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Back A Train to Moscow: A Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. ACT 1 IVANOVO
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. ACT 2 MOSCOW
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. ACT 3 LENINGRAD
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. ACT 4 IVANOVO-LENINGRAD
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  58. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Grandma stopped by the barbed-wire fence where several men were driving shovels into a pile of dirt spiked with jagged pieces of cement. Their movements were mechanical, as if under their coats, they all had hidden creaky motors that lifted their arms and bent their legs. The German closest to the fence looked up and met her eye. Grandma dipped her hand into her bag, unfolded her ration of bread carefully wrapped in a handkerchief, and fit her arm between the rows of wire, a small brown cube in her open palm. For a moment, the German hesitated, looking around furtively, as if accepting the bread could result in being saddled with more digging, then took it with his muddy fingers, as gnarled as the claws of an ancient bird from Sasha’s book of folktales. His eyes were the color of the frozen ditch on the side of the road, surprised and bewildered.

“Why did you give him your ration?” she asked as the German hastily stuffed the bread into his mouth.

Grandma rewrapped what remained in the handkerchief and put it back into her bag. The words came out gently, as soft as her wrinkles, as sad as her eyes. “He is someone’s son, too,” she said and motioned for Sasha to move on, probably thinking of her own son Kolya, the one still missing in action, hoping that he was alive somewhere in a foreign land, hoping that someone would offer him a piece of bread.

39

39

It is three days past Grandma’s name day—Elena’s day, the day her name saint was born and the day Grandma was buried. This is always the time when lilacs burst into bloom, and through the kitchen window, Sasha can see a bush frothed in purple, branches swaying in the breeze. The kitchen now has a faucet—when did they lay down pipes for running water? An old nylon stocking used to wash dishes, crisscrossed by runs beyond repair, sits on the lip of the sink next to a bar of laundry soap, just as it did when she was a girl. She picks it up and closes her hand around it to feel the greasy silkiness Grandma felt only days earlier. Is she hoping that some of her warmth has remained in this rag that touched her hands daily, for decades, more often than anything else in the house?