“You’ll call my father?” asked Misha, going back to his paper.
“I’ll call your father,” agreed Iosef, slamming the locker and turning to leave. “Good-bye.”
The bus to Kiev was ten minutes late, which meant that he had only fourteen minutes to get his ticket and catch the train, but make it he did by running and moving to the front of lines, a privilege of the military.
It wasn’t until he was on the train pulling out of the station that Iosef allowed himself to think. He felt wonder and anxiety about seeing his parents for the first time in a year, a great eagerness to see the familiar buildings of Moscow, and a curiosity about who had tugged at the strings to get him this leave and for what reason.