UKRAINE - NOVEMBER 1919
The sting of frozen pine needles cascading down onto his face awakened him. Squinting through the ice on his lashes, William could taste dried blood in his mouth but could not remember what had happened or why he was stripped of all but his torn long johns, lying there, alone, huddled on the side of the snow-laden dirt road from Kyiv to Nova Fastiv. His horse, Nikolai, was gone, and so were his boots, wool suit, and heavy winter coat. Barely able to move, he slowly tucked his chin and turned his neck just enough to protect his eyes from the needles. He could not feel his hands or his feet. This is what trees must endure in a storm, he thought, before once again losing consciousness.
Around the hearth, 20 miles to the east in Nova Fastiv, Rachel and her daughters, Lilian, Fiera, and Anyuta, were sick with worry. William was to have left Kyiv at dawn to arrive at their cottage for dinner; he was three hours late. It was dark, and while the snow had ceased, the temperature had dropped below freezing. They knew how treacherous the passage would be; anything could happen to a lone traveler on such an isolated, exhausting journey.
Pacing back and forth, nervously looking out the window, Rachel’s eldest son, Philip, 14, grabbed his father’s coat and began pulling on his boots.
“M-maybe something happened. Baba? S-should I take the wagon, Baba? Maybe I should take the wagon, Baba? Should I take the wagon?”
Rachel stared into the hearth, trying to decide what to do. Her youngest, Martin, 7, a child prodigy, sat in a corner, reading from the one book they owned, Pushkin’s classic, Eugene Onegin, a tragic love story whose meaning was beyond Martin’s comprehension, yet not beyond his joy in mouthing the words.
Philip had already endured enough trauma in his shortened youth to fill a lifetime. The idea of him going out alone in the dark was unthinkable. Yet, who else but Philip was there to see what went wrong?
Slowly, Rachel rose from her wooden chair, kneading her hands. She approached the hearth and stirred the fragrant fruit compote she was preparing as a celebratory dessert for the two cousins who were to marry. The heady perfume of cooked apples, peaches, cherries, and apricots filled the air, temporarily masking the scent of fear.
Though they had only met once, as young children, it had been arranged since birth that first cousin, Anyuta, and William would wed, every detail set down in letters over the course of two years. This is how marriages were planned and carefully controlled. After the wedding, Lilian, the eldest sister, would journey to America, find work, and gradually bring the rest of the family over to start life anew.
Baba turned to Philip and, with a stern, almost alarming tone, spoke directly and clearly to her son.
“Go no farther than Vasylkiv. If you cannot find him, you turn around and come right back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Baba.”
She went to a wooden chest and lifted several wool mufflers, winding them around Philip’s collar.
“No farther than Vasylkiv. Then come back.”
“Yes, Baba.”
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