Lord, he’s screaming again. It’s been the third night already…
«Quiet, darling, quiet. They will hear us.»
The old apartment greeted me with the smell of lavender and antiquities. A typical museum of the Soviet era—carpets on the walls, crystal in the cabinet, and photographs, photographs, photographs. Honestly, I was a bit intimidated as I crossed the threshold. After the cozy provincial town, St. Petersburg seemed like an impregnable fortress, and this apartment—a separate principality with its own laws.
«Come in, don’t linger in the doorway,» a hoarse voice called out.
Yelizaveta Sergeyevna sat in her chair like a queen on a throne. Straight back, gray hair neatly combed, piercing gaze from behind her glasses. Clearly not one of those grandmothers who bake pies and knit socks.
«Alena,» I introduced myself, trying to sound confident. «We spoke on the phone…»
«I remember, I remember,» she waved her hand dismissively. «Let’s get straight to business. Can you cook?»
«Yes, of course.»
«And borscht?»
«Borscht too.»
«Hmm,» she squinted. «Because you know, the last girl claimed that borscht was just a soup with cabbage and beetroot. Can you imagine?»
I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe she wasn’t so formidable after all?
«My grandmother would have chased someone with a frying pan for such a definition of borscht.»
«Exactly!» Approval flickered in Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s eyes. «So, the schedule is simple…»
The first evening passed calmly. I made dinner, helped Yelizaveta Sergeyevna take her medicine. She sat by the window for a long time, staring into the distance. I noticed a stack of notebooks on the table, but as soon as I approached, they quickly disappeared into the drawer.
But at night…
A scream tore through the silence like a gunshot. I jumped up from my bed, not immediately realizing where I was. Another scream, and some whispering.
A nightlight was on in Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s room. She was tossing and turning in bed, crumpling the sheet.
«Bread… hide the bread! The children… they’ll find it…»
«Yelizaveta Sergeyevna!» I gently touched her shoulder.
She sat up abruptly, eyes wide open, but looking through me.
«Quiet…» her voice dropped to a whisper. «They are nearby. Hear that? On the snow… crunch-crunch…»
I turned on the light, and she blinked, returning to reality.
«What? Oh, it’s you…» she rubbed her face. «Sorry. Old age…»
«Should I bring some water?»
«No,» she snapped. «Go to sleep. And turn off the light.»
I returned to my room but couldn’t fall asleep. Something was very wrong here. And those notebooks… What was she hiding? What ghosts visit her at night?
And most importantly—why did her screams still send shivers down my spine?
In the morning, I decided to clean the living room. Behind the old cabinet, I found a treasure—dozens of black-and-white photographs scattered like autumn leaves. On one of them—a young girl with braids, in a simple dress. On the back, faded ink: «Leningrad, 1942.»
«What are you digging around for?» Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s voice made me jump.
«Sorry, just dusting off and…»
«Ah, found the photographs?» she approached, leaning on her cane. «Curious one, aren’t you?»
«Is this you?» I handed her the photo.
«It is,» she took the photograph, and her fingers trembled slightly. «But that was long ago. In another life.»
I continued cleaning, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her sitting down in the chair, still holding the photo. Her lips moved silently.
The night repeated itself.
«Anya, hold on! Just a little longer…» Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s voice broke into a wheeze. «Dogs… Lord, not the dogs!»
I burst into the room. She was sitting on the bed, clutching the blanket.
«Yelizaveta Sergeyevna, wake up! It’s a dream!»
«What?» she blinked, focusing her gaze. «Oh, it’s you… Was I screaming again?»
«Yes. You were talking about some Anya and…»
«No need,» she shook her head. «Just bring some water.»
When I returned with a glass, she suddenly started talking:
«Do you know what real hunger is? Not when ‘oh, I forgot to have dinner,’ but when you last ate three days ago?»
I silently shook my head.
«God forbid you ever know,» she took a sip of water. «Go to sleep. We have to get up early tomorrow.»
The next day I found a diary. It was in an old candy box, hidden under a stack of yellowed newspapers. I know it’s wrong to read someone else’s diary, but… I couldn’t resist.
«February 14, 1942.
Today we buried Aunt Masha. Well, not really buried—there was no strength to dig a grave. Just laid her in the snow. They’ll find her in the spring… if they find her. No bread for the fourth day. The children hardly cry—they have no strength. Anya is still holding on, but her eyes… Lord, those eyes…»
«What are you doing?»
I jumped at the sudden voice. Yelizaveta Sergeyevna stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane.
«Sorry, I…» I stammered. «I just wanted to understand.»
«Understand what?» her voice sounded tired. «How people turn into animals? How a mother can eat the last piece while her children starve? Or how human shells on the streets become a normal landscape?»
She approached, took the diary from my hands.
«I was sixteen. Just as foolish as you are now. I thought these battles were like in the movies: noble deeds, fluttering banners…» she bitterly smiled. «But it turned out to be boiling soup from leather belts. When you walk across Ladoga, and the ice cracks under your feet. And you know—there are hundreds like you beneath the ice…»
She fell silent, staring at the diary.
«Anya was two years younger than me. I found her in a destroyed house. Her parents had died, she was alone… I took her in. Thought it would be easier together. But then…»
«What happened?»
«Evacuation. We walked across the ice. She could barely hold on. I carried her on my back, telling her—just don’t sleep, just hold on…» her voice trembled. «There were only about a hundred meters to the shore. Just a hundred meters…»
Silence hung in the room, so thick it seemed you could touch it.
«Do you know what’s the scariest thing?» she suddenly looked me in the eye. «Not the hunger. Not the cold. But that you get used to it. To people on the streets. To the fact that yesterday your friend was alive, and today…» she waved her hand. «And you say ‘understand’…»
I looked at this tiny, frail woman and tried to imagine her as a young girl, dragging her friend across the ice of Lake Ladoga. How much strength must be in that frail body?
«Yelizaveta Sergeyevna, may I… may I make us some tea? And you can tell me more? If you want, of course.»
She was silent for a long time, then nodded:
«Not tea. Coffee. And get the brandy from the cabinet. Such stories aren’t told dry.»
We sat until morning. She spoke, I listened. About how they shared the last crust of bread among eight. How they collected swan down and made «soup». How they hid, while the air-raid sirens wailed above. And with each word, I understood more clearly why she screams at night.
Some wounds don’t heal. Even after many years.
«Quiet, grandma. It’s just a dream.»
«No, girl. It’s not a dream. It’s memory.»
The morning was sunny. I was frying pancakes, and Yelizaveta Sergeyevna sat at the table, sorting through old photographs.
«You know, Alena,» she suddenly smiled, «after all this, I never married.»
«Why?»
«There were suitors. But how do you explain to someone why you hide bread under your pillow? Why you wake up at every noise? Why you cry when you see someone throwing away food?»
I placed a plate of pancakes in front of her:
«And now? Do you still hide it?»
«Why don’t you look under the pillow,» she winked and suddenly laughed. «Lord, it’s been eighty years, and I still… You know, the most amazing thing?»
«What?»
«That I’m alive. That I’m sitting here, eating your pancakes, looking out the window. And Anya… Masha… all of them stayed there. In ’42.»
She took a pancake, bit into it carefully:
«Tasty. But you know what? Let’s invite the neighbor. She’s lonely. And we have a feast here…»
I watched as she divided the pancakes into three parts, meticulously, almost pedantically, and thought—here it is, what didn’t break. Didn’t freeze there, on Ladoga. Humanity.
In the evening, she brought out a box. Inside—a «Defense of Leningrad» medal, some documents, photographs.
«Take it,» she handed me the medal.
«What are you! I can’t…»
«Silly. Do you think I need it up there?» she nodded somewhere upwards. «But you’re alive. Young. Maybe, show it to your own children, tell them…»
«About what?»
«About how a person is stronger than hunger. Stronger than fear. That even in hell, you can remain human. Just…» she paused, searching for words. «Just don’t forget us. Me, Anya, all those who stayed there. Because as long as they remember—we are alive.»
I carefully took the medal. It was heavy, this small bronze memory of those who survived. And those who did not.
Even after I found another job, I often visited her. We drank tea, talked about life. Sometimes she told stories about those times—not about heroic deeds and victories, but about small miracles. About how an orphanage boy shared a crust of bread. How a scrawny, balding dog brought a freezing girl a mitten.
And at night… At night she still screams. But now I know—it’s not old age. It’s memory that won’t let go. And when she calls for Anya, I just sit next to her, hold her hand, and say:
«All is well, grandma. We’ve made it.»
And she quiets down, smiles in her sleep. And I look at the photo of the young girl with braids and think—what a blessing it is, just to live. Just to breathe. Just to be human.
And the medal… The medal now lies on my table. And every time I start to complain about life, I look at it and remember: there are things more serious than a broken heel and an unsuccessful date.
There’s memory that needs to be carried.
And people who must not be forgotten.
Let me start with one story. About how I got a job caring for an elderly woman with whom something strange was happening at night…
The auditorium of School No. 237 was full. I stood in front of the senior students, clutching the worn «Defense of Leningrad» medal. The very one that Yelizaveta Sergeyevna gave me a year ago.
«You know,» I began, «sometimes the most important meetings happen by chance. I had just moved to St. Petersburg, looking for a job. And there it was—a caregiver vacancy…»
I told them everything. About the screams at night. About the hidden diaries. About the girl Anya, who didn’t make it the last hundred meters to safety. About the bread under the pillow. And I saw how their faces changed—from bored to stunned.
«Yelizaveta Sergeyevna died three months ago,» I paused. «But before she died, she made me promise. ‘Tell them,’ she asked. ‘Tell them to remember.'»
The hall was so quiet that you could hear sparrows chirping outside.
«Do you know what 125 grams of bread is?» I pulled out a black loaf wrapped in paper from my bag. «Here. This was the daily ration. For a day.»
A girl in the front row sobbed.
«But I came to talk not about death. About life. About how people shared the last. How they saved other people’s children. How…»
The bell interrupted my speech. But no one moved from their seats.
«May I continue?» asked a boy from the last row. «Tell us more.»
And I told them. About a feat that wasn’t on a battlefield—in every home, in every apartment. About an unbroken city. About memory that shouldn’t be lost.
In the evening, returning home, I stopped by the cemetery. I laid a bouquet of carnations on Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s grave:
«I’m keeping my promise,» I whispered. «They will remember. I’ll make sure they remember.»
The wind swayed the branches of a birch tree, and I thought I heard her voice: «Well done, girl. Well done…»
Over the year, I held more than thirty such meetings. In schools, libraries, even in shopping centers. And each time, I started with the story of the caregiver and her unusual charge. About the night screams and hidden diaries. About memory that’s stronger than death.
Because sometimes the most important stories start with accidents. You just need to know how to hear them.
The day after the presentation at School No. 237, a history teacher called me:
«Alena, I have an unusual request. Remember Sasha from the last row? The one who asked you to tell more?»
How could I forget—the skinny boy with serious eyes, who after the lecture approached and said, «My great-grandmother was also a siege survivor. But she never talks about it. Not at all.»
«Well,» the teacher continued, «he wrote an amazing essay. About your Yelizaveta Sergeyevna. And now he wants to do a project. Collect stories of all the siege survivors in our district. Could you help?»
We met with Sasha at the library. He brought a thick notebook, filled with small handwriting.
«I found fifteen addresses,» he said, opening his notes. «But they… they don’t want to talk.»
«Of course, they don’t,» I sighed. «Do you know why Yelizaveta Sergeyevna was silent for so many years? Because some wounds don’t heal. They can only be hidden deeper.»
«But how then?»
«We won’t ask about the siege. We’ll just come to visit. With a pie.»
The first on our list was Anna Petrovna. She lived alone, on the first floor of an old house on Petrogradskaya.
«Hello!» Sasha extended a bag with a pie. «We’re from a school project…»
«Don’t want to,» she tried to close the door. «I don’t want to remember anything.»
«But we’re not about that,» I smiled. «Just to have some tea. I had a friend, Yelizaveta Sergeyevna. She also didn’t want to talk at first…»
Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s name worked like a password. The door cracked open:
«Liza? Lizka Voronova?»
«Did you know her?»
«My God…» Anna Petrovna pressed her hand to her chest. «We were together… in ’42… Is she alive?»
«She died three months ago.»
«Oh…» she paused. «Well, come in. If you brought pie.»
Over tea, she suddenly began to talk. Not about hunger and deaths—about how they and «Lizka» ran to dances at the hospital. How they hid gramophone records under their pillows. How they dreamed of a peaceful life.
«Remember,» she spoke, looking through the wall as if addressing the ghost of a friend, «how you sang ‘Blue Scarf’? You did it so well…»
Sasha scribbled in his notebook, and I watched this tiny, dry woman and saw in her the girl who danced in the hospital under the gramophone. Who believed that it would all end, and everything would be fine.
«You know,» Anna Petrovna suddenly said, «I also never told anyone. Thought—why remember? But now… Maybe it really is necessary? While we are still here.»
She stood up, went to another room. Returned with an album:
«Here. This is us with Liza. And this is—our hospital…»
In a month, we visited everyone on the list. Some kicked us out right away. Some, like Anna Petrovna, let us in for tea. Some cried, remembering. But the main thing—they began to talk.
Then Sasha suggested:
«Let’s gather them all together? Those who agree? Have a remembrance evening?»
I thought maybe five people would come. Many more showed up. They sat in the school auditorium—gray-haired, wrinkled, with walking sticks. And they talked. For the first time in so many years—they talked.
«Remember?»
«Oh, yes!»
«My God, was it really us?»
Anna Petrovna brought a gramophone, well, rather, they carried it for her. A real one, from olden days. And a record—»Blue Scarf.»
«For Liza,» she said, placing the needle. «For all of ours…»
They cried. They laughed. They remembered. And we, Sasha and I, sat in the corner, and I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
«You know,» he whispered, «I thought—it’s just a project. But this… this…»
«This is memory,» I squeezed his hand. «Living memory. That which is stronger than death.»
In the evening, I went to the cemetery again:
«Do you hear, Yelizaveta Sergeyevna? They are talking. Now they all are talking…»
A week later, a museum opened at the school. Small, just one room. But there were their photographs. Their stories. Their life.
And of course, there was the medal. The very one that Yelizaveta Sergeyevna gave me. Because such things shouldn’t lie in drawers. They should live and remind.
So they remember. So they know. So it never happens again…
The museum grew. First, it was one room at the school, then three and eventually a separate building. People brought photographs, letters, diaries. I barely managed to systematize the materials.
«Imagine,» Sasha, now a freshman student, told me one day, «we started with your story about a caregiver and her strange charge, and now here we have…»
«A whole life,» I finished, examining the new exhibits.
But the most important thing happened on the day Anna Petrovna’s granddaughter came:
«My grandmother died yesterday,» she said. «And you know what she asked to pass on? ‘Thank you for making me remember.'»
That evening I sat in the museum for a long time. Sorting through photographs, reading diaries. Out of the fifteen siege survivors we started with, only three were still alive. Time is relentless.
And then I decided.
«Today we will open a time capsule,» I said, standing before the new exhibits in the museum. «Yelizaveta Sergeyevna left it to me before her death. ‘Open it when you realize that people are ready to hear,'» she had said.
It was a simple cardboard box. Inside—letters. Dozens of letters that she wrote to Anya all those years. Every year, on the day of her death.
«Anya, my dear girl, I’ve reached. For both of us. I now have a garden, can you imagine? I’m growing flowers—those you dreamed of…»
«My dear girl, today I saw children in the park feeding pigeons bread, and I couldn’t stand it—I approached and took that bread. They looked at me like I was crazy. And I… I just can’t see bread being thrown away. Forgive me…»
«Know what, Anya, a girl came to me. Just as naive as we once were. Alena. She doesn’t understand, of course. But she listens. And maybe… maybe through her I can tell. About all of us. About you…»
The last letter was dated the day of her death:
«My dear Anya. I’ll be coming to you soon. But you know, I’m no longer afraid. Because now there’s someone to remember. Someone to tell. About how we lived. How we loved. How we believed.
I never learned to live without you. But I’ve learned to live for you. For the memory of those days when humanity was stronger than hunger and fear.
Sorry I couldn’t save you then. But maybe I saved someone else? With my stories, with my memory…
See you soon, my girl. It’s almost time now.»
I closed the box. Silence hung in the room—the kind of living silence when you can hear hearts beating.
«That’s the story,» I said softly. «A story about how memory becomes salvation. How love lives longer than death. How one person can preserve an entire world. Value the time now, appreciate the warmth and food.»
Now our museum has a special room. There sits Yelizaveta Sergeyevna’s old chair, on the table—her glasses and an unfinished book. And on the wall—a photograph: a young girl with braids hugging another, slightly younger. They are smiling. They don’t yet know what awaits them.
But we know. And we remember. And we will always remember.
Because memory is not just a duty. It’s love that’s stronger than death.
And as long as we can love—we are alive.
