Laevskaya nodded understandingly and I had already gone past when she called after me in a loud whisper:
“You’re quite simply a hero, Mikhail Ivanovich! Simply a hero. I tell everybody what a hero you are. An absolute hero. Absolutely. Yes, you are.”
I don’t know how many more times she said the word hero. My ears felt as blocked as if there had been an explosion.
Polina Lvovna arrived two days before the New Year, 1953. In the evening. At around ten, 2200 that is. Decent people do not show up at a family house at such a late hour. Not even with presents.
She cooed over the children. They were already asleep, as they should be. She melted particularly at the sight of Iosif. That’s understandable – he was an orphan. The first spoonful goes to the orphan, as the saying has it. And quite
