Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 8

  Mykhail met Taras halfway, and immediately noticed a grimace on his face, a seriousness that didn’t sit well.

  “You too?” Mykhail said. “The Red Army?”

  “All the younger men in the village.”

  “So, what are you going to do? Are you going to join?”

  Taras shrugged his shoulders. Then he looked down at his dirty boots and gave a few reluctant nods. He motioned to a nearby felled log and they both sat on it.

  “What else can I do?” Taras said. “I’m no revolutionary. All I want to do is sow and harvest. Perhaps if I join I can stay out of trouble. Perhaps the war will be swift and I’ll return.” He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You?”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

  “And?”

  Mykhail shrugged. “I’m still not sure.”

  “You haven’t come across Borys, then?”

  “Borys? He’s been conscripted too?”

  Taras nodded. “He came here earlier. He said he went to see you, to talk to you, but there was nobody home.”

  “We were all in the far field.”

  “He said he ripped up his conscript papers in front of the official.”

  “My God! Really?”

  “You know the way he feels about the Russians. He was still angry when I spoke with him. He said he would rather die than fight with the Red Army. That’s what he told the official too.”

  “So he’s going to join the nationalists?”

  “He said it’s his destiny to fight for his country—Ukraine. That’s what he went to see you about. And he gave me a message if I were to see you first. He said you need to meet him an hour before sunset at the clock tower if you want to join the nationalists with him.”

  “Did he ask you too?”

  “Borys knows how I feel. He accepted it. We shook hands.” Taras frowned. “You know how long Borys and I have been good friends. And soon we could be shooting at each other, trying to kill one another. And that’s without dealing with the Germans. It’s crazy. But war is always crazy.”

  They both stood up, and Mykhail held a hand out. “I can only do the same,” he said. “Whatever happens, we’re friends. And after the war we’ll still be friends.”

  They shook hands, and Mykhail noticed fear twitching the flesh around his friend’s eye. “We’ll both live to drink together again,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  They both tried to laugh, then said goodbye, and Mykhail returned home.

  Later that day, just as Mykhail opened the farmhouse door and was about to leave, his papa appeared behind him.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  Mykhail said nothing, just glanced over at the sun, low in the sky.

  “You haven’t decided, have you?”

  He shook his head. He’d told his parents what Taras and Borys were doing. All they’d said was that he had to make up his own mind, to try not to be influenced by his friends. “I’ll decide on the way,” he said. “I promise.”

  “You either fight alongside Taras or you fight alongside Borys. Either way you’ll end up fighting the other one. That’s some decision.”

  “I know. But whatever happens, they’re both friends and compatriots. And I should say goodbye to Borys.”

  “Of course you should. So go.”

  Mykhail’s mama appeared and hugged him. “Don’t be too long. I want a final evening with my one and only son.”

  “Of course, Mama. I’ll be back at sunset.”

  The journey was less than a mile but seemed much longer. As he turned the corner he spotted Borys waiting for him at the clock tower.

  He also passed half a dozen soldiers or armed guards—he wasn’t sure which. They seemed to be going from person to person and door to door, asking questions.

  It didn’t take them long, Mykhail thought. Power has gone to their heads.

  He walked on toward Borys, and the first thing the two men did—before a word was spoken—was shake hands.

  “I hear you had a visitor too,” Borys said.

  Mykhail nodded. “And I hear that you . . . declined the invitation?”

  Borys laughed. “You should have seen the man’s face. I tell you, he was so angry. God, he was trembling so much I thought his stupid Stalin mustache was going to explode.” He straightened his face. “But enough of this. Have you decided what you’re going to do—whose side you’re on?”

  Mykhail’s jaw dropped, and stayed there. He could see Borys’s nostrils twitching in anticipation, the rest of his face frozen.

  Before Mykhail could speak, he heard shouts coming from behind him. He went to turn but was flung to the side before he got the chance.

  Three men appeared in front of him—three of the men he’d seen before, asking questions. He could now see they were soldiers, and all three were pointing their rifles at Borys.

  “Hands on your head!” one shouted.

  Borys waited for the man to shout it a second time, then did as he was told, but slowly and with a dark scowl.

  Mykhail stepped forward, but the butt of a rifle in the stomach winded him. Gasping to recover, he pulled back, and the man turned his attention to Borys again.

  “You are Borys Popovych of Dyovsta?”

  Again, Borys didn’t hurry to react. “And . . . what of it?”

  “You are hereby charged with defacing official government documents.”

  Borys narrowed his eyes at them. “My conscription papers? If that’s what you mean, they aren’t official papers. This is Ukraine, not Russia.”

  One of the soldiers nodded to the other two, who pounced on Borys, one pulling him by the arm, one pointing a rifle at his back.

  Mykhail felt his stomach turning in on itself as he watched them drag Borys away and throw him into the back of a truck. He went to the truck, running at first, then slowing to a tentative walk and holding his hands up as a rifle was pointed in his direction.

  “Where are you going?” he shouted. “Where are you taking him?”

  The soldier ignored him, but lowered the rifle and headed for the front of the truck.

  “Please!” Mykhail quickened his pace, keeping his hands high. “Where are you taking him?”

  The soldier opened the cab door and rested his hand on it as he addressed Mykhail. “He’s going where all the anti-Soviet insurgents go. Prison.”

  “For ripping up papers? He hasn’t done any harm. It’s all talk.”

  “Oh, he’s been talking all right—to the other agitators. He’s an enemy of the people.”

  “But . . .”

  The soldier pointed at the truck. “Do you want to come too? We have room.”

  “Just tell me which prison you’re taking him to.”

  “He’s going to Kiev.”

  Mykhail held his head in his hands as he watched the truck drive off.

  Mykhail got home just as the golden ring of sun was about to plunge below the horizon.

  His parents turned and stared at him as he stood by the door.

  “I’ve decided,” he said. “I’m joining the Red Army.”

  Mama let out a sharp gasp and held a hand over her face.

  “Please don’t cry,” Mykhail said to her. “It’s for the best.”

  “I know,” she murmured, and wiped away a few tears.

  “And what about Borys and Taras?” Papa said.

  Mykhail was flustered for a second, then said, “You were right about self-preservation.”

  Papa nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a practical decision.”

  “I’m still scared,” Mama said. “Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “I can’t promise that, Mama.” He saw her face start to collapse, then added, “But I’ll try.”

  “So, come sit down,” Papa said. “It’s your final night here. We can—”

  “His final night until he returns on leave,” Mama said.

  “That’s what I meant, of course. We’ll ge
t out the vodka and the playing cards.”

  Mykhail suffered a restless night, with thoughts of Borys—and his own future—churning in his mind. He gave up trying to sleep and got up. Before sunrise, while his parents were still sleeping, he went outside and took a last look at the fields and the livestock.

  The memories whirled around in his head of the sunny days spent working on the land, as well as the rainy ones when his boots became encased in mud. There were also the games of hide-and-seek with the children of neighboring farms, and the races through the long meadow grasses. Even those torturous days laboring in the sun now seemed magical.

  He gave the horse a last brush, and couldn’t resist giving the tractor a farewell pat on the seat. He smiled to himself as he did this, then jumped up onto it. A final sit for old time’s sake.

  For a few seconds he was a young child again, with a lust for learning about this new metal beast—an enthusiasm he shared with his old friend Asher.

  No, his best friend Asher.

  Asher was long gone, but not forgotten. The games, the fights, the fishing trips, and, yes, even the day when they’d been robbed and had tried to cover for each other.

  “Good morning.”

  Mykhail turned to see his papa standing in the doorway of the tractor barn.

  “Volunteering for a quick shift before you go?”

  Mykhail nodded. “Put me down for one later in the year—I’ll be back by then.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “I was just thinking of old times.” Mykhail caressed the steering wheel, just as he’d done when it had been brand new. “And of Asher.”

  Papa dropped his smile and turned away for a moment. When he turned back, Mykhail noticed his face was a little flushed and he was blinking.

  “Papa? Are you okay?”

  His papa nodded, but with no great conviction.

  “Are you upset because I’m joining the army, or upset because I’m joining the Russians?”

  Papa let out a laugh, and a crooked smile appeared on his face.

  “I know how much you hate them,” Mykhail said.

  “Mykhail, sit down for a moment.”

  They sat side by side on a rough wooden bench. Papa patted his son’s knee. “Perhaps I should explain something before you go. It’s something you should know.”

  Mykhail said nothing, and stilled himself to listen.

  “You asked a few times why you were an only child. You see, after your mama had you, we waited a couple of years before trying to give you a little brother or sister, but by then we were living in the shadow of the Russians, and times were hard. We waited as long as we could and tried again, but along came the Holodomor. Thanks to the Russians we were starving, just like everyone else in Ukraine, and she . . . she miscarried.”

  Mykhail saw redness around his papa’s eyes, then he blinked and a teardrop fell to the dust.

  “We tried again the next year, but still the great famine continued, so we had the same results. And after that, she . . . didn’t have the heart to try again. For many years I hated the Russians—for that and for many other things, but mainly for that.”

  “And now?”

  “Age dulls your hatred. You see things differently. And, I guess, there’s a level of acceptance.”

  “So I’m an only child because of the Russians?”

  Papa stood up, and motioned for his son to do the same.

  But Mykhail stayed seated. “I’m confused,” he muttered, shaking his bowed head. “You tell me that about the Russians, and now I’m fighting on their side?”

  “Nothing has changed,” Papa said. “The arguments are the same. What choice do you have?”

  “What choice?”

  “You have the choice of self-preservation or self-destruction. I know what I and your mama both want.”

  Mykhail took a long breath to settle a heart that was running away. “But I feel like I’m betraying you.”

  “Nonsense. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. Now, come on. A final breakfast. Your mama’s waiting. She has sweet egg bread and meat sausage.”

  It took a while, and Papa waited without speaking, but eventually Mykhail stood up and forced himself to smile. “A final breakfast,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  After breakfast, Mykhail fetched his sack of clothes and dropped it by the door. He turned to Mama and was immediately engulfed in her arms.

  She swallowed away her sorrow and told him to look after himself.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back before the end of the year.”

  Mama nodded, but kept her mouth tightly shut.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few months, definitely.”

  “Definitely,” she repeated, her face creasing up.

  Then Papa opened the door and ushered him out. He followed, then shut the door, leaving Mama inside. Mykhail stopped, puzzled.

  “Your mama says she can’t watch you walk away,” Papa said.

  They shook hands, and embraced.

  “There’s something else,” Papa said as he stepped away. “Something else I need to tell you. A confession of sorts, I guess.”

  “Go on,” Mykhail said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Papa rubbing his silvered stubble as he bowed his head. “It’s . . . it’s about your old friend Asher—your best friend Asher.”

  “What about him?”

  “I did it for the best, Mykhail. I was thinking of you.”

  Mykhail shrugged, too puzzled to speak.

  “After he left for Warsaw, he . . . he sent you some letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “I burned them.”

  Mykhail paused to take in the words. “You burned them? You burned my letters?”

  “I know it was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “I thought it best you didn’t read them. I wanted you to forget him, Mykhail. I didn’t want you to have false hope.”

  The men stood face to face for a few moments.

  “It’s something I regret,” Papa said. “But it’s something you should know.”

  Mykhail looked him in the eye; he saw sadness and a little shame.

  “And now you have more important things to worry about.”

  Mykhail aimlessly flicked dry dirt with the toe of his boot, then looked in the direction of the village center. He nodded, then again, more firmly. “You’re right. It’s not important now.”

  They shook hands, and Papa gave him a slap on the shoulder. Mykhail turned and started walking.

  Chapter 10

  Warsaw, Poland, 1941

  Conditions in the Jewish sector of Warsaw had started badly and deteriorated.

  Almost a year had passed since the Kogans were forcibly moved there. By now, food was scarce and sanitation poor, allowing disease to rip through the district like an icy gale. Even the strong needed luck; the weak stood no chance.

  Since the end of paid employment, Asher and his papa had settled into a routine of sorts. Thoughts of theaters and playing sports were long forgotten; they took any work that paid in food or anything that could be exchanged for food—digging trenches, loading carts and trucks, moving anything to anywhere. Nothing was beneath them—including the job few people were prepared to do: burying the increasing number of dead. But even that work was now petering out, so they begged. Sometimes the whole family begged, but half the time they were doing nothing but begging from people who had nothing to give.

  Nevertheless, it was the only way to survive. They would start out by picking an area of the sector and standing on opposite sides of an intersection, where they could watch out for one another, their caps in their hands, asking passers-by for loose change. If the day was going well they would stay there; if not they would separate, each making their own choice of where to go.

  On a drizzly day in summer the begging was going very badly; Asher had one coin in his cap, his papa nothing. So they separated, Papa going south, Asher g
oing northeast toward the river, hoping that a little of the breeze brought down the river might enliven him—perhaps, even, that conditions might be better there.

  They weren’t.

  As he trudged along street after street, the picture was the same. Yes, there were shops, but most had little for sale—a stale loaf here, a handful of sprouting potatoes there, old clothes of dubious history, bottles of milk yellowing with age. There were also just as many beggars in this area of the sector, and although many people rushed back and forth, very few had change to toss into the proffered caps. So Asher was spending more time gazing blankly into rain-streaked shop windows than he was begging; it hardly seemed worth the effort.

  He heard it only a few blocks away from the easternmost wall. He walked toward it, hardly believing it, but still hopeful even as the shouts from a beggar on a street corner masked the sound. He continued on, and there it was again. He moved even closer, quickening his pace, and yes, it was definitely a violin, and it didn’t sound like just any violin. This was no sorry, sad tune being played as a lament, but jolly, almost comical music. Comical, at least, in the mind of anyone used to dark Ukrainian humor.

  Asher turned corner after corner, once doubling back on himself, unsure exactly where the music was coming from.

  And then he found her, standing under a canopy next to the wall. She was even slimmer than she’d been in the Café Baran days. Her hair was matted and grayed by dust and dirt, her dress smudged and smeared with grime. But this was Izabella, her half-smile so incongruous in such filthy surroundings, yet still so strong and resilient in its joyfulness. And this was her music, no less beautiful than it had been before, almost rebellious in its message to the occupying forces. It was as if she were pronouncing to the Germans that she, at least, would not be beaten.

  At first Asher could do nothing but stand back and watch, but after a few minutes he approached her. She looked up and her smile blossomed to fullness.

  Was she smiling at him? He glanced around furtively, unsure of her and aware his face was reddening. He wanted to run, but also wanted to stay there forever. He froze for a few seconds, then reached into his pocket, plucking out the one coin he’d earned that day. He stepped forward and dropped it onto the small square of cloth at her feet.