A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  The city starved slowly, but the three women managed to endure. All the while, the child in Miri’s womb kicked with a fury she hadn’t expected. While other mothers may have rejoiced in that, all Miri felt was desolation. She wouldn’t have eaten or even slept if Babushka hadn’t forced her. Come spring, the money Vanya had given Miri was gone. Babushka sold the rest of her rubies, Vanya’s silver cigarette case, and every other scrap of gold she and Klara could piece together to secure passage north and west for the three women. To stay warm, they burned every speck of furniture, anything that would light. They watched out the windows as their guards dwindled, lost to hunger or sacrificed for the front. She didn’t know which. Soon there was only one left, the laziest of all—the easiest to evade.

  As they boarded the first of several trains that would take them up and out of Russia, Baba handed Miri a dirty envelope, greasy and worn, but unopened.

  “What is this?” Miri asked.

  “The café owner stopped me on the street this morning and gave it to me.”

  “But who is it from?”

  “Open it, child.” Baba smiled. “There’s only one way to know.”

  VII

  Dear Miriam,

  My name is Dmitry Velikoff. I am a friend of Vanya and Yuri. I hope they are well and not too angry with me still. I have not been able to find them, but, praise the gods, I have found you. Your grandmother’s building is watched, so this letter must do.

  I write to tell you I saved the notebook you threw from the window. Perhaps you thought a soldier was coming to search the house? The formulas are all safe.

  Dima looked back at what he’d written. His script was pathetic. It looked as if a child formed his words, but he needed to tell Vanya’s sister what happened so she could find him in America—so he could tell Vanya and Yuri what he’d done. But where to start? Dima was used to telling stories around a fire, not by hand. He wrote a line, crossed it out, and began again.

  I write also to tell you that I’ll do whatever I can to help your brother. He’s a good man, even if he is not a sailor. The only man I’ve ever met who wanted to change the world with an idea—not a fight. I admire that. But when I left him, he wasn’t strong. He’ll need help.

  Dima hated leaving. But he had no choice. Yuri would have killed him, and Dima couldn’t blame him for it. Besides, he needed to find that American, Russell Clay, to get those plates before Kir murdered them all.

  After Dima left Dacha Lavroskavo, after the fight with Yuri, he’d run first to Vadim. If the American had gotten away, he would have needed help. And sure enough, it didn’t take much persuading to get Vadim to talk, not after he’d watched his brother lose his eye the way he did. Vadim said he escorted Clay to the hospital in Kiev, the best hospital—the Jewish hospital where he took his brother later. Then he took Clay to the train station. Put him on a train to Saint Petersburg.

  Dima went straight to that very same station, and the army’s poor luck was Dima’s opportunity. With so many men at the front, they were desperate for engineers, and thanks to Stanislavovich teaching Dima all about trains, Dima found a position taking him to Saint Petersburg in no time.

  If Clay was in Saint Petersburg, Dima figured he’d be at the university looking for help out of the country. Or Clay might have told Kir he’d meet him there—there was no way of knowing how much they’d been in touch. Either way, that’s where he’d look. He just had to hope he’d get to Clay before Kir did.

  After a day’s search in the city, Dima found it, the university: an imposing building grand enough to rival anything in America, he figured. But no sign of Clay. The next morning, at first light, Dima went back with a cart of apples and tried to sell to every man who came and went, to get a look at their faces. He gave a free apple to the janitor leaving the building, in exchange for innocent information on the great Kir Romanovitch—was he at the university? Would he be visiting soon? The janitor had nothing to report.

  For three weeks all Dima had to show for his apples were a few kopecks and a frozen ass. He was starting to think he’d somehow missed Clay. Or miscalculated. Then, finally, a man who looked like a pauper limped past the bronze statue in the checkerboard courtyard. The man dragged one leg. He clutched a valise—an expensive-looking valise. He didn’t have a hat and his few white hairs were matted. His clothes torn. But even fallen as Clay was, Dima recognized him. No doubt about it.

  Now that Clay was here, there was a good chance Kir would be close behind. Dima didn’t know if he had a minute, an hour, or a day, but he didn’t intend to waste any of it. Still, he’d need to be careful. He watched.

  Instead of shuffling to the doors of the university, Clay veered slowly, weakly around the corner into the dark alley nearby. Dima looked over his shoulder and followed. He had his knife in his fist. Dima found Clay sagged against the bricks, relieving himself in a corner, the valise still tucked tight under his arm.

  Dima crept up behind Clay and, in one swift motion, clamped a hand on the valise and wrapped his other arm around Clay’s bloated throat. Clay tried to resist, but he was no match for the sailor. Yanking the valise free, Dima slammed Clay against the wall, heard his feet slap the bricks. Clay had lost several teeth and he smelled like shit, real shit. “Well, well,” Dima said, dropping the American into a pile of sludge and snow. “The bastard’s fallen to a pathetic husk.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Clay cried in English.

  “Are the photographs in here?” Dima growled, holding up Clay’s bag.

  “You can’t have them. I need them. I’m trading for my freedom.”

  “You think they’ll keep you safe when Kir arrives?” Dima asked. The American’s eyes widened and he pointed to the valise. “They’re all in here?”

  “I told you, you can’t have them.”

  “You going to stop me? You’re not in America. This is Russia. Kir’ll kill you. And take them anyway. Don’t you know that?”

  “No, he’ll give me papers. And passage. And we’ll publish together.”

  Dima almost laughed. “Fool. He’ll take everything he can, wring you out until you’re dry, and then kill you so you can’t talk.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “What will keep you alive? Your nice request? It’s an agreement you have no power to enforce.”

  The lout broke down then. He must have realized what Dima said was the truth. He dropped his face to his hands and sobbed. “Don’t hurt me,” Clay said. “Please. Don’t hurt me. Your friend’s work is cursed.”

  Dima unclipped the buckle of the valise and there they were. The fake notebook. And four glass plates, covered and protected. All in perfect condition. None even developed. He was so surprised to find them there like that, intact, that he let out a shout that sent Clay skittering. In another instant, Dima was running down the alley, without even looking back.

  Also, I found Russell Clay. He had the glass plates. They were undeveloped and intact. Well protected. I took them. He didn’t resist.

  Dima knew he’d put himself in danger by letting Clay see his face—and by taking the plates. Kir could track him if he had to—question everyone at the university, and that janitor might be made to talk. But that poor man knew nothing, really.

  It would be safest for Dima to walk away—or run. Or maybe try to sell the plates to Kir himself. At the beginning of all this, Dima thought he’d make extra money by doing just that, but somewhere along the way his plans had changed. These plates didn’t belong to Kir. They belonged to Vanya. And he had to get them back to him.

  Dima ran as fast as his legs could carry him, straight to Vanya’s aunt Klara. Vanya had given Dima the address when they’d started, asked Dima to send his sister word if anything happened. Dima hoped he’d find the professor, and the doctor, there now, but even from a block away Dima spotted the agents watching the building, and he knew he’d have no such luck. Had they been there since Vanya left Riga? Did that mean Kir suspected Vanya was alive? It was the only reason there
would be men watching the building. A trap.

  Dima couldn’t stop or they’d suspect him of something, and something was good enough to get a man killed. He ran past, pretending he had a direction, praying Ilya wasn’t among the men on guard.

  Dima found a café a block from the apartment. He didn’t care that it was run-down and dingy, even compared to Pyotrovich’s in Riga. He just needed a place to sit, to watch. And he still had the money he’d earned as an engineer so he could pay, at least for now. The waiter wouldn’t ask questions. Better to have your pocket lined than to know.

  During the second week of watching, a woman showed up at Klara’s house. There was no question she was Vanya’s sister. They had the same height, the same curls. She walked slowly. And she was alone. She didn’t look hurt, but she walked as if she’d been beaten. Where had she been? Had she run off with that mysterious soldier Ilya talked about, and was now coming home in shame? No, he thought. The weight she bore was defeat—not sin.

  Dima wanted to run to her and help—she looked so much like Vanya—but the guards had noticed her, too. She didn’t seem to care. It could have been her death sentence, walking into a trap like that with those guards, but luck must have smiled on that family, because the guards stayed back.

  That first morning after she’d arrived, Dima saw her throw a notebook outside. It landed in the bushes. A soldier saw her do it, too, but he was dumb. Or drunk. Or both. He walked over to look for it but only glanced around. Found nothing. Dima found it later that night, wedged near the gutter. He couldn’t understand what was in it, but he recognized Vanya’s handwriting. And he’d copied enough of his older notebooks to know this work was new. Different. Did Vanya do it? Finish his equations at last? Either way, this meant his sister must have gotten to him somehow, before Kir did. That was one thing to be grateful for.

  It took all of Dima’s powers to keep himself away. More than anything he wanted to find out what had happened, what she knew about her brother and fiancé. But if he tried, the Okhrana would have him. He’d be as good as dead. By spring, food was growing harder to find. Dima paid three times what he’d paid the first day he sat at the café. And he’d seen two soldiers eyeing him just that morning. It was time to move on before someone made the connection.

  Where would he go? America, of course. He’d find Vanya and his family there somehow, at the university called Harvard or in that city Vanya talked about—Philadelphia. Yes, Vanya said he had family there. Oh, how Dima dreamed of that beautiful, peaceful American life Vanya told him about where there was no Okhrana. No czar.

  But Dima couldn’t travel with the notebook or the glass plates. It was too risky. As luggage, they could be seized at the port in Saint Petersburg or in America. And if they were found and identified, the Okhrana might even take him just as he boarded a boat. He had to find a way to get them out of the country, and back to Vanya in America.

  Miriam, when I was a boy, I worked for a great artist here in Peter. He is an honest friend to me still. One of his masterpieces is being shipped to Philadelphia, to their great art museum. The photographs your brother and fiancé took will travel with that artwork—along with Vanya’s notebook—in the back of another painting. My plan is to make it to Philadelphia by then, and maybe I will find you all there. Perhaps we could meet at that museum and share our stories. Celebrate what your brother achieved.

  Dima pulled out his purse. It was too light, but should be enough to pay the café owner to get the letter safely to Miriam or to her baba. Before sending it, he read back over his letter. What else was there to tell her? No reason to say he prayed every night for Vanya even though he was not a praying man. Or that he was sorry he didn’t get to help her even though she looked like she needed it.

  I am about to board a sledge north. My men found work for me on a boat bound for America. I wish for you a safe journey out of Russia. Be well. I hope to see your brilliant Vanya and my old friend Yuri again soon.

  Your devoted friend,

  Dmitry

  VIII

  Miri, Babushka, and Klara made it through the Russian border into Finland and across the sea to Sweden. It helped that Miri’s belly was swollen with child. And that they’d stolen clothing from a convent. Baba and Klara posed as nuns. The guards took pity on them. They even offered advice on the best route forward. As hard as Miri had imagined it would be to cross the border, it turned out to be one of the easiest parts of their journey, of that impossible year of war. How could she have calculated so poorly? And yet even if she could go back in time, knowing the borders wouldn’t be as tight as she’d expected, she wouldn’t change a thing. If she went back, she’d make all the same decisions again—they had brought her to Sasha. And now that she carried his child, she’d protect him with everything she had and try to look forward.

  In Gothenburg, Miri, Baba, and Klara boarded a ship headed west toward Philadelphia. Miri walked up the plank in silence, trying to shake the memories of her parents’ departure so many years earlier, telling herself they would not share the same fate. She would make it to America. The boat heaved against the dock, braced against the waves.

  They tumbled through storms and swells. What should have been a two-month journey slogged into three. As they neared America, Miri’s birth pains began. Despite it being her first child, it took only an hour for Miri to feel the frequency of her contractions condense. The child would launch into the world with the same ferocity in which he was conceived. “Deep breaths,” Babushka said. She held Miri’s hand. They were in a cramped cabin with no one but Babushka and Klara to shoulder the weight of the event.

  “I’m being ripped to pieces,” Miri screamed. Her stomach muscles cinched so tight she couldn’t breathe. The uncontrollable urge to push was all she knew. She was too hot. And too cold. She was thirsty but she couldn’t drink.

  And, God, this child was going to kill her. He was going to split her apart. Hundreds of women had told her the same, but this had to be different. None of them could have felt pain like this, could they?

  She thought she smelled pine trees. Sasha.

  “Stay awake!” Babushka said. She soaked Miri’s face with a wet cloth. The vacant look she’d seen on so many new mothers’ faces, she felt now. In her head she wanted to live, but her body was beyond exhausted.

  A wave dashed the porthole. Miri imagined she could taste the brine in the spray of salt water. Babushka said something. She sounded far away, farther than Vanya or Sasha, who sometimes came to her in her dreams. Why had she been such a coward? Why had she let Vanya and Sasha go? Surely they could have run from the train without being shot. The guilt hurt as much as the child breaking through. The pain was coming, harder than before. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think but she had to. “Can you see the head?”

  Before Baba could answer, Miri’s womb gripped down with a force Miri had never fathomed. The wave of pain was white and devastating. Would she bleed to death?

  “Miriam,” Babushka shouted. The waves slamming the hull were so loud Miri could barely hear her grandmother. “The head, he’s here.”

  “Can you see the cord? Is it around his neck?”

  “No. No.” Babushka smiled. “You’re free.”

  The pain shuddered and waned. The worst had come. “A girl,” Babushka said. “As strong and beautiful as her mother.”

  “A girl?” Miri reached for the child and brought her to her breast. “Sasha,” she whispered. He had promised to find her, but he would not. “Sasha.” Miri kissed her daughter’s face. Her fingers. Her feet. For a moment she felt Sasha there, with her and the baby. Curled around them, crying. Her tears flowed down and splashed on the child, who grabbed at her with a will to live that Miri had almost forgotten.

  “I’ll name her for Sasha’s mother. Ethel.”

  2000: Philadelphia, United States

  Ethel Zane sat in a chair at the end of the exhibit, next to Lena. After she’d snatched the portrait of Einstein off the wall, she’d been asked to sit
there, like a scolded American child told to think about her actions. Her mother, Miri, would have told her to be grateful, that in Russia she would not have been treated so gently. But she still resented the two museum guards standing on either side, making sure she didn’t move. Worse, she was stiff and her dress was still damp from all that rain. “My mother faced far scarier situations,” Ethel whispered, nodding toward the guards.

  “I know.” Lena smiled.

  “And I was right. That curator should have had Vanya front and center—not Einstein.”

  “But look, he did his job. We were just impatient.” Lena pointed to a photograph of Vanya leaning against a towering larch. It was a focal point, five times the size of Einstein’s image. The photo had been taken in Birshtan, near the dacha where Mama and Uncle Vanya had been taught to fight. Vanya looked so young, so hopeful. The curator had found it somehow, just before the exhibit opened, hidden in a corner in the basement of the Hermitage, buried in boxes and boxes of Kir Romanovitch’s archives. How they got there, no one knew, but on Ethel’s advice the curator had been searching for those records, for anything from the czar’s preeminent physicist, for months. And he’d left this as his final surprise for her.

  “Who imagined that boy would change the world?” Ethel asked. “Einstein published equations in 1914, you know?”

  “Of course I know. They were wrong. He corrected them himself.”