“Every time, after Dobrynya, rounding the sharp bend of the Volga, emerged into the straight stretch, and far ahead on a yellow bluff a rare pine grove appeared—through the trees, identical little houses of the Workers’ Settlement glowed; over the pipe, a steep column of white steam rose in a swirl, and the whistle—drawn out and hoarse—flew above the water, toward the distant bluff on the shore.
And invariably, a minute after the whistle, the woman would run up the slope to the birch, holding a colorful scarf on her head…”
A story about love, duty, memory, and about who they truly are—close, native people…