Saint Petersburg, twelve hours earlier.
February's cold wind swept black smoke from factory chimneys into the sky, staining it like a filthy rag.
Melting snow turned into muddy puddles that seeped into the poor people's worn-out shoes.
Outside the bakery, the line waiting to collect rationed bread already stretched to the end of the street.
The crowd, wrapped in shabby cotton coats, shuffled forward with the difficulty of penguins in the polar regions.
Miss Anna pulled her patched, tattered scarf tighter. The paper bag in her arms, pasted together from newspaper to hold bread, rustled in the cold wind.
She stood on tiptoe and looked at the endless line, silently praying that Ave Maria would bless her with her share of bread. Her family had gone without food for days. Her younger sister was burning with fever, and her mother had stuffed the last scraps of cloth into her ill-fitting boots so she could come out to collect bread.
The whole family was counting on her.
A small disturbance suddenly broke out ahead. Anna poked her head out slightly and saw a woman with flaxen hair collapse to the ground. Her forehead was buried in a puddle of melted snow, and the newspaper bag meant for bread had been soaked through.
"It's Luginichina!"
Anna remembered that woman. Her mother always said she was hardworking and capable. Before dawn every day, she would run to the docks to gather fish scraps. Sometimes, she would fiercely display her disabled husband's "Order of St. George" to dockworkers unwilling to give her charity, showing them that her family had already served the Tsar loyally.
Why had she collapsed here?
Anna wanted to help her up, but she could not bear to leave the line she had waited in for hours.
A military policeman keeping