Red Army Day 1946

She picked him out in a bar near Moscow's Belorussky Station one night near the end of February, drawn as much by the lost look in his eyes as by his chiselled profile and broad shoulders. He was considerate and thorough, but trying so desperately not to think about something, or someone, that she didn't bother suggesting that he stay. As he was doing up his shirt buttons, though, she found she didn't quite want to let go.

"What's your name, anyway?"

He hesitated for a moment, as if trying the words out inside his head before he spoke.

"Maxim. Maxim Isayev."

He stumbled slightly on the second syllable. She wasn't offended. She hadn't told him her real name, either.