The woman hitched up her skirt and continued kneading the dough. Her kids ran around, chasing each other in a quiet pantomime of the real game. They knew too well about bruises and broken bones - presents from their father if they were too loud. The woman cast a sour glance at her husband, asleep in the corner of their shack, his skinny chicken legs peeking out from under his discolored Long Johns. Outside, the snowstorm raged on, driving the sky to an ugly gray color. Rather like one of my bruises, the woman thought, with a little flash of anger. She rubbed the small of her back (which still hadn’t recovered from the “rearrangement” her husband had done two winters ago). “Mama Mama”, a little voice squeaked next to her. “Da, my little p rintsessa ?” “Do mice wear shoes?” The woman didn’t know what to make of that. Mice? In this Russian winter? Her first thought was the beating her husband would give her if he noticed any holes in his sweaters. Ivan di
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