s been living here.

To wait, I sat in my room, immersed in a worm-eaten volume of Jerzy Żuławski’s Lunar Trilogy, which is a science fiction work about an expedition to the moon that fails. I like Żuławski’s work. It’s very philosophical. He wrote a lot of poetry and the first translation of Nietzsche that I ever read. I like how he’s always talking about putting art in science, and the “naked soul”, and the symbol as an expression of the Absolute. He died fighting for Polish independence during the Great War. Well, he got typhus at a field hospital. But really, he missed the birth of his third son by six months. That’s very tragic, don’t you think? Ach, my bitter sarcasm is getting worse. Anyway, Kaja came back while I was in the middle of the second book. I heard her unlocking the door and shoved the book back on the shelf before scrambling to my feet.

I didn’t recognize her at first, but she knew me. We greeted each other awkwardly; I think I would have felt better if she had cried and clung to me. She had brought a loaf of bread and some cheese home with her. I tried to take them from her and prepare the food so she wouldn’t have to do anything, but of course she wouldn’t let me. She’s always been firm about doing her duty, &c., and about not letting me do girl’s work. So I stood around uncomfortably while she unwrapped herself and fixed sandwiches.

I told her about how I had been, and I told her about the strangeness of the last week or so—about Yong, and his ability to move without taking up time, but not about my own abilities, because… Well, I don’t know why, and I don’t really want to think about it too much, but I suppose it’s because I didn’t want to scare her, or explain things, or whatever. Also I didn’t say anything about Sasha. She seemed to believe me. She didn’t say much either way. She shrugged. It’s always been hard to tell what Kaja was thinking. Odeta always made much more sense to me. And Ksenya always said exactly what she thought, so I never had to guess. Kaja’s more like Mama.

I told Kaja about Odeta and Ksenya—that was why I had to tell her about Yong—and she took the news very calmly. She expressed sorrow at Ksenya’s death and happiness that Odeta was safe. That was exactly how it was, too—very formal and detached. Her coldness is beginning to scare me, to tell the truth.

Then I asked her what had happened since I left, and she told me. Ksenya and Odeta were taken away because they needed able-bodied women to work in the camps, and they happened to be selected. Kaja was luckier; she’s been working as a first-grade schoolteacher. She said she’s been spending much of the rest of her time at St. Jan’s Cathedral, at the soup kitchen. That student from Płock who she was dating was taken to a labor camp some time ago, and she hasn’t heard from him. I guess his name was Edek; I think that’s what she said, but I didn’t want to ask because I’m sure I’m supposed to remember.

Mama was killed in May of last year. She was visiting friends—Professor Gomolka and his wife were having a dinner party—and of course, several university professors all together were too much for the Nazis to pass up. Mrs. Gomolka was arrested, and everybody else was shot. Or probably worse than shot, but Kaja would only say that they had “passed away”, so I’ll just assume shot and not think about it.

I haven’t cried. I think I’m holding up pretty well. Anyway… just knowing is a relief.

I have not asked Kaja whether she would like to go to Sweden, but I don’t suppose she will much care. At any rate, her opinion on the subject doesn’t matter; I’m in charge here, and I know perfectly well what will be best for her and for Odetuchna. As soon as Yong comes for us, we will return to Saratov, and then we will go north together to find Ambassador Bergstrom. Or perhaps I will leave them both in Saratov, if I think it safe enough. Either way, they will be safe; that’s the important thing.

I seem to spend a lot of time planning, planning… going over and over in my head what needs to be done, even though it’s just the same thing every time.

I took Kaja back to the park this evening, and we waited until it got dark. We will go again tomorrow morning and evening, and then twice the day after that, and on Friday, if necessary. I'm starting to worry. Well, okay, I've been worrying since the day I was born. It's a strange feeling, though, that I have here. I realized today that I don't have any friends except Yong. Everyone else I know is more of a business contact or a schoolmate: people you attend parties with and then forget.

The streets of my city are full of debris and empty of people. Kaja says that, in the summer, the city empties out and people go to live in the woods outside the city. There’s more freedom there, and it’s healthier, but it’s likely that somebody will have stolen your house while you’re gone.

It is good to be home. Such as it is.

It’s early morning now, but I can’t sleep any more.

I can’t sleep, and I’m restless, but it’s the kind of restless that comes from not getting enough sleep, and I’m sure that I’ll crash tomorrow. What I really want to do is to play the dizi, but I’m sure it will disturb people and attract attention that I don’t want. I have Milhaud’s Création du Monde going over and over again in my head, and I want to play it out. I feel light and giddy, and I’m a little disturbed that I have such a happy, beginning-type feeling. It’s from not getting enough sleep, I’m certain.

I’m sitting in the little hospital in Serpukhov. I’m in the waiting room, in the corner. Sasha is still asleep, I guess. I’m watching the other people in the waiting room talk and worry and sleep, and I’m watching the world outside the windows turn faintly gray—then pink—then gold—as the sun comes up on the other side of the building. Yong’s wandering the building somewhere, disguised as a doctor.

The pretty nurse from before wasn’t working last night, so there was nobody here to recognize me. She just came on duty an hour or so ago—I saw her as she checked in—but I just have to keep my eye out for her today, and there shouldn’t be any trouble at all.

It’s a very busy hospital. The lights aren’t very bright, so it’s not so obvious that it’s not very clean here. It’s dirty and dark, and all of the staff looks exhausted. The rooms are packed with soldiers.

The doctors wouldn’t let me stay to watch them stitch Sasha up, but Yong is keeping an eye on him. He’s come back here several times to report that the kid is still alive and unconscious. Yong feels like the situation is his fault because he messed up the spell that was supposed to take us to Poland, so I guess he’s trying to be helpful. It’s nice of Yong, but I feel that I should be doing it myself.

I got up really early and bought a newspaper for me and some beer for Sasha. There was no place to buy hot tea, so I had to settle for kvass from a tank on the street. (First thing in the morning. Yuck.) The kiosks are pretty bare here, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I hate war, if for no other reason than that it makes life a lot less comfortable. There was nothing worth reading in the paper.

I’ve been practicing with Sasha’s accent. It’s not quite Muscovite—he said he’s from north of Penza. We told the nurse on duty last night that he’s my brother, because really, what else is plausible? I said that my name was Ivan Vasilyevich Yaroslav. I really have a very boring name, no matter what language it’s in.

The nurse looked as though she thought I ought to be ashamed for not being a soldier myself. So I explained that I’m a translator for the government, that our father had been a decorated war hero and just recently died, &c. I was sappy and expressive and inordinately attentive to her, and she did her best to make sure that Sasha got a clean bed and prompt treatment. Sometimes I really hate this country. I want to go home.

Anyway, now I have to speak like I’m from the country. It’s fun, though. I haven’t gotten a chance to do something new like this for a while. I’m fairly confident that I can mimic him now. I used my new accent at the newspaper kiosk and when I bought the kvass and the beer.

Dreams came at me last night like pelting hail from all directions at once: blood, music, water, aching in my head. And the blue glow in my shoulder has coalesced into some sort of pictogram or something. I know because my shirt was covered in Sasha’s blood, and I had to take it off and try to wash it out. Also my arm aches in the same place he’s been injured. That’s... eerie. I don’t know; maybe I did something to it and didn’t notice.

I’m not sure what to think of him. He’s interesting. But it’s appalling what comes out of his mouth sometimes. Apparently, his German consists of obscenities that are—to be frank—grossly mispronounced and incorrectly conjugated. Also he smells like cigarette smoke. I’ll have to teach him to speak German properly.

Well, that is, if he comes with me to Warszawa. But I hope he will. Maybe Mama will have some insights on this.

It’s weird that two people would look so alike. And why do I feel such an at-home feeling when I’m with him? I think we have some sort of spiritual connection. Is he my mission? I’m certain that this has something to do with all of the strange powers and the confusing memories. It’s like having had a past life, but that’s not possible, because souls don’t live twice. I think it’s probably some sort of revelation that is supposed to tell me what to do with my life. I wouldn’t be like this if I weren’t supposed to do something important. There must be a reason for all of this, and I will find it out.

Even now, I’m uneasy, not being able to keep an eye on him. I feel responsible for him, somehow. And I’m curious to find out how well my attempt at healing worked. It was exhausting, and I don’t think it was very successful. I’m going to have to figure out what to do to make it more efficient.

Sasha has a really powerful energy aura, and I can sense it. I can say right now with certainty that he’s asleep in the room where Yong left him. He breathes through his mouth when he sleeps. Like I do.

He’s more muscular than I am. I'm a little envious, but I’m going to turn it on myself and give myself a round scolding for not being more active. He said he lives on a farm. I guess he’s not a kulak… those have all been pretty much eliminated in the past ten years or so. That would make him, what? Bednyak? Damn communists. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate the stupid Soviet government, the stupid Nazis, everyone in the whole stupid war! I want to go back to Poland, and when I find out exactly what they did to it, I’ll… Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’m going to make sure this never, ever happens again!

I’m trying to calm down. See? I have stopped scribbling angrily, and I’ve started using this neat, small script.

Now, what are we going to do with Sasha when he wakes up? We’ll take him to Warsaw, I suppose. If he’s any kind of decent human individual, he won’t want to leave his unit, but this is obviously more important, and I’ll just have to explain it to him that way. If he can do the things that I can do—or the things that Yong can do—or something else similar, well then… We ought to go and do something about this stupid war. So he won’t really be deserting. He’ll be serving his country in a much better capacity. I hope he doesn’t feel that we’ve kidnapped him. Even though we have.

He’s awake—I can tell. I’d better go see him now. He’ll be worried.

I scarcely need to include here the details of the previous day’s events—I imagine that I will never be able to forget them—so let me state simply that yesterday was the day I met Yongnian Tan, and that today was the day I found my sister Odeta!

Yong found me by the Nara. I hadn’t been able to find anywhere to stay in Serpukhov, because everything had been taken up by the war wounded. After all, I was hardly going to go about taking lodgings from injured men, even if they were Soviet soldiers. I do have some honor.

Speaking of the Soviets, I would like to state here how much I despise them. I’ve completely lost my patience. The run-in at the hospital is absolutely the last straw. After secretly plotting to split my homeland with the Nazis, and then actually attacking it, and then changing their communal minds and attacking Germany and expecting everybody to just accept the new philosophy without question, and of course there’re the gulags, and the destruction of the Orthodox Church and its artwork, not to mention censorship… Have you heard Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk? I will never forgive them for eliminating my beloved Polska from the map.

Oh, just look at all of the underlined words in that bit. I have clearly been reading too much Byron and Keats. I hope no one ever sees this. I write like a girl.

To return to the subject at hand… I am glad I met Yong. It is very good to know that I am not alone in the world. Meeting him was almost like recognizing someone that I used to know. I can always feel his presence, too, in a strange way—it’s an eerie feeling up and down my back. I hope it generalizes, and that I’ll find others. Just think of the possibilities there!

What are we, anyway?

Are we the blessed of God? Are we angels? Are we prototypes of the Übermensch?

Whatever we are, I’m sure it’s for a good reason.

It seems fitting that people like us would emerge in a time like this. This is the End of the World, I think—everybody thinks so—and we’re the answer to the Destruction. We’re like the prophets Elijah and Moses—we’ve come back from ages of sleep—and we’ll prowl the earth for days before we die and become immortal.

It is up to us to stop this War.

Listen, I am revealing my Romanticist colors again. I had really better go and pray for a while for humility. It is probably crazy to think that I am really anything more wonderful than anyone else is.

And yet…

To deny the Truth for the sake of arbitrary humility would be a greater and more subtle form of pride.

Saint Basil, pray for me.

Something terrible has happened to my sisters. Odetuchna won’t say a word about it; she just refuses to hear a word of German—even if it’s set by Schubert—and chops onions to hide her tears. All she will say is that Ksenya is dead, so there’s no point in my looking for her.

My imagination, as already established, knows no bounds, so it’s no good my writing down any of the things I envision happening.

I’m debating whether I should just leave Odeta here, where I know she’s safe—temporarily at least—or whether I should take her immediately to the ambassador in Sweden and have her wait there for Mama and Kaja. 

I want to spend all of my time with her—Odeta, I mean—but she’s busy with chores and taking care of the littlest girls. So, I’ve been practicing with the dizi a lot. I have managed to make fire work, and I can pretty much make small animals do whatever I want. I had the most horrible thought this afternoon. What if I could actually make something stop living? 

Apparently I can do it just by breathing, too.  I punched a tree and broke my hand this morning, and when I breathed on it, it seemed to get better.  It made my shoulder burn, though.  It's strange that I've only noticed it today, but there's a funny glowing feeling every time I do it.

I really have to come up with a way to think about this.  What am I doing?  "Using my magical powers?"  Too creepy sounding.  And what is it, anyway?  I haven't got a name for it; I haven't a noun or a verb, and I need both.

There was a group of four or five girls that begged to hear me play the dizi this evening—they were about fifteen or sixteen—and since Odeta was working in the kitchen, I said I would. My hand still ached, but I wanted music, so I defied common sense and played anyway.  The girls kept giggling, which was annoying, because if they wanted to hear me play, then they should listen. I think they just wanted to drape themselves in my line of vision and stare at me. I am not this attractive; apparently they are short on young men. So I… made them stop giggling and pay attention.

I don’t feel quite right about using it on people somehow.

There was a little girl—her name was Maria, I think—the one who seems so attached to Yong—asked me to teach her to play. She had a hard time getting the idea; she kept trying to blow into the flute instead of across it. But playing with her was much more fun, because she was actually interested in music, instead of just trying to stare into my eyes.

Anyway, I am writing this while Odetuchna puts the babies to bed, so hopefully, later we can have a talk about Sweden. I suspect she’ll want to stay here, though. She has friends here, and something to do with herself.

I'm glad this day is almost over.  It was a good one—but a confusing one—but a good one—but... I'm so tired.

I left yesterday. The last person I saw was Larisa Pavlovna Babukhina, my next-door neighbor. We had shared a kitchen. Our landlady wasn’t awake yet, so I gave my key to Larisa Pavlovna.

I took the metro as far south as it would go, and then I rode a bus. At the end of the city, I walked for a little way before I was passed by a truck carrying supplies to Obninsk. The driver gave me a ride as far as Podol’sk, where he turned west. He told me about his son on the front lines, and he asked about my job, probably wondering why I wasn’t helping the war effort similarly. I told him that I was an executive at a factory that makes machine guns and that my car had broken down.

I hate lying. I don’t think I’m very good at it, especially in other languages. The driver seemed to buy it, though. After all, why wouldn’t I be telling the truth?

Podol’sk is an industrial city on the Pakhra River. It’s pretty big—about 72,000 people. I ate at a kiosk, and I managed to find an общежитие where I could stay for the night. It was very cheap and very ugly, but at least it was clean, and I have nothing to steal but money, which I keep inside my clothes.

Okay, so I brought a couple of books… and the dizi… but I put those in my bag and tucked them under my pillow.

I didn’t sleep very well at all. Strangers make me nervous, and there were millions of them… surrounding me… snoring and making other creepy noises in their sleep. I got up when the sun rose and started walking. I wasn’t hungry.

As I left town, I was picked up by a farmer who was on his way to Lopasnya. He didn’t seem interested in talking, which was fine with me. I stared out the window for a long time.

We arrived in Lopasnya before noon, and I should have kept going. But instead I spent the entire day here because I got distracted by the Davidov Hermitage. I had to pay to get in. It’s a tourist attraction now. I removed my hat anyway.

I stood for nearly an hour in front of the iconostasis. It was gilded and covered with icons of the saints and the apostles. In the middle was Theotokos, the Holy Mother. On the ceiling, inside the main dome, was the icon of Christ as Ruler of All.

There were a few old ladies lighting candles in front of the icons. I lit a candle to Basil the Blessed, asking for wisdom in my journey. I got quite a few strange looks, but I don’t care if people know that I’m not a party member. Lighting candles isn’t illegal, especially for me.

Tomorrow I will keep walking south. I hope to make it as far as Serpukhov.

Canceling lessons is the worst activity ever. I had to call on eighteen families this weekend and recommend my colleagues. I hate looking children in the eye and telling them that I’m abandoning them to the whim of Fate.

Adela Beauvais actually cried.

Of course, Adela has always been in love with me—I think—and in the foyer this afternoon, she did say that I'm cute—and she is really pretty—which doesn't matter because she's scandalously young for me—but the point is, she is very talented at languages, and she will miss learning Russian. I will miss our lessons, too—I don’t know any other fifteen-year-olds who could have grasped passive participles so quickly.

Sometimes I suspect that my students don’t love languages as much as I do. So I was a little cheered that Mademoiselle Beauvais was in tears. (Should I feel guilty?) Her younger brother Blain seemed less upset, but I wasn’t surprised since I really don’t think he enjoys the Russian language in the same way his sister does. I explained myself as best I could to Madame Beauvais, and she looked sympathetic and a little envious. I know from inadvertent comments dropped by Blain and Adela that Monsieur Beauvais decided to stay in Moscow to protect his business interests, and now can’t find a way to get his family out of the city.

I sort of wish I could take the children with me, even though it would be more dangerous for them. At least I would know whether something bad had happened to them. Plus, I know that I would take good care of them. Not that there’s anything wrong with Madame Beauvais! It’s just that I keep having these urges to kidnap children and take them home and feed them.

Walking home, I felt very odd. I—and the people for whom I work—are living a bizarre, precariously balanced life. We try to go on living like nothing is wrong, and all the time we know that, at any moment, we could be blasted into tiny little pieces.

Or imprisoned. I know that the only reason I wasn’t thrown into prison when the Soviet Union attacked Poland is that I’m on good terms with Chairman Molotov. Vyacheslav Mikhailovich once needed an emergency translator for a conference with the Spanish diplomat, and I stepped in. He found my apartment — just down the street from his uncle’s old house. (His uncle is Aleksandr Scriabin!)

I hate accepting favors from Bolsheviks—it feels like betraying my country and my beliefs. But I’ve come to grudgingly respect Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. He’s a teetotaler and a vegetarian. And he always dresses professionally. Trotsky can call him a mediocrity, but he’s proved that he knows how to get the job done. …Even though “getting the job done” usually means doing Stalin’s dirty work and deporting kulaks to labor camps.

Okay, so maybe I have less respect for him than I thought. Also, it was his treaty that divvyed up Poland between Germany and the Soviet Union. Not to mention several other countries. The Finns named the Molotov cocktail for him. On second thought, I hate him.

I think I must defend myself by saying that he got the apartment for me before I knew he signed the treaty. It was a secret agreement! There was no way I could have known!

It’s so cold. There aren’t any explosion sounds today, so I can’t help but think maybe the soldiers are cold, too. Well, I’m happy that they’re having a break, but I can’t imagine having to stay outside all the time in weather like this. I sat out on my balcony today for two hours, because I had a whim and wanted to see how long I could stay outside before I couldn’t stand it anymore.

There is no way I’m going to be able to walk to Poland. I won’t even be able to make it to Tula. Hitchhiking sounds increasingly wonderful.

The snow is falling heavily, and traffic is completely suspended. Even the metro is closed in places. It’s the kind of snow that comes down in sharp little pellets that sting your cheeks and then hit the ground and melt a little until it forms a wet, packed-down blanket.

I thought I was going to die, sitting out there. My feet eventually hurt so badly that I took off my shoes and just sat on my feet, curling up into my overcoat. My nostrils almost froze shut and made it hard to breathe. The snow pellets smacked into my face and actually made tears come to my eyes. But my hands were warm enough in my mittens and pockets, and my ears were warm. I was wearing the blue scarf that Odeta knitted for me.

I remember that she once made me a red one and gave it to me for Christmas. It was awful, pure torture. It had a tiny little flaw on one end, and all I could see whenever I looked at it was that little flaw. It nearly drove me insane. Of course, I knew that I was being completely irrational, and I didn’t want to hurt my little sister’s feelings, so I wore it. Every single day. Until she made the blue one, thank God.

Odeta must be… seventeen now. That would make Kaja twenty and Ksenia fourteen. Assuming they’re still alive. I wonder what happened with Kaja and that student from Płock… They’d been seeing each other for over two years when I left Warsaw. They could be married by now.

I don’t know whether I’m more depressed by the thought of my sister being married when the closest thing I have to a girlfriend is an infatuated fifteen-year-old, or by the futility of marriage itself in light of current world events.

I was stupid when I made my list. You can’t buy Reichsmark because they’re enemy currency, and you can’t buy złotych because the Soviet government says that our beloved Polska doesn’t exist. I guess I’ll have to get by on rubles, my decreasingly valuable skills, and the pass code for the account in Zurich.

I did close my Moscow account and settle with the building supervisor, so it’s too late to talk myself out of going now. I’ll leave on Monday. That’s a good day to leave because it’s the beginning of the week, and it’s the first day of December, and it’ll give me all day tomorrow to pray and say goodbye to the city.

After all, it is a beautiful old city, even though it’s been my prison for three years. It’s not the city’s fault that the Soviet Union is a completely evil entity. It’s not the city’s fault that it’s being attacked by another completely evil entity bent on destruction of all that’s good in the world.

Okay, so I can never, ever, let anyone else find this journal.

Isn’t it odd how, in every human soul, there is a little spark of goodness, and yet when people gather into massive groups, the groups always turn out badly? Everybody’s gone crazy, and the innocent are trapped in the middle of it, and soon we’ll all join in and just start killing each other, too.

If I can just get my family to somewhere safe, then I can get to Paris or London and join up with the Polish government.

I finished the dizi yesterday. It has an exotic sound because of the scale used, and I’ve had to make up all new tunes to play on it, but I like it very much. I’ve taken to it unexpectedly quickly, actually. My fingers feel very comfortable on it.

It works better than other wind instruments when it comes to that thing. It must just be the particular way it’s shaped, or the material it’s made of, but it seems to focus my purpose much better than anything else I’ve played. I made the neighbor’s cat fall asleep in less than thirty seconds! Isn’t that wonderful? And I actually—you will never believe this—set a fire on the balcony just by playing and thinking about heat!

When I’m playing the dizi, it’s almost like the dreams I have are more like actual events. Like I’m having somebody else’s memories. In them, the person uses the dizi to put children to sleep and make people feel calm or inspired.

I wonder if this is something everybody can do, or if there’s something special about me. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone do something comparable, but I hesitate to label myself as extraordinary. This is because my natural tendency is to believe that I’m breathtakingly amazing, and I have to be careful or else I’ll end up as the most highbrow angel in the ivory tower.

And what’s going on with the memories? Why would I be remembering someone else’s life? I wonder if it’s some sort of vision from God. I mean, who else has the kind of power to do something like this? I think I would be able to tell if it were demonic in nature. I’ll have to pray about it.

But wouldn’t it be exciting if I really were intended to do something important? I mean, we are supposed to use our talents for good. Although, good right now means stopping the war, and I’m not sure how I can stop a war with sleepy children.

So… maybe I'm destined for great things!  And Adela Beauvais thinks I'm cute!

I’m serious about leaving. I’ve been working on the dizi and thinking. I know this seems sudden, but what can I say? I know I’m too impulsive.

I feel the need to justify myself. Okay, here goes: I’ve waited two and a half years, the situation is just getting worse, I should have left a long time ago. It won’t be a problem to leave Moscow; the hard part will be getting through the Germans without being captured for a spy. If I stay here, I’ll have to face the Germans anyway. And I feel stupid not doing anything. I must be the only man my age that’s not in the army.

I know the Germans must be coming closer to the city. We can hear the fighting all the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were more like 30 km away now.

It’s 1150 km from Moscow to Warsaw. I figure I can walk at least 30 km a day. So, if I walk the whole way, I can be there in a month. But that’s a straight line, and I’ll have to curve around a lot, so my actual estimate is more like two or three months. I hope to arrive before March. Maybe I can hitchhike, too. I thought about buying a car, but that’s probably not a good use of money, considering the roads are all torn up.

I’ve made a list of all the things I need to do.

Apartment:
~Pay all of my bills and settle with the building supervisor
~Sell most of my belongings
~Pay someone to store my library and musical instruments 

Work:
~Finish up my translation work
~Cancel my lessons and recommend other tutors to my students 

Banking:
~Get some money transferred from the account in Zurich
~Buy Reichsmark and złotych
~Close my bank account in Moscow 

Official:
~Obtain the necessary documents for travel
~Leave word with the French consulate (considering there is no Polish one now) 

Pack—and I’m absolutely only allowing myself one satchel, although it will be sad to leave all of my books:
~Two suits and a pair of shoes
~Soap and a shaving kit
~Iodine and bleach (for the water, just in case)
~Maps, my passport, and money
~Pocketknife and matches
~Vitamin supplements
~Notebooks and pens

My plan is to go south before heading west. I’d like to go straight to Warsaw but, at least according to news reports, the fighting is thicker there.

I don’t even know what I’m going to do once I get to Warsaw. I’ll have to give myself a time limit—maybe three months?—to find out what happened to my family, and then I have to take them and get out. Probably we’ll go north and try to cross the Baltic Sea to Sweden. I know a former ambassador in Stockholm who could probably help us out.

No, this is stupid.

If I’m not captured by German soldiers and impressed into slave labor before I reach Warsaw, and if I don’t die from exposure or hunger or random gunfire, I’ll probably get stuck in Warsaw. There’s no way I’ll get to Sweden. How would I get a boat, anyway?

But I have to get my family out of that city, or at least find out where they’ve gone and get them to safety somehow. I’ve know the radio reports by heart: no food, no medical supplies, constant bombardment. The waterworks destroyed. Fires raging through the city. All higher educational institutions closed. Jews—a third of the city—herded into the Ghetto. Civilians dead: 25,800. Civilians wounded: 50,000. Buildings demolished: 12%.

So I’ll go south to Tula, and then cut through Nazi lines to Smolensk and then Orsha. After that, as innocently as possible, I’ll make my way west to Minsk, Białystok, and then Warsaw. At least, that’s my plan.

I seem very well organized and resolved, but actually, I’m terrified.

I went to pray today, not to the Catholic church, but to Red Square, to Собор Покрова что на Рву—the Cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed. I go here all the time, but I try to spend my time in the cathedral itself. I mostly ignore the bronze statue in the garden that commemorates the seventeenth-century Russian victory over Poland.

I’ve been thinking about Basil the Holy Fool, and… if I were Orthodox… I’d certainly have him for my patron saint. Actually… I’ve been praying to him, even though I’m not Orthodox. I know that Church doctrine probably frowns on this, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

There are nine chapels on the cathedral’s foundation, surrounding a central tower, and I like to kneel in the one that Tsar Fedor Ivanovich built over the grave of Saint Basil in 1561. Everybody calls the cathedral by Basil’s name, even though it is really named after the Blessed Virgin.

Saint Basil was a юродивый—a holy fool. From the age of sixteen, he went around naked and in chains, pretending to be slow, speaking the word of God in riddles, and telling strangers of their secret sins. He gave meat to Ivan the Terrible during Lent, saying, “Ivasko, Ivasko, do you think it unlawful to eat a piece of beast's flesh and not unlawful to eat so much flesh by your massacres?” His feast day is August 2nd.

My actual patron saint—John of Caramola—has a feast day on the day I was born, August 26th. He was an Italian hermit. I’m ostensibly named for him, although I think my parents actually just liked the name.

I think I’m grown-up enough to recognize my own patron saint, don’t you?

I feel like… somebody should be there for Basil. His own people have turned away from God (though even they have the good sense not to destroy this work of art that is his cathedral, praise be to the Lord) and here am I, also a wanderer and also, in a way, different from those around me.

I'm at a concert in the Small Hall at the Conservatory.  I really shouldn't be writing, but I'm not disturbing anyone.  I'm sitting in the top row of the balcony in one of those hard, white, tall-backed pew benches; you know, the ones that squish you into your neighbors and cut you off from everyone else.

Luckily, I have no neighbor this evening.  It's just a degree recital for a decently-talented pianist, and the lowest floor is full of her friends and colleagues.

I feel kind of bad, doing this.  But I guess if I'm not bothering anybody, it's okay...

Quartet for the End of Time is still going through my head.  Music has changed so much... everywhere but here.  Conservatory students are excellent technicians and expressive to the point of inanity.  (So few are true Romantics...  I'm surrounded by Philistines here!)  But the innovations in modern music are happening in France and Germany and the United States.

It seems stupid to go to concerts, but I guess there's nothing else for us to do.  We have to try to preserve some sense of normalcy and joy in everyday life.  I only wish I could be doing something useful to ease people's suffering.

I spent the day at the library, researching folk instruments.  I dreamt all last night about that stupid flute again.  I woke up feeling distinctly unsettled, so as soon as I got dressed and forced myself to finish some paperwork like a responsible member of society, I caught the metro to the city center and went to the public library and then to the library at the Conservatory.  (That's where I found out about the recital, by the way.)

I went to the library because I wanted to find out where I've seen that instrument before.  My dreams are so detailed, and I remember them so clearly, that I know I must have played--or at least seen--that instrument before.

It turns out, it's a Chinese bamboo flute called the dizi, also known as a di or hengdi.  It was introduced into China from Central Asia during the Han Dynasty, between 206 BC and 220 AD, although simple transverse flutes have existed in China for over 8,000 years.  Modern instruments have a little membrane in them, called the dimo, that gives them a buzzy sound, but it wasn't invented until the Tang Dynasty (618-907 AD).  The one in my dreams doesn't have it, so obviously it's an older style.  The dizi has a pretty big range for a flute:  about 2 1/4 octaves!

I had to go through a lot of pictures in a great number of books to find it.  It's played exactly like I play it in my dreams.  I know I must have studied it somewhere.

It's actually strange that the dizi turns out to be from China, though, because of course my flute dreams, like most of my other ones, take place in this odd quasi-China-like place.  I have no idea why I have this bizarre obsession with China.

Anyway, I bet I could make one, if I could find the right sort of bamboo.  All you have to do is stop one end and drill holes in it at even intervals.  There would be one embouchure hole (chui kong in Chinese!), six finger-holes, and two pairs of holes in the end to correct the pitch and hang decorative tassels.  It's not even equal temperament, so determining the placement of the finger-holes should be a matter of simple mathematics.  The scale is actually a mixture of whole-tone and three-quarter-tone intervals.

Maybe I'll start one this week.  I'll scour the city for bamboo, or else see if I can make it out of some other type of wood.  It'll give me something to do to keep my mind off Christmas.

Christmas is awful here.  Nobody else celebrates it except other expatriates, and anyway it just reminds me of how much I worry about my family.  I usually (by which I mean, for the last two years) attend parties at the homes of various ambassadors and foreign teacher on the nights leading up to the holiday, but the day itself I usually spend alone, praying and reading.  I go to Mass, too, I guess.  It's nice that there's a Catholic church here, even if it's only foreigners who attend.  The service is in Latin and the homily in French, so everybody understands.

This will be my third Christmas here.  I don't even know if there will be a Moscow by then.

I really wish something would happen so I could go home, or the world would end.

I don't care if there is half a meter of snow on the ground.  I don't care if Moscow is surrounded by Nazi soldiers.  I'm going to find a way to leave this city and find out what's happened to my family.  And I'm going to do it in a rational, well-organized way, and I'm not going to get killed doing it.

I’m sitting in Александровский сад—the Aleksandr Garden—and I’m watching the Kremlin wall.

There is a grotto here under the Middle Arsenal Tower with a cast iron gate. It was designed to commemorate the Russian victories over Napoleon in the early 1800s. People come here now because it makes them think maybe they will have the same strength (luck? providence?) to defeat the Germans.

Barricades have been built up in the streets.  The government's moved out of the Kremlin to Kubyshev, but Stalin's stayed, of course.  He's been a very inspirational leader.  I came to see the annual military parade on November 7.  All the soldiers paraded across Red Square and marched right out to the battle.  It was pretty stupid; it would have been disastrous if the Germans had chosen to bomb us at that moment.  But it really helped people, I think, to see such a visible reminder of how hard this city is fighting right now.

It's horrible at night, when you can hear the sounds of the fighting.  We're not surrounded yet, so we're not really short supplies, and everyone's going about their jobs, but it feels so hollow and tense.  I feel very silly giving music lessons when there are men--and even women, we've gotten so desperate--exploding into pieces not 120 miles away.  And it's cold.  Dmitri Aleksandrovich next door says that it's the coldest winter he can remember.

I’ve spent the last two days inside my apartment, and I was ready to get out, so I rode the metro to the city’s center. Whatever else people say about Moscow, it does have a first-class transportation system.  The metro is wonderful!  And it’s being expanded all the time.  There’s a station right down the block from my house on Arbat Street, and there are a million of them around Red Square. Of course, now the stations are being used as air raid shelters.  The Council of Ministers has moved its offices to Mayakovskaya station.  Chistiye Prudy is now inaccessible to the public.  The rumor is, that’s where the Air Defense headquarters are.

I can’t even express how much I hate war.

I’m not old enough to remember the First Great War, but I saw what it did to my father and mother.  I saw what war did to my Poland.  This is what the League of Nations was supposed to prevent.  I believed in a time that seems very long ago that I would be able to help protect the world, to make it safe for those who came after me.

Instead the world descended into chaos.  It’s like the End Times described in the Book of Revelations.  Out of a German prison camp, there’s come a piece by a French composer, Olivier Messiaen, called Quatour pour la fin du temps.  I heard it performed at a private party—it’s too modernist for official channels—and it’s the most profoundly sad thing I’ve ever heard.  We all were crying silently as we left.

I’m sitting in the snow-covered garden watching good things that I know may soon disappear into nothing.  There are school kids and factory workers on their days off, and packs of wild dogs and doves.  But it’s not just these that worry me—we can save them, we can move them.

It’s the public library.  It’s the Bolshoi Theater.  It’s the Cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed.  It’s the trees and the fountains and the bricked-over square.  These things cannot be moved to a safe place.  When the bombs come, they will be destroyed.  We will build newer, uglier buildings in their places, but even a truly beautiful building cannot replace what was truly beautiful and now is gone.

So…

The tone of this has been dark, but so have my thoughts been lately. I will try to be more cheerful.

On a less doomful subject, that strange thing happened again today.

I was giving an oboe lesson to one of my students—Natalia Ilyevna, the round-faced eleven-year-old who wants to be a factory director when she grows up—and I was trying to get her to play an arrangement of Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte.

I was trying to get Natasha to imagine what it would feel like to be a medieval Spanish princess, but the idea of identifying with something so imperialist was repulsive to her.

I finally told her to forget the programmatic meaning and just make up her own meaning for the music. We listened to a recording for a while, and then she told me that she thought it sounded like a lullaby. I asked her to play it like a lullaby, but it was still squawky, so I took the oboe from her and played it.

She fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up. I was so afraid she was going to be still asleep when her father came to pick her up. He’s a tall, big, important businessman. I met him through the Swedish ambassador. Frankly, he terrifies me.

After about forty minutes, I managed to shake her awake. When her father arrived to take her home, I overheard him ask her how her lesson had gone. I think she may have gotten in trouble for falling asleep. I feel really bad about it, but what can I say?

Spend five seconds thinking about the possible ways to explain that situation!

The first page of a journal, I always feel, should be filled with introductory statements. It doesn’t make much sense to begin in media res, but since I wasn’t, contrary to what you may believe, born with a pen in my hand, I must select the most recent event that could be construed as a beginning.

I have been in Moscow since August 6, 1939.

I live in a little apartment on Arbat Street. I can see Pushkin’s house from my window. Scriabin’s house is just down a side street. There are still a few of the old churches here.

It is a very nice apartment, considering. I am lucky to be in such a beautiful part of the city—inside the Garden Ring—but I can’t help but feel a little like a tourist, or a guest.

Or an expatriate.

I should have gone home in late August, when I had the chance. Instead, I chose to stay for a September 3 concert at the Little Theater. Well, how could I have known?

Of course, I didn’t go to the concert. I was too busy frantically trying to call home. But you know how the phones are here.

I decided to wait until it blew over, since it sounded like there was going to be a treaty. Stupid, stupid, stupid. By September 14, Warsaw was completely surrounded. It was bombed into submission on September 27. The Germans targeted all routes of communication.

I am never going to see my mother and sisters again. This is a war of extermination.

France and the United Kingdom have declared war, naturally—they had pledged to do so—but they didn’t send any troops.

Escribo esto en español porque alguien pudo encontrar mi diario. ¡Los polacos rechazaron permitir que los soviet entren en la nación, y hooray para nosotros! En un periódico secreto, Rydz-Śmigły dicho, “con los alemanes corremos el riesgo de perder nuestra libertad. Con los rusos perderemos nuestra alma."

Anyway, it meant there was no help for us until it was too late. The Red Army has been in Poland since September 17, “helping the Ukrainians and Byelorussians threatened by Germany”.

At least as far as the Soviet Union is concerned, Poland no longer exists. I can’t go back even to the Soviet-controlled section because of security concerns. And now that conflict between Germany and the USSR has started, the entire front is blocked. There’s been a new treaty, and the Polish prisoners the Soviets took in 1939 have been allowed to leave the country via Persia. They’re going to London and Paris, though; I want to get back to Warsaw.

I’ve been trying for the past six months to get permission to travel to Paris. If I can get there, someone in the League of Nations will give me my job back, and I’ll at least have something productive to do for the war effort. Also in Paris is the exiled Polish government. President Mościcki has appointed Senate Speaker Władysław Raczkiewicz as the new President, and Władysław Sikorski is the Prime Minister and Commander-in-Chief of our Armed Forces (ha!). Well, I haven’t always agreed with these men’s politics in the past, but now is the time for Polish solidarity.

Anyway, I won't get out now.  Leningrad has been besieged since September, and there's fighting just 120 km outside Moscow even at this very moment.  Hospitals are filling up with soldiers.  Everyone here is holding his breath, waiting for the order to evacuate.  There have been air raids in the last month or two.

I can’t help but smile sardonically at myself.

Anyway, I have been praying to Saint Andrzej Bobola, the patron saint of Warsaw. And to Saint Elizabeth the Peacemaker.  And to Saint Adelaide, the patron saint of people in exile. I’m not technically exiled, but it was the closest thing I could think of.

I wanted to work for the Soviet government, translating, but so far, there’s been no luck. I don’t think the Kremlin officials trust Poles very much. I’ve been giving lessons in music and languages to the sons and daughters of Soviet officials. It pays the rent and for groceries.

Really, this isn’t an expensive place to live. Well, basic necessities are less expensive than in the rest of Europe. Luxuries are ungodly expensive. Ice cream is cheap, though, and so are the opera and the symphony and the zoo. So you see, I’ve been keeping busy.

And now I will also be spending my time writing, I think.