“Iliusha,” her voice broke. “She didn’t even speak to us?”
Her brother fell silent for a moment. Marina could only hear his breathing over the phone.
— No. One of her friends told me yesterday. I was wondering how to tell you.
Marina sat on a stool by the door. The umbrella slipped from her hand. She stared ahead, trying to understand the moment their ordinary lives had changed so drastically.
A Family Like Many Others
: The Volkovs lived like many families: Sergei Nikolayevich worked as an engineer, and Tamara Sergeyevna taught school. They raised two children, Marina and Ilya. The brother and sister were four years apart.
Five years ago, Sergei Nikolayevich died. His wife was left alone in their spacious, three-room apartment.
But the place that all the Volkovs considered their true family home was their dacha. Forty kilometers from the city, six acres of land overlooking a lake in the forest. Her father spent ten years building this wooden house, visiting on weekends and working on holidays. Marina recalled that at fourteen, he taught her how to drive a nail with three precise blows. At eight, Ilya pulled his first pike from the lake. On the veranda, they celebrated birthdays, New Year’s Day, and gathered for May Day festivities.
