The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <
Coordinates : 3 5
This is little more than a little brick building where soldiers can sit for a few minutes and eat. There was more food months ago; now rationing is barely more than starvation amounts of thin gruel and bits of rock-hard bread. And often eaten back at the barracks or while on march. Still, some soldiers do find a second to come here and cling to some semblance of eating their bits of food with their comrades.
One often sees cooks and messengers coming and going with big urns on their backs, leaving for the perilous duty of running foodsupplies out into the front lines.
It is currently night time.
Clutching her own bowl of liquid and a crust of bread, occasionally lifting them above her head to avoid sloshing into someone, Yulia wedges her way in towards a few open seats where she might eat quietly. As quietly as it gets, at least. Apparently they must be having a discount on watery gruel and rock-like bread today, for it's awfully busy. It took a few moments before she spotted this cluster of seating that wasn't jam-packed. She settles in and puts her bowl aside, but still close. Her fingers go to work breaking up the hunk of bread into smaller -a nd more edible - pieces.
Maschenko has a battered tin mug full of that same gruel, and not even a spoon to have to worry about with it. One arm stays crossed protectively in front of his chest as he picks through the nighttime crowd of lice-ridden, downtrodden soldiers, headed for a clear seat at a bench. Of course, right as he nears it someone goes thud into it ahead of him, earning a black look at the back of his head from the doctor. He looks around and down at the closest other free spot to crunch into, across from Yulia, and heads that way instead. "Comrade nurse."
"Good evening, comrade doctor." Yulia greets Maschenko, hands slowing in splitting up the last piece of bread while she gives him a nod. There is a little collection of smaller pieces in front of her, some put off to the side. "Do you normally come at this time? I guess it's good that they are all here rather than in the hospital, but… it's busier than I'm used to. I usually eat a bit earlier than this." She reaches down to retrieve her own spoon, still tucked away in her right boot.
"I normally come when I can," Maschenko replies wryly, as he folds himself stiffly onto the splintered bench seat and glances into his cup. Better he hadn't; the gruel and its watery suspension have separated a little bit, floating clear liquid to the top above the heavier barley chunks in the bottom. It might have fazed him some months ago, but now he just lifts it and sips off the layer of hot water first, like some normal cup of tea. His eyes watch the crowd over the rim of the cup, and flicker up to one of the gas lamps hanging above. "Perhaps we're just becoming more like moths these days."
Yulia dips her spoon into her bowl and stirs a bit. Then lifts the spoon to her lips. Regardless of how it tastes, she is just happy for the warmth. "As long as you eat something…" she replies, but leaves it at that. It takes her a minute to figure out what he means by moths but she follows his gaze up to the lamp. "That's true. The days have grown much shorter, haven't they?" She picks up one of the little clumps of bread. "November 7 is around the corner."
Maschenko knocks the edge of the cup gently against the table, jarring loose some of the thin sludge. As if just to prove that he is in fact eating, he tilts it up for a mouthful of gruel first. Once that's been forced down, he clears his throat. There is a beat before he speaks, caught off guard. "Is it really?" Have they really been at this for months? "Suppose a parade is too much to hope for this year."
Yulia pops the bread chunk in her mouth and chews slowly. "One of the soldiers in the hospital reminded me. I thought it was still late October…" she lifts her eyebrows, as if to say 'oh well'. "But it wouldn't be right to let the day just go by." She drifts the spoon around in the glop in her bowl. "Who knows what will happen?" She hesitates.
"Some extra fireworks, I hope," Maschenko comments, with a dry smirk that barely moves the corner of his lip. "76mm Universal salute." He lifts the cup again for another swallow of the thin stuff they call dinner, looking down into the cup as he swirls the remainder around. "Did you ever go to the celebrations here?"
"Oh, of course!" A faint smile tugs at Yulia's mouth too. "We had balloons, flags. Even carnations. It was beautiful. We always went." She looks back into her bowl, the smile fading. "And you?" She reaches down again and scoops up her medic bag, setting it on her lap and undoing the flap.
"It sounds lovely," Maschenko muses quietly. "You know…I somehow always managed to somewhere else every time. Four years in Stalingrad, never once saw it here. It sounds as though it was something to stay up the night for."
"Oh - well, just think - you are lucky enough to be in Stalingrad for it this year," Yulia says dryly. "But I am sorry the day won't be up to our usual standards…" From the medic pack comes a square of cloth. Appropriately red. She scrapes a few of the chunks of bread into the cloth, wraps it up, and tucks in back inside. A bit more rummaging, and she lifts out a piece of paper. "Do you mind if I write?"
"Of course not, go on." Maschenko uses the time to job the cup around a little, mixing water and barely bits back together. He sips at it, shifting on the bench so he can rest his right elbow on the corner. Even polite enough not to be nosy about what she's writing, the reflection of the rim of the tin cup turns his blue eyes a dark shade of slate gray as he looks over it, briefly watching two soldiers smoke in grim silence at the next table.
Forgoing her spoon, Yulia lifts the bowl up to sip some more before putting pencil to paper. Her pencil scritches away for a good minute and then gradually slows to silence. She moves the pencil around in various possible shapes and letters, but writes nothing on the page. After another sip from her bowl she sighs and frowns, massaging her forehead. "Sometimes I wonder if they really want to read any of this anyway… or even if what I'm writing is really true… it's not false, it's just not what it really is like. I couldn't write that, even if I tried."
Maschenko looks back at her, the cup still blocking his nose and mouth. He looks down as he takes a small sip of grual, lowering the cup and cradling its fading warmth between his calloused hands. "They?"
"Da, my old roommate and her mother." Yulia rolls the pencil between her fingers. "In Moscow. I wrote them twice before. They were the only ones I thought who might receive my letters - outside of Stalingrad." Something brightens in her eyes, though she hesitates a second before reaching for her bag again. "I have a picture… that I actually retrieved when we were back at the apartment, some time ago." She seems embarrassed. "It sounds selfish to have gone hunting for personal mementos, doesn't it?"
Maschenko smiles a little. The expression's barely moves his lips, but at least it's there. "I won't tell anyone." Almost teasing, there. He glances at her face, then back at her hands as she reaches for the bag, lifting his cup again. "It's lovely to have photos. I didn't know you lived in Moscow…or was that here?" He and Yulia are sitting among the crowd of the night patrol shifts coming in from watch. Splintered benches, thin food. The nurse is digging through her bag for something.
Yulia glances up from her search in her bag, giving the doctor a sheepish half-smile. A pretty unusual look from her, one which might suit one of the teenagers better. "I stashed away a few things when we were hiding in the basement. And forgot them when we had to leave the first time. Da, it is lovely…" Her voice trails off, as she finds the off-white photo. It's offered to Maschenko. "No, this was when Anna lived here." The photo is of a trio comprised of a youthful looking Yulia, a round-faced shorter girl - presumably Anna- and a dark-haired man of the same age between them, at some function.
Maschenko rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose and reaches over for the photo, taking it gingerly by its edges. "Look at that. It's very good picture…I assume this is your Anna." His finger taps the very edge of it, by the darkhaired woman. His eyes flicker around the three faces, the man's last. "A brother?" He asks after a hesitation, looking up and her and raising a brow.
"There she is. Oh…" That last part a sort of a withering interjection as Yulia draws a hand over her brow. Still embarrassed. "I guess it is a good picture but I look so silly—" There's nothing /too/ silly about it, even despite the spontaneous, carefree look of all of their expressions. She eases back a bit as Maschenko asks. "No, a mutual friend of ours. He actually lived next door. In the same apartment as comrade sergeant Lesina." Any look of embarrassment is gone, replaced with a softening in her features and voice. She picks up the pencil again and continues rolling it between her fingers.
Maschenko looks back down at the photo as she speaks, nodding twice after the explanation. A second or two of silence as he looks over it one more time. "Well, you don't look silly." He sets it back down on the table in front of her paper. "Young, but that's an affliction we all go through."
Yulia squirrels the photograph away in her satchel quickly. "Even you, comrade doctor?" she asks, with just an undercurrent of amusement. "I don't think I can picture that." Her eyes lower to the letter before her. "I did ask comrade Lesina, once - about him, but she hadn't any information." She pauses and remembers her bowl which is unfortunately growing colder with every word she speaks. A long sip and then, quietly asked, "Do you ever think about what it will be like after all this —?"
"I had my day, and it was glorious. That is my story and I shall stick to it." Maschenko finishes the last sip from his cup, pushing it aside. His fingertips rub tiredly over the side of his nose, pushing at the puffy, darkened skin under his eyes that says absolutely nothing of more youthful days. A few beats of quiet then before he answers her. "Sometimes. And sometimes, I admit I can barely dare to think past an hour from now. Do you?"
"Not very often," Yulia admits, putting his cup in her empty bowl. She will take it back once they leave. "If there is one thing this war has taught me, it's not to think too far ahead into the future." She regards her letter with a pinched mouth. "Ah, well." It's pushed back in her pack too along with the pencil, and Yulia starts to collect the unfinished bread scraps. "Speaking of letters…" she treads carefully, keeping eyes on her work as she pushes the bread off the edge of the table into her other hand. "Has - anyone written to comrade Sokolof's family?"
Nothing to fiddle with now. Maschenko's hands steeple, then fold, and he rubs his nose against the back of his fingers. "I have an address for them," he says, after a long pause. "I keep writing and I don't finish." A soft exhale through his nose, softly irritated at himself. "I have to."
Yulia tucks the scraps in the same cloth as the others from before. "Da, it may not be long before we are without mail service, and…" But her voice dies off again, and she leans forward on her elbows, arms crossed, looking at Maschenko. Regretful. She continues quietly, "You'll find the right words comrade, when they come."
"Are there right words to tell two children that their father is dead?" Maschenko's folded hands shield his mouth as he talks against them. "To tell his sister that I couldn't even bury him?" He looks at her, after a blink or two that betrays an unwanted sting in his eyes. The coners of his mouth draw up, a slight smile that's empty of mirth, and he shakes his head. "There will never be anything right about it."
"No." Yulia lifts a hand to scratch at her eyebrow. "You're right, there's nothing right about any of this. Least of all what happened." That hand lowers to rub her nose. She goes quiet, dropping her gaze to the empty cup and bowl, drifting into some of the more raucous conversation from the soldiers next to them. Then back. "But don't they deserve to know, comrade…"
"I know they deserve it. I wasn't-…" Maschenko starts. A hair more tensely than he'd intended. He cuts himself off and lets a beat go by where he can cork that back up. Hands lower to the bench and he starts to stand up, continuing in a quieter tone. "I'll get it done. I need to get back to the hospital."
"I know you will," Yulia murmurs as she stands up with him. She grabs the cup and the bowl, holding it close while easing out of the bench. "And there's no easy way to do it. I didn't mean to press. But if you need any help…" The offer hangs in the air as she doesn't know how much help she could be. Holding a pencil, maybe? It's probably not a two-person job anyway. "Me too. Shall we go back?" She searches him while asking, looking a bit uneasy.
Maschenko shuffles out from between bench and table, still needing to be quite careful with his left side. The offer of help with the letter makes him hesitate but it's brief and he doesn't make eye contact, as though not even sure what he might've said. Instead: "Yes. Sun's coming up, we can finish some prep." He backs up so she can go first, on past him.
