Burying the Sun by Gloria Whelan Read Free Book Online Page A

had complained that poets were uselessin a war, but Yelena had told me that it was as important to feed the spirit of the city as it was the city’s hunger. “Akhmatova’s words do that,” Yelena said. Yelena and some poet friends of hers at the library were printing poems and placing them around the city for people to read.
    In her strong voice Akhmatova greeted the citizens of the city. Leningrad had always been a part of her life, she said. “Leningrad gave my poetry its spirit.” Leningrad, she promised, would never be conquered by the Germans.
    Yelena and Olga were crying; even Mama had tears in her eyes. For once I was glad I wasn’t in the army. I was in Leningrad, and Leningrad was sure to be as dangerous a place as any battlefield.

CHAPTER SIX
SPIES
    September 1941
    Dmitry and I patrolled our section of Leningrad carefully, for rumors were flying about that there were German spies in the city. One evening after supper, as we were walking down the Nevsky Prospekt, we noticed a man taking pictures. He photographed the old Straganov Palace, the Kazan Cathedral, and a bookstore. Dmitry and I looked at each other and back at the man. He was dressed in an old overcoat, much too big for him. His long white hair straggled out from beneath a little peaked cap.
    â€œI’ve never seen such a cap,” I said. “It looks foreign.”
    â€œGerman,” Dmitry whispered.
    â€œHe’s taking pictures so the Germans know what to bomb,” I said.
    We followed the man, keeping just behind him and pausing in the shelter of a storefront while he took a picture. He was photographing the Gostiny Dvor, a collection of stores and stalls.
    Dmitry whispered, “We should report him.”
    â€œBy the time the police get here, he could be gone,” I said. “We should make a citizen’s arrest.”
    Dmitry didn’t look too happy. “What if he shoots us?”
    â€œThere are two of us and only one of him. One of us can go for the camera and the other for his gun.”
    â€œI’ll get the camera,” Dmitry said.
    I was beginning to feel a little doubtful. “First we’ll ask him what he’s doing.”
    As he raised his camera to photograph the Anichkov Palace, I confronted him. “You are taking photographs for the bombing.”
    â€œYes, yes, now get out of my way. You havealready spoiled a perfect shot and film is scarce.”
    It was all the confirmation we needed. Dmitry and I struck. Dmitry grabbed the man’s camera and I wrapped my arms around him, getting a stranglehold so that he couldn’t reach for a gun.
    The man fought back, kicking at my shins and butting Dmitry with his head. At the top of his voice he screamed, “Thieves! Thieves!”
    A crowd began to gather. “Keep him from escaping!” I shouted. “He’s a German spy!”
    At the same time, he was yelling at the crowd, “Thieves! Get a policeman!”
    Much to my relief, a policeman appeared, but instead of taking the spy into custody, he grabbed me and Dmitry, who was holding the spy’s camera.
    â€œHe’ll get away,” I said to the policeman.
    â€œThese hoodlums have stolen my camera,” the man said.
    â€œBut he admitted he was taking pictures of everything so the Germans would know what tobomb,” I insisted. “He said so.”
    â€œI said nothing of the kind. I am Josif Vasilyevich Vronsky of the Leningrad Historical Society. I have been commissioned by the society to photograph all of our famous landmarks in the event there is damage from bombs. We must know how to reconstruct the buildings.” He was fumbling in his pockets and now drew out a leather case, from which he extracted his identification papers.
    â€œWill you press charges?” the policeman asked Vronsky, handing back his camera.
    Vronsky looked at us. I think he must have seen in our faces our bewilderment and how embarrassed we were.