The Russian Affair - By Michael Wallner Page 0,113

her. Yes, in spite of the war, he’d been happy back then. When the front moved near Smolensk, Alexey’s father had taken them to Vyshnivets, a village deep in the forest, where one could hope that neither Germans nor Ukrainians would arrive. The land surveyor’s family found welcome and shelter there for many months—indeed, for almost a year. Alexey’s memories were of full days and protected nights. It was only after the victory that the hard times had begun, the stripping of his family’s assets, his withdrawal from the university, the flight to Russia. He bent down and looked through the little window to see if the eggs had set yet. Too impatient to wait any longer, he snatched the pan out of the oven. Even through the potholder, the skillet was too hot, and he had to run the last few feet to the table, drop the pan on it, and blow on his fingers. He didn’t really want to drink any alcohol, but he opened the bottle from simple force of habit and poured himself a glass. After fetching salt, pepper, a knife, and a fork, he sat down and ate from the pan. Never before in these rooms had he thought of himself as a single man, depressed, solitary, unable to cope with the silence. With the first hot forkful still in his mouth, he stood up again and turned on the radio. The music was pretty. Still chewing, he walked over to the window—daylight lasted so long this time of year! He would have liked to send Anton off to pick up Anna, yet he knew his longing was only an expression of his loneliness. He was going to lose not only Medea, but also Anna. He swallowed morosely, took in the next forkful while still standing up, and considered how he might get through the interminable evening.

TWENTY-SIX

The first month of spring brought snowstorms worse than any Leonid had ever experienced in Moscow in the dead of winter. The armored vehicles attached to his company dedicated the bulk of their time to such wintry duties as clearing the roads leading into the city. Yakutsk was almost cut off from the outside world, and food supplies were nearing exhaustion. At the hospital, Galina had the diesel generators running throughout every operation, because there was no counting on normal voltage levels. The storms piled up twenty-foot-tall snow cornices in many places; on some streets, residents had to leave their buildings from the third floor, because the ground was covered with snow two stories high.

Leonid and Galina spent more time together; however, the intense moments they’d experienced when their separation was imminent had been unique and did not come again. He’d thought that his transfer would bring tranquillity to their relationship, but Galina appeared to have her doubts about this unexpected togetherness. She figured her captain was just having a good time playing house with her, and she rejected any sentimental assessment of the matter, behaving as though she assumed that the arduous routine of daily life on the edge of the inhabited world would soon make Leonid reconsider his intention to sign on for five years’ duty in Yakutia. Did he really believe he could be at home here? And if he did, why didn’t he just sign the contract and be done with it? Why did he give such pathetic reasons for drawing out the process?

Leonid knew why. His sojourn in Moscow had left a sting in him, the pride of the formerly privileged man. What interesting lives Muscovites led, after all, what riches their city offered! Even though Leonid never visited a museum and went neither to concerts nor to the theater, he could have done so in Moscow, had he wanted to. If he lived there, he could participate in the big military reviews again, too; his former battalion of armored infantry traditionally formed the leading unit in the May Day parade through Red Square. Now May was near—spring in Moscow. The captain sighed, staring out into the driving snowstorm. He envied his comrades back home, polishing up the big machines, decorating the barrels of the guns, attaching the track protectors so as not to damage the streets of the capital. He’d always been happy on the days when they rolled the tanks off the base, drove the dozen miles into the city, and maneuvered into formation on the Leningrad Prospekt. As a young lieutenant, Leonid had scurried here and there among the steel treads