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Error rating book. Refresh and try again. El jinete de bronce by Paullina Simons ,. Alberto Coscarelli Guaschino Translator. Sheziss 's review May 27, A pesar de las duras condiciones de vida en las que se encuentra el proletariado, es feliz junto a su hermana mayor Dasha, su mellizo Pasha, sus padres y sus abuelos en el gran piso que comparten con otras familias en Leningrado.
Tatiana se aparta para dejar el camino libre a su hermana, a pesar de sus propios sentimientos. Es una joven generosa que desea, ante todo, que los de su entorno sean felices y si ella tiene que sacrificarse por ello, no duda en hacerlo. Todo ello es una dura prueba para sus sentimientos y su lealtad. Tienen que mantener una fachada de indiferencia que pone a prueba a cada uno de ellos. Es todo un caballero, pero dentro arde un genio de mil demonios.
La guerra los transforma. A medida que avanza la trama, descubre con Aleksandr los primeros besos, las primeras caricias, las miradas seductoras, limpias y expresivas. Comienza a mirar las cosas con optimismo, con el recuerdo de ella grabado a fuego en su mente. No hay destino menos claro que el de una guerra. Sin embargo, es esta incertidumbre lo que de verdad engancha. Es una historia de amor desgarradora, tierna y muy emotiva.
Sign into Goodreads to see if any of your friends have read El jinete de bronce. Quotes Sheziss Liked. Let me cradle your head and caress your face, let me kiss your dear sweet lips and cry across the seas and whisper through the icy Russian grass how I feel for you. Luga, Ladoga, Leningrad, Lazarevo. Alexander, once you carried me, and now I carry you. Into my eternity, now I carry you.
Through Finland, through Sweden, to America, hand outstretched, I stand and limp forward, the galloping steed black and riderless in my wake. Lazarevo drips you into my soul, dawn drop by moonlight drop from the river Kama. Alexander, my nights, my days, my every thought. You will fall away from me in just a while, won't you, and I'll be whole again, and I will go on and feel for someone else, the way everyone does. But my innocence is forever gone. Tatiana knew there would be only an instant, a brief flicker of time that bathed her with the possibilities of the day.
In a moment it would all be gone. And in a moment it was. This was the part of Sunday that Tatiana loved most: the beginning. He held no illusions. Lazarevo was not going to come again, neither for him nor for her. Tatiana held those illusions. And he thought—it was better to have them. Look at him. And look at her. Tatiana so ceaselessly and happily did for him, so constantly smiled and touched him and laughed—even as their twenty-nine moon-cycle days spun faster around the loop of grief—that Alexander had to wonder if she ever even thought about the future.
He knew she sometimes thought about the past. He knew she thought about Leningrad. She had a stony sadness around her edges that she had not had before. But for the future, Tatiana seemed to harbor a rosy hope, or at the very least a sense of humming unconcern.
What are you doing? Nothing, Alexander would reply. Nothing but growing my pain. He smoked and wished for her. What she enjoyed was the memory of her skinny-as-a-stick fourteen-year-old self putting on that dress for the first time and going out for a Sunday walk on Nevsky. It was for that feeling that she had put on the dress again this Sunday, the day Germany invaded the Soviet Union. It was gratifying to own a piece of anything not made badly by the Soviets, but instead made well and romantically by the French; for who was more romantic than the French?
The French were masters of love. All nations were different. The Russians were unparalleled in their suffering, the English in their reserve, the Americans in their love of life, the Italians in their love of Christ, and the French in their hope of love. So when they made the dress for Tatiana, they made it full of promise. And so Tatiana never despaired in her white dress with red roses. Had the Americans made it, she would have been happy. Had the Italians made it, she would have started praying, had the British made it, she would have squared her shoulders, but because the French had made it, she never lost hope.
At every step, with every breath, with every Soviet Information Bureau report, with every casualty list and every monthly ration card? From the moment Tatiana woke up until she fell into a bleary sleep, she lied. She wished Alexander would stop coming around. She wished he would end it with Dasha. More lies. No more trips to St. That was good news. No more tram rides, no more canals, no more Summer Garden, no more Luga, no more lips or eyes or palpitating breath.
He was cold. He had an uncanny ability to act as if there were nothing behind his smiling face, or his steady hands, or his burned-down cigarette. Not a twitch showed on his face for Tatiana. That was good. Curfew was imposed on Leningrad at the beginning of September. Rations were reduced again. Alexander stopped coming every day. When Alexander came, he was extremely affectionate with Dasha, in front of Tatiana and in front of Dimitri.
Tatiana put on her own brave face and turned it away and smiled at Dimitri and clenched her heart in a tight fist. She could do it, too. Pouring tea. Such a simple matter, yet fraught with deceit. Pouring tea, for someone else before him. Her hands trembled with the effort. Tatiana wished she could get out from the spell that was Leningrad at the beginning of September, get out from the circle of misery and love that besieged her.
She loved Alexander. Ah, finally. Something true to hold on to. Because she felt for him. But what Tatiana felt for Alexander was true. What Tatiana felt for Alexander was impervious to the drumbeat of conscience. Oh, to be walking through Leningrad white night after white night, the dawn and the dusk all smelting together like platinum ore, Tatiana thought, turning away to the wall, again to the wall, to the wall, as ever.
How did I live last winter? Because I moved. There was movement inside me. I had energy to lie, to pretend to Dasha, to keep her alive. I walked, I was with Mama, I was too busy to die myself. Too busy hiding my love for you. But now I wake up and think, how am I going to go through the rest of my day until sleep?
ISBN 13: 9788467222500
Tatiana Metanova, nearly seventeen, meets the handsome and mysterious Red Army officer Alexander Belov. Tatiana Metanova wakes up on 22 June , the day before her 17th birthday, to her older sister Dasha coming home and declaring that she is in love. Tatiana's parents send her twin brother Pasha to a boys' camp so that the army won't draft him. Tatiana, who is young and naive, is excited by the war.
ISBN 13: 9788490627945
El Jinete De Bronce