Vanya stormed through the back door, ran up the stairs, and went straight to his room. He hurried past stacks of books on the floor, over piles of notebooks, and stumbled into the chair at his desk. His hands shook. It took three tries before he could strike the flint and start a cigarette. Then he leaned back and looked around at the papers covering the walls. Every sheet was filled with notations and calculations—his work on relativity. Vanya closed his eyes. If Kir took credit for Vanya’s work on relativity, he’d never be able to secure his post at Harvard. And there was no doubt Kir meant to threaten Miri. How had Vanya gotten his family into such a mess? He bowed his head so his curls fell on his face, and he pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose, trying to balance himself. Numbers and equations were the order he understood, not university politics.
As he leaned back, the envelope from Professor Eliot fell from his pocket. It was crinkled and covered in chalk. Vanya scrambled to pick it up, pulling the paper with so much force that he ripped it and the folded article alongside the letter landed on the bare floorboards. He started, again, from where he’d left off.
By the time you read this, Clay is likely to be well on his way. Perhaps he will have already arrived. I’m enclosing the announcement in English. It includes the equipment he’s bringing in case that might be helpful. I’ve elected to send this quickly rather than delay for a translation.
I’m hoping you’ll find your way to Professor Clay. I don’t know him personally and can’t provide an introduction, but from what I can deduce he’s well respected in Chicago. Both his equipment and intentions appear to be top notch.
We at Harvard are still eager to have you and your family join us in Cambridge according to our original terms. We wish you luck.
Original terms. That meant they’d only help Vanya and his family if he had both the equations and the photographs. And the news that this professor Clay was coming meant Vanya still had a chance at both. The room around him fell away as he pictured what he had to do to get his family out of Russia. Riga wasn’t far. Just a few days by train. And he had thirty-nine days to make his way there. He could use his savings to bribe the right officials for papers and a train ticket. And if he had the equations, there was no question Clay would invite him to join the expedition and allow him to use one of his photographs to prove his math. Vanya would even pay for the privilege if he had to. He reached for his Russian-English dictionary. He’d taught himself to read enough English that he could translate the article himself tonight and as he cracked the spine to get started, he grinned. He could still save his family. And he could still beat Einstein.
IX
The next morning, earlier than usual, Miri sat in the kitchen. She hadn’t slept and wanted to get to the hospital early to check on Sukovich. If he was awake, she wanted to be the one to tell him what happened, to check his sutures and to change his bandages. When Vanya made his way downstairs, he looked exhausted. His eyes were nested in dark circles, his hands stained with ink. Somehow he looked taller and thinner, as if he were receding into himself. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. He didn’t say anything to try to alleviate her guilt and shame over the operation. He knew better. Instead, he refilled her cup with tea and added one spoonful of jam, just as she liked it.
“Vanya, is that you?” Baba called from the pantry, where she was measuring flour.
“Yes. Good morning, Babushka.”
“You were up working on equations?” Miri asked.
Vanya shook his head. “Did you talk to Yuri?”
“About what?”
Just then someone knocked on their rear door; sharp, hard staccatos shook the wood. Miri stilled the spoon in her glass. The tea continued to swirl but the fruit sank. No one came to the house at this hour except the baker’s boy, and he never knocked like that.
“Who’s there?” Babushka asked.
“Ilya Dragunovitch.” The police officer they secretly bribed to keep them safe, who warned them when tax collectors were trolling, when the Okhrana took an interest in them or their friends. Baba hurried him inside and then leaned into the alley to see if he’d been followed. There was no one. She shut the door quickly behind him. Ilya was short with pitted skin and downcast eyes as large as prunes. His jacket was damp. Even though it was early, Vanya poured him vodka.
“Say what you must,” Babushka ordered. “You shouldn’t be here near daylight when someone could see you.” Her green eyes were narrow, and her gnarled fingers twisted together. Miri moved to stand at her grandmother’s side.
“I had to come,” Ilya said. “Terrible news. You’ve heard about the archduke. Assassinated in Sarajevo.”
“That was more than two weeks ago. What’s happened?”
“Conscription. For the Jews. War is coming quickly.” He kept his eyes down and drank the vodka in one swallow. “The Jews leave soon for the south. They’ll be first in the line of fire. Ivan Davydovich…Vanya, professors won’t be spared. You’re not useful in war.” Useful. The word was like a slap. Miri reached out to squeeze her brother’s shoulder. Ilya continued, “No Jewish man or boy will be spared. Not doctors. Not anyone.”
“Surgeons?” Vanya asked. “Surgeons will be sent to the front?”
“Jewish surgeons will go to the front,” Ilya said. His visor slipped from his hands. It thudded against the floor. The medallions on his chest clinked as he bent to retrieve it. He looked toward the door before he continued. “Stragglers will be executed. I’m sorry. I am.”
“Don’t be, child. You’ve done well to warn us,” Babushka said.
He looked again at the door, more anxious this time. “I must go. I can’t be late.”
“Of course,” Baba said. Miri was taken by how calm Baba sounded, how she could remain in control even now. Baba slipped money into Ilya’s pocket. “Thank you. Truly.”
When he was gone, Baba turned to face her grandchildren. Vanya was crumpled in his chair as if he’d been injured. “What is it?” she asked him.
“He said Jewish surgeons will be sent to the front.”
“You’re worried for Yuri?” Miri asked.
“It’s not what you think,” Vanya said.
“We’ll pay whatever bribes are necessary to keep you both out of the war,” Miri said.
“What do you mean, Vanya?” Baba asked over Miri. “Not what we think? How?”
“It’s too late,” Vanya said.
“Nonsense,” Baba said. “We have time to flee before we witness another Odessa.”
“There won’t be another Odessa,” Miri said. “Russia has changed since then.”
“Oh, Mirele,” Baba sighed. “Death will come again. They’ll blame us Jews. For war. For starvation. Cold. Haven’t I taught you? Hasn’t the past been loud enough?”
“Even if you’re right,” Miri said, “we’ve been through this. I have patients who need me. I can’t leave them. And we don’t even know if it’s true, about the conscription.”
“It’s true. Ilya’s never failed us,” Baba said. She was right. If the odd little Russian officer said Jews were being conscripted, they were being conscripted. Both Yuri and Vanya would be taken. Baba continued, “Do you want your brother or fiancé to die serving the czar?”