Saint Petersburg, twelve hours earlier.
The cold February wind stirred the black smoke from the factory chimneys, turning the sky into a dirty rag.
The melting snow turned into muddy puddles, soaking into the poor people's worn-out shoes.
In front of the bakery, the line waiting to receive the rationed bread already stretched to the end of the street.
The crowd wrapped in tattered cotton clothes moved their feet with difficulty, like penguins in the polar regions.
Miss Anna tightened the patchwork scarf around her, the paper bag made from newspapers to hold bread in her arms rustling in the cold wind.
She stood on tiptoe, looking at the endless line, silently praying that Hail Mary would bless her to receive her share of the bread, as there had been no food in the house for several days, her sister had a high fever, and her mother stuffed the last scraps of cloth into her ill-fitting boots so she could come out to get the bread.
The whole family was counting on her.
