Miri came down to the kitchen before dawn and found her grandmother already there, lighting the fire. Breakfast was Babushka’s one demand, the time Miri and Vanya were required to join her, together, no matter how early that meant they had to eat. As the women set to preparing the meal, Miri worked in silence, thinking about the fishmonger, picturing the surgery to come as she arranged silverware, cheese, and bread on the massive table. The wooden surface was scarred from chopping. Nothing sat straight. Babushka took one of the pots down from the wall to boil water for eggs and tea. The steam released the smell of lavender from the dried plants hanging around the room, meant to cover the lingering smell of onions.
A quiet knock on the back door announced the arrival of the baker’s son. The boy, no more than ten years old, held up an envelope. A few years earlier, the Okhrana, the czar’s secret police, had started reading the Abramovs’ mail and reporting what they found to Vanya’s superior, Kir, at the university. In response, Vanya started giving his correspondents their neighbor’s address because he thought so long as there was bread, no one cared what a baker said or did. Miri was amazed the ruse worked, continued to work after all this time, that the seal on this letter was tight. It came from America. From that professor again, the scientist who’d promised to work with Vanya on relativity and to find him, Miri, and Baba a way out of Russia. For all the lofty dreams the American had spun for Vanya, he had yet to come through. But this envelope was thicker than most—perhaps thicker than any. Had something changed? Were they equations? Miri paid the boy with a sweet, kissed his cheek, and sent him home. After she closed the door behind him, she held the envelope up to the light to see if she could read any of it, but the paper was too thick. She grinned, thinking no one had any idea what Vanya was up to with the American.
“Well?” Baba asked.
“We’ll have to wait,” Miri said, still smiling, now shaking her head. She placed the letter on Vanya’s plate and went back to preparing the meal.
As Miri and Baba worked, the sound of Vanya pacing above was between them. His footsteps were steady like a metronome in time with the beat of calculations. If that professor did find a way to bring them to America, she’d make Vanya go without her. She’d told him she wouldn’t leave Kovno. That Yuri wouldn’t go, either. But if Vanya had the chance, he had to take it. Brilliant, sweet Vanya would never survive a war. He’d be too caught up in his equations to dodge bullets if they ever came close. And if he were shot away from home, he’d be left for dead until another Jew found him—which is what happened to the fishmonger.
Sukovich. What if Miri made a mistake while operating? Surely any of her seniors would be quick to criticize Kovno’s first female surgeon, especially one they resisted promoting in the first place. No slip would be excused. But how many would even bother to come and watch? She fumbled the bread knife in her hand, stabbed the black loaf she’d been cutting.
“Believe in yourself, child,” Baba said.
“But the other surgeons, they could change their mind. They could decide not to elevate me. And if I do anything wrong, Sukovich could die.”
“He could also die if you do everything right.” Baba spooned strawberry preserves into each of their mugs. “Stay strong. It’s all you can do. And eat. We’re lucky for the food.”
“Are you ready?” Vanya asked. Miri hadn’t heard him coming. She startled and he took up the knife, set to slicing the rest of the bread. “You’ll save him. I know it,” Vanya said as he slid a thick piece onto Baba’s plate, then one onto Miri’s before serving himself.
“Is your lecture ready, Vanya?” Baba asked.
“I’m not teaching. I told you last night. I’m going to the hospital, with Miri. To watch.”
“No,” Baba said. “Positions for Jewish professors are few and far between, and Kir will be looking for anything to hold against you. You can’t afford to go to the hospital.”
“Kir would never cut me loose. Today is for my sister.” He paused. “But I’ll bring notes. And I won’t cancel yet, just in case I can still make it in time.”
“It’s better you don’t cancel at all. Going today could hurt your sister’s chances. And the fishmonger’s.”
“How?”
“By turning this all into a spectacle.”
“Isn’t it already a spectacle?” He reached for the envelope. “When did this come?”
“Ten minutes ago,” Baba answered. “Did you hear me tell you to go to the university?” Miri stopped listening while Baba and Vanya went back and forth. Instead, she tried to imagine the surgeon’s scalpel in her hand, each step she’d take. After she’d pictured the final suture, she pushed her chair back and headed for the door. Vanya scrambled behind her, stuffing the letter from America and a page of half-made lecture notes into his pocket.
“I have a good feeling, Mirele,” he said as they walked outside.
On a normal day, Yuri picked Miri up in a horse-drawn taxi. He’d stop in front of Baba’s house, step down in a starched suit, with his creaking shoe, and offer his hand to help her climb inside. But last night she told him she’d rather walk. The fresh air would help clear her mind. And so she took a deep breath and started down the street with her brother. The sun had just broken out over the city and glinted off rooftops and windows, making her squint. The smell of sewage and waste wafted from the gutters.
Baba’s home was situated in the center of Kovno, on a hill that was uniformly drab, carpeted in gray stones that formed the sidewalks, streets, and squares. Faded row houses wove together in jagged lines and severed at haphazard intervals. But if Miri looked up, beyond the gray, there was a sweeping view of the city’s borders that stood in gorgeous contrast. Two rivers converged in Kovno, and their waters nurtured the forest, framing the city in shades of emerald. Kovno was Russia’s gateway to Europe, a cosmopolitan melting pot. It was said that Czar Nicholas, and his father before him, believed that if Kovno fell, they’d lose their empire, and so they spared no expense on battlements. Protruding from the lush outskirts, on one side, past the factories, were massive forts, the railways that supplied them, and quarters for the soldiers that manned them. On the other side was the suburb of Slobodka, where most of Kovno’s Jews lived. Its wooden hovels were angled into the overgrown forest and looked as if they were drowning in mud, a sinking reminder of the life the Abramovs had been lucky to escape.
When Baba moved to Kovno, from Odessa, she was young and a fierce believer that Jews could live in modernity, in peace, next to Russian neighbors—and she wasn’t afraid to share that view. Her eloquence attracted attention and helped her gain favor in the Jewish community, especially among those who believed the same. Her ability to make anyone comfortable, to pry secrets, and to keep them to herself helped her rise. A steady stream of mothers and grandmothers flocked to her. She never judged. She never gossiped about babies being born less than nine months after a wedding, or broken hearts that needed to mend. She accepted people for who they were and was rewarded for that with the house and presents that kept her far from the slums she had been so eager to escape. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying luxury, she warned her grandchildren, so long as you remember it can all disappear faster than it arrived.
Miri and Vanya passed soldiers on patrol on every block. “Let’s walk faster,” Miri said.
“Speed won’t help us escape them,” Vanya said, nodding toward a pair with guns slung over their shoulders. “The overarching fact is war is coming. That means we don’t have a future here in Russia. It’s too dangerous for Jews.”
“Even if I wanted to leave, I can’t. None of us can. We don’t have papers.”
“I’m working on that.”
“With your American?” Miri shook her head. “He’s been promising for too long for me to believe anything. Besides, I’ve told you. My patients need me.”
“Mirele, if this war comes, life will be worse for us Jews than it will be for Russians.”
“Vanya, please.”
“You’re scared. I understand. Mama and Papa died going to America. That doesn’t mean we will. We must take that chance. It’s what they wanted.”
Miri pointed to Vanya’s pocket, to the envelope she’d seen him stash before they left. “What does he want? You usually tear into his letters right away.”
“I haven’t had a chance to read it. I—I wanted to wait.”
“For what?” The tram clacked. Its metal wheels groaned. Vanya said nothing as he and Miri slid into an alley where it was darker but not crowded, a shortcut to the hospital.