A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  “No. Thank you.” Miri hurried inside. Just past the door she found Ilya.

  “We’ve been waiting,” Ilya said. His voice was harder than it had ever been. His eyes, though, were soft and apologetic. He raised a finger to his lips, asking her to keep quiet. She didn’t understand, but already she knew something bad was coming. Her heart rattled.

  “What are you talking about?” Miri whispered.

  He gestured with his chin toward the sitting room and used the same hard voice. “Dr. Abramov, I presume? Your grandmother is waiting for you.” Still not understanding, Miri dropped her bag and pushed past him. She found Baba in her chair with her fingers twisted together in her lap. Her skin was pale, translucent, and her shoulders were folded forward so she looked smaller. “Baba,” Miri said, dropping to her knees next to her. “What?”

  “Mirele, please, greet our guest.” Baba inclined her head toward the shadow at the cold hearth, and Miri smelled the stranger before she saw him, the reek of stale cigars and sweat. He hovered in the corner. A tall, thick man dressed in black. He was wound with strength and his eyes were so dark they matched his suit. Although they’d never met, she knew him because he was exactly as Vanya said he’d be.

  “Miriam Abramov,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you. From your brother, of course.” She knew that was a lie. One of Baba’s first rules was to keep home at home. Miri calculated she could have the horn-handled dagger from her boot in a heartbeat.

  “Kir,” she said. Though she tried to keep her voice polite, it came out sounding like a hiss.

  “Yes. Kir Romanovitch,” Baba said. “The chair of Vanya’s department.” The one who stole her brother’s work. Babushka must have known that was what Miri was thinking because she glared at her granddaughter, a warning.

  “I’ve been your brother’s mentor for all these years. Teaching him what I can. Did he mention I’ve been promoted? I’m now the head of the university.” He gave a shallow bow. “I’m worried for Vanya. I do hope he wasn’t caught up in that nasty business, the conscription. Ilya Dragunovitch, please.” He signaled for the officer to come closer. “Light the fire. The women are freezing. Look at how they tremble.” Kir turned back to Miri. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “You’re too late,” Baba said. “Vanya’s gone. I told you.”

  “Yes. He should have come to me. I told him I could keep him safe.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want your help,” Miri said, even though she knew she shouldn’t.

  “My granddaughter means that Vanya is proud to serve Russia,” Baba intervened.

  Ilya stumbled into the room. He struck a match and it broke. He tried again, two, three times before the kindling under the grate caught. Flames slapped the bricks. Smoke spiraled. “I could have kept Vanya from the war. We’re so close to an equation for relativity,” Kir said.

  “Of course,” Baba said.

  “I thought you were denied funding for it,” Miri prodded.

  “He was thrilled for your support,” Baba said, her voice rising over Miri’s.

  Kir ignored them both and continued, “I was the one who pushed for his acceptance into the university, you know. Despite him being a Jew.”

  “Tell me, how can we help you?” Baba asked.

  “I’m hoping to carry on,” Kir said. He approached the fire, took the poker from Ilya, and stabbed a log. “I’m hoping he’s left notes behind, some of what we were working on. I want to finish what we started.” Liar, Miri thought. Kir looked at her as if he’d heard. “Imagine what it would mean for Russia, for the work on relativity to be finished by a Russian. Not that I expect either of you to fully understand. But you do know the czar’s glory on the battlefield could be magnified by my—our—glory at the university.”

  Miri expected Baba to object, but instead she sighed. “Look through his things. Maybe you’ll find what you need,” she said. “Take it all.”

  “Baba?”

  “His room is upstairs.”

  “Good. Ilya will show me. I understand he knows the way.” Kir paused to let his words sink in. Miri tried not to let him see her cringe. No one was supposed to know about their relationship with the officer. Kir flashed a cruel smile. “Yes, Ilya Dragunovitch has become very close to your family. I know all about it. But after tonight he’ll come with me. You’ll need someone else to keep watch. I’ve already made the arrangements.”

  “You’re putting us under guard?” Miri asked.

  “After all that’s happened, you need a guard to keep you safe. Don’t you think? Surely Vanya would appreciate it,” Kir said. “Miriam, you’ve seen what’s happened without protection, the wounds your Jewish neighbors bore, that you stitched today? The watch will be around the clock. Someone will accompany you to the hospital. Another will stand outside your front and back doors. We will make sure you’re never hurt again.”

  “I don’t—” began Miri.

  “Thank you for looking out for us,” Baba interrupted.

  “Of course. This way you’ll be safe. And when Vanya comes home, or tries to contact you, I’ll be able to help.”

  “Oh, now I understand perfectly,” Miri said. She looked to Baba to say something but her grandmother only nodded. How could she keep her face so still? Her anger under control? It took all Miri had not to spit on Kir before he turned to go upstairs. Ilya went after him, but his toe caught the side of the divan and he tripped.

  Baba leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Is your family safe?” she whispered.

  Ilya nodded. His eyes were wide and scared. He scrambled to his feet and up the stairs. Once both men were in Vanya’s room, Baba pulled Miri close. “Our poor Ilya.”

  “Anyone can be cajoled into talking,” Miri said.

  “Yes, of course. It’s what I’ve always said.”

  Miri got up off her knees and sat next to her grandmother. Above, she heard books hit the ground, papers ruffle and tear while she watched the logs crumble in the hearth and disintegrate into ash. Ilya came down five times carrying bundles of journals and notes. Miri assumed Kir would try to reconstruct Vanya’s equations, but he’d never succeed. She knew her brother well enough to know he’d taken the notebooks that truly mattered. It was why Baba was so willing to let Kir take whatever he wanted; still, Miri hated how easily she’d given in.

  After Kir left, Baba turned to Miri. “We go upstairs now,” she said. “And burn whatever remains.” Miri nodded. Before following Baba, she peeked through the curtain. In the thin lamplight coming from the corner, she saw the new guard posted at their door.

  XV

  Before Miri left for the hospital the next morning, Baba leaned close and whispered, “Start keeping track of the guards. They’ll have a schedule. When it’s time for us to leave, we’ll need to know them better than they know themselves. Which ones sleep. Which ones drink.”

  “You can’t escape a cage until you know its shape and weakness,” Miri said.

  Baba smiled. “Good. Now go.” Miri kissed her grandmother and left through the back door. She didn’t recognize the officer stationed there. Still, she nodded a greeting just as Babushka had instructed. And she nodded to the other guard who appeared a block later and followed her to the hospital, keeping a distance of ten paces between them.

  At work, Miri fell into her routines, making her way through the women’s ward, checking on patients she’d seen before and tending to those who were new, but not performing surgeries. Dr. Kozlov didn’t bother checking in. She was too rattled by the guard looming in the corner to care that he ignored her. At the end of the day, when the sun sank and three stars rose overhead, she walked home and fell into a fitful sleep in Vanya’s room, curled under his sheets remembering the nights he used to read to her until she fell asleep, or whispered their favorite fairy tales. Like this, her days fell into a rhythm where she worked from dark to dark, never setting foot in the sunshine.

  Soon the unseasonable cold was swept away, replaced b
y unrelenting heat. Warm rain spread pollen over the city. There wasn’t a crack that wasn’t contaminated with green dust. News from the borders began to percolate and none of it was good. Soldiers trickled into the hospital with training injuries. Already they were losing eyes, ears, and limbs. Miri checked everyone to make sure they weren’t Vanya or Yuri. She’d seen the damage that bullets and fire caused. Even her fiancé might go unrecognized in his own ward.

  All the work and waiting exacted its toll. Miri was forced to take notes when before she could remember. At night she stared at the moon for hours from Vanya’s bed, imagining she could see it waxing larger. She found comfort in the thought that Vanya and Yuri were looking at the same moon. Yuri had asked Miri to marry him under a full moon. Where were they now, Yuri and Vanya?

  Then came the boy. It was late. The hospital was dark and quiet save for the occasional moan. He was no more than twelve years old, lying on a gurney in the hall just outside the women’s ward, the only space available when he came in. Miri didn’t know how he’d escaped conscription. Above the blanket his face was serene, beautiful—but too white. She asked the nurse, Tamara, the child’s name. “Anatoly,” she said.

  Earlier that day, he’d been felling trees and the ax had slipped, or he’d missed. Either way, the blade had sliced his thigh. The old man paying him to do the work had fought in Japan and knew how to tie a tourniquet. As Anatoly lay in front of Miri, he was still alive, only barely. He’d lost so much blood that if she made even a small mistake, there was no question he’d die. She’d located the vein she thought was the main source of blood loss and tied it off, but she couldn’t be sure that was it until she removed the tourniquet. After that, if there was another bleed, she might not be able to save him. There just wasn’t time. “Doctor.” Tamara was looking at her with concern.

  Miri blinked away her memory of the fishmonger, focused instead on the anatomy of the thigh. Then she asked, “You looked for Dr. Kozlov?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “And the others?”

  “It’s late,” Tamara said, and Miri understood not a single other surgeon was still there. But she knew that without asking. She was only stalling. She also knew that even if she sent for a surgeon now, none would come. Not at this hour. Not for a child from the slums. Tamara ran a hand over the boy’s forehead and pushed his hair back the way a mother would. Her dark skin was soft with wrinkles. She had a speech impediment, and while most assumed she was slow, Miri knew better. “He’s lucky you’re here,” Tamara said.

  Miri pretended there was something in her eye so the nurse wouldn’t see her tears starting. Yuri told Miri that every surgeon makes a mistake the first time they operate on their own, but with Sukovich he’d been by her side. Now, Miri was alone.

  She took a deep breath and double-, triple-checked to make sure she had the right clamps and sutures. Then she nodded to Tamara and counted down from ten. At zero, she untied the tourniquet. Blood came instantly, and Miri knew her worst fear was real. She searched for the artery, but it had retracted, which meant it was the source. She dug into Anatoly’s leg, searched for the end so she could clamp it shut. She hoped since he was so young his body would be pliable but it wasn’t. It was stiff, as if he was fighting her. His muscles flexed and his joints went rigid. She couldn’t see. There was too much blood. She pushed deeper, knowing she was causing more damage than she should, but at least he might live. Finally, she could see enough to parse muscle from vein, and it was then she realized the blood had stopped. Anatoly was dead.

  “No. No,” Miri said. Tamara had her arm over Miri’s shoulders.

  “Shhh,” the nurse whispered. Was Miri yelling? Tamara held her with a force that made her quiet but not calm. Her panic expanded so the room went darker and a high-pitched ring strangled her ears. Until a few weeks ago, she had never made mistakes like this. Yuri—any other surgeon—would have saved him, she thought as she dropped to her knees next to the table. She rocked back and forth. He had been so young. Too young. Why wasn’t Yuri here? Tears dripped off her chin and marbled into Anatoly’s blood on the floor.

  Tamara was next to Miri now. “No one could have done better,” she said.

  “He was only a child.”

  “Yes. But think of the little girl this morning. You sewed her finger, saving it. You perform wonders.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Doctor,” Tamara said gently. “When will it be enough?” She helped Miri to her feet and down the hall. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Miri gave her one hand to scrub and then the other. The nurse peeled away Miri’s surgical gown while Miri felt the black shroud of guilt tighten around her. “Anatoly is no longer in pain. He is at peace. But you are here,” Tamara said. “We need you here.” She bustled into another room for a clean towel.

  “Do you?” Miri asked the empty room. It was the one question that terrified her the most.

  When Tamara returned, Miri sat slumped in the same chair she’d sat in the night she made tea for her and Yuri after she discovered him at the piano. She was certain now the other surgeons were right in doubting her. “I need to find his mother,” Miri said. She likely didn’t even know her son had been injured.

  “I will tell her,” Tamara said. “Tomorrow. She lives in the slums by the river.”

  “No. I have to find her. Tonight. She should know tonight.”

  “I’ll go with you, then,” Tamara said. “Your guard will keep us safe.”

  “No. I can’t take him there. He would terrify the neighborhood.” No Jew wanted to see an officer lurking, especially at night. “Tell me where they live. I’ll go without him.”

  “How?” Tamara asked.

  That was the only easy answer Miri had. Every summer in Birshtan they practiced evasion because Baba insisted the day would come when they’d need to know how to escape. “I’ll wear your nurse’s hat. You’ll take my coat. We’ll fix our hair the same way and slip through the back door. You’ll go first. Walk to my house. I’ll leave ten minutes after you and walk to Anatoly’s. The guard, Igor, will follow you. He won’t know better. If you walk in the right direction, in my coat, it’ll be enough.” Miri was certain it would work. “Walk slowly to give me as much time as you can.”

  “But, Doctor, he’s there for your protection. Not mine.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “What happens if he finds I’ve tricked him? What do I do when I arrive at your house?”

  “If he stops you, tell the truth. That he’s confused us.” Better to make it Igor’s mistake than Tamara’s treachery. “And if you get to my house without being stopped, you can slip through the alley to the main street and walk home from there. Now tell me, where do they live?”

  Tamara hesitated but only for a second to check on Igor. He wasn’t even looking at them. He was focused on a woman feeding her new baby. Tamara leaned in and described Anatoly’s neighborhood, told Miri how to wind through the streets to find his house on the darker side of Kovno. “It could be dangerous,” Tamara warned.

  “I’ll be fine,” Miri said. “I’ll take my doctor’s bag, just in case.” Soon, Miri was outside turning down Vilnius Street while Tamara walked in the opposite direction with Igor ten steps behind. Miri knew she should have been scared or elated that she was finally free of her guard, but all she felt was black sadness for Anatoly, and for his mother, whose life was about to be destroyed.

  Miri hurried. Without the sun, the air was tinged with the smell of damp and the limestone buildings that framed the road looked darker than they should. As she descended into the slums, streetlights cast shadows that magnified the laddered appearance of the tiled rooftops. She tucked Tamara’s hat into her bag and tried to think about how she’d break the news to Anatoly’s mother. She thought she was following Tamara’s careful directions, but she didn’t know this section of the city, and in four turns she was lost. She tried to retrace her steps, but when she came out at the river, she knew she was even farther from where she want
ed to be, deep in the city’s underbelly of mills and factories. She looked around, tried to plan her route home. The triangular roof on the tower of Kovno Castle loomed in the distance. The bulk of the train station rose nearby, and the Great Bridge hung overhead. She’d always seen it from above where the stanchions were polished and the road sparkled with lamps, but from this new perspective she saw it was decrepit. And the riverbank that appeared pristine was in fact a wasteland of gravel littered with rags and fish heads coated in pollen.

  At least she knew the way back from here. As Miri turned toward the path leading uphill, a train shot over the bridge. The wheels pummeled the rails with a force that made the shore vibrate. Cattle car after cattle car barreled across. When the engine’s roar was gone, Miri heard a new sound. Splashing and kicking at a desperate, fevered pace. Someone had fallen from the train and was swimming toward her.

  Miri crouched in the shadow under the Great Bridge and watched the swimmer. There was no wind, no moon, only the reflection of streetlights on the river. The swimmer was a man. His kick was fierce but he pulled with only one arm. The water rippled in strange patterns under his desperate stroke. He must have been injured. And the river’s temperature would only make his swim harder; its water flowed down from ice in the mountains so that even in summer it was frigid. Still, he fought. She wondered who he was—a Bolshevik? A criminal? She couldn’t bring herself to leave until she was certain he’d made it safely ashore. Miri narrowed her eyes, as if squinting could help her see him better, but instead she heard footsteps nearby. On the other side of a hodgepodge of weeds and brush she saw the silhouettes of two men making their way up the river, walking in her direction.

  The men stumbled. Drunk. Were they coming for the swimmer? Miri realized she was hidden from view and trapped. If she moved, they’d see her. If they came for her, no one was there to help. She braced herself against a damp slab of stone.

  “Tili Bom,” the men sang. “Close your eyes…the night hides everything. The night birds are chirping.” Their words were slurred. They plopped down on a fallen tree with a thud that cracked the trunk. They spilled over the side, laughing, and then climbed back up, set to starting a fire. Miri waited for the drunks to look at the swimmer. He was at the shore now, but they kept their backs to him. They were consumed by vodka, nothing else.