A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  Zubov reached into his jacket and produced a flask, took a swig and offered it to Sasha. “Are you truly the infamous fool, the durak, Grekov? Or did you steal his greatcoat?”

  “Stealing a coat like this would make me even a bigger fool, no?” Sasha laughed. To Miri it sounded fake, but Zubov didn’t seem to notice. He broke into a wider grin that bared gray teeth.

  “How true! Who but Grekov would dare to wear that coat!” Zubov clasped a hand over Sasha’s. “Your reputation precedes you, Captain, but I’d never heard about your humor. A shame. Tell me, where are your Jews?”

  “Karmėlava. Camping in a field.”

  “You were permitted to leave them?”

  “Only for a few days, to escort my cousin.”

  “Cousin?” He paused. “I’ve never seen a woman so tall and so striking.” The train bumped. A crate behind them crashed. “Not to worry. Plenty of crates have toppled,” Zubov said with a wink for Miri. “They’re made to withstand travel. And if we have a dud, well, we’ll be dead before we feel any pain. Tell me, where are you escorting this cousin to?”

  “Daugavpils.”

  “You did say cousin, right?” Zubov took another sip from his flask. “This vodka must be going to my head. I could have sworn I saw you put your arm around her waist. I’ve never seen cousins touch with such intimacy. At least not in public.” He winked again. “Behind closed doors, well, cousins don’t always act like cousins, do we?”

  “Colonel, you look tired,” Sasha said.

  “I am. The czar has us working day and night. The Germans are coming. They’re after our women, our children. It’s terrible, really. Not a full night’s sleep in weeks.”

  “Then sleep now,” Sasha said. “You’re among friends.”

  “If only I could. Seems my body’s learned to stay awake.” Zubov handed Sasha the flask again. “Why not take off your coat, Captain? It is warm, too warm for all that wool, no?”

  “I’m comfortable,” Sasha said. The train accelerated. The trees outside blurred.

  “I, for one, will rest,” Miri said. She laid her head against the window and forced her eyes closed, hoping that would end the conversation because there was no way off now. The train was moving too fast for them to jump. And while she feigned sleep, Zubov attacked his nails. The sound of him tearing at them put her on edge as much as the shells rattling at their backs.

  XII

  Cousin,” Sasha whispered. How long had she kept her eyes closed? The train still rattled. The shells behind them were creaking, bumping, louder now than they’d been when they boarded. How much time had passed? “We’re close,” Sasha said. Miri pulled her head up. She rubbed her cramped shoulder.

  “Are we?” she asked.

  “Fifteen minutes or so,” Zubov answered. He sat with his feet up on his side of the seat. He had his empty vodka flask in hand, upside down. “Tell us, how was your beauty rest, cousin?”

  “Fair,” Miri said.

  “You know I’ve been watching you. You look nothing like your cousin.”

  “Do all cousins look alike?” Miri asked.

  “No, of course not. Tell me, how are you related?”

  “Our mothers are sisters,” Sasha answered.

  The rails under them groaned. They were switching tracks. Miri tried to keep her face composed. Zubov flung his feet to the floor and burst out laughing. Miri couldn’t help but think it sounded too jolly, couldn’t figure out why he was making this show.

  Zubov leaned toward them. The smell of rotting cabbage coming from him was stronger now. “Tell me, why do you wear that greatcoat buttoned to your chin in this heat? I see you sweating, Grekov.”

  “The temperature is fine,” Sasha replied.

  “Grekov?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to stretch my legs,” Miri said. She tried to urge Sasha out of the banquette. He wasn’t moving. Couldn’t he see Zubov was drunk, that his questions were dangerous? They needed to get out of there. She pushed, harder. Finally, Sasha moved and at that same moment Zubov’s hand shot across the table. He grabbed Miri’s arm so hard she cried out.

  “Let go,” Sasha said. His hand was at his waist, at his knife, Miri knew.

  A moment passed in thick, awful silence. Miri could sense Sasha running a finger over his blade, considering, planning. Then: “Sorry, so sorry,” Zubov said, loosening his grip but still holding her. He stroked the inside of her wrist now. It took all Miri had to keep her face steady. “It’s the vodka. I should have asked nicely. Please, sit with me for another minute.” They shouldn’t. Miri knew it. Every cell in her body was telling her to run, to jump, even from the train at full speed. They needed to get away.

  Zubov pointed outside. The trees gave way to leaning shacks that dotted the side of the road. The roofs had holes. The walls were thin and pocked so she could see clear through. A father with long peyes sat with his son in a cracked wagon. “Pathetic Jewish scum,” Zubov said.

  Sasha must have seen Miri was about to reply. He cut in quickly, “My cousin is only a woman. Let’s not burden her with politics.”

  “I say we throw them to the dogs in Palestine,” Zubov said. “Let them boil alive in the desert, fight to the death against the Turks. Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” Sasha said.

  “I was asking your cousin. What do you think, cousin, should we send the Jewish dogs to the desert, kick them out of Russia?”

  “Yes,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “Make them all leave.”

  “I don’t believe you mean that for a moment. But perhaps there are too many of them to send to the desert. It would be expensive. Instead, we should kill them here. Be gone with them. They’re nothing but a burden, an embarrassment to Russia.”

  Miri thought she caught herself before her face showed her disgust for Zubov, but she hadn’t. She knew it because she could see his smile growing, his awful mustache pointing higher. Sasha must have seen the reaction, too. Like lightning, he stood and pulled her up with him. “Come, cousin, stretch your legs.”

  “Tell me, why do you like these Jews?” Zubov asked.

  “It’s the children,” Sasha said. She was pushing him now, moving them toward the door, more certain than ever that jumping was safer than confronting Zubov or the risk of arriving with him at the train station, where he’d have men to help trap them. “She has a soft spot for children,” Sasha called over his shoulder. The train shot into a tunnel. The force of air rattled the car. A shell clanged against its case, and in the dark, Miri felt a sticky hand close around her throat. Zubov. It happened so fast she couldn’t react, couldn’t reach her dagger. She felt his thick fingers, his barbed nails cutting her skin. She clawed at him, but he was cutting off her airway, and the more she struggled, the harder he slammed her against the side of the train. She didn’t feel anything but raw fear. And she couldn’t manage to call to Sasha for help.

  She tried to fight. She didn’t have enough air and already she felt heavy. She thought about kicking or scratching, or did she do it? Either way, she realized he was holding her with only one hand. His other hand held a blade under her ribs, placed with the accuracy of a surgeon at the exact angle to kill. “You’re Jews!” he yelled. “Move and I’ll kill her.”

  The train heaved out of the tunnel. In the light, Miri saw Sasha standing behind Zubov. He had an arm around Zubov’s neck, another on his head, poised to snap the bones. He was breathing hard, and the look on his face was something Miri had never seen in him before. There was no doubt he’d kill Zubov, that he knew exactly what to do with his bare hands.

  “Let her go,” Sasha said. His voice sounded far away. Too far away.

  “Remove your arms or I’ll kill her, we both die.” Zubov loosened his grip and ran his tongue over the nibs of his teeth. Miri was able to take a small breath, but just as she did, Zubov’s grip tightened again. “Is that what you want? Me to kill this cousin, this fresh apple?”

  “I said, let her
go,” Sasha said.

  “And I told you to get off me or I’ll kill her. Do you want to see if I’m bluffing?”

  Sasha shifted his grip on Zubov and seemed to just stop himself from killing him. In response, Zubov dug the knife in deeper. Miri yelped. It came more from fear than from pain. In truth, she was numb. And the train, it seemed, was darker.

  “What’ll you do, Grekov? We’ll be at the station soon. I’ll have reinforcements. Don’t for a minute think I believe you’re the real Grekov—that man is dead. And I’m betting you killed him. One of his Jewish dogs went missing the night he died. Was that you?” He took a breath. “Either way, release me, or your cousin dies.” Sasha said something. Maybe. Miri needed air. Zubov continued, “I’ve never had a Jewess.” He pushed the blade deeper. Miri’s dress ripped.

  The train bumped. Zubov stumbled, and suddenly, she could breathe. But Sasha no longer held Zubov. “Good. Good you let go,” Zubov said, but he kept the knife on Miri. He dropped his other hand from her neck, down to her breast. She shook. Revulsion. But she could breathe. She had air and couldn’t fill her lungs fast enough.

  “My Jewish apple.” Zubov licked his lips.

  The train wheels screeched. The brakes clamped down hard, and all three of them lost their balance. Zubov sliced her forearm. She saw the cut before the blood even started to flow, as if detached, watching a patient bleed rather than herself. Just before she hit the floor, Sasha had her. Miri’s only thought was that he had her. The next thing she knew they tumbled out of the train and were rolling on gravel. It was sharp and cold. Sasha was on top of her, under her. It hurt but she was alive. They were alive and off the train.

  When they stopped rolling, she landed on his chest. The train barreled away. Zubov hung from the side. “You’re dead. You dirty Jew. I’ll find you. You and your whore. You’re hiding something. I know it,” he yelled.

  “You’re hurt,” Sasha said. He bent to examine the spot where her dress was ripped, the blood on her arm.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She’d recover. She sat up slowly.

  “If Grekov’s really dead, there’s no question he’ll look for us. Me having this coat, it’s all the evidence he’ll need to convict me.”

  “I know,” Miri said.

  Sasha draped his coat over her, kept his arms around her. “You’re shivering,” he said. The wool was warm with body heat and thick with Sasha’s smell.

  “Shock,” she said. “We need to keep moving.” She took a deep breath and handed the coat back.

  XIII

  Fourteen, thirteen days until the eclipse. Vanya was hurtling toward Brovary, but instead of feeling lighter he only felt heavier. He’d made no progress on his work to complete relativity and was dangerously close to arriving with nothing to offer the American to prove his worth. How would he convince Clay to part with a precious photograph without equations? Even all the rubies in the world wouldn’t be enough to motivate a man who’d funded his own expedition.

  No. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t show up without them. He had to solve it. How? Einstein, Vanya knew, took to physical activity when he was stumped, and so Vanya began sawing branches and tightening bolts, refusing to rest even when Yuri urged him to go back to his notebooks. His hands were soon covered in blisters and his back ached, but he didn’t slow down; he only worked harder.

  At night, Dima helped Vanya rehearse his introduction in English, but kept saying his accent was too thick. “Put your tongue to the top of your mouth, toward your teeth. That’s how to make the right sound,” Dima said again and again.

  “Sorry.” Vanya shook his head. He wasn’t paying close enough attention. “If only…”

  “You’ve been saying that for days,” Yuri said.

  The train shot through a tunnel dug under a mountain. The initial jolt of air being displaced by steel was jarring, but it melted as they reached equilibrium. The four sat in darkness, surrounded by the amplified roar of the engine. There was no way for Stanislavovich to see the tracks, to know if there was a boulder in front of them. Even if he could, they were going too fast to stop. The mountain walls were so near, Vanya felt their dampness closing in, drops of water on his skin.

  “Coal. Last depot on this route,” Stanislavovich yelled when they punched through the other side. An alley of trees soared over them, their trunks so thick Vanya couldn’t see beyond the first line. Stanislavovich pulled the brake and the wheels slowed. Vanya closed his eyes. If only Mercury’s precession were quadratic, simple. But then there would be no mystery.

  Dima hopped down first. The depot was like others in remote areas, a gray box of a building stranded in a field with a single road leading one way uphill and the other into a thicket. Two men in uniform stood on the platform under a pewter sky smudged by exhaust. Usually the engineers at these depots looked bored, but that morning they were animated. Their steps were quick. Both ran to meet them. One held a telegram. “I need to speak to Stanislavovich,” the man said. He was short with cheeks covered in angry, red blotches. Why was he expecting them? How did he know the engineer’s name? “I’m Yasha,” he added.

  “We’ll go for water while you handle this,” Dima said to Stanislavovich. “Vanya, take your things.” Without a pause Dima took hold of Vanya’s arm and led him off the train. Yuri trailed behind. Quickly. Quickly, they walked toward a water pump. Someone had tracked them all the way out here. Who?

  “I don’t like it,” Vanya whispered as they hurried. His notebook dug against his hip.

  “Me, either,” Yuri said.

  “Try to look relaxed,” Dima said. “It could be nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. Vanya could see that now from the way Yasha shook the telegram and pointed to them as he spoke to Stanislavovich. “Could Kir reach this far?” Vanya asked Yuri quietly.

  “It seems impossible, but it has to be him,” Yuri said. “Who else would care where we are? Or bother?”

  “We’re deserters,” Vanya said.

  “We’re two Jews. Not worth this much effort. Not to anyone but Kir.”

  They’d made it to the pump by now. Dima levered the handle, and a cool stream of water fell into a bucket slick with age. Dima went through the motions of washing his face, but he missed his cheeks because he kept his eyes on Yasha and Stanislavovich. “It’s nothing good. That’s for sure,” Dima said. “The telegram. It’s some kind of order or directive.”

  “We’re being arrested?” Vanya asked.

  Yuri looked up. Vanya saw on his face he had a new idea. “Dima, did you kill the other engineers, the ones who were supposed to be on the train with Stanislavovich? Is that how you got us our place?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I paid. Tobacco and gold.”

  “Where would you get money like that?” Yuri asked.

  “None of your business. Shhhh.” Dima stopped abruptly. Held up a hand to signal that Yuri and Vanya should be silent, that he wanted to try to hear something. All three men stared across the field. Yasha was shaking his head. Stanislavovich was putting up a good fight but seemed to be losing.

  “Orders are orders,” Yasha said. And then something else. Water dripped, clunked against the pail. Vanya caught the words arrest and Okhrana.

  Dima jumped to his feet. “You’re sure your work is valuable enough to risk all this?” he breathed to Vanya.

  “More than ever,” Vanya said. Besides, by then, did he have a choice?

  “We’ll pay you more,” Yuri said. “If you get us out of here. We’ll pay double.”

  “Yes you will,” Dima said. Without hesitating, he walked straight into the woods, away from the train. “Hurry,” he said, but he didn’t have to. Yuri and Vanya were right behind him. Twenty steps. Thirty and they heard a whistle. It was the kind Vanya knew from Kovno, one the police used to call for help. An alarm. Yasha and the others were chasing them. They picked up to a run, charged through mud and rocks. Yuri fell and was up. Around a boulder they doubled back into a cave. Vanya didn’
t know how Dima spotted it, but he was grateful. The jagged rocks were damp and spiked with the smell of lichen and salt. The only sound was their breathing. Vanya couldn’t see Yuri, but he felt him shaking.

  Yasha and his men came up on them in another heartbeat, only they were standing above, looking out over the lip of the cave. Vanya sensed they were so close that if he stepped forward and reached up, he could grab Yasha by the ankles. In the next instant, Yuri put his hand over Vanya’s mouth. Was he breathing too hard? Too loud? Vanya closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, imagined the cave was a rocket, that they could fly away to safety. That Yasha would never catch them. He pictured himself shooting forward. Acceleration. Relativity. Gravity. They were connected, but how? Upward acceleration was different from falling. Oh, how Vanya hated not having answers.

  “They’re gone,” Dima said. He leapt out of the cave. “Brovary should be this way.”

  “Should be?” Yuri said.

  “I’m following the direction of the train tracks. It should be right. Right enough.”

  Soon all three men were running. All accelerating. They came to the top of a hill and slid in cold mud down the back side. In the distance, Vanya heard the police whistle. It was far behind them. Still, they continued running for what felt like hours. Finally, they stopped to rest at a seeping pond covered in clover. Frogs croaked all around. Vanya rubbed his legs. Yuri stood across from him. Under smears of mud, the lines around his mouth were exaggerated so he looked twenty years older. Dima, on the other hand, looked younger. His eyes blazed and his skin glowed. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of vodka, took a long swig. “Knew we might need this,” he said. “Always keep some with me.”

  “Those orders were from the Okhrana,” Yuri said to Dima. “How did they find us?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No,” Vanya said. There was a long list of people that could have been after them. “It doesn’t matter who. Or why. We just need to keep going.”