In one of the cramped rooms of a huge council block two spinster sisters live together. They are bloodrelated, and if it werent for the obvious age gap you might think theyre twins. Both are thin, lanky, with tight lips and a single curl of hair on each head. They wear identical drab grey coats that look like they were bought from the same discount shop. The whole block despises, fears and looks down on them.
The younger residents loathe them because the sisters are constantly nitpicking, forever grumbling about loud music, parties and latenight comingshome. The children keep their distance because the elderly ladies keep reporting every little slipupsuch as a bathroom light left on or a candy wrapper tossed in the hallwayto the parents.
Margaret, sweettempered and goodnatured, bears the brunt of the contempt. She has no university degree, no family, no children, and a habit of pointing out everyones faults. Yet she never intervenes, never hounds anyone with complaints, and simply ignores the mischief of the lads Vicky and Serge as they stumble home in the night. The spinster sisters, after all, are just thatspinster sisters.
The children love Margaret. She never tattles to the parents; no matter whats happening, she gives a sly smile, a wink, and stays silent. The block is always noisy, full of chatter. Often, Agnes, the older sister, steps out, presses her lips together and scolds the youngsters:
Dont shout so loudly! Someone might be trying to rest. Uncle Pete just got back from his shift, and perhaps Miss Valentina is writing a book in the next room. She points at the door where her sister Valerie is indeed hunched over a notebook.
Everyone sniggers at her. Margaret, of course, is the first to laugh.
Val, when are you going to finish that book? Im tired of waiting! I want to read it badly, the old woman cries, her laughter echoing down the hallway. Valerie tightens her already thin lips, says nothing, and slips into the room, sobbing on her sisters shoulder.
Al, why are you bringing up the book? Theyre already having a laugh at us, she whines.
Let them laugh, Valerie comforts her. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont be upset. Dont cry.
In 1940 the war starts, and by September the city is under siege. Hunger does not strike straight away; at first there is still warmth. The block slowly adapts to the new reality: ration cards, halfempty rooms, funeral processions, the wail of sirens, the lack of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of everyone, and an oppressive silence. The youngsters stop strumming guitars, the kids stop playing hideandseek. The quiet tears at the soul more sharply than the prewar clamor ever did.
Agnes and Valerie grow even thinner, but they keep wearing their grey coats, which hang on them like drapes on a coatrack, and they continue to police the blocknow for different offences. Margaret only appears when absolutely necessary. One day she disappears completely, never to return. Agnes and Valerie search for her for days on end, but find nothing. It is as if the old woman never existed.
In the spring of 1942 the first death hits the block. Tols mother dies, leaving the boy utterly alone. Everyone feels sorry for the elevenyearold, but war spares no one. Life carries on and Tol is soon forgotten. The spinster sisters do not forget; they take him under their wing, feed him, look after him. He turns eleven in October. Later, Vass mother and Jens mother also die; their father is at the front and has been silent for months. The prim Valerie and strict Agnes adopt them as well, and not just them but all the blocks orphans, of which there are many.
Each sister takes turns making a pot of soup once a day, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they can find. The exact ingredients are a mysteryfood is scarcebut the broth tastes extraordinary. Every child eats it at the same hour each day. They call the soup Rascal.
Grandma Agnes, why Rascal? Tol asks, remembering how she once called Vicky that.
When Tol mentions Vicky, a tear slips from Valeries eye. Though no boy has lived more than six months, she answers with a smile:
Anatoly! We make this soup the Rascal wayhence the name.
The Rascal way? the boy repeats, puzzled.
Exactly. Who tosses everything into a potpearl barley, millet, even a splash of glue if youre lucky? Sometimes a spoonful of tinned meat! Valerie pats his head, pulls a tiny crumb of sugar from her pocket, pinches it off and pops it into his mouth so none is lost in the handoverhand transfer.
Tol, go see if Grandma Val is still sticking glue into the pot. Im about to season the Rascal, he jokes.
Soon all the orphaned children are gathered into the sisters room. They live together, warm and less frightening. They huddle close, and Grandma Val tells a bedtime story from her own notebooka book she never finished, now relegated to the fire. Still, Val remembers every tale she ever wrote and spins new ones on the spot. The children cant settle without her stories and constantly beg:
Grandma Val, will you tell us the one about the Beauty of the Snowy Hills today?
I will, Val begins, and the room fills with wonder.
Every child has a task. Agnes watches strictly that all are busy. Tol tends the stove, Vas gathers firewood, the girls fetch water, the ration cards are distributed, the soup is stirred, and songs are sung each morning with Jen leading the chorus. Whether you can sing or not, you join in.
One day Agnes brings a girl from the street, halfdead, barely breathing. She nurses her back to health. Val later brings another boy, then another, and another. By the end of the siege twelve children occupy the sisters cramped room. All survivea miracle, perhaps.
Even after the war the Rascal soup is still made. The children grow up, scatter across the country, but never forget Agnes and Valerie. They continue to visit the old council block, helping where they can. Both women live to nearly a hundred, their storybook finally published as My Beloved Block. Once a year, on the 9th of May, everyone gathers at Agness and Vals kitchen while theyre still alive, a big, happy family that keeps expandinggreatgrandchildren now appear.
And whats the centerpiece on the table? You guessed itthe Rascal soup. Nothing ever tastes as good as that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and a strong spirit, which saved a generation of children.
