In 1941, after Nadia’s arrest, I went to the prison on Liteyny Prospekt and stood in line with hundreds of others looking for their loved ones—a useless act brought on by overpowering guilt. When my turn came, a woman behind a glass window ran her hand down the long list of names until her finger slowed down and froze. “Without the right of correspondence,” she muttered and looked up, calling the next person in line. I only learned later what this meant: Nadia didn’t have the right of correspondence because she had already been executed.

We remained in Berlin for a few days, or was it weeks? It was a strange time, almost surreal, pulsing with energy that radiated from the law-abiding Americans, the mild-mannered British, and from my compatriots, who drove too fast on the broken streets and shouted about their victories in the loud, arrogant voices of winners. I walked around the city with my pad and pencil, soaking in this air of impossible unity, albeit short-lived, of buds of the future unfolding before my eyes. And then one morning, John charged into the room where I slept, dropped his backpack by his feet, and yelled that I should get up and catch the plane with refugees leaving for America. I had only a few seconds to make the decision that has haunted me ever since.

Now you know everything there is to know. I live in New York. I never got married. I’ve been without you all for sixteen years, and I can wait no longer. Please forgive me for leaving you after the war, for not coming back. I was young and selfish, obsessed with my art, blinded by freedom and terrified of what the state would do to me for allowing myself to be captured and held as a prisoner of war. I want you to know that John was right, and I’ve become a little famous. But no amount of fame or money can take away the fact that I am an ocean and a half away from you.

With kisses for everyone, until we are all together again,

Yours forever,

Kolya

41

41