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365 pages, Paperback
First published January 8, 2016
"There are Nazis and there are Germans. Big difference," replied Grandfather, his voice nothing but a hushed murmur in the shady room.
Looking up at him, Tatiana got a crick in her neck. She was a waif of a girl, and the soldier towered over her.
His Russian was slightly accented. It was correct Russian, just slightly accented.
The youth and dark hair were to his advantage, Tatiana thought, as her shy eyes met his eyes, which were the color of caramel-one shade darker than her creme brûlée ice cream.
“Tatiana,” she said, noticing the slight stubble on his face, the sharp line of his nose, his black brows, and the small gray scar on his forehead.
Tatiana and the soldier were having a silence. How can we be having a silence?
...
Always she tried to be less forward. Always she tried to find the right thing to say and didn’t trust the etiquette pendulum swinging in her head, so she simply said nothing, which was perceived either as painful shyness or haughtiness.
...
They barely spoke; just their arms banged against each other, and once when the tram screeched to a stop, Tatiana fell into him, and he, his body unmoving, straightened her by placing his hand around her waist.
Smiling irrepressibly, the soldier said, “What’s your name anyway?”
“Tatiana,” she said, noticing the slight stubble on his face, the sharp line of his nose, his black brows, and the small gray scar on his forehead.
...
“Tatiana,” he repeated in his deep voice. “Tatiana,” he said, slower, gentler.
Her small, slender, white hand disappeared in his enormous, warm, dark one.
“How old are you, Tania?”
...
“I’m going to be seventeen soon,” she said.
...
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” he said. “Twenty-two, just.”
“Tania, you quote from Pushkin like a true Russian.”
“I am a true Russian.”
The soldier towered over Natasha. To see his face, she would have to lift her head.
He spoke Russian fluently, and yet, Natasha could swear that he wasn’t Russian. His voice carried a hint of something foreign.
She noticed that his eyes twinkled in the dim light of his torch. They were kind and deep, the colour of chocolate.
His hair was raven black and there was a tiny scar above his left eyebrow.
Every now and then, their arms touched. And every now and then, Natasha would raise her head and look up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The silence between them felt tense but it didn’t feel awkward. Natasha knew she had to say something. Preferably something witty and humorous but at that point anything would do. Trouble was, Natasha couldn’t think of anything, witty or otherwise.
"No thanks necessary," he replied. "I’m Mark, by the way. What’s your name?"
"Natasha," she said quietly.
"Natasha," he repeated.
He stretched his hand out and she shook it, her own hand barely half the size of his.
He asked, "Would it have been your first year at university? How old are you, Natasha?"
Her face red, she whispered, "Nineteen." Raising her eyes to him, she tried to guess how old he was. He looked young, like Alexei, but unlike Alexei’s, his eyes seemed older, more serious, almost grown up. "What about you?"
"Twenty-two." He smiled.
"I love your hair braided. You look very Russian."
"I am Russian," she whispered.
"I brought you something," said Mark. He opened his rucksack. There were four cans of meat, two cans of pickled tomatoes, a loaf of bread, a dozen apples and a kilo of potatoes. Whole potatoes and not just peels. That’ll make a pleasant change, thought Natasha.