Winter Garden

“They won’t let your son on that train,” the young nurse says. “Not one so sick. ”

“If we stay it will be impossible to get more tickets,” I say. “We’ll die here. ”

The nurse says nothing to this. Lies are a waste of time.

“We could start helping Leo now, couldn’t we?” I say. “Maybe he’ll be better by tomorrow. ”

The nurse cannot hide her pity for me. “Of course. Maybe he’ll be better. ”

And he is.

Better.

After a night when Anya and I lay curled on the floor by Leo’s dirty cot, I wake feeling bruised and cold. But when I get to my knees and look down at Leo, he is awake. For the first time in a long time, his blue eyes are clear. “Hi, Mama,” he says in a scratchy, froglike voice that cuts right through my heart. “Where are we? Where’s Papa?”

I waken Anya, pull her up beside me. “We are right here, baby. We are on our way to your papa. He will be waiting for us in Vologda. ”

I am smiling and crying as I look down at my son, my baby. Maybe it is the tears that blur my vision, or more likely it is hope. I am old enough to know better, but common sense is gone with the sound of his voice. I don’t see how blue his skin is, how the boils have burst on his chest and are seeping yellow; I don’t hear the thickness of his cough. I just see Leo. My lion. My baby with the bluest eyes and the purest laugh.

So when the nurse comes by to tell me that I should get on the train, I am confused.

“He’s getting better,” I say, looking down at him.

The silence stretches out between us, broken only by Leo’s coughing and the distant rat-a-ta-tat of gunfire. She looks pointedly at Anya.

For the first time I see how pale Anya is, how gray her chapped lips are, the angry boils on her throat. Her hair is falling out in clumps.

How did I miss all that?

“But . . . ” I look around. “You said they won’t let my son on the train. ”

“There are too many evacuees. They won’t transport the dying. You have papers for you and your daughter, yes?”

How is it that I don’t understand what she is saying to me until then? And how can I explain how it feels to finally understand? A knife in the heart would hurt less.

“You’re saying I should leave him here to die? Alone?”

“I’m saying he will die. ” The nurse looks at Anya. “You can save her. ” She touches my arm. “I’m sorry. ”

I stand there, frozen, watching her walk away. I don’t know how long I stand there, but when I hear the train’s whistle, I look down at the daughter I love more than my own life, and the son of mine who is dying.

“Mama?” Anya says, frowning up at me.

I take Anya’s hand and walk her out of the hospital. At the train, I kneel in front of her.

She is so small, wrapped as she is in her bright red coat and wearing the valenki that are too big for her feet.

“Mama?”

“I can’t leave Leo here,” I say, hearing the break in my voice. He can’t die alone is what I want to say, but how can I say such a thing to my five-year-old? Does she know I am making a choice no mother should ever have to make? Will she someday hate me for this?

Her face scrunches in a frown so familiar it breaks my heart. For a second, I see her as she used to be. “But—”

“You are my strong one. You will be okay alone. ”

She shakes her head, starts to cry. “No, Mama. I want to stay with you. ”

I reach into my pocket and take out a piece of paper. It still smells of sausage and my stomach churns at the scent of it. I write her name on the paper and pin it to her lapel. “P-Papa will be waiting for you in Vologda. You find him. Tell him we’ll be there by Wednesday. You two can meet Leo and me. ”