When Tatiana looked up from her ice cream, she saw a soldier staring at her from across the street.
But on that sunlit Sunday, Alexander knew nothing, thought nothing, imagined nothing. He forgot Dimitri and war and the Soviet Union and escape plans, and even America, and crossed the street for Tatiana Metanova.
Tatiana and the soldier were having a silence
Where was he, her Alexander, of once? Was he truly gone? The Alexander of the Summer Garden, of their first Lazarevo days, of the hat in his hands, white toothed, peaceful, laughing, languid, stunning Alexander, had he been left far behind? Well, Tatiana supposed that was only right. For Alexander believed his Tatiana of once was gone, too. The swimming child Tatiana of the Luga, of the Neva, of the River Kama. Perhaps on the surface they were still in their twenties, but their hearts were old.
You screamed. ” Will said. “Is that all you did?” “I screamed a great deal. ” Tatiana sounded injured.
Alexander to Tatiana: I love you as much as it is possible for a man to love a woman.
Courage, Alexander,” she whispered. “Courage, Tatiana.
Ask yourself these three questions, Tatiana Metanova, and you will know who you are. Ask: What do believe in? What do you hope for? What do you love?
Tatiana realized she was too young to hide well what was in her heart but old enough to know that her heart was in her eyes.
Courage, Alexander. . . . . Courage, Tatiana
