The first morning Miri woke up in Klara’s apartment, when all her failures came rushing back to her, she opened the window and flung Vanya’s notebook out into the snow. She’d thought about burning it but couldn’t. “Let someone else use it for heat,” she said, and slammed the glass back into place. Not long after that, Kir’s men banged on the door. Miri didn’t listen to whatever tale Baba spun to explain Miri’s appearance, but she understood they’d be watching the flat, didn’t believe Vanya was dead. Once they left, in the background, she heard Babushka and Klara discussing their situation. After everything Miri had done to prevent them from trying to break through the border in spring, there was no other way. If they tried now, they wouldn’t make it. The ice and snow were too harsh to brave a sledge across the Neva, let alone Ladoga. Even if they could escape Russia, they had nowhere to go now, no way to America. And so they tucked into Saint Petersburg for the duration of the winter.
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.”