The swimmer swayed in a reflected pool of light from the lamps on the bridge. Water vapor melted up from his skin and clothes, the contrast of hot to cold blurring his outline. Still, Miri could see he was tall. His hair was black and it hung down, ragged. He examined the beach as if searching for danger. When his glance reached the bridge, Miri knew he couldn’t see her but she felt he looked straight at her. She expected to see a fierceness in his gaze. For him to survive that fall, and that swim, he had to be ferocious, but in his face she saw he was terrified. He dragged a huge piece of cloth, maybe a coat, twisted around his foot and took four steps into the shadows, where he was hidden from the drunks by the brush. His teeth chattered as he fell on one knee.
She guessed he was near Vanya’s age. He wore a uniform and when the buttons on his tunic caught the light, they glinted at uneven intervals. Mismatched buttons meant he didn’t have access to proper supplies. Jews and Gypsies were denied those basics but they were supposed to be posted in the south, far from Kovno by now. Could the swimmer be either?
Miri looked again to the drunks. They were blind to what was happening behind them. Best to run, she decided. She stood and a single branch snapped under her weight.
“Who’s there? How many of you?” the swimmer asked, looking straight at her.
“Four of us,” Miri said in the deepest voice she could muster. Before she could turn to run, he had her. One hand around her arm. The other over her mouth. She hadn’t thought he was well enough to move that quickly. She shoved him, pushing hard where she saw blood between his shoulder and neck, and he grimaced, releasing his hold. He bent forward with his hand on his wound but didn’t come back at her.
“Please. I won’t. Hurt you,” he said between gasps. “I just want you. To be quiet. So the drunks. Don’t hear.” He looked up. “Can you help me. Find a doctor?”
“Doctor?” Miri asked. He dropped back to his knees. Landed with a thud that sent up a spray of gravel. “Why would I help you?”
“You haven’t run yet. I’m hoping that means you might have a reason.”
“If you could make that swim, you’re not dying,” she said. “You likely only need stitches. The cold will keep down the swelling. You’ll lose less blood. There’s a hospital in the city.”
“You’re a nurse, then?”
“No. I am a doctor,” she answered and then cringed. She shouldn’t be telling him this much. Nor did she feel she had the right to the title, not after Anatoly. The drunks bellowed another round of “Tili, Tili, Bom.”
“Doctor? Will you help me?” She stood in silence. “If I wanted to hurt you, wouldn’t I have done it already?” This was true, though he might have only been waiting for his strength to return, to get from her what he needed. But there was a gentleness under his desperation.
“You don’t want my help. I killed a boy today,” Miri said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital. That’s all.”
“No. No hospital. Can’t you stitch me together in an alley?”
“Why would you trust me?”
“I see your bag. If you’re not a doctor, you know enough to speak like one.” He took his hand from his wound and looked at his palm, saw the blood, and reached back for his shoulder. “Kovno’s Jewish hospital is famous. Modern. Not like any Russian hospital. I believe they’d appoint women. That’s your hospital?”
She knew better than to admit she was a Jew. “My sex doesn’t bother you?”
“No. I need a doctor. And I like women.” A small grin slid across his face. And while she hesitated, she took a closer look at the swimmer in front of her. When people are in unbearable pain, they often lash out, but even at his lowest this man was kind. There was a weight to him, something she couldn’t define but that she could trust. She took a step closer, placed one foot on the object he’d dragged from the river. It was a military greatcoat. The lapel faced up, and in a sliver of light she read the name Grekov embroidered on the pocket. It was strange to see a winter coat in summer, a greatcoat with a name on it. Stranger still to think he’d dragged it while he swam, but she didn’t have time to ask questions. The drunks could notice them at any time. And while she took this in, he also seemed to be considering her. He eyed her dress, her hair, perhaps deciding if she really was a doctor. He was near enough now to touch.
“I would need to examine the wound,” she said. “I mean, I need to see the skin, to help.” He nodded to tell her it was okay and stayed still as she peeled back enough of his tunic to see thick blood oozing just where he’d held his hand. The cut was as long as her thumb, and deep. “A knife?” she asked. He nodded again. She ran her hands over his chest, pressed his ribs to make sure they weren’t broken. She felt for a swollen abdomen. Nothing. He had no other injuries. He wouldn’t die from blood loss, but it would weaken him. “I’ll bandage the wound so you can run and find someone else to stitch you back together.”
“Thank you.” The soldier looked back at the drunks and then stared out at the river while she unfastened the rest of his jumbled buttons. His top was part of a cavalry uniform. It didn’t match his coat or pants. The movement it took to pull his tunic down must have caused enormous pain, but still he didn’t cry or yell. He squeezed his eyes shut, curled his lips around his teeth, and bit down as if he were used to pain. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, for that. She reached for her bag and wrapped a bandage over the wound, then around his chest and under his arm to secure it. She pulled as hard as she could. Pressure was the only way to slow the bleeding. He sucked in air as she tied the knot. Then she pulled his tunic closed and held out her hand to help him up. His calloused palm chafed against her own. “No one will ask questions if I bring you in to the hospital. They won’t find out you’ve deserted.”
“I’m not a deserter.”
A glass bottle shattered. The sound was close. Miri’s chest went tight. The drunks’ singing had stopped. They were no longer perched on the tree trunk. She scanned the riverbank, frantic to find them, but didn’t see them anywhere. “Can you run?” Miri asked.
“Mir muzn. Nu, kum,” the swimmer said. We must. Come. Yiddish. He knew she was a Jew; he trusted her to know that he was, too. And even though she was in more danger now with the drunks after them, there was relief in knowing that. Miri reached for her dagger. Could the swimmer fight with one arm? When she looked up to see, he was gone. In the next instant, a fat hand grabbed her wrist and squeezed so hard she was forced to drop the blade. She couldn’t move.
Miri was alone.
“Shhhtop where you are!” the drunk who held Miri yelled after the swimmer. He wore a hat that flopped over his face and wielded a broken glass bottle as a weapon. Miri felt terror like she’d never felt before, pounding and visceral. And she felt a burst of strength but couldn’t do anything with it—she was trapped. The only thought in her head was Baba yelling, “Escape.” Miri kicked at the drunk’s shins but he moved out of the way. “What’s a lady like you doing out here with that deserter?” he asked.
“Let go.” She tried to pull free but he held tight.
“Oh, she fights?” He sounded as surprised as he was amused. “Oleg, you see her knife?”
The second drunk stepped out of the shadows. His smell was rank. He was bald, missing two front teeth. “There’s a ransom for deserters,” he said. “Deserters like yours. Where’s he?” She spit in his face. “Ah, he’s deserted you, too?” The bald man threw his head back and laughed as he wiped the mess away. He wasn’t nearly as drunk as the other. “Sergei,” he continued, “you lazy rat! You see she’s alone? Bring her to me. I’ll show her the way a real Russian man acts.”
As the one with the hat, Sergei, yanked Miri forward, he stumbled. Miri took the opportunity. She kicked, and this time she landed her heel on his shinbone. He howled and fell, dropped the broken bottle. Just as he tried to push himself upright, Miri kicked his knee out from under him. He slipped and landed facedown with a thud. Somet
hing under him crunched. He moaned and she pulled her hand back to strike him, but the bald man grabbed her arm and yanked her off his friend. He’d pulled her so hard she thought her shoulder might come clean out of its socket. He drew her close. Her back was against his chest. He smelled like rotten fish. “I like that you’re feisty,” he said. He moved and she heard his belt buckle clatter.
“No.” Panic. All she felt was panic. “No,” she yelled as loud as she could.
“Oh, yes.”
She stomped his toe. He loosened his grip enough that she wrenched free. The bald drunk lunged after Miri, and at that same moment the soldier that Miri had helped flew out of the dark and caught the drunk by the waist. Whatever blood loss had frozen him before, he ignored, tackling the drunk so they rolled toward the river, grinding against rocks.
The drunk with the hat moaned again. But this time his lungs rattled. Miri heaved him onto his back and skittered away when she saw the broken bottle now lodged in his chest. Blood poured from his mouth. The shards had pierced his lungs. He was drowning in his own blood.
She looked back at the two men fighting, rolling on the ground. The soldier landed a blow to the drunk’s ribs, at his kidneys. The drunk reeled and tried to slink away, but the soldier used his legs like scissors to catch him and pin him down. Then in one swift motion the soldier landed a vicious strike, his fist to the drunk’s jaw. Even from twenty paces away, Miri heard the bone crack. The drunk went limp and collapsed.
In the next instant, the soldier was in front of Miri. “We must go,” he said.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the dead drunk. Sergei. The second person she’d killed that day. Yet she could still hear the echo of the belt buckle, still feel the terror it brought. “I said we need to go,” the swimmer said. His voice sounded far away even though he was in front of her. “Can you hear me? Doctor?” The soldier leaned down to hoist her over his shoulder.
She jumped to the side where he couldn’t reach her. “Why would I go with you?” she asked, shaking her head.
“I didn’t mean to leave without you. I thought you were behind me.”
“Why did you come back?”
“I repay my debts.”
A train rumbled over the bridge. The light on its pilot swept across the beach, catching the bottle jutting from the drunk’s chest. “He’s dead,” Miri said, still stunned.
“Self-defense.” The soldier’s voice was calm. “He would have killed you. Or worse. Please. Come, we must leave before someone finds us.”
“We want someone to find us. That other man needs help.”
The soldier leaned down toward Miri and somehow forced her to focus on him. “If someone finds us here, we’ll both be thrown in prison. Probably killed. I’m a Jew. I believe you are, too. That dead man is Russian. No one will bother to hear our story or even ask why.”
“You’re wrong. I’ll tell the truth. That I was defending myself.”
“Has the truth ever helped in our country?” He winced and grabbed his shoulder. “Please, let me see you home, make sure you’re safe. Deliver you to your family. You saved my life.”
“I didn’t save your life. I bandaged your shoulder.”
“After I’d fallen from a train and was left to die. I’m not sure I would have gotten up if not for you. Come.”
“I don’t know you.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and raked his hand through his hair. Further downriver, there were voices coming toward them. Men were hurrying to the camp where the drunks had made their fire. What had they seen or heard? The soldier looked over his shoulder one more time and bowed. “My name is Aleksandr Grigorevich Petrov. Call me Sasha. I am a private in the Russian Imperial Army, or I was until an hour ago.”
“That odd coat you’re carrying says Grekov.”
“It’s not mine. I can explain. But not now. There’s no time.”
“What happened to Grekov?”
“He thinks he killed me. He threw me from the train.”
“Why?”
“Please. I can explain everything but right now we must run.” The swimmer was as tender with her now as he’d been vicious in the fight only moments earlier. He slung the greatcoat over his shoulder and pointed to a path that led up toward the castle. “This trail?”
He was right; they needed to run. But Miri was trained to trust no one. To go her own way. And yet—he’d come back for her. Had fought for her. And now they were wound in a murder together. “This way is better,” Miri said. She kneeled down for her dagger in the dirt, then started walking in the opposite direction. The soldier followed.
XVI
Doctor, which way?” Sasha asked. They stood at the edge of the trail above the river. The men below were shouting. They must have found the drunks, one dead and one with a broken jaw. It wasn’t likely the drunk who survived could speak, but if he could, had he gotten a good enough look at Miri or the soldier to describe them and report them? Had he seen her doctor’s bag? Miri hurried into an alley with the soldier on her heels. He was right, she thought, nothing good would come of being found down there. She’d killed a Russian. If she were caught, she’d be hanged. She directed them around a corner. “No.” Miri doubled back. She wasn’t thinking straight. She needed to calm down. “I meant this way.”
They walked along a dirt trail that ran behind low-slung wooden homes. Here the bookbinders and the blacksmiths, the barbers and the millers clustered together and kept their distance from the beggars. Each had a yard, some with a garden. Miri was aware she was making too much noise, her feet heavy, but she couldn’t help it. How was the soldier so quiet? And why was he wearing that greatcoat?
He was right about avoiding the hospital, too. There, people would ask questions: Who is this man? Where did you find him? The guard, Igor, once he found her, could report the soldier to Kir, and they’d both be whisked off to the Okhrana for an interview where she was sure they’d find a way to make her talk. They always did. She’d admit she knew the soldier was a deserter, that she’d helped him and that she was a murderer—and they’d both be killed. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d take him home. Babushka would know what to do. And Miri would stitch him together. She’d have to. And she’d have to help him get away somehow because Miri’s fate was now tied to his. If he was caught, he’d talk and lead them straight to her. Oh, if only she could get a hold of herself.
The farther they walked, the larger the image of the dead drunk loomed in Miri’s head. Was there blood on her dress? On her hands? Was it from Anatoly or the drunk? She washed in a rain bucket. Scrubbed as long as she dared. The closer they got to the center of Kovno, the more she looked over her shoulder.
Miri directed Sasha behind butcher shops and cafés. It was dark so they couldn’t avoid the heaps of slops piled for feral cats. They walked straight through the detritus, close now to Miri’s house. Her neighborhood acted as a border, a no-man’s-land. Below lived the families who worked for a wage. Beyond lived the families who paid those wages. Half a block from home, Miri stopped and signaled for Sasha to do the same. She couldn’t risk one of Kir’s guards seeing him. Even they wouldn’t believe Sasha was one of Baba’s clients, not as he stood now dressed in rags, spattered in mud and blood. She peered around the corner, staying hidden in the shadows. Not a single candle burned in the windows above. The Khalskis’ dog was quiet. The Rusnaks’ baby wasn’t crying. But there was the smell of bread coming from the Yurkovs’ bakery. And in the dim light of the guard’s single candle, she saw his face. “Good,” she breathed. “It’s Arkady Vladovich tonight.” They were lucky.
“Your house is guarded?” Sasha asked. “Who are you?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Your head is muddled. We can’t go near an officer. Not now.”
“We’ll be safe once we’re inside. Where else can we go?”
“An alley? The forest? Anywhere.”
“This is our best option. I need to stitc
h your wound.”
“You’ll do it, then?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And then you’ll rest. The last place anyone would look for a deserter and a murderer would be inside a guarded house.” She handed Sasha a key and told him to wait where he was. “There’s another key hidden under a cobblestone. I’ll pretend I need Arkady’s help to get it. While he’s bent over, hurry behind me and go inside.” She saw Sasha hesitate, was certain he was thinking he should run. “You have no choice. And he’s drunk. My grandmother will have known something happened when I didn’t come home. I’m certain she’s given him vodka—I just hope she hasn’t slipped out herself to look for me.” She saw him hesitate still. “What else can you do?”
“Hide somewhere else.”
“Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight. You still need my help, don’t you?” He leaned against the stones. “Please, trust me,” she said. “We’re both Jews. We’ll both die if we’re caught. I won’t let that happen.”
“Jews turn on one another. Where did you learn to fight?”
“My grandmother. She fled Odessa. During the pogroms. Gypsies took her and her sister in, taught her to fight, and she taught me. Listen, do you have a better choice?”
“No,” he admitted, and nodded slowly. Something tugged at her, told her once she left she might not see him again, but there was no other way to sneak him into the house. Miri started walking. This time she made noise on purpose. “Arkady Vladovich, nice to see you,” she called.
“Where’ve you been?” he grunted. “Igor’s been looking for you for hours.”
“I stayed late at the hospital.” She tried to sound confident. “I didn’t see him when I left. Where was he?”
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