November, 1944
Tashkent
On November 15, Rachel’s bandages were removed and the Uzbek doctor pronounced her skull to be as solid as the wall, which he rapped with his fist.
“I hope you’re not saying I’m as thick headed as a brick,” she jested, gingerly touching the back of her head with her fingertips.
When Safur arrived home from school and saw Rachel without her bandages, she shrieked, and her face knotted in dismay. “I’ll get my brush and fix that,” she declared, pointing to the part of her scalp the doctor had shaved.
She attempted to cover it up by brushing Rachel’s hair a dozen different ways, all to no avail.
“It’s no use,” Rachel observed, amused by her young friend’s exertions.
“No. We must make you pretty again.”
“But it will grow back soon,” Rachel protested.
Safur wasn’t persuaded. She pulled one of her long braids up over her head. “I will give you this.”
“You will not! Then I will look like a freak.”
Safur look puzzled. “What’s a freak? I don’t know that word.”
“Like a dog with two tails.”
“Ugh. Now I see.” Her expression changed suddenly to one of delight. “At least now you won’t have to leave until it has all grown back.” She looked at Rachel for confirmation.
“I hope not.” She saw a flicker of discontent in the girl’s eyes and sorrow welled up in her heart. Six weeks ago she wouldn’t have thought it possible for her to grow to love someone as quickly and deeply as she did Safur. The girl was like her daughter and her sister. Upon opening her eyes to find Safur tugging at her, Rachel had been enchanted. During those first difficult weeks of her recovery, Safur had hovered nearby, acting as her nurse and companion. Before she had been able to hold her head up Safur had coaxed her into playing “thumbs,” a game the girl won easily. Soon they were sewing together, and she had learned from Safur many of the techniques used by Alisher’s wife in her craft.
She had also begun to sketch again. Alisher, whom she rarely saw, and who never entered her room without Safur being present, brought her a pad and pencils and she made the girl her model. The blow she had suffered had caused her to worry that she might have lost some agility; Safur had sensed her anxiety and played against it, donning ridiculous hats or putting on outlandish costumes. Charmed, Rachel had relaxed and her sketching was as good as ever.
Besides Safur, she drew her own parents, then Stephen, Michael, and Lily. She found simple naturalistic drawing to be liberating.
“You always draw the same people,” Safur remarked, sitting at her elbow.
“My family.” Rachel identified each of them in turn.
“Where are they?”
“My parents are dead. Killed by the Nazis. The others—I wish I knew.”
“I’ll help you find them,” Safur assured her. “After the war we’ll all live together.”
“Someday you’ll have a husband and your own children,” Rachel replied. Safur had awakened something in her, a desire to recreate part of those who were gone, not just in images on paper, but in flesh and bone and blood.
“Oh no,” Safur insisted. “I’ll never leave you.”
Now the Uzbek girl began to cry, saying, “Father told me you will have to leave soon.”
Rachel put her arms around Safur and pulled her close. “I’m afraid he’s right.”
Alisher had already sent word to Mitya that the bandages were off and Rachel’s departure was set in motion a few days later when he advised Vodogolin that she was fit to travel. After settling upon the final details of their plan, they set a date one week from then.
* * *
On the target date, Rachel was sitting with Safur when Mitya entered and Rachel motioned for her to remain still. “Just follow me,” Mitya said, reining in his desire to rush forward and hug her. He was dressed in Uzbek garb. “Uk took the bait and followed us here.”
Safur’s mother entered. She and Rachel exchanged glances and she spoke to Safur in Uzbek.
“No! No!” Safur grabbed her.
Rachel held her. “You saved my life and now it’s my turn to save yours. If I stay it will only bring more misery. Your family will be arrested.”
“But I’ll never see you again.”
“I won’t be the same person. We’re both going on to new and different lives. But we shared one life.” She got her sketch book. “Keep this.” Safur took it from her.
Holding hands they walked to the door behind Mitya. Their last look was one of the most painful, yet enthralling events of Rachel’s life. Drawing strength from the memory of her mother she sought, in that last encounter, to impart the same gift to her first daughter. After a last gentle kiss, she and Mitya walked swiftly away.
Waiting for them in a car was an Armenian. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel glimpsed Zip Uk in his jeep as they drove slowly past; then, so as to maintain the illusion of flight, they tore out of the city into the desert.
Behind them, Zip Uk followed at a safe distance.
They drove through the night until they neared Samarkand. A few miles from the city they parked, leaving the lights still on. Rachel followed Mitya into the desert; after only a few steps it was pitch black. She watched as Zip Uk drove up beside their car and got out. He walked around it.
“I know you’re out there,” he called. “You can’t escape.”
Rachel felt Mitya’s arm around her shoulder. It’s almost over, she thought.
Zip Uk shut off the lights and the motor. Under the vast canopy of stars he stood, staring at them without knowing where they were. From the other side of the road came the sound of movement. Zip Uk turned towards it, taking out his gun; he bounded forward from the road.
Rachel saw a glint as Zip Uk rushed into the night. “There you are!” he declared.
“Welcome.”
Rachel saw a sea of rifle barrels encircle him.