Chapter 3 Vera
VERA
The envelope burns in my hand as I count the rubles again in the apartment hallway.
Twenty-three thousand this time—more than I've ever carried at once, more than my father makes in two months laying concrete for construction crews that pay Ukrainian immigrants half what they pay Russians.
The bills feel thick between my fingers.
Each one represents another day of treatment for Elvin, another small victory against the cancer eating him alive from the inside.
Sonya handed me the envelope after I placed the final bet, with no congratulations for another successful day.
No acknowledgment that I'd just helped her people extract thousands more from the track's coffers.
She looked at me the way someone might examine a useful tool before returning it to storage, already calculating its next application. It felt dirty.
I unlock the apartment door and step into the familiar smells of boiled cabbage and disinfectant.
The tiny space holds too many years of struggle, too many nights when we counted kopecks to pay for electricity and heat.
The walls are thin enough that I can hear our neighbor's television through the plaster, the endless drone of game shows and advertisements for products we'll never afford.
My father sits at the kitchen table with his evening tea, still wearing the work clothes that mark him as manual labor in a city that views physical work as evidence of failure.
Concrete dust clings to his boots despite his attempts to clean them before entering the apartment.
His hands bear the permanent stains and scars that come from decades of building other people's dreams while his own family struggles to survive.
"You're late," he says without looking up from his newspaper. The headlines speak of economic prosperity and rising wages, lies that mock the reality of our existence. "Elvin's been asking for you."
I set the envelope on the table beside his tea glass.
The money spills out across the scarred wood surface, more cash than this apartment has seen since we arrived in Russia eight years ago.
My father's eyes widen, his newspaper forgotten as he processes the implications of such wealth in his daughter's possession.
"Where did this come from?" Batya's voice lowers to almost a whisper and his brow furrows. "Vera, what have you done?"
"It's honest money, Batya. I've been helping people at the track, doing favors that pay well.
Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. I told you.
" I have to avoid his eyes, but the lies flow easier now than they did six months ago.
I've had practice crafting explanations that sound plausible while revealing nothing of substance.
My father wants to believe me because the alternative—that his daughter has become involved with people who trade in violence and corruption—is too terrible to contemplate.
"What kind of favors require this much payment?" He picks up several bills, examining them as if they might reveal their source through close inspection. "Stable hands don't earn money handling horses. What aren't you telling me?"
"Some of the owners need help placing bets when they can't get to the windows themselves. They pay me a percentage for the service. It's perfectly legal."
"This much money comes with expectations, Vera. Rich men don't hand out fortunes to stable girls without wanting returns that go beyond placing their bets." I hear the fear in his tone and it makes me want to run out of here crying.
His concern carries the bitter wisdom of a man who has watched his homeland consume itself through corruption and violence. He fled Ukraine to escape the chaos that turns ordinary people into casualties, only to discover that Moscow operates by many of the same rules with greater sophistication.
"I can handle myself, Batya. I know what I'm doing." I lean down and kiss him on the forehead, hoping to reassure him.
"Do you? Or do you think you know while forces beyond your understanding pull strings that will eventually strangle you?"
The conversation could continue for hours, circling through the same arguments and fears without resolution. My father suspects the truth but lacks the courage to confront it directly. I continue lying because the alternative is watching my brother die while we maintain our moral superiority.
"Use the money for Elvin's treatments," I say, gathering the bills and placing them back in the envelope. "The new medication is working. The doctors say his numbers are improving."
My father's resistance crumbles at the mention of his son's condition.
Elvin represents everything we came to Russia seeking—opportunity, hope, the chance for a better life than the one we left behind.
The cancer threatens to destroy those dreams along with his young body, turning our struggle for survival into a race against time that we're losing.
"The treatments are expensive, Vera. More expensive than your betting commissions should cover."
"I've been careful with money. Living simply, saving everything I can."
"And when the treatments end? When Elvin recovers, what happens to your generous employers? Do they simply disappear, leaving you to return to mucking stalls for subsistence wages?"
The question cuts deep because I have no answer.
I exist in a state of perpetual present tense, focused entirely on maintaining the flow of money that keeps my brother alive.
The future—what comes after recovery, what price I'll eventually pay for this devil's bargain—remains deliberately unconsidered.
"We'll manage when the time comes."
I leave him at the kitchen table, counting the money with trembling fingers, and head back to see Elvin.
The bedroom I share with my brother feels smaller each time I enter it.
Two narrow beds are separated by a nightstand that holds his medications in neat rows—pills that cost more than we could ever afford, treatments that insurance companies refuse to cover because they remain experimental despite their proven effectiveness.
Elvin lies propped against pillows that make his thinness more apparent.
The cancer has carved away the healthy weight he carried before diagnosis, leaving behind sharp angles and hollow spaces on his body that look unnatural.
His skin carries a gray pallor from months of chemotherapy, the toxic cure that kills indiscriminately in hopes of destroying malignant cells before healthy ones.
But his eyes remain bright, alert, filled with the determination that has carried him through treatments that would break stronger men. At seventeen, he possesses wisdom and courage that shame adults who complain about minor inconveniences.
"How was work?" he asks, and he tries to sit up, but I press a hand to his shoulder and he relaxes.
"Good. Quiet day at the stables." I sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in mine. The bones feel fragile beneath skin that seems too thin to contain them. "The horses were restless. Storm coming, probably."
"You look different tonight. Happy, maybe? Or nervous."
My brother reads faces the way other people read books, finding meaning in expressions and micro-movements that reveal hidden thoughts. The skill developed during his illness, when reading the faces of doctors and family members became crucial to understanding his own prognosis.
"I have plans tonight. Meeting someone for drinks."
His face brightens with the first genuine smile I've seen in weeks. "Someone special?"
"Potentially." I can't hide my own grin. The stranger—whose name I never caught—was mesmerizing. "He seems… different. Interested in horses, knowledgeable about the business. We had a good conversation yesterday."
"You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are, Vera. You've given up everything for Batya and me. It's time you had something for yourself."
The guilt twists in my chest as I realize how my criminal activities have become, in his eyes, evidence of my sacrifice and dedication to family.
He believes I work long hours and live simply to pay for his treatments.
He sees nobility where corruption festers, heroism where collaboration with criminals slowly destroys my soul.
"I'm not giving up anything I can't spare."
"You're twenty-five years old and you've never had a serious relationship because you spend every free moment working or worrying about me. That's not sustainable, Sister. I won't recover fast enough to make your loneliness worthwhile."
"You are recovering. The doctors confirmed it yesterday. The new treatment is working exactly as they hoped."
"And when I'm healthy, what then? Will you finally allow yourself to be happy? Or will you find new reasons to deny yourself the life you should be living?"
The question challenges assumptions I've made about duty and sacrifice. Elvin sees clearly what I've hidden from myself—that my devotion to his survival has become a prison that confines me to an existence measured entirely by his needs.
"I should get ready," I say, standing before the conversation can probe deeper into territory I'm not prepared to explore. "He's meeting me at seven thirty."
"What's his name?"
The question stops me at the bedroom door. I realize I know almost nothing about the man I'm meeting beyond his apparent interest in horses and his ability to make me feel valued during a brief conversation. The recognition should concern me more than it does.
"Not sure yet. He owns horses that race at Podsolnukh."
"Rich, then. Be careful, Vera. Wealthy men sometimes expect returns on their investments in women."
The warning carries uncomfortable resonance given my actual relationship with money and the people who provide it.
But this man feels different from Sonya and her cold calculations.
He looked at me as if I mattered beyond my utility, as if my thoughts and opinions held value independent of their usefulness to his agenda.
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can. Just… remember that you deserve to be treated well. Don't settle for someone who sees you as a convenience rather than a partner."
I kiss his forehead, tasting the salt and medication that cling to his skin. The gesture feels too much like a benediction, a blessing from someone whose survival depends on my willingness to compromise every principle our parents taught us.
The mirror in the bathroom reflects a woman I barely recognize.
The stable work has kept me lean and strong, but months of stress have carved lines around my eyes that make me appear older than my twenty-five years.
I apply makeup carefully, trying to disguise the exhaustion that comes from living multiple lives simultaneously.
The dress I choose is simple but flattering, dark blue fabric that complements my eyes while maintaining the understated elegance appropriate for casual drinks.
I own few clothes suitable for anything beyond work, but this dress survived from before Elvin's diagnosis, from a time when I believed my life might eventually include normal experiences with normal men.
The walk to Medved takes fifteen minutes through streets that grow progressively cleaner as they approach the area where successful Russians spend money on entertainment.
The bar occupies the ground floor of a building that caters to customers who measure expenses in hundreds rather than single rubles, a place Sonya might drink if she chose to socialize with people beneath her economic status.
I arrive eight minutes late, my nerves making punctuality impossible despite my best intentions. The anxiety feels different from the fear that accompanies my work with Sonya—cleaner, more hopeful, carrying the possibility of positive outcomes rather than guaranteed catastrophe.
When I walk in, he is waiting, seated at a booth by himself, a single rose lying on the table in front of him, and it takes my breath away when he smiles at me.
Everything else is suddenly secondary, and I smile back, hoping to God in heaven that this evening is somewhat of an escape. Lord knows I need it.