The Forest of Vanishing Stars(37)

“Yona.” She heard Aleksander’s voice behind her, and she turned, startled out of her reverie. He was standing in front of the entrance to the larger zemlianka, watching her.

“Aleksander.” She put a hand over her racing heart. “I didn’t hear you. What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He hesitated and crossed to stand beside her. Like her, he was in a wool coat, but she could still somehow feel the heat of his nearness as his arm brushed against hers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

They both gazed skyward, and for a moment, it felt as if they were alone in the forest. The others in their group slept, and the animals had all sought refuge from the cold. The only movement was from the snow itself. When Yona turned to look at Aleksander again, his eyes were already on her. “Is it wrong that I love the first snowfall so much?” she asked.

“Wrong?”

“The snow brings with it great peril. To welcome it feels strange in a way. It only means that life will become more complicated.”

She wasn’t sure he understood what she was saying until he reached for her hand. Neither of them had gloves, and so their fingers were freezing, but there was an instant warmth as they intertwined. “Perhaps the most complicated things are also the most beautiful,” Aleksander said softly, and when she turned to look at him again, she found that she couldn’t look away for a long time. When they finally turned their eyes to the magic of the sky again, it felt as if, for a moment, the world was at peace.

Later, when the others awoke and emerged into a world painted white, Yona felt an unexpected wave of warmth wash over her. To see the surprise, the joy, on the faces of the others was enchanting all on its own. The girls ran around in the clearing, laughing and trying to catch snow on their tongues, while Daniel simply stared at the heavens with his eyes wide and unblinking. Oscher and Bina held each other and swayed, and even Rosalia looked skyward with tears in her eyes.

But the snow would eventually force the group inside their bunkers for long periods of time, and so, as they all said good night that night and walked back to their zemliankas, the silence that descended felt heavy and dark, even if the world around them was turning the color of hope and peace.

Aleksander, Leib, Miriam, Bina, Oscher, Luba, and Sulia were sharing one of the larger shelters, while Moshe, Leon, Rosalia, Ruth, and the children shared the other. Yona had her own, the smallest and most basic of all, which she had built entirely by herself while the others had rested. It had worked out that way without discussion—a division similar to how they had sheltered each night when they had only temporary huts—and Yona had been glad that no one had tried to bunk with her. Being with a group after a lifetime of being alone was still unsettling and strange, and she needed those dark nights of solitude in order to breathe.

She had just drifted off on the night of the first snowfall when she heard a tap-tap-tap on her small zemlianka’s door. She sat straight up, her eyes wide as she searched the darkness. Then, just as she was reaching for the knife she always kept beside her as she slept, she heard a soft voice from outside. “Yona? Yona, are you awake?”

In an instant, she went from frightened to confused. “Aleksander?” she asked.

“May I come in?”

Without answering, she rose from her reed bed and crawled across the tiny room to move the wooden beam securing the door. The other zemliankas had been designed with taller ceilings to make them feel more like aboveground homes, but Yona liked the feeling of being burrowed into the earth, safe from the world above. She needed only enough room for her bed, her small collection of belongings, and her stove for warmth.

As soon as she pulled the door open, the wind whipped through her small room, a burst of snowflakes entering in a gust. The fire in the corner stove flickered, sending shadows dancing across Aleksander’s face. He was squatting by her door, his face red with cold. Instinctively, Yona searched the darkness behind him, but he was alone. “Quickly, come in,” she said, and she moved aside so he could slide past her, then she pulled the door closed behind him, shutting the winter out.

This was the first time Aleksander had been here, had shared her space. He looked around for a few seconds, and she had to resist the urge to smile; the ceiling was only a meter and a half from the wooden floor, and his body was curved like a question mark to fit inside. “Would you like to sit?” she asked, and he nodded gratefully, settling in the only available place, on the edge of her reed bed. She hesitated before sitting beside him. “Is everything all right, Aleksander? Is anyone hurt?”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” he said hastily. He removed his cap and kneaded it between his hands. She realized suddenly that he looked nervous. “Your zemlianka. It’s nice, Yona.”

She laughed, but worry fluttered in her chest like an uncertain butterfly. “You came in the middle of the night to tell me that?”

When he turned to her, the firelight illuminating his features, his expression was serious, his face just inches from hers. “No. I—I came to thank you.”

“To thank me?”

“For all of this. For everything you’ve done for us. For staying. I know you mentioned leaving once we were all right on our own. But now, I hope—I hope you won’t go.”

His words were punctuated by an eerie howl from outside, the wind rushing through a hollow of trees. The storm was picking up. She tried a smile. “I’m certainly not going anywhere in this weather, Aleksander.”