Burying the Sun Read Online Free PDF Page B

empty frames. While I was packing one of the last boxes, a soldier wandered into the gallery. Vera, one of the guards, hurried to stop him, calling, “Ostanovka!” “Halt!”
    Embarrassed, the soldier stopped in his tracks. “Prastitye,” he mumbled. “I am from the country and have never been in Leningrad. When our company passed through the city, I wanted a look at the great museum. We learned about it in our school. Prastitye ,” he said again, and turned to leave.
    â€œThat’s all right, Vera,” I said. With the way the war was going, the soldier might never get to the museum again. “Since you’ve come this far,” I told him, “I’ll give you a tour.”
    The soldier looked around the gallery, disappointed and puzzled. “The frames are all empty.”
    â€œNever mind, I packed every painting in this room, and I know them like the back of my hand. All Dutch, every one. There, for example.” Guessing what would be sure to interest him, I pointed to an empty gold frame. “That is a picture of a Dutch farm. You can see a man at his spring plowing. He has two big white horses. They look strong enough to pull the whole country to another place on the map, great muscly fellows.”
    The soldier was staring hard at the empty frame, nodding his head. “Very few trees,” I went on, “only one or two starting to bud out. Holland is built on the sea, so you don’t have a lot of trees. And in the background the steeple of a church. Over on the right-hand side is a windmill. The Dutch have to spend their lives pumping away the sea. The best thing of all is the sky. In all these paintings it’s the finest thing. Holland is flat, so you get as much sky as you want, miles of it.The painters make the most of it. This one is filled with rosy clouds spread like sour cream on a dish of borscht so that just a bit of the beet juice seeps through.”
    He looked from the frame to me and back again, nodding eagerly. “Yes,” he said, “I see it all. We would have given much to have such horses on our collective farm.”
    I took him from empty frame to empty frame, pointing out in one picture how cleverly the artist had placed the snow over the countryside and in another how everyone in the village, adults and children alike, was skating on the river, and how a fine big brown dog with a patch of white on his chest was on the ice.
    When he left, the soldier took my hand in his and shook it vigorously. “Wonderful pictures,” he said. “I’ll never forget them, and I’ll tell the others on the farm when I get back from the front. Especially the big horses.”
    That night there was borscht for dinner, and itreminded me of the farmer-soldier who had come to the gallery. Marya laughed at my story, but I knew she hadn’t really listened to me. I guessed she had something she wanted to say to us. I could always tell, because she bit at her lip and peeked out at you from under her dark lashes.
    Mama knew it as well. When I finished my tale, Mama said, “Marya, something is on your mind.”
    In one long breath the words tumbled out. “It is Comrade Orbeli. He has assigned me to travel with the train this time when the last shipment from the Hermitage leaves. Several of us are going, for there must be people at the other end who know how to preserve the treasures. It can’t be too damp or too dry for them or they will be ruined. Only I hate to be away from Leningrad. I don’t want to leave you, Mama, and if I go, Georgi is sure to do something foolish.”
    With great indignation I threw my napkin at her, yet the truth was I was shaken by the idea that shewould leave us. I had never been separated from Marya; without her I might be in an orphanage or lie buried someplace in Siberia.
    â€œHow long will you be gone, dear?” Mama asked. Her face was pale, but her voice was strong. Better than