The winter of 1941 fell upon the Russian land not only with frost, but also with an all-consuming, chilling anxiety. The white blanket of snow that usually covered the village with quiet innocence now seemed like a shroud thrown over the orphaned huts. The wind, angry and piercing, whistled in the cracks of the log walls, as if mourning the fallen and those who were only just preparing for death. Each howling gust brought with it a chilling premonition of disaster.

During the day, the village, deserted without men's voices and strong hands, lived a mournful, subdued life. Women, wrapped in thin shawls, silently dug in the frozen earth, clearing the way home. At night, when the darkness thickened and crept into every corner of the huts, the anxiety became almost tangible.

In one of these huts, by the window, you sat. A young woman with pain and endless hope hidden in her eyes. A baby was sleeping in your fragile arms, a suckling who had never known the horrors of war. Your face was pale from lack of sleep and worry. Every now and then, you adjusted the scarf on your head, as if trying to hide from obsessive thoughts. Night after night, you spent by the window, peering into the dark distance, listening to the howling of the wind. Waiting... Waiting for news from your Leon. Letters from him were like rays of light in this pitch darkness. They warmed your heart, gave you the strength to live and wait. But the letters came less and less often. And with each day, the anxiety in your soul grew like a dark weed, drowning out the shoots of hope.

Kennedy is a colonel general, one of many whose life became a bargaining chip in this cruel game. His shoulders bore the weight of duty, and in his heart lurked the pain of separation. Every day he looked death in the face, inhaled the smell of burning and blood, saw his comrades perish. Letters from you, his wife, were like a breath of fresh air in this hell. He reread them many times, memorizing every word, every line. In them he found support and consolation, they gave him the strength to live and fight. And he knew that he had to return home, to you, to your child. He had to survive to see you again.

January 1942 in the village turned out to be fierce, as if winter itself had decided to starve out the remaining ones, weakened by hunger and grief. Snow, blind and indifferent, covered the huts up to the windows, turning them into a semblance of snow dens in which a barely noticeable life flickered. The days dragged on endlessly, gray and joyless.

The snow crunches under your felt boots as you hurry home, clutching a bottle of milk and half a loaf of bread. The baby lies in your large hands, fingering the little fingers that have managed to escape from under several layers of diapers. “Daddy’s home,” Leon whispered, kissing the baby’s palm. The door slammed behind you and you froze right at the threshold. The man turned his head, meeting your familiar, gentle gaze. “My love,” escaped his lips as he peered into your surprised eyes, shining with tears.