A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  Oksana nodded and her tears came harder. “It wasn’t my fault. My brother…”

  “Your brother?” Miri asked, horrified.

  “His friend. I flirted. I shouldn’t have. He came into my room while I was sleeping.”

  “When?” Babushka asked.

  “Last month. I begged but he wouldn’t stop. It happened so fast.”

  “Drink, child. Drink,” Babushka said. She set the fresh brewed tea in front of Oksana. The liquid was dark and putrid, but Oksana drank as if it were as sweet as wine. “Come to me every night so no one will see. You’ll drink until you bleed.”

  “My fiancé?”

  “You don’t know him well enough to tell him, not now.” Babushka leaned closer. The scarf around her head fell back, and a white curl bounced forward. She kissed Oksana’s forehead. “When you lie with your husband, cut yourself, a small nick he won’t see, but the blood will be enough. I know Timor’s mother well. She’ll never question you.”

  Only two days later, Oksana’s courses came. She’d sent fresh meat to the house for the Sabbath every Friday since. Once Miri was a doctor, she’d prescribed that same concoction dozens of times. The sooner they were taken, the more effective they proved to be.

  As Miri reached to brew herself another cup, Sasha appeared in the doorway. There was just enough room for him to stand tall without scraping the ceiling. “Miriam,” he whispered. Her cheeks blazed. “Your patients, how are they?”

  “Not well.” He brought his palm to her cheek. His touch was soft and hot, the way it had been in their room.

  “I’m sorry for that.” She knew he meant it. He leaned to kiss her but she pulled back.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “What we did was wrong.”

  “I know you don’t believe that.” He traced her collarbone. “It’s what we both want and you said it yourself. Life can end suddenly.”

  Anya came bustling into the kitchen from the opposite door. “Miri!” she called. When she saw them, Sasha’s hand still lingering on Miri’s collarbone, she chuckled. “Newlyweds, newlyweds.” She pretended to brush dirt from her skirt to give Sasha time to pull away. “There’s a man here from the newspaper. The Yiddish paper. He’s heard about the lady surgeon and he’d like your photograph for a piece they’re printing about the fire.”

  “A photograph?” Miri said.

  “You’re a novelty, it seems.” Anya hesitated. “The photograph should be the two of you together. I don’t want people thinking you’re alone here in Podil.”

  “No photos,” Sasha said.

  Anya turned to him. “Please. This is important.”

  “Why?” Miri interrupted.

  “We are open only because we have donors, and they need to see what we do. How important we are to the community.” She looked at Miri. “These are hard times for this hospital.”

  “I understand that,” Sasha said. “But I can’t agree to it.”

  “We are running out of money. We have been since so many men were called to war. You saw last night. There is no morphine even for those who need it most.”

  “Can’t the newspaper publish a story about Miriam without a photograph?”

  “An image on the front page will be much more effective. Please don’t be stubborn. It could mean life or death for people in this hospital. Such a simple thing for you and your wife.”

  “It’s fine.” Miri leaned in to whisper to Sasha, “In the Yiddish paper no one will see it.” She could see by the way he frowned that he still wasn’t happy.

  “After all I’ve done for you two,” Anya said. “You must do this for me.” She looked over at Cook to make sure she wasn’t listening. “I know that you’re running from something. If you don’t want your names attached, we can arrange that. Sasha, wear your uniform, pull the visor down so no one can recognize you. But this photo, this famous lady surgeon, will help my hospital more than you know. There have been rumors that without my husband, we’ve fallen.” She blinked and pulled Miri close. “You owe me this.”

  “We’ll do it,” Miri said, and took Sasha’s hand. Perhaps if she couldn’t find Vanya, he could find her—through the newspaper. “We’ll pose for your photograph. But no names.”

  XX

  Yuri returned. He rode down the drive in a mule-drawn wagon with an energy to him Vanya had never seen. At the barn, he jumped down and ran toward the dacha. Vanya wanted to meet him at the door but only made it halfway down the stairs before Yuri came barreling inside. “You found the rabbi?” Vanya asked.

  “Yes,” Yuri said, out of breath. The moon was high. Its light cast shadows so the stairwell around them looked haunted by ghosts. “He still has his orchestra.”

  “He wants you to play?”

  “Yes. His pianist was conscripted.”

  “But we’re trying to leave, to get back to Baba. What about the train?”

  “Brother, you couldn’t even make it down the stairs. I can play while you recover. I know it won’t be long, but even a few weeks…” He paused. “Once you’re ready, we’ll leave.”

  Vanya nodded. “And the medical clinic? Were you able to work there, too?”

  “Yes. It’s why I stayed so long. So many still come to him when they’re sick. And he’s lost his surgeon, too. He’s asked me to stay and help there as well.” Yuri stopped. “It’s dangerous, though. Another clinic was burned to the ground yesterday by the Okhrana. Accused of helping deserters. The rabbi thinks he’s safe, at least for a while, safe enough for me to work there while you recover.”

  “I understand. But now that you’ve started all this, will you truly be able to leave?”

  “Yes, for Miri. When you’re well enough to travel, I’ll be ready to leave for Miri.”

  Tishrei

  The seventh month in the Hebrew calendar is Tishrei. The name is Babylonian, meaning beginning. It is during this month that Adam and Eve were created. It is also the month during which Jews ask for forgiveness for their sins.

  I

  On the first of Tishrei, Rosh Hashanah, the streets in Podil were quiet. The market closed. Anya brought apples and honey to the hospital, along with a round challah they shared for lunch. Miri had told Anya she’d stay for only a little while, but she’d been out searching for an American, for her brother and Yuri every night, and wasn’t ready to leave yet because she’d still found nothing. If only she could warn Baba that it was taking her longer than expected, that winter was bearing down quickly. “Miri, what is it?” Anya said.

  “You know I’m looking for my brother.” Miri had long since given up trying to keep that secret. With her patients offering tips, bringing midwives and anyone else who might know something to the hospital, her search was known to everyone around her—especially Anya. “I was supposed to see him today. That was our plan. To meet on Rosh Hashanah.”

  Anya leaned down and kissed Miri’s forehead. “You may stay as long as you need while you search. G’mar chatima tova.”

  “Thank you,” Miri said. But she was as relieved as she was anxious. She wanted to keep looking for Vanya, but what about Baba?

  At dusk, Miri and Sasha went out for a walk. They wandered the maze of alleys surrounding the hospital, passing a half dozen small synagogues. The murmur of men praying leaked through the walls, sounded like home. When the blast came from the ram’s horn, Miri took Sasha’s arm. “You don’t think my brother went to Peter, do you? That he’s there, with Babushka already?”

  “No.”

  “Did I misunderstand the telegram? Maybe he never even came to Kiev.”

  “No, he was here. The one-eyed man said as much.” Sasha ran a finger along the scar between her thumb and pointer finger. “Miriam, we should go to Petrograd now. I know it’s on your mind, too. Snow will come soon and if we don’t leave, we’ll have no choice but to wait it out. Food is running low already. And your grandmother can’t be alone for the winter.”

  “She has Klara.” Miri looked away. Klara was only a few years
younger than Baba, and their jewels wouldn’t buy much if the whole city was starving. “I can’t leave without Vanya. Please. Just one more week.”

  A group of children burst past. Their voices were light; their laughter was loud. Sasha turned to Miri. “My grandfather had a powerful friend, Avram Noskov. He lives in Kiev. Do you want me to ask him for help?”

  “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “I don’t, but I’m willing to risk it. Or we can go to Peter, spend the winter with your grandmother, and come back in the summer if the war is over.”

  “If we leave, we’ll never come back.”

  She felt Sasha hesitate. Finally, he said, “Would that be so bad?”

  II

  On Rosh Hashanah, in Brovary, Vanya was alone. Yuri was back in Podil, at his clinic. Vanya walked through the deserted apple orchard hidden behind the dacha where none of the villagers could see him. He hobbled, he moaned, but he pushed because he needed his strength. Ignoring the pain, he collected the three apples he could find and returned to the kitchen. He scrounged for honey, said the blessings to himself, but they were hollow. Out of breath, in pain, all he could think was that he’d failed. He’d failed his grandmother and his sister. He’d been so close, but too weak to solve his equations, and he’d had his hands on the photographs and he’d lost them. He’d always been able to puzzle together every other problem, but in this, the most important of his life, he had failed. The Jewish New Year is a time to reflect on the past and to look forward to the future. To what future?

  III

  Yuri came back early, before his second four-day tour with the rabbi was done. “Is something wrong?” Vanya asked, hurrying to meet him. This time he was fast enough that he made it to the driveway before Yuri had even stowed the rasping wagon and mule in the barn. Yuri jumped down and stomped over the freezing ground toward Vanya, his steps so loud their smack covered the creak of his shoe. “Why are you angry?” Vanya asked. “What happened?” Yuri shoved a newspaper in Vanya’s direction. The date showed it was recent, but it looked older, as if it had been read hundreds of times. There was a picture of Miri above the fold. “She’s here!” Vanya cried.

  “She’s married,” Yuri said. He paced ahead, turned, and came back to Vanya. “Married.” Vanya looked again. The caption read: The great lady surgeon of Podil and her husband. There was a soldier next to her. He wasn’t facing the camera. He was facing Miri, leaning into her.

  “Photographs can be staged. The Okhrana prints lies all the time.”

  “Not in Yiddish.”

  “Of course in Yiddish. Brother, you’re missing the point. She must have come for us.”

  Yuri kicked a stone. “Remember I saw Ilya with Dima? There was something I didn’t tell you.” He stood tall and looked Vanya in the eye. “Ilya told me he’d received news, that Miri left Kovno with a man, an injured soldier your grandmother called their cousin. But neighbors said they didn’t recognize him, had never met that cousin. Ilya thought it meant she had disappeared with him.” He stopped. “What if she did? What if she married him before she even left Kovno?”

  “What?” Vanya reached for the garden wall to steady himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re recovering.”

  “It’s not for you to decide what I can handle. Not when it comes to my family.” He was shaking with anger but had to control it. He took a deep breath. “We can’t trust Ilya or anything he says. He betrayed us. Nor can you believe that paper. Miri will explain it all. If she’s here, it’s for you. For both of us.” Vanya reached for Yuri’s arm, but Yuri jerked away. “Brother, this isn’t like you. Not the Yuri I’ve come to know. You should be happy she’s so close.”

  “She came for you. Can’t you see how he looks at her? He’s in love with her.”

  “You can’t tell that from a photograph.”

  “I can because I know the look. I know what that man’s thinking. I feel the same way.”

  Vanya shook his head. “Focus on what matters. Miri’s in Podil. It’s tremendous. She must have agreed to the picture because she figured we’d see it. She’s looking for us.” Yuri was already walking toward the house. “Why?” Vanya yelled after him. “Why would she come across Russia? Did it occur to you something could be wrong?”

  Yuri waved an arm over his head to dismiss Vanya, and Vanya looked back at the newspaper. “What are you doing, Mirele?” he whispered.

  IV

  The first snowflakes are here too early, Miri thought as she stood in the basement kitchen and watched them swirl through the small rectangular windows. From her perspective half underground, all she could see were feet and ankles. The flurries curled under boots and felt shoes, along the edges of frayed skirts. Podil wasn’t ready for winter. With so many men gone to war, the women hadn’t finished with the harvest. Hunger would be as brutal as the cold to come. Sasha stood next to Miri, while Cook kneaded dough across from them. She slapped and pounded the loaves and pressed them into pans. “Have some broth, while we can,” Sasha said, handing her a steaming bowl. “Didn’t your babushka teach you about the importance of food?”

  Miri smiled and took the bowl but couldn’t stomach a bite. The tang of acid from the cabbage and beets turned her stomach. “I can’t eat,” she said.

  “You haven’t been eating well for days now,” Sasha said. “Are you ill?” Cook huffed across the room and closed the oven door. Smoke curled from the edges of the tray in her hand. “Some bread, then?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Cook said suddenly. There was fear in her voice. “Hurry, have a look.” She waved frantically toward the windows on the other side of the basement. A swarm of boots ran past. Soldiers. They were coming to the hospital, to the front door.

  One shouted orders. “A woman pretending to be a surgeon,” he said in a voice like a bark. “Find her and the bastard with her.”

  “We know that voice, don’t we?” Miri asked Sasha. His hand was on her hip as they peered out. He’d tightened his grip.

  “Zubov.” Sasha took her hand and tried to run up the stairs, but Cook stepped in front of them. “They’ll be at the back and front entrances by now.” Her eyes were pinched tight. A smear of flour was across her cheek. She pointed toward the storage room. “Follow me.” Cook hurried. Her skirts billowed behind her. “You have to hide.”

  “I thought he’d forgotten us,” Miri said.

  “Men like him don’t forget,” Sasha said. “We humiliated him.”

  “It has to be more than that. No one else knows what happened on the train.”

  “Stop making noise,” Cook said. “Come and hide. Now. While you can.”

  The storage area was six stairs down, deeper underground than the kitchen. That small difference kept the room insulated, warmer in winter and cooler in summer—and dark. Normally it was filled three sacks high with potatoes, grains, and flour. Now it held only one layer. “Hurry,” Cook said.

  “If they’re here for us, you’re risking your life,” Miri said.

  “Haven’t you done the same for us?” Cook started moving sacks of flour to make room for them as she spoke. “The way you stayed at the hospital. We all knew you were in trouble. Would have been smarter for you to keep running, but you stayed to help.”

  Sasha had four sacks in his arms. “Pile these on us,” he said to Cook. Then he and Miri crouched together in the deepest, darkest corner. Miri sat between Sasha’s legs, her back to his stomach, and he pulled her so close she felt his heart beating, his breath in her ear. Miri thought about her own basement, about hiding with Babushka amid the screams and smashing glass. How long ago that night seemed. She pulled Sasha’s arms tighter around her. She wanted to tell him he’d been right. They should have left. Yuri and Vanya could have gone back to Peter. Maybe they’d never even found their American. Or maybe they were dead. But Baba wasn’t. And Baba needed her. Who knew what would happen to Miri and Sasha now?

  Covered, she listened to footfalls above. Boots marching. Doors banged
shut, creaked open. The soldiers were searching every corner and weren’t being gentle. Someone clomped down to the kitchen. Miri’s heart was beating so hard her ears buzzed. She wanted to shrink into the floor, and she knew Sasha was thinking the same because his arms went even tighter around her.

  “The woman, the doctor in the photograph, she’s gone,” Anya said.

  “I told you, no one’s in my kitchen,” Cook yelled at the same time. Feet scuffled. Cook grunted as if someone had pushed her.

  “You’re lying. You’re all lying,” Zubov said. “I saw them in the newspaper. They’re here. I know it. And they’re not who they say they are. I’ve done my research. I know his real name.”

  Miri didn’t mean to make a sound, but she must have. Sasha slipped a hand to her mouth.

  “Aha! I hear them,” Zubov cried.

  “Nothing, I heard nothing,” Anya said. “Please. Leave us in peace.”

  “They’re rats. Jewish rats. All of you.” Zubov kept talking but Miri couldn’t hear. Pots and pans clanged. Miri wanted to reach for her dagger, but she knew better than to move.

  “No,” Anya said, her voice no longer steady. She was next to the storage room.

  “I said shred every bag,” Zubov roared.

  “Please, it’s all we have!”

  “They’re in there, aren’t they?” Zubov yelled. Miri could smell the rotten cabbage from him. Or was that just a memory? Nothing was clear except she knew he was going to find them. And kill them. There was the rush of a blade, the sound of a puncturing bag. Grain sluiced out on the floor. “Please, it’s all we have,” Anya pleaded, again.

  “I said search. Every. Sack,” Zubov yelled. Miri didn’t know how many men he had. She heard more tearing, fabric slitting, grain spilling. The men were so close she could hear them grunt and sniffle. They were going through the row just in front of Miri and Sasha now.