Burying the Sun by Gloria Whelan

with us all of the time and caviar always cheers me.” She looked longingly at Mama’s bag of dried bread rusks, the crock of cabbages in brine, and the row of jellies on our shelf.
    â€œWe will help you, Olga, but you must also trade. I will have to do the same,” Mama said.
    â€œBut I have nothing to trade.”
    â€œNonsense,” Mama said. “You have a closet fullof clothes you don’t need. You can take those to the outskirts of town, where there are farms, and trade with the peasants for food. I mean to do it myself.”
    We all trooped into Olga’s apartment. Yelena looked surprised. “What will the farm women do with Mother’s clothes?”
    Mama smiled. “They will turn the dresses into quilts to help them keep warm. The shoes they will take apart and turn the leather into something sensible.”
    When Olga opened her closet door, it was like one of the paintings in the Hermitage. It looked like a hundred paint pots had been spilled. Hanging up were Gypsy skirts, embroidered blouses, and fringed scarves in rainbow colors. Shoes were heaped up on the closet floor.
    â€œNot this one,” Olga said, tenderly holding a silk scarf covered all over with flowers. “I wore it at my first concert. I would never give it up.”
    Mama swept up the scarf and several others, as well as an armful of shoes. Olga watched, tears in hereyes. “Listen,” Mama said. “Soon even the food the peasants have on the farms will be gone—or, worse, we won’t be able to get to the farms. What good will these things do you then? Can you eat them?”
    Yelena was searching through her own things, adding to the brightly colored heap. I recognized a dress she had worn the first time we had gone out together on our own. We had attended a movie, the great director Eisenstein’s Aleksandr Nevsky . Yelena had cried when the Russian prince had died. I had tried to comfort her, but she only shook her head and sobbed, “I love pictures that make me cry.” I was sorry to see the dress go.
    The next morning Olga and Mama left with their packages, and that evening when they returned, Olga proudly showed off sausages, cereal, and dried berries.
    â€œLook, Yelena,” she said, “six fresh eggs!” I couldn’t help noticing that her beloved flowered scarf was poking out of her pocket.
    Viktor, looking hungrily at the eggs, congratulated Olga. “I hear there is still food to be had on the outskirts of the city, where the Germans are bombing,” he said. “The farmers left some of the root vegetables in the ground when their houses were destroyed.”
    I got out our map and asked Viktor to show me where those fields were. Immediately, Mama said, “Georgi, put that map away. Don’t even think of going there. I have enough worry without thinking of bombs falling over you.”
    I took one more quick look at the map and folded it up. Early the next morning I was at the Trushins’ apartment, calling for Dmitry. As soon as I walked into their apartment, I noticed something missing. There was no smell of fresh baking. I think until that minute I hadn’t really understood what the fire at the food warehouses would mean. Mr. Trushin had just come home. He was black with soot and ashes.
    â€œThere is nothing left in the warehouses,” he said. “Only a little melted sugar we are trying to scrape upfrom the ground. Every little bit counts.” He sighed. “No more little presents for my dear wife.”
    â€œIvanovich, what are you talking about?” Mrs. Trushin said. “I have the greatest gift of all. You weren’t burned up in that terrible fire. What a day I had until I saw you, but it’s true we will miss the things you brought home. We have nothing but a little kasha and some cabbage, and the stores have nothing.”
    â€œI think I know where we can dig up some vegetables,” I said, “if