Throughout the whole journey Jarushka seemed to understand our mission as we’d hurried south before the commissioner could find his laundry cart missing. I had covered myself in the petroleum jelly, hoping my scent could not be followed if he sent his dogs after us, which must have given me the appearance of a dirty, greased pig. We’d evaded capture, but it was slow going since we avoided main roads for fear of meeting Bolsheviks. Half starved and waylaid by a bad storm, we’d found work in a village south of Moscow until the Red Army came too close and Jarushka and I fled.
Once we moved on, starvation was a constant threat. The baby biscuits, jerky, and powdered milk Luba had so smartly provided had run out, along with the provisions Olga had given me.
We made our way through dense virgin forest, the boughs of the pine trees like green-sleeved arms dusted with diamond-crusted snow. Father’s old Nagant proved a faithful friend for hunting game and I had two bullets left, having shot at a wild pig that morning and missed. I had foraged food for both of us: some red clover I’d found crusted with frost, an unexpected gift, full of protein and vitamins. And delicious nettles.
My nose felt about to freeze off and I massaged it with thumb and forefinger as our nurse always urged us to do when we were children to fight frostbite.
After we left Moscow we slept in a network of barns along the way, where we met fellow travelers willing to barter. Olga’s pearls proved excellent currency and the sheets and blankets in the cart provided warmth for us both and additional goods to haggle with. I even traded my lovely but impractical black maid’s coat for a hideous but warm white dog fur hat and coat, which doubled as bedding at night.
From my pocket I pulled a cashmere baby sweater of Max’s, which Luba had left in the barn with our traveling clothes, and held it to my face. It still held my son’s baby scent of talcum powder and little boy and I breathed it in. He’d worn it his first name day, when Afon gave him the little present he’d wrapped himself.
How eager Afon had been to share a book he’d cherished in his own childhood. Trees Every Child Should Know. A charming book written in English, its green cover worn with use.
“Your papa read this as a boy,” Afon said, showing Max the pages. “Larch and birch are my favorites.”
What a good father. How happy Max would be to see him again.
I lifted the rose plant from under my coat. Though no longer blooming, the leaves were green and producing enough chlorophyll to live and even thrive, bearing two buds. During overcast days, I rode with the stem against my skin, the thorns pricking me with every jolt of the wagon, forcing me awake and aware. In bright sun, I opened my coat just long enough to provide the plant with energy. At night, it lay warm, next to me, the little burlap bag tied around its roots at my belly.
I opened the pouches I’d made from a pillowcase and spread dinner out on my lap: Mushrooms. Nettle leaves. Frozen wild plums.
I’d taken Cook’s food for granted. The pigeon and baby eggplant sent in from Paris, much of which went uneaten, sent to the pigs. The baby carrots and tender haricot vert just like the ones I grew in the garden of our first house as a married couple. Afon and me newly married in Krasnodar, living in the guest house of a charming estate.
Darkness comes early in the forest, so it was still afternoon when we followed tracks in the light snow and stopped at a house and barn. The house was dark and the barn had no sign of livestock. If the tracks were an indication, there’d been many visitors to this place. I wasn’t the only one forced to travel south fleeing the new government.
Stepping down from the cart, I cocked my gun at my side, opened the barn door. It was a small barn with a low ceiling and just enough hay on the floor to afford a night’s sleep. We would have a private room for the night.
Jarushka nuzzled my neck as I unhitched her from the wagon and offered her a favorite dessert, a chilly pool of birch sap, which she licked from my palm.