VIII

Miri woke when the sun cracked through the trees. Sasha must have sensed she was awake. He looked at her and smiled. His face dripped with water, and the edges of his hair were wet from washing in the stream. He looked younger out here, happier. Could Vanya and Yuri be feeling the same? Was it possible they’d already found Russell Clay and were arranging their camp? She hoped so because one alternative was terrifying—that Ilya, and Kir, had caught them.

“Are you hungry?” Sasha asked. He held out a chunk of cheese wrapped in one of Babushka’s kitchen towels. The smell of blueberry preserves floated off the fabric. Miri held it up to her nose and caught the undertones of nutmeg and handed it back to him. She couldn’t stomach any food. Not then. Instead she pulled on her boots. Already her legs were tired and she had a blister on her heel. It would bleed but there was nothing she could do for it. They had to keep going. It might be hard, but it was nothing compared to what Baba endured after the pogroms. She had to just keep pushing forward.

Miri handed Sasha Grekov’s coat and walked into the woods, came back with a branch in each hand, one with pine needles, the other with birch leaves. She bent down to scramble the soil where they’d slept. “How is it you know how to hide but not fish?” Sasha pressed again. When Miri didn’t respond, he said, “My grandfather used to say: ‘Better to overestimate your enemy than die from vanity.’”

“Are you calling me the enemy?” Miri asked.

“No. I’m saying you’re smart to cover our tracks.”

  

When Miri and Sasha finally hiked down from the hills and onto the flats leading to Karmėlava, they were surrounded by golden wheat and emerald trees. They avoided the houses that started to dot the fields. The roofs were thatched with a mixture of shingles and straw. Each had a brick chimney stuck on the side as if it were an afterthought. The town was small compared to Kovno, but its significance outstripped its size. It was a junction where the rails split, carving north or south, or staying west to east. “The Polyakovs built this junction. You’ve heard of them, the Jewish Polyakovs?” Sasha asked when they stopped to rest. They could just make out the gleam of the tracks they’d follow to the depot.

“No,” Miri said.

“They were brothers. They started as tax farmers, paying for merchants who couldn’t pay themselves. If the merchants couldn’t repay, well, the brothers extracted payment. They were brutal.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Miri wiped sweat from her face.

“Because you should know them. Beware of them.” He paused. “One of the brothers moved into construction.”

“It’s illegal for Jews to own construction companies.”

“True. Polyakov brought in a partner. A Russian named Tolstov. He signed where only Russians could sign. Got paid where only Russians could get paid while Polyakov did the dirty work. He paid laborers next to nothing while Tolstov sipped champagne. When the workers came to Polyakov and complained they didn’t earn enough to feed their families, he turned them away. His own people. Then came the railroad.

“Building tracks is a dirty business. The czar wanted train lines crossing Russia. To build them, Polyakov was given permission to march onto any farm and take the land for the railroad. If the farmer protested, he was shot. If he gave in, he was homeless. And the destitute farmers blamed Polyakov—not the czar, or Tolstov. They blamed the Jew.”

“Polyakov forced you from your home?” Miri asked.

“No. Not quite.” Sasha stopped midsentence and pointed to the edge of the trail. A dog stood ten paces away. Miri hadn’t heard him coming. He was black and bone thin with missing teeth. He growled and Miri’s skin bristled. “He’s sick,” she whispered, eyeing the foam on his mouth. “If we stay calm, he might go away.”

“Or he might attack.” Sasha reached for a rock the size of his fist, and the dog’s growl grew deeper. “Run when I throw—”

Sasha didn’t get to finish. The dog leapt at them. Jaws wide. White foam spraying. As quickly as the dog sprang into the air, Sasha brought his arm back and shot it forward with enough force that his shirt thrummed. He hit the dog square between the eyes. The mutt landed hard on his side and scrambled back up. Sasha bent down and grabbed another rock. And another, pummeling the dog even as he yelped and ran away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Miri said.

Sasha wiped sweat from his chin but said nothing.