bony, stiff corpse wrapped in a tattered blanket to the paupers’ cemetery. When they said their prayers for the dead, when they had held each other tightly and clung together, crying, Yakov climbed down into the open pit to bury the tiny body. No gravestone to dignify his sister’s existence, just a plain wooden marker he cobbled from firewood, and which recorded her brief life.
There was something else Yakov never forgot that sunny morning as he comforted his mother—the images of the tsar’s power and wealth that seemed to mock their poverty and suffering, and sent a powerful flood of anger surging through his veins.
When he heard the bells of St. Isaac’s Cathedral ring out and he looked across St. Petersburg’s rooftops, he saw the city’s shining golden domes, the many splendid mansions of the rich, and a thousand glinting windows in the tsar’s vast Winter Palace.
It was that winter his mama’s belly became heavily swollen again. The same winter his drunkard father went to work on a steamship to America and never came back.
A few months later he remembered climbing the tenement stairs and seeing bloodstains leading to their room. Shocked, Yakov ran inside and found his mama lying on the bed, clutching her swollen belly, screaming with pain, livid fear in her eyes. “Leonid, fetch help! Go to the hospital and ask for Dr. Andrev—hurry! Tell him that your mama’s ill; her baby’s come early.”
Yakov’s heart chilled as he watched in horror the crimson clots staining the bedclothes between his mother’s legs. A neighbor came and used a towel to try to stem the bleeding. “Fetch a doctor fast, boy!”
Yakov ran furiously to the city hospital, four streets away, as snow began to fall. Breathless, he halted outside the entrance and saw a shining black horse and carriage with the leather hood pulled up.
Seated in the carriage was a coachman and a neatly dressed boy about Yakov’s age, ten, with a thoughtful face and big dark eyes.
Beside him sat a girl, a year or two younger. She was beautiful,with big, slate-gray eyes and perfect skin. She wore a pastel blue coat, a scarf, and mittens, her blond curls peeping beneath her woolen hat.
A tall, distinguished gent strode down the hospital steps and went to climb into the carriage, joining the coachman and the children. He wore a gray hat and he carried a doctor’s black bag. He looked tired as Yakov ran up to him. “Please, I’m looking for Dr. Andrev, I need his help.”
The coachman went to raise his horsewhip at the scrawny waif pestering his client. “Get away, you scumbag. The doctor’s just come off duty.”
“I need the doctor.” Yakov was defiant and grabbed the bridle to stop the horse from moving. “Didn’t you listen to me, you idiot?”
“Why, you little—”
The doctor grabbed the coachman’s raised arm. “No, don’t touch him—don’t I know you, child? You’re Mrs. Yakov’s boy.”
“Yes, sir, Leonid. My mama said to find you. Please, sir, she’s dying.”
“Get up here. Coachman, drive as fast as you can.”
A breathless Yakov rushed the doctor and the young boy up the tenement stairs into the room while the young girl and the coachman remained out in the carriage. Crowds of neighbors parted to let the doctor through.
One of the women said, “She’s bleeding badly, sir. We can’t stop it.”
The doctor examined the patient and said to the woman, “Get me hot water, lots of it, and soap, quickly. Everyone else get outside, now!”
The clot of neighbors melted as the woman ran to fetch water. The doctor removed his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and opened his black bag. Leonid Yakov’s eyes were wet. “Is my mama going to die?”
The doctor said busily, “I can’t answer that question. My son, Uri, will take you outside while I tend to your mama.”
Yakov said fiercely, “No, I’m not leaving her.”
But the doctor stood no nonsense and ushered Yakov out the door.“Your mama’s hemorrhaging
There was something else Yakov never forgot that sunny morning as he comforted his mother—the images of the tsar’s power and wealth that seemed to mock their poverty and suffering, and sent a powerful flood of anger surging through his veins.
When he heard the bells of St. Isaac’s Cathedral ring out and he looked across St. Petersburg’s rooftops, he saw the city’s shining golden domes, the many splendid mansions of the rich, and a thousand glinting windows in the tsar’s vast Winter Palace.
It was that winter his mama’s belly became heavily swollen again. The same winter his drunkard father went to work on a steamship to America and never came back.
A few months later he remembered climbing the tenement stairs and seeing bloodstains leading to their room. Shocked, Yakov ran inside and found his mama lying on the bed, clutching her swollen belly, screaming with pain, livid fear in her eyes. “Leonid, fetch help! Go to the hospital and ask for Dr. Andrev—hurry! Tell him that your mama’s ill; her baby’s come early.”
Yakov’s heart chilled as he watched in horror the crimson clots staining the bedclothes between his mother’s legs. A neighbor came and used a towel to try to stem the bleeding. “Fetch a doctor fast, boy!”
Yakov ran furiously to the city hospital, four streets away, as snow began to fall. Breathless, he halted outside the entrance and saw a shining black horse and carriage with the leather hood pulled up.
Seated in the carriage was a coachman and a neatly dressed boy about Yakov’s age, ten, with a thoughtful face and big dark eyes.
Beside him sat a girl, a year or two younger. She was beautiful,with big, slate-gray eyes and perfect skin. She wore a pastel blue coat, a scarf, and mittens, her blond curls peeping beneath her woolen hat.
A tall, distinguished gent strode down the hospital steps and went to climb into the carriage, joining the coachman and the children. He wore a gray hat and he carried a doctor’s black bag. He looked tired as Yakov ran up to him. “Please, I’m looking for Dr. Andrev, I need his help.”
The coachman went to raise his horsewhip at the scrawny waif pestering his client. “Get away, you scumbag. The doctor’s just come off duty.”
“I need the doctor.” Yakov was defiant and grabbed the bridle to stop the horse from moving. “Didn’t you listen to me, you idiot?”
“Why, you little—”
The doctor grabbed the coachman’s raised arm. “No, don’t touch him—don’t I know you, child? You’re Mrs. Yakov’s boy.”
“Yes, sir, Leonid. My mama said to find you. Please, sir, she’s dying.”
“Get up here. Coachman, drive as fast as you can.”
A breathless Yakov rushed the doctor and the young boy up the tenement stairs into the room while the young girl and the coachman remained out in the carriage. Crowds of neighbors parted to let the doctor through.
One of the women said, “She’s bleeding badly, sir. We can’t stop it.”
The doctor examined the patient and said to the woman, “Get me hot water, lots of it, and soap, quickly. Everyone else get outside, now!”
The clot of neighbors melted as the woman ran to fetch water. The doctor removed his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and opened his black bag. Leonid Yakov’s eyes were wet. “Is my mama going to die?”
The doctor said busily, “I can’t answer that question. My son, Uri, will take you outside while I tend to your mama.”
Yakov said fiercely, “No, I’m not leaving her.”
But the doctor stood no nonsense and ushered Yakov out the door.“Your mama’s hemorrhaging
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