Schroeder led the way through the building without speaking. When they reached the front entrance, Schroeder opened the door and said, “The car will take you home.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
“Your discussion with the colonel went well?” Schroeder said as Rostnikov went down the stone steps and headed for the waiting, humming automobile.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
Schroeder stood on the step wanting to ask more, wanting a clue to his own future, but he dared not ask. Rostnikov climbed into the car and settled back. He was very tired.
Back in his apartment, Rostnikov ate some bread and drank the last of a jar of potato soup. Slowly he undressed, put on his sweatshirt, pulled his bench and weights out of the cabinet in the corner of the living room, and turned on the record player.
Then to the sound of Edith Piaf softly singing of a lost love, Rostnikov lost himself in the magic of two-handed curls.
Three nights and one day later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov opened the door of Sarah’s room at the September 1947 Hospital. She was ready for him in the wheelchair. Her lips were touched with pink, and the bandages had been removed. Her freshly combed hair seemed to have lost just a shade of its redness, but it may simply, Rostnikov thought, be my memory. Sarah was wearing her pink-and-white robe and her matching pink slippers.
The other two beds in the room were occupied by new patients, one covered and asleep and with a tuft of white hair, the other a thin woman of perhaps forty who looked at Rostnikov over half glasses.
“Do I look …?” Sarah said.
“You look fine,” said Rostnikov, moving to kiss her forehead.
“You lie, Porfiry Petrovich,” she said with a sigh.
“When I must, but not to you,” he said. “Dr. Yegeneva says we can go to the roof.”
“It looks as if it might be a little cold,” said Sarah as Rostnikov got behind the chair and pushed her toward the door he had left open. “Winter’s coming.”
“Yes,” he said, wheeling her slowly down the hall, the wheels clicking in need of oil, Rostnikov’s leg struggling to keep the movement even.
“And that makes you happy,” she went on as they reached the elevator. Rostnikov pushed the button and stood before her.
“I like the winter,” he said.
“How much time can you spend with me today?” she asked, touching her hair with a pale hand.
“All day. Till you tire.”
The elevator opened. It was empty. Rostnikov pushed the wheelchair in and hit the button to close the door.
As the elevator moved up the two floors to the roof, Rostnikov asked, “I have a surprise. Are you able to take a surprise?”
Sarah looked up at her husband, saw the small smile, and knew there was no terror in the surprise. She looked at his hands, but they held nothing.
“Yes,” she said.
And men the elevator door opened. There was a double door to the roof in front of them. The door was open. The fall wind blew and hummed and Sarah savored it and felt her body under its touch and was glad to be alive. As Rostnikov wheeled her around a corner onto the open roof, she reached up to touch his hand.
It was at that moment that she saw the sturdy, smiling young man standing no more than ten paces in front of her. He wore dark trousers and a black knit turtleneck sweater she had bought him for his last birthday.
“He can stay, Sarah,” Rostnikov said, squeezing her hand gently. “He is no longer a soldier.”
Iosef moved forward to his mother, and Porfiry pretended not to hear the sob that came from the soul of his wife.