Baba was her home and had been since her parents left for America fifteen years earlier when Miri was six and her brother, Vanya, was twelve. The plan had been for the three of them to join Mama and Papa after they were settled, but their parents’ boat sank during a storm. The loss spun Miri into a darkness that left her limp. Every night after Babushka kissed them and thought they were in bed, Vanya rocked Miri until her silent tears stopped, and whispered stories their mother used to tell. Stories about brave girls and boys who fought Baba Yaga. Stories about fearless children who dared travel across Russia in search of treasure. Miri’s favorite was “Levi’s Monster.” Levi refused to follow the rabbis and throw his sins into the river every year at Rosh Hashanah. Instead he let them pile up until they grew into a powerful ogre that Levi had to defeat to save his wife and children. Like Levi, Vanya pushed Miri to fight, and she did. She learned to tuck the darkness away. Sometimes, though, it iced its way back, and she felt it then as she stood outside her room worrying about the fishmonger. But she had to go on, Vanya would say. And she knew he was right. She straightened her back and started down the stairs.
In the front hall, Miri found the usual line of mothers and grandmothers spilling out from the sitting room. The few that spotted her nodded a greeting, but she knew they didn’t dare stand or move to kiss her for fear they might lose their place. All were waiting their turn for an audience with Babushka, for a chance to plead for help in matching their children. Miri leaned against the polished wooden doorframe. It wouldn’t be long before Baba spotted her and realized how late it was. Then she’d finish for the night and Miri would help her usher the women out so they could sit down to eat together.
Baba sat on her perch, dressed in aquamarine with her thick silver braid resting over her shoulder. She was as wide as she was tall, and she had a chair on stilts, with a footrest to match, so she could sit at eye level with her visitors. She held the hands of the seamstress, Katinka, who was afflicted with a curved spine that kept her half-bent. She was there for her son who had a business delivering vegetables. “He’s a good boy,” Katinka said. Miri knew that since Baba held Katinka’s hands, they were just beginning and the seamstress would be cut short.
“Does he drink too much?” Baba asked.
“Sometimes.” Every woman knew to be honest.
“Does he fight? Use his fists?”
“Never.”
“Good,” Baba said. “What else?”
“He tells me stories about love, about the future.”
“He understands better days will come. Perhaps not this year but they will come.” Baba paused and looked up, sensing Miri’s arrival. She nodded at her granddaughter, then leaned toward Katinka. “You’ll unwrap his story for me in the morning.” Katinka exhaled, showing she understood this meant Babushka would consider his case, and her chest crumpled as if she’d been holding her breath.
“Thank you. Thank you,” the seamstress said.
Babushka squeezed Katinka’s hands. “More tomorrow. All of you, more tomorrow,” she said as she turned to face the rest of the room. The women grumbled. Some must have waited for hours and still hadn’t been heard. And while the rabbi stayed as late as he was needed, Babushka did not. Her clients knew she required sleep to clear her head, to make better matches, and so no one argued. They all wanted to remain on Babushka’s better side.
Just before Miri stepped into the room to help urge the women along, Yuri walked in through the front door. She heard him even before she saw him. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and the shim he used to compensate creaked when he walked. His gold watch swayed like a pendulum from his vest, and he was still in his white surgeon’s coat. “Yuri Chaimovich!” Miri said, excited and alarmed because they’d already said their good-nights at the hospital. His being there meant something was wrong. She hurried to him. Before he’d even had time to hang his hat, she asked, “What’s happened? Why have you come?”
“It’s agreed. Finally.” Out of breath, he put his bag down and took her hands. They stood eye to eye. “You left early. For the first time.” He gulped for air. “The fishmonger, if he survives the night…The other surgeons, they’ve agreed you’re correct. His spleen must be removed. And they’ve agreed you will do it. You will operate—alone.” She must have stepped forward. They were closer now. He kissed her cheek. “You’re being elevated to surgeon.”
“He’ll be saved?”
“Yes. By your hand.”
“It would be better now. We need to operate now.” Hearing the news also had Miri out of breath. Her words came quickly. “He’ll lose less blood. Have a better chance. To live.”
“You know the operating theaters are shuttered at night. We can’t see well enough.” He pushed so close his legs pressed on her skirts. “Did you hear me? You’re being promoted.”
“Surely we can compensate with candles. Gas lamps.”
“We can’t.” He cleared his throat. “Miriam. You’re a surgeon now.”
The house behind them was loud with women’s voices, but as the news took hold it all seemed far away from where Miri stood. “Surgeon?” she said. “You’re certain?” So many mocked her ambitions because she was a woman. Enough told her to give up the dream that she’d begun to hear them, to accept she would never be promoted no matter how great her skills. But oh, how she wanted it. The title would allow her to act without seeking permission, which meant she’d save so many more. She reached for a bench to steady herself.
“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t certain. You’ll save him. Tomorrow. On your own.” Yuri smiled. He rarely showed emotion. To gain a patient’s trust, he taught, a doctor must appear impartial, neutral to all news. But when he broke his rule for her, she loved it. She thought he looked lighter, younger. “I’ll be there, if you need me. But you will operate on your own.”
“How did you convince them?”
“Dr. Rozen, can’t you hear me?” Babushka called. From the front door, there was a clear view of her on her perch, half teasing, half scolding. How many times had she addressed Yuri? “Dr. Rozen, I asked if you’d care to greet the other women in the house?”
Yuri turned to face her. “Yes. My apologies.” He removed his coat and hat and started toward her. Baba’s clients made room for him to pass. A few tucked their heads together, likely to gossip about Yuri, or Miri, or both. Their engagement was recent and still had most of them reeling. When Yuri first arrived in Kovno, many of the women had tried to steer him toward their own daughters. He was handsome, respected, and well-off, a bachelor with enviable manners. You want a nice girl, they’d said, a quiet girl to make you a home.
What he wanted was Miri.
Yuri was the only surgeon in Kovno willing to train a woman to reach his rank. The only one brave enough to stand against those who tried to shame him for it. In time, he and Miri had become so close they were rarely seen apart. Still, the women staring now had never gotten past their surprise when the doctors paired themselves. Everyone had assumed no man would have Miri, a headstrong girl, they’d said, who had the gall to think she could work alongside men. But Babushka knew. The day Miri accepted Yuri, a weight came off her and she whispered to Miri that it was bashert, meant to be. And she was quick to dispel rumors that she’d had anything to do with the match because, she knew, Miri didn’t want her to interfere—never had, not there.