PROLOGUE 1918
W
e are running through the snow. The moon lost among the trees. Black and skeletal, their branches lash my face. But it’s the dog I fear the most. His frantic howls coming closer and closer. My mother grips my small hand so tightly it hurts. Her terror-filled voice keeps saying: “God will protect us. God will protect us.” I stumble and fall. The snow is cold and unforgiving. When my mother reaches for me, her face is as rigid as stone. It’s then I know she’s dead.