She saw the light of optimism in his eyes, but he pretended to be dubious. “That would be dangerous for you.”

“And for you.”

Vasili shrugged. “What are they going to do to me—send me to Siberia? But you could lose everything.”

“Could you write some more stories?”

From underneath his jacket he took a large used envelope. “I have already,” he said, and he gave the envelope to her. He drank some beer, emptying his glass.

She glanced into the envelope. The pages were covered with Vasili’s small, neat handwriting. “Why,” she said with elation, “it’s enough for a book!” Then she realized that if she were caught with this material she, too, could end up stuck in Siberia. She slipped the envelope into her shoulder bag quickly.

“What will you do with them?” he asked.

Tanya had given this some thought. “There’s an annual book fair in Leipzig, in East Germany. I could arrange to cover it for TASS—I speak German, after a fashion. Western publishers attend the fair—editors from Paris and London and New York. I might be able to get your work published in translation.”

His face lit up. “Do you think so?”

“I believe ‘Frostbite’ is good enough.”

“That would be so wonderful. But you would be taking a terrible risk.”

She nodded. “So would you. If somehow the Soviet authorities found out who the author was, you’d be in trouble.”

He laughed. “Look at me—starving, dressed in rags, living alone in a hostel for men that is always cold—I’m not worried.”

It had not occurred to her that he might not be getting enough to eat. “There’s a restaurant here,” she said. “Shall we have dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

Vasili ordered beef Stroganoff with boiled potatoes. The waitress put a small bowl of bread rolls on the table, as was done at banquets. Vasili ate all the rolls. After the Stroganoff he ordered pirozhki, a fried bun filled with stewed plums. He also ate everything Tanya left on her plate.

She said: “I thought skilled people were highly paid here.”

“Volunteers are, yes. Not ex-prisoners. The authorities submit to the price mechanism only when forced.”

“Can I send you food?”

He shook his head. “Everything is stolen by the KGB. Parcels arrive ripped open, marked ‘Suspicious package, officially inspected,’ and everything decent is gone. The guy in the room next to mine received six jars of jam, all empty.”

Tanya signed the bill for dinner.

Vasili said: “Does your hotel room have its own bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have hot water?”

“Of course.”

“Can I take a shower? At the hostel we get hot water only once a week, and then we have to rush before it runs out.”

They went upstairs.

Vasili was a long time in the bathroom. Tanya sat on the bed looking out at the grimy snow. She felt stunned. She knew, in a vague way, what labor camps were like, but seeing Vasili had brought it home to her in a devastatingly vivid way. Her imagination had not previously stretched to the extent of the prisoners’ suffering. And yet, despite everything, Vasili had not succumbed to despair. In fact, he had summoned, from somewhere, the strength and courage to write about his experiences with passion and humor. She admired him more than ever.