pending for a long time. Also, there was something, probably an invitation, addressed to her father from the Guild of Young Soviet Poets; ever since the announcement that his volume of poetry was in line for imminent publication, Viktor Ipalyevich’s social life had grown increasingly active. Oddly, the smallest envelope was the fattest. Who crammed so much paper into such a little envelope? When she saw the army postmark, Anna’s face broke into a smile, and a glance at the return address confirmed her guess. A letter from Leonid was as rare as snow in August; it made her even happier to think that her husband had taken the time to write at such length. She attributed the letter’s bulk to the barrenness of his surroundings, to the amount of idle time he had, and, above all, to the fact that he missed her. So the few, conflict-filled days of his home leave had eventually had the desired effect on him. How could a comparison between Moscow and Siberia turn out otherwise? As Anna thrust her finger under the seal, it occurred to her to let Petya open the letter. More quickly than they ordinarily did after work, her legs carried her up the stairs and onto the fourth-floor landing, where she immediately unlocked the apartment door. The place was unusually cold. Viktor Ipalyevich was wearing a thick sweater and sitting in the living room with a blanket over his knees, and a rustling sound was coming from the sleeping alcove.
“What’s going on?” She hid the mail behind her back.
“The building management turned off the heat without saying why,” the poet growled. “They could at least have waited until summer.”
Anna pulled out the association’s mimeographed letter, which informed residents that heat in the building would be temporarily shut off for maintenance work on April 11 and 12. She handed her father the letter. Without taking off her shoes and jacket, she went to the nook and bent over her son. “Look here, Petyushka,” she said tenderly.
The dark-haired head emerged from the bedclothes, and then Petya shined a flashlight in his mother’s face. “If I read under the covers, it gets warm right away.”
She smiled at the flushed, childish face. “I think something’s come for you,” she said, presenting the letter.
“What is it?” He examined the envelope earnestly. “Who’s writing to me?”
“To us, Petya.” She laid the letter on his lap. “Papa’s writing to us.”
“Papa,” he repeated with great reverence. “From Yakutia?”
She nodded. “This letter has traveled a long, long way to reach us. Would you like to open it?”
“Is he writing to tell us when he’s coming back?” The child’s finger traced the edges of the stamp. “Is he writing about the animals out there where he is? Did he put a present in with the letter?”
“Hurry up,” Anna said with a laugh. “You remind me of old Avdotya, trying to imagine what Metsentsev’s going to write to her about.”
The child plucked cautiously at a corner. The paper didn’t give way immediately, so he pulled harder and soon had several snippets in his hand.
“Stop,” his mother said, laying her hand on his. “We don’t want to tear it to pieces.”
“In my day, we used letter openers,” came the voice from the dining table.
“Very good idea.” Letter in hand, Anna ran into the kitchen. She made one careful cut, and now she could pull out the pages—how many there were! She unfolded and smoothed them as she went back to Petya. “Now we’re going to see how well you can read.”
He scooted to the edge of the bed; Anna threw the blanket over his bare feet and sat next to him. Petya ran his tongue over his lips as though a hard task lay before him.
“ ‘My dear wife. I’m sitting in the office here on the base and imagining you taking these pages into the kitchen and drawing the curtain across the doorway, curious to see what’s awaiting you.’ ” Petya looked up. “Papa’s writing to you, not me, just you.”
“I’m sure he writes something to you in the next line or two.”
“Besides, we’re not in the kitchen, and we haven’t closed the curtain.”
“Then let’s just close this one.” She slipped off her shoes, knelt next to Petya on the bed, and pulled the blue fabric across the alcove. The gliding curtain made the lamplight dance on the pages; the ballpoint pen had been pressed deep into the paper.
“ ‘I’ve been sitting on these lines for six days, dear Anna,’