Come back to find her soldier.

It was ridiculous. Right now she was hoping merely for a graceful retreat and a way back home.

Little by little, other people trickled off the bus. Finally there was no one left except Tatiana and the soldier.

The bus sped on. Tatiana didn’t know what to do anymore. The soldier was not getting off the bus. What have I gotten myself into? she thought. She decided to get off, but when she rang the bell, the bus driver turned around and said, “You want to get off here, girl? Nothing here but industrial buildings. You meeting somebody?”

“Uh, no,” she stammered.

“Well, then wait. Next will be the last stop.”

Mortified, Tatiana sat back down with a thump.

The bus pulled into a dusty terminal.

The driver said, “Last stop.”

Tatiana got off the bus into a hot, earth-covered bus station, which was a square lot at the end of an empty street. She was afraid to turn around. She put her hand on her chest to still her relentless heart. What was she supposed to do now? Nothing to do but take the bus back. Slowly she walked out of the station.

After—and only after—taking the deepest breath, Tatiana finally looked to her right, and there he was, smiling cheerfully at her. He had perfect white teeth—unusual for a Russian. She couldn’t help but smile back. Relief must have shown in her face. Relief and apprehension and anxiety; all that, and something else, too.

Grinning, the soldier said, “All right, I give up. Where are you going?”

What could Tatiana say?

His Russian was slightly accented. It was correct Russian, just slightly accented. She tried to figure out if the accent and the white teeth came from the same place and, if so, where that place was. Georgia, maybe? Armenia? Somewhere near the Black Sea. He sounded as if he came from around salt water.

“Excuse me?” Tatiana said at last.

The soldier smiled again. “Where are you going?”

Looking up at him, Tatiana got a crick in her neck. She was a waif of a girl, and the soldier towered over her. Even in her high heels she barely came up to the base of his throat. Another thing she must ask him, if she could get her tongue back from him—the height. The teeth, the accent, and the height, all from the same place, comrade?

They had stopped stupidly in the middle of the deserted street. There wasn’t much activity around the bus terminal on a Sunday when war had started. Instead of hanging around near buses, people were standing in lines buying food. Not Tatiana, no, she was stopped stupidly in the middle of the street.

“I think I missed my stop,” Tatiana muttered. “I have to go back.”

“Where were you going?” he repeated politely, still standing across from her, not moving, not making a move to move. Standing completely still, eclipsing the sun.

“Where?” she asked rhetorically. Her hair was a big mess, wasn’t it? Tatiana never wore makeup, but she wished she had a little lipstick. Something, anything, so she wouldn’t feel so plain and silly.

“Let’s get out of the street,” the soldier said. They crossed. “You want to sit?” He pointed to a bench by the bus stop sign. “We can wait for the next bus here.” They sat. He sat too close to her.

“You know, it’s the oddest thing,” Tatiana began after a prolonged throat clearing. “My cousin Marina lives on Polustrovsky Prospekt—I was going there—”

“That was several kilometers ago. A dozen bus stops.”

“No,” Tatiana said, flustered. “I must have just missed it.”

He made a serious face. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you right back. The bus will come in a few minutes.”

Glancing at him, she asked, “Where were… you going?”

“Me? I’m with the garrison. I’m on city patrol today.” His eyes were twinkling.

Oh, perfect, Tatiana thought, looking away. He was merely on city patrol, and I was headed practically to Murmansk. What an idiot. Embarrassed, her face all red, she suddenly felt light-headed. She looked down at her shoes. “Except for the ice cream, I haven’t eaten all day,” she said feebly, her consciousness yielding to unconsciousness in a matter of suspended seconds. The soldier’s arm went around her back, and his calm, firm voice said, “No. No, don’t faint. Stay up.”

And she did.

Woozy and disoriented, she didn’t want to see his tilted head looking at her solicitously. She smelled him, something pleasant and masculine, not alcohol or sweat like most Russians. What was it? Soap? Cologne for men? Men in the Soviet Union did not wear cologne. No, it was just him.

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said weakly, attempting to stand up. He helped her. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. Are you all right?”

“Absolutely. Just hungry, I think.”

He was still holding her. The perimeter of her upper arm was inside his hand, which was the size of a small country, perhaps Poland. Trembling slightly, Tatiana straightened herself, and he let her go, leaving a warm empty space where his hand had been.

“Sitting on the bus, now out in the sun…” the soldier said with some concern in his voice. “You’ll be all right. Come on.” He pointed. “There’s our bus.”

The bus came, driven by the same driver, who looked at them with raised eyebrows and said nothing.

This time they sat together, Tatiana near the window, the soldier with his uniformed arm draped over the wooden back of the seat behind her.

Looking at him in this proximity was truly impossible. There was just no hiding from his eyes. But it was his eyes that Tatiana wanted most to see.

“I don’t normally faint,” she said, looking out the window. That was a lie. She fainted all the time. All someone had to do was bump a chair against her knee and she was on the floor unconscious. The teachers at school used to send home two or three notes a month about her fainting.

She glanced at him.

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. He was tanned under the stubble. His white teeth were outstanding.

“Tatiana,” he repeated in his deep voice. “Tatiana,” he said, slower, gentler. “Tania? Tanechka?”

“Tania,” she replied and gave him her hand. Before he told her his name, he took it. Her small, slender, white hand disappeared in his enormous, warm, dark one. She thought he must have heard her heart through her fingers, through her wrist, through all the veins under her skin.

“I am Alexander,” he said.

Her hand remained outstretched in his.

“Tatiana. Such a good Russian name.”

“Alexander, too,” she said and lowered her eyes.

Finally, reluctantly, she pulled her hand away. His large hands were clean, his fingers long and thick, and his nails trimmed. Neat nails on a man were another anomaly in Tatiana’s Soviet life.

She looked away onto the street. The window of the bus was dirty. She wondered who washed it and when and how frequently. Anything not to think. What she felt though, was almost as if he were asking her not to turn away from him, almost as if his hand were about to come up and turn her face to him. She turned to him, lifted her eyes, and smiled. “Want to hear a joke?”

“Dying to.”

“A soldier is being led to his execution,” Tatiana began. “ ‘Some bad weather we’re having,’ he says to his convoy. ‘Look who’s complaining,’ they say. ‘We have to go back.’ ”

Alexander laughed so instantly and loudly, his merry eyes never leaving her face, that Tatiana felt herself—just a little bit—melting within.

“That’s funny, Tania,” he said.

“Thank you.” She smiled and said quickly, “I have another joke: ‘General, what do you think about the upcoming battle?’ ”

Alexander said, “I know this one. The general says, ‘God knows it will be lost.’ ”