We have moved to the house of Sashenka’s friend, Fimotchka, with whom we have rented two rooms, inhabited formerly by some refugee. The refugee was ignominiously turned out; we, too, were refugees. Fimotchka is the jolliest person imaginable; she is always laughing. God knows how I love these two tiny rooms, and Fimotchka’s jokes against my sensibility.
I might have moved to a palace for I feel as free as a king. Fimotchka has a canary, and I foolishly stand at its cage watching its antics for half an hour at a time.
I can’t talk about important things now, that must come later.
The Germans continue to advance.