Winter Garden

“But I love you, Mama. ”

And there is my strength. Gritting my teeth against the pain that will come, I stagger to my feet and start moving again.

One step at a time, until a lorry materializes in front of me.

A man dressed in baggy white camouflage is standing beside the door, smoking a cigarette. The smell of it makes me think of my mother.

“A ride across the ice?” I say, hearing how cracked and weak my voice is.

The man’s face is not drawn or gaunt. This means he is Somebody, or in the Party at least, and I feel my hope plummet.

He leans forward, looks at Leo. “Dead?”

I shake my head. “No. Just sleeping.

“Please,” I say, desperate now. All around me trucks are leaving and I know we will die tonight, here, if we do not find a ride soon. I pull out the cloisonné butterfly made by my grandfather. “Here. ”

“No, Mama,” Anya says, reaching for it.

The man just frowns. “What good is a trinket?”

I pull off my glove and give him my wedding ring instead. “It is gold. Please. . . . ”

He looks me over as he takes one last drag of the cigarette and then drops it to the snow. “All right, Baba,” he says, pocketing my ring. “Get in. I will take you and your grandchildren. ”

I am so grateful, I don’t even realize what he has said to me until later, when we are all packed into the cab of his truck.

Baba.

He thinks I am an old woman. I pull the scarf off and glance in the mirror above the windshield.

My hair is as white as my skin.

It is daylight when we get across the ice. Not much light, of course, but enough. I can really see where we are now.

Endless snow. Trucks lined up, filled with food for my poor Leningrad. Soldiers dressed in white. Not far from here—three hundred yards, maybe—is the train station that is our next destination.

The bombing starts almost immediately. Our driver stops and gets out.

Honestly, I do not want to get out of the truck, even though I know how dangerous it is to sit here. There is gasoline in the tank, and no camouflage on the truck. It is a clear target from the air. But we are warm and it has been so long. . . . Then I look down at my Leo and I forget all about the danger.

He is not breathing.

I shake him hard, ripping open his coat and pulling up the newspaper. His chest is really just a brace of bones and blue skin and boils. “Wake up, Leo. Breathe. Come on, my lion. ” I put my mouth on his, breathing for him.

Finally, he shudders in my arms and I feel a sour little breath slip into my mouth.

He starts to cry.

I hold him to me, crying, too, and say, “Don’t you leave me, Leo. I couldn’t bear it. ”

“His hands are so hot, Mama,” Anya says, and I see how scared she is by the suddenness of my yelling.

I touch Leo’s forehead.

He is burning up. My hands are shaking as I reposition the newspaper and button up his sweater and coat.

We are going out into the cold again.