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midst of a street of ruins Yuri had discovered an intact wing of an apartment house. People were already living there when we arrived, but we managed to find a space that would be ours alone.
    The rooms we claimed were filled with rubble, and it took us several days to clean them out. I loved the work, sifting the dirt, filling up buckets of it, and carrying it outside. When we were finished I was very proud of our effort. It seemed to me that we had made a splendid home for ourselves. There was no glass in the windows, nor did we have water or electricity, but the rooms were large and comfortable. I was particularly excited by some of the objects we had discovered hidden in the rubble. To me these simple artifacts of domestic life seemed like treasures.
    The find most prized by everyone was a wood stove. On the rare occasions when there was firewood to burn we would gather near it with our neighbours and Yuri’s friends. We sat closely around it, and as the stove heated up it became very warm in the room. Faces grew flushed and perspiration dotted foreheads, yet no one moved away. The heat could not be too intense. Everyone in the room believed in its curative powers. Our guests seemed to become more expansive with the rising temperature, responding to it as if it were a stimulant. Occasionally someone would bring a few sugar cubes and then the evening became a true party.
    I was still the only child amongst adults. Extra pieces of sugar were saved for me, but otherwise I was ignored. This meant I could stay and listen to the grown-ups as long as I wished, until I fell asleep in their midst. If anyone tried to move me from the floor onto the straw mattress where I slept, I always protested. I wanted to remain as long as I could within the circle of warmth, lulled by the conversation of the adults around me.
    These evenings, however, did not occur very often. Our family and everyone we knew devoted all energy to the hunt for food. The city itself had been sucked dry of its resources. The Red Army distributed rations to keep the population from starving. These were so inadequate that hunger remained a constant complaint. The army itself was no better off than the civilians it fed; there simply was not enough to go around. What complicated matters even more was the way in which the army distributed its rations. Somehow this process occurred in a senseless and confusing fashion, so that, for example, while some people received only flour, others would receive nothing but packages of yeast. As a result, everyone was forced to spend most of their time in long and tedious sessions of barter and exchange.
    Hunger was frequently accompanied by the prevailing disease of the time: dysentery. We all endured it with resignation. It was as much a part of the climate of our lives as the war-blemished landscape in which we lived.
    This common affliction created a new pastime. People perfected their own private remedies and discussed them endlessly with their neighbours. There was no proper medication, and people turned to home remedies, peasant cures and the inventions of their imagination.
    In our house the favourite treatment consisted of charcoal. Twice a week, my mother would carefully heat some precious pieces of wood. When these were partly burned and charred, she ground them into a black bitter powder. I can still recall its taste, harsh, lingering, unlike anything else. I also remember with what violence I resisted the mandatory daily dose. Everything about it revolted me, but there was no escaping it. Tears, screams, gagging brought no reprieve. My protests were ignored. Both my mother and my aunt, normally so indulgent with me, were not to be moved in this instance. Sooner or later they would have their way and I would be forced to swallow that dreadful substance. The nauseous after-taste remained for hours, to remind me that the ordeal would have to be repeated the following day.
    I think that I was as hurt by my aunt’s