The black water of the Volga seems to sap what little hope and energy Anya has. She limps her way along the bank taking little notice of the hard, dead branches tearing at her arms. Before her she sees her hollowed out home. The faded red door hangs open blackness gaping within.  There are gray sheets swaying tiredly on a line, drooping and stiff. Complete and utter silence.

“Mother” her voice is brittle and painful. The door sways before her, or perhaps it is she who sways. Before she allows her eyes to fall shut she sees the pinched face of her sister Yula, her face grey and lined. 

Next Chapter: Anne, New York, December, 1947