XXXV

Before the sun had tucked away for the night, Miri and Sasha washed up at the farmer’s well. The water was cold. She watched it turn the skin above Sasha’s stubble pink. “She could be wrong,” Sasha said. “There could be an American near here, she might not know.”

“Do you think I read the telegram correctly? ‘Levi’s Monster’?” Miri asked.

“I trust your instincts.”

Miri sighed. “Wherever he is, if he’s safe, my brother could have his proof by now.”

They climbed up to the loft and found the hay on the floor was loose, not baled as it should have been, as it would have been if the woman had had more help. They dropped to their knees and began to clear space to sleep. When their nook was finished, it was narrow and there wasn’t room to make it larger. They stayed on their knees, facing each other.

“I can sleep downstairs,” Sasha said finally.

“This will be fine.” Miri lay down on her back as far to the side as she could. Sasha followed. There was a finger width of space between their shoulders. She felt him tapping his hands but didn’t dare turn to look. Their faces would be too close.

The lap of rain started on the thatch. The smell of turned mud and fresh moss grew stronger. And while they weren’t touching, it was all she could think about, the feel of him, the taste of him. “When we find Yuri, I’ll leave,” Sasha said.

“Right.” She was surprised at how unconvincing her voice sounded. Sasha must have noticed it, too. He rolled over to face her. His weight, shifting, shook the loft. He propped an elbow up and leaned his head on his hand. He looked at her with eyes so dark she could barely make them out. “Is that what you want, Miriam?” He reached to touch her face, perhaps to tuck her curls behind her ear, but before he touched her, he pulled away. He rolled back, folded his arms over his chest. “You don’t know what you want, do you?”

She lay there for a while. Hoping he’d fall asleep, knowing he wouldn’t, while rain spilled through cracks in the roof. She wanted to say something, but everything that came to mind wasn’t right.

It was Sasha who broke the silence. “You never told me why you became a doctor.”

“It’s a long story.” One she’d never told because no one ever asked. Even Yuri had just assumed her talent drew her to it, never asked if there was more. Miri closed her eyes. There was no question where to start, but she wasn’t sure she should.

“Please,” Sasha said. “Tell me.”

“Remember the night we spent in the hills, fishing? You were surprised I didn’t know how to fish?” Her voice was quiet, almost covered by the rain. “Helping women give birth, it’s what brought me to surgery. The births, they haunt me. Even when the mother lives, death comes so close, just at the moment when another life is starting. It’s powerful and terrible. I—I can’t describe it.” Miri despised the fact that birth and death were so closely linked. It was something no other surgeon at the hospital, not even Yuri, understood. He was confident in his abilities, certain he could save any mother, save Miri and their own children. But she’d seen him lose women in childbirth. Even the healthiest and strongest could go in a heartbeat. She continued. “For those first few seconds when a mother holds her child, when they’re still connected by the cord, they call it elation, they believe the worst is over. But it’s not. That’s when death is closest. Time stops for them, for me.” Like an eclipse, she thought. “And as soon as it starts again, everything rushes back. The pain. The joy. That’s when they die. Or most women do. When they bleed to death. But none of that answers your question. Why don’t I fish?” She tried to smile. “Our dacha. The house is deep in a pine forest. Near a sulfur spring. When I was twelve, my babushka came back from the market, and she told me she was going to teach me to fish. She told me to follow her to the spring. I thought Baba was going the wrong way, since there were no fish in the baths. ‘Patience,’ she said.

“The path was steep. Hot. The higher we climbed, the stronger the smell of fouled eggs, the sulfur. Near the top, I heard a woman scream. Instinct had me jump forward to help, but Baba grabbed my arm. Baba’s stronger than she looks.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Miri could hear the smile in Sasha’s voice.

“She pulled me close. ‘At the market, I heard a wealthy man vacationing from Kovno sent for a doctor to help his wife through childbirth,’ Baba said. I’d never heard that urgency in her voice before. ‘While he waits for the doctor, he’s taken his wife to these baths to ease her pains. I warned him there wasn’t a doctor or midwife within a day of Birshtan, but he didn’t believe me. Miri, you must help. You’ve delivered a baby,’ she said.

“A month earlier, I was there when my cousin, Natalya, Klara’s granddaughter, went into labor. It was late. The doctor came, but it was only him. He needed help. And my cousin’s screams were unbearable. I would have done anything to help her.”

“Of course you would,” Sasha said.

“But why would you say ‘of course’? I was a child. What could I know?” Miri paused and looked at Sasha. Here, in the barn, under the leaking roof, she felt close to him in a way she didn’t expect, a way that kept her talking. “The cord connecting the baby, it was caught around his neck. Because of my height, I looked older than I was. The doctor looked at my hands. They were smaller than his. He asked if I was brave enough to save the baby. Could anyone say no?”

“Many people would say no.”

“I don’t believe that. Would you refuse?”

“I’d never be asked in the first place.”

“I guess that’s right,” she said. “The doctor guided me, walked me through each step. I slid my hand inside my cousin. I cried—it wasn’t sadness. Or fear, but something else. I felt the baby, my cousin’s pulse. And Natalya, she was so exhausted she barely had the strength to push again. I had to save them both. And I did.”

“That was when you knew you wanted to be a doctor?”

“No. I’d never met a woman who was a doctor. But I thought I’d be a midwife. It’s why Babushka pushed me to help.”

“In Birshtan?”

“Yes. In Birshtan, my grandmother insisted I could do it again. ‘I saw you taking in every detail,’ she said. I went to the woman at the spring. She was squatting next to the pool. Her husband’s face was like ashes. The pools are good if you’re ill, but something told me not if you’re in labor. There’s blood, and fluid. The woman needed to be cool, not soaking in salt. I told the husband to spread a blanket over in the clearing. ‘Are you a doctor?’ he asked. Babushka told him I was the closest thing he’d find to a doctor, and for the first time in my life, I was thankful for my height, for looking older than I was.

“When I looked between this woman’s legs, I could already see the crown of the baby’s head. I told the woman it wouldn’t be long, and I tried to examine her just as the doctor had. I wasn’t skilled enough yet to know from sight as I do now, but my hands were steady. I thought the infant was in the position I’d seen with Natalya, and so I told the woman to push with all her might. She clenched my wrist and screamed. Sasha, when the baby came, she was pink and screaming. Perfect.  

“When the husband asked how much to pay me, Baba stepped in. ‘No money can pay for this happiness, but we will accept a kind favor in return.’ Anything, the man insisted. ‘We love to eat fresh fish. Does your cook or kitchen boy fish in the morning?’ Every day, the man said. ‘Is there a chance he could catch one or two extra fish for us?’ But that’s nothing, the husband objected. Baba insisted the fish were worth more than the man knew.”

“And so the husband agreed to deliver fish to your door every morning?” Sasha asked.

“Yes. Every morning. At least for the rest of that summer. Baba explained, ‘We will always need to eat, and this is how we survive, how we fish. Knowledge is the most important currency, and you, Mirele, you were born to be a doctor.’ On the way home, though, I asked her, ‘Isn’t love the most important currency?’”

“And?”

“‘Love,’ Baba said. ‘Love is what makes you want to survive in the first place.’”