“I know that in Zhytomyr, they taught the Jews to fight.”
“You admire that?”
“I do. Did you join one?”
“After I arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house. Years before the pogrom. They approached me. ‘Fight with your brothers,’ they said at school, at synagogue. They waited in front of the house, at the market, always pushing, pushing. I gave in. I took their oath. The other boys, they couldn’t wait to fight. But I didn’t want to be there.”
“You were scared. I understand that.”
“I wasn’t scared in the way you think. I feared what would happen if I didn’t join.” He leaned so far forward he was balanced on the balls of his feet. There, on the edge, she couldn’t see his face, only his profile.
“You were there, for the uprising?” Miri asked.
“I wasn’t there when it happened. But I could have been. In Zhytomyr, we expected a pogrom. After Kishinev, everyone understood it was only a matter of time. Some newspapers even predicted dates. Passover, Easter, or May Day. Anyway, I knew the pogrom was coming and I didn’t want to watch.”
“Of course not. You wanted to fight.”
“No. Please, you make me out to be better than I am. I never wanted to fight. They tried to teach us to kill, to maim. All I wanted was to play the piano. I hated myself for that. All those people who died—and I survived. I lived because I wasn’t even there.”
“Is that what’s bothering you? The guilt?”
“No.”
“You want revenge?”
“No.” He dropped his head to his chest. His fists were clenched now, and he was trembling. “I don’t harbor grand notions that I would have been a hero. Revenge? What would revenge be? That night. I was playing the piano. I’d sneaked out to Kiev. A rabbi there invited me to play. He ran a small medical clinic in his basement for the poor, found me because he wanted me to work there. But then he heard I played the piano—and I played for him. He took me for the music, not medicine. But that’s not the point. I heard about the massacre on my way home. My uncle’s house was destroyed. I found him with my aunt, dead in the ashes. It was why I came here, to this side of Russia, to get away. If only I’d told my aunt and uncle the truth, they might still be alive.”
“How?”
“They would have come to Kiev to hear me play.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Yuri stared at the floor. “The rabbi starting the orchestra, he could have paid me. He had a patron who was willing to support musicians. That salary could have given me a way to live by the piano. My family, they didn’t care as long as I had an income.” He took a deep breath. “They would have been happy for me. If I’d told them I had a salary and a concert, they would have come.” Miri wasn’t convinced but that didn’t matter. What was important was that Yuri seemed to believe what he said. “Mirele, I’m telling you because…”
“You want to find them now? Your parents? You’re leaving Kovno?”
“Leaving? No.” He wiped his cheek. “This isn’t about my parents. That night, at the concert, it was as if I were in a dream. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the man in the front row with the bad cough. I can still smell the lilacs the women were wearing in their hair. The lights didn’t work properly, they stayed lit the entire time so I saw the audience. Men in suits, women in gowns. My fingers were as light as they’d ever been. The audience gave me a standing ovation while my aunt and uncle were slaughtered.” He swayed, losing his balance. Miri steadied him, staying so close her skirts touched his knee.
After that day, they were closer. They began taking walks through the city together. Their conversations revolved around medicine and patients, Dr. Tessler, Russia’s most prominent physician, his research and publications. And Yuri started coming for dinner, starting growing into her family.
Now Miri ran her finger over the headline in the newspaper Sasha had found. “Yuri’s from Zhytomyr,” she said. “He wanted us to be married already.”
“And you?”
“I wanted to wait. Maybe I shouldn’t have. What did it matter?” All those reasons that had held her back: wanting to be a surgeon, having to care for her brother and grandmother—and not even being sure she wanted to be a mother at all—they all seemed pointless as she and Sasha huddled in the alley waiting for the train.
Eventually, the sun ground across the sky, and the stars blinked to life. Near midnight, finally, there was a train. The rumble of the tracks started well before the engine appeared. Miri hoped she’d be able to make out some mark that designated the train as the Medved, but she couldn’t see anything other than a dark object lumbering toward them. “That’s it,” Sasha said. He took her hand and they started running to catch it.
The train’s wheels thundered when they were close, closer. What had looked like a slow pace now seemed too fast. “Ready?” Sasha yelled over the roar of the pounding steel. At least he was right about it slowing down. Even she noticed the speed decreasing as it approached the curve. Miri went as fast as she could. She ran even faster when she saw the elegant gold letters: MEDVED.
“Sixth car. Isn’t locked,” Sasha managed. Miri counted, grabbed onto a bar welded to the side, and heaved herself up. The pain in her arm where Zubov cut her seared, but she didn’t let go. Sasha gave her a shove to help. She pushed the door with all her strength. He was right; it wasn’t even latched. She tumbled inside, terrified, looking for crates of shells. For a guard like Zubov. But Miri rolled over something that bulged, soft. And then another padded lump. Sasha landed next to her. They bumped deeper into the train and came to a stop on a large sack that was damp and cushioned. The car smelled like burlap and paper. Miri stared up at the ceiling, tried to catch her breath. “We made it,” she gasped. “We made it.”
“Yes,” Sasha said.
She sat up and looked around, searching for people. For clues. All she saw were dozens of sacks like the one she sat on now. Grain? No, the bags were striped. “Mail,” Miri said.
“Never thought I’d be so happy to see piles of letters,” Sasha said as he patted one of the sacks. A heap of dust billowed out and they both laughed. It was all they could manage. It hadn’t even occurred to Miri that they could be so lucky. Mail depots were located in large train stations, at the end of the line. So long as Miri and Sasha were quiet, no one would set foot in that train car for the rest of their journey.
XVI
Vanya, Yuri, and Dima slept in the woods and rose at sunset to continue their hike toward Brovary. The terrain was flat but studded with fallen trees and unplowed fields, which made walking difficult, so Vanya was left alone with the muddle in his head. He stewed over Yuri’s admonishment that he needed to get a hold of himself. Vanya had always thought he was the one in control. He had stayed strong when Mama and Papa died. He had fought to get Miri into school and himself into the university. And he had stood against Kir. Why was he failing now?
Yuri had suggested Vanya try thinking about relativity from another angle. That was how Yuri approached symptoms when he didn’t have answers. And so as they walked, instead of imagining himself in a rocket as he considered acceleration and gravity, Vanya pictured an elevator so he could ride in both directions—up and down. There was something about that. He could feel it, but couldn’t quite explain why. “Damn it,” he yelled, but just as he did so, Dima clamped him hard on the shoulder and shoved him to the ground.
“Down. Get down,” Dima hissed. All three crouched behind a bush. On the road running parallel to the path, a line of military trucks bumped past, rising and falling in ruts, passing under an awning of leaves that formed a green tunnel. Their engines choked and left the stink of burnt oil in their wake. The front of the line was loaded with cannons. The back was filled with soldiers in uniform, boys who didn’t look old enough to grow a single whisker. Behind them came a man pushing a cart. A peasant. Then a priest holding a golden cross.
“What is it?” Yuri asked.
“A mobil
ization,” Dima whispered. “It means the war has started. Officially.”
“My God,” Yuri whispered back. The priest was followed by two others holding a banner depicting Jesus. As they walked, they prayed. Peasants followed, forming a long line, a procession marching to Kiev to become soldiers. The men had families walking with them: wives, sons, and daughters. Some held crying babies. From now on, those women would have to drive a plow on their own. If they couldn’t, their families would starve.
Vanya stopped one of the last men to pass. “Which way to Brovary?”
The man pointed. “Two hours’ walk,” he said.
“Two hours?” Vanya couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. He could barely believe it. He’d crossed Russia. Hiking and hiding. Fighting and running. And they’d found it. Brovary. They’d found it.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Why aren’t you with us?”
“Let’s go,” Yuri said under his breath with his hand on Vanya’s elbow.
“Haven’t you been conscripted?” The man raised his voice. “Deserters?”
“Now,” Dima said, and the three men hurried back into the brush. Green plants slapped at Vanya’s knees. His boots bit at his blisters. Luckily, no one bothered to chase them.
“The timing, for the war,” Dima said once they slowed back down to a walk. “It’s bad for us. It’ll increase tensions.”
“When is the timing of war ever good?” Yuri asked.
“True. But now is worse than ever for us. Being here in the countryside, with an eclipse and a war.” Dima shook his head. “The peasants will be terrified, and you never know what terror does to people. Remember what Kolya said? He called an eclipse the devil’s work.”
* * *
Just before sunset, the rise of a stately slate roof came into view. Under it sat a grand house, the only grand house they’d seen, made of stone slabs stacked like bricks that gave the architecture heft, an appearance that was more imposing than something so drab should have. There was no question they’d found Brovary; this was where an American would stay.
The men paused on the edge of the field, breathing hard. “He’ll take me,” Vanya said. “I’ll make him.”
“That’s right,” Yuri said. “Show him the letter first. From Harvard. Like we discussed.”
“Then my work. It should be enough.” It had to be; even incomplete, he had something.
Closer, there was a driveway framed by a swath of land recently cleared. Tree stumps poked out from grass and mud like sores, and a pile of trunks lay at the edge of the woods, likely waiting to be cut into kindling. Only an old oak was left standing at the intersection where the drive met the road. To Vanya, this was more evidence he’d found Clay. The American would need space like this, for his equipment. For his telescopes and tents.
“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?” Yuri asked Dima.
“You think we made it this far without being careful?”
Vanya hurried closer to the house, as excited as he was terrified, and made out two columns framing the entryway and dozens of windows set deep into the walls. On the top floor, arched glass opened to a terrace spanning the third story. Before Vanya tried the front door, he heard someone around the back of the house. He followed the voice. When he spotted a man standing on an immense veranda, he broke into a run. The man wore a suit that was too short, too tight, to be Russian. He was round from his knees to his neck and topped with a few white strands of hair he brushed back as if trying to hide the fact that he was bald. He had to be Clay.
XVII
When Vanya rushed onto the terrace, Clay had his arms raised in anger. His face was red from yelling at two men dressed in rags whom Vanya hadn’t noticed before. One was missing an ear, another had a peg leg. These were castoffs the czar wouldn’t take. From the look on their faces they didn’t understand a thing the man was saying. Of course not. It was English!
Did Vanya fall to his knees? Or did he trip? Either way, he kneeled. Tears leaked from his eyes. He wiped them away and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” Vanya said. He meant the words to be in English, but he couldn’t think of a single syllable in that language. All that came was Russian. “I want to join you. For a photograph.”
When Clay saw Vanya, he stopped seemingly midsentence. His face was square and his thick glasses shrank his blue eyes so they appeared twice as small as they should. The skin on his nose and cheeks was littered with broken blood vessels and pores that looked like gaping holes, as if he’d been pricked dozens of times. “Cam-e-ra,” Russell yelled. “Cam-e-ra.”
“Camera!” Dima said, finally catching up to them. Clay must have understood Dima knew English because he babbled something to the sailor that Vanya couldn’t comprehend. While the two went back and forth, Vanya dug in his pocket for the letter from Eliot. He was sure he’d put it in his pants, but both pockets were empty. He checked his bag. His jacket. All empty. “No,” Vanya said. He checked, again. Nothing. “No. No.” He’d come all this way. Risked his life. His sister’s. His grandmother’s. “Maybe it’s in my notebooks,” he said. But it wasn’t. It was gone. So was Clay’s article. How had he lost them? All he had to offer as proof of his qualifications was his notebook. He held it out, frantically, showing the page with Einstein’s original equations. Clay batted him away.
Yuri was at Vanya’s side now, pulling him back. And when he looked up, he realized the American had walked away and was talking to Dima privately—but their voices were loud. And it was clear Clay was not happy. Vanya was sure he could help, that his work would soothe the American. He took a deep breath and stepped toward them, but Yuri caught him. “Let the sailor handle this.” And then: “Don’t you dare show the rubies. Otherwise he’ll steal them. Or Dima will.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Vanya shook his head. “But the gems, they might help,” Vanya said. “Or my math.”
“No. None of that will help unless he believes who you are. Look, Dima’s getting somewhere.”
Vanya opened his mouth to object, but he saw Yuri was right. By the way Clay kept nodding, it was clear that whatever Dima was saying was working. The sailor even smiled, the familiar grin where his gold tooth glinted, and then came his laugh. The sound was a slow roll that didn’t sound forced. Finally, Dima held out his hand to shake Clay’s. Just as Vanya thought Clay would come over to shake Vanya’s hand, greet him as a fellow scientist, Clay turned and made his way toward the main house. That was when Vanya noticed all the wooden crates piled on the grass behind them. Clay’s equipment. Rows and rows of boxes.
“What happened?” Vanya scuttled across the veranda to Dima.
“We wait,” Dima said.
“For what?”
Clay emerged from the house with an elderly woman in tow. She wore a dark, ruffled dress with a string of buttons from toe to neck. “Hello!” the woman called in Russian. Her hair was white, her skin whiter.
“Go,” Dima said to Vanya. He pointed to where the two farmers had been standing when they’d arrived. They were both gone now. “Wait over there.”
Vanya didn’t want to step away, but Yuri pulled him to his place. The old woman called to Dima as she walked, “You speak Russian and English? Did the colonel send you? I’ve been waiting for a translator for weeks.”
Dima took off his hat and bowed. “I am Dmitry Velikoff. Yes, I can translate.”
“Excellent.”
“We’re scientists.” Vanya stepped forward.
The woman eyed Vanya. “Scientists?” For a moment Vanya wasn’t sure what she’d do. By the look on her face, he thought she might scream. But then she laughed. “Very funny.” And she turned to Dima so her back was to Vanya and Yuri. “Please. Tell the American I will be in Paris until the war ends. I’ve let the dacha to him for the year. I won’t accept less and he’s agreed. I think. Can you ask him to confirm?” Dima conferred with Clay, who nodded.
“Did everything arrive? His telescopes?” Vanya asked. “His cameras?”
“Stop interrupting,” Yuri hissed and pulled Vanya further away while Dima continued translating. The woman gave instructions for the house. Clay asked questions. When it appeared they’d reached a conclusion, Clay took off his spectacles. Without the glasses, his blue eyes expanded to a normal size, and Vanya realized that while there was a girth to the American, he didn’t have Romanovitch’s brawn, nor did he command attention in the same way, and Vanya was relieved by it. Clay extended his hand to the woman, and the deal was done. She hurried back into the house, called for a driver to bring her carriage.
Dima turned to Vanya and Yuri. “The American has taken me on as his translator and you, you will replace the workers that were here when we arrived. He needs men to build tents and tables.”
“He didn’t bring his own men?” Yuri asked.
“They were all arrested in Riga. Clay didn’t understand why. He only had enough gold to buy his own way here, I suppose. Either way, he’s alone and he needs help.”
“But you inserted yourself before us?” Vanya asked. “I’m the reason we’re here.”
“Your American didn’t believe you’re a scientist for a second. Trust me, I tried. At least I found a way for us to stay.”
“We should thank you, I suppose? Pay you more,” Yuri scoffed. “We didn’t come all this way to build tents.”
“As I see it, you have no choice,” Dima said. “Do you think you can do better?”
“Did the czar even give Clay permission to be here? Or will he be captured, taken as spoils of war along with all that equipment?” Yuri gestured to the crates.
“He said all his papers are in order. The soldiers will leave him be.”
A Bend in the Stars Page 21