I STARED AT MY MOTHER’S FACE, GAUNT FROM THE LITTLE BIT OF FOOD SHE ATE EACH DAY, HER HIGH CHEEKBONES LIKE CHISELED ROCK. TO ME SHE WAS STILL SO BEAUTIFUL, although in her eyes I saw weariness beyond words.

My mother, Auntie, and I sat quietly at the table one evening in early November. By the light of two candles we ate thin bean soup prepared by Auntie. There was still electricity in our apartment, but only sometimes, and we never knew when it would arrive or when it would be shut off.

It had been a blessing that Auntie Vera had come to live with us. My mother worried less about me, and Auntie stood in the ever-growing food lines for our meager supply of bread. My mother didn’t know that a large portion of the food that kept us alive came from Auntie’s hoard upstairs, or that she sometimes bought extras for us on the black market at exorbitant prices with the rubles she had stashed around her apartment. Auntie and I had decided long ago that my mother didn’t need any more worries on her shoulders. Part of our job, as we saw it, was to keep her as healthy and calm as possible under our terrible circumstances.

“Ivan,” my mother said softly, after she finished her soup, “I want to talk to you about something very serious.”

I felt an awful tightness in my chest. “Yes?”

“You know that many — most — of the factories in Leningrad were moved to the Ural Mountains before the bombing started.”

I nodded, trying unsuccessfully to jump two steps ahead and see what she was leading up to.

“But the Kirov, well, we’re so big, we make so many different things … only a few units were sent east. Much of our factory remained here.”

Why was she telling me things I’d known for months?

“There’s been some talk….” She stopped, almost as if she didn’t have the energy to continue. “Some talk of moving my section to the Urals as soon as it can be arranged.”

I gasped as if someone had snuck up behind me and grabbed my shoulders. “What?”

She nodded. “I have no choice in the matter. If the factory goes, I must go with it. We’re under martial law, Ivan. I can’t leave my job without authorization, and no one’s going to give that to me. And besides, who would take my place? Every available person is already working eleven hours a day.”

I glanced around our cold, candlelit apartment. It might have been meager, but I loved it with all my heart. “But I don’t want to go. This is our home.”

My mother stared down at the table for a long time. Then, with what looked like great effort, she looked at me and said, “Parents with children have been told to” — and here her voice almost cracked — “make arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” I repeated, confused. Then I saw the look on my mother’s face and I started to understand what she was saying. Anger and fear surged into my veins. “I am to be punished because I’m a child?”

“Do you think I like it?” she said in a voice so quiet, I could tell she was making a huge effort to control her emotions. “You will be thirteen soon, Ivan; you’re not a child. The management has made it clear there will be no exceptions.”

I practically jumped to my feet. “I don’t care what they say. I’m going with you!”

She shook her head. “I will be living in a dormitory on the factory site. They haven’t even finished building it yet. It’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?” Her clear blue eyes held mine, glossing over with tears.

“I want you to go stay with your uncle Boris.”

I began walking back and forth, feeling like a caged animal. “No! I won’t go anywhere without you. And Uncle Boris is … I’ve only met him twice. I barely know him. I don’t want to live with him.”

My mother sighed and gazed at Auntie as if for help. She opened her mouth to speak again, but I interrupted her. “Besides, Leningrad is surrounded. No one can get in or out.” I sat back down, as if that were the end of it, staring at her defiantly.

“It’s November. The authorities think that Lake Ladoga will be frozen in another week or so. Evacuations can begin across the lake.”

I glared at her now as if she were my bitterest enemy. “The lake?” I repeated. “You want me to go across water that might be frozen and hope I don’t drown?” I said the last word in full voice. My mother leaned on the table with her left elbow, covering her forehead with her hand. I was on my feet again, moving closer to her, angry, my hurt making me feel mean. “My father was a sailor and drowned, in case you don’t remember.”

“I know, Ivan. I remember quite well.” It was a reprimand, but the thought that she might leave me made me so upset that the worst in me surfaced.

“And even if I don’t die, what then? Uncle Boris won’t know I will be coming because there’s no mail service here. What if I arrive at his cabin and he’s gone? I’ll starve to death. I’ll die then! And it will be your fault.”

I wanted to hurt her for the first time in my life. I wanted her to feel the pain I was feeling. If the tears that fell and the silent sobs that shook her narrow shoulders were any indication, I was succeeding.

Auntie stood up. “Ivan, may I see you in the other room, please? I want to speak to you privately.” With one last angry look at my mother, I followed her to the room where she and my mother slept. It was almost dark, lit only by the candle Auntie brought from the table with her. She set it down on the small table by the head of the bed and turned to me.

The look on her face was ferocious; she grabbed me by the shoulders. “Listen to me. You’ve said enough to upset your mother tonight.” Her face was close to mine, but I looked away. “Look at me,” she commanded. I reluctantly lifted my eyes to look into hers. “Haven’t you been paying attention? What do you see when you leave the apartment?”

“What do you mean?” I said, not yet ready to give up what I thought was righteous anger.

“You know exactly what I mean. How many people have you seen in the streets, frozen in the snow where they fell, too weak to go on? Do you know how many sleds I saw yesterday? Seven. Seven sleds being dragged down the street, each one of them carrying a corpse wrapped in a sheet. Two of them children.”

I looked away again, but this time because I was picturing the horrors that were now commonplace. The daily bombing, the barely breathing wraithlike people who stood for hours in lines in the snow, waiting to be given their pitiful portion of bread. And to call it bread was an insult. It was made of sawdust and glues, maybe a whiff of grain, and a dash of the oil used to lubricate machines. Any one of those starving people who’d fallen in the snow awaiting their death could have been my mother or me if we hadn’t had Auntie’s help.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, my anger replaced quickly by shame and a desire to be strong.

Auntie finally let go of my shoulders. “I want you to apologize to your mother. Then I want you to prepare yourself to cross the ice road, and for the possibility of not seeing your mother until the war is over.”

A strangled cry escaped me. Auntie drew me to her. “I’m sorry to be so honest, Ivan. It’s just …” She pushed me far enough away so that I could look at her. “You have to remember what I told you the night I showed you the gun.” I nodded. “Your survival will depend on accepting the reality of your circumstances and making your decisions accordingly. If you indulge your wishes and your emotions, you will perish.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Your mother has to go, and so do you. You must prepare yourself.”

“I know. I’ll go apologize to her now,” I told her, wiping my eyes, gathering my courage.

I emerged from the room to see my mother washing dishes at the sink, leaning against it as if the task were almost too great. Putting my arms around her waist, I hugged her tightly. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” We hugged for a long time.

“Even if it means going to your uncle Boris’s cabin?”

I nodded and managed to laugh a little.

“Do you remember my old nickname for you?”

“Of course. Ivan the Not-So-Terrible. It still suits me, don’t you think?” I looked up into her smiling face, unable to imagine how life would be without her. I understood clearly for the first time in my life that I had only so many days, hours, and minutes to be with my mother. Every one of them had to count. If she had already lost my father to the sea and was willing to send her son over the water to protect him, then I had to be as strong as she was. “Mama, what about Auntie? What will she do?” We both glanced at Auntie, who stood watching us.

“I’m going with you, Ivan,” she announced, much to my surprise. “At least as far as Vilnov, where my sister-in-law lives. From there you must travel alone to your uncle Boris’s house.” I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. Better because we would be together; worse because if the ice road didn’t hold, we might both die. “In the next few days we’ll have to decide what to take with us and what to leave behind.”

“Yes, Auntie,” I said. What to leave behind, I thought as her last words echoed in my ears. I’m leaving everything and everyone behind! Alik, Misha, Olga, Oskar — even Georgi and Leonid. “Alik and Misha …” I murmured, unable to imagine life without my best friends in the apartment next door, available at a moment’s notice for play and adventure. Suddenly, I felt so tired, I could hardly stand. This happened to me several times a day now, since the last cut in our rations. This time it felt worse, as if the thought of leaving my friends would sap the last of my strength.

“Ivan,” my mother said, “why don’t you play a tune for us before we go to bed?”

I glanced at the box under the bed that held my concertina. “I haven’t felt much like playing since … since the bombing started.”

“I understand,” my mother said, turning back to dry the few dishes on our counter.

“But,” I said, trying to muster my energy and enthusiasm, “for you I would gladly play till dawn.” My mother smiled like she used to smile: fully, happily. If playing my concertina for her would allow me to see her happy, then I would play until I could play no more. And that’s just what I did.