Yulia Volkovitch

The biting wind whipped at Yulia’s threadbare shawl as she navigated the makeshift market, a chaotic jumble of battered stalls and desperate bartering. She clutched her meager rubles, the coins cold against her chapped fingers. Just enough for some bread, maybe a small potato or two, she thought, if I'm lucky.

An old woman with eyes like faded sapphires was selling bread, its crust blackened in places. “Babushka,” Yulia began, her voice barely a whisper above the wind, “How much for a loaf?”

The old woman, whose name was Lyuba, peered at her. "Three rubles, little bird. But it's good bread. Survived the bombing last night, that one did." She winked, a surprising flash of mirth in her weary face.

Yulia’s stomach rumbled. Three rubles was half her money. Three rubles for bread, that's more than half my money, I can barely afford it. But how can I face going back empty handed?

"Three rubles," Yulia agreed, her voice trembling slightly as she handed over the money. She took the loaf, its warmth a small comfort against the biting cold.

She moved on, spotting a man selling potatoes, their skins rough and earth-stained. "Comrade Piotr," she greeted him, her voice gaining a little strength. "How much for a kilogram of these?"

Piotr, a burly man with a handlebar mustache frosted with ice, grunted. "Two rubles, little sparrow. But they're the finest potatoes this side of the Volga, I promise you!” he said, flexing a surprisingly delicate hand.

Yulia managed a weak smile. Two rubles for these tiny potatoes? She considered her remaining rubles. There's not enough for anything else.

"I will take half a kilogram," she decided, settling on a smaller amount.

"Alright, little one," Piotr said, weighing the potatoes with surprising care for a man who looked like he could wrestle a bear. "Here you are. Keep warm."

As she started towards home, the weight of the bread and potatoes felt heavy in her arms. How am I going to get this home? The thought weighed heavily on her. My arms are going to give out and it's so far. She saw Yevgeny, a young man from her block, unloading a small cart.

"Yevgeny!" she called, her voice a bit louder this time.

Yevgeny glanced up, his eyes widening slightly in recognition. "Yulia! You're looking peckish, or should I say, potato-ish?" he said, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

Yulia laughed. He's always making jokes. "Can you help me get these home, Yevgeny? I would be very grateful."

"Of course, Miss Volkovitch," he said, then added with a wink, "Though I expect payment in stories of your adventures. You always have the best ones.”

Yulia grinned. "Alright, alright. Many stories for some help. Is a deal then?"

They walked in comfortable silence, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the fresh snow; the silence a rare and comforting escape from the constant background hum of war and worry. They laughed as they talked about trivial things. As they reached her doorway, she turned to Yevgeny.

"Thank you, Yevgeny. I couldn't have managed without you," she said sincerely.

"Anytime, Yulia. Stay warm," he replied, already turning back towards the market, the image of a small, determined woman carrying a considerable weight to her home etched into his mind.

Yulia closed the door behind her, the familiar scent of wood smoke and damp earth comforting. She placed the loaf and potatoes on the table, a small victory in a world of immense hardship. Outside, the siege pressed on, relentless and unforgiving. But for now, within the four walls of her small home, there was a quiet respite, a momentary pause in the endless struggle.

Tomorrow, she thought, placing a hand on the warm bread, tomorrow will bring more challenges. But for tonight, I'll eat. —- The fire crackled merrily in the hearth of Yulia’s izba, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Outside, the wind howled a mournful song, a familiar counterpoint to the distant rumble of artillery fire – the constant, gnawing soundtrack of life in Stalingrad during the siege. Yulia sat hunched over a small wooden table, her face illuminated by the flickering flames.

She unwrapped a scrap of cloth revealing a few potatoes and a chunk of black bread, treasures scavenged from the meagre market that morning. Just enough to keep the hunger at bay for another day, she thought, a familiar pang of emptiness settling in her stomach. With nimble fingers, she peeled the potatoes, the thin skin falling away like discarded memories. She tossed them into a battered iron pot, already half-filled with water, then added a pinch of salt, a luxury these days. The bread, hard and crusty, she broke into pieces, placing them close to the fire to soften slightly.

A knock echoed through the thin walls.

“Yulia! It’s Anya,” a woman’s voice called from outside. Anya Petrova, her neighbour, known for her bright optimism even in these dark times.

Yulia opened the door cautiously, a worn rifle leaning against the wall. “Anya! Come in, quickly.”

Anya stepped inside, her face pale but her smile determined. “I baked some pirozhki this morning. Thought you might like one.” She held out a small, slightly burnt pastry.

Yulia accepted it, her heart warming at the gesture. "Spasibo, Anya. You are a lifesaver. The hunger is relentless these days."

“We all feel it, Yulia,” Anya said, sitting on a stool by the fire. “But we keep going. We must.” She paused, her gaze drifting to the rifle. "Heard any more... rumours?"

Yulia hesitated. “Only whispers, the usual. They say the Germans are probing our lines again near the Mamayev Kurgan.” Another attack, another bloodbath, she thought, the image of her brother, lost in the fighting months ago, flashing sharply in her mind.

The potatoes were almost cooked, the scent filling the small hut. Yulia carefully scooped them with a wooden spoon, adding a piece of the softened bread to her bowl. She ate slowly, savoring the simple meal, her gaze fixed on the coals dancing in the hearth. This small comfort, this warmth, this fleeting peace, it's all I have left..

Suddenly, a low scraping sound came from outside, followed by what sounded like cautious footsteps. Yulia’s breath hitched. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drum against her ribs. Not again, she thought, a wave of cold fear washing over her. It wasn't the wind – this was deliberate.

Without a second thought, she leaped up, grabbing her rifle from the wall. The aroma of potatoes, the warmth of the fire, the small comfort of Anya’s company – all completely forgotten. Fear had taken over. With swift, practiced movements, she extinguished the fire, her movements silent.

She grabbed Anya’s arm, pushing her down to the floor. “Shh... it could be a German...” She whispered, clutching her rifle like a shield.

Yulia carefully made her way across the floor, signaling to Anya to stay put. Rifle to her chest, she made it to the front door. Slowly, as to avoid the creaking of wood, she pressed her eye to the crack in the door jam, peering out to get a look at the intruder.