BERTA SAT down on the pallet next to Sura, took up her daughter’s fingers, and brought them to her lips. Sura was bundled up on the straw mattress on the floor in front of the stove. She was propped up on pillows to make it easier for her to breathe. The air smelled of herbal rubs and smoke from the dried white pulp of elderberry branches thrown on hot embers. Berta examined her child’s fingers in the faltering light. The fingernails were white and the flesh around the cuticles was a pale blue. She kissed her daughter’s moist forehead and looked into her face. Her eyelids were transparent, the tracery of veins plainly visible beneath the skin. Her lips were white and there was a burbling in her lungs with every breath she took, a constant reminder that her lungs were failing, that they were filling with fluid, and that something had to be done.
When Sura was five Dr. Egglostein said her lungs were weak but that she would grow out of it in time. Now she was ten. Her honey blond hair had turned brown, her arms and legs were getting too long for her torso, and still she had bad lungs. Every few months the air in the neighborhood would make her sick and send her to bed with a cold. But this time was different. Berta could see it in her pale lips, her eyelids tinged with blue, the way she struggled to breathe.
Her eyes fluttered open. “What is that, Mameh?” The words came in tortured gasps. Off in the distance there was the thunder of big artillery pieces.
“The guns, my darling.”
“Are they going to blow up our house?”
“No, they’re far off. We don’t have anything to worry about.”
Lhaye came in and stood by the sink. She dipped a cloth into the washbasin and brought it over to the bed, where she laid it across Sura’s forehead. The two apartments were one now; the doors were always open and the adults and children wandered back and forth without consideration. Lhaye looked over at her sister. “You better hurry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The two sisters exchanged a look.
It was only half past three when Berta left the building, but already the sky was growing dark. There were still some people on Dulgaya Street, but no one seemed to be in a hurry. Cherkast had changed hands so many times recently that people took the shelling in stride. It never lasted long, because of the scarcity of shells; targeting was wildly off, and besides, the buildings that were far from the perimeter were rarely hit. Only the children were absent from the street, having been herded inside by their mothers.
Out on the street Berta looked for Samuil in all the familiar places, in the alley where he liked to play with his friends and down at the grocery. She had to hurry, but she couldn’t leave until she knew he was safe inside. She called out for him over and over again but got no answer. Finally, when she was on the verge of tears, she heard him calling down to her. She looked up and saw him on one of the upper floors of the bombed-out building across the street. It had been shelled some months ago and stood empty and broken. The wall facing the street had been blown away, revealing the rooms behind it. There was a dry sink hanging over a hole in the floor and several window frames with shattered glass where tattered curtains ruffled in the breeze. The roof had collapsed in a few places, while the staircase never made it to the second floor, stopping in midair. Samuil was standing at the edge of one of the rooms on the upper story. He looked down at her and even from that distance she could see that he knew he was in trouble.
“Samuil!” she shouted.
“I just wanted to watch. You can see everything from up here.” With her heart pounding in her throat, she watched him slither down a post that had fallen at such an angle that it had become a bridge from one level to the next. After that he squeezed through a hole in the floor and climbed down a chimney, jamming his feet against the corners of the bricks and finding purchase on the outcroppings. He shimmied down another broken beam and ran down the last steps of the ruined staircase and came over to her slowly with his eyes on his shoes.
“I thought I told you never to go up there.” Her voice was even and contained, but she was furious and he knew it.
“I know, Mameh. But we just wanted to—”
“Go upstairs and help Mumeh Lhaye. She’s with Sura.”
“Where are you going?” He was twelve, not tall, but wiry, more like Berta than Hershel. There was a shadow of a moustache on his upper lip. His voice was still high, but now and then it dropped down into an unfamiliar register.
“To get the doctor. Now go.”
He sighed heavily and turned back to the doorway. He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, dragging himself up one step at a time.
She ran to the corner and waited while a Red cavalry unit galloped past, halters jingling, rowels on the spurs clinking like a pocket full of silver rubles. Then she crossed the street and ran on to the hill that overlooked the Jewish neighborhood. As she climbed she could hear the dull thud of the incoming shells, and once she reached the top, she saw fighting on the other side of the Lugovaya Market. It seemed closer than it was. She could see the flashes of fire from the field artillery and the exploding shells and hear the sharp crack of rifle fire and the short bursts of machine guns. A detachment of female Red Army troops came up behind her and ran down the other side. They were hurrying to get into position, struggling with rifles that were taller than they were. Two of them were dragging a machine gun through the snow and stopped to argue about the best way of doing it. A third came over, slung her rifle over her shoulder, and stooped to help the others carry it along.
Berta ran down the hill toward the fighting. She heard the whine of an incoming shell and dropped to the ground, covered her head with her arms, and rolled into a ball. It landed just up the street but didn’t explode. Instead it sent a spray of snow and dirt high up into the air, sprinkling her with clods of black earth instead of shrapnel. When she realized she wasn’t hurt, she got up and wiped away the few unconscious tears of fright. Shells were falling on the neighboring streets. A house blew up behind her and she saw a roof collapse in a rising cloud of dust and fire. Farther down the street someone was screaming. Someone else was calling for help. She kept running, past a burning building and a woman lying facedown in the snow.
At the end of the street she ducked into a doorway and stood there trembling and panting, locked in with fear, too scared to think. She could see the doctor’s house on a low rise above her, silhouetted against the sky between the two houses of wealthy businessmen. All three were still intact. But to get there she would have to run through an empty field where there would be no cover from falling shells and shrapnel. In the twilight she could see the pockmarks in the snow left by recent explosions and tried to gauge her chances of making it. Her legs felt rubbery. She didn’t know if she could count on them to carry her across.
She took advantage of a lull in the shelling and ran out into the field. She was nearly across when the guns started up again. But they were falling mostly on the other side of the market now. Once across she made her way to Dr. Egglostein’s drive and started to climb up to the house. She found that all the windows were dark except for the few that faced north and reflected the fires burning in the market. She picked up the brass knocker and pounded it against the front door. She could hear it echo throughout the house. She waited for a moment and when no one answered, she pounded again, this time with her fists. “Dr. Egglostein!” she cried out. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be home.