A Mountain of Crumbs: A Memoir Read Online Free Page A

to conjure up a ten-year-old girl somewhere on the other side of the Urals, the daughter of her new husband, coughing on their gymnasium mat. Or was it she who was thickheaded and unperceptive?
Dr. Kremer rubbed his forehead and looked around the room. My mother followed his gaze: a little metal stove empty of wood, boot prints across the plywood hammered against the window frame, a map of the pre-war Soviet Union on the wall left by the school principal, green and brown in the middle, blue in the north, with a big red star for Moscow, where Dr. Kremer grew up.
“Three days,” he said. “That’s all you have.” He walked to the desk and leafed through several papers that looked like military orders, with ominous stamps and resolute illegible signatures. “And Dr. Gladky …” he turned to my mother.
“Maltseva,” she said, surprised at how strange this new name sounded in her mouth as her own. “I just got married.”
Staring at the director’s grayish face across from hers, she thought that this might be the moment when he announced that she would be court-martialed for breaking military rules. My mother wasn’t naïve about the swift hand of punishment. Uncle Volya, arrested five years earlier, had been shot attempting to escape from a camp in Vorkuta. That was what the NKVD letter said: “shot attempting to escape.” As much as she tried, my mother couldn’t imagine soft and asthmatic Uncle Volya climbing over walls or running. Was he guilty, after all? Was his punishment the price of maintaining order?
Ready to suffer the consequences of her insubordination, she watched Dr. Kremer get up and move the papers to the side. She watched the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” he said.
S EVEN MONTHS PREGNANT IN , September 1942, my mother was demobilized from the military hospital. She packed up the uniform that no longer fit and, with her sick husband, returned to her parents’ Ivanovo apartment, now big enough for all since two of her brothers were gone. Vova was in the Far East, from where they recently received his letter. Yuva was still silent, and my mother’s fear that he was dead had turned to conviction. The third brother, Sima, transferred to the Belorussian front, had been wounded and was now back home with complications from a piece of metal that had created an abscess and was beginning to cause an infection in his brain.
It made my mother furious to think that a doctor at a front hospital had failed to operate properly, leaving a shard of a grenade lodged in her brother’s lung. She remembered herself at the beginning of her career, leaving a sliver of shrapnel in her first husband’s butt, but a butt wasn’t a vital organ, and although her first Sasha—she wanted to believe—may have felt an ache now and then, it wasn’t her surgical failure that would eventually kill him.
But this, the fragment in Sima’s lung, was killing him. Her parents, especially her mamochka , spoke of his recovery, but my mother knew he wouldn’t survive. As Sima, now blind and delirious, lay in the room where all the three brothers grew up, she sat by his bed taking his temperature and peering into his throat, pretending that whatever small medical procedures she performed could make a difference.
Day after day, she sat by Sima’s bed thinking about her brother and her husband, both dying. She couldn’t cure them, so she concentrated on doing what she could do. She sold her ration of four hundred grams of bread and with that money bought fifty grams of butter, which, she hoped, might boost her brother’s and her husband’s chance for health. She watched Sima burn with fever and move his cracked lips as if wanting to say something; she heard Sasha’s wet cough roll in his chest like the cannonade they heard at least once a day. Whom was she trying to fool? What she did was futile, she knew, but it required sacrifice, and that was the least she could do for her brother