Tatiana and Alexander. Paullina Simons

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      “Can I do anything?”

      The girl looked out of her wet hands at Tatiana. “Who are you?”

      “You can call me Tania.”

      “Aren’t you the TB stowaway?”

      “I am better now,” Tatiana said quietly.

      “You’re not Tania. I processed your documents myself. Tom gave them to me. You’re Jane Barrington. Oh, what do I care? My life is in shambles and we’re talking about your name. I wish I had your problems.”

      Trying quickly to find the words to say something comforting in English, Tatiana said, “It could be worse.”

      “That’s where you’re so wrong, missy. It’s as bad as can be. Nothing worse can happen. Nothing.”

      Tatiana noticed the wedding band on the girl’s finger, and her sympathy flowed. “I am sorry.” She paused. “Is it about your husband?”

      Without looking away from her hands, the girl nodded.

      “It is terrible thing,” said Tatiana. “I know. This war …”

      The girl nodded. “It’s the pits.”

      “Your husband … he is not coming back?”

      “Isn’t coming back?” the girl exclaimed. “That’s the whole point! He is very much coming back. Very much so. Next week.”

      Tatiana took a puzzled step away.

      “Where are you going? You look like you’re ready to fall down. It’s not your fault he is coming back. Don’t look so upset. I guess worse things have happened to girls at war, I just don’t know of any. You want to go grab a coffee? Want a cigarette?”

      Tatiana paused. “I have coffee with you.”

      They sat down in the long dining room at one of the rectangular tables. Tatiana sat across from the girl who introduced herself as Viktoria Sabatella (“But call me Vikki.”), shook Tatiana’s hand vigorously and said, “You here with your parents? I haven’t seen any immigrants come this way in months. The boats are not bringing them in. So few—what? You’re sick?”

      “I am better now,” said Tatiana. “I am here with myself.” She paused. “With my son.”

      “Get out!” Viktoria slammed her coffee cup on the table. “You don’t have a son.”

      “He almost month old.”

      “How old are you?”

      “Nineteen.”

      “God, they start early where you’re from. Where are you from?”

      “Soviet Union.”

      “Wow. How’d you get this baby anyway? You have a husband?”

      Tatiana opened her mouth, but Vikki went on as if the question had not been asked. Before she drew her next breath, she told Tatiana that she herself had never known her father (“Dead, or gone, all the same”) and barely knew her mother (“Had me too young”) who was in San Francisco, living with two men (“Not in the same apartment”) and pretending to be either sick (“Yes, mentally”) or dying (“From all that passion”). Vikki had been raised by her maternal grandparents (“They love Mumsy but they don’t approve of her”) and was living with them still (“Less fun than you might think”). She had originally wanted to be a journalist, then a manicurist (“In both professions you work with your hands; I thought it was a natural progression”) and finally decided (“Was forced to, more like it,”) to go into nursing when the European war looked like it would suck the United States into it. Tatiana was listening quietly and attentively when Vikki suddenly looked at her and said, “Got a husband?”

      “Once.”

      “Yeah?” Vikki sighed. “Once. Would that I had a husband once—”

      At that moment their conversation was interrupted by a painfully angular, very tall, immaculately dressed woman in a white brim hat, walking briskly through the dining hall, swinging her white purse and yelling, “Vikki! I’m talking to you! Vikki! Have you seen him?”

      Vikki sighed and rolled her eyes at Tatiana. “No, Mrs. Ludlow. I haven’t seen him today. I think he is still cross-town at NYU. He is here on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

      “Afternoons? He’s not at NYU! And how do you know his schedule so well?”

      “I’ve worked with him for two years.”

      “Well, I’ve been married to him for eight and I still don’t know where the hell he is.” She came up to the table and towered over the two girls. She eyed Tatiana suspiciously. “Who are you?”

      Tatiana pulled up her cloth mask from her neck to her mouth. Vikki stepped in. “She is from the Soviet Union. She barely speaks English.”

      “Well, she should learn, shouldn’t she, if she expects to earn her keep in this country. We’re at war, we have no business supporting wards.” And swinging her purse, nearly hitting Tatiana on the head, the woman swept from the dining room.

      “Who she?” asked Tatiana.

      Vikki waved her hand. “Never mind her. The less you know about her, the better. That’s Dr. Ludlow’s crazy wife. She storms in here once a week looking for her husband.”

      “Why she keep losing him?”

      Vikki laughed. “The question I think should be why does Dr. Ludlow let himself be lost so often.”

      “All right, why?”

      Vikki waved Tatiana off. Tatiana understood. Vikki did not want to be talking about Dr. Ludlow. With a small smile, Tatiana appraised Vikki. Now that she had stopped crying, Tatiana could see that Vikki was a striking girl, a proper girl who was pretty and knew it and did everything to make sure everyone knew it. Her hair was shiny and long and swept over her face and shoulders, her eyes were outlined in black eyeliner and runny mascara, and her full lips had traces of bright red lipstick. Her white uniform was tight on her long-limbed figure and came just a touch too high above the knee. Tatiana wondered how the wounded men responded to so much … Vikki.

      “Vikki, why you cry? You not love your husband?”

      “Oh, I love him, all right. I love him.” She sighed. “I just wish I could love him from five thousand miles away.” Lowering her voice, she continued. “This is really not a good time for him to come back.”

      “For husband to come back to his wife?” When was not a good time for that?

      “I wasn’t expecting him.” She started to cry again, into her coffee. Tatiana moved the cup away slightly so Vikki could finish the coffee later if she wanted to.

      “When were you …?” What was the word? Expecting?

      “At Christmas!”

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