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1
Riga, June 1940
THE DAY THE SOVIETS INVADED LATVIA, MIRIAMāS WATER broke. Sheād just wedged her swollen feet into ivory slingbacks to meet Helena at the Rigaās Opera CafĆ© for lunch when her abdomen strained and water gushed onto the vestibule floor. Miriamās hands went cold. What if this baby came as quickly as her first? Blood would never come out of her good rug, or her divan, for that matter.
Miriam lunged for the telephone, on a tall oak table, dialed Maxās dental office and spoke brusquely to her husband: āYou need to come at once or I wonāt make it to the hospital.ā
MAX TURNED HIS car right when he came to the forest at the end of their street, onto Meza Prospekts. He clumsily shifted his black Ford-Vairogs into fourth gear, jolting Miriam in her seat. The baby kicked her bladder, as if he or she were angry about the bumpy ride.
āIf youāre not more careful, Iām going to have this baby in the car.ā
Maxās fretful eyes jumped from Miriamās face to her spherical midsection, underneath her linen trapeze blouse. āYou canāt,ā he said, his broad chest rising and falling with frantic breaths. āJust keep breathing slowly.ā He hunched his shoulders and gripped the steering wheel with knuckles as white as his jacket. Heād rushed from his dental office and smelled of the germ-killing soap he used on his hands so often; his skin was as dry as stone. āTry to think of something else to keep your mind off, you know, the hospital.ā
Miriam balled her fists. āSomething else? Like what, dancing?ā
He gave his wife a sheepish smile. āSorry. Bad suggestion.ā
They passed the VanÅ”u Bridge, halfway between their Mežaparks home and the Jewish hospital, Bikur Holim, on the other side of Riga. Miriam looked out her window and saw a man riding a bicycle along the edge of the Daugava River, stretched out like a shimmering piece of turquoise silk. She loved the river. Just one week ago, Max, Ilana and Miriam had picnicked at a sandy point north of the bridge, with a feast of cheese on black bread, pickled beets, iced tea and chocolate pastries. Ilana played in the water with Max while Miriam baked like a potato on the sand. The bottom of the lake was too rocky. She might have slipped and fallen. She couldnāt wait to give birth and have her body back to herself.
Max tugged his whiskers. āJust a few more hours and then weāll have a new baby and life will go back to normal.ā
Miriam gaped at her well-meaning, oblivious husband, whoād slept through Ilanaās cries as a baby nine years earlier. His life would chug forward while Miriamās would stall, and though it was entirely unreasonable, she resented him for being able to have children and go on without missing a step. She thought about her friend Helena, who never complained about the sacrifices she made, as the mother of three children, and worried there was something wrong with her for not looking forward to a second baby.
Max veered left, away from the river. Miriam caught a glimpse of the Central Market hangars. About time. They were finally near the hospital. She dug her heels into the floor to steady herself for the next contraction, already whirling like a blizzard in her abdomen.
Max hit the brakes. Miriamās shoulders jerked forward. Her heart sprang to her throat when she saw an olive-green tank blocking the road about fifteen meters ahead of them. A red Soviet flag hung from the gun protruding from the tank and there were clumps of men in Soviet uniforms, instantly recognizable with their bloodred collars. Joseph Stalinās Red Army. Joseph Stalin, who deported people to Siberia if they spoke out against Communism or if they were wealthy. The dictator who had built and presided over a culture of mistrust and terror, one in which even children betrayed their parents. Ten months ago, Stalin had signed a non-aggression pact with Hitler, shocking for its blatant mishegoss, craziness. Why would two countries, known for their flagrant mutual hostility, suddenly agree to be friendly?
A contraction hit. Miriam folded and moaned as the pain shot through her tailbone. It waned as quickly as it had begun. She went limp in her seat. Could hardly catch her breath.
āMax.ā Miriam clutched his arm.
His muscles tensed beneath her grip. He peered over his shoulder, shifted the car into reverse and backed up until they came to Marijas Street. He turned sharply and nosed the car down the narrow road that led to Station Square, in the center of Riga. She heard the frenzied voices first, before she saw hundreds of people congregated in the main square, surrounding four huge Soviet tanks.
Shivers ran down Miriamās sternum at the sight of a man pounding the side of a tank with his fists.
āDievs Padomju, goddamn Soviets!ā a long-legged man bellowed at another tank, on Miriamās right, about six meters away.
Miriam raised her eyes to a unit of armed Red Army soldiers on top of the tank. They wore identical shiny helmets that gave off a menacing air. They seemed oblivious to the jeering below.
āSasodits, dammit,ā another man yelled, before kicking the wheels of the same tank, almost as tall as he was.
She jumped in her seat when two Soviet tanks roared to life, their booming engines swallowing up the crowdās feverish voices as they advanced with a menacing rumble. Beads of sweat drizzled down her forehead as she saw children madly pedaling bicycles out of the square. A peddler, caught unawares, staggered to get his pushcart out of the way of a tank rolling toward him. A vendorās white-and-pink roses were splayed on the ground. Young boys in school uniforms darted across the square, glancing over their shoulders as if they were being chased.
Then a tram appeared, a jumble of arms and legs, with passengers clinging to every inch of its exterior, even the front, blocking the driverās view. The tram parted a cluster of people on the street as it rolled along curved tracks, directly toward an oncoming tank. Terror rose in Miriamās throat as the tank swerved left, headfirst into a knot of pedestrians, crushing them as if they were just stones on the road. Screams ricocheted through the air. Blood splattered across the pavement. The tank continued without stopping, leaving a trail of bloody, flattened bodies.
āMy God.ā Maxās face went gray.
Miriamās eyes burned from the ruthless glare of murder, an atrocity she wished she could unsee.
Max began to back out of the square, but only made it three meters before the crowd blocked the car. Guttural voices burst through Miriamās open window. Russian voices. She hugged her belly. She watched, puzzled, as a column of odd-looking Latvian men walked behind a moving tank with military-like precision. Their out-of-place hip boots caught Miriamās eye. Hip boots were usually worn for fishing or heavy rainānot in a city during sunny, hot weather like today. And there was an unnerving camaraderie among the men as they raised their fists together and shouted, āLong live Stalin.ā
Max leaned over Miriam to see. āThose men are as Latvian as I am French,ā he scoffed. āRussians pretending to be Latvians to rouse support. Soviet infiltration and propaganda.ā
Miriam squinted and clenched her gut. Max was rightāthey were surrounded by Russians posing as Latvians. Handfuls of real Latvians looked on, baffled and frightened, but the majority were Soviets, dressed as civilians, hailing the murderous tanks as if they were heroes. Miriam clasped her abdomen as another contraction tore through her insides.
A loud cheer rang out as a Soviet soldier hoisted a fair-haired boy into the air like a prize. The soldier wore a peaked cap over his shaved head, and his chin jutted out almost as far as his nose. He grinned at the boy, who looked back at him warily. All of a sudden Miriamās heart swelled with love and dread for her unborn baby.
Suddenly, a mounted Latvian policeman placed himself in front of the crowd, one hand holding the reins of his horse, the other gesturing for people to calm down.
Max jumped out of the car.
āWhere are you going?ā Miriamās agitated voice melted in the crowd.
Max approached another Latvian policeman, standing about a meter from the car, and pointed at Miriam. Just then, the mounted policemanās horse cried out in pain, a deep bellow that rattled Miriamās bones. Soviet soldiers were striking the horse and officer with canes and stones. The horse reared back onto its hind legs. The Latvian officer gripped the saddle but fell sideways. A shot ruptured the air and the fallen officer clutched his neck, blood gushing through his fingers.
A gasp ran through the mob, followed by indecipherable shouts. Men and women scattered in all directions. The sulfurous tang of gunpowder swamped the air. Miriam longed to be invisible. She wanted to look out the window for a way out, but was afraid of being noticed. Of being killed. Of her baby dying. A suffocating pressure crushed her insides and took her breath away.
Max hopped back in the car. The Latvian officer he had spoken to was clearing a path for them. In a strained voice, Max said the Soviets had captured the Latvian border. The Soviets controlled Latvia. Miriam couldnāt speak. She didnāt want to believe Max, but knew every word was true when another shot blasted in the square and people sprinted in all directions like the sunās rays. Miriam rolled up her window and crossed her legs as a contraction hit like a punch in the gut.
The baby shifted roughly within her womb, squashing her bladder. Miriam panted. Looked down. She felt as if her insides were about to drop, along with the baby. She heard the engine roar to a higher speed, for all of five secondsāuntil there was a ferocious clang of metal striking metal. Miriam was thrown forward. Her head smacked the dashboard.
Everything went dark.
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2
Chicago, November 1975
CHICAGO WAS HIT BY THE EARLIEST SNOWFALL IN YEARS that Wednesday in November, the day twenty-four-year-old Sarah Byrne attended her motherās funeral. Snow glazed the front-yard birch and maple trees in a sugary white, a striking contrast to the ochre and burgundy leaves, clinging to almost bare branches like old dresses on hangers you canāt give up though they no longer fit. Sarah sat rigid in the passenger seat of her fatherās car as he drove slowly to the funeral home, his wide forehead deeply creased with concentration. The windshield wipers swished the falling snow out of the way, but it kept coming down, smearing when it hit the window, like tears.
Sarahās heart lodged in her throat when she pictured her mother, Ilana, collapsing in the grocery store, surrounded by strangers. She dried her eyes with a tissue and held her chin up, determined to look strong on the outside, the way her mother would want her to be. Keep your feelings to yourself, she used to tell Sarah, when she was upset about a grade or a lost volleyball game or a boy who liked her one day and didnāt the next. Crying makes you look weak.
At the corner where the creek narrowed and ran below a bridge, her father turned right and drove his Chevy into a parking lot, up to a space in front of the main door. Sarah stared at Green Meadows Funeral Home, which resembled a sprawling redbrick house, and thought, This is the last time I will see my mother.
Her father shut off the ignition. He heaved a long, heavy sigh and said: āI canāt get my head around the fact sheās gone. I keep expecting her to come waltzing into the house and tell me to put my boots in the closet, where they belong.ā
āWe didnāt even get to say goodbye.ā Sarahās throat closed with grief.
āItās how she would have wanted it, donāt you think?ā
Her father was right. Her mother avoided goodbyes, as if she were allergic to departures. She never came when Sarahās father had driven Sarah to the University of Chicago at the beginning of every semester, even when Sarah deliberately asked her to come. It was one of the many quirks Sarah had noticed about her mother over the years, including her unwavering demand for privacy, shutting the drapes on glorious sunny days, making the house feel like a crypt, and barring Sarah from the usual childhood pastimes such as sleepovers and trips to the mall without parents. By her senior year of high school, with her motherās oppressive rules dividing them like a fence, Sarah had been counting the days until she left for college.
As soon as Sarah was out of the house, their relationship improved, though she continued to wonder about her motherās habits and excessive anxiety. There was so much Sarah didnāt know about her mother, with conversations skirting emot...
