THE NEXT MORNING I PUT ON ALMOST ALL THE CLOTHES I OWNED, NOT JUST BECAUSE I’D HEARD THE TEMPERATURES COULD BE TWENTY DEGREES BELOW ZERO ON LAKE LADOGA when the wind blew hard, but because I’d have less to carry. I wore the valenki and galoshes and tucked the Finnish knife neatly into the side of them.

Auntie gave my astonished mother most of the canned food and half of the rubles she had left. “Where did you get all of this?” she cried.

“I’ve saved like this since the revolution!” Auntie answered. “You’ll see. When this war is over, you’ll always live like another one could be just around the corner. I packed food and money for our trip, too. You never know when a can of beans might save your life!”

I looked around our apartment for the last time as my mother put out the candles. I knew its every secret, its every crack and corner, the way the light came in thick and golden on a fall afternoon, the way twilight lingered forever in June. I said good-bye to it, with a promise that I would return.

Auntie and I were allowed one piece of baggage each. Hers was a battered leather suitcase; mine was a dark canvas duffel bag that contained little more than the clothes I wasn’t already wearing, my concertina, some of the remaining canned food, and my father’s shaving kit. I picked them both up and waited in the hall with Auntie as my mother locked the door. We walked down the stairs and into the street to wait at the curb. My mother and I stood holding hands, saying good-bye without saying a word. A truck from the Kirov factory arrived almost immediately to take us to the lake, for which I was grateful. If our good-bye had gone on even a minute longer, I would never have had the strength to leave her.

The driver got out and opened a side door to the back of the enclosed truck, a high, narrow space with wooden benches on both sides. He helped Auntie climb inside. I squeezed my mother’s hand and turned to her. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Be good, Ivan,” she whispered. “Be strong.” I nodded. “I love you.” I threw my arms around her, not sure I would ever let go.

I reached up and kissed her on her left cheek, and then her right. With one last look into her tear-filled eyes, I turned and climbed into the back of the truck. The driver closed the heavy door and pulled away from the curb. Auntie reached out and covered my hand with hers.

Suddenly I panicked and rushed to the double back doors of the van. Peering out the small square windows, I could just barely see my mother in the darkness waving good-bye to us. I waved back, crying, “Good-bye, good-bye! I’ll come back!” as if she could hear me. We turned a corner and she disappeared. I’d heard the expression broken heart all my life, but until then I’d never felt it.

As I sat back down next to Auntie, she said, “That’s the worst part.”

“Yes,” I said, as though I agreed, but I wasn’t sure how it could get any better while I was away from my mother.

We picked up a dozen more people, all women and children, each adult struggling with the one overstuffed bag they were allowed, until there was standing room only. The younger children, aged from about three to seven years old, were remarkably quiet. Maybe they all sensed the seriousness of the journey we were undertaking.

My mother had explained to me that first we would be taken to the Finland Railway Station. Then a train or truck would deliver us to a port on the western shores of Ladoga, probably Osinovets, about twenty-five miles away. From there we would begin our crossing of Lake Ladoga.

When we arrived at the Finland Station, it was chaos. It was only through the toughness of our Kirov driver that after two hours we were successfully loaded into one of the trucks that would actually drive over the ice road. All of the women and children from the Kirov transport remained with us. Although we exchanged friendly looks and a few courtesies, no one conversed.

Two problems became obvious immediately. One was that the ice road trucks were open on the sides with a canvas covering on top. We were expected to stand during the journey, exposed to the wind, snow, and cold. The second problem was our driver. With all the able-bodied men at the front, the army had to accept whomever was available to help them, I suppose, and so we put our lives in the hands of a driver named Yanik.

He looked like he was in his seventies. He smoked one after another of the cigarettes people made themselves of dried leaves wrapped in old newspapers. What was left of his front teeth pointed outward, like threatening yellow and brown projectiles. His attitude matched his look: sullen, angry, domineering. When he wasn’t spitting brownish liquid, he was wheezing.

“Listen to me,” he snapped as we heaved our baggage into the back of the open truck and began to climb in ourselves. “You hold on tight. If anything bounces out — including one of you — it’s your bad luck. We’re not going back to get you.” We stole furtive glances at one another, shock registering on our faces. He spit on the ground.

“Once you’re in the truck, there’s no eating, drinking, or peeing.” I noticed some of the women wince at his crudeness. “We drive from here to Osinovets; that’s twenty-five miles. Then over the lake to Kobona. That’s about twenty miles. If the Germans shoot at us, we keep going. If they hit somebody, we keep going. Understood?” Murmured sounds of assent came from his captive passengers. “Grab something to hold on to. We’re leaving.” He turned and got in the cab.

To my surprise and horror, the engine whined, it churned, but it didn’t start. Yanik tried again until the rhythm of the engine produced a sound like that of a rickety freight train rolling by. On the third attempt there was only a groan, then silence. I could see Yanik through the window at the back of the cab. He hung his head, but his hand was still on the key. After waiting for what seemed like minutes, he turned the key again, and the truck started as easily as if it had rolled off the production line that morning.

A collective sigh from his passengers blew out into the cold morning air as the truck lurched forward. Several of us were thrown off balance and against the low wooden sides of the truck. It was easy to see how someone could fall out if we hit a bump. One mother took off her scarf, tied it to her child’s belt, and then to one of the slatted wooden boards that made up the side of the truck; some of the other women saw her good sense and did the same.

We traveled along at a good pace and were quickly out in the countryside. Its expansiveness was almost overwhelming. The long empty stretches of land between farmhouses made it seem vulnerable rather than private. Unconsciously, I felt for the knife in my valenki. Auntie noticed.

“Ivan, I want to get something out of my suitcase.”

I backed up a little so that she would have enough room to open it. With fourteen of us in the back, there was barely any extra space. She knelt on the rough wooden floor, clicked the metal findings of her suitcase open, and lifted the lid.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

After a few seconds she held up a thick pile of red cloth napkins. “These!”

“Auntie, aren’t those the ones that go with my mother’s tablecloth? The one we used last night?”

“The very ones.” She took them out, closed her suitcase, and stood up. Counting out three, she handed them to me. “Here. Put them in your pockets.”

I was confused. Why would she take napkins of all things when she had only one suitcase for all of her valuables? “Why?”

“It stands out well against the snow.” She saw my confusion and said, “Look around you, Ivan. Snow everywhere. Color can save your life. If you tie one of these on your head, or around your wrist, or simply wave it, you’ll be noticed.”

Leaning closer to her, I whispered, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this lesson makes sense to you now that we’re here, doesn’t it, where you can see the white and red with your own eyes?” I nodded. “We’ve got forty-five miles to go before we reach the eastern shore of Ladoga, and twenty or more after that to arrive at my sister-in-law’s house. Just put them in your pockets. For an emergency.” I watched as she stuffed three of the large red napkins in her coat pockets, and then I did the same. I felt even bulkier, but was pleased to have learned my first survival trick. Looking out over the empty, flat land, I wondered what other lessons awaited me.

The sky was gray and leaden, and I guessed we’d have snow in the next few hours. I looked around at the women and children who were already showing signs of weariness, and must have been hungry and thirsty. Suddenly, the truck lurched to the left and began to spin in a circle. I lost my balance and nearly fell; Auntie tumbled against me. Children started crying; the women were distressed and tried to comfort them. Several fell to the floor.

The truck spun around three times before it came to a stop. Auntie knocked hard on the window of the cab. “What happened?” she shouted. Yanik’s reply was inaudible, but we could see him searching the floor for something. When he sat back up, he had one of his home-rolled cigarettes in his hand; he pulled out a match case and lit it.

Auntie turned toward me, looking furious. Very quietly she said, “That idiot dropped his cigarette. That’s why we went into a spin.” She closed her eyes as if willing herself to remain calm. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“What if he does something like that on Ladoga?” I whispered in her ear.

“We’re on our journey now, Ivan. The best we can do is pay attention to everything and be ready if there’s trouble.”

“Trouble?” I felt my heart tremble. “Like what?”

“Like nothing,” she said sternly. “Come on now, turn around and keep an eye on Yanik.”

Apparently he didn’t drop anything else, because we arrived in Osinovets without another mishap. Unlike the Finland Station, which was filled with people and noise and surrounded by vehicles, it was a silent world we entered. After being stopped by two sentries near the lake’s shore, we drove slowly to an area where five other trucks awaited, all filled with women and children just like ours. Someone in uniform directed us to get in line behind the fifth truck.

A few minutes later, as we waited in the idling truck, the engine died. I closed my eyes and felt the breath go out of me. To my surprise, it started back up on the first try. A man in uniform knocked on Yanik’s window; we could easily hear his instructions. “Don’t turn off your engine. Follow fifteen feet behind the last truck. No farther. There won’t be anyone behind you. Good luck.”

I looked around us, thinking there had to be more, but his words were our only instruction and guide. Lake Ladoga lay before us, a snow-covered expanse looking very much like the land adjacent to it, the largest lake in all of Europe. Somehow I’d thought the army would be here to take charge, which was just silly given that all the men were needed in battle.

“Take my hand,” Auntie said. “Look in the direction we’re going.” I nodded, turned to face forward, and slipped my left hand into her right hand.

This was it. We were crossing the ice road. There was no turning back.