It was my favorite, too. “God, the one’s sucking her thumb, the other’s talking to magic dolls,” Mina said, leaning next to me by the curtained windows.

Sofia Yakovlevna ignored her, waiting for Shusha to put in the first slide, which depicted a pretty little girl and a stout father in a long boyar’s caftan. She began telling the story of Vasilisa, whose dying mother leaves her a magic doll. “Zhili-buili, once upon a time, there lived a merchant who had a daughter named Vasilisa the Beautiful…” The slides were exquisitely painted, sharp and vivid, not like the factory-made things one saw in most people’s nurseries. “When she was nine, her mother fell deathly ill,” she continued in a voice both soft and rich. “She called Vasilisa to her side and gave her a doll. Not just any doll, mind. A magic doll. She told her daughter that whenever she needed help, she should take the doll out and give it a little to drink, a little to eat. And then the doll would tell her what she needed to do.”

Shusha was having trouble removing the slide. “Oh let me do it,” said Mina impatiently. “You’re going to break it.”

That made me smile. Even our scientist wanted the reassurance of a story, her mother’s voice, this tale of a girl who has a secret way of finding help in a wild world. I was sorry Seryozha wasn’t here. He’d never heard Sofia Yakovlevna do her slide show, and these were wonders he would appreciate. But I thought of him on the streets of Petrograd at Solomon Moiseivich’s side and knew he needed to be there. Father always accused me of not letting him grow up. Maybe it was true at that.

Halfway through the story, the flat’s doorbell rang. “Pretend we’re not here,” whispered Dunya.

“I’ll go,” I offered, but Sofia Yakovlevna shook her head vehemently. “You girls stay out of sight.”

But when she opened the door to the flat, it was Varvara’s voice we heard, already in the parlor talking to Aunt Fanya. She followed the old lady in, her bobbed hair matted, her clothes wrinkled. “What are you doing back here in the dark?” she said, then saw the slide on the wall, Vasilisa feeding the doll to help her with the witch Baba Yaga’s impossible chores. “Really? Fairy stories, today of all days?”

“The soldiers broke in,” Shusha said. “Someone was shooting. They threw him off the roof. It was horrible.”

Mina’s glasses picked up the light from the magic lantern’s flame. “The one guarding us almost shot us.”

“I’m sure they weren’t looking for chubby chemistry students,” Varvara said cheerfully. Her good mood seemed tasteless, as out of place as a polka at a funeral.

“They didn’t spare him,” I said.

Our gloomy faces should have told her how bad it was, but she just shrugged. “It was a risk he took.”

“You didn’t hear him,” I said.

“You’re not asking me why I’m here.” She grinned, fairly dancing on the balls of her feet.

“You got hungry?” Mina guessed.

On Sofia Yakovlevna’s face, a mixture of fear and curiosity. “Would you like some shchi? Marina helped me make it.”

Varvara’s smirk told me what she thought of my embryonic culinary skills. “Oh she did? Very domestic. No, I’m fine. Dandy.” She used the English word. Now that she had our attention, she went to the studio costume rack, plucked a tricorn hat with a plume off the shelf, and dropped it onto my head. “Your Imperial Majesty!” She bowed. “Where are you right now?”

“Stavka,” Shusha said. “That’s what Papa said.”

“A good guess, my kitten, but in this case—wrong.” Varvara took my hand as if we were dancing a quadrille and led me to the velvet armchair where Solomon Moiseivich so often photographed clients. She seated me in it, then handed me a vase as a scepter. “His Imperial Highness is on his special train, returning to Petrograd.”

“Bozhe moi,” said Sofia Yakovlevna. Good Lord.

“Accompanied by a trainload of loyal troops.”

This was it—the tsar would crush the revolution. The mutineers would go to the firing squad or to the front, and all would be back to the way it was before.

“Yes, you’ve decided to end this revolt business once and for all.” She shook the plume, tickling my nose. “Show us who’s boss—or so you think. But here’s the thing. What you don’t know is that the telegraph workers are on our side. They report straight to the Soviet.”

“How do you know this?” Mina demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

“I’ve been spending time at the Tauride Palace. At the Soviet. And as we speak, it seems, the railway workers are shifting and shunting His Imperial Highness around like a badminton cock. ‘We’re so sorry, Gospodar, there’s snow on the tracks. We’ll have to send you to Petrograd by way of Pskov! Such a nuisance, I know! But there’s nothing for it.’”

The genius. It took my breath away.

“And listen,” Varvara said, squeezing my shoulder. “Wherever he stops, his soldiers—his most loyal troops—get wind of the revolution and melt away like cheap candles. He’ll be lucky to have a footman left by morning.”

Sofia Yakovlevna opened the dark curtain behind her, letting in the afternoon sun and dispelling the last of our dreaminess. Her face looked older in the winter light. “What about the other troops? The ones they sent when the mutiny broke out?”

“That’s the best of all,” Varvara said, perching on the arm of my chair. She smelled sharp and stale—how long had it been since she’d bathed? “Evidently some of the tsar’s advisers think a slaughter would look bad to the Allies. The troops have been told not to come into Petrograd. They’re sitting at Dno, waiting for orders—which aren’t going to come.” The crooked grin widened. She looked like a child at Christmas who actually received the pony he asked for. “Check and mate.”

And it occurred to me then that my friend had been born at just the right time. More than any of us, me or Mina or even Father, she was in exact alignment with the times. Its dangers weren’t dangers to her; its violence matched her own.

Mina’s mother paced, her hand to her mouth, trying to understand what it would all mean for her family. She and Aunt Fanya began to talk, and Mina joined them.

“You stink,” I said to Varvara. “Where did you sleep last night, a kennel?”

“At your house, actually,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.” Was she joking? “Basya let me in.”

Though Varvara was my friend, I was absurdly irritated with our maid. It wasn’t very loyal of her. But Basya was a sly character, always looking for some gossip, some trouble to stir up. She probably just liked putting one over on the baryn.

My dismay must have been obvious, because she added, “Are you upset? Where else was I supposed to go?”

“You could have stayed here,” I said.

“Too far.” She added in my ear, “And I don’t think Mama Katzev likes me very much. Look at her.”

Mina’s mother stood with her arms crossed, exactly like Mina, anxious-eyed, as if Varvara had swept in a bit of gunpowder on her skirts. “She’s okay,” I said. “But I wish you wouldn’t use my place. Father’ll go crazy if he finds you there.”

“He sleeps late. We’re out by six, me and the comrades.”

I turned so that Sofia Yakovlevna couldn’t see my face. “What?”

Varvara laughed. “You have something against the comrades? The Ericssons? The women from Belhausen? You might have to wash your hairbrush, but—”

“Tell me you’re joking.” Would she really do that, bring the devil knew who into my parents’ flat? Into my bed? “Varvara, you didn’t.”

“Come on. Be a sport. You want me to sleep in a doorway?”

I wanted to strangle her. “Listen, you can stay, but don’t bring anyone else. Promise me.” She was laughing. “Varvara! It’s not funny!”

But she clearly thought it was. “What’s the matter? You marched with them, you braved arrest. We’re talking about a bed you’re not even using.”

Was I being hypocritical? I would march with strikers but not allow one to sleep in my bed? Then I thought of the soldiers, the screams of the man on the roof. And frankly, just the thought of unwashed strangers…

“Just promise. I’m serious.” I pulled a lock of her hair, twisted it around my finger. “Or our friendship is done.”

Her eyes grew glossy with unexpected hurt. Her mouth worked, pressing back a tremble. And I realized with a shock that I was all she had. She had no family, no close friends… if she lost my confidence, she would have no one at all. I let her go.

She gave one shuddering sigh and embraced me. Kissed me as though she was going away, searched my eyes. “You know you’re being completely selfish and ridiculous—but I promise. I was just kidding, anyway. But don’t say things like that.” She took my hands. “Still love me?”

“Of course,” I said. “You might have a wash, though.”

“Burzhui. Look, I have to get back to the Soviet—I just wanted to tell you about the railway. I miss you. You should come with me.”

But I would not.

When she turned back to the others, she put her swagger back on, like a favorite coat, hitched up her skirt revealing the gun in the waistband. “In five years we’ll all look back, and today will seem like another century.”


On March 2, our fourth day at the Katzevs’, Father came to fetch us. It was just after breakfast, and I’d made the kasha myself. He wore a fresh shirt and smiled like a man who, having walked through a storm, feels the sun drying the clothes on his back. He followed Uncle Aaron to the table, the old man still in his robe and slippers. In his arms, Father held a sack the size of a young sheep. He wouldn’t sit down. His brown eyes glittered, laughter in them, and amazement.