Freedom is Space for the Spirit

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Vasily’s message arrived by telegram, and Thomas couldn’t bring himself to open it right away. His assumption was that another of the old gang had died. He settled on the red leather couch by the fire in his Charlottenburg apartment and held the envelope, wet from the snow outside, in his hands. Eventually, Jutta stuck her head out of her sculpture studio. She wiped the back of her palm across her dusty, still-sharp cheekbones.

“Good God,” Jutta said, “is that really a telegram?”

“From Vasily.”

“Obviously. He lost his cell phone somewhere?”

“Last I heard—and it was a long time ago—he still uses burners. He doesn’t trust cell phones.”

“Internet cafés all closed?”

“I don’t even think he has e-mail. He doesn’t trust that, either.”

“But he trusts his local telegraph operator? Assuming there are such people still in St. Petersburg? Or here? Or anywhere?”

Grinning, she moved toward the couch, and Thomas had to fight back a momentary and selfish flicker of annoyance. Whatever was in the telegram, he didn’t want to share it, at least not right away. Feeling childish, he watched Jutta lumber closer, her hand on her swelling belly. She smiled at him, and the orange from the fire in the grate caught in her eyes.

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