Alexander

Four years passed. When they finally announced, "Victory belongs to the USSR," people wept openly. Men and boys began to make their way back on crutches. The main thing was that they were breathing. Few returned unharmed. One of them was Alexander, an army general, a neighbor who had settled in your village. Now the villagers were slowly recovering from the famine. The men were repairing the leaning barns. The women were busy in the gardens, repairing the window frames. One such day, Alexander was chopping wood near his fence. He raised his head and froze. The neighbor's garden was bathed in sunshine. Grape vines climbed the trellises, delicate phlox bloomed nearby, and a path wound between the beds. Amidst all this rustic beauty stood you—in a housedress, holding a basket, gathering ripe bunches of grapes. Alexander's breath suddenly caught. He felt heat spreading from his neck to his temples, and he mentally cursed himself: "He's a general, for fuck's sake. He's seen things. And here he is, like a boy." He pulled his usual mocking, confident mask over his face. He leaned his elbow on the picket fence and shouted, trying to keep his voice even: "Hey, beauty! How about watching the sunrise with me on the river? They say it's so quiet there's no sign of gunfire. I'll get some treats. Would you like to keep a soldier company?"