The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <
Coordinates : 3 4
This large, dank room was the cellar of a big shared house on the riverbanks. The upper floors have mostly been demolished by air attacks and artillery.
There are a few separate areas, blocked from each other by the internal brick walls. Most of the places to sleep are little more than bedrolls on the filthy ground, ridden with lice.
Near the stairs that lead to the ruined outside is a long wooden table and some chairs. A mound of bricks with jury-rigged piping functions as a fireplace for the worst winter nights, smoke often backing up into the crowded basement.
Dawn is filtering slowly through the thick haze of smoke and snow-clouded skies. Little of it reaches this dank basement, oil lamps still burning and leaving skin covered with a greasy, sooty film. Maschenko is recently off duty at the hospital, sitting on the floor at his dirty bedroll. Not writing for once. His satchel is pushed against the wall and the second one he's been carrying around since Sokolof's death is open. He has a book on his bent knees, which he's slowly thumbing through. A cigarette burns in one hand and a chipped wooden cup is by his knee, partly filled with something clear.
Yulia comes in from her own shift at the hospital, weariness written across her face. But it's rare that she gets moments to herself nowadays so the morning will be spent trying to resume her letter. She picks her way across some of the sleepers on the floor, and as she nearly trips on someone's unseen arm - thump. Her boots land heavily as she regains her balance. A quick look back to make sure she didn't cause any injury. The guy is still asleep. Whew.
Maschenko puts the cigarette in his mouth to turn a page, smoke drifting into his face as he looks up at the sound of Yulia thumping. His eyes squint slightly through the acrid puff and he nods once to the young woman. "You alright?" His voice is low, trying to avoid waking anyone still in fitful sleep.
Yulia nods with a guilty wince. "Just finished my shift," she whispers back, rubbing her eyes with a knuckle. "A bit tired." Aren't we all? She finally reaches her own bedroll which is presumably near Maschenko's and unshoulders her satchel. "Saw at least three soldiers who drank what they thought was a cache of vodka. It was actually antifreeze…" She doesn't sound impressed.
Maschenko slowly plucks the cigarette out, lightly puffing a stray piece of tobacco off his bottom lip. "Antifreeze," he repeats quietly. A slight grimace at the very thought, which brings out the terribly premature wrinkles developing around his mouth and eyes. "Are they expected to make it?" He and Yulia are sitting in close proximity on bedrolls by a wall. Sokolof's bag is open, finally, and the doctor's got a book open on his knees. Cigarette, of course, and a partly drunk cup of something clear.
Novikova wanders in, just in time to hear about antifreeze. "Whoa, who drank that?" She boggles. "Comrades!" She chirps merrily, glad to see teh two. She shakes the snow off, "Mom always said, Zoya, don't drink that. Zoya, stop chewing on that. Wait, I was like little." Ponder. Hmmm. She shrugs. "How are you two?" She settles in to move to a spot naer the fire.
Yulia presses her back against the wall and wrinkles her nose at a few crackles brought on from a roll of her shoulders. "Those were the ones who did make it," she murmurs, digging out a half-written page of a letter from her pack. "There were eleven in total. What a waste. Hello, Zoya," she adds as Novikova enters. "Some soldiers I just saw before ending my shift. I don't recommend it either," she adds with an arched eyebrow while her hands search further in her satchel. After some moments of unfruitful searching, she glances at Maschenko. "Comrade doctor, do you have a pencil I might borrow?"
Elise was curled up on her bedroll, still nursing that cold. She sits up now though, rubbing her eyes blearily. Before greeting - or even noticing, really - anyone else, she trudges over to the water barrel to get some cold water to splash on her face.
Antifreeze deaths don't quite trigger Maschenko's sense of humor. He runs the back of his hand over a jaw that could really use a good shave, feeling skin scratch on stubble. "Zoya Dmitriyevna," he says, soft-voiced so as not to wake dawn sleepers. Or the feverish ill. "Eleven…" He makes a little noise with a puff of air, thinning his lips. "Waste indeed. And yes, I've got one somewhere." He shifts th open book on his leg as he reaches out for his satchel, dragging it closer.
Novikova looks duly abashed. It wasn't a humorous comment really, more one of surprise. "Da?" She asks the doctor quietly. "Sorry. It seems wasteful and kind of -" … dumb. Novvikova just shrugs. She stays more quiet though and smiles at Yulia. "Comrade Yulia. It's a tragedy," She agrees and looks to Elise. "Cousin," She greets her softly.
"Da. They were desperate for vodka, I suppose." Yulia rubs the back of her neck, not sure if she can really blame them. "Comrade Elise, how are you?" she asks of the girl, gently. Judging from the way she headed straight over to the water, she's probably rather out of it. Yulia's eyes turn back to watches Maschenko as he gets his pack. Then they spot the book. She lifts her chin a touch and tilts her head, trying to see the text. "What do you have there?"
Elise looks over at the greetings from the other group, face still dripping wet. "Cousin, Comrades." She drags a sleeve across her face to dry it. "I'm all right." All right-ish, anyway. Still sniffly and tired looking. "How are you all?" She'll come closer.
"Desperation does awful things to sense," Maschenko comments under his breath. "I just hope it wasn't on purpose." He raises an eyebrow down at the book on his knees, slowly pushing the cover partly closed over the hand lying in the middle. 'The Collected Works of Alexander Pushkin', reads the title in dirty lettering. "It's Sokolof's. Was Sokolof's." Murmured correction, after a moment. "They wouldn't let me send all his things, so here they are." He looks at the nurse and lets the book open back up, brushing dust off a page. Then up again. "Morning, Elise."
Maschenko is sitting on a bedroll by the wall, Yulia close by. Novikova's by the fire, Elise is washing her face.
Novikova nods at Maschenko, "Yeah." Then a look to the book. There's a tremendous sadness. "If I had known … I would have taken him to the library more," A deep guilt. She liked Sokolof. She smiles sadly at Elise. "I am well enough. Glad to see you all," She admits. "Grateful to see you all." She grunts and takes out her canteeen for a sip. "How are you, cousin?" She looks to Yulia too.
Yuri strolls into the Barracks, just recently assigned to the unit operating at the Volga river. It is obvious that he seems a bit lost, and as his eyes go over the people gathered, not even once do they flash with comprehension of recognizing someone. He finds a nice place to sit, near the corner, and unslings his rifle from his back, starting to take it apart slowly.
Elise finishes drying off her face and comes over to the fire by her cousin. "A little better," she tells Novikova. She, too, grows somber when Maschenko talks about Sokolof's pack, but doesn't say anything about it. She just gives Maschenko a bit of privacy, meant out of respect. Her eyes are drawn immediately to the sound of boots on the stairs, and she gives Yuri a polite nod. To Novi, she asks more quietly, "You haven't seen Ivan, have you?"
Yulia hesitates when she sees the title. She swallows and looks up at Maschenko. "I see. That book — I remember when we found it." She turns a bit to give a sad half smile, more of a quirk of her lips, to Novikova, and rests a hand on the top of her own satchel. "And comrade Sokolof, he found the Gorky book I still have too." Her voice gradually grows a bit softer and momentarily tracks Yuri as a distraction.
Dimitri slips quietly into the room, trying to remain unnoticed in lew of the new sniper addition to the squad. He sits quietly on his bedroll, groaning as he has to lower himself down with his injured hands.
"It's time, my friend, it's time," Maschenko talks quietly as his eyes stay down on the page. Reading, maybe, though it has the somber ease of someone who perhaps already knew the words. "The peace is craved by hearts / days flow after days — each hour departs. / A bit of life — and both, you and I / plan a long life, but could…" He fades off for a heartbeat or two, as though not going to finish the verse at all. "…abruptly die." He turns up a corner with his thumb, reading over the verse once more in silence. A soft exhale through his nose and he looks away from it, reaching for his cup. "Have you still got that, comrade nurse? I have never read Gorky, I don't think." A sip from the cup and he glances at Elise, then the unfamiliar Yuri with a polite nod.
Novikova smiles at Yuri, "Allo Comrade." She waves at the fellow and looks to her cousin, then shakes her head. "Nyet, but I've been sent all over it seems. And I am glad you are a little better." She smiles. A look to Yulia, nodding. "Da. I wish - I wish I'd gone sooner, but I guess if wishes were fishes I could just drown the Fascists in spiked pufferfishes." Brained with a fish! She waves to Dimitri. A look to Maschenko, quietly somber briefly. She takes a deep breath.
The boy, the newcomer, somehow managed to catch all the looks he got as he was taking apart the rifle, and setting the pieces in a well-practiced order; From stock to barrel to the springs. And than with a cleaning kit, he started cleaning the barrel and looking down it's length to make sure everything was spot on.
And than his concentration was yanked elsewhere towards Novikova. His face beamed with a smile for a long moment as he nodded his head to everyone, "Hello, Comrades. I am private Yuri Stefanovski!" He never introduced himself before, why he did it now was beyond him, but in the back of his head, his thoughts raced; Mostly about the fragility of human beings, if there was anyone here whom he might not see after a week. Ever.
Elise nods, a little disappointed by Novi's reply. "I remember you wanted to go there the one day, but we went to scout the hospital instead." She doesn't expound on the story of how that ended, though it's evident in her sad expression. Dimitri's entrance does not go unnoticed, but that's mostly because Elise is paying careful attention to the door. "Comrade," she greets him softly. She's distracted by Yuri's greeting, and gives him a polite nod. She lets Novi perform introductions if she sees fit, though, a little out of sorts today.
Yulia listens to the poem, resting her head against the wall. Her hands slowly fold the yet unfinished letter in half, and her thumb runs along the crease, back and forth, stopping once Maschenko reaches the last phrase. Silent as well, then after his question, a pause - "What? Oh - yes, I do." It's been flopping around in her medical satchel ever since. She slides it out, offering it to the doctor. "Funny how books have memories attached to them," she murmurs quietly. Once Yuri introduces himself, her eyes slip over to him and she nods. "Good morning, comrade."
Yuri quickly reassembles the rifle with well-practiced maneuevers and than nods his head. "Alright. Bed for me. Night Vigil's was tough this night." He chuckles as he says, and than tiredly goes to the bed.
"Comrade." Maschenko also nods again to Yuri. Months of war at least haven't worn down all his manners. "Dr. Luka Andriyevich Maschenko." As if the name weren't Ukrainian enough, the man has a telltale accent. He looks up at Elise, watching her a moment until he offers her a sort of vague half smile, then looks back at Yulia. "Oh…thank you." He fiddles with the book on his knees, reluctant to let go of it, but in the end he pushes it towards her. "Do you want to see?"
Novikova smiles, starting to introduce herself- then pausing. "Guess not." She blinks as he goes to sleep. A smile to Maschenko. Best. Ukranian. Ever. She looks over at the book exchange, watching quietly and looks to Elise. "Don't worry, I'll find him and let him know if you want to talk," She promises. Novikova smiles sadly at the memories of the hospital scouting. "That's alright… the hospital would've been more usefful." If … the Nazis hadn't been crawling all over it like demented spiders at any rate. She shrugs. What is done is done. She seems content to watch, listen and speak. Much better about not gabbering on. She does look to Dimitri though.
Elise returns that half-smile in kind, lips pursing together lightly for a moment. She nods to Zoya then. "Da, I want to talk to him." She doesn't elaborate, though her expression grows more pensive. She quietly watches the exchange between nurse and doctor about the book.
"I haven't read it in a while. It has some good illustrations, though." Yulia says, passing Gorky's 'The Song of the Stormy Petrel' to Maschenko. She sits up at his offer and nods - first uncertain, looking at him as if to ask if it's okay. Then she takes it - for the second time, the first when she picked it up in the library. It's cradled in her hand carefully as Yulia slips a finger under the cover and leafs through the pages. Books are rather rare commodities around here. She finds a page in the first half of the book and reads.
Maschenko lets go of the Pushkin book after an almost protective second or two. "I want his son to have it. After this. Efim wrote all over it, you see…" Which sparks a bitterwseet twitch of his lips as Yulia's page turning uncovers some of that blurring pencil markings. Sokolof's son…assuming there's someone alive to take it there. And the rest of Sokolof's things — the bag is open and there's some other items stuffed in there. One's a photograph, though it's lying face down. He looks back down at the Gorky book, eyeing the verses she has it open to. "Oh, I remember you talking about this." His finger skirts under one of the lines as he reads it aloud, giving its due drama. "'In that crying sounds a craving for the tempest! Sounds the flaming of his passion, of his anger, of his confidence in triumph!'.
Novikova listens, especially touched by Maschenko's comment. Is that water in her eyes. She blinks quickly. "That's really thoughtful of you," She remarks to Maschenko and wipes at her eyes with her sleeve. Efim. Her old neighbor. She has to take a deep breath. "It's nice poetry, sometimes kind of sad," She notes quietly and smiles at Yulia nodding. She looks to Elise. "I will let him know," But she seems content to listen and watch the exchange of poetry.
Elise looks sad as well, when Maschenko mentions Sokolof's son. "Da," she agrees with Novi quietly, coughing into her sleeve. When she sees Novi getting misty, she gives her cousin's arm a reassuring pat. She listens to the poetry for a few moments but then says softly. "I'm going to go over to the mess hall." She'd offer to bring things back, but with rations as they are she doubts she could convince anyone to spare extra.
Yulia's grip tightens slightly on the book; her lips thin as she reads a particular poem. Marked up in the margins in what must be Sokolof's handwriting. She looks over the scrawl and smiles faintly. "Da, that is," she says in agreement with Novikova. "He will be thankful for it." Maschenko's reading of the poetry prompts another smile. "Sounds good, doesn't it? - All right, comrade Elise," she adds, lifting her gaze to look at the teenager. It takes a second for a hint of curiosity to enter her eyes, but after a second she goes back, thoughtful, to the book in her hands.
It takes Maschenko a second to realize Elise is leaving. He closes the Gorky book, clearing his throat. "My apologies, Elise." He pull a last drag from his cigarette and puts it out, reaching for his cup. The nearly dry depths get an annoyed look, as though the cup were at fault for being empty rather than him.
Novikova smiles at the pat and leans back for a moment. "You know, I should be getting that for you." She pouts a little. "But I am glad." Glad Elise feels well enough to at least eat. She is relieved. A look to Yulia. She nods. A look to the books and between the Doctor and Yulia. "Here, let me fill that for you. You have a book," Novikova smiles and offers to take the cup and refill it.
Elise shakes her head quickly to the doctor. "Don't be sorry, Comrade Doctor. I'm glad." Glad they're able to remember, and grieve in their ways. Her memories are more bittersweet, sad in a different way. She shakes her head to Novi. "If I can stand watch, I can stand to get my own breakfast. It's fine, cousin, but thank you. I'll be back soon." Grabbing her coat and rifle, she coughs once more and then heads up the stairs.
As Elise ascends the stairs, Yulia places her finger on the page she is reading and glances from Novi to Maschenko. "Is Elise all right? Apart from her cold, I mean." Oh to be so oblivious. She doesn't look overly worried, just a touch concerned while looking primarily at Novikova. "I have just noticed — but if it's a private matter…"
"No…no, it's fine." Maschenko ventures quickly, and pushes the cup out of the way before Novikova can pick it up. Clear it was, but smell like water it didn't. To Yulia he glances then, again scratching his cheek. "A matter with one of the other soldiers, I believe," he says after a moment. Reservedly, though with polite skirting around Elise's business rather than hostility to the nurse.
Novikova pouts, but accepts. "If … you're sure," She nods meekly at Maschenko. Novikova oddly enough, doesn't argue with Maschenko as much. A look to Yulia, "She's alright. Just worried about someone. It's easy to worry about people these days." Never know when someone in your unit just … stops showing up. She looks briefly guilty though. "And Zoya is a fool sometimes, but I suspect an entire volume could be written on that," She flashes a weak smile. She doesn't elaborate much, though - only offering enough to placate the curious. She smiles at Maschenko, then looks down. "I hope I didn't make you mad earlier."
Yulia nods decisively at their answers and eases back against the wall again, bringing the Pushkin forward to skim more. She doesn't have the energy or the desire to pry. "We all have our moments though Zoya," she adds idly, flipping a page or two forward to another marked-up page. She contninues reading quietly, only pausing to give a cursory glance at Maschenko's protective nature of that cup.
Maschenko keeps the Gorky book rested shut on his leg rather than on the filthy floor. Not that his leg's much less filthy, but it's the thought that counts. He closes his eyes, rubbing his fingertips between his brows until he registers Novikova's talking to him. "Hmm? No, I'm not mad." Something, maybe, but not mad. His blue eyes drift towards Yulia and the scribbled-in book, down at the pages. "Was it you who said once that you would have wanted to have been a poet, comrade nurse?"
Novikova nods and smiles, "I have /lots/ of those." A wink. She looks between the two. Something. Novikova takes a deep breath, before looking to Yulia at the question. "Sorry, I'm just thoughtful a bit." She offers quietly, content to listen and watch as much as speak for once.
Yulia brings her nose out of the book, lifting an eyebrow at Maschenko's question. "I don't remember exactly - though poetry is my favorite to read," she acknowledges. "I certainly wouldn't mind being a poet, but I am abominable that sort of thing." She combs a lock of blonde hair out of her face while curving back over the book, turning slowly a few more pages, then offers it back to Maschenko. "Thank you, comrade doctor. His son will appreciate you sending it. The notes reflect a lot of his personality, what he was like, I believe." She smirks at Novikova's answer, a look that eases into an understanding look at the girl's comment about being thoughtful.
Maschenko exchanges book for book, handing Yulia's back. The Pushkin's returned to Sokolof's satchel, along with all the other things. "I can't send them," he tells her, shaking his head slightly. "So. If you ever want to read it, go ahead. I'm sure he'd be happy someone is." He lets his back rest against the wall, rubbing the knot-ridden back of his neck. "You as well, Zoya."
Novikova smiles at Yulia, "That's silly to say. Even the best poets write some stinkers. I bet you could be good at it if you gave it a shot. Just think of feelings and pictures to start," She considers. Novikova goes quiet, at the mention of Sokolof's son. Probably close to or younger than her. Her hazel eyes reflect a gaze tinged with sadness and some regret. "I wouldn't send them. Winter's kind of a lousy time for mail," She wrinkles her nose. A half-smile. "Maybe sometime soon. It still knots my throat a bit. Or I could be contagious again soon and that seems rude. But - I really appreciate it. Thank you," She does seem to catch onto how important those books are. "I should probably nap or find more chores before they boot me upside the head for being lazy. Or go 'Zoya, are you idle and asking questions again? We're going to toss you into the Volga. Even if you bounce.'"
"Ah…" Yulia purses her lips, dropping her gaze down at the cover of her Gorky book. "You did say that. Still, whenever you're able to send it." Quiet then, she does nod at the possibility of reading Sokolof's book further. Though probably after she's had her share of sleep to enjoy it fully. The nurse's eyes look somewhat bleary and tired, and she rubs at her nose, listening to Zoya. "You'd be sure to bounce with all the ice now. I could hear the floes bumping into each other earlier; always an odd noise. But," she adds, in an advising tone, "you should rest if you have the chance, what with all the sickness going around."
A fierce wind rattles a fragile pane of intact glass above them, where their basement meets the street above. It pulls Maschenko's attention upwards, oil lamp shadows darkening the circles under his eyes. "I would keep your rest up," he agrees, soft still but with a slight edge. "There's something going on out there. I don't know what it is, but there's been more runners than usual in HQ the last few days. What it is I couldn't say, but I've heard Lieutenants talking about 'getting ready'."
Novikova frowns at the rattling. She pulls her blanket out and around her. She smiles at Yulia and nods. "And there would be my owches among them," She admits. There's a soft sigh as she settles in near Elise's spot. "I will. But you two do the same, alright?" She peers at Maschenko, concerned about her friend. "Really? Hm." There's a bit of concern, eyebrows furrowing. "Well. Rest well then." She leans back.
"I'll try, Zoya. And is that so, comrade doctor? One—" Yulia trails off as she yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her scarred hand, eyes pricking with tired tears. All this talk of resting! "One hears things in the hospital at times. I've wondered myself…" She rubs her arms vigorously and drags over her blanket, casting a wary glance of her own up at the shivering window. "Getting ready," she echoes thoughtfully.
The wind kicks up again outside, battering the glass with force and bits of ice. Frail as it is it holds steady, and that, for no discernible reason, makes Maschenko smile just a little bit. It doesn't warm up his eyes. He looks back down and tucks his blanket around his legs, slouching against the wall to settle in. "Go to sleep. These minutes are going to count." He'll even take his own advice tonight. After they've zoned out and after a quarter refill of his cup, not from water but from his flask.
