A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  “But Dima doesn’t seem surprised that we’ve been hunted down.”

  “Who cares? He’s running, too. In just as much trouble.”

  “Of course I’m not surprised. I’ve known this was a dangerous errand since the day we met,” Dima said. “You’re deserters. And you told me Vanya’s work is important. Like anything in Russia, that means powerful men will try to steal it. I expected we’d be hunted.”

  “Powerful men?” Yuri asked. He narrowed his eyes. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s obvious a powerful man wants my work.”

  “Obvious to you.”

  “Yes. Obvious this has Kir Romanovitch written all over it,” Vanya said.

  “Kir Romanovitch?” Dima asked.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name. Perhaps you even mentioned him.”

  “We didn’t,” Yuri said.

  “Either way, Yuri’s right. It would be difficult even for a powerful man to track you from Kovno all the way out here.” Dima held his hands out, motioned to the woods. “How could he do it?”

  “The telegram,” Yuri said to Vanya. “I knew it was a bad idea.”

  “No. I sent it to the baker’s house. Even if Kir got his hands on it, he’d never understand it.”

  “Telegram?” Dima asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “I sent a telegram to my family. Telling them we’re headed to Kiev.”

  “Why would you do something so stupid?” Dima asked.

  “I had to let my family know we were going. We promised to be back by the fall. But with war and snow, I wasn’t sure we could make it. Not as deserters. And I wanted to make sure we had enough time, that I wouldn’t rush. If I hadn’t warned them, they would have thought we were dead. Besides, I sent it in code.”

  “You think you can outsmart the Okhrana? Or a great man like Kir Romanovitch?” Dima was on his feet, coming closer. “Stupid. Stupid. And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “Why are you so upset? What’s it matter to you?”

  “You’ve put us in more danger than you know. This Kir, he has ways to persuade your sister to talk. If you told her where we’re going, mark my words, Kir knows.”

  “No,” Vanya said. “He would never hurt her.” Would he?

  “So smart and so dumb. You’ve made the hunt easy.” Dima paused. “Friends, you’re Jews?”

  “We’ve been baptized,” Yuri said too quickly.

  “I don’t believe you. And I don’t care. I’ve known since the first night we met. I heard Vanya speak in Yiddish.” Was that possible? Had Vanya made that mistake?

  “You seem to hear us say many things we don’t remember,” Yuri replied, and walked over to Dima, with one hand on the knife at his waist. The tension between them crackled like the dead leaves under them.

  “Enough!” Vanya said, jumping between them.

  “That night our train was attacked. Why didn’t you help us fight, Doctor?” Dima asked.

  “I don’t know how to fight.”

  “That’s a lie. You said you’re from Zhytomyr. Every Jewish boy in Zhytomyr is trained to hurt a man. To kill.” Vanya blinked. Why had he never thought of that, of Baba’s endless stories about the famous, brutal Jewish fighters from Zhytomyr? Dima continued, “From that first fight with Kolya on the docks, it’s been obvious. You knew where the punch was going to land. You can stand your own. What are you hiding?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “You’re imagining things,” Dima said.

  “Am I?”

  “Come on,” Vanya said to them. “Stop this. We need to keep going.”

  But Yuri didn’t move. Neither did Dima. “Just tell us your proposal,” Yuri said. “This whole time, you’ve had more up your sleeve. What is it you really want?”

  Vanya wasn’t sure whether Dima would lunge at Yuri or not. But then, suddenly, the sailor held up his hands in surrender. “I want you to teach me to read.”

  “To read?” Vanya said. He stepped back. “That’s all you want?”

  “Please, brother. Don’t believe him. There must be more.”

  “There’s not. My father, my father’s father. They lived and died slaves to men who thought they were better, who had power because they could read. I don’t want to die a slave.”

  “Stop lying,” Yuri said so loud the birdsong stopped. “You called it a business proposition.”

  “It is. To be on top, to make a real business, I need to read.”

  “You know as well as anyone that education is power,” Vanya said to Yuri. He had seen Baba’s clients embarrassed by their illiteracy. It made sense that a sea captain like Dima would also be embarrassed, would want to read. “Maybe that is all he wants. Can you write or read anything, Dima?”

  “Hand me a piece of paper.” Vanya hesitated only because Yuri was still poised to fight.

  “Brother, what do we have to lose?” he asked and watched Yuri consider what he’d said. Then slowly, slowly, Yuri stepped back, retreated to a log where he took a seat but didn’t take his eyes off the sailor. Vanya pulled out a crumpled sheet from his bag, and Dima smoothed it out on his leg. He held Vanya’s pencil like a child, balled in his fist, but his strokes were fast. He didn’t hesitate and soon, Yuri’s likeness jumped off the page.

  “I was a kitchen boy in an artist’s house, long ago, before I could grow this beard.” Dima smiled but there was a sadness to it Vanya hadn’t expected. And he kept drawing, adding sharp lines to define the edges, faded strokes to render shadows. He captured the fatigue in Yuri’s eyes, even the darkness that Vanya had always sensed but somehow had never pinpointed the way Dima did now. Yuri looked as stunned as Vanya felt as the portrait’s focus improved, and the more Dima added the more Yuri’s shoulders dropped, his jaw loosened. And the more relieved Vanya felt because he took it to mean Yuri was easing back into having Dima on their side. They were stronger with a guide like him. “Yes, I’ll teach you to read,” Vanya said, finally.

  Dima held out his hand and they shook on it. “Thank you. You’re a good man, Vanya. Come. We need to find that American.” Dima folded the drawing and handed it to Yuri.

  The three set out again and Dima turned to Yuri with a grin as they walked. “Doctor, tell me more about your fiancée. Her thighs, they’re firm? Dimpled?”

  Yuri shoved Dima and the terrain pitched uphill in the direction Vanya hoped would lead to Brovary.

  XIV

  After hiking all day, Yuri and Vanya sprawled in the shade on a hill overlooking a town. The doctor and the scientist weren’t used to living outside, but they were holding up well enough. At least they didn’t complain. Dima had known sailors who would have done worse. “What’s wrong?” Yuri asked Vanya. And Dima realized that Vanya was suffering from something worse than fatigue. His face was contorted. Purple. He was crying. Sobbing.

  “I’m failing you. Miri. Baba…” Vanya gasped for air. Dima had never seen a man crumple like that, not without a fight. Perhaps the stress had been too much for him. Yuri had Vanya bend, put his head between his knees.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Yuri said. “You don’t mean it…” Dima had no doubt Yuri would talk sense into Vanya. The doctor was wily that way. Dima didn’t know what he’d lived through, but it couldn’t have been good—and survivors like that, well, they understood better than anyone how to get back on their feet. As the professor sobbed, Dima checked the woods behind them to make sure they were safe. That was when he saw them—telegraph wires.

  “Thanks to God,” he whispered. They were strung up on haphazard poles. Dima had been looking to send a telegram since he’d heard Vanya sent one to his sister and grandmother. The fool. Dima had to clean up after his mistake, needed to contact Ilya to take care of things. He looked back. Yuri was still calming Vanya down. It was Dima’s chance to get away without raising suspicion. “Rest here. I’m going into town for food,” Dima called. “And to make sure we’re going the right way.”
He hurried down the hill before Yuri could object.

  Dima ran, trailing the wires. Still couldn’t believe Vanya had told his sister he was heading to Kiev. For such a brilliant man, he was an idiot. Dima never planned on telling Ilya their destination. It was how he’d made sure they weren’t followed. And how he’d make sure he got paid. After all, this was about getting paid. And now Dima had two things to sell: math and photographs. Which meant he’d be able to ask for more.

  But Dima had been just as dumb as Vanya, telling Ilya they were after an American. Putting both pieces of information together, knowing Vanya was after an American near Kiev would make them easy to find. If Dima was going to get paid, he’d have to take careful hold of the situation.

  He paused. If a man like Kir was going to such lengths, maybe Vanya was an explorer like Magellan. It was possible. Dima stepped in a pile of manure and cursed. Served him right for being so sloppy. He cleaned his boot as best he could and kept going.

  From the look of the awful town, there shouldn’t have been any wires there at all. The houses were shacks. The farms were decrepit. But the czar needed to keep contact with his empire. Dima looked back, but Yuri wasn’t following. He turned down a small street, where the wires ran into a barn. He just had to hold Ilya off until the eclipse was over, then he could wash his hands of this mess. A pity he was starting to like those two more than he should, Vanya and Yuri. He couldn’t save them. Dima had worked with people like Kir before. He’d take what he wanted and kill them for their silence. Nothing Dima could do about it.

  He opened the barn door and stepped inside. There were so many cracks in the walls that the space was well lit. The animals were cleared out, but given the smell and dirt, they might as well have been there. Inside a stall, two tables held a stack of machines plugged into the wires that fell from the ceiling. The soldier behind the desk was young and pale. His face was too soft, his nails too round. No doubt the boy came from a father with connections.

  “No civilians,” the soldier barked.

  “I have a message for an important man.”

  “Don’t we all?” The soldier laughed. “Why aren’t you in the army? You’re not crippled.”

  Dima came closer. “Kir Romanovitch of Kovno.” The soldier’s eyes went narrow. Dima continued, “I’m his man and I have a message for him. If you don’t send it, his anger falls on you. Are you ready to risk that?” He handed the soldier an address Ilya had given him.

  If you come before Aug 22 I’ll burn equations STOP Cost is triple STOP Will have photos and math STOP You want both STOP

  Dima watched the soldier tap out his message. “Are we near Brovary?” he asked when he was done.

  “Yes. A day’s walk. Maybe two. That way.” He gestured toward the road.

  “Good. Then I need food.” The soldier was green enough that he didn’t even ask for vodka in return.

  XV

  Just past sunrise, Miri and Sasha hid in a rank alley near train tracks headed to Kiev. Miri sat on a barrel. The skin where Zubov had cut her was sore, and she wore a shawl they’d stolen from a laundry line to cover the tear. We’re alive, she thought to herself. At least we’re alive.

  “Do you know when the train’s due?” Miri asked.

  “I’m afraid there are no more schedules. Only orders. Whims.”

  “And you honestly think we should risk another train?”

  “It’s far. There’s no other way. And Zubov won’t be on this train, the Medved, headed to Kiev.”

  “He could have doubled back. Come for us.”

  “He can’t leave the czar’s cargo. He’d be shot. We have time before he can get word to the Okhrana.”

  “How will we board?”

  “It’s uphill here. And there’s a curve. The train should slow enough for us to jump on.”

  Sasha rubbed the spot near his shoulder where he’d been stabbed. “Are you in pain?” Miri asked. “It was a hard fall, on that injury.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Three hours ticked by. A train passed. Not the Medved. An hour later, a smaller train composed of three cars passed. Still not theirs. “It will come,” Sasha said.

  “And if it’s not running?”

  “It’s a central line. The czar would never cancel it.”

  “What if we jump into another car filled with shells? Guarded by another Zubov? Or even a supply car? That would be guarded, too.”

  “We have to risk it. If you want to find your brother before this eclipse, it’s the only way.”

  Miri looked out on the tracks, saw a rat skitter under one of the ties. A man dropped a newspaper near the head of the alley. Sasha ran out to grab it and brought it back. They read huddled together in a shaft of light. Every article was a lie. The czar was mighty. His army was invincible. All lies. Then Miri spotted a small piece on what the paper called a Jewish uprising—a town where the Jews fought forced conscription. “Like Zhytomyr,” Sasha said, nodding as she pointed to the article. “Good for them.”

  Zhytomyr. Yuri’s home. He had finally told her about it one morning a year after she’d found him in the basement playing the piano. She’d come into the hospital early to check on a patient who’d been fighting a fever. She thought she was the first doctor to arrive, but the light was on in Yuri’s office. She knocked. He didn’t answer. When she eased the door open, Yuri stood at the window looking out on the men below in the brickyard. He wasn’t wearing his doctor’s coat or a jacket, only his shirtsleeves with several buttons undone. Aside from the time at the piano, she’d never seen him so rumpled.

  When he turned to greet her, she noticed the candles on the windowsill in front of him. “Yahrzeits,” he said. “It is the anniversary of my aunt and uncle’s death.”

  “How many years has it been since they passed?”

  “Four. I don’t have a minyan, but I still want to say the prayers. Will you join me?” Men and women never prayed together, but nor were women known to be surgeons. She stood next to him. “Yis’gadal v’yis’kadash…” The men below yelled at a furious pace, but inside Yuri’s office all was still save for their prayer and the flames twisting in the draft from the windows.

  Yuri was curled forward. Sadness was all over him. More than anything, Miri wanted to comfort him, to put an arm around him as she would with a patient, but Yuri was her superior. Still, no one should feel such loss alone. She took his hand. Without hesitating, he threaded his fingers through hers, and as much as it took her by surprise she didn’t pull back.

  “I’ve never told anyone what happened,” he said. “But…” He stopped. “Sharing will keep them with me. Isn’t that what you tell your patients, their families?”

  “You’ve heard me?”

  “Of course.” He kept his eyes down, perhaps on the ink stain still on the floor from the day she interviewed. “My mother sent me to live with my uncle when I was ten years old.” He shook his head. “No, I should begin by saying I never wanted to be a doctor. Not like you. No, that’s not where I should start, either.” And then: “My father always had a bottle of vodka. He sold everything for a drink. Everything but my mother and me. And it made my mother miserable. She cried all the time. She pulled me aside at the end of the summer. When I was ten. Did I say that? I was ten years old?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t.

  “Anyway, one day my mother tucked a clean pair of socks and a shirt under her arm. They were my best but still gray with holes. ‘You’re leaving,’ she said. ‘You need to earn your own way. There’s nothing here for you.’ Her sister agreed to help. Her husband, my uncle, was a wealthy man compared to us. He lived in Zhytomyr, worked for a bank. They had a large house, not as grand as your babushka’s, but to me it seemed like a castle. They had no children. Mama walked me there. I don’t remember her goodbye because I was so angry. I didn’t want to leave. Now I wish I could remember the way she held me, the color of her skirts. But I can’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miri said. Why couldn’
t she remember her own mother’s embrace? Her skirts? “Your mother’s dead?”

  “No. But I don’t want to see her again. Not after the way she left me.”

  “How can you say that?” Miri leaned back. “She had no choice.” No mother could push a child away willingly. Miri had seen enough at the hospital, and with Baba’s clients, to know. “But—”

  “I can’t forgive her. I won’t. We always have choices, and she chose to let me go.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if she chose to let you live?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about my mother. I want to talk about my aunt and uncle.” Yuri shifted his weight. His shoe creaked. “My uncle told me I needed a profession. Science made sense. For Jews, it works in our favor that so few Russians want to be doctors.” He paused. “I’ve never met anyone as committed to patients as you. How do you do it?”

  “It’s not something I think about.”

  “It wouldn’t be.” He blinked. “I’m still avoiding what I really wanted to tell you. My uncle, he had a beautiful piano in his library. He didn’t have many books, only a handful, and they were all displayed on a shelf above his desk next to the piano. The walls were bare save for the two paintings he could afford. The candles dripped and burned my skin.” He closed his eyes as if living every detail. “I’d never heard the piano before my aunt played for me. Once I heard her, I begged for lessons. My uncle told me it was a waste, it wasn’t a path to a profession.

  “I’m not even sure how my aunt learned to play, but she agreed to teach me. I suspect I fell for the piano just as you fell for medicine. Music came as naturally to me as breathing. It gave me joy. Sadness. Beauty. Yes, above all. Beauty.”

  “And medicine?”

  “I applied for my uncle. The better my marks, the less he cared that I spent my free time at the piano. I dreamed of running away to join an orchestra. But all the great musicians live outside the Pale. To get to them, I needed to be useful. I stayed on course to become a surgeon, assuming it would help me escape. My life wasn’t so bad. I sound spoiled. I know that. I had food, a roof over my head. And I became a surgeon.” Yuri looked up now, straight into Miri. The hallway outside his office was no longer quiet. Nurses and doctors hurried back and forth, and Yuri, who was always punctual, lingered, surely knowing it was making him late. “The Jewish youth groups. What do you know about them?”