At that moment the waiter brought the beer and they sat and chatted at the pavement table. Soon, General Order Number 1—the rule preventing American military personnel from drinking alcohol while on duty or while deployed—was set aside and the Americans were able to relax for the first time in months; imagine themselves as simple tourists for a few moments, enjoy the sun and the exotic beer, and watch with obvious appreciation as long-legged, ash-blonde Ukrainian girls strutted past.

In no time the Americans were at the center of a group of admiring Ukrainians, all keen to buy them beers, practice their English, and express their gratitude for what America was doing to support their beleaguered country.

Vronsky lifted his chair and placed it between Trapnell and his neighbor, the only female soldier in the group.

He turned to her. “Hi, I’m Anatoly. Thank you for what you’re doing for us.”

“It’s a pleasure, Anatoly. And I’m Laura Blair. But please call me Laura,” she replied, a typically open, friendly, pretty all-American girl. “I guess life has been very tough for you with the war and everything.”

Vronsky looked at her. “You’re not wrong . . . All war is dreadful but civil war is brother against brother, fathers against sons.”

“What about the Russians?” asked Blair.

“Sure, they’re involved, but how can they not be? Ukraine and Russia are inseparable. Like twins joined at birth. The tragedy was the separation after Soviet times.”

Blair persisted. “But the Russians have invaded your country, broken the ceasefire, attacked your soldiers.”

“If young, innocent conscripts, forced to fight against their will, is an invasion then yes, the Russians invaded. The Kremlin will tell you they were volunteers. Don’t believe that propaganda. The truth is everyone in war loses, is a victim. There are no winners. Everyone’s lives are blighted; young, old and always the innocent. It’s the women and children who suffer most . . . But enough of us and our troubles on such a beautiful day. Where are you from, Laura?”

Vronsky saw her look up at the sun and then at the happy crowds around them. She smiled. “Amherst, Massachusetts,” she replied, “and you?”

Vronsky ignored the question. “Amherst? Home of the poet Emily Dickinson?”

“Exactly. I’m impressed that you know. My dad was a janitor at Amherst Academy where she was at school. I guess you know about her from teaching English?”

“For sure,” said Vronsky, eyes softening, “and she’s one of my favorite poets. My time at school in the States left me with a love of American literature and a passion for Emily Dickinson. There’s a line of hers that has brought me through the dark times of the war . . .”

He leaned close to her ear and whispered:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tunes without the words—

And never stops at all.