Winter Garden

She frowns, trying to listen carefully; then he starts to cry and she understands.

“I will,” she says, crying now, too.

“And keep them well. I’ll find you a way out. I promise. You just have to hang on a little while longer. Promise me. ” He shakes her. “Promise me. The three of you will make it to the end. ”

She licks her cracked, dry lips. “I will,” she says, believing it, believing in it.

He pulls her close and kisses her. He tastes like sweet summer peaches, and when he draws back they are both done with crying.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she says.

“Twenty-six,” he says.

She leans against him; his arm comes around her. For a few hours, they are just a young family playing in the park. People hear the children laughing and come to see; they stand at the edges of the park like confused mental patients suddenly set free. It has been a long time since any of them heard a child laugh.

It is the best day of Vera’s life—as impossible as that sounds. The memory of it is golden, and as she walks home, holding his hand, she can feel herself protecting it. It is a light she will need in the months to come.

But when she gets home, she knows instantly that something is wrong.

The apartment is dark and freezing. She can see her breath. On the table, a pitcher of water is frozen solid. Frost shines on the metal stove. The fire has gone out.

She hears her mother coughing in bed and she runs to her, yelling at Sasha to build a fire.

Her mother’s breathing is noisy and strained. It sounds like old fruit being pushed through a sieve. Her skin is as pale as dirty snow. The flesh around her mouth is darkening, turning blue. “Verushka,” she whispers.

Or did she really speak? Vera doesn’t know. “Mama,” she says.

“I waited for Sasha,” Mama says.

Vera wants to beg with her, to plead, to say that he is not back, he is only visiting, and that she needs her mother, but she—

I can’t say anything.

All I can do is sit there, staring down at my mother, loving her so much I don’t even remember how hungry I am.

“I love you,” Mama says softly. “Never forget that. ”

“How could I?”

“Don’t try. That’s what I mean. ” Mama struggles to lean forward and it’s terrible to watch the effort it takes, so I lean forward and take her in my arms. She’s like a stick doll now. Her head lolls back.

“I love you, Mama,” I say. It is not enough, those three little words that suddenly mean good-bye, and I am not ready for good-bye. So I keep talking. I hold her close and say, “Remember when you taught me to make borscht, Mama? And we argued about how small to cut the onions and why to cook them first? You made a pot and put the vegetables in raw so I could taste the difference? And you smiled at me then, and touched my cheek, and said, ‘Do not forget how much I know, Verushka. ’ I am not done learning from you. . . . ”

At that, I feel my throat tighten and I can’t say anything more.

She is gone.

I hear my son say, “Mama, what’s wrong with Baba?” and it takes all my strength not to cry. But what good will crying do?

Tears are useless now in Leningrad.

Twenty-three

The silence that followed was so thick and gray Meredith expected to taste ash.

I can’t say anything.

She looked at her mother, still in bed, with her knees drawn up and the covers pulled to her chin, as if a bit of wool could somehow protect her.