IT TOOK ABOUT A MONTH FOR US TO GET THE NEWS OF WHAT HAD HAPPENED IN VILNOV THE NIGHT THE GERMANS FLED. SHEER LUCK SAVED EVERY ONE OF MY FRIENDS. GALINA was out searching for the Tsarina when she saw Polina and me running for our lives. She even heard the shots shortly before we came into view. Galina made sure that she, Polina, and Polina’s mother were on their way to Kazan to her sister’s within the hour. Petr said many, many fires were set. Polina’s house was badly damaged, but Galina’s house managed to escape the torch.

A week after my arrival at Uncle Boris’s cabin, Auntie came to live with Taavo, me, Zasha, and Thor. At the end of that desperately cold winter, spring arrived in a way I’d never seen in Leningrad. The way delicate blades of grass pushed up through ground that had so recently been frozen solid was awe inspiring. Birds I’d never known existed filled the air with beautiful songs I’d never heard. The smell of wildflowers, the gurgle of creek water rushing over smooth stones, the very sweetness of fresh country air made every day a happy and rich experience.

Zasha and Thor loved the open space and being surrounded by loving people. They grew quickly from playful puppies into bright, responsive, and loving dogs. When Taavo told me he’d helped train some of the dogs when he lived his nomadic life, I didn’t understand its significance. I soon found that he understood dogs on a very deep level, as though he could read their minds and reveal their true thoughts and feelings.

“It’s not hard,” he told me. “You just have to listen and watch carefully.”

Even though I’d considered myself capable of becoming a good dog trainer, compared to Taavo I knew almost nothing. But I was so motivated to train the dogs, to make them happy with their lives, that I learned quickly.

“You’re their parent, their leader,” he told me repeatedly. “Act like it. You’re not their friend.”

“Yes, I am!” I insisted.

“Not if you want them to respond to your commands.” It took a while for that to sink in, because I wanted nothing more than to be their best friend. Finally, I learned to make the distinction, and the dogs thrived.

Within a few months, Galina and Polina and her mother had returned to Vilnov from Kazan. Polina came to visit and stayed for two weeks. I think she would have loved to move in, but she knew her mother couldn’t manage without her, and there was a lot of work to do to repair their damaged home. Even though we worked hard on the farm, I hadn’t had such happy and carefree days since before the war.

In May, Petr arrived with the first two partisans. Each had been living in the woods while fighting for almost a year. They seemed haunted and withdrawn, in desperate need of time in the country to heal their battered bodies and spirits. They helped Petr build a long room onto the back of Boris’s cabin that would easily sleep four people, six if they didn’t mind being crowded. I saw the life come back into the partisans as the sun, air, rest, and wholesome food worked their magic on them.

In late June of that first summer, my uncle Boris appeared. I don’t think he uttered more than two words for the first few minutes after Taavo, Auntie, I, and two barking dogs greeted him at the front door, so great was his surprise. He’d arrived midday when both partisans were hard at work, clearing brush and stones from his land to make it ready for more planting. Petr was hammering up on the roof of the new room, while Auntie, Taavo, and I were busy making jam from the wild strawberries that seemed to grow everywhere. It must have been quite a shock to see his home in such a state of change and activity, and full of strangers. Taavo wisely suggested that Boris have lunch first, and then we’d explain everything to him afterward.

After he’d cleaned up and eaten, all of us except Petr and the two partisans gathered in the living room. The dogs had calmed down, and Boris called for them to come to him as he settled in his chair. They were curious and friendly, letting him pet them.

“So,” he said, “does someone want to explain to me what’s going on?”

I stared at my uncle, who I hadn’t seen since I was about five years old. He was shorter and thinner than I remembered him. He also seemed calmer, a little like Taavo. Maybe the lifestyle of a Sami did that to you; maybe their simple, demanding way of life made them see things more clearly than the average person with their complicated or cluttered life.

Because my arrival had brought all the changes to his home and land, I answered Boris. “Uncle, you probably don’t remember me. I am Ivan Savichev. My father, Edvard, was your nephew, the son of your brother.”

He looked startled, his head jerking back slightly. Squinting, he looked at me intently, as if to find the child within the thirteen-year-old boy. “Yes … yes, it is you.” He hesitated before asking, “How is your mother?”

“I don’t know. Her factory was being evacuated to the Urals and I was unable to go with her. Leningrad was dying … there was no choice. My mother sent me here. Taavo was kind enough to take me in, along with my family friend, Vera Raskova.”

Looking a little confused, he said, “And the men outside — who are they?”

Taavo, Auntie, and I exchanged brief glances. We’d talked about telling Boris everything when he returned, but suddenly it felt like too much to share all at once. Petr appeared in the doorway. Holding out his hand, he said, “I’m Petr Ostrov. You must be the Uncle Boris I’ve heard so much about.”

Boris still looked slightly bewildered, and suspicion lurked behind his eyes. “Who are the other men?”

“They are partisans. We are all partisans, except Taavo,” I said.

“You’re just a boy!”

“I am still a partisan.”

“You, too?” he asked Auntie, looking doubtful. She nodded and smiled proudly.

Petr took over. “Ivan’s aunt and I brought him here to deliver him into your care at his mother’s request. When we met Taavo and saw the use to which we could put your land for the good of Russia and the partisans, we went to work. I apologize for such presumption on our part.” He paused as Boris studied him. “If you want us to leave, of course we will respect your wishes.”

What else could he say? We’d moved into another man’s house and were working his land like it was our own. Although we all knew Boris was the owner and would return, we’d grown to think of it as Taavo’s place, and even as our own.

“Taavo,” Boris said, still looking unsure about what he should do, “tell me what you think.”

The gentle Taavo smiled. “Our home is happier and fuller with our guests. They’ve improved everything. The cabin is bigger, we’re turning all our land into space that can be planted and cultivated. And … although I don’t want to involve myself in wars, I am happy to help Russia for all she has given to me.”

“We plan to give most of the harvest to the partisans,” I said. Boris frowned, but I attributed it to the fact that all of the information was new to him and probably hard to take in all at once.

Zasha began to growl, her body suddenly tense, and stared hard at the door. Thor barked and rushed toward it. We heard a faint knock. “What now?” Boris said, half to himself.

I stood in front of the door, facing the dogs. “Down!” I cried. They sat, but didn’t take their eyes off the door. I opened it slowly, just wide enough to peek out.

There stood a stout woman with a scarf covering her head, with wisps of gray floating out. She looked startled as I said, “Yes? May I help you?”

“Oh!” She held a bowl covered with cheesecloth in her hand. “I thought … I thought I’d bring some borscht to Boris to welcome him home.” She studied me. “Who are you?”

“I am Ivan, his great-nephew. Come in.” I opened the door with another order to the dogs to come to me. We stood off to the side as the woman entered the room full of people.

“Boris,” she said in a kind of cooing voice, “I thought I saw you on the road this morning.” She held out the covered dish. “I know how much you like my borscht!”

Boris looked pained, but said, “Thank you, Mrs. Chemakova. How thoughtful of you.”

Taavo seemed as if he was trying not to laugh as he said, “Thank you for your generous gift. I’ll take it to the kitchen.”

“So, Boris, who are your visitors?” She inspected us curiously. This was the moment of truth. How he answered would dictate our future.

After a lengthy pause, he said, “Relatives and old friends. This is my neighbor, Mrs. Chemakova.”

Auntie held out her hand and introduced herself, as did Petr, saving Boris from having to remember their names.

“And who are the men outside?”

“My sons,” Petr lied coolly. “Too young to join the army, but farm work will strengthen them for it.” He smiled like a proud father. I had the feeling she didn’t believe all that was said, but she acted pleasantly.

“And these dogs! Have you ever seen such beautiful dogs? German, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Doesn’t it make you nervous having German dogs?”

“No. Why should it?”

She looked at me like I must be dim-witted. “Because we are at war with them.”

“Dogs are dogs. That they were originally bred in a particular country has no significance.” I tried not to sound as defiant as I felt.

“Yes, well … We’re short of dogs up here. It seems like the war has taken away even our smallest pleasures. Tell me the minute they have puppies. I would love one, even if it is German. Think of all the work I could get it to do!”

I nodded mutely with a half smile as that last sentence rang in my mind. That attitude made it certain that Mrs. Chemakova would never be the lucky recipient of one of the puppies we hoped Zasha would have one day.

“Well,” she said at last, turning to Boris, “you must be tired after your trip. How long will you be here this time?”

Boris got up, walked toward her, and led her to the door. “I’m not sure. Thank you so very much for your delicious soup. And for stopping to say hello.” He opened the door, but not before she gave us all another inquisitive glance over her shoulder.

“Yes, I’ll come back! Would tomorrow be too soon?”

“Thank you, but I have many matters to settle that will require my attention for … for some time. I’ll call on you just as soon as I’m able.” He smiled, and she had no choice but to leave.

He closed the door, then leaned back against it, sighed, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at us and laughed. “The widow Chemakova has convinced herself that I am husband material. I can’t imagine why!”

“She has a sixth sense, like a dog,” Taavo said with a smile. “She knows when you’re here.”

“God help me,” he muttered, and for the first time he stood tall and looked clear-eyed and commanding. “You’re all welcome to stay. Just don’t advertise your presence. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll be sleeping in a tent outside.” Taavo nodded as if he’d expected as much. “If I don’t speak to you, please don’t be offended. I’m just not used to … to civilization anymore.”

“Would you like some of that borscht?” Taavo teased.

“Hate the stuff,” he muttered as he turned and went outside.

“I guess that means we can stay,” I said.

Everyone appeared pleased except Petr, who said, “She could be a problem.”

“Who?”

“The widow Chemakova.” I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, but realized I had a tight, dull ache in my stomach that began the moment I saw her.

Not long after Boris’s first visit in June of 1942, a letter from my mother arrived. My joy lasted for days. She was safe in a small town in the Ural Mountains, still working eleven hours a day, but alive and well.

In my response, and my only letter to her, I pretended to be someone who was temporarily taking care of Boris’s land, telling her he didn’t know anyone named Ivan Savichev. It was in my handwriting, of course, so she would know it was me, assuming it reached her. Her letter was dated four months before its delivery, so I couldn’t be sure. Not writing to my mother or getting any letters from her was one of the hardest parts of the war. What a relief it would have been to be able to hear from her, to reassure her that even after all this time I was okay, and to share my experiences. But writing her would have put too many people in danger. Our farm would have been an enticing target for rogue German units, or even individual soldiers who lingered behind the lines. We were not only a refuge for partisans, the scourge of the German army, but we also supplied their small bands with food.

Those first two years at the cabin went by quickly, with partisans coming and going, seeds planted and vegetables harvested, and friends coming to visit. Zasha and Thor grew into strong, healthy adult dogs, although no puppies were born.

I didn’t mind what others might call isolation in the country because most everything we did helped the war effort, but without the danger of bombs, starvation, and being a fighting partisan. I grew four inches, developed strong arms, and played my concertina at night, even composing songs now and then. Axel Recht sometimes haunted my dreams, but as the Russians pushed the Germans farther and farther west, my worries lessened.

Then, in January of 1944, the blockade that had starved Leningrad was broken. For the first time in two and a half years, more than a trickle of food and medical supplies would reach the city. My impulse was to go back immediately, but I realized I could best serve Russia by staying where I was and continuing to do what I did until the war was over. I’d heard Vladimir say once it was estimated that more than a million people had died during the worst of the siege. My mind couldn’t grasp it, and so I pushed it aside as well as I could, along with images of Alik, Misha, and my other friends. The siege being broken didn’t mean the war was over; far from it. But it did mean that Hitler had failed to destroy Leningrad, and that hopefully one day it would be a city again.

Our lives at the cabin, or what we now called the farm, went on as usual, even after the good news about Leningrad, for another year and a half. Uncle Boris visited twice each year, in the spring and the fall, and Taavo went with him for a month afterward to visit his old friends and family who still followed the reindeer. Vladimir and the others from Vilnov visited; Petr came regularly to bring more partisans for recuperation, guide them back to their bands, and see that the harvests went to those who needed them most.

One unexpected danger came from deserting German soldiers. As 1945 dawned and the war looked like it could end soon, deserters and stragglers were reported more and more often. Mostly they were scared and hungry men who didn’t want to die in the fierce fighting that was destroying the once mighty German army. Other times, knowing they were sure to be defeated, they killed as many innocent Russian civilians as they could before being killed themselves.

As Petr predicted, the widow Chemakova had proved to be an annoyance, like a pebble in your shoe that you can’t shake loose. She showed up uninvited every few weeks, wanting details about everyone and everything. We even found her once in the small barn we’d recently built examining our harvest. Auntie was best at handling her and deflecting her questions, but there was one topic with which she was obsessed: when Zasha was going to have puppies.

No one had ever promised her a puppy; I knew I’d never give her one. And for reasons unknown, Zasha had never been pregnant. By the last days of the war, in May of 1945, Zasha was three and a half years old. “It should have happened before this,” Taavo said many times. “She may not be destined to be a mother.” Although I would have loved puppies, Zasha and Thor were enough for me. I loved them more than I could ever say.

It was Mrs. Chemakova’s obsession with puppies, a stranger she met, and Zasha’s first pregnancy that all came together at the same time and brought with them events that would change everything.