“Neither of you heard me,” Vanya said, his voice rising. “It’s already too late to run.”
The kettle on the stove hissed. Miri’s stomach tightened. “Why?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“Yuri,” Vanya breathed.
Baba came closer, slid her curled fingers over Vanya’s. “What has Yuri done?”
Miri’s mouth was dry. The air felt like sand on her tongue. Vanya looked at her and didn’t blink. “He’s volunteered for the army.”
“How do you know?” Baba asked.
“I heard him talking to a senior surgeon. While Mirele was getting changed. Yesterday.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Miri said.
“I’m sorry, Mirele. I should have told you right away.”
“But it doesn’t even make sense,” Miri continued. “Volunteered? Why?”
“Tell us exactly what you heard,” Baba said.
“He traded himself. For Mirele. In exchange for her promotion. The hospital was asked to provide one surgeon. They were going to draw lots. But Yuri…”
“He’d never do that,” Miri said, her voice so rough she didn’t recognize it. Baba reached for her, wrapped her hand through her granddaughter’s so her fingers entwined in both of her grandchildren’s. “He wouldn’t,” Miri said.
“Perhaps he didn’t weigh the consequences,” Baba said. “Men can be rash.”
Even as Miri opened her mouth to protest, she knew Baba was right. Of course, this explained everything. Many feelings came at once. Sadness. Fear. Anger. Guilt. Disappointment. More than anything, didn’t Yuri realize she wasn’t willing to risk losing him—ever? “I have to find him,” she said. “Talk to him.”
“Not yet, Mirele,” Vanya said. “There’s something else.” He pulled an envelope out from his pocket. Miri recognized it. The letter that was delivered the day before. Vanya moved to open it but Baba stopped him.
“Not here,” she said. “The neighbors will be up soon. We can’t risk them hearing all our secrets. Come to the cellar.”
“No. I have to find Yuri,” Miri said.
“Not yet,” Baba said.
X
Vanya opened the hatch hidden in the kitchen floor, and Babushka hurried down the secret stairs as if she were strengthened by the news of their danger. In contrast, Vanya slumped and Miri felt her own shoulders stoop as they trailed behind. How could Yuri do this? she asked herself as she looked for a match and began lighting candles. He would never survive a war.
The cellar space around them was large, spanning the kitchen. Moisture made the room smell like mold. There was a fireplace stacked below the one in the kitchen so it shared a chimney and could burn without being detected, keep them warm even in the coldest winter. Shelves lined the walls with what should have been canned fruits and vegetables, but instead were piles of books—Miri’s medical texts.
The cellar had started as a shelter when Miri was a child, but as she’d grown, it became her office. Babushka wouldn’t let her use any other space in the house, because if the Okhrana ever came and found so many books in Miri’s room, Baba said, they’d suspect they were harboring a spy, or worse. They’d never believe a woman—a Jewish woman—was a doctor. Especially when their own officers couldn’t even read. By the time anyone bothered to check on her story, it could be too late. And so the underground had become Miri’s retreat. She’d covered the dirt floor with rugs. She’d installed sconces that held dozens of candles. She’d brought down a desk and kept jars of specimens in formaldehyde. Like Vanya, she pinned her work in front of her, but instead of equations she displayed diagrams of the body and anatomy, attached them to the front of every shelf so they hung down as a curtain over the books. Just two nights before, she’d mounted specifics for the dissection of a spleen.
Babushka allowed it all so long as the space under the stairs was clear, the space where they sat now, on cots facing one another. Vanya wound the phonograph, a gift from a politician on his daughter’s wedding night, which they used as an extra layer of sound protection. Notes from a violin concerto rang in a high trill as Baba pulled Miri and Vanya so close their curls mingled. Without fresh air the room’s smell turned to must and heat, making Miri feel even heavier.
“In the blink of an eye, life changes,” Babushka said. “Mirele, are you listening?”
“I’m trying. It’s just—” She bunched her hands into fists. “Yuri.” She hit her thigh.
“You must put your anger aside.”
“But…”
Baba cut her off by holding up her hand. “Our escape is all that matters.” Since surviving the pogroms, Baba had made an escape route for every house she’d occupied and journey she’d taken. She’d mapped out passages through the mountains and along rivers. She’d checked train and boat schedules and always knew when and where to find a way out. And she’d shared it all with her grandchildren, made sure they could do the same. And do it quietly, because the key to escape is secrecy. Even friends must know nothing. “Miriam?”
“Yes. I’m listening.”
“Good. We follow the first path we planned. North by land, west by sea. We leave for America. Today.”
“Baba, we don’t have papers. And Yuri…,” Miri said.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Vanya interrupted. He held out the letter from Eliot. It was dusted in chalk and wrinkled as if it had been read a thousand times. “We don’t need another word from Yuri. He did what he did. Now we focus on this.” He shook the letter. “Our way to America runs through Riga. I’m heading to Riga.”
“Riga?” Miri asked.
“Yes. For the eclipse.”
Miri shook her head. “How can you even think about the eclipse when Yuri’s about to be sent to the front? When you’ll likely be forced there as well?”
“That’s just it. I need to leave for Riga before my orders come in. While I still have room to go,” Vanya said. “There’s a new expedition. Eliot told me about it. An American scientist named Russell Clay is planning to photograph the eclipse from Riga. In thirty-eight days. He’s due to arrive any moment. If I can get there and show him the math, he’ll share the photos. Then Eliot and Harvard will have us.”
“This Russell Clay, he’s already agreed?” Baba asked.
“No. But I can convince him.”
“You can’t be serious,” Miri said. She let go of Baba and walked across the room, started ripping down her diagrams of the spleen. The sound of paper tearing made Vanya flinch, but she didn’t stop. “You don’t have equations yet. And why Riga?” Vanya had talked enough about the eclipse that she knew all the other expeditions, before they were canceled, were headed inland where the ground was flat and open. Riga was a bustling port. It would be hard to find a vista wide enough for a clear view.
“I’ll have the math in time. I know it. And Riga, it’s still in the path of totality, still along the centerline.” Vanya took a deep breath. The violin unfurled into staccatos off the phonograph. “Clay based his decision on something called the cloudiness factor. He’s taken the historical average of weather patterns, decided his best chance for clear skies lies in Riga.”