Winter Garden

Vera pushes her way to the front of the queue. The train seems alive beside her, breathing smoke, clanging. Party members patrol the area like sharks, forcing mothers to part with their children. Leo is sobbing, clutching Vera. Anya is crying, too, but in a silent way that is somehow worse.

“Take care of each other and stay together. Do not give your food to anyone else. There is money sewn into your pockets if you need it, and my name and address, too. ” She pins little name tags on their lapels.

“Where are we going?” Anya asks. She is trying to be grownup; it is heartbreaking in one so young. At five, she should be playing with dolls, not standing in lines to leave her home.

“To the country, a summer park near the Luga River. You will be safe there, Anya. And in no time, I will come for you. ” Vera plays with the tag pinned to Anya’s lapel, as if touching the little piece of identification will help.

“Get on board,” a comrade yells out. “Now. The train is leaving. ”

Vera hugs her daughter, and then her son, and then she straightens slowly, feeling as if her bones are breaking as she does it.

Other people are handling her babies now, grabbing them, handing them to other people.

They are crying and waving. Anya is holding Leo’s hand; she shows her mama how tightly she is holding on, how strong she is being.

And then they are gone.

At first Vera cannot make herself move. People push her out of the way, muttering desperate, feral curses. Do they not see that she is paralyzed, that she cannot move? Finally someone pushes hard enough that she falls to her knees. She can feel children being handed off over her head, passed from one to another of the adults.

Vera climbs slowly to her feet, noticing dully that her stockings have ripped at the knees. She moves aside, searching the train’s windows, starting to run from car to car until she realizes that her children are too little to be seen.

So little.

Has she told them everything?

Keep your coat; winter comes on fast, even though they say you’ll be back in a week.

Never be apart from each other.

Brush your teeth.

Eat your food. All of it. And get to the front of the line at every meal.

Watch out for each other.

I love you.

At that, Vera stumbles, almost falls. She didn’t tell them she loved them. She’d been afraid it would make them all cry harder, so she’d withheld the precious words, the only ones that really mattered.

She makes a sound. The pain of it comes from someplace deep, deep inside and it just erupts. Screaming, she shoves her way back into the crowd of people, elbows her way past women who stare at her with blank, desperate eyes. She fights her way to the train.

“I am a nonessential worker,” she says to the woman at the head of the line, who looks too tired to care.

“Paperwork?”

“I have dropped it in that mess,” she says, indicating the crowd. The lie tastes bitter on her tongue and makes her sick to her stomach. It is the kind of thing that draws attention, and nothing—not even war—is as frightening as the attention of the secret police. She draws herself upright. “The workers are not controlling the evacuation. It’s not efficient. Perhaps I should report this to someone. ”

The criticism works. The tired woman straightens, nods briskly. “Yes, comrade. You are right. I will be more careful. ”

“Good. ” Vera’s heart is pounding in her chest as she walks past her into the train. At every step she is certain that someone will come for her, yell, Fraud! and haul her away.

But no one comes and finally she slows down, seeing the sea of children’s faces around her. They are packed like sardines in the gray seats, bundled in coats and hats on this sunny summer’s day—proof that no one believes they’ll be home in two weeks, although no one would dare say it. Their faces are round and sheened with tears or sweat. They are quiet. So quiet. No talking or laughing or playing. They just sit there, looking broken and numb. There are a few women around. Evacuation workers, nursery school teachers, and probably some like Vera, who could neither let their children go nor defy an order of the state.

She does not want to think about what she has done or what it will mean to her family. They desperately need the money she earns at the library. . . .

The train seems to waken beneath her. The whistle blows and she can feel it start to move. Barely touching the seats, unable to make eye contact with the children around her, she keeps going, from one car to another.

“Mama!”