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throughout Russia. I had been given a dark green anorak, waterproof pants, and leather boots, which were still covered in dried mud. I wasn’t sure whether to carry them or to wear them, but in the end I pulled them on over my ordinary clothes. I also took my backpack, a flashlight, and a compass from under the bed. I looked around me, at the pictures on the wall—a football club, various helicopters, a photograph of the world taken from outer space. The book that I had been reading was on the floor. My school clothes were folded on a chair. I could not accept that I was leaving all this behind, that I would never see any of it again.
    I went downstairs. Every house in the village had its own special hiding place, and ours was in the wall beside the stove. There were two loose bricks and I pulled them out to reveal a hollow opening with a tin box inside. I grabbed it and took it with me. As I straightened up, I noticed my grandmother, still standing at the sink, peeling potatoes, with her apron tied tightly around her waist.
    She beamed at me. “I can’t remember when there’s been a better harvest,” she said. She had absolutely no idea what was going on.
    I went over to a cupboard and shoved some cans, tea, sugar, a box of matches, and two bars of chocolate into my backpack. I filled a glass with water I had taken from the well. Finally, I kissed my grandmother quickly on the side of the head and hurried out, leaving her to her work.
    The sky had darkened while I was in the house. How could that have happened? It had only been a few minutes, surely. But now it looked as though it was going to rain, perhaps one of those violent downpours we often had during the months leading up to winter. My father was sitting where I had left him and seemed to be asleep. His hand was clutched across the wound in his chest. I wanted to carry the tin box over to him, but my mother moved around and stood in my way. I held out the glass of water.
    “I got this. For Father.”
    “That’s good of you, Yasha. But he doesn’t need it.”
    “But . . .”
    “No, Yasha. Try to understand.”
    It took a few moments for the significance of what she was saying to sink in, and at once a trapdoor opened and I plunged through it, into a world of pain.
    My mother took the box and lifted the lid. Inside there was a roll of banknotes, a hundred rubles, more money than I had ever seen. My parents must have been saving it from their salaries, planning for the day when they returned to Moscow. But that wasn’t going to happen, not now. She gave it all to me along with my internal passport, a document that everyone in Russia was required to own, even if you didn’t travel. Finally she took out a small black velvet bag and handed it to me too.
    “That is everything, Yasha,” she said. “You have to go.”
    “Mother . . . ,” I began. I felt huge tears swell up in my eyes, and the burning in my throat was worse than ever.
    “You heard what your father said. Now, listen very carefully. You have to go to Moscow. I know it’s a long way away and you’ve never traveled on your own, but you can make it. You can take the train. Not from Rosna. They’ll be checking everyone at the station. Go to Kirsk. You can reach it through the forest. That’s the safest way. Find the new highway and follow it. Do it for your father. Do you understand?”
    I nodded miserably.
    “You remember Kirsk. You’ve been there a few times. There’s a station with trains every day to Moscow . . . one in the morning, one in the evening. Take the evening train, when it’s dark. If anyone asks you, say you’re visiting an uncle. Never tell anyone you came from Estrov. Never use that word again. Promise me that.”
    “Where will I go in Moscow?” I asked. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay with her.
    She reached out and took me in her arms, hugging me against her. “Don’t be scared, Yasha. We have a good friend in Moscow. He’s a biology professor