In the kitchen Tatiana put away all she had bought. As she carried the crates, she would glance into the room to see Alexander’s back. Karelia and the Finns and their borders, and the tanks, and weapons superiority and the treacherous marshy woods where it was so hard to gain ground and the war with Finland of 1940 and…

She was in the kitchen when Alexander and Dasha and Dimitri came out. Alexander did not look at her. It was as if he were a pipeline full of water, and Dasha had turned the faucet off.

“Tania, say good-bye,” Dasha said. “They’re going.”

Tatiana wished she were invisible. “Good-bye,” she said from a distance, wiping her floured hands on her white dress. “Thanks again for your help.”

Dasha said, holding on to Alexander’s arm, “I’ll walk you out.”

Dimitri came up to Tatiana and asked if he could call on her again. She may have said yes, she may have nodded. She barely heard him.

Leveling his eyes on her, Alexander said, “It was nice to meet you, Tatiana.”

Tatiana may have said, “You, too.” She didn’t think so.

The three of them went, and Tatiana was left standing in the kitchen. Mama came out and said, “The officer forgot his cap.”

Tatiana took it from Mama’s hands, but before she could take one step to the corridor, Alexander had returned—by himself. “Forgot my cap,” he said.

Tatiana gave it to him without speaking and without looking at him.

As he took the cap from her, his fingers rested against hers for a moment. That made her look up. Tatiana stared at him with sadness. What did grown-ups do? She wanted to cry. She could do nothing but gulp down the aching in her throat and act grown-up.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander said so quietly that Tatiana thought she might have misheard him. He turned and walked out.

Tatiana found her mother frowning at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Be grateful we got some food, Mama,” said Tatiana, and started to make herself something to eat. She buttered a piece of bread, ate part of it with absentminded abandon, then jumped up and threw the rest out.

There was nowhere for her to go. Not in the kitchen, not in the hallway, not in the bedroom. What she wanted was a little room of her own where she could go and jot down small things in her diary.

Tatiana had no little room of her own. As a result she had no diary. Diaries, as she understood them from books, were supposed to be full of personal writings and filled with private words. Well, in Tatiana’s world there were no private words. All private thoughts you kept in your head as you lay down next to another person, even if that other person happened to be your sister. Leo Tolstoy, one of her favorite writers, wrote a diary of his life as a young boy, an adolescent, a young man. That diary was meant to be read by thousands of people. That wasn’t the kind of diary Tatiana wanted to keep. She wanted to keep one in which she could write down Alexander’s name and no one would read it. She wanted to have a room where she could say his name out loud and no one would hear it.

Alexander.

Instead, she went back into the bedroom, sat next to her mother, and had a sweet biscuit.

Her parents talked about the money Dasha was not able to get out of the bank, which had closed early, and a little about evacuation, but said nothing about Pasha—for how could they?—and Tatiana said nothing about Alexander—for how could she? Her father talked about Dimitri and what a fine young man he seemed to be. Tatiana sat quietly at the table, summoning her teenage strength. When Dasha returned, she motioned for Tatiana to come into their bedroom. Tatiana dutifully went. Whirling around, Dasha said, “So what did you think?”

“Of what?” said Tatiana in a tired voice.

“Tania, of him! What did you think of him?”

“He’s nice.”

“Nice? Oh, come on! What did I tell you? You’ve never met anyone so handsome.”

Tatiana managed a small smile.

“Wasn’t I right? Wasn’t I?” Dasha laughed.

“You were right, Dasha,” said Tatiana.

“Isn’t it incredible that you met him?”

“Isn’t it?” said Tatiana without feeling, standing up and wanting to get out of the room, but Dasha blocked the door with her twitching body, unwittingly challenging Tatiana, who was not up to a fight, not a big one, not a small one. Challengeless, she said and did nothing. That’s the way it had always been. Dasha was seven years older. She was stronger, smarter, funnier, more attractive. She always won. Tatiana sat back down on the bed.

Dasha sat next to Tatiana. “What about Dimitri? Did you like him?”

“I guess. Listen, don’t worry about me, Dash.”

“Who’s worried?” Dasha said, ruffling Tatiana’s hair. “Give Dima a chance. I think he actually liked you.” Dasha said that almost as if she were surprised. “Must be your dress.”

“Must be. Listen, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

Dasha put her arm on Tatiana’s back. “I really like Alexander, Tania,” she said. “I like him so much, I can’t even explain.”

Tatiana felt a chill. Having met Alexander, having walked with Alexander, having smiled at Alexander, Tatiana grimly understood that Dasha’s relationship with him was not some transient fling soon to be ended on the steps of Peterhof or in the gardens of the Admiralty. Tatiana had no doubt her sister meant it this time. “Don’t explain anything, Dasha,” said Tatiana.

“Tania, someday you’ll understand.”

Squinting sideways, Tatiana looked up at her sister sitting on the edge of the bed. She opened her mouth. A moment passed.

She wanted to say, but, Dasha, Alexander crossed the street for me.

He got on the bus for me, and went to the outskirts of town for me.

But Tatiana couldn’t say any of that to her older sister.

What she wanted to say to Dasha was, you’ve had plenty. You can get yourself a new one any time you want. You’re charming and bright and beautiful, and everybody likes you. But him I want for myself.

What she wanted to say was, but what if he likes me best?

Tatiana said nothing. She wasn’t sure any of it was true. Especially the last part. How could he like Tatiana best? Look at Dasha with her hair and her flesh. And maybe Alexander crossed the street for Dasha, too. Maybe he went across town, across the river for Dasha at three o’clock in the bright morning when the Neva bridges were up. Tatiana had nothing to say. She closed her mouth. What a waste, what a joke it all had been.

Dasha studied her. “Tania, Dimitri is a soldier… . I don’t know if you’re quite ready for a soldier.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. But we might need to spruce you up a bit.”

“Spruce me up, Dasha?” said Tatiana, her heart backing into her lungs.

“Yes, you know, maybe a little lipstick, maybe have a little talk…” Dasha pulled Tatiana’s hair.

“Maybe we’ll do that. Another day, though, all right?”

In her white dress with red roses, Tatiana curled up, facing the wall.

3

Alexander was walking fast down Ligovsky.

They were silent for a few minutes, and then Dimitri, still not catching his breath, said, “Nice family.”

“Very nice,” said Alexander calmly. He was not out of breath. And he did not want to talk to Dimitri about the Metanovs.

“I remember Dasha,” Dimitri said, barely keeping up with Alexander. “I’ve seen her with you a few times at Sadko, haven’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Her sister is something, though, don’t you think?”

Alexander didn’t reply.

Dimitri continued. “Georgi Vasilievich said Tania was nearly seventeen.” His head shuddered. “Seventeen! Remember us at seventeen, Alexander?”

Alexander kept on walking. “Too well.” He wished he could remember himself at seventeen less. Dimitri was talking to him. “I didn’t hear. What?”

“I said,” Dimitri said patiently, “do you think she is a young seventeen or an old seventeen?”