The Orphanage

BOOKS BY SERHIY ZHADAN IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

The Orphanage
What We Live For, What We Die For
Mesopotamia
Voroshilovgrad
Depeche Mode
The Orphanage
A Novel

SERHIY ZHADAN

TRANSLATED FROM THE UKRAINIAN

B Y R E I L L Y C O S T I G A N - ­H U M E S A N D

ISAAC STACKHOUSE WHEELER

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW HAVEN & LONDON

The Margellos World Republic of Letters is dedicated to making literary works
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English translation © 2021 by Reilly Costigan-­Humes and Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler.

All rights reserved.
The original Ukrainian edition was first published under the title Інтернат by Meridian
Czernowitz, Chernivtsi in 2017. © Serhij Zhadan 2017. © Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin 2018.
All rights reserved by and controlled through Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin.

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The Orphanage
This page intentionally left blank
 “Go pick him up!” Pasha’s dad yells.
“He’s her son. She oughta pick him up,” Pasha retorts.
“He’s your nephew,” the old-­timer reminds him.
“So what?”
“And he’s my grandson.”
And the television is on the whole time. He never turns the
television off, even at night. It’s like their very own eternal flame,
burning to commemorate the dead rather than entertain the living.
The old-­timer watches the weather report like he’s expecting they’ll
mention him by name. After it ends, he just sits there, like he can’t
believe what he’s heard. Pasha doesn’t really watch TV, especially
this past year—the news has been just plain scary. Pasha sits in his
room on a couch by his desk, surrounded by textbooks, until he can’t
stand it anymore. Then he jerks to his feet, goes outside. Springs
protrude from the couch like twigs from a Boy Scout’s campfire.
The furniture in the house is old, yet full of life—it’ll probably out-
live its owners. Pasha’s sister suggested they at least get some new
chairs, but he simply brushed her off. What’s the point of hauling
stuff around? That’s like doing pull-­ups when you’re seventy. Yeah,
sure, go right ahead, just make sure you take some ibuprofen first.
His sister hardly comes by anymore, so nobody’s talking about haul-
ing furniture around anymore either.
Pasha liked their house; he’d lived here his whole life and

3
planned to keep on living here. It was built by German POWs
shortly after the war—a rather spacious duplex on the second
street back from the train station. Their densely populated settle-
ment, which was mostly home to railroad workers, was built around
that station, so they’d often refer to their whole town as “the Sta-
tion”—it gave them work, it gave them hope, like a heart black-
ened by locomotive smoke, pumping the blood of the local gullies
and windbreaks. Life still revolved around the station, even now,
with the depot as empty as a drained swimming pool and the repair
shops unused, if you didn’t count the bums and swallows that slept
there. There just weren’t any jobs now. Sure, maybe they lived in a
so-­called workers’ settlement, but they were the first to find them-
selves out of work. The shops were shut down, and the people scur-
ried off in all directions, hiding in crowded apartment blocks with
wells dried up by the scorching summer and cellars where the sup-
plies had already run out by Christmas.
Pasha didn’t have anything to complain about, though—he
was on the government payroll. “Yep, yep,” Pasha thought as he
shut the front door, insulated with hospital blankets, behind him.
“I’m on the government payroll, even if I’m not actually getting
paid all that much.” The snow—blue-­pink with deep, dark pores—
reflects the evening sky and the approaching sunset. Sharp to the
touch, smells of March water, conceals black, viscous earth, renders
weather reports unnecessary—the winter will last long enough for
everyone to get accustomed to it, suck it up, and learn to cope. And
then something else will begin. For the time being, the world feels
like a lump of snow in someone’s warm hands; it melts, releases
its water, but the longer that goes on, the colder their hands get,
the less warm motion they retain, the more icy stillness seeps into

4
them. The water remains lethal, even as it melts. The sun drowns in
an intricate system of watery mirrors and reflections. Nobody can
really get warm—right after lunch, once the wet blaring of horns
announcing shift changes at the station subsides, twilight sets in,
and that illusory sensation of warmth, of a thaw, disappears again.
Pasha skirts the building and takes the soggy path through the
trees. They had always shared the duplex with a railroad worker.
Half the building belonged to him, half to Pasha’s tight-­
knit
family—mom, dad, Pasha, and his older sister. About fifteen years
ago, when Pasha’s family still all lived together, the railroad worker
burned his half down. They put the fire out before it got to their half.
The railroad worker didn’t feel like rebuilding—he went to the sta-
tion, caught a train heading east, and disappeared from their lives
forever. They knocked down his half of the building, whitewashed
the burned wall, and went on with their lives. From the outside,
the structure looked like half a loaf of bread on a store shelf. Pasha’s
old man always bought those half-­loaves so he wouldn’t have to pay
too much or have too much left over. Living by the railroad taught
him that.
Black trees in the snow, biting boughs against the red backdrop
of the sky, their street on the other side of the fence, the neigh-
bors’ little white houses, yellow lemons of electric light scattered
here and there, gardens, fences, fireplaces emitting smoke like the
warm January respiration of weary men standing out in the cold.
Empty streets, no one in sight, train cars being coupled together,
metal on metal, like someone rearranging iron furniture. And from
the south, from the direction of the city, sporadic blasts have been
coming in all day, since morning—sometimes intense, sometimes
diffuse. An echo ripples high up in the air. The acoustics are dis-

5
torted in the winter; you can never really tell where one is coming
from or where it’s hitting. Fresh air, the smell of damp trees, tense
silence. It only gets this quiet when everyone pipes down and starts
listening. Pasha counts to a hundred and heads back. Ten. There
were six last night. In the same interval. I wonder what they’ll say
on the news.
Pasha sees his dad in the kitchen. He’s standing hunched over
the table, packing an old duffel bag.
“Long trip ahead of ya?” Pasha asks.
What’s the point of asking, though? He’s going to pick up the
kid, obviously. He makes a big show of tossing things into his bag:
a newspaper (how can he reread old newspapers like that? It’s like
looking at a completed crossword), glasses (Pasha’s always hassling
him about those thick glasses that warp every image—“you might
as well wear sunglasses, you can’t see a damn thing anyway”), pen-
sion card (he’ll get a free senior citizen bus ticket if he’s lucky), his
cellphone, worn smooth like a rock in the sea, and a clean hand-
kerchief. The old-­timer washes and irons his handkerchiefs him-
self, doesn’t pass it off on his daughter. He takes out the ironing
board once a month and smooths out his handkerchiefs, grayed
by the passage of time, like he’s drying out devalued hryvnias that
have been through the washing machine. Pasha’s always getting his
old man tissues, but he keeps using his handkerchiefs—has been
since the days he worked at the station, when tissues just flat out
didn’t exist in this part of the world. He can hardly even use his cell-
phone, but he still takes it just about everywhere—beat-­up frame,
faded green button. Pasha puts minutes on there for him; he’s never
learned how. Now he’s folding everything meticulously, rooting
around in his bag, silently taking umbrage at something or other.

6
It’s getting harder and harder to deal with him—can’t even talk to
him without hurting his feelings. He’s like a little kid. Pasha walks
over to the stove, begins drinking right out of the teapot. All the
wells dried up in the summer. They’re too scared to drink from the
tap—who knows what’s floating around in the pipes now? So they
boil their water and steer clear of lakes and rivers. The old-­timer is
rooting around in his pockets, refusing to respond to Pasha.
“Fine,” Pasha says. “I’ll go get him.”
The old-­timer isn’t just going to roll over, though. He takes
out the newspaper, unfolds it, then folds it in four, and sticks it
back in his bag. Dry yellow fingers anxiously tear the paper; he’s all
hunched over the table, not even looking at Pasha, like he wants to
prove something, take on the whole world.
“Did you hear what I said? I’ll go pick him up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I said I’d pick him up,” Pasha repeats, a bit anxiously.
The old-­timer makes a big show of picking up his newspaper
and leaves, flinging open the door leading to the living room. A
strip of soft light from the television reaches the dark hallway. Then
he shuts the door abruptly, as though he’s locking himself inside an
empty fridge.

7
This page intentionally left blank
 DAY ONE

A January morning, long and motionless, like a line at the hos-

pital. Morning briskness in the kitchen, slate twilight outside. Pasha
walks over to the stove, and his nose instantly catches the sweetish
smell of gas. For Pasha that smell is always associated with vigor-
ous mornings—getting up for work, tossing textbooks and graded
assignments into his briefcase, ducking into the kitchen, breath-
ing in sweet gas, drinking strong tea, following it with black bread,
assuring himself he’s living the good life, and running off to work
once he’s fully convinced. That smell has been with him his whole
life; any time he wakes up somewhere outside his own home with-
out the morning stove, its aged burners crusted with ash, he has
no appetite. Pasha peers out the window, considers the black snow
and black sky, sits down at the table, and shakes his head, trying to
gather his wits. Six a.m., January, Monday, one more day with no
job to go to.
He grabs some assignments off the windowsill, leafs through
them, puts them back immediately, gets up, goes over to the main
room, peeks in. The old-­timer’s sleeping in his chair. A blood-­
drenched man is crying out to him from the screen, to no avail—
the sound’s been off since last night. Now you can’t get to him,
no matter how loud you yell. Pasha stops for a second, looks at the

9
blood. The yelling man shifts his eyes toward Pasha and starts yell-
ing at him—don’t turn it off, listen, this is important, it involves
you, too. But Pasha quickly finds the remote, squeezes the large red
button like he’s trying to get toothpaste out of the tube, tosses the
remote on the table, slips outside, and shuts the door carefully, so
as not to wake his dad. But the door still creaks menacingly in the
morning twilight. The old-­timer wakes up immediately, finds the
remote, and turns the TV back on. It’s showing something horrible,
something that involves everyone. Pasha’s already running up to
the station.

“Something’s off,” he thinks. “Something’s definitely off

around here.” Not a living soul, not a single voice. No locomotive
noise. No peddlers. It’s just above freezing, and water is leaking
from the dark blue snowbanks—clouds in the sky, moisture hang-
ing in the air, sometimes turning to barely perceptible drizzle, fog
settling on the far-­off tracks, no voices or footsteps coming out of
that fog. “It’s still early,” Pasha thinks, anxious. “It’s still early, that’s
all.” In the south, over there, by the city limits, a suspicious silence
has settled. No blasts, no shredded air. A bus comes around the cor-
ner. Pasha exhales in relief. The buses are running, everything’s fine.
Yeah, it’s just early, that’s all.
He nods to the driver, who tucks his head deeper into the collar
of his leather coat, then walks through the empty bus and takes a
seat on the left side. He sits for an instant, fidgets, then gets up and
moves over to the right. The driver observes all this warily, as though
he’s afraid of missing something important. Pasha locks eyes with
him in the rearview mirror, which pushes him to look away, fire up
the engine, and ease out the clutch. Disgruntled metal crunches,

10
and the bus gets moving. The driver takes a victory lap in the empty
fog, leaving the station behind. “They drive dead people to their fu-
nerals in buses like this,” Pasha thinks for some reason. “These same
buses, just with a black ribbon running along the windows. I won-
der if there’s any room for passengers? Or does the widow have to sit
on top of the coffin? Where’s this hearse gonna take me, anyway?”
The bus passes one empty street, then another. The market
should be up ahead; old ladies are always selling some kind of frost-
bitten food there. They turn a corner—no old ladies, no pedestrians.
Pasha’s starting to realize that something definitely is off, that some-
thing’s gone down, but he pretends everything is just fine. Come
on, don’t freak out. The driver takes great pains to avoid making eye
contact, goading the hearse through the fog and water. “Guess I
should have checked the news,” Pasha thinks, his anxiety mounting.
The thing is, there’s this silence—after all those days when the sky
in the south, over the city, looked like scorched rebar. It’s quiet and
empty, as if everyone just hopped on the night train and skipped
town. Now Pasha and the driver are the only ones left. They pass
two high-­rises built on sand, then an auto repair shop, then they
drive on out of the workers’ settlement. A long row of poplars leads
out to the highway—the poplars peek out of the fog like children
from behind their parents. The sun is moving somewhere up high,
it’s already appeared somewhere up there, even though you can’t
quite see it yet. You can feel it, though. You can’t feel anything else.
Pasha’s watchful eyes consider the dampness all around him, try-
ing to figure out what he’s missed and what that blood-­drenched
character was trying to communicate to him. The driver carefully
dodges some cold potholes, reaches the highway, and turns right.
The bus steals up to the stop, like usual. Generally, at least one per-

11
son gets on here, but not today. The driver stays put, probably out
of habit, without closing the doors, and then looks back at Pasha,
as if asking for his permission to continue. The doors close. They
get going, pick up speed—then there’s a checkpoint right in front
of them.
“Motherfucker,” the driver mutters.
The place is packed with soldiers. They’re standing behind
some cinder blocks, underneath some frayed national flags, word-
lessly looking toward the city. Just how many times has he driven
through this area over the past six months, since the government
returned after brief, intense fighting? When he was heading into
the city or coming back home to the Station, he had to wait for
them to check his papers—wait for trouble, that is. But they always
let Pasha through, without saying a word—he was a local, with the
papers to prove it. The government didn’t have a bone to pick with
him. Pasha had gotten used to the soldiers’ apathetic eyes, smooth,
mechanical movements, and black fingernails, and to the fact that
you had to hand over your papers and wait for your own country
to verify your standing as a law-­abiding citizen. The soldiers would
give Pasha his papers back, and he’d stuff them in his pocket, trying
not to make eye contact with anyone. Rain had washed the color
out of the national flags. It dissolved in the gray autumn air like
snow in warm water.
Pasha looks out the window and sees a jeep wrapped in dark
metal armor streaking past them. Three men with assault rifles
hop out of the jeep and run toward the pack of people clumped
together up ahead, paying no mind to the express hearse. The sol-
diers are standing there, yelling back and forth, grabbing binocu-
lars out of each other’s hands, scanning the highway, straining their

12
eyes, red from smoke and sleepless nights, framed by deep wrinkles.
But the highway is empty, so empty it’s unsettling. There’s generally
always somebody driving through, even though the city’s been com-
pletely surrounded for a long period of time and the ring is tighten-
ing, someone or other is always making a run for the city or coming
back along the only road. Mostly soldiers transporting ammunition
or volunteers taking all sorts of useless crap like winter clothes or
cold medicine from here, the north, where there isn’t any fight-
ing, to the besieged city. Who needs cold medicine in a city getting
pounded by heavy artillery, a city that’s going to fall any day now?
But that wasn’t stopping anyone; every once in a while, a whole con-
voy would leave the mainland and make a run for the besieged area.
Sometimes they’d come under fire, which was to be expected. It was
obvious that the city would fall, the government troops would be
forced to retreat and take the flags of Pasha’s country with them, and
the front line would shift to the north, toward the station, and death
would come a few miles closer. But did anyone actually care? Even
civilians mustered up the courage to make a run for the city over
the crumbling asphalt of the highway. The soldiers tried to talk them
out of it, but nobody around here really trusted the soldiers. You
just couldn’t tell people anything, they all thought they knew best.
You’d see some old-­timer hiking all the way into town in the middle
of a mortar attack to file some paperwork for his pension. Well, if it
comes down to death or bureaucracy, sometimes death is the right
call. Sometimes the soldiers would get irritated enough to block off
the crossings, but long lines would form at the checkpoints as soon
as the shelling abated. Then they’d have to let people through.
Now the highway is completely empty. Seems like something’s
happening over there, in the city, something scary enough it’s even

13
deterring the taxi drivers and speculators. A pack of unshaven men,
pissed off from sleepless nights and fighting without gaining or
losing ground, are standing by cinder blocks and barbed wire, and
they’re all yelling to vent their hatred. One tall soldier emerges from
the group and heads toward their bus, frenzied eyes beneath his
oversized helmet, frenzied and open, wide open with fear, prob-
ably. He thrusts his hand forward. Stop, don’t move. They aren’t
moving, though—they’re standing still, holding their breath. Sud-
denly, there’s so much space inside the bus, and the air is so thin.
Gulp down as much as you can, it still won’t be enough. The sol-
dier walks over to the doors and smacks the metal with his hand.
The bus echoes like a sunken submarine. The driver opens the door
a bit too abruptly.
“Where the fuck are you goin’?” the soldier shouts as he ducks
into the bus. He’s forced to hunch over a bit, so his helmet slips
down over his eyes, and Pasha senses something familiar about him.
Where does he remember him from? “Where have I seen him be-
fore?” Pasha asks himself. The soldier gives him a dirty look, comes
over, adjusts his helmet, rubs his eyes, and yells right in Pasha’s face.
“Papers! Papers, for fuck’s sake!”
Pasha rummages through his pockets and suddenly, there are
pockets everywhere. He gets lost in them, can’t find anything ex-
cept junk—the wet wipes he uses to clean the mud off his shoes
when he gets to school, printed lesson plans, and a slip informing
him that his package is ready for pickup at the post office. “Yep,
yep,” Pasha thinks, looking into the soldier’s eyes in terror. “Gotta
pick up that package, package, package. I completely forgot.” His
skin is instantly cold and clammy, as if it’s him, all of him, getting
scrubbed with a wet wipe.

14
 “Well?” the soldier yells, hovering over him.
The thing is, Pasha can’t seem to figure out what language he’s
speaking. The words are bursting out of him, choppy and broken—
no intonation, no detectable accent—he’s just hollering, like he’s
trying to cough up some mucus. “He must be speaking the official
language.” Some unit from Zhytomyr was stationed here a month
back. They were Ukrainian speakers, so they laughed at him for slid-
ing back and forth between languages. “Are they those same guys?
They’ve gotta be,” goes Pasha’s frenzied line of reasoning as he looks
into the soldier’s enraged eyes that reflect his fear back at him.
“Forgot ’em . . . ,” Pasha says.
“What?” The soldier doesn’t believe him.
The driver leaps out of his seat, still unsure what to do with
himself. Run for it or stay put? Pasha doesn’t know what to do with
himself either. He’s thinking, “How could this be? Just how could
this be?”
Somebody’s shouting outside, a sharp, prolonged shout that
makes the soldier shudder. He turns around and bolts off the bus,
shoving the driver, who falls down into his seat and then springs to
his feet again and darts after the soldier. Pasha darts off the bus too,
and all of them run over to the pack, which suddenly falls silent and
makes way for them. Then men—one at a time, two abreast, large
groups—start emerging into view from the south, the direction of
the besieged city, like they’re pushing out of an invisible patch of
turbulence. They’re coming this way, plodding away from the hori-
zon and moving toward the pack that stands and waits wordlessly.
Barely visible at first over there on the horizon, they grow gradually,
like shadows in the afternoon. Nobody’s looking through binocu-
lars anymore, and nobody’s yelling—it’s like they’re afraid of dis-

15
turbing this procession as it slowly strings out to fill up three hun-
dred yards of highway. The men are moving at a measured pace; at
first they seem to be in no rush, but it soon becomes apparent that
they simply cannot go any faster: they’re exhausted and this last
stretch is taking too much out of them. But they have to keep going,
so they do, forging on doggedly, moving toward their flag, out of the
valley, toward the checkpoint, like people walking along the high-
way because they got kicked off the bus for trying to get a free ride.
It’s as if time has sped up, and everything’s happening so quickly
that nobody even has a chance to feel scared or happy. The first
group is approaching the paint-­stained cinder blocks, while more of
them continue appearing on the horizon, descending the slope and
then moving upward again, heading north to join their buddies.
The closer they come, the more distinct their features become, and
the quieter it gets, because you can see their eyes now, and there’s
nothing good in those eyes—just exhaustion and frost. Their breath
is so cold that you can’t even see it rising from their mouths. Faces
black with dirt, the bright whites of their eyes. Helmets, torn black
winter hats. Handkerchiefs, gray from brick dust, wrapped around
their necks. Weapons, belts, empty pockets, bags hoisted over their
shoulders, hands black with motor oil, shoes smeared with pulver-
ized brick and soggy black earth. As they approach, the men in the
first group glare at the ones standing and waiting for them, their
eyes reproachful, mistrustful, like they’re the ones at fault. It’s as
though everything should have played out differently—the men
who’ve just arrived should’ve been standing under the low-­hanging
January sky, looking toward the south, at the horizon, where there’s
nothing but dirt and death. The first guy to arrive walks over to the

16
pack, thrusts his fist into the air, and starts yelling, like he’s berating
the gods for their bad behavior, the fury of his curses and threats
mounting. Tears trickle down his face, washing his skin. The pack
makes room for the newcomers, who blend into it, like dirty river
water blending into the clear ocean. The pack can no longer fit be-
tween the cold cinder blocks; the first guy keeps standing in the
middle of the crew, clamoring about injustice and revenge, about
surrendering the city, about abandoning it and everyone who lives
there, just handing it to them, backing down, buckling under the
pressure, retreating, and escaping from the trap. The ones who got
out are doing fine. But what about the guys stuck back there on
those blasted streets? What should we do about them? What about
them? Who’s going to get them out of there?
“So we just hung them out to dry? We just ran and gave up the
city? How can you do a thing like that? Who’s going to answer for
it?” he yells, without lowering his fist. “Olezha, my pal Olezha . . .
I didn’t even have time to throw some dirt on his body or drag him
into the snow. He’s still lying there, all burnt up, by the gas station.
I just left him. Who’s gonna drag him out of there? Who’s gonna
take care of him?” he yells, threatening a raincloud with his fist.
He keeps carrying on until a newcomer squeezes past and knocks
him upside the head. Shut your goddamn trap. We’re already hurt-
ing here without your bullshit. Then everyone starts talking at the
same time—asking questions, answering, being led over to the bus
to warm up, getting wrapped in old burnt blankets. Suddenly, yet
another group pops out by the checkpoint, carrying a stretcher on
their shoulders, and on the stretcher is a guy who’s so ripped up and
bloody that Pasha just averts his eyes. Some officer type starts yell-

17
ing that they need an ambulance. An ambulance—around here?
The fresher soldiers from the checkpoint intercept the stretcher and
take it over to the bus. “Take him to the Station. Come on, get a
move on,” they yell at the driver. Pasha thinks that may be his best
bet—heading back home—so he steps toward the bus, but there’s
already a soldier standing by the doors. Without a glance, he shoves
Pasha, who sees the stretcher being carefully carried into the bus;
Pasha glimpses sticky hair, a sugary white bone, like someone sliced
open a melon and dumped out its sweet insides—he glimpses a
contorted hand latching on to the stretcher, clinging to it like only
someone clinging to life can.
The driver tries to turn around, but the pack is swaying back
and forth; everyone’s yelling and getting in the way, getting in the
way and yelling, and mostly yelling at others for getting in the way.
Eventually, somebody issues a command; the pack shifts and creeps
off to the side. The bus turns around and disappears. Pasha’s jostled
to the side of the road; he’s trying, fecklessly, to break out of the
pack when somebody standing behind him says, “Gimme a light.”
It’s a soldier with no helmet and dirty silvery hair.
“Don’t have one,” Pasha replies.
“What do ya got?” The soldier’s not letting him go. Pasha auto-
matically reaches into his pocket and produces his papers.
Pasha stands on the shoulder, the dirt torn up by truck tires and
tank treads, and tries to recall where he’s seen those fingers before.
Contorted, lifeless, but clinging to life. He remembers immedi­
ately—a week ago, on the last day of classes. It was just a week ago.
Everything was the same as it is now—brisk wind, pale January sun.
Somebody is calling him into the hallway. He steps out. Teachers
are herding their students back into their classrooms. The kids bolt

18
toward the windows to see what’s going on. He glances back at his
kids.
“All right now, keep it down. I’ll be right back,” he yells. But
nobody’s listening to him. The principal, her sickly body sway-
ing laboriously, rushes past Pasha. He runs after her; they go out
onto the front steps and stop. A jeep full of soldiers is parked by the
school. No license plates. Just a military motto, painted white on
black. Pasha’s no expert on military mottoes, so he doesn’t really
know who these guys are. They could be with one of the volunteer
battalions, or maybe the National Guard. The flag on the jeep is the
same as the one on their school. The town hasn’t changed hands.
The feverish soldiers are running around and making some
calls; the man in charge walks over to the principal, takes her firmly
by the arm, leads her away from the entrance, and starts talking, his
voice cold. Pasha catches fragments of their conversation. The sol-
dier’s laying out his terms, not asking for permission.
“No. Can’t go anywhere else . . . has to be here . . . where you
are . . . it’s you we’re here to protect . . . call whoever you want . . .
get Kyiv on the line for all I care.” The principal slumps in her black
suit, and her face goes gray, which makes her look even older. She’d
like to object, but she just can’t do it. She turns toward Pasha, seem-
ingly expecting him to back her up. The soldier pats Pasha on the
shoulder as he passes, and school chalk dust rises from his scholas-
tic blazer.
Then an old army ambulance, brown like a soggy meatloaf,
pulls up to the school. Soldiers start unloading the wounded, heave
them over their shoulders like merchants handling bags of goods—
apparently, there aren’t any stretchers—trudge up the steps and
down the empty, echoing hallway. They turn left, and their clay-­

19
smeared combat boots kick open the first classroom. The Ukrai-
nian language classroom. Pasha’s classroom. The classroom where
Pasha teaches kids. The wounded are placed right on the floor, in
between the desks. Shortly thereafter, Pasha sprints in after them
and dismisses the class. The scared kids step over fresh blood and
then jostle in the hallway. Pasha steps out, too.
“Go home, quit standing around.” He’s speaking Russian, as he
always does in the hallway, outside of class. Then he opens the door
apprehensively. The classroom smells of mud and blood, snow and
earth. Soldiers bring in blankets and warm things, shove the desks
into the middle of the room and the wounded toward the walls.
Another soldier walks into the classroom, a machine gun on
his shoulder, lips clamped around a cigarette. Black hair, eyes dark,
which makes them look mistrustful, dust eating into the wrinkles
on his face; the only other guys Pasha has seen that looked like that
were coal miners coming up to the surface. He casually surveys
the wounded, notices Pasha, nods, and says hello. He speaks with a
thick Caucasian accent and mixes up Ukrainian and Russian, but
he tries to be friendly, as if he really cares whether Pasha believes
him. He translates some words from Russian to Ukrainian as soon as
he gets them out, trying his best, like he’s taking a language exam.
Hey, Teach, don’t be scared. We won’t let ’em take your school.
We’ll protect you, so you can keep teaching your kids.
“Who are those guys?” The machine gunner nods at the por-
traits on the classroom wall.
“Poets,” Pasha answers, tentatively.
“Poets, huh? Well there you go. They any good?” The machine
gunner asks in a doubtful tone.
“They’re dead,” Pasha answers.

20
 “Perfect.” The machine gunner chuckles. “The only good
poet’s a dead poet.”
He carefully opens the window as though he wants to air out
the room and deploys his weapon on the sill. Pasha gathers his stu-
dents’ assignments and tosses them into his briefcase. As he’s about
to leave, his eye is drawn to one of the wounded men who’s been
placed by the recently painted radiator—two fuzzy blankets with
crusty bloodstains, an old tattered sleeping bag, head facing the
wall, only his greasy hair and unshaven face visible, the torn sleeve
of his army jacket lying right there, patches of dirty skin marked with
little cuts between bandages, left hand poking out of the sleeping
bag, exposed; just like when a passenger in a sleeper car stretches his
hand out from under the blanket that encases his motionless body.
That blanket re-­creates the protrusion of his knees and the indenta-
tion of his stomach like the Epitaphios re-­creates Christ’s body. The
nakedness of this battered male body stands out among the bundles
and warm clothing tossed on the desks nearby.
“Here and now,” Pasha thinks. His skinny, pale hand, dotted
with sparse hairs, looks so out of place against the classroom floor
with its new coat of paint from the summer, against the desks and
the blackboard, clinging to the sleeping bag, too afraid to release
it, as though that sleeping bag is the last thing linking him to life.
Pasha can’t look away from the long, black fingers—all cut up and
roughed up and tinted a gasoline blue. Then a brisk, wintry breeze
rushes inside, shaking the window frame, but the machine gunner
holds it open. Pasha remembers where he is and quickly steps out
into the hallway, straight into the principal’s embrace.
“Pasha, Pasha,” she cries, grabbing him by the arm. “How could
this be? Tell them to go.”

21
 It hits Pasha that even her tears are fake. “She doesn’t know
how to cry,” he thinks. “She just doesn’t know how it’s done. Well,
she doesn’t know how to laugh either.”
“Tell them to leave, you have to tell them to leave,” she’s using
the formal “you,” as though she’s addressing a tram conductor.
“Yes, yes,” Pasha assures her. “I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them right
now.”
He walks the principal back to her office, helps her get settled,
leaves, shuts the door, stands there for a bit, and hears her sniffle,
then instantly regain her composure, take out her cellphone, dial,
and start making a stink.
“Take care of this one without me,” Pasha says in a whisper, and
heads for the door. There are soldiers standing on the front steps,
smoking. They fastidiously wipe their dirty boots with a clean rag
whenever they come inside. Blood doesn’t come off all that easily,
but it does come off.

In the damp wind, you perceive smells more distinctly. The

heavy smell of wet clothes fills the air immediately. People coming
from the south give off a burnt smell, like they’ve been sitting by a
campfire. They keep coming, most continuing on foot, toward the
Station, while one group piles into a jeep, and another helps a guy
into the back of a truck. There isn’t enough room up front. A sol-
dier walks by, his bulletproof vest grazing Pasha, who cringes, takes
a step back toward the side of the road, then another, his high boot
crunching in snow mixed with yellow clay, then another step, and
then one more.
“I wouldn’t go over there if I were you,” someone says.
Pasha turns toward the voice—man standing nearby, dark

22
Wolfskin jacket, hiking boots, laptop bag, meticulously groomed
facial hair. His expression is condescending, even disparaging. He
carries himself well, but if you look a little closer, his chin, too small
for the rest of his face, and the finicky wrinkles around his mouth
make you think he’s letting his beard grow out to seem tougher
than he is. He looks about fifty, and he sizes Pasha up like he’s his
commanding officer. The same way a passenger who got on at the
first stop views someone who’s gotten on later—yes, both of them
have tickets, but the few extra hours spent in the train compartment
give him an odd kind of authority. His name is Peter. That’s how he
introduces himself, in passable Russian, making no apparent effort
to conceal his accent.
“You shouldn’t go over there,” he says, nodding toward the
roadside ditch. “You’ll get your legs blown off. Let’s get out of
here—pretty soon they’re gonna get all riled up and start shooting
each other.”
He turns around, starts making his way through the crowd.
Pasha glances back, sees a thick heap of mushy snow down below,
and runs after Peter.
They shove through the thinning crowd, away from the check-
point. Peter cautiously circumvents a group of soldiers engaged in a
heated argument and steps over some wounded guys placed smack-­
dab in the middle of the road on some blankets and old civilian
coats. Pasha sticks close to him, trying not to make eye contact with
the soldiers. That’s how he’d walk by stray dogs as a kid—just don’t
look them in the eye; if you do, they’ll sense that you don’t belong
here. Pasha just couldn’t get used to all the soldiers around, even
though it’d already been a few months; he’d always avoid them.
Whenever they stopped him by the station, he’d answer their ques-

23
tions flatly, looking past them the whole time. There are so many of
them here, and there’s this odd smell—dirt and metal, tobacco and
gunpowder. Pasha skirts past another group apprehensively, sees the
soldiers’ mistrustful eyes, and hurries to catch up to Peter, who’s ap-
proaching an old blue Ford encircled by soldiers. They have spread
out a hand-­drawn map with trails marked and slopes outlined in red
pencil. Soaked by the rain, the map looks like a tablecloth doused
with wine at a train station restaurant. Peter squeezes through the
group of soldiers, pats one of them on the back, shakes another
guy’s hand without taking his eyes off the map, and immediately
starts arguing with them, running a pink, neatly cut fingernail along
the disintegrating paper, yelling and working himself into a frenzy.
The soldiers are yelling, too, running their own fingers—black and
frozen—along the map, disagreeing with Peter. Eventually, one of
them, apparently the guy in charge, a short, stocky man with a gray
crewcut, spits, pulls a black ski hat over his large skull, slings an as-
sault rifle over his shoulder, and orders everyone to pile into the car.
A tall old soldier, frail and hunched up, scoops up the map and sits
in the driver’s seat. The gray-­haired man in the ski hat takes a seat
next to him. The rest of them cram in. Peter manages to stuff him-
self inside, though nobody seemed to invite him. He even tries to
shut the door, but then he suddenly realizes he’s forgotten some-
thing. He leans out of the car and yells to Pasha:
“Well, are ya coming or what? We aren’t going to wait around
all day! Get over here!”
Pasha’s taken aback at first, but then he runs over to the Ford.
There are already about four soldiers sitting in the back. They all
seem absolutely massive in their bulletproof vests. Well, and Peter’s
taking up some room, too. Just how on earth did they all fit back

24
there? Pasha’s shifting around tentatively outside, but Peter’s not
letting up.
“Come on, let’s go,” he yells, patting the black denim over his
skinny thigh invitingly.
So they set off—the hunched-­up driver and the commander
who’s doggedly trying to find something among the remaining
clumps of map are up front, the armored soldiers, Peter, and Pasha
on his lap are in the back. Pasha’s uncomfortable. He’s never sat
on anyone’s lap before, except when he was a kid. The soldiers are
uncomfortable too, on his behalf. Silence sets in—nothing but the
sound of vests knocking together dully.
The Ford glides down the highway slowly, passing an endless
chain of soldiers making their way toward the Station. The soldiers
look back hopefully, but upon seeing how many passengers are in
the car they turn their heads back, clearly disappointed. The trip
isn’t all that long. The driver veers right once they get to the settle-
ment, steps on the gas–­the tires skid and make deep incisions in
the yellow snow—and pulls into a motel parking lot. Pasha’s shoved
clear first, and then the rest of the passengers pile out into the damp
air.
Two-­story building, a sign with the word Paradise spelled out
in Cyrillic letters hanging over the front entrance. Café to the right,
carwash to the left, reception desk in the middle. The shockwave
of an explosion has knocked out the windows on the second floor,
so the owners have put plastic over them. Up on the roof, a satel-
lite dish pierced by shrapnel looks like a sunflower in the morning,
facing east toward the sun.
The parking lot’s packed with military equipment and cars—
heavy special-­purpose vehicles, sedans with Polish license plates

25
(the drivers clearly haven’t paid any customs duties on them), and
a bunch of beat-­up shabby junkers—no windshields, slashed-­up
doors, missing hoods. A tank, still intact, buried under all sorts of
colorful things, is parked off to the side. Blankets, sleeping bags,
sacks, and hiking backpacks have been tied to the armor with ropes;
somebody has even slapped a pull-­out bed to the side of the tank.
A pack of soldiers stands by the café, smoking, yelling, arguing. The
guys Pasha arrived with head toward the group by the entrance.
Peter considers the sign skeptically.
“Paradise,” he says, smiling. “More like the first circle of hell.
Well, are ya coming?” He nods at Pasha and walks over to the group.
Pasha can’t think of anything better than tagging along. “Why
am I following him?” he thinks, continuing to follow him. “What
am I listening to him for?” he asks himself, trying not to lose Peter’s
assiduously unkempt hair in the crowd. He pushes past some sol-
diers, steps into the café.
A few tables, a bar with the spoils of a hunting trip—a stuffed
pheasant, deer horns, and something’s severed head (Pasha fig-
ures it must have belonged to a dog, but he could be mistaken)—­
hanging over it. Restroom door off to one side, a plasma TV on the
opposite wall. No empty seats; soldiers are sitting around and look-
ing at themselves in the screen. A woman is bartending; she looks at
the customers scornfully, though her scorn is kind of listless. She’s
kind of frumpy and not all that well put together; blond hair sprouts
out of her black roots like fresh blades of grass through a field that
was burned last year. A bottle of Coke and heaps of chocolates lie
on the shelves behind her. Dried fish looms on the counter in front
of her. The woman pulls out the most important stuff from deep
down, underneath a heavy hatch from a compartment loaded with

26
more fish, and pours a round. Everyone’s talking at the same time,
hardly listening and constantly interrupting each other, and the fish
odor is so strong you’d think this was a wake that had dragged on
for three days.
Peter strides up to the bar and nods at the woman, who feigns
a smile and keeps pouring. Peter asks a question. The woman nods
in response, still not concealing her scorn, still carefully scanning
the room. Peter opens the side door, and Pasha slides into the next
room after him. There are tables here, too, it’s packed with soldiers,
too, and there’s the same chaos of voices fusing into a menacing
din. There’s a little table on the far side of the room by a staircase,
and Peter heads that way, giving a soldier—black from smoke and
alcohol—an offhand greeting. The guy waves back at Peter with-
out looking in his direction, says something, continues talking, and
nods; it’s as though he’s having a conversation with an invisible per-
son. Peter has already crossed the room and plopped down in a plas-
tic chair. Pasha takes a seat next to him. Fish and alcohol in plas-
tic cups instantly materialize. Peter grabs his disposable cup, toasts
carelessly with someone at the next table, lifts it to his mouth, and
disposes of the alcohol. Or appears to . . . the cup in his buoyant
hand is still full. He dumps its contents out under the table, onto
the cold stone floor, with one inconspicuous movement, then pro-
duces a small brown leather flask from an inconspicuous pocket,
unscrews the cap, and pours himself a drink more to his liking,
without bothering to offer Pasha any. Pasha bends forward to grab
a cup with his lips, empties bitter, burning fluid into his body, and
then coughs violently; somebody basically shoves a piece of fish in
his mouth, and he starts chomping on it to cover up the taste of
local knock-­off booze with the deathly smell of fish. Peter looks at

27
all this with tenacious, attentive disgust, although it’s unclear what
disgusts him, Pasha or the fish. Nevertheless, Peter soon regains his
composure, smiles, yells something into the crowd, answers some-
body’s question, comments on a conversation going on at the next
table, sips his drink, and starts grilling Pasha.
“What do you do?” he asks.
Pasha hesitates, unsure of what language to use. Eventually, he
answers in Russian.
“I’m a teacher.”
“Gotcha,” Peter says with a chuckle.
He reaches into his pocket, takes out two packs of cigarettes in
succession, the first unopened (the cheap, strong ones), the second
already going (the light ones with almost no nicotine in them). He
puts the cheap ones back in his pocket, takes out two lights, and
offers one to Pasha, who turns him down, so he assiduously tucks
the extra back into the open pack, sticks the other one offhand-
edly in his mouth, takes a brand-­new Zippo out of an inconspicu-
ous pocket, flicks it smoothly with his thumb, places it back in his
pocket, and takes a drag. He winces painfully, as if he’s smoking
homegrown tobacco.
“So where are your students?” Peter asks, blowing smoke,
which makes his voice sound hoarse and confidential.
“On break,” Pasha answers.
Peter nods eagerly.
“Gotcha,” he says again. “On break . . . People only go to school
so they can go on break. I’d always go fishing with my old man.”
“In a river?” Pasha asks.
“Nah, in the ocean.”
“What ocean?”

28
 “The Pacific.”
Pasha isn’t sure what to say next.
“Where were you planning on going?” Peter asks.
“Into the city.” Pasha squirms in his chair. Peter’s tone is so
friendly that you immediately start to distrust him.
“Gotcha. Got things to do?”
“Yep,” Pasha replies after a moment’s thought. “My nephew’s
staying at the orphanage. I want to take him home . . . for his week
off.”
“Seems you have every day off around here.”
Pasha doesn’t care to respond to that.
“Guess I’ll pick him up some other time,” he says after a short
pause.
“Gotcha. That’ll be about two months from now.”
“Huh? Two months?”
“Well, they’ll have to establish a new front line and set up new
checkpoints, that’ll be about two months. Why didn’t you pick
him up earlier, right at the beginning of break? Don’t you read the
news?”
“I don’t,” Pasha admits.
“I don’t either. I write it,” he adds, takes an artificially short
pause, chuckles, and blows tobacco smoke all over the place.
“What should I do?” Pasha clearly has no idea. “He has some
health problems. I’m scared something’ll happen to him.”
“Go pick him up now,” Peter suggests, still smiling. “It’ll take
them a few days to move on out.” He points at the soldiers around
them. “You’ll be the least of their concerns. The city’s changing
hands. Who knows what’ll happen to the orphanage. The new gov-
ernment,” he nods in the direction from which he supposes the new

29
government is coming, “won’t be messing around with orphanages.
After your boys pull out, they’re gonna clean house.”
“Your boys” rubs Pasha the wrong way, but he refrains from
getting into it with Peter.
“There’s shelling over there, yeah?” Pasha conjectures.
“There sure is! I wouldn’t want to spend my break getting
shelled.”
Pasha’s mind is racing feverishly. He can’t come up with any-
thing better than calling his old man. He produces his cheap No-
kia, starts dialing.
“Two months. Then you’ll have service again,” Peter com-
ments. “That’s if your government gets on it.” Once again, he em-
phasizes the word your. “They haven’t been trying all that hard so
far.”
Pasha looks at his screen—no bars. Everything was fine last
night, though.
“They’ve got jammers, you know? So your boys,” Peter mo-
tions to the area around him, “won’t know what’s going on. No-
body knows anything and nobody trusts anybody. We’re back in the
Middle Ages,” he adds, and fastidiously stubs out his half-­smoked
cigarette in a makeshift beer-­can ashtray. “Do you teach history?”
He scrutinizes Pasha.
“Nah,” Pasha answers.
“That’s a good thing,” Peter says, praising him for some reason.
“Teaching history in your country is like going fishin’, you never
know what you’re gonna pull out. I appreciate the way you love his-
tory in these parts, though,” Peter says, taking out another cigarette,
flicking the lighter, and blowing some more smoke up at the ceil-
ing. “Keep picking, keep digging around. Good work. Keep it up.

30
You know what advice I’d like to give you?” Peter continues, kick-
ing back in his chair and clamping his cigarette between two fin-
gers. As he’s listening to him, Pasha spots four soldiers barging into
the room—their faces particularly dark, their movements heavy
and anxious. Their eyes, red with anger and smoke, scan the room
with exacting precision and unerringly pick out the two civilians.
They head in their direction, weaving through the tables. Their re-
lentless movement is felt throughout the room, and the conver-
sations hush; everyone’s eyes follow the four men moving toward
their table. Everyone’s tense and dead still. Everyone except Peter,
so consumed with his pontificating that he’s completely oblivious,
sitting with his back to the room, considering Pasha through strands
of smoke, and inserting such serious pauses that you’d think he was
listening raptly to his own voice. “I’d encourage you to be care-
ful about your history. You know, history’s one of those things . . .”
He goes quiet for a second, seemingly groping for some fresh in-
sight. Suddenly, he takes note of the silence now prevailing in the
room and stares at Pasha, transfixed—Pasha can’t seem to figure
out why. Suddenly, it dawns on him that Peter’s looking into his
glasses, seeing the reflection of those four bearing down on him.
Panic scampers across his face. The corner of his mouth jerks up,
and his spasmodic desire to turn around makes a vein in his neck
twitch, but he composes himself and takes another drag—it’s a ner-
vous drag, though—releases a neat puff of smoke, and finishes his
thought: “. . . one of those things nobody has the right to take away
from you!”
“Who are you?” The first guy speaks at the back of Peter’s head.
Pasha’s scared eyes consider his combat boots with last year’s grass
stuck to their worn toecaps, beat-­up kneepads, heavy side pockets

31
stuffed with something sharp and metallic, an AKM he’s hold-
ing like an infant that can’t seem to fall asleep, assault vest hold-
ing several extra magazines, clumps of colored tape on his sleeves,
and, most important, a knife jutting out of a special pocket near
his heart—it has a black handle with deep grooves. Pasha uncon-
sciously starts counting those grooves, but then the soldier repeats,
“Who are you?”
The second and third guys come over, cutting off any possible
escape routes. “Escape routes?” Pasha says to himself in his head,
desperation rising. “Think again!” The fourth man peers out from
behind the first guy’s shoulder, his gaze full of such suspicion that
Pasha tips his glasses up onto his forehead, like he’s rubbing the
lenses clean, just because he doesn’t want to see any of this. Peter
turns toward the voice and flashes a carefree smile.
“I’m a journalist,” he says, stuffing his hand into a deep
pocket—apparently reaching for his press pass—and all four of
them instantly tense up. But then Peter takes out his hand and prof-
fers the necessary papers. “Everything’s fine.” He’s trying to speak in
a light, simple manner. “I’m a journalist. Here’s my pass.”
“Hans,” the soldier says, “check this.” Hans takes the pass and
runs his fingers over the paper, line by line—frosty red fingers with
black earth under the nails. Peter smiles and extends his hand.
Come on, give it back already. We’re in the middle of a real inter-
esting conversation here. And Hans hesitates, goes to hand the pass
back, but then stops short and looks at it one more time.
“When did you cross the border?” he asks unexpectedly.
“A month ago,” Peter says after a pause.
“Uh-­huh.” Hans doesn’t really believe him. “I’ve had my eye
on you since fall.”

32
 “That’s rich,” Peter says defiantly.
“I have,” Hans says, his tone just as defiant, and hands Peter’s
pass to the first guy, who looks at Peter without saying a word.
“Listen guys,” Peter says, rising from his chair. All four of them
tense up once again. “I was here in the fall, too. Here’s my passport.
Take a look at my stamps.”
He produces his passport and thrusts it at the first guy, who
passes it along in silence, his eyes fixed on Peter. He tries to calm
himself down and puts his hand in his pocket, which causes every-
one to tense up yet again, but he just takes out his cigarettes.
“Want one?” he asks, his eyes darting from one guy to the next.
But none of them says anything. Hans leafs through the pass-
port, hands it to the first guy, leans in, and whispers something in
his ear. The first guy nods and gives Peter his papers back.
“So what’s the problem?” Peter asks, affecting a relaxed tone.
The first soldier doesn’t say anything for a while, looking at
Peter the whole time, until the latter breaks down and looks away.
“The problem is that somebody’s been snitching,” he says.
“I mean, somebody’s leaking intelligence information. And it looks
like it’s one of the civilians.”
“What makes you think that?” Peter asks, still smiling.
“Because we know everybody else,” the soldier answers. “Some-
body’s been snitching. Do you know who?” he suddenly asks Peter.
Then all four of them encircle Peter, who turns white as a sheet.
“No, I don’t.”
“You sure?” the soldier asks.
“I’m sure,” Peter answers without hesitating.
“All righty then. You’re free to go,” he says to Peter and turns
toward Pasha abruptly. “Now you.”

33
 Pasha lowers his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, visibly
flustered, digs around in his pockets, locates his papers, and hands
them over, but he can tell that’s not enough. He has to give them
some assurances that everything’s fine and he’s not going to cause
them any trouble.
“I’m with him,” he says feverishly, turning in Peter’s direc-
tion—but Peter’s gone, disappeared, vanished into thin air, leaving
the unopened pack of strong cigarettes on the table.

Pasha’s sitting in a cold, spacious room with a computer and a

black safe in it—the accounting department, apparently. He didn’t
get a good look at the little sign by the door. Hans had led him up
the stairs and pushed him into the damp darkness of the hallway
softly yet persistently, so he wouldn’t even think about resisting.
Thing is, he wouldn’t have anyway—he groped his way down the
dark hallway, reacted to a command issued behind him, stopped.
Hans walked over to the door and tried the handle; it creaked in
his hand. Busted. The door wouldn’t budge. Then he rammed his
shoulder against it and crashed right into an empty room. He took
another step inside, examined the locked safe skeptically, left it
alone.
“Sit here,” he yelled in Pasha’s general direction. “And wait.”
“Until when?” Pasha asked, just in case.
“Until we check your documents,” Hans replied abruptly.
Pasha walked across the room, sat down on one of the three
chairs by the wall, thought for a second, and then slid over. Hans
watched, not saying anything.
“Stay here,” he said eventually. “Don’t even think about es-
caping.”

34
 “Okay,” Pasha acquiesced instantly.
Hans left, carefully closing the broken door behind him.
Pasha’s sitting and waiting. It’s chilly in that room, the plastic
sheet over the window isn’t keeping the wind and moisture out.
“How’d I let myself get caught like that?” he thinks. Before this,
he’d kind of just gotten by. He’d occasionally cross paths with sol-
diers, purely by accident—at the store, on the street, at the station.
Whenever they started asking questions, he’d say he was a teacher.
That generally worked, regardless of who the soldiers were fighting
for. During times of war, people leave priests and teachers alone.
They really shouldn’t, though. Pasha thought back to the first time
armed men had spoken to him—it was back then, last spring, right
after it’d all started, right after they’d come to the city, started taking
over police stations and tearing flags off public buildings. Most of
the locals didn’t know what to make of them, what to expect of
them. Pasha didn’t know either, and he didn’t care to. He was walk-
ing home from school—he’d decided to cut through the park—just
minding his own business, plodding down a sunny May path. The
academic year was coming to a close, summer was just around the
corner, and he wanted to lock himself in his room and not come
out again until the first autumn bell rang. And then two guys with
assault rifles blocked his path. Well, actually, Pasha, oblivious and
nearsighted, ran into them. The guns in their hands made them feel
obliged to react somehow, so they stopped him, quite delicately, no
tough-­guy stuff. Pasha remembered that some of them, especially
the ones who weren’t local, the guys who’d come in from out of
town, behaved like that—markedly cordial, constantly smiling at
the civilian population. Giving children candy, giving up their seats
on the bus for elderly people, courteously waiting like everyone else,

35
no line-­cutting: we’re here for your benefit, we’re just like you, we’ll
protect you so you can keep teaching your kids. You want everyone
to like you, especially when you’re holding a weapon and you don’t
know who you’ll have to use it on. Those two guys adopted a mark-
edly cordial tone, like they were talking to an old friend. What’s the
big rush? Watch where you’re going next time, all right? One of
them, with a soft, round face, started chuckling, his laugh childish
and carefree. It seemed as though the other guy wanted to laugh,
too, but nothing came of it—crooked lips, evasive eyes. Pasha im-
mediately latched on to those eyes, the eyes of a fisherman who
could wait because he knew what awaited him. And that nose—
knocked into his face, squished between his cheeks, like he was an
old syphilitic, the nose of a boxer. Round Mug was already patting
Pasha on the back, jovially poking fun at his glasses. Pasha didn’t
like that; he distinctly remembered that—it was so stilted and arti-
ficial, as though this was all some kind of performance. They looked
unnatural, like actors who’d left the theater to make a cigarette run:
their fresh camo had a faint warehouse smell to it, pirate bandanas,
the ones beachgoers in Crimea wear, sunglasses. Old AKMs they’d
apparently taken from the local cops and brand-­new white sneak-
ers they’d probably just bought—maybe just for this country, just
for this war—the dust from the street hadn’t burrowed into those
sneakers and the grass hadn’t stained them; they were brand new,
solemn, completely clashing with the guns and camo. Pasha stood
there and looked at their sneakers, not knowing what to say. They
kept laughing, and then No Nose casually asked: “So, uh, what do
you do?” He kept smiling crookedly—I’m just asking, you don’t
have to answer, but, of course, you probably should.

36
 “I’m a teacher.” Pasha swallowed hard. “Just as long as they
don’t ask what subject,” he thought.
“What do you teach?” No Nose seemingly heard his fears.
“Little bit of everythin’,” Pasha answered.
He stood in front of them, gaze downcast, so they thought he
was afraid. Their tone grew less cordial, more condescending, like
they were talking to a wimp who was afraid to make eye contact.
Actually, Pasha was just examining their new sneakers.
“Some fuckin’ education you got around here,” No Nose said,
and they started laughing again.
Pasha nodded as a goodbye of sorts, stepped around them
wordlessly, and began walking away nice and quiet, nice and slow.
“Just as long as they don’t yell anything at me,” he thought. “Just
as long as they don’t yell any insults.” He kept walking, holding his
breath so they wouldn’t hear his heart pounding. “Why didn’t I
say anything to them?” he asked himself later. “Why?” He walked
ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred yards. Behind him, the laughter ended
abruptly. Pasha turned on to a path to his left. It was all over.

Pasha takes out his phone and checks the time. Twelve o’clock.
He’s been sitting here for about an hour, but nobody’s come for him,
nobody’s let him out. “I’ll wait a little longer,” Pasha tells himself.
He waits and then waits some more, and the longer he waits, the
colder it gets, since the plastic sheet is doing nothing to keep the
place warm. Waves of brisk air burst inside. At first, Pasha tries to
ignore the cold, then he starts to feel sorry for himself—just had to
leave the house today of all days—then he gets angry at the soldiers
for holding him here in a cold room, even though they have no right
to do so. The colder he gets, the more justified his indignation seems.

37
 “What the hell?” Pasha says to himself. “What do they want
from me? I’m gonna go give ’em a piece of my mind.” He stands
up resolutely, walks over to the door, and pulls on it just as reso-
lutely. But the door gives a menacing squeak and his resolve flut-
ters away instantly. He stands there, still holding on to the handle,
and apprehensively listens to the silent hallway, listens hard but
can’t make anything out. Now he’s afraid to go out into the hall-
way—might see someone out there. He’s afraid to shut the door,
too. What if it squeaks again? What if someone emerges from the
damp gloom and heads toward him? He stands there, not knowing
what he should be most afraid of. But just standing there is scary,
too, so Pasha timidly sticks his head out into the hallway. It’s empty.
“I’ll come right back,” he says to himself. “Lemme find some-
one, tell ’em I’m still here, and then I’ll definitely come back.” He
leaves the door open and advances blindly down the dark hallway,
tries one door, then the next, then another, and eventually the
fourth one’s unlocked. Pasha pushes it and finds himself in a motel
room. After the dark hallway, the diffuse, glimmering light coming
through another plastic sheet on the window instantly blinds him.
Feeling like he’s underwater, Pasha examines an unmade bed and
a table cluttered with empty champagne bottles, the local brand.
Television in the corner. The news is on, and for Pasha it feels like
he’s seen the news in real life outside, just a few miles from here.
He stares blankly at the moving picture, only noticing the clothes
scattered across the bed a little later. Black skirt, dark stockings, and
weightless lingerie. And a blouse. And a vest. There’s a badge on
the vest, and the word “WAITER” has been printed on the badge.
“ANNA” has been added in blue marker. “I guess Anna’s in the
shower,” Pasha deduces, hearing water hitting the plastic doors of

38
a walk-­in shower, crashing against a woman’s warm body, flowing
down her long legs, and vanishing down the drain. Anna will have a
fit if she catches Pasha in here. “They might even shoot me,” Pasha
thinks. “Gotta get outta here.” But he looks at the lingerie on the
bed and realizes that it might still be holding some warmth from
her body, that it’d be nice to wait for her to come back, hand her her
clothes, wait for her to get dressed. He’d like to meet her.
“Well, her name’s Anna. Anna,” Pasha thinks. “What more is
there to know? I should find her after all this is over. Find her and
talk to her about everything. Will she want to talk to me?” Pasha
asks himself incredulously, listening to the water flowing off her.
He turns around and unexpectedly sees his face in the mirror on
the wall across from him. Fair hair that hasn’t been cut for a while,
glasses with thin, inexpensive rims, bags under his eyes, two-­day
stubble that makes him look more slovenly than rugged. Birthmark
on his right temple, scar on his neck—got it as a kid. He fixes his
glasses and looks at his fingers. Yeah, and that hand he hates. He
finds himself thinking that he doesn’t like the way he looks. And
he finds himself thinking that he wants to like himself. He goes out
into the hallway and quietly shuts the door.

There are more people downstairs. Or maybe they’re just yell-

ing even louder. Pasha slides between their backs and sneaks toward
the door, trying not to call any attention to himself. A large group
is sitting in the corner, hovering over the table, whispering about
something, occasionally kicking back in their chairs and laughing
anxiously. One of them turns halfway around and surveys the room
languidly yet very attentively, and his gaze snags on Pasha. Hans—
Pasha recognizes him and freezes, too terrified to move a muscle.

39
One of his sharp eyes narrows for a brief moment when his gaze
bumps into Pasha; a wrinkle under that eye of his twitches almost
imperceptibly, just for a split second. Then his gaze keeps moving;
he turns around and slaps the guy next to him on the back. Then
that guy turns his head, locks his eyes on Pasha, and gets up slowly.
Pasha stands completely still, too afraid to fix his glasses even. The
soldier lazily walks toward Pasha, making little effort to sidestep the
tables and people in his way, and gives him a sharp look, not saying
anything. Then he takes Pasha’s papers out of his pocket and sticks
them in his crippled hand. He turns around and lazily walks back.
It takes Pasha some time to collect himself; then he quickly heads
to the next room over; he wants to go around the bar, but an in-
credibly young rifleman tugs on his sleeve. Helmet dangling from
his hand, swaying like a cooking pot, high taped-­up boots—looks
like he pulled them off someone’s feet and just cut the laces, so he
had to tighten them up with whatever he had. The tape squeaks
with his every movement. The rifleman, who’s not even looking at
Pasha, tugs him over to the bar. One sec, don’t get your panties
in a bunch. Pasha stands behind him and watches. The rifleman
flashes the woman behind the counter what looks like a V sign,
but actually it’s just him ordering two more. While the woman’s
pouring their drinks, he roots around in his pockets, takes out a
handful of small bills, scrutinizes them discontentedly, reaches into
his pockets again without letting go of Pasha’s arm, and then sud-
denly produces a hand grenade. The woman freezes; the rifleman
places the grenade on the counter and keeps rummaging through
his pockets as the grenade starts rolling down the counter, rolling
and rolling, very slowly. The woman can’t take her eyes off it, the
cup runs over, and the other people standing around also notice the

40
grenade, but they can’t get anything out. All they can do is watch it
roll slowly, very slowly, toward the edge, pause, roll over the edge,
and plunge to the floor.
“Get down!” Somebody shouts in Pasha’s ear and charges
through the crowd.
The woman shrieks, too. Pasha tears away from the rifleman
and dashes toward the door, to the light. There’s hardly any light left
at this hour and what light remains is chilly and damp.

“Where we headed?” the taxi driver asks him.

“Home,” Pasha answers.
“You military?”
“Nah, I’m a civilian.”
“Gotcha.” The taxi driver pulls out discontentedly, yanking the
wheel like he’s wringing out a wet sheet.

He doesn’t say anything for a bit, but then he breaks down and
starts talking. He’s pissed off and anxious. Well, if you disregard all
his anxiety and anger, you can glean that he’s talking about how
there aren’t any decent roads around here. They fucked the roads
up, really fucked the shit out of ’em, and now there aren’t any left,
not that there were any to begin with. He’s more and more anxious.
And it’s unclear what bothers him the most—that there never were
any roads to begin with, that they’re gone, or that there probably
won’t ever be any. So he’s getting all pissed off and anxious. Well,
soldiers and roads, and they fucked the shit out of everything. My
brother’s hunkering down in some basement in the city with his
family, he doesn’t wanna crawl outta there.
“I keep telling him,” he says to Pasha. “‘Get outta there, I’ll

41
take you to the other side. At least there’s work here, nobody knows
who’s gonna be running things over there. The new government
might shoot ya.’ But he’s still hunkering down, too scared to leave
his house. I mean, who the hell cares about that house of his? The
roads, man, they just fucked the shit out of them—”
“What was that about getting to the other side?” Pasha inter-
rupts him.
“Huh?”
“Your brother, can you take your brother to the other side?
Everything’s blocked off.”
The taxi driver explodes. And he launches into angry argu-
ments, his basic point being—all his rambling aside—that there
are one hundred and twenty-­five ways to get in and get out. You
can even take freight trains out of there, which a lot of people have
been doing. And he’s already made two trips today, skirting all the
checkpoints and putting one over on all those sucker generals. And
what they show on TV is all wrong, and he doesn’t watch TV at all
because there’s nothing worth watching anyway.
“So,” Pasha interrupts him again. “You really can cross over?”
“Yeah.” The taxi driver nods.
“To the orphanage, too?”
“The orphanage?” The taxi driver’s expression turns dark. “In
theory, yes. It got walloped yesterday, though. Seems like it got . . .”
“Fucked?”
“Yep,” the taxi driver concurs. “I think it got fucked up, but I
don’t know for sure. Haven’t been there for a while. What’s there to
see at that orphanage anyway?”
They sit there, looking at each other. Pasha—kind of chubby,
so unshaven as to almost be bearded, ski hat, and, most important,

42
those glasses that immediately make you distrust him. The driver—
an oversized leather jacket, shabby and cracked; it’s as if he sleeps
in it, as if it’s his own skin, like an old iguana at the zoo. Worn into
his skin, won’t even be able to peel it off his carcass. And the peaked
cap on his head is made of leather, too, and it’s all worn, too, like a
soccer ball that’s been kicked around for a long while on asphalt.
Round fish eyes, a mustache that conceals his torn upper lip. He
looks at Pasha, trying to figure out what he’s getting at, while Pasha
looks at him, too, through the lenses of his white-­collar glasses and
thinks, “That worn look of his, it’s not because he’s poor. He’s got a
decent car, sure, it’s not brand new, but it looks like it was in good
hands in some place like Holland. And he smells fine, doesn’t reek
or anything, at least. But that worn look of his . . . It’s like he’s been
rubbing up against something, like a cat against his owner’s leg. Or
a cow against a telegraph pole.”
“Ready to go?” the Iguana asks.
“Sure you’ll get me there?” Pasha involuntarily fixes his glasses,
then jerks his hand back. “I hate myself,” he thinks. “I just hate my-
self for that. Why am I constantly touching them like that?”
“Doubt we’d make it to the orphanage,” says the Iguana. “I can
do the train station, though. You’ll figure it out from there.”
“All right,” Pasha agrees hesitantly.
“Do ya even have any money on ya?” The Iguana asks, just in
case. He squints, but one round fish eye, as watery as morning air,
doesn’t quite shut all the way, still pierces Pasha.
The driver swings around in front of the motel, right at the
feet of some soldiers who are standing around, puffing on their
cigarettes, and looking at them in their customary fashion, the
way they’d look at any other moving target. The mud-­caked Opel

43
bashes through some puddles and bounces down a narrow strip of
asphalt, away from the main road, into the gray dampness of the
winter panorama that opens up before them as soon as they crest a
little hill and turn behind a row of trees. Over there, fields drop off
and stretch as far as the eye can see; over there—where you can no
longer make anything out—beyond the fog and the low-­hanging
clouds that look like cargo planes, something is breathing, burn-
ing, and glimmering. Pasha surmises that it’s the city. The driver
bounces in and out of potholes, getting more and more angry, and
then he loosens up once the motel disappears behind the trees,
slows down—“lemme wipe down the windshield,” he tells Pasha—
pulls onto the shoulder, scoops up handfuls of hard, darkened snow,
and begins wiping the glass with it. Pasha watches the snow snap
and slide down the glass, eroding the space, watches the driver blow
on his icy fingers, clearly in pain, and press his worn skin against the
dirty hood as he reaches for the glass and rubs little clumps of ice
into it. Pasha gets out of the car and looks to the south, trying to kill
time—he doesn’t have all that much to spare, though.
A field, black with last year’s unharvested sunflowers. Gray in
certain spots, almost blue even. Shreds of snow. Damp, thick soil.
Deep ruts from the vehicles that have driven into this dark sun-
flower armhole, either to fend off an attack and then keep going,
or to let a passing convoy through. Pasha takes a step forward; grass
pokes sharply through the hardened crust of the snow. “Stay outta
there,” he reminds himself and steps back, closer to the car that’s
making its presence felt behind him with its warm gasoline smell.
Beyond the frigid sunflowers, transmission towers stretch out like
a row of fishing-­rod holders. Black metal supports the heavy hori-
zontal lines of wire slicing through the sky and extending into the

44
rain. Down below, far away beyond the fields, the wet fur of barren
trees looms among a group of dachas. There’s something different
about the trees this winter—as sensitive as animals, trembling with
every blast, retaining all their heat to combat the cold, and warm-
ing little black cavities around themselves, where old grass grows a
dark green. The bark is damp and vulnerable; you touch it and dark
painful sap stains your hands like paint, like blood from an incision.
And beyond the dachas, which stretch along a shallow industrial
stream overrun with cattails, you can barely make out the wall of
the maintenance depot in the gully. The gully, filled with rain and
fog, bends toward the city, and the air becomes so dense that you
can’t see any farther, but there’s something over there. That’s where
it starts, where the city begins. And there’s one last thing. Off to the
side, on the horizon, where the sky has a milky, tin sheen to it, the
factory smokestacks loom—tall, cold, dead. And there isn’t a single
bird around, as if there’s been a great famine and all the birds have
been eaten. The front line should be somewhere in there. A real
front line. Before, while the city was under siege, Pasha never had
to cross it, but today it looks like he’ll be crossing that line. “Well,
here we go,” Pasha thinks, trying to put himself at ease. “Well, here
we go.”

The last time Pasha took a taxi was a month ago, on his way back
from the city. The road was constantly coming under fire, yet every-
one thought that their chances of dying weren’t as high if they drove
fast. They stood there, a dark, frightened pack—Pasha and several
women weighed down by bags like they were sins—by an empty
gas station at the edge of the city. They were heading back home to
the Station. Nobody wanted to pick them up for the longest time.

45
Eventually, a guy in a Zhiguli slammed on the brakes, coming to a
stop right in the middle of a puddle; one of the women motioned
at the driver. Pull forward, you expect us to slog through the water?
But the driver started yelling with such desperation that everyone
wordlessly traipsed through the puddle. He tore away from the gas
station, turned into a field, and goaded his car across the black, coal
expanse between the city and the Station, not slowing down for a
second, not turning his lights on for a second. He blazed ahead,
yelling the whole time, laying into those hapless women. They just
nodded wordlessly in reply, seemingly agreeing with everything he
said. They were like pilgrims at a church—they’d come all that way
to repent their sins, so why wouldn’t they just go ahead and repent?
Pasha wanted to interrupt him and protect the women’s dignity, but
he didn’t interrupt the driver or stand up for them. He even tipped
the guy.

The road’s in such bad shape that people mostly use it out of
respect for its past. They might as well have been driving through
black soggy mud. But it seems as though the iguana taxi driver
knows this road as well as his own body—he scratches where it
itches and rubs where it aches. He crosses himself vigorously when
a large wooden cross comes into view on the shoulder and glares
at Pasha. Well, are you gonna cross yourself or what? Pasha pre-
tends to be oblivious. Down below, at a fork in the road just before
a bridge, are several abandoned checkpoints that look like ravaged
birds’ nests. Clothing, dishes, newspapers, smashed military supply
boxes, sandbags mauled by the wind—all of it lies out in the open,
orphaned, burrowing into the ground and mixing with the snow
and silt. The Iguana tenses up every time they pass a checkpoint.

46
Guys have been rotting away here for the past few months, and no-
body knows what they’ve left behind, what surprises might still be
in their burrows. Now it’s impossible to tell who controlled those
checkpoints because everything’s burnt out, shredded with shrap-
nel, and the trees look like the masts on fishermen’s ships—sharp,
tall, stripped of their branches. Driving over the bridge is particu-
larly scary, since bridges are strategic targets. Each strategic target
elicits one desire, first and foremost: to blow it up and send anyone
who’s decided to cross it flying into the air. The Iguana even shuts
his eyes as they pull onto the bridge. Seeing that, Pasha winces, too.
They ride like that for a bit, completely in the dark. Fear is an in-
visible yet all-­encompassing thing. You can’t see any apparent dan-
ger, everything’s quiet, and the sky up above is glimmering like a
sheet of metal, but the mere realization that you’re in the crosshairs
and that someone can fucking waste you at any moment, regardless
of what color the sky is and what’s moving around up there, makes
the whole situation unsettling. So you just want to keep sitting there
with your eyes closed and count to a hundred, until all the monsters
around you recede.
The Iguana cracks first—he steps on the gas, snakes between
some cinder blocks with warnings painted on them in red, and
surges ahead, down a streaked coal road. Then, before they reach
the next hill, he abruptly turns the wheel as they approach a row of
low black trees—packed tight with mulberries and sharp acacias—
that stretches off to the right. The Opel flops into a snowy pit like a
dog into a foamy wave, skids hard, spitting up black earth and ice,
and then keeps moving, moving forward. It gradually crawls out of
the snowy mush, kicks some up on the grass sprinkled with gravel
that conceals an old, barely visible path, gets firm ground under

47
its wheels, keeps slipping on the wet clay, and then pushes ahead,
along a row of mulberries as black as newspaper headlines.
“Where are you going?” Pasha asks, frightened. “What if there
are mines?”
“Mines? You gotta be kidding,” the Iguana replies wrathfully.
“Nobody’s been out here for two years, look how tall the grass is.”
The grass is smacking the undercarriage of the Opel and poking
at the windows; there would’ve been no getting out of this thicket
if someone hadn’t thought to sprinkle the road with gravel, unseen,
yet felt—it crunches under the tires, like an apple in your mouth,
dully turning over under the rubber. The Iguana steps on the gas
with relish; the translucent afternoon sun dangles right above them
in the sky.
“Used to be able to get back to the dachas this way,” the Iguana
explains with relish. “Now the road’s all overgrown, see?”
They ride down the invisible path for a while, squashing dry
weeds and hugging the trees so nobody can spot them, even though
there are so many gaps that the January gusts blow right through.
Hide all you want—you’ll still have some serious explaining to do
at the first checkpoint. The first dachas are up ahead, their fences
visible through the mulberries. The trees end abruptly—then comes
a flat field that’s been ripped up by moles, followed by a street as
quiet as death. Once again an inexpressible fear overcomes Pasha;
once again he wants to close his eyes and hide under the covers.
Meanwhile, the Iguana decides to go for it; he steps on the gas and
turns off, right into a ravine, where a stream should be flowing. And
the car slides down the field, bouncing up on every molehill; the
dachas remain up above, while they nearly slide into the stream,
and there are cow paths running alongside it, and the Iguana heads

48
down these cow paths, going faster and faster, farther and farther
away from the empty dacha windows. Pasha can’t help but look
back, and he spots smashed, angry shutters, but those shutters are
no longer relevant to him and the Iguana. They fly past a patch of
cattails, pull onto a concrete surface, whiz down the lousy yet hard
road for a long time, an inexpressibly long time, and then they’re
driving through the high entrance of the maintenance depot.
The road gets better, but the Iguana doesn’t speed up. Instead,
he slows down, starts listening intently and looking all around.
Pasha rolls down his window. Outside it smells faintly of a swamp
and dead grass. They push on. The outer wall keeps going and going;
eventually, a gate—blue, metal, wide open—appears up ahead. The
Iguana pulls up carefully. It’s quiet and empty—feels like some-
body has just stepped out but will be coming back. That kind of
silence, it scares them, presses down on them. And there’s some-
thing over there behind the gate, right on the ground, between torn
work overalls and a stained rag. Something that doesn’t belong. The
Iguana slows down and looks over there, transfixed. Pasha sticks his
head out the window; he wants to catch a glimpse, too.
“What is it?” he asks, frightened. “Huh? What is it?”
“Dogs,” the Iguana answers, swallowing hard. “Somebody shot
’em.”
“But why?”
“Who the fuck knows?” the Iguana explains. “Maybe so they
wouldn’t make any noise.”
There are two dogs. Big, dark, unknown breed. They lie there
in the dirty water, one next to the other. The blood underneath
them has soaked into the snow and asphalt; red fur has clumped
together around their wounds. Scowls hardened by death, sharp

49
yet now completely harmless fangs, glass-­button eyes, black paws.
Empty lot, open gate. The Iguana drives on wordlessly. The sun
comes out for a brief instant. Pasha looks at its rays, shielding his
face with his hand and then looks over at the Iguana—it seems like
the Iguana’s eyes are moist. Probably the sun.

To their left, the concrete wall stretches on and on, and a gas
pipe painted yellow runs on their right. The pipe’s broken in a few
places. It looks like a bone that needs tending to. There’s nobody to
tend to it, though—empty street, not a single person on the main
road, just burned metal up ahead; it looks like somebody chewed
a piece of overcooked meat for a while and then set it aside to cool.
The Iguana carefully skirts the burned heap.
“That’s a tank,” he says. “A T-­64. Those things burn like fire-
wood.”
“But how’d it get that way?” Pasha asks.
“What’s the difference?” the Iguana answers. “You shoulda
seen it before. There were two corpses inside. I kept coming over
here all week. You’d think somebody woulda taken ’em away.”
“Why didn’t you do it?” Pasha suddenly turns toward him.
“What fuckin’ good would they do me?” the Iguana answers
harshly, his cap sharply and menacingly aimed straight at Pasha.
Pasha doesn’t know what to say. He turns toward the window.
The Iguana looks at the road, not saying anything either.
“It’s scary,” the Iguana says unexpectedly. “Holding something
that’s dead is scary. What don’t you get?”
Pasha just nods, discreetly rubbing his hands together, as if
they’re cold. They keep going. The wall keeps going, too, eventually
running into the main road that leads to the city. There are two-­

50
story houses behind the main road; mostly workers from the main-
tenance depot live here. Pasha scans the windows warily; half of
them are smashed, half of them are covered with plywood or plastic
sheets. They’re all dark. No people. Pasha thinks about how the last
time they saw real, living people was by the motel, but those people
were so damn angry that they weren’t like people at all. There was
Anna, too, but he didn’t even catch a glimpse of her. “I wonder
what she looks like,” Pasha thinks. “Would I recognize her if I saw
her?” There was Hans, too. Pasha thinks of Hans—his heavy eyes,
the lazy movement of his shoulders—shudders, and starts looking
around. The Iguana pulls up to the main road and hesitates. He
rolls down the window, sticks his leather head outside, and listens
tensely. It seems as if he’s sniffing the air, but the air has a burned,
dead smell to it, so he can’t do too much sniffing. So the Iguana
sticks his head back inside and retreats into his burrow, rolling the
window up quickly and anxiously.
“Looks clear,” he says to Pasha, mouthing the words. “Wanna
try?”
“Okay,” Pasha replies, also mouthing.
They carefully crawl up the hill. The wall stays behind, while
a panorama of a wide road and a low-­hanging sky opens up to the
left. There’s so much sky that it’s all you can see, but your eyes adjust
to the sheer abundance of air. The Iguana and Pasha spot a white-­
and-­gray bus with busted windows and soldiers crowded around it.
It’s unclear who they are: no flags, can’t make out any insignia from
the car, and Pasha doesn’t know much about insignias anyway. Dark
and apprehensive, they stand there, holding their guns and looking
straight at them. Straight at their Opel. Their expressions are intent
and surprised, seemingly asking, “Who are you? Where’d you come

51
from?” The Iguana even crouches at the wheel, slowing down invol-
untarily, and all he wants to do right now is put it in reverse and roll
back, behind the wall, but Pasha realizes that there’s no going back.
Just don’t go back, anything but going back.
“C’mon,” he hisses at the Iguana. “C’mon, step on it.” And the
Iguana steps on it obediently, yet timidly, turns, and then advances
forward slowly, very slowly, the way kids walk to the bathroom in
the middle of the night—carefully, slowly, groping ahead, afraid
they’re going to bump into an open door. And both of them, Pasha
and the Iguana, look in the mirror, scared, and see one soldier break
away from the group and aim his Kalashnikov at their Opel, which
is slowly receding, and they see one of his buddies touching his arm.
Forget it. Don’t. But he shrugs his friend’s hand off and raises his
Kalashnikov again. And Pasha thinks to himself, “Maybe I should
get out of the car, talk to him, explain everything, and show him
my papers? But who is he? Who are those guys? How do you talk
to them?” At this point, there’s nowhere to hide; the Iguana’s prac-
tically paralyzed, and Pasha’s head is sinking into his shoulders.
“Should’ve gone home,” he says to himself, eyes fixed on the sol-
dier, who’s looking at them with thrilled disdain. But behind the
soldiers, somewhere out there, beyond the hill, the silence suddenly
shatters—there’s an explosion, soldiers drop to the ground like ripe
apples onto wet grass, the guy who was aiming at them drops to
the asphalt, too, and scurries to the side of the road, and that’s the
last of it Pasha sees, since the Iguana rams the gas pedal into the
depths of the Opel with his foot. They fly down the empty road
under the wet skies—afternoon sunlight bursts through in blinding
spots like pools of thaw water, and all the water around them flares
into a thousand sparkles, the way it does in March. But then the

52
skies close like elevator doors, and once again everything’s damp
and silvery.
When they get down to the traffic circle, the Iguana goes the
wrong way, dodges a barricade made out of wooden pallets, and
whizzes down a wide, empty street. He whizzes along and whips
into the square next to the train station. It’s empty, too—it seems
like everyone who wanted to leave did so a long time ago. He slows
down.
“That’s it,” he yells at Pasha. “Hop out.” Pasha does hop out,
paying as he’s lunging out of the car. He even has enough time to
take umbrage at the fare. He’s always paid what they’ve told him
to pay, he’s never taken umbrage before, but something stings him
this time—they were scared, together, they were on edge, together.
“What are you rippin’ me off for?” Pasha thinks indignantly. But he
pays the full fare, goddammit, he always pays what they tell him to
pay.

The train station is painted yellow, but the paint has become
dark and heavy in the rain. The national flags have been prudently
taken down from the columns—the army’s leaving the city, don’t
want to agitate the newcomers. The wastebaskets attached to the
columns are filled to the brim with bright wrappers and plastic.
There are several bloody bandages on top, draped over empty Coke
bottles. The blood’s bright, too. Nobody has emptied the waste-
baskets in a while. Even the pigeons are steering clear of them.
“Yeah, where are they?” Pasha thinks, squinting all around. “Where
is everybody?” Remnants of snow on the roof, gnarled trees nearby,
the skies settling frigidly. Pasha’s eyes slide up and then down, and
he suddenly notices them—hundreds of warm clumps of birds

53
are clenched like fists, hundreds of bird beaks are aimed down at
him, hundreds of round eyes, frozen from constant fear. Pigeons
are huddled against one another, perched high up above the col-
umns, under the awning of the station, nestling into one another
like they’re cold. But they’re scared, not cold: scared of the racket
behind the factory, scared of the silence of the surrounding streets,
scared of the mercury gleam in the sky, scared that nobody’s
around. Scared of Pasha, who appeared out of the blue and is hang-
ing around outside the station, yes, scared of him, too. They’re keep-
ing their eyes, as round as the sun, fixed on him. Pasha immediately
feels uneasy, standing there with all the birds’ exacting eyes on him.
“I wonder how many of them there are up there. How’d they all
cram in there?” he thinks. “What if something happens to the train
station? What if it burns down? What then? Where would they go?
Where would they hide?” Suddenly, he starts to feel so sorry for
them, as well as for the kid—what the hell is he still doing at that
orphanage? Should’ve picked him up ages ago. His mom’s an idiot,
just dumping him off there like that, but does that mean Pasha and
his old man can’t look after him? Of course they can. Should’ve
started a while ago, especially considering the state he’s in. “I’m
always putting everything off, never have enough time for the most
important things, I’m always avoiding everything, stepping aside.
I don’t have the guts to say what I think and think what I want.
When’s this all going to end?” Pasha asks himself. And he starts to
feel so sorry for himself, too, as sorry as he feels for the birds that are
looking at him the way they would at a hunter—their expressions
doomed yet intrigued. And just as Pasha’s starting to really feel sorry
for himself, he lowers his eyes and sees the windows. Through the
windows he sees dozens of eyes with that same bird look—exacting

54
and doomed. They vigilantly track his every movement, his every
step, watching through the unwashed station windows, transfixed
and mistrustful. And at this instant, Pasha realizes that the station
is packed with people; they’re hunkering down inside, like it’s a
church in a besieged city. They think that nobody can get to them
there, looking through the windows at a world that’s implacably
narrowing, shrinking. When spurts of fire snap dryly on the next
street over, Pasha finally comes to his senses. He darts toward the
station door, rams his shoulder into it, pressing himself into it, but
it won’t budge. Then another spurt crackles in the air, and Pasha
panics, scratching at the door like a drowning man at the bottom
of a steamboat, until a hand, a tiny child’s hand, pushes the door in
his direction. “Pull, not push,” Pasha says to himself, yanking on the
door. The scent of hundreds of frightened, sleep-­deprived people,
the smell of fear and sweat, the heavy blend of hysteria and sleep-
lessness hits him in the face. Pasha lunges inside and finds himself
amid warm bodies and wet silence. “They can all see,” Pasha thinks.
“They can all see how scared I am, how freaked out I am. They’re
looking at me like I’m some sort of clown. Well, I am a clown. Why
the hell did I come all the way down here anyway?” He takes off
his glasses (coming inside made them fog up), wipes them with
his sweater sleeve, puts them back on (he always seems to be fixing
them), and looks around cockily. Yes, I’m listening now. Anything
you wanted to say, huh? And he notices, with a certain degree of
disappointment, that nobody, nobody at all, is paying any attention
to him, that nobody’s even looking at him, that everyone who could
get a spot by the windows is peering out at the big, wide world. It’s as
if they’ve run in here to get out of the rain and now they’re gazing
at the sky, waiting for the storm to pass. Everyone who couldn’t get

55
a spot by the windows is balled up on the benches and in the cor-
ners, anticipating something, who knows what. Pasha’s standing in
the middle of this frightened, fragrant crowd, and he realizes that
he has no particular reason to stay put, either, that he has to keep
moving. So he starts moving, starts making his way through the vis-
cous crowd like he’s wading through autumn water without taking
off any of his clothes.

Just women and children—no men. Pasha’s the only person

with a beard. It feels like he’s just stepped into a women’s prison.
“Where are the men?” he asks himself. “Maybe men aren’t allowed
in here? Maybe they’re all out doing something important, and
I’m standing here with my dumb-­ass beard like I’m waiting for a
train? Maybe the men are already gone and they left their women
here in the luggage rooms?” At this moment, somebody shrieks
wildly in the corner, and everyone looks over; the room freezes for
just a second. Then it starts buzzing and yelling incoherently—
the women peel away from the window, lifting their drowsy heads
off their neighbors’ shoulders, popping out from behind the col-
umns. The outcry doesn’t abate; moreover, some distinct words and
tones come through, and Pasha understands, not with his head but
with his lungs, that this has to do with a child. So he darts into the
crowd, trying to push his way through. He catches the women’s all-­
encompassing scent, the breath and smell of a hundred women, the
smell of abandoned homes and hastily gathered bundles, the smell
of outbursts and grievances that can’t be addressed to anyone. He
pushes forward. “Let me through,” he says. “Let me through, I’m
a teacher, let me through.” But nobody is really listening to him.
Also, you can’t hear all that much amid the wailing and shrieking

56
that keeps coming and coming from the corner, never relenting.
Pasha basically hops on some woman’s shoulders, and she gives up
her spot right away, glaring loudly at him. But he doesn’t care; he
barrels into the corner and sees a woman on the floor. She’s wear-
ing nice—well, expensive—clothes: a pink leather jacket and high-­
heeled boots. She’s sitting on the floor on a folded piece of card-
board, squeezing a little girl, about two years old. She’s squeezing
her hard, like somebody’s going to take the girl away from her, and
she’s hollering so everyone understands that’s not going to happen.
The thing is, everyone’s more than willing to protect the woman
in pink, but they can’t understand what they’re supposed to pro-
tect her from. The child can’t understand what’s going on with her
mom, why she’s hanging on to her like that, what she wants from
her. She isn’t used to seeing her mom like this, so she lets out a
frightened scream. And the women gathered around start yelling
like somebody’s being strangled. Pasha realizes that if this goes on
any longer somebody really is going to get strangled, so he sits down
beside the woman and begins talking to her. But she just looks at
him, her eyes dead with fear, and keeps wailing. Then Pasha snaps,
grabbing the woman’s head with his left hand and yanking her
toward him.
“What?” he hisses right in her face. “What? Well?” The woman
focuses her deathly eyes on his glasses and suddenly says—it’s more
of a forced sob, actually:
“Took it right off my hand . . . while we were sleeping.”
“What’d they take?” Pasha asks, bewildered.
“The gold,” the woman howls. “They took the gold.”
“Who did it?” Pasha asks, trying to take her daughter out of
her arms.

57
 “I don’t know.” She just squeezes the girl even closer to her
chest. “I don’t know. We were sleeping.”
“Who took it?” Pasha gets up and looks around. “Who?”
He’s speaking quietly, but he can tell that everyone’s listening
to him. They listen, not even bothering to hide their staring. They
watch him, their eyes heavy, sticky, yet devoid of fear. They’re watch-
ing. Who are you? Where’d you come from? What are you doing
here? Pasha watches them, too, his eyes sliding across their faces—
drowsy, embittered, wet with tears—and he realizes that he really is
the only man here, and he doesn’t elicit any trust, just suspicion and
irritation. It’s as though he’s herded them in here into this building
and locked it from the inside so nobody can get out, so everybody
knows that he’s caused all the problems around here, that it’s all his
fault, that he—bearded Pasha, the teacher in the warm jacket who
wormed his way into the crowd, sniffing around and probing for
information—will have to answer for everything. Pasha can’t take
their eyes on him and the silence any longer; he can’t take the wail-
ing behind him and the child’s sharp, wet shrieking.
“Who took it? I’m asking you, who? Why won’t you answer
me?”
The women won’t answer him, but they do step aside. Two fig-
ures emerge from behind them. The first guy’s stocky, like he’s been
stomped down—coarse hair and light, sun-­faded eyes. He looks like
a supervisor—well, an ex-­supervisor, a guy who doesn’t have any-
one reporting to him—in a camo jacket with a collar made of some
dead beaver and ironed pleated pants tucked into his blue rubber
boots. Walking behind him is this really young, snotty-­nosed guy
with red, angry, swollen eyes; it looks like he was playing a com-
puter game all night, and he lost. Jerky movements, jagged gait,

58
jacket with some sparkles on it, kid’s footwear, dark green sneak-
ers that have gotten even darker from all the water. “Guess there
still are some men here. Not all of them left. The best ones stuck
around,” Pasha thinks.
“What’s going on here?” Stocky asks.
He’s talking, mixing the two languages, standing in front of
Pasha, not looking straight at him, addressing his question to some-
place off to the side, like he’s talking to spirits. He’s talking, his stom-
ach solidly and skillfully pushing Pasha into the corner, toward the
woman and the girl, who’s quieted down, intrigued by these new
characters.
“So,” Pasha begins explaining. “Basically, this woman was sleep-
ing . . . next to her child, and they took their gold.” He’s involun-
tarily mixing the two languages, too. “Yeah, basically, she was sleep-
ing, and they took their gold . . . ,” Pasha says, his tone less assured.
“And who are you?” Stocky asks him, even though he’s looking
at the woman, whose face has several band-­aids on it—either some-
body hit her or she fell. So Pasha doesn’t know if he should answer
or let the woman answer for him.
“Me?” he asks, just in case.
“Yeah, you,” says Stocky. “Maybe you’re the one who took it?”
“Me?” Pasha asks with a flustered sigh.
He chokes on the warm, stale station air, about to give Stocky a
piece of his mind, but somebody beats him to the punch.
“Yeah, it was him all right,” a lady with gold teeth says quietly
yet firmly.
Pasha turns toward the voice. Rage takes the wind out of him;
he wants to see that lady, get a good look at her. He searches for
her eyes but only sees her teeth shining dimly in the crowd. Pasha

59
finds himself thinking that he’s never seen so much gold. “Maybe
that’s the gold that got taken,” he thinks. “Maybe she took it and hid
it under her tongue. Yeah, it’s gotta be hard to talk with it in your
mouth, but nobody’ll take it from you at least.” He lurches forward,
looking to give her a piece of his mind, but Stocky flings his hand
out. Pasha runs into this barrier, bounces back, and then charges
into the crowd again, but this time Stocky flings out all five of his
chubby splayed fingers covered with fair, seemingly bleached hair.
Pasha looks at those fingers and steps back, scared.
“Freeze,” Stocky says. “Freeze. Who are you?”
“A teacher,” Pasha answers.
“A teacher? Oh, please!” yells another woman, who, inciden-
tally, also has gold teeth. “He took it!”
“Quiet down,” Stocky replies, lifting his heavy hand. “We’ll
sort this out. Papers,” he says, turning toward Pasha.
“Gotta ask who he is,” Pasha thinks. “Don’t even think about
handing him your papers.” And then he reaches for his papers right
away. Stocky interprets that in his own way, intercepts Pasha’s arm,
wrings it like a wet sheet, and spins Pasha toward the wall. The ladies
all start carrying on at once.
“It was him!” they yell. “It was definitely him! He’s been bum-
ming around here. It was him!”
“Quiet down,” Stocky interrupts them and then turns to the
side and issues an order to the young guy. “Check his pockets.”
“Who do you think you are?” Pasha eventually forces out a
question, shaking his head.
“Shut your trap,” the young guy advises him and begins root-
ing through his pockets. He takes out a pack of gum, some tissues,

60
then some coins, then some paper clips. Then all of it slips out of
his hands and spills across the sticky floor. Then he reaches into the
pockets of Pasha’s jeans, takes out his wallet, makes a big show of
opening it up in front of everyone—to clear himself of any suspi-
cion—picks through it with obvious interest, takes out some old re-
ceipts, a shopper’s card, and package slips from the post office. He
counts the bills, pauses for a split second—“C’mon, c’mon,” Stocky
says, nodding at him—stuffs the wallet back into Pasha’s pocket,
pats him down with his hands, as bony as the Grim Reaper’s, and
then reaches into Pasha’s backpack. He digs around in there as if he
owns the place, pulls out some sandwiches, a bottle of water, and
a shabby old detective novel. Pasha’s just standing there, looking
down into the corner at the woman pressing the girl against her-
self, while the woman’s looking at Pasha as if she’s never doubted,
not even for a minute of her hapless life, that it was him, Pasha, this
bearded, bespectacled geek, who took her gold. Then Pasha gets
spun around abruptly, so now he’s facing his peers.
“Why the fuck are you roaming around without your papers?”
the young guy asks, seemingly speaking not to Pasha but rather to
the whole gold-­toothed pack of women. “Huh?” he says in a theatri-
cally pushy tone.
“I have my papers,” Pasha answers, aggrieved, and he feels like
he’s about to burst into tears, and everyone will see him, a real big
dude with a beard standing there and crying, and they’ll all laugh
at him.
They don’t let him cry, though. Stocky turns around with
Pasha, shoves him forward, and they cleave through the sticky mar-
garine of the crowd. “Take it easy,” Stocky yells up at the ceiling,

61
seemingly addressing the birds. “We’ll sort everything out.” The
birds don’t answer.

The train station attendant’s nest looks like a death row inmate’s
cell, cramped and poorly ventilated. The curtains are drawn, so you
don’t know what’s going on in the main hall. The screen of the com-
puter on the desk is all taped up, and last year’s calendar is taped
to the glass. A cup filled with coins and tacks, a calculator, several
trade union newspapers. It’s hard to like your customers when your
work space looks like this. Oh yeah, and there’s a portable television,
too—red, caked with dust, as if someone’s sprinkled ashes on it—it
looks like a mini gas chamber. Pasha’s led inside, over to the wall.
Stocky locks the door and tucks the key into his pocket. “At least he
didn’t swallow it,” Pasha thinks as he observes all this. He goes to sit
down in an office chair, but the young guy beats him to it—he plops
down and immediately turns on the TV. Nothing’s really on—just
some shadows walking through smoke, bleeding profusely, and
showering the camera with curses. Stocky sits down, too, right on
the desk, ass on the calculator. He tosses his camo jacket to the
young guy, who just sits there with his arms extended, like he’s hold-
ing the bread and salt at a welcoming ceremony. Stocky crosses his
arms on his chest and occasionally scratches his jaw—that’s him
sorting everything out. He’s wearing a dark green vest under his
jacket; it goes with his boots. Pasha eventually reaches into his in-
side pocket, takes out his papers, and hands them to Stocky, word-
lessly. He flips through Pasha’s little blue threadbare passport word-
lessly, stops when he gets to the picture (Pasha quickly takes off his
glasses and aims his weak eyes at nothing in particular), and finds
the line listing his place of residence.

62
 “From the Station, yeah?” he asks calmly.
“Yeah,” Pasha answers.
“You’re a teacher?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Pasha is on the verge of tears again, but he can’t cry here.
He starts making excuses—there was no time, I was confused,
should’ve repeated myself, you didn’t hear me, you didn’t get what
I meant. He keeps talking and talking, thinking to himself, “Who
am I even talking to? Who are these guys? What are they doing in
this office? Should ask ’em, really should.”
Before he can ask, somebody knocks on the little window built
into the wall of the office. The young guy spins around in his chair
like a weathervane, opens the narrow embrasure, leans forward, lis-
tens and listens, hearing someone out for a while, for an eternity,
while they cry and gripe for a while, for an eternity, and then he
begins answering. His voice is hollow; half of what he’s saying is un-
intelligible—and that’s from inside the office. One can only imag-
ine what those craving information, those on the other side of the
window, are making out. He’s speaking resolutely, as if he’s been
containing himself for a while because he didn’t have an audience,
but now he has the floor—now he has the chance to say whatever
he wants.
“No,” he says. “There won’t be. And there won’t be tomorrow
either,” he adds. “Or the day after that,” he says, getting all riled up.
“There won’t be one going there, or one coming from there, either.
Nothing’s running.” He paints a pretty sad picture. “He’s gone,” he
declares. “Him, too. They’re gone. Everyone’s gone!” he exclaims,
robbing the passengers on the other side of the window of any hope.

63
But they aren’t retreating, aren’t giving up. They keep trying to
squeeze something out of him, anything at all. But he isn’t about to
reveal his railroad secrets just like that. “Where?” he asks, surprised.
“Fucked if I know.” Viewing that as an exhaustive answer, he shuts
the embrasure, and turns toward Pasha and Stocky. There’s a timid
knock on the window. He slams his fist against the glass without
even turning around. Silence falls on the other side.
“So are you station attendants or something?” Pasha asks, flus-
tered.
“Yep,” Stocky answers him. “Hey, Teach, hope you’re not mad
at us for twisting your arm and dragging you on the floor like that.
There’s all kinds of shady types floating around in here with our
people. You know what it’s like. Our bosses just fuckin’ took off.
They left us in charge. No hard feelings, right?”
Pasha’s not mad anymore. He just kind of loosened up after
“Teach.” He fixes his glasses with his pointer finger and hates him-
self for doing it.
“Where do ya need to go?” Stocky asks him.
“I just wanted to duck in here and wait it out. Then I’ll get
going,” Pasha replies.
He finishes talking and hears a trembling outside. You might
think it’s about to rain—that is, if you don’t look out the window.
Stocky hears the rumbling, too; he hears the rumbling coming
closer and closer, so he’s in no hurry to pump Pasha for answers.
He simply says: “All right then, you can go. Just don’t step on any
mines.”
“Where are they?” Pasha asks, flustered.
“All over the place,” Stocky shouts cheerfully, and starts laugh-
ing, giving the young guy a playful punch on the arm. But the young

64
guy isn’t laughing; he’s moving his jaw muscles up and down, his
expression malicious.
“I gotta get to the orphanage,” Pasha interrupts him eventually.
Silence sets in immediately. Stocky exchanges a meaningful
glance with his colleague, who just whistles in reply.
“Oh man, for real?” Stocky asks.
“What’s the big deal?” Pasha answers anxiously. “My nephew’s
over there.”
“Wow.” Stocky nods. “Wow.”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Pasha asks in a slightly combative
tone.
But they just nod, still not saying anything. The young guy stops
moving his jaw muscles; he sits there, sullenly examining his green
sneakers. One might think that for him those sneakers are the prob-
lem—if he had different sneakers he’d be in a much better mood.
“So?” Pasha cracks first.
“All right,” Stocky finally ventures to say something. “All right,
Pasha,” he says, calling Pasha by his name for the first time. “So in
about an hour, Alyosha,” he starts, pointing at the young guy, “is
going to take a group past the retention basin and out to the edge
of town. He’ll take you to the fork in the road, by the meat-­packing
plant. You know the spot, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Head out with the group. You’ll just peel off by the plant. Go
down into the gully and then up the other side. The orphanage’s
over there. Got it?”
“Got it. Where’s he taking them?”
“Out of the city,” Stocky explains. “How are you planning on
getting out, huh?”

65
 “Getting out of where?”
“Out of here.”
Pasha doesn’t say anything, and they let it go—the answer’s
obvious. “I’m trapped,” Pasha thinks frantically. “God, I’m trapped.”
“So? Are you in?” Stocky asks him. Pasha weighs his options.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice tense. “Yeah,” he repeats with more
conviction.
“Well, come back here over to the window in an hour,” Stocky
replies.
“Okay. Will do.”
He wants to leave, but Stocky isn’t opening the door. He gives
Pasha an inquisitive look, seemingly waiting for a specific response.
“How much?” Pasha asks, when he figures out what it is.
“Nothing at all.” Stocky flashes a kind smile. Then he pulls the
calculator out from under his ass, presses some buttons, and adds in
a confiding tone. “Well, what do you got on you? You probably got
a hundred, right? I’ll just take that.”
Pasha pays what they tell him to pay. Stocky takes out some
keys, opens the door, warily peers out into the hallway, quickly lets
Pasha out, and locks the door from the inside. “Feels like I just went
to confession,” Pasha thinks as he walks back to the waiting area.

It hits somewhere close by. Thing is, you can’t ever tell where
the next one will hit. There are explosions all over the place—­behind
the tracks, behind the main avenue in town. Everyone huddles
by the walls; muffled howling follows the blast and then it gets quiet
again. After that, the silence outside snaps and wailing follows.
“It’s on fire!” someone suddenly yells by the entrance, and
everyone runs over to look out the window. Pasha peers out, too; he

66
stands next to the crowd that nearly ripped him to shreds with its
gold teeth just half an hour ago and sees greasy black smoke behind
some high-­rises—so greasy and so black that it looks like they’ve
been burning corpses back there. “Where’s the fire? Where?” asks
a short little woman in a black coat. Her red, frozen hands keep
fixing her hair as it spills out from underneath her beret. Where?
Eventually, she realizes where and she releases a wild, full-­throated
scream, frightening the already frightened birds and children.
“What? What’s over there?” the women standing behind her ask
one another, and the petrified children ask, “What? What’s going
on?” And everyone realizes what’s going on over there—clearly she
lives in one of those high-­rises, and clearly there’s a fire somewhere
over there. So let her yell, let her yell it all out. There’s nothing
you can do. Pasha turns around, walks across the main hall, turns
down a corridor, passes black bodies lying by the wall, huddled by
the radiators—it’s safer by the radiators—and ducks in response
to every flash in the sky, to every sound outside. He squats down
when a blast goes off nearby, right behind the train cars, and he
scurries over to the luggage room, hunched over, squeezes between
some bodies, finds a little crevice by a column, plops down, curls
up, shuts up.
Somebody’s nestling against his shoulder, slipping under his
arm. “That lady,” Pasha figures. “That lady with the gold under her
tongue.” She sits there, afraid to move a muscle. “Let ’er snuggle,” he
thinks. “Let ’er warm up. When’s the last time I lay next to a woman
like this?” He thinks and thinks, trying to recall, and thinks some
more, but then gives up. “It’ll come to me later,” he thinks. “It’s
nice and warm. I’m safe here and it smells like a woman.” Granted,
the woman smells kind of funny, like someone who walked around

67
in the rain in a fur coat and then slipped under the covers next to
you. Now there’s this canine smell—something living, something
from the street, something stray. Pasha casts a sideways glance—
yep, it’s a dog. Just how on earth did he get in here? Wet, gray fur,
dark, frightened eyes. Pasha wants to nudge him over; he touches
the dog’s spine and feels him tremble resignedly. C’mon, get outta
here. But the dog resists, turns his muzzle toward Pasha, and looks
him in the eye, hinting that he doesn’t have anywhere to go. Just like
Pasha. “This just isn’t right,” Pasha thinks. “Dogs should be protec-
tive, dogs should snarl. This one’s lying here, burying his head under
my arm, like he doesn’t want to see anyone.”
He’s just like the rest of the bunch here—averting their eyes,
wrapping themselves in blankets, burrowing into their clothes like
fish in silt. An old guy’s sitting on a chair in the far corner. Old
woman’s coat, soggy fur hat. He clearly brought the chair from
home. He’s holding some taped-­up pillows. Everyone who ran away
took something; they’re lugging whatever it was around now. Ap-
parently he decided that there was no point in setting off without his
pillows. Pasha looks around, studying the crowd. People sleeping on
blankets or on the bare floor. People who’ve hung their bags all over
themselves so not a single one gets stolen. Some people have even
rolled their suitcases all the way here. But generally, their belong-
ings are sparse. Makes sense—they were in a rush, so they grabbed
whatever was at hand. Documents and valuables, mostly. Now
they’re sitting here and suspiciously surveying their surroundings—
when you have gold earrings in your pocket you’re a bit reluctant
to make friends with strangers down by the luggage room. Pasha
catches those glances, the glances of people who might be about to
have something taken away from them, which makes them so vul-

68
nerable, defenseless. There’s no finding their bracelets and cash in
their homes. Just try it. But here, just root around in their pockets
or under their shirts—you’ll find everything, you’ll take everything
away. They realize that, so they have this hounded look about them;
their eyes slide down other people’s bodies, and when their eyes rest
on you, fear and animosity immediately appear in those eyes. The
dog can sense that, too—nobody wants him here, nobody’s keeping
him here, and the most he can count on is someone’s weakness, not
their magnanimity. Maybe that’s why he unerringly chose Pasha.

This time, the impact is right over his head. So close the lights
go out. In the darkness, the women start wailing again. The dog
buries himself even deeper under Pasha’s arm. Pasha would be
more than glad to hide under someone’s arm, too, but there’s no
arm like that in the station. After a while, the lights come back on—
the lamps flicker, faintly illuminating the hallway. The women im-
mediately regain their composure—they take out their food, root
around in their bags, check their pockets. Pasha can’t stand it any-
more; he gets up and heads for the exit. The dog slinks after him,
obviously. They pass through the dark waiting area and look out
the windows. The smoke behind the high-­rises has settled in the
rain. It’s quiet outside; seems like the shelling is over. Now it’s even
harder to breathe in the main hall. Outside the window the dark
silver of the January sky has spilled all over. Pasha pushes his way
toward the window. The women track his every move discontent-
edly. Pasha feels like a criminal who’s come back to the scene of the
crime. “What am I standing here for?” he thinks. “What am I wait-
ing for? Something’s gonna come flying in here and knock all the
tiles off these walls, and I’ll get smacked right in the head, and no-

69
body’ll ever dig me out. When’s Alyosha gonna take us outta here?”
Pasha produces his phone and checks the time. Another half hour.
“Where’s he going to take us? Traipsing down the railroad tracks
through an industrial park with a bunch of women—what kind of
idea is that? Don’t see us getting far. C’mon, get the hell out of
here,” Pasha says to himself and walks decisively toward the door.
He freezes in front of it, feeling weakness and indecisiveness sweep
through his body, starting from his lungs. But he exhales deeply,
pushes the door, and steps outside. The door shuts behind him im-
mediately. But the dog manages to slip through first.
So Pasha’s standing in the doorway; once again, he hears
the pigeons breathing overhead and contemplates the sky as dark
threads of intermittent smoke float by. “I’ll run across the street,”
he figures. “Go past those houses and get to the high-­rises that way.
Seems like they’re done shelling this place. If I get stopped, I’ll tell
’em I’m going home.” He runs his hands through his pockets—
papers, wallet, keys, phone. He can leave now, but he isn’t leaving.
He’s just standing there. Something’s wrong, but he can’t put his
finger on it. It’s too quiet. Incredibly quiet. Unfamiliarly quiet. Over
the past few months, he’s grown so accustomed to the air quiver-
ing. It was quivering just an hour ago. The lights disappeared just
half an hour ago. But now it’s quiet. And empty. And smoke flows
across the sky quietly and sorrowfully. In this silence Pasha sud-
denly starts to discern a rumbling of sorts. Something’s moving
by the main avenue, moving in his direction. That something isn’t
visible, but the rumbling’s becoming more expressive, more threat-
ening. And it’d be nice to hide somewhere from that rumbling, curl
up under someone’s arm, and wait it out in the corner, eyes shut
in fear. Panic overcomes Pasha. “What should I do?” he thinks.

70
“Where should I run?” And the pigeons overhead begin rustling
their wings anxiously. And the women behind him are glued to the
windows, peering outside, yet not understanding what’s going on—
what’s that rumbling? Where’s it coming from? Pasha’s standing,
turned to stone on the empty, soggy steps, and he feels all these
eyes on him: the tense eyes of the women, the mistrustful eyes of
the birds, and another set of eyes—the eyes of something unknown
that’s staring at him from nowhere. And when there’s too much
anticipation, so much that his heart starts to ache, a tank—dirty,
green, logs attached to the back, three passengers on top—barrels
around the corner and into the square. It turns sharply and careens
toward the train station. It pulls right up to the steps with the col-
umns, releases some menacing smoke, and comes to a sudden stop.
“A T-­64,” Pasha thinks automatically, connecting the dots. The tur-
ret’s moving slowly, very slowly, aiming the gun right at Pasha. “It’s
gonna fire,” Pasha thinks, too afraid to even swallow. “It’s gonna nail
me.” He feels cold sweat soaking his T-­shirt, feels like he can’t feel
his feet, and feels like he can’t feel anything at all. He’s watching
the gun, mesmerized. And the three guys sitting on top are watch-
ing Pasha with genuine interest—where the hell’d you come from,
Four Eyes? They’re yelling back and forth cheerfully; Pasha can’t
hear what they’re saying, but it’s obvious they’re talking about him,
and it’s obvious that they don’t have anything nice to say. Dirty uni-
forms, smoke-­stained faces, heavy, crusty deposits of earth on their
shoes. And the flag hanging over the turret—dark and soiled, like
a bandage that’s been pressed against an open wound for a long
time. Pasha can’t even make out the color, but it’s not the same flag
hanging over his school. “Just don’t move,” Pasha cautions himself.
“Stay put.”

71
 And then the tank stalls, and it gets really quiet. And the birds
nestle against one another. And the women on the other side of
the windows watch, quiet. And the dog hides between Pasha’s legs,
timidly scanning the strangers. One of the soldiers, the guy sitting
right by the turret and hugging the gun, yells:
“Hey, c’mon, c’mon!”
Pasha looks around, not knowing what to do.
“Come over here, c’mon!” the soldier yells cheerfully.
At this point, Pasha realizes that the soldier’s not yelling to him.
He’s yelling to the dog. “He’s mine,” Pasha decides. “I’m not gonna
give him up, no matter what.” The soldier’s already rooting through
his pockets, though. He produces a mushed-­up Snickers, rips it
open, takes a bite, and tosses the rest onto the asphalt, right in front
of the tank. The dog immediately springs to his feet and walks down
the hill, tail between his legs. He grabs the Snickers, greedily de-
vours it, and lies down next to the tank, trying not to look at Pasha.
The soldiers laugh, and Pasha gives them a flustered smile. What’s
so funny, though?
Then the guy who yelled stands up and jumps down onto the
asphalt. Chunks of dirt fly off his heels every which way. He fixes
his rifle sling and pulls a gray keffiyeh off his face. Tall, well-­built,
athletic. The left half of his head is gray, which makes him look like
an arctic fox. His gaze is foxlike, too—predatory and mistrustful.
Black kneepads, shabby bulletproof vest, fingerless leather gloves.
The two other guys jump down after him. They’re dirty, too; one of
them is in a warm coat, the other in a leather jacket, camo under-
neath. They go up a few steps, stop in front of Pasha, and look up
at him from below, but he doesn’t forget, even for an instant, who’s
in charge.

72
 “Who are you?” asks the guy with the keffiyeh, the Arctic Fox.
He’s speaking Russian, but he has a strange accent, like he’s only
heard the language spoken on television. The sun emerges from the
fog for an instant, gleaming on his gray hair.
Pasha delivers his usual spiel: school, winter break, orphanage,
nephew. He takes out his papers.
“Local guy?” the Arctic Fox asks, surprised. “Why aren’t you
fighting?”
“Health problems,” Pasha replies and looks at his papers in the
soldier’s hands—is he gonna give them back?
He toys with Pasha’s papers, flips through the shabby pages
again, fixes his keffiyeh again, shuts Pasha’s passport, pauses briefly,
and hands everything back.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
Pasha shows him his right hand, desperately trying to spread
his fingers.
“What?” The soldier’s confused.
“He’s got a problem with his fingers,” the guy in the leather
jacket says behind him. “See?”
Pasha keeps showing him his hand, just in case, seemingly to
confirm what the other man said—yeah, I got a problem. The Arc-
tic Fox scrutinizes Pasha’s hand mistrustfully and then quickly loses
interest in Pasha and in his problem.
“Who’s in there?” He nods at the train station.
“Women and children,” Pasha says, tucking his papers into the
inside pocket of his jacket.
“Any soldiers?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Are you armed?”

73
 Pasha doesn’t reply.
“You gotta be kidding me. Him?” says the guy in the leather
jacket, laughing. “Let’s get going.”
The Arctic Fox turns around and whistles for the dog to come
over. He runs over obediently, not raising his eyes to Pasha, and tags
along with the soldiers. The Arctic Fox walks up to the door and
pulls on it resolutely. All four of them, including the dog, disappear
into the building.
“You can all go to hell,” Pasha says, and shuffles off to the first
platform.

In the winter, he always remembers his childhood. Black trees

buried in the snow, a line of workers trudging away from the sta-
tion like hunters coming home. The golden commuter train, the
blue shadows at dusk. It’s winter now, too, and the holiday season
has yet to come to a close. Rain and fog fill the ground with water,
and the sheer abundance of moisture makes the sky look like a
drowned man brought ashore—bloated body, blue tint on a gray
backdrop. You don’t even want to look at a sky like that. And Pasha
isn’t looking; he’s sitting on a bench and incredulously examining
last year’s grass—it’s poking through the sidewalk tiles, shivering in
the fresh air. Pasha lifts his hood; his coat is nice and thick, and his
bag warms his back. You can just sit here like this for an eternity,
experiencing the early, January twilight descending from the sky,
seeping through the surrounding area like purple dye, eroding ob-
jects away, and blurring lines. “Why’d the dog leave me?” Pasha
thinks. “Why didn’t he stay with me? It’s a strange time—can’t hold
on to anyone, can’t hang on to anyone.” He felt this for the first time
several months ago, in the spring, when the vise started tightening

74
around the city. The trains stopped running, the Station grew calm.
The younger students weren’t talking about that—they were afraid,
they didn’t have the vocabulary. The older kids didn’t either, but
they weren’t afraid of anything. They argued, yelling over each other
and paying little attention to Pasha. He didn’t get involved when the
students asked him to settle their disputes. He’d laugh everything
off and start talking about their homework assignments. “That’s not
your job,” he said. “Being good students, now that’s your job.” But
they were bad students. And they behaved badly. And they simply
ignored whatever Pasha said. One time, when the rumbling started
particularly close by, Pasha tried taking them out of the classroom,
to what he called the shelter. The kids laughed in his face; they were
glued to the windows, searching intently for traces of smoke in the
sky. Pasha stood there, waited around a little while longer, and then
headed to the shelter. In the hallway, he bumped into the princi-
pal—thick layer of makeup, drawn-­on eyebrows. She looked like a
clown that’d been drinking hard for a long time.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Pasha said with a nod.
“What about your kids?” she asked, clearly uninterested.
“They’re doing fine, too,” Pasha assured her.
After that, the kids didn’t even want to talk to him; it was like
he didn’t exist. It was like his subject didn’t exist. When school let
out, Pasha would breathe a sigh of relief and head home. When he
had to leave for school, he’d breathe a sigh of relief. He felt his best
during the quarter-­mile walk from his house to the school build-
ing. Sometimes on his way home in the evening, he’d sit down
on the bench and pretend he was waiting for a bus. He’d tuck his
chin into his collar, sit there, and look at the dark apple orchards

75
with flashes and rumbles beyond them. In the spring the sky is so
resonant; everything bounces off it, makes it reverberate, like an
empty tanker. “What could I tell them?” Pasha thinks. “What could
I teach them besides grammar rules? Everyone has to decide for
themselves what to do and who to be with. It’s every man for him-
self,” Pasha thinks, and wraps his coat even tighter around his shoul-
ders to protect himself against the thick fog, against the twilight en-
compassing the train station, and against the blasts that are starting
up again somewhere behind the high-­rises.

“Hey, mister,” says a surly voice. “You still breathin’?”

Pasha springs up, still not fully awake, the sweet taste of sleep
and tranquillity lingering in his mouth. Alyosha is standing in front
of him: jacket zipped up to his throat, which makes his head some-
what birdlike, and he has bird eyes, too. Vulture eyes. He stands
there, his green sneakers pattering in the cold water as he shifts from
foot to foot, takes his red hands out of his pockets, blows cold air
on them, sniffles, his frozen nose quivering, and looks ahead, the
whites of his eyes bloody.
“You comin’, mister?” he asks. “Or you gonna stay here and
freeze your butt off? You already paid, so let’s get rolling.”
“Yeah, I’m coming, gimme a sec,” Pasha replies, stands up, and
sees that Alyosha isn’t alone.
A group about a dozen strong is plodding along behind him
through a fine spray of rain. A woman—around forty, dark, puffy
jacket, short skirt, high heels—is out front. Well-­dressed, self-­
confident, nice haircut. You might think she’s walking home from
the office. In her regular life, she’s probably a government official
who knows how to take bribes. The only thing is, now she’s carrying

76
a large bag from the hardware store on her back, and something’s
jingling heavily, something like metal dishes or copper utensils.
“Looks like she ransacked a church,” Pasha thinks. Following her
are two other women, one very young and the other much older—
clearly a mother and daughter—their arms intertwined. The older
woman keeps affectionately calling the younger one “Annushka,”
but the younger one doesn’t even respond. Annushka speeds up a
little, like a runner trying to pull away from her closest competitor
as she goes around a bend. Her mom won’t let her, though. She’s
hanging on her daughter’s arm like an old winter coat, holding a
duffle bag in her free hand. Behind them, a young girl is pushing
a stroller. Pasha thinks that she could pass for someone in his class,
he could teach her. “But do I really need to teach her anything?”
he asks himself. “Seems like she’s doing just fine without me.” The
stroller’s packed with clothes and bottles of water—just a big, damp
heap, not packed in bags. The local sidewalks have done a number
on the wheels. You can tell that the stroller is used often, that it’s
simply indispensable around the house. But there’s no child in the
picture, and you don’t even want to ask where it is. Next in line is a
little woman in a fur coat. The fur coat is all she has—no suitcases,
no bags, no bundles. It seems as if that fur coat is her family’s sole
valuable possession, so she isn’t taking it off, she’s fused to it. “She
looks like a squirrel,” Pasha thinks. Her worn-­down shoes stomp
through the puddles. The heels are uneven, so from the back it
looks like she has two hooves. Behind them an old man’s pressing
a teenage girl—either his daughter or granddaughter—against his
side, under his down jacket. She’s wearing a gray spring jacket and
holding a bloated backpack in her right hand. A self-­assured, young
blonde woman is walking along behind them, one hand clenching

77
a pack of cigarettes, the other loose on the handle of a wheeled suit-
case. She’s wearing sneakers, ripped jeans, and a little orange jacket.
If they decide to shoot, they’ll start with her, obviously—she’s the
most radiant of them all.
Pasha lets this whole bizarre procession pass and falls in behind
them. “This is gonna take a while,” he thinks. “I’ll walk with them
as far as the meat-­packing plant and then peel off.” The procession
walks slowly, as if nobody’s in any rush to get anywhere, as if they
all have truckloads of time, a whole train car filled with time—
one of the hundreds lurking here in the fog like drowsy animals.
Most of them are battered and burned out, some are riddled with
holes, but a few are more or less undamaged. They’re waiting for
their turn—nobody’ll make it out alive. The procession advances
down the platform slowly, stopping and crouching with every bright
flash in the evening sky. When the platform ends, Alyosha stops and
turns toward the group. Everyone freezes. The teenage girl cranes
her neck at her grandpa and asks a question, but he puts a finger
against his lips—Be quiet, listen, not now. Alyosha resolutely wipes
some snot from his nose and scans the group.
“First, some ground rules,” he says. “Turn off your phones, no
smoking.”
“It’s like we’re at the theater,” Pasha thinks.
“Follow me,” Alyosha continues, his tone surly. “Keep it down
and keep up. You’re on your own if you get caught.”
“Who the hell am I even listening to?” Pasha thinks. But he
doesn’t say anything; they told him to keep quiet, so he keeps quiet.
Alyosha hops off the platform, right into the fog. The woman
with the bag waits—is he going to offer her his hand, help her get
down? He doesn’t, so she hops down too. The something metal

78
jingles inside the bag. Alyosha hisses threateningly somewhere in
the darkness. Then Annushka jumps into the darkness, taking her
mom with her. She jumps gracefully; the old lady flies after her
like ballast dropping from the basket of a hot-­air balloon. The girl
with the stroller goes to jump, but then balks. Pasha can’t stand to
look at her like that, so he pushes his way to the front, jumps down,
takes the stroller, and gives the girl his hand. Once the girl lands on
solid ground, she yanks her hand away warily, grabs the stroller, and
disappears into the fog. After that, the blonde girl charges toward
Pasha and tosses her suitcase down. Pasha catches it, scraping some
skin off his hands in the process, and puts it on the ground. Then
he catches the blonde girl.
“Watch it,” she advises him coldly, and disappears, too.
After that, Pasha carefully lowers the granddaughter and then
reaches up to give her grandpa a hand. His hand is bony and un-
yielding, the hand of an old teacher at a bad school grabbing a
naughty student by the ear. Hoof Lady is the last one remaining on
the platform. Pasha extends his hand; she accepts it, steadying her-
self—her touch is nice, dry, like she’s just left a warm apartment—
hops down with surprising finesse, crashes into Pasha, pushes off
of him with equal finesse, and tucks her hair back with one quick
movement. Her face is wet from the rain, but she’s smiling, like
she’s enjoying a nice stroll. Maybe she just doesn’t want to reveal
how scared she is.
“What’s with your fingers?” she asks Pasha. “You break your
hand?”
“I’m good,” Pasha answers reluctantly.
“All right,” she replies incredulously, turning around and shuf-
fling her worn-­down hooves along the railroad gravel.

79
 Pasha glances back at the station one more time. He sees men
with rifles stepping out of the building onto the platform. Stocky’s
running after them. No camo jacket—clearly, he didn’t have time
to put it on. Pasha’s dog is running after them, always getting in the
way; he’s holding something in his mouth, something dark, some-
thing it’s best not to look at. Pasha doesn’t look.

The gravel crunches under their feet; they see the occasional
empty bottle or supermarket bag on the ground; the snow along the
tracks was melted away some time ago by the same fire that charred
the train cars. Alyosha’s walking like a zombie. With determination,
that is. The women can barely keep up. The blonde is having a par-
ticularly hard time. She’s dragging her suitcase, which bounces on
rocks and flips over repeatedly, dragging it like an anchor, just can’t
drop it. Pasha catches up to her and offers to pull it for her, but she
recoils from him, accentuating just how terrified she is and thank-
ing him stiffly, even though it would’ve been better if she hadn’t
thanked him at all. Pasha stops and lets the rest of the solemn pro-
cession pass.
“You get the cold shoulder?” says the one in the fur coat with a
laugh, nodding at the blonde woman.
“Yep,” Pasha answers and waits for everyone to get some dis-
tance on him before he starts moving again.
At first, everything’s going just fine. Alyosha runs, and every-
one runs after him. Alyosha crouches in the wet weeds, and they
all crouch down as best they can. Alyosha tells them to shut their
traps—who could ignore Alyosha? They quickly leave the side tracks
behind, crawl under a tanker (“the power lines are down, don’t get
shocked,” Alyosha says), and walk along a corridor of busted and

80
burned train cars. And then the corridor comes to an end, and
up by the switch the tracks start heading north. Alyosha veers left,
takes a path only he knows, moves through tall, dry cattails, skirts
a burned truck, hops over a ditch, and ducks under a crooked con-
crete wall. Everyone else follows suit. The old man’s panting by this
point, his granddaughter, tucked under his warm jacket, is start-
ing to cry, the blonde woman is anxiously twirling her cigarettes,
glancing warily at Alyosha. They were ordered not to smoke, so she
isn’t lighting up. Hoof Lady takes some pieces of candy out of her
pocket and offers the girl one. She pauses mistrustfully, yet eventu-
ally accepts it. Hoof Lady tries pushing one on Pasha. Pasha refuses
automatically.
“You really don’t want one? Just take it,” Hoof Lady says.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Vira.”
Pasha tells her his name but still doesn’t take the piece of candy.
“All right, fine,” Hoof Lady—Vira, that is—says with a laugh
and tucks the candy away in her pocket.
“So,” Alyosha says. “Down there, on the bridge, they could start
shooting. Walk fast, don’t make any noise. Ready?”
“Need a smoke break first,” says the blonde woman.
“You can smoke when you get home,” Alyosha answers, gets
up, and quickly sneaks along the wall.
“Asshole,” she mutters at his back. Alyosha hears her—his shoul-
ders even twitch—but he keeps going, so she has to keep going, too.
The going’s tough. Their shoes keep landing on crushed bricks
and rebar. Alyosha pauses sometimes, takes out his phone, cau-
tiously turns on the flashlight, and hops over yet another ditch.
At one point the blonde woman can’t take it anymore, sits down
on her suitcase, and starts griping about something. The column

81
stops. Alyosha’s standing up ahead in the darkness; he doesn’t circle
back. Vira leans in to say something to the blonde woman. Hey
now, don’t get all bent out of shape. Vira takes her by the hand and
helps her up. C’mon, gotta get going. She nods at Pasha. Quit stand-
ing around and help. Pasha picks up her suitcase and feels that it’s
empty. He starts dragging it anyway, though, dragging it behind
everyone.
A little later, Alyosha slides through a hole in a fence; everyone
follows him reluctantly. They plod across an empty lot under a sky
that flickers a fiery white. Those lights are somewhere in the east.
When they flash, you can see every bush along the nearly imper-
ceptible path. It looks like they’re walking back to the locker room
after losing a soccer match. How does their guide know where he’s
going? Nobody has a clue. He doesn’t appear to know any better
than they do. He stops abruptly at one point. The woman with
the bag crashes into him in the darkness, the girl with the stroller
crashes into her, and Annushka and the old lady crash into her.
Everyone stands, waits.
“Hold on,” Alyosha says. “Quiet. Gimme a sec.”
“We’re lost,” Pasha thinks. He takes off his glasses and cleans
them—like that’ll help. The teenage girl slips out from underneath
her grandpa’s jacket and puts her backpack on. Vira walks over and
starts patting her on the head. The blonde woman can’t take it any
longer; she takes out a cigarette, roots around in her jacket pockets,
finds her lighter, and flicks it. A small, distinct flame escapes. She
tries to catch it with the tip of her cigarette, tries again and again,
but can’t.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Alyosha turns around, sees the

82
flame, and darts toward her. “Put it out!” he shouts in a whisper.
“Put it out, now!”
A short, piercing whistle comes out of nowhere, then some-
thing explodes off to the side, about fifty yards away. Chunks of
earth go flying every which way, everyone drops to the grass, the
teenage girl screams, her grandpa lets out a shriek, a terrified sigh
of sorts. It’s as if he wants to hold all his fear inside but can’t. Every-
thing stands still for several seconds, and then something whistles
by and rips up the grass.
“Follow me!” Alyosha yells. “Get moving.”
Everyone gets up and runs across the field, as if this is a game
they’re playing. They’re struggling, though. Annushka’s dragging
her mom; she’s dangling behind her daughter, trying to keep up.
The woman with the bag disappears somewhere up ahead. The old
man’s lagging behind, panting, dropping back. Pasha runs up to
him, tosses the suitcase aside, picks up the girl, takes the old man by
the arm, and begins carrying them. There’s a third blast, somewhere
nearby. Pasha thinks he feels a hot breeze grazing his face, but that’s
probably the fear talking, just the fear talking. Run away from here,
get to a safe place. The sky lights up again; the black silhouette of
a building surfaces up ahead. Alyosha’s bitter scream comes out of
the fog—over here, god fuckin’ dammit, get over here! Everyone
runs toward his voice. In the very back, Pasha’s carrying the girl and
the old man. He can feel his knees buckling—he’s nearly spent.
“Almost there,” he reassures himself. “C’mon.” The building’s close,
very close. There’s another flash, up in the air. Pasha runs forward,
carrying the girl and the old man, and reaches a wall. He sees a bro-
ken doorway and tumbles through it, his elbow clipping the jamb.

83
He charges inside and crashes onto the floor, still pressing the girl
against his side. She lets out a desperate cry, Pasha tries to calm her
down, but how can you calm someone down when everyone else is
yelling? The old man is lying on the floor, off to the side, groaning.
The blonde woman runs, nimbly diving toward the wall.
“Against the wall,” Vira yells. “Against the wall, now!” Everyone
bolts into the darkness, sprawls out on the floor, and holds still. One
lands very close by, on the other side of the wall. It’s scary when that
whistling starts, then things ease up. Basically, it’s scary while you’re
listening to that whistle, in that instant. Then you start thinking
about what to do, then you don’t have time to be afraid. After that,
bursts of automatic gunfire crackle dryly. They aren’t coming any
closer, though. “All right, that was the worst of it,” Pasha thinks. He
takes off his backpack, places it under his head, takes out his phone,
and checks the time. “It’s only five. Feels like New Year’s Eve,” he
thinks. “You’re celebrating and celebrating, then you look at the
clock and it’s only five. How long am I gonna have to lie here?” The
floor’s wet. Pasha immediately feels it on his back, but he’s afraid to
lift his head, so he keeps lying there, trying not to think about any-
thing. “Just can’t fall asleep. I won’t ever wake up,” he thinks and
falls asleep right away.
He sleeps briefly and anxiously—no dreams, like always, just
some pictures on the tips of his sleep, as though somebody’s show-
ing him something, but as soon as he tries to get a closer look, they
retreat into the shadows, taking the pictures with them, laughing
maliciously, glaring at him from those shadows. “What’s depicted
over there?” he thinks. “What is that?” A freshly whitewashed hall-
way, dark spots showing through, like on a dead person’s skin. A
metal staircase is attached to the wall; there’s an opening at the top.

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If you climb up, you get to the roof. There’s a wet stone floor. “No,
the wet floor’s here, where I’m lying with my head on my back-
pack,” Pasha thinks. “What’s up there?” The attic, packed with his
old things, is up there. And in the middle of everything are two big
suitcases. “I have suitcases in my attic?” Pasha asks himself. “No, I
don’t,” he answers his own question. “I don’t.” And he walks over
to the suitcases. He walks over, and goes to open one, but a heavy
canine scent hits him and he balks. Then the person showing him
all this steps away from him into the shadows. C’mon, follow me.
You have to see this. You’ll be scared stiff, you’ll be scared numb,
but you’ll look at it anyway. C’mon.
“Where’s my suitcase?” Pasha hears but doesn’t recognize his
own voice. “Where is it? Huh?”
Somebody’s kicking him in the shoulder. Pasha takes out his
phone and turns on the flashlight, without getting up. The blonde
woman is standing over him. Her sneaker is kicking his shoulder
like he’s a dog that’s been hit by a car.
“Where’s my suitcase?” she repeats coldly.
Pasha sits up, his back resting against the brick wall.
“Out there,” he says, pointing toward the opening.
“What the fuck? Where exactly ‘out there’?” she asks.
“Well, uh, out there.” Pasha points into the darkness. “You
started running, I was carrying the old man.”
“What fucking old man?” She’s starting to get riled up. “Did
you just leave it there?”
“Well, uh, you started running.” Pasha fixes his glasses with his
whole hand, a bit awkwardly. He’s still picking up this faint wet-­dog
smell, and it feels like several pairs of eyes are looking at him from
somewhere in the darkness. And there’s Blondie here, too.

85
 “Are you a complete idiot?” she yells, kicking him even
harder—in the leg this time. “Are you a complete fucking idiot?”
“It was empty,” Pasha says, trying to defend himself.
“And you went through my stuff, too?” she replies, growing
more enraged.
“No, uh . . . ,” Pasha answers, frightened.
“You idiot!” she yells. “Go look for it!”
Pasha gets up, like an idiot, looks for his backpack, puts it on,
and goes to leave.
“Sit down!” someone yells at him from the darkness. Pasha rec-
ognizes Vira’s voice. “And you sit down, too!” Vira yells, probably at
the blonde. “Sit down, both of you! You got a death wish or what?”
“You’re the one with a death wish. That goes for all of you!”
the blonde woman hisses ferociously, turning around and groping
her way toward the exit. “Idiots,” she says in parting, and disappears
through the doorway.
“Gotta stop her,” Pasha says. It’s unclear who he’s talking to,
though.
“Come on.” Vira scoots over, very close to him, finds his hand,
and pulls it toward herself. “Just sit. You can go out and look once
things settle down. For her and her suitcase.”
Pasha sits down obediently. Vira huddles against him, as if
she’s cold, and Pasha feels as though his train station dog has come
back to him. The only thing is, he smells like refreshing water and a
woman’s warmth. It’s obvious that she isn’t the least bit cold. They sit
there, leaning on each other. Pasha wants to say something, but he’s
afraid everyone will hear him and misunderstand him, so he keeps
quiet. Her hand unexpectedly slides through the wide sleeve of his
jacket, slips under his sweater, touches his frozen wrist, touches his

86
skin silently; she doesn’t say a word. And Pasha decides to go for it;
he wants to find her hand and touch her wrist, too, but suddenly he
hears a woman’s voice in the darkness, right above them.
“Where’s our guide? Has anyone seen him?”
Vira instantly pulls her hand back like nothing happened at
all. She gets up quickly. Pasha gets up, too, and turns on his phone’s
flashlight. Annushka’s standing in front of him, her mom peering out
from behind her. They stand there, giving Pasha a demanding look.
“Where is he?” they ask Pasha.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
“Who does know?” Annushka asks coldly. Her mom isn’t ask-
ing any questions, but her expression is cold and demanding.
“He’s been gone for a while.” Everyone turns toward the
voice—the woman who was at the front of the group is sitting up
against the wall, her bag next to her. Pasha aims the light in her di-
rection and sees that her heels have broken.
“Quit shining that light at me,” the woman says, and continues:
“He’s gone. He got the fuck out of here.”
“What now?” Now Annushka’s demanding an answer from her.
“Couldn’t tell you,” the woman replies.
The old man and his granddaughter emerge from the darkness.
He isn’t looking good—leaning on her shoulder, holding his chest,
breathing heavily.
“We have to get going,” the old man tells Pasha.
“He needs a doctor,” the granddaughter adds, also addressing
Pasha.
“Where are you gonna find a doctor out here?” asks the woman
sitting in the dark.
Everyone’s quiet for a bit. Pasha can feel his phone dying.

87
 “We have to get out of here,” Annushka tells him adamantly, as
if she’s worried Pasha doesn’t understand the importance of what
she’s saying.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Pasha asks.
“You’re the only man here,” Annushka points out.
Her mom doesn’t object. Pasha does, though, nodding at the
old guy. What about him? The old guy merely coughs despairingly
and waves in reply—nah, nah, you’re the only man here, count me
out.
“We have to get out of here,” Annushka repeats.
“Yeah, we have to get going while it’s quiet,” Vira agrees.
It really is quiet on the other side of the wall. Not even the
blonde woman is making any noise. Pasha thinks about going out
to look for her, but everyone’s formed a tight circle around him—
there’s no escaping. And he’s standing here, like a priest taking ques-
tions after his homily, and thinking, “This is some responsibility,
real responsibility—leading a group of people I hardly know, in the
dark, who knows where.” Pasha isn’t used to this kind of thing. He
doesn’t even take charge in the classroom; he generally just lets the
kids run the show. At home he wasn’t in charge of anything either.
At home his sister was in charge of everything. And when his sister
was gone, there really wasn’t any need to take charge of anything.
But now he’s suddenly got a whole bunch of women, children, and
sick people that he has to take somewhere.
“All right,” Pasha ventures. “Where were you going?”
“Who the hell knows,” the woman in the corner with the bro-
ken heels answers hoarsely. She gets up, picks up her bag, and ap-
proaches Pasha. “That guy said he’d get us out, so we went with
him.”

88
 “I need to get home,” the girl with the stroller responds, her
quiet voice coming out of the darkness. “Everyone’s expecting me.
They don’t know where I am.”
“Where do you live?” asks the woman with the broken heels.
“By School Number Five,” the girl replies.
“That’s in the other damn direction,” the woman with the bro-
ken heels says comfortingly. “Why the hell did you tag along with
us?”
“I don’t know.” The girl starts crying. “He said he’d get us out
and I thought he would. I need to get home,” she reminds everyone.
Pasha looks at her stroller packed with winter clothes and
bottles of water.
“Okay,” he says. “We walk to the fork in the road by the meat-­
packing plant, then go our separate ways. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” says the woman with the broken heels, hoisting the jin-
gling bag over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” says the girl with the stroller, quietly and timidly.
“Yeah, yeah,” says the young girl impatiently. “Let’s get going
already.”
“Yeah,” says Vira.
Pasha turns around and sets out, shining his flashlight ahead.
“Hey!” Annushka yells at his back.
Pasha stops.
“Aren’t you going to turn the light off?”
“But then I won’t be able to see anything . . .”

They climb out through a smashed window. First, they pass An-
nushka’s mom down the line, from person to person. Pasha holds
her at the top and Annushka catches her outside. Then Pasha lowers

89
the stroller. The old man keeps coughing, but he looks at Pasha like
he’s a hero. They venture out to some tram tracks and walk down
them. That’s safe at least—who would lay mines along a tram route?
The tracks bend toward the main avenue a little later, though. And
here opinions diverge. Pasha suggests steering clear of the avenue—
they’re shooting everything in sight over there. Better turn right,
there should be a footbridge across the train tracks over that way.
And then there’s some houses, nobody’ll get us over there. None of
this sounds all that convincing; Pasha realizes that he’s advocating
for crossing the bridge mostly because it’s closer to the orphanage.
And he isn’t any good at lying—he’s a teacher, after all.
“Where?” the woman with the bag interrupts him. “You wanna
go where? There were tanks by the bridge just yesterday.”
“What are you talking about? There aren’t any tanks over
there,” Vira counters. “There’s no way.”
They’re standing around arguing about tanks, and Pasha
doesn’t really know what to do. “All right,” he says. “Do what you
want, I’m heading for the bridge.” “That might get them off my
back,” he thinks.
“Good thinking,” Vira says unexpectedly. “Good thinking. I’m
with you.”
“We are, too,” Annushka and her mom reply. “Let’s go.”
“So are we,” the old man and his granddaughter add. The girl
with the stroller doesn’t say anything, but she keeps standing close
to Pasha, just in case.
“Have it your way,” the woman says matter-­of-­factly, heaves
the bag over her shoulder, and sets sail down the tracks toward the
­avenue.

90
 The rest of them start walking in the opposite direction. There
are intermittent flashes in the sky; where they came from, it sounds
as if the sky is caving in on them. Everyone freezes and then turns
around.
“That’s by the train station,” Vira says quietly, but nobody re-
sponds.
So they keep walking like that—not talking and not turning
around, seemingly afraid they’ll see something horrible if they do.

“Almost there,” Pasha whispers to himself—everyone can hear

him, though. “Just a little farther. The park’s just past this building,
and then the bridge. I know the way.” Everyone knows the way,
actually. They’re all locals. Nobody can guarantee that they won’t
step in somebody’s brains along the way, though. Suddenly, des-
perate assault-­rifle fire breaks out somewhere by the avenue. Pasha
darts ahead, everyone else in tow; they run over to a dark five-­story
apartment block.
“C’mon, go inside,” Annushka yells. “Go inside!” They string
out along the wall, running to the blasted front door. Pasha dives
into the black pit of the apartment block and then suddenly stops.
Annushka rams into his back, dragging her mom along like she’s
on a leash.
“Well?” Annushka hisses. “What’s going on? Keep moving.”
“Hold on,” Pasha suddenly says, his voice quiet.
“What’s going on over there?” Annushka asks, still confused.
“Shh,” Pasha whispers.
The rest of the group barrels into the apartment block, breath-
ing heavily. The old man’s gasping for air, as if somebody was just

91
holding him underwater. Everyone figures out what’s going on right
away, though. Something’s up. They stop dead in their tracks and
listen hard.
“Shh,” Pasha repeats. “Hear that?”
Everyone listens. And they hear the wind going from room
to room, somewhere above them. And drafts sweeping in one
smashed window and out another. They hear drops of water trick-
ling in a broken pipe and the wind dragging old newspapers across
the steps. Most important, they’re standing transfixed and listening.
Somewhere between the third and fourth floors, on the landing,
someone’s cautiously blowing on their fingers, rubbing their hands
together, putting on fingerless gloves, and quietly, very quietly—
so nobody, nobody at all, can hear—picking up something metal.
They hear him standing up cautiously, very cautiously, crouching,
looking outside, nimbly stepping over shards of broken glass, sur-
veying the space with a trained eye, looking all around, sniffing all
around, and sensing someone’s presence nearby, an uninvited pres-
ence.
“Hurry,” Pasha whispers, gasping with fear. “No talking. Fol-
low me.”
They skirt the building, one after another, and run over to the
first trees, moving from trunk to trunk. From off to the side, from
the rotten grass, a potent stench hits them—something poison-
ous even. “Don’t look, don’t look,” Pasha repeats to himself. He
keeps running. He can hear the women’s labored breathing behind
him. They run over to a playground with a burned swing set and
find themselves out in the open. Pasha looks around—the apart-
ment block looms in the distance like a whale that’s beached itself
out of sheer despair. Black windows that look like they’re stained

92
with coal, no movement, no voices. This makes things even scar-
ier. They dart toward the park and run between the trees, blending
in. They’re as dark as the trees, so it looks like the crooked acacias
are running alongside them. Then the park ends abruptly; Pasha
runs onto a strip of asphalt, his heavy shoes pounding resonantly,
runs the remaining distance, and stops right in front of the bridge.
More precisely, in front of what’s left of it. Even in the pitch dark,
you can see that there is no bridge, that what hangs above the dark,
overgrown gully is emptiness. And there’s no bridge. There’s noth-
ing. And descending into that gully is just like voluntarily descend-
ing into hell—you should have a really good reason. Pasha doesn’t
have a really good reason, though, so he just stands there, resting
his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. And the women stand be-
hind him, not saying anything, breathing heavily.
“So, what now?” Annushka asks after she catches her breath.
“Huh?”
“Dunno,” Pasha answers honestly.
“Well, where were you headed? There’s somewhere you’re
going, right?” Annushka pressures him.
“Over there.” Pasha nods at hell. “I was headed over there.”
“Dammit,” Annushka replies angrily. “Frickin’ clown. All right,
let’s go.” She grabs her mom’s hand and starts dragging her back to
where they just came from.
“Where are you going?” Pasha yells desperately at her back, but
Annushka doesn’t answer. Her mom could’ve said something, but
she didn’t know the right answer.
“I’m gonna get going, too,” the girl with the stroller says after
a short pause.
“Wait.” Pasha catches his breath and tries to adopt a serious

93
tone. “Let’s go around the other side.” He points at the black fog.
“We’ll go out that way.” He waves his hand in the air, vaguely de-
picting something, which makes things even scarier.
“Nah.” The girl pushes the stroller farther away so she isn’t
tempted to argue. “I’m gonna get going. Everyone’s expecting me.”
Nobody stops her. They’re all so confused that they don’t even
know what would be worse—her staying with them, here at the be-
ginning of hell, or her going someplace where she’ll probably get
shot.
“It sucks when women leave you,” Pasha thinks. “I should’ve
stopped them. How can you stop women, though? Who can stop
them?” Pasha can’t, he doesn’t know how. He can’t now and he
couldn’t last fall. Last fall, not all that long ago, sometime in Sep-
tember, when things got really tough and trains loaded with military
vehicles started arriving at the Station every day, when people sud-
denly started shooting right on the main road, Maryna came over
to his house—ran over, actually—and started carrying on. Gotta go
now, otherwise it’ll be too late. Gotta drop everything and get out.
The way it went embarrassed Pasha in front of his old man, who was
sitting in the kitchen and could hear everything, and his sister, who
sat there, consoled Maryna—she loved her—then started carrying
on, too, and yelling at Pasha. What kind of man are you? What are
you sitting around waiting for? Take her and get out of here! Pasha
tried calming everyone down, explaining everything; he said some-
thing about his employment record (to hell with your employment
record!), about how the school year was just starting. He said that
they had nothing to be scared of, that they didn’t have anything to
do with this, that they weren’t taking sides. Pasha was “just a teacher,
just a teacher,” he kept repeating, seemingly apologizing for being

94
just a teacher. He didn’t really care about anything else. Where
would he go? What use would he be anywhere else? They don’t
have anything to be afraid of. Everything’s fine. He’s just a teacher.
Eventually, Maryna snapped and ran out of the house. Pasha went
after her, but he stopped under the trees in their yard. Fall was just
starting—spiderwebs were getting tangled and lost in the trees, the
grass was heavy, saturated, the evening sky looked like molten metal
that would soon be poured into a mold and made into something
useful. Pasha’s dad stepped outside, feigned surprise when he saw
Pasha but didn’t say anything, went down the walkway toward the
gate, and peered inside the mailbox.
“There’s no mail on Saturdays,” Pasha reminded him. He went
back inside without saying anything. “He’s really lost it,” Pasha
thought. “He’s turning into a freak. I’m not going anywhere.”

“He’s really hurting,” the girl says, reminding everyone she’s

still here.
Pasha turns around. The old man really is in a bad way; he’s
doubled over, coughing and rubbing his temple.
“He needs a doctor,” the girl says.
“What about going to a hospital?” Pasha asks, with some hesi-
tation. “Do you think any hospitals are still running?” he asks Vira.
“Or did everyone already take off?”
“I think they all took off,” Vira replies. “That’s if they could get
out.”
“So what are we supposed to do with him now?” Pasha asks,
confused.
“I know a vet.”
“A vet?”

95
 “Yeah. He treated my dog a year ago. Well, that was when I
had a dog,” Vira says. “He worked out of his apartment, I remem-
ber that. He’s not exactly a doctor, but he has something. Aspirin,
analgin, or something like that.”
When the old man hears “analgin,” he starts coughing vio­
lently—a sign of approval, clearly.
“Is it far from here?” Pasha asks.
“How should I put it . . . ?” she answers, and Pasha realizes it’s
a long way.
He heaves the old man over his shoulder like a knight’s cloak
and carries him, stopping several times along the way to catch his
breath. The girl runs alongside him, and Vira keeps pace, too. They
cross the street, duck between some buildings, pass a day care cen-
ter, reach the next street over, and walk along a row of linden trees.
Something starts burning on the horizon again. It seems like they’re
bombarding the city in a circular pattern. The sky goes from dark to
blue-­tinged pink; it hollowly snatches every explosion. You can hear
intermittent bursts of automatic gunfire coming from the avenue.
Not a single person, empty city, colorful sky, black lindens growing
out of the dark fog. Pasha finds a bench, lowers the old man onto it,
and collapses next to him. Vira stands nearby; the fog wraps around
her, so it looks like smoke is rising off her fur coat. The girl is crying,
holding her grandpa’s hand. Suddenly, there’s some movement at
the end of the street. A vehicle. No headlights, obviously. It’s head-
ing in their direction, though.
“Quick!” Pasha yells, grabs the old man, runs under an arch-
way, and looks back to make sure everyone’s with him. Then he
cautiously peers around the corner and sees a swamp-­colored mini-

96
bus tear down the street. Lacerated metal sides, like the flanks of
a battle-­hardened dog, smashed windows. It seems like the passen-
gers are jumping out while it’s still going full speed.

They get to the vet’s building around seven. A nine-­story prefab

apartment block. Half the windows are gone. Shadows, silence. The
bench outside the building is all bashed up. Pasha looks at it and
realizes that it was like that before the war, in peacetime, as they
say. The building had an intercom, but now the door’s wide open.
Gloom flows out of it like black water.
“You remember what floor?” Pasha asks.
“Third, I think,” Vira answers hesitantly. “Or maybe fourth.”
“Damn.” Pasha lowers the old man onto the ground. He slumps
over into the fog; his granddaughter scampers over and grabs his
hand. “Wait here,” Pasha says, and goes inside the building.
He takes out his phone once he steps inside and turns on the
flashlight. Smashed bricks, a thick layer of broken plaster, some-
body’s shoe, some scraps of something. He goes up the stairs, care-
fully stepping over everything. Vira follows him. They go up to the
third floor. Vira examines the doors.
“Nah,” she says. “This isn’t it. He had a metal door.”
They go up to the fourth floor. No metal doors.
“Are you sure it was metal?” Pasha asks.
“I don’t know,” Vira answers, beginning to doubt herself.
They go up the stairs and go up some more. And then head
back down to the third floor.
“Well, I think this is it,” Vira says, pointing at a black door with
no number on it.

97
 The door is metal—but it’s been charred black, so it takes a
minute to figure that out. Pasha walks over and delicately bangs his
fist against the metal surface. A heavy echo rings through the build-
ing. This frightens Pasha at first, but then he summons his courage
and starts pounding on the door, not holding anything back. No
response.
“Maybe they can’t hear us?” Pasha asks.
“You gotta be kidding,” Vira answers in a surly tone.
They go back outside and turn off the flashlight. The old man
doesn’t even acknowledge them. His granddaughter’s been stand-
ing on her tiptoes, looking up, waiting for them.
“Nobody’s home,” Pasha informs her.
She starts crying. Vira tries to console her. But it’s not like that’s
going to do any good. “What should I do?” Pasha thinks. “What
should I do?”
“Who are you?”
Suddenly, someone’s standing in the darkness, but there’s no
telling who. It’s as if the darkness is talking to them.
“We wanted to see the vet,” Pasha answers the darkness.
“What vet?” the darkness asks.
“In the apartment on the third floor,” Pasha says.
The darkness mulls over what it’s heard, not saying anything
for a bit.
“There’s no vet on the third floor,” it says. “One apartment’s
empty, some businessmen lived in the other one. But somebody
threw a grenade in there last summer.”
“Listen,” Pasha says and takes a cautious step toward the dark-
ness. “Don’t be scared. I’m a teacher.”
“Huh? Whose teacher?”

98
 “I’m just a teacher. We’ve got an old man with us. He’s really
hurting. He needs a doctor.”
“Why are you asking for a vet then?” The darkness is confused,
once again.
“Is there anyone else around?” Pasha asks.
“Nope.” The darkness starts moving. A small woman breaks
away from the wall and heads toward Pasha. Long jacket, warm
hat, can’t make out her face. She’s wearing glasses, though. She’s
blind as a bat, just like Pasha.
“How’d you wind up with him?” she asks, nodding at the old
man.
“We were coming from the train station,” Pasha explains. “Try-
ing to get out. And then he started to feel real lousy. Is there a hos-
pital around here? Or a pharmacy at least?”
“A pharmacy?” the woman asks indignantly. “A hospital? We’ve
been living in the basement for the past two weeks!”
“All right, all right,” Pasha says, trying to calm her down.
“There’s no need to yell.”
He turns toward Vira. “Gotta get going,” he says. “Keep look-
ing.” The old man gets up, Vira holding him on one side and his
granddaughter on the other.
“Hey!” the woman yells at their backs. “What are you doing
dragging him around? That’ll kill him. Leave him here. I have a
first aid kit and some water, too. If he dies, at least it won’t be out
on the street.”
Pasha heaves the old man over his shoulder again. They walk
along a wall, turn a corner, and go down into the basement. Up
ahead, the woman is walking resolutely, even though it’s pitch
black—the moon or something like that should be hanging over-

99
head, but the fog’s lying so low that there isn’t any sky. Once again,
there’s a blast somewhere on the other side of the city—dull and
deep, stretched to steady, drawn-­out intervals. Pasha moves in the
dark as if he’s walking along a riverbed; he’s afraid he’ll lose his bal-
ance and topple over, along with the passenger on his back. They go
downstairs, and the woman opens a door. They walk down a hall-
way, and then the woman gropes for another door and opens it.
Stale, stagnant air hits them immediately. Pasha can’t see anything,
but he can hear a lot of people breathing.
“Come on in,” the woman says. The door closes behind them.
Then, in the darkness, someone turns on a flashlight and shines it
right in Pasha’s face.
There are about two dozen people stuffed into a small room.
They’re sitting against the wall, leaning against each other. Mostly
women and children. There’s one guy, though—about forty, winter
coat, deerskin hat. He looks at Pasha and then averts his eyes. There’s
a gas camp stove and a grocery bag off to the side. But everyone has
their own food with them, something homemade. They’re dressed
warmly and wrapped up in blankets, rugs, and coats, too. Have they
been here for a while? Can’t tell. Based on the heavy scent and red
eye-­pits, it’s been several days. Or maybe it’s pushing two weeks
already. Pasha takes a look around and then lowers the old man
onto the cement floor. Several women spring up; the man in the
winter coat burrows even deeper into the wall. The women pick
the old man up, toss a gray winter jacket on the floor, lower their
patient onto it, lean over him like myrrh bearers, and begin noisily
deliberating over how to save him. His granddaughter is standing
next to them, crying. Pasha’s listening intently to the sounds out-

100
side. Two hits—can’t tell what side they came from, though. “If one
lands here, there’ll be no digging us out,” he thinks. He takes out his
phone. It’s almost eight.
“OK,” he says to the woman who brought them here. “I’m
gonna get going. Could you look after him?”
“Yeah, may as well, since he’s here and all,” the woman says
calmly.
“Why don’t you take my number?” Pasha suggests. “Just in
case.”
“Well, how’m I supposed to call you?” the woman inquires.
“A paper cup on a string?”
“All right, all right,” Pasha says. “I’ll try and come back tomor-
row. With a doctor.”
“Uh-­huh,” the woman says unenthusiastically. Then she adds,
“Where are you going this late?”
“Well, I have to get to the orphanage.”
“The orphanage?” the woman asks in a frightened tone.
“Yeah, the orphanage” Pasha repeats, irritated. “Gotta pick up
my nephew.”
“Damn,” is all she says in reply. “You better just stay,” she offers
again.
“Maybe I really should stay?” Pasha thinks, hesitating. “I’ll
spend the night and then push off in daylight. Don’t want any run-­
ins with anyone tonight.” He scans the room: damp walls, low ceil-
ing, doors that open outward. “If it hits in the hallway, there’ll be
no escaping. It’ll be a mass grave,” he thinks.
“Nah,” he says, more or less decisively. “I’m gonna get going.
I’ll try to stop by on the way back.”

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 “Uh-­huh,” the woman answers, stepping aside.
“Wait,” Vira says as he’s leaving. “I’m gonna get going, too.”
Nobody keeps them there any longer.

As soon as they step outside, they start inhaling the air deeply.
Because there’s finally some air to breathe. They start walking, hug-
ging the buildings and hiding between the trees. The rain picks up,
the air turns frigid. A fireworks show starts off to the north. The sky
blazes unwaveringly, and Pasha realizes that even if he does make
some headway, it’s highly unlikely he’ll want to come back this way.
Vira wordlessly tries to keep up. They walk with their heads down.
Have to watch your step. When Pasha lifts his eyes, he spots some
figures—two or three, can’t make them out in the dark—at the end
of the street. Pasha yanks Vira’s sleeve and pulls her down. They
crouch, tumble up against the wall of an apartment block, and steal
over to the entrance.
“Is it locked?” Pasha thinks frantically. He cautiously pulls
on the door—it gives. They slip inside, run up the steps, stop be-
tween the second and third floors, freeze by the window, tensely
examine the oily darkness down below. Time passes slowly, very
slowly. “Are they gone?” Pasha wonders, and instantly sees the first
figure down below, standing right in front of the building, looking
up, right at the window—right at them. “Yep,” Pasha thinks. “He
saw us all right.” But the figure down below turns to the side, waits
for his buddies. His buddies come over, walking quickly. Three of
them? Three of them. Armed. One of them has an RPG on his
shoulder. The first one takes out a map, shines a flashlight on it. They
all stand around him. The broken light snatches his black gloves,
the heavy tactical goggles on his helmet, and the insignia on his

102
uniform out of the darkness. Pasha tries to get a better look, but the
flashlight turns off and all three of them dissolve in the black rain.
Nothing to see but still, sodden silhouettes. They look like drowned
men floating along a riverbed with a map in their hands. Eventually,
the first one points off to the side. Everyone starts moving. Pasha
exhales with relief. But one of them suddenly stops, turns around,
looks right at Pasha again, like he discerns him in the darkness, un-
erringly sees him in the blackness, and heads toward the building.
Pasha jerks to his feet, stands straight up, but Vira intercepts his arm.
“Sit still,” she whispers. “Sit where you’re sitting.” The first one
steps into the building. Broken glass crunches dryly under his boots.
He doesn’t turn his flashlight on. He moves through the gloom.
With caution, with skill. One step, two, three, four, five. He tries the
door of the first apartment, then the second. Everything’s locked.
Everything’s quiet. He stands there for a bit, listening hard. Pasha’s
heart is pounding so loudly that it’s impossible not to hear it. “He
can hear it,” Pasha thinks. “He can hear everything.” Metal quietly
taps against metal. “The RPG,” Pasha thinks. He goes up one step,
then another, stops between the first and second floors—directly
below Pasha and Vira. He listens hard again. “Run for it,” Pasha
thinks, panicked. “Run upstairs and hide somewhere.” He tries get-
ting up again, but again Vira brusquely pulls him back down.
“Sit,” she mouths. Pasha can’t see that in the dark, but he can
feel her hissing: “Sit, sit where you’re sitting.” The guy down below
goes up one more step, freezes, hesitates—should I keep going or
not? Suddenly, the door opens down below.
“Where are you?” a surly voice calls to him from outside.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m coming,” he replies. He turns around and stomps down

103
the stairs. The metal door squeaks sharply. Two shadows run past the
window and disappear into the night.

“They gone?”
“Think so.”
“Wanna get going?”
“Wait,” Pasha says judiciously. “They’re still somewhere nearby.
Let’s wait a little.”
“Are you actually a teacher?” Vira can’t help but ask.
“Yeah.”
“What do you teach?” she probes.
“I’m just a teacher.”
“Who’re you going to meet at the orphanage? Your nephew?”
“Yeah.”
“So he doesn’t have any parents?”
“It’s just his mom. Well, my sister. We’re twins.”
“Really?”
“Uh-­huh.”
“Well, why isn’t she picking him up then?” Vira asks.
“Her job’s . . . ,” Pasha explains reluctantly, and then tries
changing the subject. “What kind of coat you got there?”
“It isn’t mine. I grabbed it from the office.”
“Where do you work?”
“At a massage parlor.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s this parlor,” Vira says, choosing her words carefully.
“Officially, it’s called a massage parlor. Do you know the big new
office building downtown?”

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 “Yeah.”
“Well, um, that’s where our office is. There’s a sign outside for
a travel agency, too. A lot of people think that we actually are a
travel agency. So I woke up there this morning. Well, in the parlor.
I mean the office,” she corrects herself again. “There really hadn’t
been much shelling in our neighborhood before that. And then it
really started coming down. We just threw something on and ran
to the train station. I grabbed someone’s fur coat. All I got under-
neath is jeans and a bra. Damn, if I could just get home somehow,
change my clothes.”
Pasha wants to say something encouraging, but he can’t come
up with anything, so he just keeps quiet.
“I can see me not picking him up earlier, sure. With my job
and all.” She can’t help but say something. “But what about you?
You saw perfectly well what was going on. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I don’t,” Pasha says. “I don’t like politics.”
“Well, now you’re stuck sitting here,” Vira tells him angrily.
“Some fuckin’ teacher . . .”
She gets up a little later. C’mon, get up, quit sitting around.
Pasha gets up obediently, grabs his backpack, fixes his glasses (good
thing she can’t see that in the dark), and follows her. They stop when
they get outside.
“Where should we go now?” Pasha asks, hesitating.
“Let’s go back to those guys in the basement,” Vira suggests.
“It’s late. How far do you think you’re gonna get? To the first check-
point?”
“Nah, I don’t wanna go back to the basement. It’s too crowded.”
“Have it your way,” Vira says stiffly.

105
 “Want me to walk you back?”
“You don’t have to,” she says, reaches for him, squeezes his
hand, lingering briefly on his hardened fingers.
Even though it’s dark, and even though all Pasha wants to do is
hide his hands deep in his pockets, he can still feel her thin bones,
thin engagement ring, and her nails—so chipped that you might
think she just finished doing some hard work. Like cleaning fish.
Or digging herself out of her own grave. Pasha suddenly feels un-
comfortable. He yanks his hand away, tucks it into his pocket, turns
around, and starts walking. Vira starts walking, too, trying not to
click her worn heels too loudly.

Pasha gets to the Palace of Culture and finally begins to recog-

nize the area. Not much farther—cross the square, take the main
road to the tram ring, go past some houses, then cut through the
park. And then the orphanage will be somewhere up there. Better
not cross the square, though. Actually, better go back to the base-
ment and chow down on their food. But there’s that old guy who’s
dying. And Vira wearing someone else’s fur coat. So Pasha keeps
walking under the trees, crouching down, looking in every direc-
tion. When there’s an explosion behind the apartment blocks, he
squats down in the tall grass, sits there for a bit, then musters the
resolve to keep going. “TV,” he thinks, irritated. “What does the
TV have to do with this? And what does politics have to do with
this? Who even needs politics?” Pasha thinks back to the election
last fall. Some guys from the city who worked for one of the can-
didates rolled into the Station, asked him to campaign for them.
Pasha turned them down. They weren’t planning on paying him.

106
 “You aren’t just all about the money, are you, Pasha? This is
about something bigger!” they said.
“I’m nonpartisan,” Pasha replied.
They didn’t pressure him, but their parting words weren’t
exactly kind, either. Then, on Sunday, during the election, Pasha
had to sit around at the school—it was a polling place, and he was
on duty—until late at night. People were reluctant to go to the
school. Some came, though. Pasha greeted childhood friends he’d
lost touch with, greeted his students’ parents, who he didn’t really
care for and who didn’t really care for him, greeted his former teach-
ers, who didn’t recognize him. They trudged off, as if possessed, to
booths draped in blue, where they cast their ballots for a brighter
future. “I’ll be just like them one day, as soon as I retire,” Pasha
thought. The soldiers who kept coming by to make sure every-
thing was going smoothly didn’t even look in Pasha’s direction, like
he wasn’t even there. He acted like that, too, like he wasn’t even
there. He was one of the first to vote. Which box did he check? He
couldn’t tell you. In the early evening, one candidate’s representa-
tives—the same guy Pasha decided not to campaign for—made a
real fuss, started pressuring the election commission, argued with
the voters, and kicked their competitors’ representatives out of the
school. Soldiers arrived. The candidate’s representatives and the sol-
diers locked themselves in the principal’s office. They were talking
for a while. “It’s a good thing I didn’t campaign for him,” Pasha re-
assured himself. Then, a month later, the candidate, who, for some
reason, didn’t even wind up winning, stepped on a mine. They gave
him a hero’s funeral. It suddenly turned out that everyone in town
loved him. Even though, for some reason, nobody had voted for

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him. “Well, how could I have helped him?” Pasha thought, as he
stood there at the farewell rally. Pasha stood far away and looked at
his face, tinged dark by death, looked at the white cloth covering
him, at the red casket, at the soldiers standing off to the side and
looking at all the men like they were murder suspects. Then the cas-
ket was taken from the Station to the city. And then, several weeks
later, things got really bad.

“Yep,” Pasha thinks. “All right now, just climb this hill and then
you’re there.” It’s past nine already. At home, Pasha is usually sitting
in his room by this time and his dad’s watching the news. Pasha ad-
justs his backpack and starts walking up some stone steps. There
are a lot of them. Pasha’s struggling—he’s worn out from running
around all day and chilled to the core. The fog grows thicker at the
top. It looks like he’s going up into a raincloud. He counts the first
fifty steps, stops, catches his breath. Then keeps going. His shoes
get heavier and heavier, his movements slower and slower. Another
fifty. The steps are all cracked. Have to be careful, have to watch
where you’re going. Don’t listen to the explosions, don’t pay them
any mind. Something bursts somewhere far behind him. Another
fifty. Here, up on the hill, it’s calm, not scary. Don’t have anything
to be afraid of. Another fifty. He can hardly breathe—doesn’t exer-
cise, rarely walks anywhere, used to run. Running just isn’t safe any-
more. They might think you’re trying to escape. Another fifty, and
another, and another, and he finally crawls to the top of the hill,
stops, turns around, and sees the whole city laid out below. The
rain’s let up, fog’s settled in the valley, like milk that’s been boiled
for too long. Pasha looks at the city, yet can’t see it. All he can see is
a black pit. Hovering above it is thick black smoke with long tails,

108
like the strings on kites. And it’s as though somebody’s pumping
souls out of the city. And those souls are black and bitter, snagging
on trees and taking root in basements—you just can’t rip them out.
And over there, far away, on the other side of the city, something’s
blazing, sprawling across the horizon, like scalding lava coming out
of the ground. There’s the sound of automatic gunfire coming from
the city itself. The bursts aren’t that frequent, though. Seems like
that’s it for today, time to sleep. That’s if you have someplace to
sleep. Pasha calms down a little. “Just had a tough day,” he says to
himself. “No big deal. Good thing it’s all over.” And he spots some
grocery bags in the grass, something neatly folded. He walks over,
kicks it with the tip of his shoe. Something supple, yet springy. Feels
like chopped meat. Pasha lurches back and runs away. One more
black kite rises behind him.

There’s a new lock on a long chain attached to the metal gate.

Children is painted on the gate. Pasha looks for an intercom, but
there isn’t one, so he has to hop the fence. He lands on some wet
grass, twists his ankle, hisses in pain, but gets up and goes to look for
a living, breathing person. There aren’t any living, breathing people
in sight, though. The main building’s surrounded by small apple
trees, as dark and crooked as the back of a woman who’s toiled in
the fields her whole life. No lights, no voices. The sign is still intact,
but the flag over the front steps is gone. “Yeah, makes sense,” Pasha
thinks. “Why provoke them?” He suddenly realizes that he didn’t
see a single flag in the city today. Except for the one on the tank. A
tank is a movable object, though—here today, gone tomorrow. But
the train stations and schools stand still—until they get blown up.
And there they stand: no lights, no heat, no flags.

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 Sheets of plywood cover the windows. Chairs from the audito-
rium are blocking the main entrance. “Where is everyone?” Pasha
thinks, growing anxious. “Did they all up and leave or something?”
He climbs the steps, approaches the door, peers through the cracks.
He can’t see anything, though. His fists pound on the windows,
but the plywood muffles the sound. Down the steps, around the
building, over to the gymnasium—big, white, with broken win-
dows and a caved-­in wall, like someone’s taken a bite out of a burnt
sugar cube—up to the door. He tries it. Locked. But there’s some-
one on the other side, someone over there who’s shuffling their feet,
blowing warm breath through the cracked door, but not opening it.
“I’m so sick of all this,” Pasha thinks, getting angry at God knows
who. “Traipsing around in the rain all day, having to explain myself,
being afraid. I’m so damn sick of this.”
“Open up,” he says in a commanding tone, surprising himself.
“Who’s there?” asks a woman’s voice, frightened, yet still firm.
She’d stand in front of a tank before letting him in, if it came to that.
“I’m here for Sasha,” Pasha explains. “My nephew.”
The door opens. Standing behind the door is Nina, the direc-
tor: about thirty, pointy nose, attentive eyes, skinny, sickly, dis-
contented. Warm, knitted leggings, black sweater, gray vest, also
knitted. She looks like a gray crow. She’s known Pasha for a long
time, so she isn’t surprised.
“Pasha?” she asks discontentedly. “Is that you?”
“I’m here for Sasha,” he explains.
“Are you alone?”
“Huh?”
“It’s just you, no soldiers, right?”

110
 “No,” Pasha answers. “Just me.”
“Come on in,” Nina says, and takes a step back.
She lets Pasha in, locks the door, nods for him to follow her. In
the wall behind the basketball hoop, there’s a hole from a mortar
shell. Drafts seep in and out through the hole. There are unwieldy
plastic jugs of water along the wall.
“Haven’t had water for a while,” Nina explains, without stop-
ping. “The lights come on in the morning, for an hour or two. Why
didn’t you call ahead of time?”
“Didn’t have service,” Pasha answers.
“Really? We still do.”
“You’re up higher. How’re things here? Been much shelling?”
“Not in the past few days. The gym got hit before that, though.
There was smoke everywhere, enough to cover a whole city. Every-
one probably thinks we got cooked.”
“Where’s Sasha? Is he sleeping?”
“Sleeping?” Nina asks, stopping. “Nobody’s slept in a while,
Pasha. Well, they do during the day,” she adds. “When it isn’t so
scary.”
They leave the gym, walk down a dark hallway. Nina turns on
a heavy-­duty flashlight, shines it ahead of her. The windows on the
first floor are covered with blankets and political posters that have
been ripped off the walls. It’s cold and damp. Frozen flowers. Dirty
footprints in the hallway—guess there’s nothing to wash the floors
with. Besides all that, it’s just like any other educational institution.
Visual aids, pictures of the local flora and fauna. Pasha catches a
glimpse of wolves’ silhouettes in the snow and a fossilized fern.
“Ferns,” he thinks. “What do ferns have to do with this?” Sheets

111
of plywood with dust-­caked national symbols on them. Fairy-­tale
characters on the walls, looking like straight-­A students. Smells like
something’s burning.
“We haven’t run out of food yet,” Nina explains. “Have to cook
it over an open fire, though. Like we’re camping,” she adds. “Yeah,
here, take a look. You’ll find this interesting.”
The door to the far room is resting against the wall. The sign on
the door reads, “Library.” Pasha peeks inside. A blast knocked out a
window, the roof’s sagging. Books lie in the middle of the room in
a big, wet pile. They just lie there, getting all mushy, like food left
out in the sun.
“Good thing the kids don’t like reading,” Nina says. “Nobody
was in here when it got hit. Everyone was in the kitchen.”
“Any of the teachers still around?” Pasha asks, bewildered.
“The gym teacher, Valera,” Nina answers. “And me. Every-
one else took off. Same for the kids—the ones who could, left. The
locals bring us groceries. They used to help us get water, too. Now
they’ve stopped coming around—they’re afraid.”
“They have reason to be.”
“Yeah.”
They go downstairs and reach a long, dead-­end hallway. There
are old Soviet civil defense posters on the walls. Gas masks that look
like the heads of anteaters are scattered across the floor. It’s warmer
and cozier down here. The only thing is, there are just a few too
many pictures of nuclear explosions on the walls.
“We’re lucky the basement was designed as a bomb shelter,”
Nina says. “Especially for us. Well, and for World War III.”
They peer into the first compartment.
“Is Sasha in here?” Nina asks quietly, turning off the flashlight

112
so as not to wake anyone. Nobody’s actually asleep, though. Quiet
voices start coming from every direction.
“He’s in the third one,” a voice says eventually. “A little girl,”
Pasha notes to himself. “He was in here,” the invisible girl says. “He
started scaring us. We kicked him out.”
“Uh-­huh,” Nina replies. “Well, his uncle’s here. Pasha.”
Then she shines her flashlight right in Pasha’s face.
“Take him away,” the girl pleads in the darkness. “He keeps
scaring us.”
“Will do,” Pasha promises, flustered.
They leave, close the door, walk over to the third compartment.
It’s locked from the inside.
“Damn,” Nina curses quietly, and begins delicately knocking
on the door. It’s made of heavy metal. Apparently, you really could
wait out WWIII in there.
“Sasha, open up,” Nina requests.
“Does he give you a hard time?” Pasha asks—his way of en-
couraging her.
“They all do,” Nina answers. “And he does, too. Sasha, your
uncle’s here. Uncle Pasha,” she adds, just in case.
At first, nobody responds. Then the door trembles heavily and
opens. Sasha’s standing there: boxers, warm sweater, baseball bat in
his hands. “He’s grown,” Pasha notes to himself.
“Pasha?” he asks, surprised.
“Been practicing?” Pasha answers a question with a question.
“Where’d you get it?” He points at the bat.
“The locals brought it here,” Nina explains. “And he took it.
Sasha, I asked you not to lock the door.”
“What are you doing here?” Sasha asks, ignoring her.

113
 “Came to pick you up,” Pasha says.
“Ah, what took you so long?”
He turns around and goes back into his room.
“I’ll go get you a sleeping bag,” Nina says in a tired voice,
leaving Pasha alone with his nephew. “Spend the night, then go.”
“Yep, that’s what we’ll do, yep,” Pasha says.
He steps into the compartment. Dry, dark basement, bare
pipes along the walls. Concrete floor, concrete ceiling. You could
live through a nuclear attack down here, all right, though you
wouldn’t live all that long or all that happily. The kid’s set up his own
little nest in the corner: mats tossed on the floor, a down blanket on
top, and then a sleeping bag. Several pillows, pots, plates, bottles,
crusty leftover ramen. Books. Pasha walks over, takes a closer look.
Mayne Reid, Conan Doyle. All of them have library stamps on
them. There’s a pack of filtered cigarettes on Mayne Reid. Pasha
looks at the cigarettes in surprise, the kid sees where he’s looking,
even jerks to grab them, but then he restrains himself and sizes
Pasha up with an air of independence.
“You’ve put on weight,” he comments.
“That’s just my jacket,” Pasha says defensively.
“It’s a crappy jacket.”
“Been reading?” Pasha tries changing the subject.
“They’re for rolling paper.” The kid’s mocking him.
“Gotcha. I read those books when I was a kid, too. Read them
out loud to my sister. To your mom, I mean,” he adds, just in case.
“How’s she doing?” the kid asks, his tone growing more seri-
ous, yet softer.
“All right,” Pasha replies tentatively. “Working.”
“How’d you get here?” the kid inquires.

114
 “Took a taxi,” Pasha answers. “Then walked.”
“How you gonna get back?” the boy inquires. “A taxi?”
“We’ll see.”
“OK. We’ll see. You should get to bed.”
“What about you?”
“I’m gonna stay up a little longer,” he says, chuckling. “And
have a smoke.”
Nina comes in with the sleeping bag, little girl in tow: about
twelve, tar-­black hair falling in her eyes, curious, yet mistrustful
gaze. She’s carrying a pillow and a blanket.
“You should sleep here,” Nina says. “That’ll put us all at ease.
You’ll help bring in the water tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Pasha agrees.
“Good night.” Nina leaves, not even looking at him or Sasha.
It’s as if they’ve offended her somehow. The girl, though, looks at
both Pasha and the kid with genuine interest. But she has to leave,
too.
Pasha sheds his backpack, takes off his shoes and coat. His
shoes are as heavy as corpses. And they smell like corpses, too. Pasha
takes some sandwiches out of his backpack.
“Want one?” he asks the kid.
“You make them yourself?”
“It’s all fresh,” Pasha says, aggrieved.
“No, thanks,” the kid says in a conciliatory tone. “They feed us.
Get some sleep.”
“Where do you go to the bathroom?” Pasha asks, crawling into
the sleeping bag.
“See those?” The kid points at a row of empty bottles. “Pick the
biggest one. Make sure it’s empty, though.”

115
 “They aren’t all empty?” Pasha asks, surprised.
“Get some sleep,” the kid replies.
“He’s angry with me,” Pasha thinks. “He’s mad. Mad that we
didn’t come for him earlier, that we don’t call him often enough,
that we don’t visit. Most of all, he’s mad that he’s here.” Pasha didn’t
want his sister to send him away. Why? Let him live with us, I’ll
keep an eye on him at school. His sister and his old man haven’t
talked in two years, though. They started fighting when she was still
living with that guy, Aram, away from Pasha and his old man. After
that, when Aram took off and it was just the two of them in their
one-­room apartment in that prefab building, she and her old man
entered a state of trench warfare. The kid was a bad student, but his
behavior was even worse. He was bound to run into some trouble
with the law—his dad was on the run, his mom was a train steward-
ess, always on the road, she hardly ever saw him, and the world was
filled with temptation and challenges. How could he restrain him-
self? It’s not like he really tried to, though. He didn’t heed Pasha’s
advice, and he flat-­out ignored his grandpa. Just the way it ought
to be, basically. Well, and he was sick, too. Pasha immediately re-
grets thinking of that. Best not to think about that. But it is what
it is. What is it? It feels like the sign of death has been hanging
over the kid for a while now. And his death is just a matter of time.
Then his sister just sent him here, to live with orphans and the chil-
dren of drug addicts, without warning Pasha or her father. That’s
when her dad stopped talking to her altogether. Pasha took some
serious flak from him, too, even though Pasha had nothing to do
with any of this—he, too, was against the idea of the orphanage.
He argued with his sister, paid the director a visit, talked to the kid.

116
But then he eased up, gave up, retreated. The kid could see that. He
probably held it against Pasha. That wimp couldn’t get me out of
here, he didn’t have my back. Pasha couldn’t really say anything to
that. Well, yeah, I am a wimp. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have enough
patience to take on the whole world. That’s just how it goes some-
times. I’ll take him home tomorrow, make sure he’s fed and bathed.
Won’t send him back. He can read Mayne Reid at home. And uri-
nate in bottles, too.

There’s one more thing, though. Pasha remembers it well. Last

year, in the spring, when all of this was just getting started, when no-
body understood anything, he and the kid got into a really intense
fight. The kid kept grilling Pasha, asking him whose side he was on,
what he was going to do, who he was going to shoot at. Pasha reluc-
tantly replied, like always, that none of this had anything to do with
him, that he couldn’t get behind anyone, that he wasn’t on any-
one’s side. Then, completely out of the blue, the kid came back with
something about not wanting anything to do with him, about being
ashamed, about his uncle being a one-­of-­a-­kind douchebag. At first,
Pasha didn’t know what was going on. Later on, he found out that
one of the kid’s classmates lost his dad—he was tortured to death
a few weeks after it all started. Pasha hadn’t known about that. He
should have, though. Then he tried to explain what he’d meant, but
the kid was set on seeing things his way. And Pasha couldn’t seem to
find the right teaching method to change his nephew’s mind. That’s
how they left things. They still talked and all, but it was obvious
that the kid had distanced himself, stepped away, stopped trusting
his uncle. Pasha was worried about this, obviously, but what could

117
he do? “What could I have actually done?” he thinks as he’s falling
asleep. “What could I have done? What?”

Where’d she leave her clothes? Where’s her house? When’s she
going to get there? Half of them don’t have homes—they’ve dis-
persed across the nearby cities, escaped from here, riding in an end-
less line of rail cars, drifted all over the world. How much time must
pass before they return? And when they do return, will they recog-
nize their homes? After all, everything used to look completely dif-
ferent. Nowadays, it’s hard to recognize anything at all here: dwell-
ings with no voices, streets with no lights, squares with no birds. A
heavy gray building sits atop a hill. The windows are all boarded up.
There are some signs and warnings written on the boards—about
what’s already been done and about what will be done. And about
what will be done to everyone who lives here for what has happened
and what will happen. And about what will be done to those who’ve
never been here before. The foggy sky hangs low over the build-
ing, like the fog’s getting sucked right out of the windows. It rises,
twists into knots and loops, lets the wind carry it south, to the sea.
Black apple trees stand around the building; they keep standing
where they were put, even though they went barren a long time
ago. Wet yellow grass, dark sticky clay, damp air that smells faintly of
burnt rubber. Creeping from the trees to the building are stray dogs,
three skinny and wary dogs, their eyes so desperate and so hopeless,
as if they’ve been feeding on corpses for the past few days. And
they know that it can’t get any worse, that it won’t be any worse,
that it just won’t be anything really. So all they can do is hide in
the grass and rocks and warm themselves, hoping that everything
will end quickly and painlessly. They drag themselves through the

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grass to the patch of broken asphalt in front of the building, sniff
out the voices inside, sniff out the smell of helplessness. They come
even closer, sticking their canine snouts into the holes between the
boards. Suddenly, they detect another smell, a new, unusual one.
The smell of an outsider. They detect that this smell is completely
different, that something is seeping through the fatigue and apa-
thy, something menacing that truly frightens them. The smell of
strength? The smell of love? And the longer this smell persists, the
more uneasy they become. They even begin to howl, taking in wet
air and exhaling warm breath out of their mouths. Then they crack,
turn around, and run back into the grass between the rocks.
Sometime in the early morning, the city really starts burning.

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 DAY TWO

They wouldn’t even fight. She’d just get really quiet whenever
she didn’t like something. And he’d just leave the house whenever
he had a problem with something. Then he’d come back. They’d sit
in the kitchen like nothing had happened. Pasha would purposely
check his students’ homework very slowly, while Maryna would
keep sending these short texts, one after another, like she was taking
some endless test. She’d go to bed first, and he would only follow
after he’d delayed long enough for her to fall asleep. He’d get into
bed carefully, so as not to wake her. She wouldn’t really be sleeping,
of course. He knew that, obviously.
Two years ago, after many long months of talking and getting
to know each other, after taking several breaks and feeling strange
surges of tenderness, Pasha proposed to her. Maryna took offense.
She didn’t move out of his place, though. They kept living like
that—with this concealed and inexplicable resentment. Maryna
didn’t want to marry him, but Pasha didn’t have the guts to kick
her out—he was the one who’d suggested she move in, after all. So
they slept in the same bed. The worst thing was that Pasha could no
longer hide anything from her. She watched him from up close, she
could see everything very well. She saw his body in the morning,
his face, his skin, which was getting less supple, growing dimmer,

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fading like a newspaper left out in the sun. She saw how he treated
his dad, the way he was always bickering with him. She saw how
afraid he was of his sister. She saw how he hid from his nephew,
how he secretly hated his principal, how he ignored his students.
She saw that he just didn’t know how to act around her, how to talk
to her, how to sleep with her. He lived like someone who’d com-
mitted a crime right in front of a witness who’d file a merciless, cold-­
blooded report, not omitting a single detail, not missing a single
incident. “I set myself a trap. And I took her along for the ride. Why
would I do that?” Pasha thought despairingly, as he looked at Ma-
ryna. Things got downright bad last winter. Something had changed
in the air, like it’d been electrified. It felt like everyone had gone
crazy—only talking about politics, watching news reports, sharing
them. Pasha talked but didn’t watch anything. His words lacked
conviction, though, which pissed Maryna off, just infuriated her.
Something had broken in his language, cracked, like ice on a reser-
voir in March, and it was on the verge of splitting into countless
heavy, prickly shards. Pasha didn’t even try to fix anything—how
can you fix ice that’s snapping and sinking into frigid water? “It’s a
real shame,” he thought. “But what can you do?” He kept sleeping
next to her. He’d just delay getting into bed more and more to let
her fall asleep. And he’d sleep in workout clothes so he wouldn’t
have to feel her warmth.
In the morning, he’d wake up and lie there for a while, com-
pletely still. So there was no way she could tell he’d already woken
up, so there was no way she’d even try to ask him about anything,
so she wouldn’t touch him by accident, so there was no way he’d
touch her. He’d gotten into the habit of waking up and lying there

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for a while, completely still, thereby tearing a few extra minutes of
peace and quiet away from the world. A few minutes when he didn’t
have to talk to anyone, when he didn’t have to listen to anyone. Like
now. He takes out his phone, checks the time before the screen goes
black again, examines the concrete floor. His shoes, heavy and hefty
as kettlebells, lie next to his sleeping bag. Seven a.m., the screen
goes black, it gets dark again, his winter jacket has a damp smell to it
in the darkness—that’s smoke and yesterday’s rain. It didn’t dry out
all the way overnight, now it’s filling the space with the scent of rain
and the chills. Pasha catches a whiff of wet clothes and fishes the
scent of crushed plaster and bricks out of the moisture, along with
frozen, crushed stone and the thick grass that he trudged through,
and all of yesterday with its smells, glints, and voices pounces on
him, shaking him so hard, like a late-­night tram shakes the last pas-
senger, that Pasha props himself up on his elbows, listens hard to the
darkness, and rubs his face with his numb hand.
“You’re finally up!” says a voice in the darkness.
He takes out his phone again, turns on the flashlight, looks
around. The kid’s sitting on a blanket, like the Buddha—calm and
listless from being alone for so long. Turtleneck sweater pulled up
to his nose, sweatpants, knitted women’s socks. A death row pris-
oner in solitary.
“What are you doing up?” Pasha crawls out of his sleeping bag
and feels a chill immediately rise through his body. The cold doesn’t
faze you when you’re sleeping, but it gets to you as soon as you crawl
out, like when you’re approaching an unseen body of water at night.
“You kept me up,” the kid says calmly. “You kept talking to
yourself. No wonder Maryna left you.”

123
 “Nobody left me,” Pasha replies, his tone a little too harsh. He
digs around in his sleeping bag, finds his glasses, plants them on
his nose, fixes them with his dead fingers. “We weren’t married,” he
adds, just in case.
“Gotcha,” the kid says. His voice is filled with such contempt
that Pasha’s whole body shudders.
“Man, it’s cold,” Pasha says, finds his jeans, tries pulling them
on, gets all tangled up trying to keep his balance. “What was I say-
ing?” he asks cautiously, so as to elicit a straight answer but not make
the kid think he cares all that much.
“Something about conferences,” the kid says.
“Conferences?”
“Parent-­teacher conferences,” the kid adds. “Oh yeah, and you
were calling out to some girl named Anna. Who is she?”
“A waitress.”
“Hehe. So you were calling some waitress over. When’s the last
time you ate?”
“When was it?” Pasha asks himself; he’s standing there, frozen,
on one leg, like a crane, thinking. Then he pulls on his jeans and
sweater wordlessly, picks up his jacket, as wet and heavy as a fisher-
man’s net, and puts it on. “When was it?” he repeats.
“Let’s go,” the kid says.
Sasha gets up, finds a pair of adult-­sized rubber boots, takes a
large knife out of one of them and a flashlight out of the other, tosses
a green jacket over his shoulders, and steps out into the hallway first.
Pasha takes a while to tie his shoes, hastily rolls up his sleeping bag,
and runs out after the kid, who’s standing at the end of the hallway
and looking at him reproachfully.

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 “Shoes,” Pasha explains.
“Yep,” the kid replies. “They reek, I know.”
Pasha is about to say something, but the kid is already up
ahead, turning the corner, so Pasha decides not to continue this
strange exchange.
They go up to the first floor. The kid turns around.
“Wanna see a demolitions guy?” he asks.
“What kind of guy?”
“A dead one,” the kid explains succinctly, and keeps going.
They go up another flight of stairs; the kid opens a window be-
tween floors, steps onto the sill. Wet wind whips through the open
window, along with the distant sound of explosions and automatic
gunfire, particularly alarming in the rarified morning air. Pasha
hesitates, since he can’t figure out where they’re shooting, where
the danger is. But then the kid extends a calming hand.
“C’mon,” he says. “We can’t go through the gym anyway.
Nina’s there. She won’t let us.”
Pasha ventures out onto the windowsill, leaving behind heavy
tracks, black as seals on documents. The kid goes right from the win-
dowsill onto the canopy, then onto some sandbags that are blocking
the back entrance, and finally hops down into the thick morning
fog. Pasha hops down after him. The kid’s jacket flashes in the fog,
a bright green splotch. Pasha heads toward it.
They walk down an asphalt path, go behind a building, and
enter an orchard. Leaves that never got raked up shine yellow in the
fog; they bounce wetly when you step on them, so it feels like you’ll
get sucked into them on your next step, sink in up to your waist,
fall into a pit or an open manhole. Then the path just disappears,

125
but the kid knows where he’s going. He confidently navigates the
terrain, steers clear of the rebar sticking out of the grass, steps over
a concrete stake lying between some apple trees, and dodges some
wet, taut branches. Pasha is soon short of breath, but he tries not to
show it—he doesn’t want the kid to see that this morning run be-
tween the wet apple trees is wearing him out.
“Almost there?” he asks the kid, trying to calm his breathing.
The kid doesn’t answer, though. Or maybe he does, but Pasha
just can’t hear him. They’re suddenly stopped by a metal fence.
“Looks just like the ones at the zoo,” he thinks. His school has a
fence just like this one, too. The kid finds two bent rods, squeezes
between them, slides over to the other half of the apple orchard.
This all takes Pasha a little longer—he tries, gets caught, panics,
backs up, sheds his jacket, and only then squeezes between the
rods. The kid’s gone.
“Sasha,” Pasha yells into the thick fog. “Sasha, where are you?”
He takes off his glasses, cleans them, puts them back on—that
makes no real difference, though—slips into his jacket, trying to
warm himself up. The rain let up last night and the fog’s settled,
like snow that’s slid off a mountain and into a valley. He takes a step
forward, stops. Then another step. In the fog, he bumps into the
kid, who’s standing at the edge of a ravine, craning his skinny teen-
age neck, staring down warily. Down below, the fog is just as thick.
At their feet, the ripped armholes of a valley open up before them;
they can see yellowed grass and wet bushes—the fog snags on them,
wraps around them like a spiderweb. Then the dense, milky expanse
continues—dusky silver, endless. And somewhere over there, in
that dense milk, is a constant rumbling and the gleam of yellow

126
lights; exhausting bursts of automatic gunfire crackle, mortar shells
explode—often, not like yesterday—but they can’t see anything,
so they get this feeling that they aren’t exploding here, in this life,
next to them. Smoke rises out of the valley, smoke weaves into the
fog like a dark strand into a dead man’s gray hair, as fear and danger
immediately return.
“Watch out,” Pasha says. “Step back.”
“You scared?” the kid asks without turning around. He’s look-
ing down, into the fog, mesmerized.
“Where are those explosions?” Pasha decides not to continue
this unpleasant line of conversation.
“That one was on the edge of town,” the kid says, listening hard.
“And that last one was by the train station,” he adds after a pause.
“By the train station?” Pasha asks, surprised. “But it’s just
women over there. I was there yesterday,” he explains.
“You were on the prowl?” the kid inquires. “How would they
know who’s where? Maybe they think there’s a unit posted over
there. So they’re hittin’ ’em hard.”
“Like they didn’t know who was there,” Pasha retorts. “Those
guys,” he hesitates, trying to figure out what to call them. “Those
soldiers,” he clarifies. “They stopped by yesterday. I talked to them.”
“That right?” the kid asks mockingly. “You talking to sol-
diers . . .”
“All right, knock it off. What are we doing out here?”
“Wait a sec,” the kid replies.
They’re standing at the edge of the ravine, listening to what’s
happening down in the fog. Pasha realizes that the city’s over there:
thousands of houses, thousands of trees, thousands of burrows and

127
basements with thousands of residents hiding in them right now.
Just try and find them down there in the fog. Try and track them
down. Can’t hear their breathing, their hearts beating, can’t hear
anything. This thick fog filling up wrecked apartment blocks and
mutilated manholes—that’s all there is. “And there’s nothing you
can do to help,” Pasha thinks. Even if he wanted to get them out
of there—try and pick them out of that stew. All he can do is stand
here and listen to everything around him give way to destruction
and death.
“It’s seven-­fifty,” the kid says suddenly. “Listen.”
Pasha takes out his phone. It really is seven-­fifty. He listens hard
but can’t hear anything besides the crackle of gunfire and rumble
of mortars. Soon a sound emerges out of the fog, barely audible at
first, then more and more persistent—a dry, metallic buzzing, a
stubborn, rhythmic drone. Endless, hopeless.
“What’s that?” Pasha asks, confused.
“A phone,” the kid explains.
“Whose phone?”
“The demolitions guy.”
“What’s he doing here?” Pasha’s trying to comprehend all this.
Meanwhile, the droning sound doesn’t go away; someone’s stub-
bornly trying to reach the demolitions guy.
“So there are mines everywhere.” The kid points at the fog.
“The security forces wanted to get all their vehicles out, so they
could leave the city. They sent some demolitions guys in. One of
them got blown up. About five days ago. Somewhere down there.”
The kid points ahead. “And someone calls him every morning. At
seven-­fifty.”

128
 “Why seven-­fifty?”
“Are you dense or something? They call right before school
starts.”
“Who?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” the kid asks, surprised. “His son. Or daughter.
Guess nobody told her that her dad’s gone, so she keeps calling, like
she promised she would.”
“Promised who?”
“Her dad. Before he left.”
Pasha thinks of how he gets ready for school every morning,
drags himself down the hallway, sits in the kitchen. It makes him
feel so bad, like someone’s calling him and he can’t even pick up.
“What’s with his ringtone? Couldn’t he pick something more
interesting?”
“Whatever,” the kid replies. “What, do you want him to use the
national anthem? Well, maybe you should. You are a teacher, after
all. A government employee.”
“What for?”
“To instill patriotism,” the kid says, laughing. “Do you even
know the words?”
“Listen.” Pasha changes the subject again. “Gotta go get him.”
He nods in the direction of the fog. “Him just lying there like
that . . .”
“Are you dense or something?” the kid asks again. “Wanna get
blown up too? Spring’ll come, the snow’ll melt, and they’ll take
him away.”
“There isn’t any snow down there,” Pasha replies.
“No, there isn’t . . .”

129
 Meanwhile, the ringtone quiets down. All they can hear is the
explosions. The wind’s cold—feels like the fog is flowing up their
sleeves and into their pockets.
“Let’s head back,” the kid says, turns around, and starts walking
toward the orchard.

“You promised to help get the water, Pasha,” Nina says.

She’s standing in the hallway, a woolen shawl wrapped around
her back. It’s as if she were waiting just for them. She looks like a
security guard at a dorm, a men’s dorm, no less. She’d die before let-
ting any outsiders in. The kid, head down, slips into the basement,
back to his burrow. Pasha stays, hides his eyes.
“Where were you?” Nina asks. She’s trying to speak in a severe
tone, but her voice is too tired, like a wife who has been waiting all
night for her husband to come home—she really should give him
hell, but she just wants to go to bed too badly.
“Nowhere,” Pasha answers. “What about the water?”
“Go to the kitchen.” Nina decides not to give him hell. “Va-
lera, the gym teacher’s there. Grab some breakfast while you’re at
it,” she adds.
Valera the gym teacher is sitting in the cafeteria next to a lit pot-
belly stove, drinking tea and reading some old newspapers. Pasha
walks in, gives him a curt greeting. The cafeteria is big, gloomy, and
cold. Fog hovers outside the windows, peering through the glass
like kids looking at snakes in a terrarium. Foodstuffs are neatly piled
in the corner: grains, pasta, canned goods. A fire-­blackened teapot
that looks like the burnt remains of the Reichstag is heating up on
the stove. Valera nods. Sit down, take a load off. He’s sitting there
wearing a black coat—it’s worn, yet still nice. There’s a hat on the

130
table in front of Valera, as if he’s planning on having it for a snack.
Greasy hair, hasn’t been washed in a while. His gaze is firm, yet
somehow muffled, broken. It’s obvious that he’s a confident man
with principles. It’s just that he’s been put in tough circumstances
lately, so he hasn’t really had grounds to stand up for them. Wash
that hair of his and he’ll get his firm look back. And there’s his mus-
tache, too—trimmed, yellow, nicotine stained.
Pasha sits down, picks up a mug with coffee in it, thinks about
where to dump it, gives up on that idea, sprinkles some black tea
right into the coffee, and tops it off with boiling water.
“Nina asked us to go get some water,” Pasha says.
“Uh-­huh,” Valera answers skeptically, as if he wants to say, “She
didn’t have to remind me.”
Pasha doesn’t like that. Nina doesn’t exactly elicit warm feel-
ings, but this gym teacher guy in the black coat doesn’t really elicit
any feelings except disgust, maybe. Valera cracks, averts his eyes. He
sits there drinking his tea with an air of independence. Pasha swal-
lows his swill, burning the roof of his mouth, and decisively sets his
mug aside.
“Let’s go,” he says, standing up.
“Lemme finish my tea.” Valera’s trying to speak calmly.
“C’mon, let’s go.” Pasha ignores him.
“Like I’m gonna wait for this asshole,” he thinks, heading
toward the gym.
Valera grabs his hat discontentedly, gets up, starts walking,
keeping his distance, asserting his independence. Something about
him pisses Pasha off. Maybe it’s his showy superiority. Maybe it’s his
helplessness.
They pick up empty water jugs in the gym. The jugs are tied

131
together with a rope, looking like a bunch of exotic plastic fruit.
Pasha picks up one bunch, slings it over his shoulder. Four barely
seaworthy six-­quart vessels in front, four on his back. Valera tosses
some jugs over his shoulder, too, and steps outside first.
They pass the main building, get to an open area. Fog instantly
encompasses the black coat, the blue plastic. Pasha walks toward the
sound of the empty jugs resonantly bumping together; he’s like a
shepherd who’s more concerned about sticking by his animals than
anything, more than rounding them up, even, a shepherd afraid of
getting lost in the thick, compacted air. They eventually reach the
gate. The gym teacher takes a key out of his coat pocket, opens the
lock, and uncoils the chain. They leave the gate open, keep going.
The cracked asphalt has been split here and there by mortar shells.
The grass on the side of the road is faded, burnt rebar lies nearby.
Something suddenly emerges out of the fog—a bus stop. Or what’s
left of it. A black, charred wall, a heap of fallen bricks. The national
flag—also charred—has been painted on the wall. A sign, white on
blue, peers out from underneath the bricks—ORPHANAGE. Va-
lera stops, puts the jugs down, takes out his cigarettes.
“Want a smoke?” He proffers one to Pasha.
“No, thanks.”
“It got taken out a month ago,” the gym teacher says. “Nina
was heading to the city that day. I don’t let them out anymore. And
I have the key to the gate,” he reminds Pasha.
“Gotcha,” Pasha replies, his tone somewhat mistrustful.
The gym teacher finishes his cigarette. They pick up the jugs,
push on. Soon some houses appear. Through the fog, they can dis-
cern gray roofs, dark fireplaces. The sliced slate of the fences, the
black hollows of the windows, the tree trunks trimmed by mor-

132
tar shells. There’s a store—a large, one-­story building with a metal
door—at the fork in the road. And in front of that a well. A well
meticulously covered with blankets and old padded jackets so noth-
ing gets inside. They approach, look around. In the fog, the houses
are nearly invisible, like they’re taking shape on photographic paper.
Valera removes the blankets with practiced yet cautious movements,
and begins retrieving the water. Pasha holds the jugs, while the gym
teacher pours from the bucket. Holding the jugs is awkward; they
keep slipping out of Pasha’s hands. He keeps holding on to them—
doesn’t want Valera to notice his crippled hand—and occasionally
blows on his stiff fingers. They fill up the last jug, wrap the blan-
kets around the well again. They stand there, breathing on their
clenched fists. The water’s freezing, burning their skin, deadening it,
numbing it. Valera tries to knock a cigarette out of the pack, but his
fingers won’t cooperate. Cigarettes spill out, fly into the black water
at their feet, sink to the bottom like torpedoes. Valera curses, tucks
the pack into his coat pocket, picks up the jugs. Pasha slings the jugs
over his shoulder and turns around to head out but bumps into the
gym teacher, who’s standing completely still. His back has tensed
up—it doesn’t seem to be from the heavy load, though. Pasha looks
around him impatiently. There’s something in the fog, a few steps
away from them—three men. Or maybe four even. They’re stand-
ing there, not coming any closer, so you can’t make out who they
are. Valera slowly lowers the jugs onto the ground.
“Listen, pal! What’d we fuckin’ tell you about taking water?”
one of them says. He’s speaking Russian, emphasizing the curse to
sound more convincing.
“You fuckin’ listen, pal.” Valera gives him attitude right back.
“You need a whole well to yourselves?”

133
 “Who the fuck are you? Could be anybody,” one of them per-
sists.
“I’m from the orphanage,” Valera explains.
“Fucked if I care. Should’ve blown you to hell ages ago.”
“Fucked if I care,” Valera replies coldly, picks up the jugs, and
heads right at the voices.
Pasha rushes after him, following the heavy bunches of water
jugs dangling from his back. The guys in the fog step aside, oddly
enough. As Pasha slips past them, he catches a whiff of tobacco and
a whiff of fuel oil. It’s as if they ate the oil and rubbed the tobacco
into their hair. No time to pick up any more smells. Or catch a
glimpse of anything else. Then, as they’re walking away, once the
store and the well have dissolved in the fog, someone yells:
“Hey you, from the orphanage!”
Valera hesitates, stops. Pasha runs into him again.
“You’re fuckin’ . . . uh . . . dead meat!”
Valera isn’t listening, though. All you can hear in the fog are his
high boots stomping through the cold puddle water.
They walk in silence. The fog has blanketed everything on
the orphanage grounds—feels like you’re walking through a wall,
leaving behind the world of the living and groping ahead until you
run into something horrible. Pasha’s walking along, just listening to
the jugs softly knocking against each other, and he suddenly real-
izes that he hasn’t felt this good in a while. Well, no, not exactly
good. What’s so good about trudging through some place where,
in all likelihood, they’ve been burying corpses for the past several
months, where, in all likelihood, they’ll keep doing so for the next
several months? Anyway, you’re walking through the fog, carry-
ing water, and at least there’s something to keep you busy, at least

134
something in all this has meaning. You don’t have any doubts while
you’re walking—you know you have to carry the water back. And
then you’ll have to make the walk again, with empty jugs, to fetch
more water.
Valera plods along, all hunched over. You can hear his stride,
his coughing. But you can’t actually see him. It’s like a dead man’s
walking alongside you. Pasha speeds up, pulls even with him.
“You know them?” Pasha asks, nodding, even though Valera
can’t see him.
“Yep,” the gym teacher answers without stopping.
“Local guys?”
“Yep.”
“What do they want?”
“They don’t want anything.” The gym teacher spits angrily, puts
the jugs on the ground, and takes out his cigarettes. Pasha puts his
jugs on the soggy earth. His shoulders are aching. He sighs heavily,
taking in a mouthful of thick fog. “Everyone around here’s mad at
Nina. Last summer, when it all started, they wanted to hand her
over to the commandant. I stopped ’em.”
“How’d you do that?” Pasha asks.
“I just up and stopped ’em,” the gym teacher explains. “Well,
and then the army came. And then all of this started.” Valera waves,
as if he’s referring to the fog. “All right, let’s go.” He tosses his ciga-
rette butt into the water, picks up the jugs, starts moving.
“He’s a good guy,” Pasha thinks as he’s picking up his jugs.
“What the hell’s my problem?”

The kid’s already waiting for Pasha in the gym.

“Where’ve you been?” he exclaims. “Let’s get going already.”

135
His backpack and things are on the floor in the corner. “I’m all
packed. How much longer are you gonna make me wait?”
“All right, all right. We’ll get going soon.”
And then Nina walks up to him.
“Are you really leaving?” she asks.
“Yes, we are.” Pasha fixes his glasses and immediately adopts a
stilted tone, the same tone he uses with the kids at school.
“You’re going out there now?” Nina asks anxiously. “Can’t you
hear the explosions? You should at least wait until after lunch. It
generally quiets down after noon.”
The kid’s standing next to them, listening intently to their con-
versation.
“What?” he yells impatiently. “C’mon, let’s go, already!”
Pasha hesitates. On one hand, he wants to get as far away from
here as possible; on the other, he remembers what it was like walk-
ing here from the train station yesterday, so he isn’t too eager to
leave.
“Wait,” he tells the kid. “Let me call your mom.”
“What for?”
“To see what the situation is like down there, at home,” Pasha
explains.
“Whatever,” the kid drawls, clearly disappointed. “See what the
situation is like . . .”
But Pasha’s stopped listening. He walks over to the corner, takes
out his phone. The kid and Nina stand nearby, waiting and occa-
sionally glancing at each other. Nina looks at the kid with concern,
and he looks at her with hostility and unconcealed irritation.
The phone keeps ringing and ringing. Pasha’s just about to
hang up.

136
 “Hello,” he suddenly hears his sister saying. Well, yelling, actu-
ally. She’s used to yelling. She yells at work and at home, too. She
thinks people understand her better that way.
“Yeah, Zhenya,” Pasha says. “Are you home? How are things
down there?”
“Yeah, I’m home! It’s a fuckin’ shitshow. The army’s attempting
a breakout. The Station’s packed. Everyone’s leaving. They’re afraid
the Station’s gonna get attacked.”
“I’m here with Sasha,” Pasha interrupts. “I want to take him
home.”
“With Sasha?” his sister yells, surprised. “How’d you get there?”
“I want to take him home,” Pasha explains. He can hardly hear
her, so he, too, starts yelling.
“How ya gonna do that?” his sister shouts indignantly. “There’s
no getting through. There are soldiers everywhere. Just sit tight at
the orphanage. At least they’ll feed him there.”
“He’s sitting tight down in the basement,” Pasha yells in reply.
“In the basement? Why’s he down there?”
“There’s been fighting over here,” Pasha explains.
“Well, just sit tight then. At least he won’t go hungry!”
The call drops, but Pasha doesn’t want to call her back. What
can I even say to her? He’s standing there with his back to Nina and
the kid, tensely looking at his black phone, stalling, pretending he’s
waiting for her reply.
“Well?” The kid cracks first. “Get ready, c’mon.”
“Pasha?” Nina tries to pull him out of his trance.
“Here’s the deal.” Pasha turns around abruptly and starts talk-
ing, looking between Nina and the kid, not making eye contact
with anyone. “So, what’s the deal? They aren’t letting anyone into

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the Station, the checkpoints are blocked off. The army left.” He
nods at the window. “Those guys,” he says, nodding again, “are just
coming in.”
“Well, let’s roll then!” the kid interrupts him. “Or are you plan-
ning on hanging out here, like the gym teacher?”
“Sasha!” Nina yells at him.
“Go to hell, both of you!” The kid turns around furiously and
runs down the hallway.
Pasha stands there for a bit, not knowing what to do, then
dashes after the kid. He runs down the hallway, turns the corner,
sprints past classrooms as empty as hotel fridges, reaches the end
of the hallway, runs down the stairs, and stomps along the cement
basement floor. He runs to the compartment, pulls on the door. The
kid’s locked himself inside, obviously. Pasha starts pounding on the
metal door. “Just so long as he’s okay,” he thinks. “Just so long as
that hasn’t started. Just not now.” A group runs out of the first com-
partment to see what all the commotion is about. Pasha’s anxious,
worried about the kid; he wants him to open up, so he keeps bang-
ing on the metal door, pounding and jolting loose ten-­year-­old rust
that settles in the hallway twilight. “Go to hell,” he thinks, repeat-
ing after the kid. “All of you. Why’d you crawl out of your burrows?
Haven’t you ever seen how big, happy families settle disputes? Yeah,
how would you know? When’s the last time you even saw your par-
ents? You’re sitting around here like rats in the hold of a ship, wait-
ing for them to smoke you out with poisonous fumes. What do you
know about a normal family that’s trying to live a normal life? What
do you even know about living a normal life?” Pasha’s yelling to
himself, then he turns around, and suddenly sees all of them. All
three of them. He saw the oldest girl, around twelve, yesterday—she

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came by with Nina last night, carrying the sleeping bag. Her hair
that keeps falling in her eyes—that’s how he recognized her. And
that mistrustful glare. It seems to have filled up with even more
mistrust overnight. And more fear, too. She’s standing there in her
faded pink down jacket, hiding her hands in her pockets. Knitted
socks and warm slippers. The slippers are too big—they probably
belong to someone else. The girl who’s peering out from behind
her shoulder looks younger, about ten or so. She’s mistrustful, too,
and frightened: fair hair gathered in a ponytail, several boys’ sweat-
ers, one on top of the other, dull jeans, worn sneakers. She’s hold-
ing a plastic mug with something hot in it—guess she didn’t want
to leave it in her room. Who knows when she’ll be back. Hot things
get cold, so it’s best to keep them at hand, just in case. And there’s
a third girl. She’s peering out from the doorway, not venturing out.
Buzz cut—looks like she just got home from the hospital. But she’s
afraid they’re going to send her back. And all of them have this
heavy look in their eyes, and the shadows under them are so black,
so deep. And at first Pasha doesn’t realize what’s going on. Then sud-
denly, it hits him—all three of them are wearing makeup. Thick,
showy makeup, just like the older women around here wear. At first
Pasha’s surprised, but then he starts to understand—well, what else
are they supposed to do all day down here in the basement? They
sit around and do each other’s makeup so things won’t be so scary.
But they still are. “I scared them,” Pasha thinks. “I was the one who
scared them.” But he looks at them, looks at the makeup under their
eyes, at the fear they’re trying to cover up, and he realizes that he
has nothing to do with this—their fear runs too deep, it’s constant,
it’s part of their lives. And Pasha wasn’t the one who scared them.
They were scared before he came along. Down here in the base-

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ment, Pasha’s probably just like all the other assholes around them,
like their parents, who abandoned them like rabbits locked up in
cages—you’re on your own, let’s see how long you live. Do what-
ever you have to. They’re standing there, looking at Pasha word-
lessly. The girl with the ponytail lets slow tears trickle down her
face, washing away the makeup, forming distinct grooves. And all
of this looks so strange here in the basement hallway: Pasha with his
dead fingers, the kid hiding from the whole world in a bomb shel-
ter, these girls with unnatural, clownlike makeup standing here and
whimpering like young clowns who’ve come to see an old clown
and gripe about the struggles of their profession. The old clown’s on
the verge of tears, only holding it together because he’s too embar-
rassed to cry in front of these painted children. So he just sits down
on the cement floor, rests his back against the metal door, takes off
his glasses, and starts wearily rubbing his eyes, which are tearing up
from all the dust, sleeplessness, and despair.
Then Nina comes downstairs. She sees all this, but she doesn’t
say anything. She immediately ushers the girls back to their com-
partment yet doesn’t close the door all the way, so Pasha can hear
everything. He can hear Nina wiping someone’s tears away, wash-
ing the mascara off her face, giving someone sugar for her tea, ask-
ing someone to bring her some wet wipes. She’s talking about her
sister—younger, more confident, more successful—about how
she’d always wear hand-­me-­downs from her older sisters, friends,
and cousins. And Nina’s hand-­me-­downs, too. She just had so many
clothes; they looked so good on her—everyone, even the girls who’d
given her their clothes, was jealous of her. “Because it’s not about
the clothes you wear, it’s about your sense of dignity,” Nina says.
“And about not being afraid.” Well, she didn’t actually say all that,

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obviously, but Pasha knows that’s what she meant. “Yeah, that’s
it,” he thinks. “That’s right. It’s not about the clothes you wear, not
about how you look. If you think about it, it’s like we’re all living in
an orphanage. Abandoned by everyone, wearing too much makeup
and whatever clothes we come by. Thing is, that makes no differ-
ence. You can wear clothes stolen from the thrift store and feel like
the king of the world or you can have a nice warm jacket and be a
fat prick nobody wants anything to do with,” he thinks. “And why
don’t I ever talk to my kids about stuff like that? I give them all those
dumb-­ass dictations, make them do difficult and confusing exer-
cises, teach them grammar rules that they’ll never need. I teach
them to speak properly. But just speaking, speaking so people hear
and understand you—I don’t teach them that. Well, I don’t know
how to do it myself.”
“Yeah,” Pasha thinks. “Why do they listen to her? Why do
they stop crying? Why does their fear recede when she’s talking to
them? Maybe it’s because she has a calm, quiet voice. You don’t
make threats in a voice like that. You don’t even defend yourself in
a voice like that. You say that there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just
that everyone else around here yells. Constantly. At home. On the
street. In public places. In public recreational areas. Just like my sis-
ter. Yeah, my sister.” Pasha thinks back to their telephone conversa-
tion, and he gets this bitter taste in his mouth, as if he’s swallowed
a metal spoon. He thinks back to his last train ride with her—two
winters ago, before all this started. It turns out that it isn’t all that
great when your sister’s a train stewardess. Especially when she’s the
stewardess on your train. When she’s checking your ticket, bringing
you your sheets, locking the bathroom door right in front of your
nose—I’m sorry, sir, but the restroom is closed when the train is

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approaching a major station. Well, she didn’t check his ticket, obvi-
ously. He didn’t even have one—he rode in her compartment. That
was nice, but overall the trip was endless and exhausting. His sister
started yelling on the platform, back at the Station. And she kept
yelling the whole way: at Pasha, at the stewardess from the next car
over, at the policemen assigned to the train, at the trainmaster. Not
to mention the passengers, who didn’t even put up any resistance.
In fact, some of them even liked it. Some people like women who
yell a lot. They view their outbursts as them being feisty. She even
burst out yelling a few times throughout the night, seemingly fright-
ened by her own protracted silence. They slept sitting up, on the
lower bunk—his sister let some guy without a ticket hop onto the
top bunk and made herself some extra cash on the side. They sat
there until the early morning, watching snow flashing gold in the
station lights that flew past the window. Exhausted, she’d occasion-
ally doze off, resting her head on her brother’s soft shoulder. Pasha
sat there, trying not to disturb her, but whenever the train jolted,
his sister would shriek and wail in her sleep, scaring the sick pas-
senger on the top bunk. Come morning, when they were crossing
over to Kyiv’s right bank approaching the station, Pasha was sound
asleep, curled up on some blankets. His sister, who’d already torn all
the passengers out of bed and chased the sick traveler from the top
bunk out of their compartment, came back, leaned in toward her
brother, and gave his shoulder a gentle, sisterly touch. And when
Pasha opened his eyes and recognized her, she calmly said:
“All righty now.”
“All righty now,” Nina says, standing over him. “All righty now.”
Pasha shakes his head, quickly gets up.

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 “Go to the kitchen,” she tells Pasha. “Grab something for the
road. I’ll talk to him.” She points at the compartment door.
“I’ll do it myself,” Pasha replies. “I’ll talk to him myself.”
“You’ll get to talk to him. You’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
Pasha gets up, goes upstairs, walks down the hallway.

The gym teacher is sitting by the window, reading some news-

paper. The fog outside the window begins breaking into pieces, and
when another piece comes off and is carried away by the wind, the
cafeteria lights up—and he can read the next page. Then a new
patch of damp gloom creeps along, and the gym teacher sets his
newspaper aside. He sits, waits. He looks as if he’s mulling over
what he’s read. He’s extended his legs toward the potbelly stove,
trying to warm up. His black coat, still so damp, hangs above it.
The coat dangles from an old broom, the sleeves drooping, empty
and hopeless. It looks like the outlaw who was hung on the cross
about thirty-­three years or so after the birth of Christ. His wet hat
hangs nearby, too. A teapot smokes on the kitchen stove; the gym
teacher occasionally pours some more hot water into his mug of
strong tea. Pasha enters, stops in the doorway, thinking he may have
come at the wrong time, but the gym teacher immediately waves
him over amicably. C’mon, take a seat by the fire. Pasha walks over,
smiles at him like they’re old friends, and rests his foot on an upside-­
down crate. The firewood crackles dryly, the fog outside the win-
dow hovers whitely. One might think that they’re simply snowed
in at a hotel in the mountains. And they have plenty of time and
firewood to warm up and steady themselves for their long journey.
Only thing is, the explosions somewhere out there, beyond the fog,

143
won’t abate. And when you turn your head, your eyes land on a
mountain of unwashed dishes that have been in the sink for who
knows how long. But if you don’t look at them, if you don’t listen
to the artillery firing into the city, if you only look at the stove, for
instance, you feel a sense of serenity and security. The only thing
that can scare you is the crucified coat looming up above. Death’s
somewhere nearby, just biding its time.
“Want some tea?” the gym teacher asks.
Pasha nods. He finds his mug—the brewed tea has gone cold—
pours some hot water into it, and wraps his hands around the mug,
trying to warm up. The metal is instantly hot, making Pasha’s hands
hot, too, yet he keeps holding it, not wanting to let go of this metal
hunk of heat. The gym teacher’s stroking his mustache somewhat
comically, like they do in the movies, and he invites Pasha to sit
down again. Pasha waves preemptively. Nah, I’ll stand. Let’s hear it.
“Where you from?” the gym teacher asks. “The Station?”
His Russian is strange: proper, more or less, and with no Ukrai-
nian mixed in, but it isn’t homegrown. Around here, foremen at
mines, Party organizers at meetings, or cops at police stations talk
like that. It’s the language of not particularly well-­educated people
who speak about important state matters, and since they’re afraid of
saying the wrong thing they mostly speak in clichés. Pasha’s used to
this kind of Russian; he can speak it too. Nonetheless, Valera makes
bureaucrat-­speak sound pretty nice, like a retired general telling his
grandchildren heroic tales of his life, taking some parts from gen-
eral staff data and embellishing the rest.
“Yeah, from the Station,” Pasha says. “I’m from the Station.”
“I was born here,” Valera continues, with satisfaction. “Near
the hospital for employees of our local railroad station. Twenty min-

144
utes from here at a brisk walk. I remember when they built this
orphanage. It was in the early to mid-­seventies. We were attending
secondary school at the time. We’d run over here and steal build-
ing materials.”
“Why?” Pasha asks, confused.
“We didn’t have any toys,” the gym teacher explains.
He’s in a warm gray turtleneck sweater and black dress pants,
which he apparently wears to work, with blue sweatpants sticking
out (he probably wears them to work, too). He’s kicked off his boots
and slipped on some rubber sandals. “It’s a shame we don’t have
a gym teacher like him at our school,” Pasha thinks. They weren’t
blessed with a great gym teacher. For starters, she’s a woman (yells
all the time, never listens, same old story), and she fled last fall, too,
when the city was being surrounded. Pasha was even forced to fill
in for her a few times, but nothing good came of that. He wore his
heavy winter boots to gym class, didn’t have any athletic shoes. This
made the high schoolers mad. Pasha could sense that, so one time
he went down to the principal’s office, showed her his hand, and
said that he was going to file a complaint, that it just wasn’t right
they were making him, a guy with a health problem, spin around
on the pull-­up bar. The principal got scared, but not for Pasha with
his stiff fingers who was forced to risk his life on the pull-­up bar. She
was covering her own ass, since Pasha really could file a complaint.
“Basically, it’s a shame that we don’t have a gym teacher like him,”
Pasha thinks, the hot water burning his lips. “Going to the teacher’s
lounge wouldn’t be so bad then.”
“Been here awhile?” Pasha asks.
“I started immediately after receiving my degree in physical
education,” the gym teacher replies. “I’m a seasoned educator. I’ve

145
outlasted them all,” he adds, now using his own words. “Everyone
took off, you see. Nina’s the only one who stuck around. I’m com-
mitted to giving my younger colleagues the benefit of my experi-
ence.”
“Gotcha,” Pasha replies approvingly. “Some good kids you got
here, too.”
“Yeah, we have a good crew here. Broken homes, juvenile de­
linquency, falling in with the wrong crowd. Parents suffering from
alcoholism, unfavorable societal circumstances. Nobody wants
anything to do with them,” Valera adds, using his own words again.
“They get dropped off here like puppies at a shelter. Responsibility
is reassigned to the teaching staff.”
“Like that only happens here,” Pasha chimes in. “That’s how it
goes at every school. Nobody wants anything to do with them. Who
takes care of them? Couldn’t tell you. Why did their parents have
them? Nobody knows.”
“They had them to continue their lineage,” the gym teacher
explains, then pauses to think. “We had it good. Like, back in the
seventies, when they charged us with theft of the people’s property.”
Pasha looks at him, confused. Whose property?
“I mean the building materials,” the gym teacher explains. “We
faced a jury of our comrades. In an auditorium at the warehouse
complex. They dragged our parents down there. Our teachers and
Party leaders came, too. And they really started laying into us, with
the gloves off. Threatening us, blackmailing us, saying they were
gonna lock us up for a long time. After all, we weren’t kids any-
more. We were going through a rebellious phase, adapting to the
demands of society. We weren’t afraid, though. It’s strange—I’m
thinking back to what I felt. We weren’t the least bit scared. We

146
knew that nothing bad would happen to us. They’d give us a little
scare and then let us go. Because the whole country, with all its
factories, mines, and Party program, was behind us. And nobody
would turn us in. Knowing that is very important. Especially when
you’re a teenager. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Pasha agrees.
“Well, we all just got lucky. We had a good country and a good
childhood.”
“But no toys . . .”
“Yeah, we didn’t have toys, but we had a country. A good coun-
try. Not the worst one out there. At least it raised kids. It raised me,
for instance. And I wasn’t afraid of anything. I grew up here and
came back after receiving my degree in physical education,” the
gym teacher reminds Pasha. “I’m committed to giving my younger
colleagues the benefit of my experience. Just so you know, I’m not
going anywhere. That’s how I was raised. In that other country.
Everyone took off, but I stuck around.”
“Nina stuck around, too,” Pasha reminds him.
“Yeah. Why’d I stick around? Why didn’t I run away? Because
I don’t have anything to be afraid of. I don’t stir things up. I just do
my job. Why should I be afraid? Right?”
Pasha nods silently. Obviously, he agrees. Naturally, he agrees.
He’s the same way. He’s always done his job; he didn’t run away.
“Why should I be afraid?” Pasha asks himself. “I have nothing to be
afraid of, I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not my fault,” he answers
himself. “I didn’t ask anyone to come here, I didn’t kick anyone
out. I just do my job. I just teach kids how to write properly. I’d say
that’s much more important than standing around at checkpoints.
Checkpoints get taken down, but grammar rules remain. So don’t

147
direct your complaints at me. Or at him,” Pasha thinks. “He stuck
around. He’s definitely not going anywhere. He really will outlast
everyone. He’ll live forever. I love people like him,” Pasha thinks,
getting all emotional. The hot tea and the cozy afternoon fire have
made him sentimental. He hasn’t felt this calm in a long time.
Nina comes in. She frostily wraps a blanket around herself,
sticks her pointy nose in the bowls and mugs, counts the canned
goods, walks over to the stove, extends her arms, and warms her red
hands. Valera notices her but doesn’t really pay any attention to her,
like she isn’t even here. And she isn’t saying anything; it seems as if
she isn’t listening to them either. She’s thinking her own thoughts,
warming her hands. When Valera stops talking, the explosions and
crackling gunfire out the window become more distinct. It’s as if
someone has opened the doors of a warm, sleepy train compart-
ment on to the noisy hallway. Valera is impatient for the conversa-
tion to resume.
“Who’s gonna answer for all this?” he asks, waving his hand
around. “Nobody. You’ll see, they won’t find the guilty parties.”
“They’ll make us the guilty parties,” Pasha contends.
“No, they won’t,” the gym teacher objects, confidently. “Don’t
think so. Whoever started all of this has to answer for it. Personally,
I’d like to see how they get themselves out of this one. I’ll be really
interested to see how they get themselves out of this one.”
“It’s not the first time for them,” Pasha says.
“Sure isn’t.” The gym teacher takes his pack of cigarettes out of
his coat pocket and lights one in the stove, leaning in sharply and
nearly burning his eyelashes off.
“You’re right, though. Obviously they’re gonna try and pin it all
on us, on the people who stuck around. Yeah, that’s how it’ll play

148
out, for sure. But no way in hell are they gonna pin anything on
me!” Valera says heatedly, and all his impenetrable canned phrases
disappear instantly. “Not gonna happen! I don’t have anything to
do with all this! And they don’t either!” He points at some place be-
hind Pasha. He even looks around, but nobody’s there, obviously:
hallway twilight, the cafeteria walls painted blue. But it’s clear that
the gym teacher is talking about the kids, about the ones who took
off and the ones who stuck around. “They don’t have anything to
do with all this either. I feel sorry for them, Pasha. You believe me?”
“I do.”
“Yeah, I do feel sorry for them. They were born at the wrong
time and in the wrong country. They’re not like us. We have some-
thing to remember.” The gym teacher enjoys a kind, carefree laugh,
and Pasha can’t help but crack a smile. “We had a real country, we
didn’t have to be afraid. Thinking about my childhood always makes
me smile. I’m serious. You believe me?”
“I do.”
“What about you?” he asks Pasha contentiously.
“Me too. It makes me smile, too.”
“What about you, Nina?” The gym teacher finally acknowl-
edges his boss. “Does thinking about your childhood make you
smile?”
Nina keeps looking at the fire, as if she didn’t hear the question.
And then she answers.
“No. It doesn’t. All I remember about my childhood is that
hungry feeling in my stomach.”
“Well, everyone had it rough—” the gym teacher counters.
But Nina curtly interrupts him.
“Not everyone did. Far from everyone. I had it real rough. I

149
didn’t have anything to eat. And my mom didn’t have anything to
eat either. Even though she was growing up when you were out
stealing building materials. He told you about that, right?” she asks
Pasha.
“Yeah,” Pasha says, flustered.
The gym teacher sneers but doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t sneer at me.” Nina continues to talk in a calm, flat
voice, as though she’s confessing to mortal sins and knows perfectly
well what awaits her. “Nobody died of starvation, as you can see, but
I don’t have any nice memories of my so-­called childhood. Do you
know what my nickname was at school, Valera? As a gym teacher,
you’ll find it interesting. ‘The Athlete.’”
“Why?” Pasha asks, surprised.
“Because I always wore sneakers. Summer and winter. One of
my neighbors gave them to me. My father was out of the picture,
and I won’t even tell you what my mom did for a living. She didn’t
make much money doing it, though. And she grew up without a
father, too. And she wore hand-­me-­downs all through her child-
hood, too. And she didn’t have any nice memories about her so-­
called childhood either. You know why you weren’t afraid? It wasn’t
because you lived in a wonderful country, it was because somebody
was always covering for you—whether it was your parents or the
Communist Youth League. Thing is, nobody covered for me. And
nobody’ll cover for them,” she says, pointing at the blue walls be-
hind Pasha and Valera. “Nobody besides us. But that doesn’t mean
they should be afraid. They shouldn’t have to be afraid. All of our
experience and all of our grown-­up knowledge isn’t worth a penny
if they are. Not a penny.”
Nina quiets down. Flustered, Pasha and the gym teacher keep

150
silent, too. They don’t have anything to say, they aren’t ready. The
firewood cracks off dry shots in the stove, and once again the explo-
sions in the foggy mush become more distinct.
“And one more thing,” Nina adds. “Valera, you say that you
don’t have anything to do with this. When’s the last time you voted?”
“I don’t do that, Nina,” the gym teacher replies defiantly.
“And do you know who our deputy is?”
“I have no clue.”
“And you don’t have any idea what side he’s fighting for, do
you?”
“No,” Valera answers honestly. At this point, Pasha still likes
what he’s hearing.
“Then how can you blame anyone for this? On what grounds?”
Nina asks. “What right do you have to air your grievances? Do you
know your students’ parents, or what’s going on in their heads? Do
you know where their parents are right now? What they’ve been
doing? Who’s been buried this past year? Them passing their physi-
cal fitness tests—that’s what you care most about, right?”
“What do physical fitness tests have to do with this?” Valera
asks, a little flustered.
“Everything. Yeah, you’re always reminiscing about when
things were good, nice and calm, when you weren’t afraid. Then
why are all of you so scared now?”
“I’m not scared.”
“You are, though. You might not be afraid of getting blown up,
but you’re afraid of telling it like it is. And you’re afraid of telling
them the truth,” Nina says, pointing at something behind Valera
and Pasha. “That’s a lot harder than reminiscing about your happy
childhood.”

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 “That’s not what Valera was talking about—” Pasha tries to stick
up for the gym teacher, but Nina interrupts him quietly yet firmly.
“That’s exactly what he was talking about—about fear and ir-
responsibility. And you, Pasha, do you talk to your kids about the
war?”
“I’m a language teacher,” Pasha replies.
“Do you realize that half of their parents are fighting? Do you
have any idea about that?”
“Well, yeah,” Pasha says tentatively.
“And do you have any idea that some of them are fighting
against you? Against us,” she corrects herself.
“Nobody’s fighting against me,” Pasha objects coldly, begin-
ning to enjoy this conversation less and less. “I’m not on anyone’s
side.”
“Well, when they’re shooting at your nephew—are you still not
on anyone’s side? When shells hit the orphanage where he lives?
Who are they fighting against, then? Against me?”
“I don’t know who’s doing the shooting.”
“Really?” Nina’s surprised yet calm. “I do, though. Want me to
tell you? Do you know what direction the gym faces? Valera knows,
he’s the gym teacher.”
“I don’t know,” the gym teacher answers just as flatly.
“I do, though,” Nina says. “The gym faces south. And the shell
came from the south. And what’s to the south? Valera, what’s to
the south?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know?” the gym teacher replies,
irritated.
“You know, you know perfectly well. The border is to the south.
The national border. The former national border,” Nina corrects

152
herself. “And the shells are coming from down there. And what
don’t you get about that? And what’s so confusing about that? And if
you don’t want to admit that to yourselves, who’s going to tell you?”
“There are shells going the other way, too,” Valera snaps back.
“Yeah,” Nina agrees. “But you don’t talk about that either. Like
it has nothing to do with you. Even though you should’ve made
up your minds and picked a side a long time ago. You’re so used to
hiding. So used to staying out of things, letting someone else de-
cide everything for you, letting someone else take care of things for
you. Nobody’s going to decide for you, nobody’s going to take care
of things. Not this time. Because you saw what was going on, you
knew. But you kept silent, you didn’t say anything. Nobody’s going
to judge you for that, obviously, but don’t count on your descen-
dants’ appreciation. Basically,” Nina says, standing up resolutely,
“what I’m saying is, don’t delude yourself—everyone’s going to
answer for this. And those who aren’t used to answering for any-
thing will be the worst off. I’m going to make lunch, Valera. You
can help me, if you want. Yeah, Pasha, you can stay for lunch, too.
Sasha’s waiting for you, though, so you might want to get going. Just
make sure you take something for the road.”
Pasha thanks her, bewildered, stuffs several cans in his pockets,
and leaves without another word.
The kid’s sitting in the hallway, his back resting against the wall.
He sees Pasha, gets up, wordlessly walks across the gym toward the
exit. Green autumn jacket—wrong season—black jeans, leather
backpack, and in his hands the baseball bat. And sneakers on his
feet.
They walk around the outside of the orphanage. The gym
teacher’s coat looms in the window. It almost looks like Valera’s wav-

153
ing goodbye to them. Just can’t see his face, though. Or his hand.
The clothing’s still there, but there’s no person.

It’s 2 p.m. The fog has settled; it’s getting dragged down the
streets, thickening in the trees and slowly trickling down into the
valley, into the city. They approach the gate, hop the fence, walk
across the grounds. The kid confidently dodges piles of leaves. Pasha
tries to keep up. They aren’t talking to each other. In the wet air,
steps ring resonantly, like someone’s hammering nails into a tree.
Pasha stops at the edge of the grounds; the kid hears this, stops in his
tracks. He keeps quiet, though, waiting for Pasha to say something.
“We aren’t going through the city,” Pasha says. “Gotta get to
the road that runs around it.”
“All right,” the kid answers, a little condescendingly.
“Do you know where that road is?”
“Yeah, I do,” the kid says reluctantly. He hasn’t decided how
he’s going to act around Pasha.
“Let’s try and get out of here before the sun goes down,” Pasha
replies. “Sound good?”
The kid hesitates—should he keep being mad or loosen up?
The wind is blowing away from the city, pulling scraps of fog up out
of the valley. The sweet taste of something burning instantly appears
in the air. The taste of metal and wet dog. Pasha twitches; the kid
cringes, gripping his bat even tighter.
“All right,” he says. “We gotta head through this neighborhood,
then there’s a fork in the road. We should steer clear of it, there used
to be a checkpoint there. I know a shortcut, though.”
Pasha stands still, weighing what he’s heard. The trees overhead
start making noises. Pasha lifts his head. Something is up. Eventu-

154
ally it hits him—he sees trees, fog, and the sky somewhere up above.
No birds, though.
They move swiftly down a broken road, pass charred rebar and
the destroyed bus stop, then the store, leaving the well behind.
Here a street starts. Long, endless. Brick houses, garages, additions
stacked on top of one another. Slate riddled with shrapnel. Gas
pipes running on both sides of the street. One of the pipes is bro-
ken and bent. Looks like there’s no gas here. Or electricity. There
aren’t any people in sight either. Not a single person. Only trees.
Their bare branches tap against one another overhead. A metal gate
squeaks somewhere nearby. But behind them, in the valley, in the
city, things are just getting started. Lunch has just ended, probably,
and now they’re feeling refreshed, so they’ve gotten back to work.
The explosions grow more intense; soon something hits very close
by, right here in the fog. Pasha and the kid speed up. They’re hurry-
ing, nearly running. But the faster they go, the scarier it gets, as if
somebody is chasing them down the dead street. Pasha even starts
to think that someone really is following them, right on their heels,
keeping pace. “Just calm down,” Pasha tells himself. “There’s no-
body here.” But he looks around from time to time, trying to make
something out, anything at all, beyond the fog, which is making
everything invisible, suspicious. Suddenly, he actually spots some-
one over there. Someone’s moving. He can hear someone’s heavy
breathing. Pasha tries to put it out of his mind. He just speeds up,
but the kid notices the crazed, frightened look on his face and real-
izes that something’s up, something’s going on.
“What?” the kid asks.
“We’re fine,” Pasha answers, but he can’t help but look back
again.

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 The kid follows his eyes and looks back, too. There’s no es-
caping out here, though. They stop, stand, look into the fog, wait.
One second, two, three. It gets colder, which scares them even
more. Someone’s definitely over there, someone’s standing there,
trying to catch their scent. It’s just that they can’t see anything be-
yond all the pieces of fog. Then Pasha crouches. And notices the
dogs. A dozen, maybe more. Skinny strays, abandoned by every-
one, standing several yards away from them, extending their skinny,
soaked necks, listening intently. The kid crouches too. He sees them
too. The cautious, careful dogs. They aren’t the least bit frightened,
though. It’s immediately obvious who the outsiders are, who’s out
of place here. Their eyes are heavy, ferocious, but their voices are
silent. They’re waiting.
“Let’s go,” Pasha says, almost inaudibly. “Leave them alone.”
They stand up straight and keep walking, trying not to panic,
not to rush. Pasha gives in first. He turns around, crouches. The dogs
immediately freeze, keeping their distance. Pasha stands up straight
again and takes a step back. The dogs retreat reluctantly. But as soon
as he turns around, they hurry to catch up.
“Ignore them,” the kid advises. “They can feel that you’re
scared of them.”
“I’m not scared of them.”
“Yeah, sure,” the kid says quietly. “Even I can tell you’re scared
of them. I’m scared, too. Who knows what they’ve been feeding on
out here. Keep walking. Stay calm.”
They keep walking, faster and faster, more and more anxiously,
almost breaking into a run. But they realize that running isn’t an
option—that would be a signal, a sign for those stalking them.
Pasha’s on edge, soaked with sweat. He scrambles to come up with

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something, feels panic creeping up to his throat. “Why’d I drag the
kid out here?” he thinks. “How could I? How am I going to protect
him now?” The kid has a more confident air about him, though.
He is holding a baseball bat, after all. But the fingers gripping that
bat have turned completely white. Probably from the cold. Pasha
notices some crushed bricks on the road. “This is ridiculous. Gotta
do something,” he thinks. “Can’t keep running like this.” And he’s
just about to pick up a chunk of brick when the kid suddenly says to
him, quietly yet clearly:
“Look to the left.”
Pasha looks to the left. He sees a green gate that opens into a
yard. The kid grabs his sleeve and drags him toward the gate before
he can figure out what’s going on. Pasha’s boots hit the wet asphalt
hard as he races after the kid. The dogs bolt after them, a dozen hun-
gry, cold throats responding, growling with thrilled despair, so loud
the whole world can hear. They lunge at them, their teeth snatch-
ing thick pieces of air. The kid leaps into the yard; Pasha stumbles
through the gate after him. “Hope it closes all the way,” he thinks.
“Just hope it closes.” He yanks on the gate from the inside. For an
instant, just a brief instant, it’s stuck, won’t move. Then it budges
and swings shut with a bang. The dog closest to them, the leader,
pounces, his front paws landing on the gate, but Pasha manages
to close it in the nick of time. Bang on it all you want—they’re in
the clear now. The dogs realize that; disappointed, they rub their
muzzles against the gate, snarl, bark out all their disappointment,
and try to crawl under the metal fence.
“Hurry up,” the kid yells and darts away from the gate.
Pasha runs after him. There’s an asphalt walkway in the yard. A
truck has smeared red clay across the asphalt—must’ve been load-

157
ing possessions. Their own or someone else’s. The lock on the front
door of the house has been removed, but the door itself is closed.
Right behind the house, the garage door is wide open. Inside, card-
board boxes, tools, and pieces of metal are scattered all over. There’s
an outdoor shower behind the garage; the water tank’s in a damp-
ened, darkened flowerbed. Then there’s a fence and a vegetable gar-
den behind it. The kid pushes the crooked gate, runs down a soggy
path. Pasha can feel the mud sticking to his boots, weighing them
down, making it hard to run. But he has to run. They run through
the black unharvested garden, past soaked cornstalks, past heavy,
rotten vegetables. And they run straight out to a scorched clearing.
The kid races out and then freezes—frightened and mesmerized.
Pasha runs after him and his eyes immediately land on a bloody
heap of mush in the middle of the scorched grass: scraps of cowhide,
bones, tendons mixed in with mud. “They butchered the cattle,”
Pasha figures. “And smoked the meat.” The kid’s stopped dead.
“Don’t look!” Pasha yells. “Don’t look.”
He covers Sasha’s eyes. The kid suddenly goes limp, doesn’t
resist, doesn’t say anything. He lets Pasha drag him away from
the mountain of rotten innards, stumbles through the thick grass,
shakes Pasha’s hand off him, keeps running, not looking back, not
exhaling. “That time was just like this,” Pasha thinks. Just like right
now—the kid, pale and limp after an attack, the teary-­eyed doc-
tor standing over him, not knowing what to say. Best not to think
about that.
Behind the gardens is a dirt road that’s been ripped up by tank
treads. They move through the deep ruts, viscous masses of clay
sticking to their boots, and run across a wet pasture toward what

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used to be a farm. Two wrecked cowsheds, concrete slabs lying in
the grass, a rusty water tower off to the side, a low-­hanging, silvery
sky poking through the fog up above. The locals took the doors off
one of them. The structure itself looks like the skeleton of a large
animal, a large, horned animal—walls whitewashed by rain, beams
bent by the snow. Everything else has been cleaned out, taken to
another house or burrow. No windows, no doors, just black holes
and cold drafts. They run inside. There are two large straw nests in
the corner. Looks like someone was here, lying low. There aren’t
any shell casings around, so they didn’t do any shooting. They were
just waiting things out. They were probably wounded: straw soaked
with dark blood, empty vials stomped into the dirt floor, dispos-
able needles, sodden bandages. The nests are wet. Clearly, whoever
was lying here left a few days ago. The place smells sharply of urine
and mud. Pasha walks over to a smashed window and tries to dis-
cern something, anything, in the fog. It’s just before dusk. The fog
gleams and settles in the fine rain. The neighborhood’s roofs, tall
trees, and dark rows of corn loom beyond the rain. Farther along,
to the right, the horizon hovers and then drops off, and down there
in the valley lies the city. They can’t see the city, but long black
streams of smoke are rising from over there. They have been since
yesterday; it’s as if the ground has been ruptured and now some-
thing truly terrible is coming out of the earth, and nobody knows
how to stop that something, the worst thing, since nobody knows
how it happened, how the earth split and released all its blackness,
which is now creeping across the January sky and filling up all its
cracks and openings. “Who’s going to put out the smoke?” Pasha
thinks. Everything around here will burn, like in a medieval city,

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the flame skipping from house to house, from street to street. Give
it a few days, and nothing will be left.
“That’s the warehouses burning,” the kid says.
“What warehouses?” Pasha asks, confused.
“By the railroad,” the kid explains. “See that?
The kid points at something in the rain. Pasha looks intently.
Beyond the corn and the rain, he can make out gray smoke that’s
settling heavily, pressed down by the rain, unable to rise.
“Can you imagine how much stuff is gonna burn?” the kid says
with some sort of delight in his voice.
“Yeah,” Pasha replies. “Let’s take a break. Are you hungry?”
“Nah,” the kid answers. “Not after seeing those guts.”
“Nina . . . ,” Pasha says and then pauses. “She’s kinda harsh.”
“No, she’s okay.”
“Why does she have to lecture everyone? Like she’s a teacher
or something.”
“Well, she is a teacher,” the kid reminds him. “What’s she sup-
posed to be like? That’s what she always says. That’s why people
don’t like her. Because she lectures everyone.”
“Well, there’s no need to lecture me,” Pasha says, aggrieved.
“I’ll figure things out on my own.”
“You’ve really got things figured out, huh?” the kid asks.
Pasha doesn’t say anything. He thinks of Nina, gets angry with
himself. Why didn’t I say anything to her?
“Seems like she never feels sorry for anyone.”
“Who’s she supposed to feel sorry for?” the kid inquires. “The
gym teacher? You?”
“Well, I don’t have anything to do with this.” Pasha is trying to

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be more straightforward. “It’s just that you can’t blame everyone.
Everyone’s different.”
“Yeah?” the kid replies skeptically. “I’d say you’re all the same.
The flag at the orphanage got torn down. Do you know how it hap-
pened?”
“How?”
“Basically, they wanted to tear it down, but Nina didn’t want to
let them. Everyone else just stood there and watched.”
“So what?” Pasha still doesn’t see what he’s getting at.
“Well, basically, only two guys wanted to tear it down. Against
one Nina. And everyone else just stood there and watched. And
didn’t do anything. About a hundred people—they just watched,
didn’t do anything. Everyone’s the same. I don’t feel sorry for any-
one.”
“All right,” Pasha replies. “Let’s go.”
“Okay.”
They go out into the rain and walk, cowering from the cold,
sinking into the wet earth. An empty lot stretches out beyond the
farm. Then a row of trees comes into view. They walk toward it.
They’ve lost all sense of time. It’s tough going at first, and it doesn’t
get any easier or any harder. They plod along mechanically, heavy
mud caked on their shoes, tucking their freezing hands into their
pockets. The kid warms one hand at a time, switching when the
one holding the bat gets cold. They trudge up to the trees. Pasha
fights through the prickly branches, the kid in tow. They reach an
open area. A deep basin, a ravine stuffed with fog like a pillow with
feathers, sprawls out before them. It feels like the fog has been
dragged down, as if it’s flowed down there to hide for a moment.

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 “Go around?” Pasha asks.
“Can’t,” the kid answers. “That’d tack on a mile or two.”
They stand there and look down skeptically. The ravine’s wide.
Can’t see the bottom. Just a white, eerie feeling flowing over the
edges, treading up to their feet. One step and you come out on the
other side of life. Don’t feel like going all the way around, though.
“Let’s go, okay?” Pasha takes several steps forward.
The kid holds his hand, following his every step. The ground
gives way; Pasha skids down, grabs the sharp blackthorn and briar
bushes with his free hand, cutting himself. Blood starts trickling
over his fingers, but he doesn’t have time to wipe it off. He has to
hang on tight to keep himself from tumbling right into hell. Pasha’s
getting angry, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to scare
the kid. He’s dragging him along, feeling the warmth of his hand.
It’s nearly impossible to make out the kid, but he is here—Pasha
can hear his breathing, the ground rustling under his sneakers, but
can’t actually see him. Pasha talks to him, keeps repeating himself.
Careful, careful. Watch your step. But what’s there to watch when
you can’t see anything? They grab on to each other, on to the wet
grass, on to the prickly blackthorn, ripping their skin up and sliding
down into the endlessly long and endlessly deep ravine. They slide
to the bottom, landing in a knee-­deep pile of last year’s snow—
December snow. It’s colder down here. The snow lies unmelted.
Pasha touches the crust, pressing his lacerated hand with its dead
fingers against it, cooling the blood flowing down his wrist. The kid
tosses his backpack next to him and falls into the snow, face up. He
lies there, catching his breath. Pasha picks up some prickly snow
with his uninjured hand and starts devouring it.
“Is it good?” the kid asks.

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 “It’s cold,” Pasha replies.
“Don’t eat too much. You’ll catch a cold,” the kid says without
irritation—a first—his voice tinged with concern. Pasha may have
just imagined that, though.
Going uphill is even tougher, but they keep trudging along.
Pasha’s out front. He’s carrying the kid’s backpack on his chest as he
drags him along. The kid’s straining, trying to push through, but it’s
clear that he’s exhausted. What isn’t clear is how much they have
ahead of them. Climbing and climbing, latching on to taut grass,
on to cherry roots. And when you don’t have any energy left or any
certainty that you’re headed in the right direction, when the kid’s
hanging down below like a warm, dead weight, when your injured
hand is starting to go numb, you suddenly grab a cherry branch
and realize that this is it—it’s the edge, the other edge of the abyss,
the opposite bank of the river, the River of the Dead. He boosts the
kid up, climbs out after him. They sit on the grass, their breathing
labored, not saying anything for a while.
“Which way now?” Pasha asks, once he’s worked up the nerve.
“Straight,” the kid says with a nod. “The road’s straight ahead.”
A field of sunflowers looms up ahead—last year’s ungathered
harvest. The dark sunflowers, dried out by the summer heat, look
like a scorched forest. Another row of trees is visible beyond the
sunflowers. And then there’s the road. Just have to walk through
the flowers.
Pasha goes first. The kid follows, as usual. The sunflowers part,
whipping their hands. Water flows up their sleeves. “They’re just
going to stand there,” Pasha says to himself, thinking about the
sunflowers. “Like zombies. Cursed and forgotten. Until somebody
plows all this up.”

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 They keep moving—slowly, but they’re still moving. The sky
grows dark, the black mass of the trees bears down on them. Two
hundred yards to go, one hundred and fifty, one hundred. Distinct
trees gradually appear in the air at dusk, ducking out of the darkness.
And meanwhile, military vehicles emerge plainly and translucently
from behind the trees—a column of trucks, tanks, and APCs. They
roll along leisurely, without beginning or end—the first ones have
disappeared around the fork in the road, the last ones are unseen
in the evening twilight. They keep going and going, rolling along
the half-­frozen road. “They’re coming from the south,” Pasha finds
himself thinking. “From the national border. The former national
border,” he corrects himself. “The former border.”
“There are so many of them,” the kid says, mesmerized.
“Bad timing,” Pasha replies.
“Yep. Could’ve hitched a ride if we’d left half an hour earlier,
you know?” he scoffs.
“What are we gonna do? Wait it out?”
One of the trucks suddenly peels away from the column and
comes to a halt; three soldiers hop out of the cab. They walk down a
hill, go over to the field, and stop. Pasha instantly crouches, pulling
the kid down with him. Shh, don’t move. They’re coming. The sol-
diers wade into the sunflowers, lazily moving in Pasha and the kid’s
direction. The distance between them grows shorter; Pasha hears
sunflowers snapping underneath them, someone bursting into loud
laughter, someone else cutting him off, hears them get quiet, stop,
and listen warily to the afternoon silence. They examine the fog,
examine the smoke on the horizon, consult each other briefly, turn
around, and swiftly head back to the truck. The vehicle sets off,
wedges itself into the column, dissolves into it.

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 “Let’s go back,” Pasha says quietly. “Now.”
And he runs, crouched over, toward the ravine. The kid obedi-
ently runs after him.

They get back to the neighborhood after dark, at around six,

taking some barely visible paths to the main street. Pasha picks up
some hunks of brick along the way in case he needs to fend anyone
off. The street’s empty, though; their steps echo resonantly, the city
trembles somewhere out there in the dark, like a tormented man
in his sleep. The earth’s slightly frozen; breathing in the cold air is
painful but nice. “We’ll warm up at the orphanage,” Pasha thinks.
“We’ll spend the night and try again tomorrow.”
“You cold?” he asks the kid.
“No,” the kid lies.
“Yeah, right,” Pasha thinks. The cold numbs your hands and
face. You want to get to a warm building as quickly as possible, even
if it doesn’t have any running water or electricity. Just get out of the
cold, warm up.
They pass the well. Even though it’s dark, Pasha spots fresh
tracks all around, left by the treads of a heavy vehicle. It’s as though
somebody was hanging around here, at the intersection, not know-
ing which way to go. Pasha tenses up but doesn’t say anything to
the kid. They keep walking. The worst part is that the tracks lead
straight to the orphanage. The clumps of clay and black mud on the
gray wet asphalt are fresh, left recently. Apparently, the kid’s spotted
them, too, and he knows what’s going on, but he isn’t saying any-
thing. He’s hiding his head in his shoulders, warming his hands in
his pockets, and keeping quiet. Pasha’s been carrying the bat for a
while now, tucked under his arm like a baguette. They walk past the

165
wrecked bus stop and get to the orphanage grounds. Going inside
is scary; the space between the trees feels particularly empty—step
into that emptiness and it’ll suck you in for good. The kid ventures
onto the path first. He walks between the wet trunks, his eyes fixed
on the twilight at his feet so he doesn’t trip on someone’s severed
head. They eventually make it across the grounds to the gate.
“The lock,” the kid says quietly.
“What about it?”
“They busted the lock,” the kid explains.
Pasha takes a closer look. The lock really is busted, but the gate
has been shut neatly. The kid takes a step forward.
“Stop,” Pasha says, firmly latching onto his shoulder. “Where
are you going?”
They stand there and look straight ahead, not knowing what
to do. They see someone approaching—coming out of the dark-
ness from the orphanage, right at them. “The gym teacher,” Pasha
thinks. “Going on a water run. He was the one who opened the
gate. He’s the only one with a key.” But it’s someone short and unre-
markable, a gnome holding a box, coming right at them out of the
darkness. Pasha is taken aback. It seems like the gnome is, too. Pasha
quickly turns on his phone flashlight; the light from the screen
snatches sharp angles and deep cavities out of the darkness for sev-
eral seconds. Autumn jacket down to his knees—probably some-
one else’s—track bottoms with white stripes, ragged winter boots.
Black hat, heavy face, sliced up by wrinkles. Black circles under his
eyes—must have health problems. Clearly has bad breath. Pasha
doesn’t want to check, though. The gnome’s holding a bag of pasta.
He catches a glimpse of Pasha’s beard, heavy boots, and baseball bat
during the several seconds while the screen is on and immediately

166
tenses up. But then he glances at the kid and relaxes again. Oh,
good, they’re locals, from the orphanage.
“Where you goin’?” he hisses, his voice low and hoarse.
“Where’s Valera?” Pasha replies. He doesn’t know who this guy
is or how to talk to him.
“Who the fuck is Valera?” the gnome hisses anxiously.
“The gym teacher.”
“They took your gym teacher away.” The gnome wants to push
his way past, but Pasha won’t step aside, so he has to explain further.
“Where’d they take him?”
“To the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“They stabbed him.”
“Who?”
“Fucked if I know!” The gnome can’t take it anymore. “They
just stabbed him. Then they loaded him into a bus and took him to
the hospital.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Everyone’s gone,” the gnome mutters nastily. “And you should
leave, too. It’s just not safe around here.”
“Where you taking that?” the kid asks, pointing at the pasta.
Pasha wants to ask about the pasta, too, but before he can, the
gnome shoves him, squeezes his gut past him, and runs away. Pasha
considers darting after him, but the kid restrains him.
“Where you going?” he whispers. “Leave him alone. Let’s get
out of here.”
“What do you mean? We have to see what’s going on.”
“There’s nobody in there,” the kid says, his tone insistent. “He
just told you.”

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 “You’re gonna listen to that guy? Maybe someone stuck
around. Gotta check it out.”
“There’s nobody in there,” the kid insists.
“What’s wrong?” Pasha asks him.
“Everything’s fine,” the kid answers. “There’s nobody in there.
Let’s go.”
“He’s scared,” Pasha figures. “The gnome with the pasta freaked
him out. Oh, Lord, what did you expect from him? He’s only thir-
teen. Obviously he’s scared.”
“Come on, Sasha,” Pasha says in a calm tone, like everything’s
just fine. “Maybe someone stuck around. Gotta check it out.”
“What if one of them, one of the locals, is in there?” the kid
asks.
“Well, what if Nina’s in there? Or one of the other kids?” Pasha
insists. “We can’t just leave without even looking.”
“Well, what if they’re gone? What if they actually took Valera
to the hospital?”
“I don’t believe him,” Pasha replies. “I won’t believe it until I
see it.”
The kid thinks.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go. Just be quiet.”
They push the gate, and it opens with a piercing squeak. Pasha
hesitates for an instant but then steps inside. The kid follows closely.
They pass the main building and approach the gym. Dark, dead
quiet, door opens inward. Pasha takes a cautious peek. He turns his
phone flashlight on. There are tracks all over the floor—the distinct
imprints of army boots and a wide, dirty streak. It’s as if someone’s
dragged bags of cement across the gym. Pasha’s already beginning

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to suspect something is wrong; he quickly walks down the hallway,
runs toward the basement, and bursts into the first compartment.
Scattered things, rumpled sheets, mats. They packed in a hurry,
leaving their clothes and belongings behind—even their tooth-
brushes are still neatly arranged in a dry cup. Pasha runs over to the
third compartment, Sasha’s compartment. The sleeping bag’s gone,
the books are still there. They weren’t interested in books. Pasha and
the kid run back upstairs, walk over to the cafeteria, go inside, and
look around. Dishes all over the floor, trampled metal bowls, bent
forks. The corner where the food was—empty.
“Damn, they cleaned everything out,” Pasha says.
“Who did?” the kid asks.
“Well, those guys, the locals. Those bastards.”
“What’d you expect from them?” the kid asks. “They hate
Nina. They would’ve burned the place down a long time ago. They
were too scared, though.”
“Not anymore, I guess.”
“You got that right,” the kid says. “Pasha!” he calls suddenly.
His voice makes Pasha spring up and come over immediately.
The kid’s looking at the corner, and Pasha follows his eyes. Cold
stove, overturned chair, trampled newspapers with dried blood-
stains on them. And a winter coat. Pasha lifts his phone, shines it
ahead. Several barely noticeable bullet holes in the fabric—have to
get close to spot them. Pasha walks over and touches the coat. It’s
still wet. He counts the holes. Four.
“What’d they do that for?” the kid asks, almost inaudibly.
“I don’t know,” Pasha answers. “Don’t know.”
“Did they kill him?” the kid queries.

169
 “Maybe,” Pasha answers. “Maybe. They don’t have any pity for
anyone,” he says, sticking his dead fingers in the punctured fabric.
“Anyone at all.”
His heart tightens; he feels his head spinning, his body tipping
to one side. He tries to center himself. It feels like this spring—big,
cold, steel—has been tightening inside him for the past two days.
It’s been tightening this whole time. Every minute, every second.
It’s been tightening all the way, to the limit. It’s been tightening,
pressing on his chest, not letting him breathe, cutting off his airway.
And when he starts to suffocate, when the lack of oxygen numbs his
chest, Pasha slowly counts in his head:
ten
nine
eight
seven
six
five
four
three
two
one
that’s it—
and the spring loosens up, squeezing his heart hard. Pasha gasps for
air, deeply and abruptly, chokes, doubled over by a violent cough,
resting his hands on his knees, struggles to catch his breath, senses
that the spring is still loosening up, repelling him, spinning him
around, and giving him the energy to keep going.
“Hurry up,” he says to the kid. “Hurry up, let’s go.”
His voice, dry and demanding, surprises the kid; he’s surprised,

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but he doesn’t object. All right, let’s go. They turn off the flashlight,
head outside, slip through the gate, and dissolve into the trees.

“You’re all the same.” Pasha repeats Sasha’s words as he rushes

through the darkness. “Everyone’s the same.” At least everyone he
knows is. They’re all one and the same. Pasha thinks back to two
Septembers ago: the first week of classes, sunny day, still feels like
summer, the sun’s lazily drifting over the slate roofs of the Station,
chains of train cars, dark red like wet bricks, rolling along behind a
row of dry pines. The students are messing around in the flowerbeds
in front of the school, cleaning up the grounds, swinging old spades
at the robust steppe weeds that have overrun the surrounding area.
Off to the side on the athletic field, the younger kids are raking,
gathering something up, working away. This is a good chance for
the teachers to get some sun. Pasha’s standing in his classroom—
the window’s open—taking in the warm air turned slightly bitter
by the smoke, and lethargically watching the kids. Vadik, the shop
teacher, a friend of Pasha’s you could say, is the guard on yard duty.
Workmen’s jeans and a dark dress shirt, anxious and inattentive.
He doesn’t like kids and doesn’t really bother hiding it. The kids
don’t like him either, and they don’t bother hiding anything. Kids
don’t hide anything at all. Compulsory education is designed to
break them of that habit. The upperclassmen aren’t doing much of
anything, mostly just keeping each other from working—the boys
are yelling over each other and the girls are watching it all with
poorly concealed admiration. The guys in eleventh grade are has-
sling Dimka—lives by the train depot, skinny frame, narrow shoul-
ders, yellow unkempt hair. Dimka’s a bad student and a bad dresser.
And he doesn’t talk right either. So they’re giving him a hard time,

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treating him like a punching bag. Much to his credit, he is fighting
back, but he’s just kind of going through the motions. He’s yelling
and trying to fend them off, but then four or five come after him at
once, so he doesn’t stand a chance. Pasha realizes that it’s gone too
far. They’ve already taken one of Dimka’s shoes off and now they’re
trying to toss it into a sorrowful September maple, but Pasha doesn’t
feel like getting involved. After all, the shop teacher’s down there.
It’s his responsibility, let him handle it. But the shop teacher is just
standing there, his back resting against a tree, smoking inattentively,
and watching. And it’s abundantly obvious that he doesn’t care what
happens to them. Let them kill each other for all he cares. That’s
precisely what they’re doing, actually. They knock Dimka down and
start burying him in the flowerbed. The blade of a spade glistens in
the sun. “I should step in,” Pasha thinks, but he doesn’t. And Vadik
the shop teacher doesn’t step in either. And then the spade strikes
Dimka, who’s been buried by this point, right on his skull. The hol-
low sound of metal on bone is followed by a desperate, overpower-
ing, dizzying wail. Dimka lies in a half-­finished grave, furiously
smearing blood across his forehead. And blood runs into his eyes,
blinding him and mixing with the mud. Only then does the shop
teacher dash toward Dimka, throw the upperclassmen off him like
they’re little puppies, grab him, and drag him back to a classroom.
And then the rest of the teachers flock to the wailing, wounded stu-
dent. Pasha runs over, too, scurries around, doles out some advice,
and keeps getting in everyone’s way.
Then they had parent-­
teacher conferences. It turned out
that Dimka only had one parent. Well, he had two, but his father
couldn’t come—he was in prison. His mom came and made a real
stink. The students kept quiet, froze her out. At first the teaching

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staff was freezing her out, too, but then they all started talking at
once, first blaming the victim himself, then blaming the upperclass-
men, and then they gave Dimka’s mom some flak. You didn’t raise
your kid right, didn’t give him enough attention. Pasha wanted to
speak up, tell everyone what had actually happened, but he didn’t
speak up or tell anyone anything. Instead, he got up, went outside,
and had a smoke. The shop teacher followed him.
“That bitch,” he said, clearly referring to Dimka’s mom. He
asked Pasha for a cigarette.
“It’s my last one,” Pasha replied.
The shop teacher took that as an invitation, fished Pasha’s last
cigarette out of the pack, quickly smoked it, and then went back in-
side to keep arguing. Pasha quit smoking after that. For good.
That was a year and a half ago. Just a year and a half ago. Tran-
quil times, things were steady. A year and a half ago, Pasha would go
to work and teach private lessons in the evenings and on weekends.
He made more than enough to get by. He shopped at thrift and
wholesale stores; you could almost have called him well dressed.
His jacket was shabby, though, and he bought defective boots—he
had to get them repaired. They were brand name, though. Basic
cellphone, Chinese-­made backpack. He didn’t really need anything
more than that. Maryna shopped for herself. They didn’t eat out.
Well, there weren’t any restaurants at the Station.
A year and a half has gone by. Nobody needs tutors anymore.
The kids are gone. Maryna left him. The shop teacher is on the
other side of the front.

They run to the steep steps that lead down toward the city. The
kid’s tired; he’s dropping back and spitting a lot. Pasha takes his

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backpack and slaps it on his chest like it’s a parachute. It’s not too
heavy for him because his own backpack is almost empty, except
for the canned goods, tapping together hollowly. The kid’s clearly
hurting, though. He really needs to get warm, but where is he going
to get warm out here? The fog has lifted completely, and a round
moon the color of slightly stale cheese with a glint of red at the bot-
tom—as if it’s been dipped in warm blood—hangs above the city.
The sky’s as empty as can be: no stars, no movement, just the fatal
sheen of a full moon hovering over this valley of death that they’ll
have to cross, from beginning to end. Farther off, beyond the rail-
road tracks, a high, white flame is blazing. Settling smoke is smol-
dering nearby. And you can hear the businesslike crackle of auto-
matic gunfire all around the city. You can feel movement in the city.
It’s as though somewhere over there under the full moon unseen
swarms of people are racing down the crumbling streets, searching
for warmth and food. You can’t see them from here, but you can
easily hear them, which makes things even more unnerving.
“Are we going down?” Pasha’s mostly asking himself.
The kid gives him a barely perceptible nod, yet keeps stand-
ing still, not moving at all. Then Pasha grabs his hand as firmly as
he can. The kid grasps his hand back, latches on to his dead fin-
gers like they’re the only thing in this world he can trust, and the
two of them head out. First fifty steps. The wind blows the smell of
stagnant water, the smell of pharmaceuticals, out of the valley. An-
other fifty. Under their feet, the steps crumble. They must’ve taken
a real beating last night—chunks tumble down the hill, cracking
right under the soles of their shoes. Another fifty. A tree trimmed
by shrapnel, a neat imprint from a shell on the asphalt. Another

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fifty. And another. The city is coming closer. The smell of smoke is
coming closer. Fear is coming closer, helplessness is coming closer.
Another. And another fifty, the last fifty.
They go across the grounds to the street, walk crouched over
along a row of linden trees and get to the tram circle, run in little
spurts out to the main road, trying not to stop when they’re out in
the open, and reach the square. They stand under some spruces
and hide. On the other side of the square is the Palace of Culture.
Black, burned out. A shockwave broke all the windows. It looks like
a television with a missing kinescope. There are clusters of apart-
ment buildings behind it. They can slip through the neighborhood
and get to the main avenue. Just have to run across the square first.
Pasha looks all around. Coast is clear. The square’s empty and quiet.
Running across it shouldn’t take longer than a minute. It’s still scary,
though. Nobody can see you, but you can’t see anyone either. The
moon hangs right above the Palace of Culture, seemingly prompt-
ing them. C’mon, don’t waste any more time, run straight at my
dead light.
“Let’s go,” Pasha whispers, still not releasing the kid’s hand,
and they charge forward. And as soon as they move away from the
merciful spruces, the ones they were hiding behind, they hear this
sound coming from somewhere behind the square, from off to the
side, from the road—the irreversible clatter of treads on asphalt. It
isn’t that close—a block away—but Pasha identifies a T-­64. There’s
no mistaking it. “Is it following me or something?” Pasha thinks
in a panic, and desperately runs forward, dragging the kid along
with him. Fifty yards. The tank is very close, behind the building
closest to the square. Another fifty. It’s going to pop out any sec-

175
ond now. Pasha can already feel it. Another fifty and another. It’s
already here, it’s already barreled around the corner. Another few
yards and it’ll be rolling right at them. Pasha speeds up, the kid’s
starting to whimper. Another fifty. His boots are heavy and hot, the
kind of boots that are only good for drowning in. The moon draws
things closer, outlines them clearly, adding a yellowish tint and
otherworldly shadows. The rumble of the T-­64 is already behind
them. “Don’t look back,” Pasha yells to himself. “Just don’t look
back, don’t look back.” Several more steps, and they fly around the
corner, fall onto the asphalt, onto crushed bricks, onto the empty
plastic of bottles, onto dog shit and ripped playbills, tumbling and
skinning their palms on sharp stones. Pasha immediately shields the
kid with his body, as if that will help, as if to make sure they don’t
spot him. Actually, they don’t spot him. The T-­64 rolls toward the
tram circle, toward the place they just came from, without even
stopping. “Just missed each other,” Pasha thinks. “Got lucky.” He
stands up, lifts the kid, who rubs his aching elbow. His jacket is
ripped at his shoulder and his left sneaker is coming apart. His tears
have dried, though. Just like that.
“Now where are we going?” The kid’s embarrassed about
crying. He’s trying to speak calmly. But it’s obvious that he’s still
scared—his voice is quivering, and he wants to find some crevice
to hide in.
Pasha’s scared for him, too. “Will he make it or not?” he thinks,
with a tinge of doubt. “Maybe we should go right to the doctor.
Well, the vet.”
“There’s a basement close by.” Pasha’s thinking out loud. “We
can run over there and spend the night. It’s close by.”

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 “Sure you can find it?” the kid asks skeptically.
“It’s about fifteen minutes away,” Pasha reassures him. “We’ll
go through the neighborhoods. Two blocks that way, then there’s a
construction site, and some high-­rises. They’re camping out in the
third one from the road. Or the fourth one,” Pasha adds hesitantly.
“We’ll find it,” he says confidently.
“Well, all right.”
Pasha takes out his phone. It’s only eight. It feels like they’ve
been running around for days already. The thing is, his phone’s
dying. That’s the thing.
There’s an open area running between two long, looming rows
of five-­story buildings that stretch from south to north. Old, run-­
down workers’ dormitories. The local factories built them for their
people, but nobody has ever repaired them. Their people clearly
haven’t gone anywhere; they’re clinging to their burrows, not let-
ting any outsiders in. At any rate, they aren’t a wealthy bunch—
most of the windows have wooden frames, only a few apartments
have insulated glazing. No intercoms, only every other balcony is
glazed. A lot of satellite dishes, though. Basically, it isn’t high-­end
housing. A mangled playground, detached swings. Pasha and the
kid are walking, trying not to make any noise and apprehensively
glancing at the empty windows in the steady moonlight. They’re in
plain view. Like targets on a shooting range. They pass one dormi-
tory. Another one follows and then a few more. Pasha exhales with
relief when they get to the next street over. They reach an intersec-
tion, look all around, run across the road, and walk another block.
Everything’s going according to plan so far. Up ahead there’s an
empty lot with traces of construction work: a pit, a fence, concrete

177
slabs. They feel sand under their feet; they have to take the path the
locals made straight through the construction site so they wouldn’t
have to go around. They come to a row of nine-­story buildings.
“Everything’s fine,” Pasha says. “We made it.”
It’s mostly quiet. There are some shells hitting behind them,
coming from where they were half an hour ago. First building, sec-
ond one. They approach the third one. Pasha can tell that some-
thing’s wrong, something’s out of place. But he can’t pinpoint what
it is. They turn a corner and bump into a crowd. About twenty
people. They’re standing outside an apartment building. Pasha
wants to duck back behind the corner, into the darkness, but he
realizes that it’s too late for that—the crowd has already noticed
them. The crowd may have noticed them, but nobody’s paying any
attention to them; everyone’s standing there, tensely watching the
door to the apartment block, seemingly expecting something ter-
rible to come out. Pasha and the kid approach the group and stop,
standing off to the side.
“This it?” the kid asks quietly.
Pasha takes a closer look. Nine stories. Dark holes instead of
windows. Bashed-­up bench. Something looms by the bench. Looks
like a dead dog. Pasha shudders but stands there, doesn’t step back.
“This is it . . . I think,” he says tentatively. “What are you stand-
ing around for?” he asks the guy in front of him.
He turns around—wide, peaked cap, shabby, girly jacket, track
bottoms, fake leather shoes with wing tips. He’s about fifty or so,
but you can tell he has some health problems, which makes him
look even older.
“We want to get home,” he says angrily. He’s speaking Russian,
but every third word is in Ukrainian. “They liberated the city, the

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new guys,” he says, pointing at the apartment block. “They’re al-
ready here. Now we can go back home.”
“So?” Pasha asks, confused.
“They said there’s mines in there,” the guy says, spitting on the
asphalt.
“Who said that?” Pasha asks, still confused.
“Well, they did, the new guys,” he explains, pointing at a group
of soldiers standing by the door. “Why the fuck would you plant
mines here?”
Pasha surveys the crowd and finally realizes that they’re locals,
from this building. They all scattered when the shelling started in
their neighborhood. Now these new guys have taken the city, and
they’ve come back like nothing ever happened. They’re standing
here wearing autumn jackets, winter coats, holding sacks, one guy
with a television set. They clearly grabbed their most valuable things
when they were leaving. Soldiers—these new guys—are stand-
ing by the bashed-­in door to the apartment block: astrakhan hats,
strange uniforms, unfamiliar insignias. Pasha’s never seen ones like
that. There’s a good chance they were riding in the column Pasha
and the kid saw earlier today.
“Who are you?” The guy suddenly addresses Pasha. “Do you
live here?”
“My brother does,” Pasha answers. “The vet.”
“Ah, I know him. Lives on the third floor.”
“Fourth floor,” his neighbor contests. Lanky, wet hat, ravaged
leather jacket, enormous, oversized felt boots.
“You’re full of shit,” the guy argues. “He lives on the third floor.”
“Yeah, third floor.” Pasha tries mediating.
“Yep,” the guy says with satisfaction.

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 “So,” Pasha ventures, “some people from this building have
been camping out in the basement, right?”
“In the basement?” the guy asks.
“Yeah.”
“Our basement’s been flooded since before New Year’s,” the
guy says.
“Those cocksuckers broke the water pipe, flooded everything,”
Lanky seconds him. “Fuckin’ bastards,” he adds firmly.
“Wait a sec. It’s all flooded?” Pasha can’t believe it. “But there
are people down there.”
“You got the wrong place,” the guy replies. “There’s nobody
down there.”
“Yeah,” Lanky seconds him, coming over. “There’s nobody’s
down there.”
Hearing their conversation, a few more men turn around and
come closer, looking at them mistrustfully, listening in, studying
them.
“You hear that?” Lanky addresses a young guy—about twenty
years old, down blanket on his back. “He says there’s some people
in the basement.”
“There’s nobody down there,” the young guy replies hoarsely.
“Nobody,” the others second him.
“Nope, nobody,” somebody in the darkness says hollowly.
“Who are you?” he asks Pasha.
“The vet’s brother,” Lanky explains. “Know him? He lives on
the fourth floor.”
“I know him,” comes a reply from the darkness. “He lives on
the third floor.”

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 “Gotta get out of here,” Pasha thinks. “Right now. Go some-
where, anywhere.” But how are you supposed to leave when twenty
pairs of eyes are watching you, watching you intently, watching you
with suspicion?
“Coast is clear!” someone shouts.
Everyone forgets about Pasha and turns toward the voice. Two
guys come out of the building. One of them looks like a teenager:
skinny, a high schooler’s busted stride. Kuban Cossack hat on his
head, AK across his chest, hands ostentatiously resting on the barrel
and stock. The second guy is obviously in charge: Kuban Cossack
hat, too, AK, too, but he’s got all kinds of daggers and pistols hang-
ing all over him, like in the movies.
“Coast is clear!” the young guy repeats and makes a big show
of taking out a cigarette, tossing it in his mouth, whipping out a
lighter, and flicking it.
It won’t catch, though. Sparks merely fly into the blue evening
gloom. He’s getting anxious; everyone’s watching him with uncon-
cealed aggression, seemingly saying, “Quit showing off.”
“Go on inside, c’mon,” the guy in charge adds, and steps aside.
The locals are in no rush to go inside, though. They stand there,
thinking, waiting. Pasha inconspicuously pulls the kid to the side.
But something’s been set in motion, something’s restraining him;
he turns around, walks over to the bench, and probes what’s on
the ground—the thing that looks like a dead dog—by giving it a
little kick. Turns out it’s a fur coat. A woman’s fur coat. It’s wet and
stained with clay. One sleeve’s been ripped off, lying nearby. For an
instant, Pasha thinks he recognizes the coat. But does he? How can
he be sure out here?

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 “Hey,” he calls to the guy. “Whose coat is that?”
“Fucked if I know.” The guy turns around and gives Pasha a
heavy, unfriendly look.
Pasha puts his hand on the kid’s shoulder; they walk down an
asphalt path, pass the second apartment block, the third one, the
fourth one. “No pity for anyone,” Pasha says. “Anyone at all.”

They get to a day care center that’s behind the row of linden
trees, crawl through a hole in the fence, walk up onto the front
steps, and sit down.
“You hungry?” Pasha asks.
The kid shakes his head.
“Now where are we gonna go?” he asks.
“We’ll try to get out,” Pasha suggests.
“In the dark?” the kid asks skeptically.
“Looks like things have calmed down. No more shelling.”
“They wiped everyone out, that’s why the shelling stopped.”
Pasha’s frantically considering something.
“Stay here,” he says suddenly. “Wait for me.”
“Where are you going?” The kid’s scared.
“Just stay here,” Pasha yells to him.
He gets up, sheds both backpacks—first the kid’s, then his
own—picks up the bat, and approaches the door. Push. The door
gives easily, opens with a squeak. It smells like a cafeteria and sev-
eral days’ worth of moisture. Pasha takes out his phone, goes to turn
on the flashlight, and remembers that his battery is almost dead.
There’s enough light in here as it is—the windows in the hallway
have been smashed, a heavy moon hangs low beyond their frames.
“It’s as bright as day in here,” Pasha thinks and walks down the hall-

182
way. There’s a threadbare rug on the floor; it’s been torn in sev-
eral places. Pots with frozen flowers in them on the walls, cast-­iron
radiators painted white under the windows. Pasha feels like he’s
gone back to his childhood, which immediately makes him want
to hang himself. He opens the door to the next room. Toys are scat-
tered across the floor: cars, planes, teddy bears with their extremities
ripped off. The toys look like they died recently. And not of natural
causes. The next door’s already open. Pasha warily stares into the
dark hallway—no windows, the moonlight can’t get in here, can’t
tell what’s farther down. Suddenly, something under his foot lets
out a high-­pitched shriek, which terrifies Pasha. He lurches to the
side and holds the bat out in front of him. Silence. Stare. He sees
a squeaky toy—just stepped on it. He curses, quickly walks down a
dark hallway, and gropes his way forward, holding his dead fingers
out. Next he reaches a sleeping area. Two dozen beds with shred-
ded mattresses, torn pillows, and dirty sheets. It looks as though
someone performed a long, thorough search. But didn’t find any-
thing. “Where are they going to sleep?” Pasha thinks. Yes, like that’s
the most important thing right now—“where are the kids going to
sleep when they come back? Where are they going to sleep? They
can’t sleep on shredded mattresses, can they? And they can’t sleep
on empty pillowcases either. And these gray, trampled sheets—they
won’t do. Where are they going to sleep? Where?” Pasha realizes
that he has to leave, has to grab the kid—he’s waiting for him down
there, on the steps—and get going, that there’s nothing for him
here, that sleeping here on these contorted mattresses just isn’t safe,
that he has to get out of here, get out of here as quickly as possible,
as far away from here as possible, but he keeps standing there, look-
ing at the wrecked room, unable to move an inch. He’s just staring

183
at the black aperture of the door that leads to the next room and
saying to himself, “Don’t go in there, no matter what, just don’t.”
And slowly, like a dead man in a movie, he heads toward the door.
He walks, his boots crushing the torn pillows, trampling the sheets,
leaving footprints on squashed sketch pads. “No matter what,” he
says to himself. “Just don’t.” And he keeps walking, stepping over
tiny blankets and sharp pieces from a construction set. “Don’t go
in there, don’t go in there,” he repeats, holding his hand out, and
his hand plunges into the darkness—up to his wrist, up to his elbow,
up to his shoulder. “Just don’t,” he says to himself for the last time,
and plunges into blackness. And he comes out the other side, in the
next room; it’s probably the cafeteria’s storage room: empty shelves
that clearly once held canned goods line the walls, empty cookie
boxes are piled up on the windowsill, salt is strewn across the floor.
An industrial-­size refrigerator looms gray in the corner. Pasha ap-
proaches the refrigerator and listens to it intently, as if it’s a gigantic
dead heart. And it, as befits a dead heart, is showing no signs of life.
Then Pasha grasps the handle—don’t open it, just don’t open it!—
and pulls it toward himself. And such an unbearable, heavy, lethal
stench hits him right in the face. Something so finely chopped,
so shredded, and so rotten, something so finely cut, cleaved, and
amputated that Pasha doubles over abruptly so he doesn’t puke his
guts out, and then he dashes off headlong. Empty pillowcases, dis-
placed beds, black hallway, dead toys, open doors, cast-­iron radia-
tors, the moon out the window—unbearably close, so close that
Pasha practically feels the stench coming right at him, feels that
the moon hovering over the crushed city is spreading the smell of a
body chopped to pieces. He bursts outside, exhales deeply, gasps for
fresh air, coughing violently and frightening the kid, who runs over,

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not knowing what happened, but clearly knowing that something
terrible happened, something that he’d better not ask about. He can
ask, but he’d better not listen to the answer. Pasha thrusts his hand
out, his fingers frozen stiff. Don’t ask, don’t ask, just don’t. The kid
nods wordlessly in reply. I won’t, okay, I won’t.

And suddenly it turns out that they’re trapped. And they’ve

backed themselves into the trap. No telling how they get out now.
“Why didn’t I pick him up earlier?” Pasha asks himself in despair.
“Why didn’t I leave the city last night? Should’ve grabbed the kid
and gotten the hell out of here while I had the chance. Why’d I stay
there for the night? Where should I go now? Heaven forbid some-
thing happens to him—what would I tell his mom? What would I
tell my old man?” The kid isn’t asking any questions, but him not
saying anything makes Pasha want to justify himself. But what can
he say in his defense? That he’s an asshole who waited until the last
minute, until the door of the trap opened, and then he guilelessly
strolled right on in, and dragged the kid along with him to boot. But
now that the city’s fully besieged, now that all the possible openings
and cracks have been closed up, all he and the kid can do is dart
from corner to corner, like two rats that can’t flee their ship.
Then the kid says quietly: “Hey, how’d you get here? You re-
member?”
“Uh, I came from the train station,” Pasha replies, after a mo-
ment’s thought.
“Well, let’s go to the train station then,” the kid says. “That’s if
they haven’t burned it down yet.”
“Are you for real?” Pasha’s skeptical. “How do you know who’s
there now?”

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 “Pasha.” The kid’s starting to get mad. “You’re a local guy, you’ve
got health problems and a kid. What do you have to be afraid of?
We can spend the night at the station. Can you find the way? Just
not down the main avenue. They’ll definitely be shooting there.”
“I think I can find it,” Pasha answers. “I’ll try.”
“There’s no way in hell I’ll find anything out here,” he thinks,
growing angry with himself. He stares at the row of trees tinted
silver by the moonlight. But he keeps walking, trusting his inner
voices to lead him through the dead city.
They reach the remnants of the footbridge. Boards and rebar
hover over a black pit, like a ski jump for suicides. “The bridge,”
Pasha whispers confidently. “I was here yesterday.” He nods to
the kid and cuts between some trees. He walks through the park,
touches crooked acacias, feels the frozen spring in his heart loosen-
ing up even more, pushing him forward, not letting him stop. They
plod out of the park and walk through the thick grass, right up to
the black frame of an apartment block that rises over them like an
ocean wave at night. Playground, charred swings, cellar hatches
with busted locks—someone cleaned out everything they could
get their hands on. “Any second now,” Pasha says, to himself more
than anyone. “It should be somewhere around here.” And there it is.
He comes across the tram tracks, gleaming in the tall grass. “Every-
thing’s fine,” Pasha assures the kid. “Now we can get out.” They walk
at an even pace, not rushing. A little while later, they bump into
something big, something that’s lying right on the tracks.
“What’s that?” Pasha asks.
“A cow,” the kid says.
Pasha comes closer, cautiously touches the supple carcass with
the tip of his shoe. The carcass appears to still be somewhat warm.

186
 “Yeah,” Pasha says. “It’s a cow.”
Detached horns, right rear leg twisted unnaturally.
“What happened to it?” the kid asks.
“Maybe they were hauling it behind a car, and they drove too
fast,” Pasha suggests. “So they broke its horns and twisted its leg.”
“But why’d they just leave it here?” the kid asks, surprised.
“Who the hell knows?” Pasha replies. “They were in a rush.
Anna fuckin’ Karenina,” he curses, walking around the carcass
through the wet grass.
The kid doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even ask who Anna
Karenina is.
At around ten, they get to the run-­down building where Pasha
and the group of people were hiding out during the shelling.
“Through the window,” Pasha commands curtly.
The kid obediently starts crawling through the opening. Pasha
gives him a boost from behind and then crawls in after him. They
jump down onto the floor one after another and sit, their backpacks
resting against the wall. The kid takes his pack of cigarettes out of
his pocket. He flagrantly takes one out, not hiding anything, rolls it
between his fingers to warm it up—he’s clearly done this before—
sticks it in his mouth, and takes a lighter out of his other pocket.
Pasha reacts to the lighter more than anything; he grabs the kid’s
cigarette, rips it right out of his mouth, crumples it, and tosses it
aside. He takes the lighter, too.
“What the hell!” the kid yells, aggrieved.
“The light,” Pasha says in a conciliatory tone. “They’ll start
shooting if they see it.”
“Yeah, sure.” The kid still looks aggrieved, but it’s mostly just an
act. He tucks his cigarettes away and doesn’t ask for the lighter back.

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 They sit for a while, not saying anything. Pasha feels bad about
his outburst. The kid realizes that he really doesn’t have any reason
to be mad. They don’t say anything for a while. Pasha cracks first.
“You hungry?”
“Do you have anything?” the kid asks, incredulously.
“Some canned stuff,” Pasha replies. “I don’t have a knife,
though.”
“Gotcha.” The kid smiles crookedly, rummages through his
pockets, and takes one out—foldable—blade on one end, spoon
on the other.
“Where’d you get that?” Pasha asks.
“From the locals,” the kid answers. “Traded some cigarettes
for it.”
“Where’d you get the cigarettes?” Pasha’s surprised.
“From the locals, too,” the kid explains.
Pasha realizes that he’d better not ask any more questions. He
takes out a can, pierces it with the knife, and begins ferociously
slicing through the metal in the dark. He cuts his hand right away.
For the second time today. He smears blood all over his jacket
and jeans, then tries to stop the bleeding. The kid takes a hand-
kerchief—clean, ironed, neatly folded—out of his backpack. Pasha
awkwardly wraps it around his hand.
“Where’d you get that?” Pasha asks, pointing to the handker-
chief.
“It’s grandpa’s,” the kid explains. “He gave me a whole bunch
of them. I used them to clean my shoes. This is the last one.”
Pasha thinks of his dad. “Should call him,” he thinks. “He’s all
worried, probably.”
“I forgot to call him,” Pasha says.

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 “You forgot or you didn’t want to?” the kid asks.
“Didn’t want to? What’s that supposed to mean?” Pasha says
with affected surprise.
“Do you call him a lot?”
Pasha considers arguing with the kid but then eases up. “Come
on,” he thinks. “Who am I kidding?” He hands the kid the can.
Drops of blood shine duskily in the moonlight.
“Want some?”
“Not anymore,” the kid answers.
Pasha folds the knife up, gives it back to the kid, and puts the
cans on the windowsill.
“I bought him his first phone a while back,” he says, referring
to his dad. “A basic Nokia. I put in our numbers, mine and my sis-
ter’s. Uh, your mom’s. I tried to teach him how to text. Didn’t pan
out. He didn’t like writing. He sent me a text once, though. You
know when?”
“When?”
“On the anniversary of mom’s death. Uh, your grandma’s death.
He texted to remind me. I asked him later on, ‘Why didn’t you call?’
He said, ‘I was afraid I’d start crying.’ Can you imagine that? I think
that’s why he doesn’t talk to us—he’s afraid he’ll start crying.”
“Well, I think that he doesn’t talk to you two because you don’t
have anything to say.”
Pasha’s quiet for a bit. They stand up, head toward the exit.
Pasha suddenly turns around, grabs the cans off the windowsill, and
puts them on the floor.
“What for?” The kid’s confused.
“For the dogs,” Pasha explains.
They set off into the moonlight and across the field, and find a

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hole in a concrete wall. Next comes a little ditch, a path, a burnt-­out
truck—there’s no telling how it got here. They walk through high
cattails for a while; the path bends toward a railroad switch. Train
cars. Pass through an endless corridor of burnt metal, crawl under
a tanker black with soot, clamber onto the platform, and get to the
station building.

There are even more people here, even though this is supposed
to be where the shells were coming down. Those who came earlier
look at the newcomers with mistrust. We don’t have enough room
as it is. This whole place looks like a ship that’s going down in the
open sea. The passengers are sitting and watching the water rise;
meanwhile, passengers from another ship that has already success-
fully sunk are emerging from the depths of the ocean. They climb
onto the sides of the ship and cling to the ropes and life preservers,
overjoyed that everything’s working out so well. The people sitting
at the top, on the deck, are fuming, looking at them with hatred in
their eyes, showering them with curses, not showing any sympa-
thy, not a single drop of empathy. Even though they’re all going to
drown, obviously.
A two-­man patrol immediately identifies Pasha in the waiting
area. Two young guys wearing brand-­new, spotless uniforms, like
they just came from a parade. They fish Pasha and the kid out of
the motley, mostly female crowd. They come over, offer a markedly
polite greeting, turn on their flashlights, and ask to see Pasha’s docu-
ments. While he’s rooting around in his pockets, they suspiciously
eye the blood on his jacket sleeve, the fresh clay on his boots, the
dark bags under his eyes, and his gaze, inflamed by the cold and his
overwhelming fatigue. They take no interest in the kid, but their

190
eyes catch the baseball bat sticking out of his backpack. But when
it comes to these locals, who knows? Maybe they just like base-
ball, we’ll have to ask our bosses about that one. They flip through
Pasha’s passport, scoffing when they see the flag on the first page.
They still aren’t used to the fact that all the locals have passports
with enemy flags in them. They check Pasha’s address and hand his
papers back to him.
“What about the trains? Are they running?” Pasha asks, once
he’s mustered the resolve. He’s speaking proper Russian, like they
are, even trying to replicate their accent. That doesn’t make much
of an impression on the soldiers, though.
“Nothing’s fuckin’ running in your town,” one of them replies
reluctantly. The second guy has turned his back on Pasha so he
doesn’t have to answer.
“How can we get out of here?” Pasha isn’t giving up.
The soldier sizes Pasha up. He considers retreating, but then
he sees the kid looking at the soldier like he’s a toad—looking at
him with hostility, that is. Then Pasha’s eyes slide over him, from
bottom to top. He notices his neatly trimmed nails, notices the cut
he got on his neck while shaving, notices that the soldier is snif-
fling—caught a cold during a military campaign, clearly. “He’s a
kid,” Pasha thinks. “Just got called up.”
“You’re representatives of the new authorities, right?” Pasha
asks, with overt sarcasm. “I have a kid on my hands.”
“You’re completely safe here.” The second guy turns toward
him. Wide cheekbones, narrow, somewhat swollen eyes. He’s a kid,
too.
“Okay,” Pasha says. “Can the new administration provide the
temporarily displaced persons with food?”

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 “What persons?” Narrow Eyes asks, confused.
“The temporarily displaced persons,” Pasha repeats. “We,” he
says, pointing at the kid with his dead finger, “are the temporarily
displaced persons. We’re only going to be here temporarily, isn’t
that right? You’re the new administration, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Narrow Eyes confirms. “Why don’t you go talk to the
commandant?” he says in a confidential tone.
“Where is he?” Pasha asks, all business.
“In the train station attendant’s room. You know where that is?”
“Yeah,” Pasha replies flatly, takes the kid by the hand, goes
around the patrolmen, and walks across the waiting area, step-
ping over the drowsy, temporarily displaced passengers who have
sprawled out in every place imaginable: on the floor, on the win-
dowsills, against the columns.
The newcomers didn’t bring a lot of stuff with them. It doesn’t
seem like they had any time at all to pack or change their clothes.
They just grabbed whatever was at hand and ran. Sleeping on their
coats, sleeping on their bedspreads, using their winter boots as pil-
lows. No suitcases, no bundles, faces dark with fear and sleepless-
ness, laden eyelids, wrinkles around their eyes. They’re sleeping,
their children pressed up against them—shielding the children
from the cold with their warm bodies. Pasha treads carefully; he
doesn’t want to bump into anyone. The kid hops over the drowsy
bodies with care, too. There are two guys with Kalashnikovs by
the train station attendant’s room—they’re sprawled out in office
chairs. One of them is dozing off; the other guy is looking at some
pictures on his phone. They don’t even look at Pasha—one of them
just blocks the entrance with his rifle. That doesn’t stop Pasha,
though.

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 “In his office?” he asks.
“In his office? What?” The armed man looks up from his phone.
“The commandant, for fuck’s sake. Is he in his office?” Pasha
repeats his question.
“What are you swearing in front of the kid for?” The armed
man sounds aggrieved.
“I’m a teacher, I’m allowed to,” Pasha explains.
For a second, the armed man tries analyzing what he’s heard.
Nothing comes of this analysis.
“Yeah, he’s in his office,” he says. “He’s busy, though.”
“Sure,” Pasha says, opening the door.
The commandant’s well over fifty. Large frame, red mug.
Clearly has high blood pressure. He’s anxiously spinning in an office
chair. Stripes on the sides of his pants, officer’s boots. A strange
tunic with some curious epaulettes. Crosses on his chest. He looks
like a small-­town opera singer. He’s tossed a peacoat with a bea-
ver collar over his shoulders; Pasha’s seen that style before. Stand-
ing next to him is another soldier—his adjutant, Pasha immedi-
ately deduces—portly, chubby cheeks, shaved head. Wearing camo,
holding a Cossack whip. “He punishes those who violate fire safety
regulations at the station,” Pasha thinks. The room’s very stuffy. The
curtains have been resolutely ripped off, the window’s covered with
plywood. The television in the corner has a smashed picture tube.
Trampled calculator on the floor. Next to it is a gas generator hum-
ming laboriously. There are cables running away from it; a large
lamp is shining. The commandant tenses up when he sees Pasha
and the kid. A pink splotch, like a tender burn, immediately spreads
across his face.
“Who are you?” he asks severely.

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 He’s speaking Russian; his accent comes through in the inter-
rogative.
“I’m a teacher,” Pasha answers, and proffers his hand.
Flustered, the commandant shakes it. And the adjutant does,
too—he has no other choice.
“I’m here on behalf of the citizens,” Pasha says, without releas-
ing his hand. “Their authorized agent.”
The commandant doesn’t like the phrase “authorized agent.” If
he were acting in good conscience, he’d put Pasha against the wall
for that. He jerks his hand back.
“What’s with your hand?” he asks severely, nodding at the
bloody handkerchief.
“Oh, that,” Pasha answers casually. “It’s nothing.”
Then he meaningfully touches the bandage, seemingly dem-
onstrating—uh-­huh, it’s nothing, things get a lot hairier out on the
battlefield. The commandant gives Pasha an understanding look,
but he isn’t saying anything, which makes him nervous.
“So what do you want?” he asks.
“The citizens would like to know how you will provide food
and transportation,” Pasha says. “Many of them have children on
their hands.”
“Children,” the commandant replies discontentedly, wiping
his sweaty neck with his sleeve. “You see what’s going on. The city’s
under bombardment. And you’re talking about children.”
“What actions will the authorities take with regard to the tem-
porarily displaced persons?” Pasha can feel that he’s adopted the
gym teacher’s manner of speaking. That immediately makes him
sound more convincing.
The commandant tenses up again. He shifts his gaze from

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Pasha to the kid and then back to Pasha, as though he’s thinking
about who he should shoot first.
“All right,” he says. “Here’s the deal. Alexei, you take care of
Comrade Authorized Agent. I have a call with the command cen-
ter.”
He takes out his phone, turns his back on them. Chubby-­
cheeked Alexei makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he’s
shooing some butterflies away. “C’mon, everyone out, no eaves-
dropping on his conversation with the command center.” Pasha
leaves. The kid follows him. Alexei’s next. He’s walking, lazily tap-
ping his whip against his thigh. He steps out into the hallway, stops,
and looks around. Pasha and the kid stand next to him, waiting. A
crowd of women and old people immediately gathers.
“Comrades,” Alexei says in a choppy and official-­sounding
voice. “I ask that you not succumb to panic. The authorities are
handling the situation that has arisen. A field kitchen will arrive in
the morning. We’ll send one bus to the factory and another one to
the main residential area. Got that?”
“Yeah,” says an elderly woman in a wet wig. “What should we
do until morning?”
“Suck dick,” Alexei answers irascibly, turns around, and dis-
appears behind the door.
The crowd mulls that one over, then disperses. Pasha takes out
his phone. He tries to call his old man. He doesn’t have service,
obviously.

They find a spot by the luggage room. The kid takes out an extra
sweater, tosses it on the floor, sits down. Pasha sits next to him. He
can feel that moisture has seeped through his jacket; it can’t with-

195
stand the local climate. Pasha shrivels up and huddles into him-
self, trying to capture some remnants of warmth. It’s just like when
you wade into the sea in the morning—you search for a warm cur-
rent, cling to it. You can’t quite get warm, though, like when you
can’t quite fall asleep. The kid’s dozing off, hat pulled over his eyes,
head resting against the wall. It’s painted blue. Pasha pulls his hood
over his head, tries to forget about the cold and the dampness, tries
and tries, but he can’t. He scans his neighbors from underneath
his hood. Most of them are sleeping, but one small woman is tell-
ing her neighbor something in the corner. The woman looks about
forty: gray coat, dark boots, short hair. She’s pressing a folder against
her chest. “A bunch of important documents,” Pasha thinks. “They
were in a drawer. She grabbed them on her way out. Nobody’ll have
any use for her if she loses them.” Her neighbor—older than her,
portly—is sitting on some bundles that have sprawled out under-
neath her. It looks like she’s sitting on top of someone, almost done
strangling them. She’s only half listening, keeps crying. Short Hair
realizes she should stop, calm her friend down, but she can’t. She’s
going on and on, in a hollow, insistent whisper. Everyone around
her can hear; they listen in, catching some words here and there.
So nobody’s sleeping, and this lady sitting on the bundles is crying,
crying so bitterly that nobody would even think of saying anything
to her.
“I’m leaving the apartment this morning,” Short Hair says.
“And he’s lying there on the bench. They put him there this morn-
ing, so everyone could see.”
“Are you for real?” Her neighbor’s crying. “You can’t be seri-
ous.”
“Yeah, black, purebred. No head,” the woman continues.

196
 The lady bitterly wipes her mouth with the corners of her hand-
kerchief.
“Thing is, he wasn’t from our building. I know that for a fact.
Someone dropped him off.”
“Black,” Pasha thinks. “Purebred. No head. I’m really hungry.
Really hungry.” He tosses his head back. His eyes shut; cold is pool-
ing in his lungs like water in a clogged drain. Someone gets up in
the corner, slowly walks toward the exit. Skinny, darkened. Suit-
cases in his hands. And when he passes by, the suitcases give off a
wet dog smell so potent that Pasha turns around. It’s like someone’s
come to take him away. He huddles into the wall, closes his eyes
tight, so tight, but that only makes things scarier, so he frantically
lifts his head, drowsily looks around, and takes in the dead dog smell
that’s gradually diffusing around him. He looks at the ladies. The
one who was crying is sound asleep, head drooping onto her chest.
Short Hair’s nodding anxiously, though, seemingly agreeing with
someone invisible. Beside her, a family’s sleeping—a boy and girl
with their mom. Some guy on crutches is next to them, followed by
some more women. Quiet, choked. So hungry.
“I’m hungry.” The kid gives Pasha a little shove.
Turns out he isn’t asleep either. He’s waiting.
“Want a can?” Pasha asks.
“Nah, you’ll start bleeding all over the place again.”
“I’ll be right back. Hang tight.” Pasha gets up, looks around,
and trudges off to the waiting area.
The room is sorrowful, like the hold of a ship packed with
captives. Everyone realizes that they won’t all be saved, but every-
one’s hoping to save themselves. The patrolmen spot Pasha from
afar, turn around, and quickly head toward the exit. “Well, okay

197
then,” Pasha thinks, watching them walk away. Then he goes up the
stairs to the second floor, steps over a body, and bumps into a bag.
The body lurches awake, emerges from a heavy sleep as if it’s rising
from the bottom of a river. Eyes linger on Pasha for an instant, then
blur, flicker out, and sink to the bottom. Pasha finds a sign—Snack
Bar—in the corner on the second floor. He can’t find the entrance,
though: barricaded windows, an advertising stand, a heap of scaf-
folding, drowsy women on the floor. Everything’s closed, every-
thing’s dead. Just as he’s about to turn around and head back, he
hears footsteps and cheerful voices behind him: a woman in a short
down jacket and high-­heeled boots, purse in hand. Two soldiers—
unarmed—are following her. “Those staff officers,” Pasha thinks.
They walk, yelling back and forth and paying little attention to the
drowsy people all around. The first one pulls the stand aside, reveal-
ing a door; he pushes it, and it squeaks open. The other one gently
pushes her; she laughs ostentatiously, doesn’t resist, disappears in-
side. The door squeaks shut. “There’s gotta be something at the
snack bar,” Pasha thinks. “Some chips at least. Or chocolate. Just
have to ask someone.” He approaches, carefully pushes the door,
and peers into the darkness. Empty, expansive room, several tables
with overturned chairs on them. There are layers of paper on the
windows so the glass can withstand a shockwave. There’s a bar in
the corner—it’s empty, too.
“Hey,” Pasha calls. No answer.
He walks over to the bar, lifts the board, and finds himself be-
hind the counter. A hallway leads farther back, to the next room.
Pasha pokes his head inside. It’s dark in the hallway. He takes out
his phone—the battery’s almost dead—and turns on the flashlight.
Several chairs, last year’s calendar on the wall, a mountain of dirty

198
dishes. A partially open door at the end of the hallway. Pasha ad-
vances toward it. He sees a down jacket on a chair, though. And
a light-­colored women’s sweater. And an undergarment. And he
hears something over there, behind the door. Voices—rushed and
raucous.
“Anna,” someone yells. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
Pasha turns off his phone, gropes his way out of the hallway. He
walks across the room, goes downstairs, finds the kid.
“Well?” he asks.
“Try to get some sleep, all right?” Pasha requests.
The kid looks at him attentively, agrees.

But the suitcases, where’d the suitcases come from? They never
had any suitcases. When they were younger, his parents didn’t travel,
didn’t vacation. Pasha remembers this one summer, though, in the
early nineties. He’s in seventh or eighth grade, he and his sister are
in the same class, his parents are on vacation—actually, no, his par-
ents’ jobs have just disappeared, stopped providing them with any-
thing, yet they still go to the station every morning, like they’re
possessed, like they’re wind-­up toys. The station stands empty, the
tracks are quickly overrun by grass. The country changed rapidly,
but all of them—its citizens, the residents of this particular rail-
road town—weren’t able to change; they just didn’t have the right
mechanisms in place. They kept going to work, work they weren’t
getting paid for. Just because they’d been going their whole lives,
gotten used to it. You wake up every morning and you trudge off
to work, as if you’re going to toil like a galley slave when you get to
the depot. But the depot’s come to a standstill, like a sailing ship
that’s been raided by pirates. Walls and the Party slogans on them—

199
there’s nothing else left. And the workers stand under the slogans,
and they’re eager to fulfill and overfulfill the plan, meet their co-­
workers halfway, and take on extra duties, yet nobody has any use
for their duties and nobody’s going to meet them halfway anytime
soon, and there are just these tight-­knit flocks of pigeons—there
are suddenly so many of them—flying from the station to the city,
from the plant to the residential area, searching for happiness and
free grub. In the summer, his mom somehow gets awarded a trip to
the sanatorium in the next town over, in a pine forest, by a river, and
this all looks so unreal. They haven’t gotten anything in a long time,
even though they’re still hoping they will. Break their backs at work
and get something in return—that’s what they’re used to. But they
haven’t gotten anything for the past few years, even though they’re
still willing to break their backs, and this has crushed their long-­held
notions about how things should be, about basic fairness. Oh yeah,
and then there’s this trip to the sanatorium, and at first the whole
family’s planning on going, and Pasha’s looking forward to it, get-
ting ready, like a real adult—well, he thinks he’s all grown up. How
old is he? As old as the kid is now, about thirteen or so. And he’s
packing his things. And obviously, he doesn’t have a suitcase—just
some shabby sacks that his old man uses when he goes to the make-
shift market downtown. Pasha is given one of these sacks and told
to think about what he’ll need on vacation, to make sure he doesn’t
forget anything, to act like an adult. Pasha methodically moves his
things from the wardrobe in his parents’ room into his room; he
places them on the bed, sorts through them. He’s going to work out;
he’ll need athletic clothing. But he’s also going to go for walks in
the woods, so he’ll need something comfortable and practical. And

200
he shouldn’t forget to bring a warm sweater, too. And he’s meticu-
lously packing all of it, tossing some T-­shirts and socks in, taking
his favorite detective novels. Then, ashamed of himself, he stuffs
one last thing in, on the very bottom, under his sweater and socks.
Sunglasses—his dad’s old pair. He found them in a drawer; his dad
hasn’t worn them in a while. Pasha’s ashamed of himself, but he still
tucks them in his bag, just in case. After that, pleased with himself,
packed and pleased, he goes to the kitchen and sits down at the
table. He sits there listening to his elders’ conversation with an air
of importance. The conversation is a somber one: the family doesn’t
have any money, they have no idea how they’re going to pay for this
vacation. The next town over isn’t the Black Sea coast, obviously;
it’s just as much of a dump as the Station is. But you still have to pay
extra for children, for food, for lodging.
“Where are we going to get the money for that?” his mom
asks. “Huh? I’m not going anywhere,” she says firmly. “I’m staying
home. There’s no point in going there anyway.” But his dad insists
because he loves her. No, you definitely have to go, you need this,
you need to get healthy. Pasha doesn’t understand all this health
talk; he doesn’t even think about that, health problems don’t exist
for him, they just don’t, everyone’s supposed to just be fine. He
doesn’t understand any of this. But he does understand that his
dad’s an amazing guy, that he’s deeply in love with his wife, Pasha’s
mom, that is, and that this is real, grown-­up life. Pasha understands
that since he’s acting like an adult, too—he gets it. And he’s sitting
there, admiring his own maturity and his old man’s maturity. And
how helpless his mom is, her inability to deal with troubles, touches
him. And he doesn’t even understand that they won’t be going any-

201
where, that he, his sister, and his dad will have to stay home, tend
the garden, and skip ice cream to save money. That his mom will go
to the sanatorium by herself, share a room with some lady from ac-
counting, and race over to the phone every two hours to make sure
dad’s heating up all the food she left for them. He doesn’t under-
stand that yet; his parents call them into the kitchen again—his dad
sits down at the table, his sister’s chattering on about something, not
taking any breathers, not stopping. And then his mom starts saying
something about the trip being called off, about how they’ll have
fun without her, just the three of them. She hasn’t even finished
yet, and Pasha still hasn’t fully grasped what she’s getting at, but his
sister gets this intuitive feeling, as only a child can, that she’s being
deprived of something very nice and important and she starts wail-
ing, loudly and uncontrollably. His dad doesn’t even bother trying
to console her; there’s so much despair in her wailing that all he
can do is wipe away a meager tear with a barely noticeable move-
ment. Pasha notices everything, though; he suddenly understands
everything and starts wailing, too, finally realizing that he won’t get
anything: no workouts, no walks in the woods, no nothing. And that
nobody has any use for his maturity, nobody has any need of it, that
all this is so ridiculous and so hopeless that, once again, everything
has already been decided for him, once again he’s been put in his
place, and there is no point in hoping he’ll get anything at all. Then
his mom, completely bewildered at this point, suddenly flies off
the handle and starts yelling at his old man. It’s all your fault, this
is all because of you, you did this. His sister’s wailing even louder
because she feels sorry for her dad. But she feels sorry for herself,
too, so she’s wailing for herself and for him. And Pasha’s wailing for
himself and for him, for his old man, who couldn’t do anything,

202
couldn’t ward off their cries, just like he couldn’t ward off mom’s
illness, mom’s death.
Pasha didn’t unpack until the fall.

The days are so short this time of year, and there’s so little
light that it takes you a while to get used to the darkness once the
sun goes down, like you can’t believe that that’s it for today—no
more sunlight, just twilight. Pasha’s always out of sorts in the win-
ter: doesn’t have enough daytime, can’t get settled in the evenings,
mixes up the hours, mixes up his desires. It seems like it’s time to go
to bed, but he’s sitting there, leaning against the wall, slipping into
a slumber, but something keeps pushing him out of it, as if there are
some guards on duty nearby who won’t let him relax, won’t let him
drift off. A moan wakes him up once again. He lifts his head—Short
Hair, resting up against the bundles, is talking in her sleep. Pasha
catches some words here and there. Something about wiping your
feet, about shoe covers, about the schedule. “Yeah, the schedule,”
he thinks. “What time is it? How much longer until morning?” For
the past two days, he’s been hovering in the damp air, not having
anywhere to go yet afraid to stop. The kid is on his conscience, too.
“It’s a good thing we managed to get clear of the orphanage. We’ll
be home tomorrow if everything works out. And the kid’ll stay
with us. I don’t think Nina will mind. Yeah, gotta find her when
all of this is over. And the gym teacher, too,” Pasha thinks, immedi-
ately remembering everything: the executed coat, the dude with
the pasta, the voices by the well. He remembers the crowd outside
the apartment building, the soldiers, the darkness, the bashed-­up
bench, the torn fur coat. “Wonder how Vira’s doing,” he thinks.
“Should’ve gotten her number, at the very least. What could’ve hap-

203
pened to her? Did she get home, or is she still hunkering down in
some basement? In the basement that I never wound up finding. I’ll
find her when all this is over, I definitely will. Office building, mas-
sage parlor, travel agency. I can always find her through her friends.
Through her friends,” he repeats. “Yeah, through her friends.” Pasha
turns toward the kid, who’s sleeping without a care in the world.
Next to him on the floor is the bat—it looks like a child’s toy. Then
Pasha stands up carefully, so as not to wake anyone, fixes his glasses,
goes to the waiting area, and then makes his way to the second floor.
The snack bar door is half-­open. Pasha slides inside. He shines
his flashlight ahead, walks behind the bar, emerges in a little hall-
way, stops in front of a door, hesitates briefly, and then knocks care-
fully. Silence. Then he hears some rustling and the crackling of
couch springs.
“Who’s there?” a dry voice asks.
“It’s her,” Pasha surmises, and opens the door.
There’s a small kitchen in the corner: sink, microwave, knives
on the table, sugar spilled all over the floor, shelves with spices and
kitchenware on them. Oil, vinegar, ketchup. No alcohol. There’s a
couch against the wall, and there she is, sleeping on it. She leaps
up and turns on a little flashlight as soon as Pasha comes in. At first,
Pasha shields his eyes with his hand, but then he decides not to
hide—he looks, examines. Pink hair tangled like wires from sleep-
ing, warm sweater. Apparently, she was sleeping on the couch,
wrapped up in a down coat and some sort of tablecloth. She quickly
fixes her short skirt, but not before Pasha gets a good look: black
stockings, gray sweater, no makeup, tired and vulnerable face. Her
expression is wary yet devoid of fear—she doesn’t really understand
who he is, but she can see that she doesn’t have anything to be

204
afraid of: slightly blurry gaze through his glasses, beard, blood on
his jacket sleeve, boots covered in clay. Pasha looks haggard and like
he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. Probably woke her up at
the wrong time, too.
“What?” she asks dryly.
“I’m just ducking in for a second.”
Pasha adjusts to the abrasive light, surveys the room, and thinks
about where to sit. She notices that, so she immediately pulls a bag
toward herself and covers up with the tablecloth. This spot’s taken.
Don’t even think about it. He isn’t thinking about it, though. He
sees a beer crate in the corner, places it in the middle of the room,
sits down.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks.
“What do you think?” she asks in reply.
“Well, sorry. You’re Anna, right?” Pasha switches to the infor-
mal “you” to sound more convincing.
“Yeah, and?” She’s still shining the flashlight right in his eyes.
“I saw you come in here. With those two.”
“What else did you see?” she asks angrily. “Who are you?”
“A representative of the citizenry,” Pasha answers.
“Huh?”
“A representative,” Pasha repeats. “Of the citizenry,” he adds.
“Forget it,” he says finally. “Turn off that flashlight.”
Anna listens, placing the flashlight aside, at a safe distance. It
gets dark in the room.
“I’m looking for someone,” Pasha says. “You might know her.”
“Who?” Anna grows apprehensive.
“You work at the travel agency, don’t you?”
“What agency?”

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 “At that big office building downtown,” Pasha explains. “Right?”
“Yeah.” Anna scrutinizes him, then snickers. “You’re a client,
yeah?”
“Not exactly. I’m a representative of the citizenry,” he reminds
her. “I need to get ahold of Vira. You know her?”
“Vira?”
“Yeah.”
“What does she look like?”
“Well, uh.” Pasha tries to describe her. “She wears worn-­down
heels and a fur coat.”
“What kind of fur coat?”
“Don’t know,” Pasha admits.
“Well, I don’t know either,” she says with a tired laugh.
“She wears an engagement ring!” Pasha suddenly remembers.
“An engagement ring?” Anna laughs. “Really? We don’t really
do engagement rings at the travel agency.” She keeps laughing.
“She told me that she works there,” Pasha says, his tone ag-
grieved.
“Is she a cleaning lady?”
Pasha gets flustered and stops talking, so she goes quiet too,
stops laughing. They sit, not talking.
“Got any smokes?” she asks eventually.
“I don’t smoke,” he answers.
“I smoked all of mine,” Anna says discontentedly. “With those
two. The bastards showed up with no cigarettes.”
“Where are they?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Anna replies. “They ran off
somewhere.”
“Why’d you stick around?”

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 “Where could I go? I’ll wait until morning, then head out.
What’s going on with you and Vira?” she asks after a moment’s
thought.
“Nothing. We met yesterday.”
“You like her?”
“I didn’t get a good look,” Pasha admits. “I’m just worried about
her. I want to find her when all of this is over,” he adds.
“What makes you think that all of this is going to end?” she
asks.
“Well, it has to end at some point.”
“You think so?”
Pasha doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to say anything bad, but
nothing good comes to mind. She doesn’t say anything either—
just fixes her hair and wraps the tablecloth tighter around herself.
It looks like he’s come to visit her at the hospital. And she’s sitting
here—cheerful, all smiles, sure that she’s getting better. He’s trying
really hard to be cheerful, too, but he, unlike her, knows her diag-
nosis.
“Well, the engagement ring?” Anna asks again.
“What about it?”
“Well, she wears an engagement ring. Maybe she has children,
a husband. A fur coat.”
“I don’t think she has a husband.”
“And the ring?”
“Who the hell knows,” he says. “Half our teaching staff are di-
vorced women. But they keep wearing their rings. To look more
presentable.”
“Are you a teacher or something?”
“Well, yeah.”

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 “What’d you teach?”
“Ukrainian.”
“I see,” Anna says. “A real promising career path. Why aren’t
you fighting?”
“For which side?”
“For any side.”
“Got a bum hand,” Pasha says, showing it to her.
“So what? I’ve seen much worse. One guy was missing half of
his head, for real. He got in a car accident sometime before the war.
But he’d still come by and see us . . . at the travel agency.”
“And how is he?” Pasha asks incredulously.
“What do you mean?”
“Missing half his head—how is it for him?”
“Ah, you mean that. Well, he doesn’t come by to play soccer.
What does he need a head for? I felt sorry for the guy.”
“Why?”
“He was handsome,” Anna explains. “Well, before the acci-
dent. Now he’s like the Terminator.”
Anna’s all chipper, like a child whose parents have been talk-
ing her ear off, distracting her, drawing her attention to something
else, and at one point, she really does forget about the pain and the
doctors and remembers just how many treats await her once she
gets out of here. If she ever gets out. Pasha suddenly finds himself
thinking that everyone around here speaks as though they haven’t
talked to anyone in months—quickly and incoherently, trying to
confess everything, not wanting to take anything with them. They
say so many unnecessary, unimportant things, raising their voices,
lecturing, accusing, justifying themselves. Abandoned, neglected,
forgotten. Aggrieved. “Yep,” Pasha thinks. “They’re aggrieved, obvi-

208
ously. And abandoned. No pity for anyone,” he thinks. “Anyone.
Anyone at all.”
“Sorry?” Pasha asks. “You feel sorry for everyone around here,
yeah? You’ll sleep with them all.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Never mind,” Pasha replies. “Don’t feel sorry for anyone. Any-
one. Sleep with whoever you want.”
Noticing that his voice has changed, Anna tenses up. She pulls
the tablecloth up to her throat, waits, and then says:
“Listen, Teach. Do you know that all professions deserve re-
spect?”
“Uh-­huh.” Pasha sneers. “And they’re all useful to society.”
“Well, what’s so useful about what you do?”
“Knowing languages is useful,” Pasha replies.
“Yeah, you don’t even speak the language outside the class-
room, though,” she hisses, and Pasha notes that her voice has
changed, too, become snakelike, threatening. She continues before
he can show his surprise. “At least I don’t play mind games with
people. I just do what I do.”
“Don’t get angry,” Pasha suggests.
“Don’t get angry? Yeah?” she says angrily. “Some dickhead
comes in here and starts telling me what to do. He doesn’t feel sorry
for anybody. Well, I do. I feel sorry for the kids you teach.”
“The kids are fine.” Pasha’s growing anxious.
“Sure they are,” Anna says with a dismissive wave. “You don’t
feel sorry for them either, do you?”
Pasha doesn’t say anything. She looks at him, waiting for him
to respond, but he keeps quiet, so she figures it’s best to change the
subject.

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 “I bet you don’t like kids either,” she says.
“Why’s that?” Pasha’s aggrieved.
“I can see it in your eyes,” Anna says. “And you don’t have your
own kids either.”
“Well, actually, I’m here with a kid.” Pasha’s still aggrieved.
“Whose kid?”
“My nephew,” Pasha says. “I picked him up from the orphan-
age.” He’s speaking in a weighty tone—the kind people use when
talking about something serious, important. He speaks, then waits
for a reaction.
“From the orphanage?” Anna gets all chipper again. “The one
on the edge of town?”
“Yep.”
“That’s my orphanage,” she says. “When were you there?”
“Tonight,” Pasha says reluctantly.
“How’s everything over there?”
“Fine.”
He averts his eyes, but she doesn’t notice that.
“Nina still working there?”
“You know her?” Pasha’s surprised.
“I have since I was seven.” Anna nods. “We went to the same
orphanage. But she went to the teachers college and I went to the
travel agency.”
Now cheerful, she’s even set the tablecloth aside. She finds her
jacket, tosses it over her shoulders, and starts speaking differently—
without that lazy irritation, her tone simple, trusting.
“The kids in our class didn’t like her. I didn’t like her either,”
Anna admits with a smile. “Neither did the teachers. Well, they

210
didn’t like anyone. But they really didn’t like her. She was always
going against everyone. That’s a lousy habit.”
“Yeah,” Pasha agrees.
“You aren’t like that, though, are you?” She’s speaking with the
same smile, and Pasha eagerly nods in reply.
“You agree with everyone, don’t you?” She keeps smiling, but
Pasha isn’t sure whether he should be enjoying this. “Nobody really
cares if you agree with them or not, though. Is that right? Well, this
one time,” she continues, losing all interest in Pasha, “one of the
kids got a pair of shoes from their parents. A pair of cheap, Chinese
sneakers. They were new, though. Do you know what it’s like to get
new sneakers?” Pasha is about to answer, but she cuts him off. “Nah,
you don’t know anything. Well, we get up one morning and see that
someone’s dumped brilliant green dye all over those fuckin’ sneak-
ers. For real. Well, everyone started saying she did it. They went to
the director’s office and told her. The director believed them. Actu-
ally, everyone believed them.” Anna automatically begins rooting
through her pockets, looking for her cigarettes. She’s worried, all
anxious, and then she remembers that she doesn’t have any ciga-
rettes. “Well, and I stuck up for her. That caused a lot of problems.”
“How do you know she didn’t do it?” Pasha asks skeptically.
“We were roommates,” Anna replies. “And I know for a fact that
she didn’t go anywhere that night. But nobody believed me. You
know what they’re like at orphanages? They’ll devour you. Espe-
cially over a pair of sneakers.”
“Well, you stood up for her . . . then what?”
“Then what? I stood up for her, and that was it. Then I regret-
ted that, obviously.”

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 “How come?”
“I took some flak, too. It was an orphanage, after all. They
stopped liking me, too. That doesn’t feel good. You get what I
mean?”
“Yeah,” Pasha says.
“I think you get it. What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Got problems,” Pasha explains.
“I can see that,” Anna says. “You’ve probably taken a lot of flak
for your hand over the years.”
“Nah, not really.”
“Yeah, right.” She doesn’t believe him. “You definitely have.
Kids are cruel. Like puppies. And they’re as trusting as puppies, too.
Then they grow up, become more mature, more confident. Their
cruelty doesn’t go away, though. Neither does their trust. And you
say you don’t feel sorry for anyone.”
Pasha doesn’t say anything; he looks at his hand. It’s as though
he’s letting the meager beam from the flashlight through his fingers.
And she’s looking at his fingers, too, seemingly mesmerized, as if
she’s never seen anything like this. Actually, she hasn’t. Where can
you see something like that?
“You know,” she says to him. “Since I’ve got you . . . Come here.
Do you want to?”
Pasha freezes and immediately wants to tell her that he does.
Obviously he does. He wants her, with her pink hair. Wants her
warmth, wants her voice. He can feel just how cold these last two
days have made him, how chilled to the core. Obviously he wants
her. Then he thinks of the kid. “What if he already woke up?” he
thinks. “How long have I been up here?”

212
 “I want to,” Pasha admits. “But I haven’t showered in two days.
I doubt you’d like it.”
“I haven’t either, if I’m being perfectly honest,” she admits.
“I’m gonna get going.” Pasha gets up laboriously, hiding in a
shadow. “I really should find something for the kid to eat,” he says,
his tone making it a request.
“Well, look around.” She loses all interest in him again, covers
up with the jacket and tablecloth, turns off the flashlight, and faces
the wall.
Pasha walks over to the shelves in the dark, opens a cabinet by
touch, begins carefully studying what’s there inside, seemingly not
believing his eyes, needing to touch everything with his own hands,
feel it. Tin cans, plastic containers, dishes filled with grain. Bags
of sugar and pasta. And then, unexpectedly—chocolate! That’s it.
Chocolate. Pasha unerringly recognizes a flat bar under some sort
of canned food. He carefully plucks it out, stuffs it in his pocket,
and leaves.

Sasha’s sleeping deeply, the way only kids can: head buried in
his sleeve, all curled up like a puppy, warming himself with his own
body heat. He’s clearly dreaming. Maybe even about something
nice. Why not? Pasha’s hovering over him but can’t bring himself
to wake him up. Behind him, the lady sitting on the bundles be-
gins talking in her sleep. Seemingly warning him. Pasha shudders
and carefully slides the chocolate bar up the kid’s sleeve. He re-
turns to the main hall. “Wait until morning,” he reminds himself.
“Wait out the night, then get out of here. We’ll be home tomorrow.
Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’ll work out.” Hundreds

213
of women’s drowsy bodies, warm clothing, winter footwear, chil-
dren on their hands, kitchenware tied to sleds, bags, and cardboard
boxes. One woman is whispering in the corner, another’s wrapping
a blanket tighter around her shoulders. A truck’s powerful head-
lights are punching through the darkness and onto women’s pale
blue faces. Basically, this all feels like the theater before the be-
ginning of a performance: the lights are off, everyone’s quieted
down, yet someone’s still trying to finish a thought, whisper the
most important thing. Something’s missing, though. “The actors,”
Pasha thinks. They’ll appear any second now, though. They defi-
nitely will—there’s no getting by without them. It’s a little after
one. Another few hours. The bus will appear. Everything’s going
to be fine. The shelling’s shifted to the north, toward the town; it’s
quiet around the station, but nobody’s leaving. Nobody believes
that it’s all over. They think it’s a trap. They think that over there,
behind the station doors, something scary still awaits them. So it’s
best to camp out here, behind the sturdy station walls. They huddle
together like the animals on the ark, whispering calming words to
themselves that they don’t quite believe. Pasha notices the patrol-
men who recently checked his papers; they’re at the other end of
the hall, by the doors. They notice him, too. They stand there and
watch his every move. One of them whispers in the other guy’s ear,
and he nods. “I should get going,” Pasha decides. “I shouldn’t wait
for them to decide to come over.” He turns around slowly, without
making any abrupt movements, carefully examines the schedule on
the wall, as if he’s really counting on taking the first morning train
out of here, nods with an air of importance, pretends that he’s com-
mitting something to memory, and fixes his glasses so he can see
better. Then quietly, step by step, he sets out for the exit, leaving the

214
patrolmen with nothing. But when a few steps remain, he overlooks
a drowsy passenger who’s lying on a sheepskin coat right at his feet.
She’s placed two metal buckets near herself—one full of apples, the
other full of golden onions. He overlooks her, hits a bucket with his
foot; it clings to his boot, turns over, and then rolls resonantly across
the stone floor, as though someone’s ringing a bell to warn every-
one about a fire or the advance of enemy troops. And the toll of the
bell bounces off the high windows and cold ceiling, and everyone
jolts up, emerges from their restless slumber, sticks their frightened
heads out of their dreams, squinting into the twilight to see what
all the commotion is about, what all the ruckus is about, where
they should run. The children immediately begin whimpering. The
women cry out, not yet understanding what’s going on, but still
wanting to draw attention to themselves, just in case. The apples
roll between other people’s things; soles trample them, and they
disappear forever among the women’s frightened bodies. Everyone
looks at Pasha like he’s a demon who’s appeared out of the darkness
and broken the prevailing silence, shattering it with a terrible ring
and ruckus. A demon who’s come to bring them some kind of mes-
sage. Pasha stands there, feeling everyone watching him, waiting
for him to say something, to communicate something important.
The children are scared of his big, dark figure, and he’s making the
women tense. But nobody dares ask him who he is, where he’s come
from, or what he bears. At this point, Pasha’s thinking about making
something up, but then he sees the patrolmen coming straight at
him—confident, leisurely. He realizes that he has nowhere to go,
he’s completely at their mercy. Then Pasha bends down, picks up
several apples, and puts them in the woman’s hand. She’s oblivious,
just sitting there and looking at him like he’s an anomaly of nature.

215
Then he fixes his glasses again and disappears down a hallway. The
patrolmen stop. “Follow him, find him, and shoot him behind the
columns or let him live? Let him live,” they think. And Pasha lives.

Feels like March. Restlessness and alarm. And knowing that

everything can work out, everything can come together, makes it
painful to breathe. That as soon as you ride past the closest railroad
signal, a new way of life, nothing like his, nothing like what he’s used
to, begins. He always loved the Station, though—the dry greenery
of summer, the grass turned black by fuel oil, the side tracks that
wander among tenacious blades of grass until they get lost. He loved
the voices of the Station, its smell. The sky above the maintenance
buildings. The train cars that look like buildings whose residents
just can’t ever get settled; they move from one place to another,
trying their luck. He loved fall, too. Fall at the Station was seri-
ous and severe. In the fall, everyone would come together after the
long summer months, after all the dust and sun, and you could
see how everyone had grown, how they’d changed over the sum-
mer. Then smoke would float out of the nearby gardens and dachas,
from yards and little parks—first they’d burn weeds and then the
leaves that had fallen from the high trees. The air would turn cold,
bitter, winter clothes would be unpacked, the rainy season begin,
the ground fill with water, and moving around become difficult.
Not that there was anywhere to go around here. The winter made
life at the Station cheerful and sunny once again: snow buried the
moats behind the warehouses and the paths along the river, the
river itself froze over, and a cold current moved under the gray ice
slowly, like blood when you’re sleeping. In the morning, locomo-
tives coated with snow and hoarfrost rolled in after their nighttime

216
journeys, after fighting through fog and snowdrifts—exhausted, yet
implacable, eager to continue hauling their endless chains of cars.
The sun hung over the roofs and the tracks, railroad men argued
cheerfully, they—schoolkids at the time—cut class, clambered up
the embankment, and ascended the hills that stretched along the
frozen riverbed. The sun hovered at the highest point in the sky; in
the winter there was never enough sun. You had to hunt it down,
fish it out of the frosty landscape. Trains would occasionally bar-
rel out of the snow and cross the horizon in weary bursts, leaving
golden swirls of hoarfrost in their wake, connecting the known with
the unknown.
But in the spring, everything would change, one way or an-
other. The air would be different. It would creep along, mixing
above the Station, and in the stagnant, solidified space, currents
of something unknown, something that would thrust you forward,
force your heart to beat faster, would flow by, one after another.
The evening streetlights would shine desperately, torridly. Fog
would rise from the river. Locomotives move cautiously through
the dark, like dogs. In March, he always grew restless; in March, he
wanted to get out of here, toss his things in a bag and take the first
evening train in an unknown direction—disappear into the green
twilight, follow floods of sunlight until he dissolved. In the spring,
everyone was drawn to the station, to its travel smells and transient
lights. Rowdy groups of teenagers hung around outside by the sta-
tion walls, reacting sharply to the adults’ admonishments and de-
fiantly sticking their young, buzzed heads toward the winds and
drafts. Vapid talk, frenzied laughter, unwarranted happiness—just
the way things ought to be in the spring when you’re fourteen, and
that’s exactly how things were.

217
 And there was nothing beyond that. No flags over the station,
no anger in adults’ conversations, no borders, no portraits of out-
standing employees on boards of honor eroded by time. No empty
shelves in cold stores, no dark faces on black TVs, no lying press,
no vile slop that his family had to eat every morning just to subsist.
The March air, as brisk as water in the morning—that’s all there
was. Air that heated up after winter ended, and it consisted of sweet
faith in the idea that everything was just getting started, that things
would only get better and better as they went along. At this mo-
ment, right now, here, in this crummy little park, amid mounds
of black snow, in the blackness filled with birds’ cries and locomo-
tives’ horns, everything’s good, too, incredibly good, everything’s
just how it should be, so you can feel currents of happiness mixing
with currents of hunger in the air.
The world’s simple, and it makes sense. There’s just enough
of it—no more than you can feel and your memory can encom-
pass. It has a defined outline and steady borders. These borders
lie somewhere nearby, behind the closest row of cold trees. Over
there, farther off, beyond those visible borders, something different
begins, something alien that doesn’t make much sense and there-
fore isn’t very interesting: people you don’t know, circumstances
that don’t pertain to you, a country that seems vague to you. But
here everything’s where it’s supposed to be: you can recognize it by
touch, you can recognize its voice. Your house, filled with a thou-
sand objects—it’s compact and committed to memory, down to the
last button in the top drawer. Your family that you’ve gotten used to
like someone gets used to their own body. Your parents, still alive
and well, who you keep growing apart from, who understand you
less and less. That doesn’t worry you one bit, though. It’s enough

218
that they’re around somewhere, somewhere nearby, watching over
the thousand familiar objects from your childhood and simply be-
longing to the thousand voices you’ve known ever since. Sure, you
might be growing apart, sure, they might not understand you, but
they’ll still have a place in this world. There’s enough time to fix
everything, enough space so you aren’t getting in each other’s hair.
There’s enough room for school, with its deathly scent of micro-
waved food, its resonant evening hallways, its intimacy and estrange-
ment. There’s enough room for friends and casual acquaintances,
inconsequential conversations, fleeting crushes, unconscious fear.
There’s enough room for your enemies, too, for hurt feelings, for
shame, for the last teenage tears shed into your pillow—no one will
see them, yet you’ll never forget them. There’s room for everything,
since that’s how everything was designed. Everything fits, nothing is
superfluous. Just don’t go beyond the borders, hang on to this frag-
ile March light that’s running out so quickly, peer into the station
windows as if they’re glass boxes filled with monsters, and only take
what life has prepared especially for you.
His sister grew up, his peers matured, and high school receded
into the past. For the first time, he had to leave that world for a
longer stretch, head out—to the city, for college. And this step be-
yond the boundaries of his cocoon, beyond the boundaries of what
made sense, wound up being the first catastrophe, a trauma that
subsequently accompanied him for a long time. It wasn’t just his
address or circumstances that had changed; his conception of the
world, of its boundaries and capabilities, had changed too. Sud-
denly it turned out that the world was much bigger than you’d
imagined, and much more dangerous. Suddenly, it turned out that
it consisted of countless unfamiliar objects that didn’t make any

219
sense, that its language consisted of a thousand unfamiliar words,
and that you had to memorize all those words, memorize and use
them, otherwise you wouldn’t survive, you wouldn’t be able to get
back home. Extracted from his shell, his cocoon unraveled, he
stands amidst an empty country that’s alien to him, and he can’t
understand where to go from here, how to withstand the invisible
pressure that’s thrusting him out of reality. Shock and despair over-
whelm him; now what he wants more than anything is to go back
about ten years, into his old clothes, to his childhood things, to his
hiding spots. Well, fear passes all on its own when you’re seven-
teen; you overcome it due to your natural desire to survive, to de-
vour your portion of justice. He gradually gets used to the big city,
to strangers, to his new circumstances. The only thing is, as soon as
he gets the chance, the moment the opportunity presents itself, he
escapes back home, transferring multiple times along the way. It’s
as if a cold metal spring is pushing him out of his new life—back
to his cocoon, back to where he was at peace. He comes back and
locks himself in his room, not saying anything to anyone, ignoring
his parents and sister. He’s like a young kangaroo that’s grown a lot
but is still trying to cram himself back into his mom’s pouch. He
simply can’t fit, though, which is obviously making things a little
tense at home.
On the weekends, everything was just like it used to be: the
same trees on the horizon, the same sky above the roofs, the same
smell of the past. But the shell had been hopelessly cracked; the
world had been cracked, and piecing it back together was impos-
sible.
He suffered through his college years, then came back to the

220
Station and began teaching at the school. For a while, he couldn’t
take the smell in the school cafeteria. Then he decided that from
then on it would be his smell—the smell of bitter, overcooked food,
the smell of apathy and detachment, the smell of someone else’s
life that you’re trying to pass off as your own. The world shrank back
to its familiar size. The door closed behind him. He was safe again.
Don’t look beyond, don’t talk to strangers, know where all the ob-
jects you need are located. The sweet smell of gas in the morning
kitchen, the rustle of rain outside the window, like the faint work-
ing of the ocean—in March, he always felt this odd draft, as if that
cold metal spring was pricking his heart. There was a completely
different, alien world nearby, as sublime as it was dangerous, and its
unavoidable presence nearby, just around the corner, beyond the
horizon, unnerved him, threw him off balance. Then Pasha would
go out to the porch, walk over to the garden, and listen to the rain
above the trees, listen to it surround him, cave in, snag on the thin
apple branches, fall right at his feet—the way it can only fall in
March.

Pasha stands on the black platform and notices that the rain
that started last night isn’t even thinking about letting up—it’s spill-
ing onto the city, slanting down and hitting the metal freight trains,
the busted tankers. Pasha puts his hood up and steps under the awn-
ing, pressing against the station wall. It’s 2 a.m. He doesn’t feel like
going back inside, but the rain’s growing more persistent; it starts
somewhere beyond the main avenue and stretches to the north,
toward the Station, spilling out of the nippy nighttime sky. “It’s a
good thing we can wait it out here until morning,” Pasha thinks,

221
catching chilly drops with his lips. “Where could we even go? No-
where. Just sit here, wait, and hope that you don’t drown, that you’ll
pull through. What’s next?”
The station doors squeak open; a passenger is squeezed out.
Squeezed out like toothpaste. Bags first, followed by a peaked cap,
then a foot holds the door. All of him wrings out; he pops outside,
cowers from the rain, spots Pasha, plods toward him. An old offi-
cer’s peaked cap with the insignia ripped off, the dark overcoat of
a train steward—more like stewardess, actually—grocery bags in
his hands, it appears there are more bags inside, a bunch of empty
bags, coiled up and twisted like intestines. And he’s wrapped see-­
through bags around his feet, over sneakers that are black with dust.
Black nails, black teeth, a lingering smile. And deep wrinkles on his
cheerful face. Oh, yeah, and his beard. Makes him look like Karl
Marx. And little hairs poke out of it, rest on his shoulders, shed
like needles off a Christmas tree that stands in a warm room until
spring. He places his bags filled with bags on the ground, takes a
cigarette butt out of his pocket, clamps it in his black teeth, and
gets right in Pasha’s face.
“Hey, Soldier boy!” he yells. “Gimme a light.”
“I don’t smoke,” Pasha answers disdainfully, and backs up,
pressing himself into the wall. “Gotta get going,” he thinks. “All
right, gotta get going.”
This old guy isn’t just going to roll over, though. He’s padded
himself with his bags filled with bags; the rain shines coldly in his
beard, like dew in September. He points a black nail at Pasha and
shouts cheerfully:
“Gimme a light, Soldier boy!”
He says it with such confidence that Pasha involuntarily reaches

222
into his pocket and finds the lighter he took away from the kid. The
old guy is still right in Pasha’s face, like he wants to kiss him. Pasha
leans in, catches a deathly whiff of rot and infirmity, and raises his
hands, shielding the lighter. A brief, fiery flash snatches his face out
of the nighttime expanse: chapped lips, bloated skin, like that of a
dead man, and an insane yellow eye, watching him from under a
lowered brow. But the wind blows out the flame in the next instant.
Nevertheless, the old guy manages to take a deep drag, seemingly
sucking in all the surrounding warmth. He holds his breath, exhales
laboriously, and then points his black nail at Pasha once again.
“Our boys really are givin’ ’em hell!” he says with a laugh.
“Yeah, they are,” Pasha answers inattentively. He doesn’t know
how to ditch this crazy guy with the bags.
“Really givin’ ’em hell,” the old guy says with satisfaction. “Our
boys know what they’re doing.”
“Yeah, they do.” Pasha doesn’t argue with him.
“Yeah, they do.” The old guy laughs cheerfully.
“Yep.” Pasha agrees again.
“Why aren’t your boys hitting back?” the old guy suddenly asks
him.
Pasha shudders, looks at the old guy, and realizes that he’s per-
fectly sane, he knows exactly what’s going on, he has everything
all figured out. And he can see right through Pasha. And the old
guy can also see that Pasha knows exactly what’s going on, so he’s
looking at him carefully, scrupulously, with yellow hatred in his
eyes. Pasha grows anxious, not knowing what to do, fixes his glasses
with his finger, and huddles against the wall. “I should pick some-
thing up and knock him out,” he thinks, looking at the old guy. “Just
knock him right out.” And his gaze gradually gets heavier, cooler,

223
like the earth soaked with winter rain, and he puts the lighter back
in his pocket, slowly, very slowly, but the old guy catches that move-
ment and notices the change in Pasha’s eyes, even in the dark, and
when the silence between them becomes absolutely unbearable,
he suddenly throws his head back and bursts into a hoarse laugh.
“Yeah, Soldier boy!” he says, choking with laughter. “Just like
that! Yep!”
He laughs so desperately that Pasha breaks down and starts
smiling. But then the old guy starts coughing—a deep-­seated, poi-
sonous cough—which makes Pasha huddle into the wall again. The
old guy stops coughing, catches his breath, regains his composure.
“It’s really pouring, isn’t it?” he asks, his tone still cheerful.
“Where you headed?”
“To the Station,” Pasha answers.
“It’s over there.” The old guy resolutely points a fingernail into
the darkness. “See that over there? That’s the North Star.”
Pasha looks into the darkness. It’s moving, throbbing. And
there aren’t any stars over there, obviously. Yet he can see all the
murk that’s been hanging over the city for days now, weighing it
down, filling it up. “How much more time needs to pass before all
this ends?” Pasha thinks, contemplating the slanted streaks of water.
“How much more time needs to pass before all of this disappears
underwater? Time has stopped, nothing’s left, don’t feel sorry for
anyone. I’ll never be able to get out of here, nobody’ll ever get out
of here alive, everyone’ll stay here, everyone’ll lie down under this
lethal water.” Pasha thinks of everything that he’s seen over the past
two days: all the exhausted eyes and faces contorted with anger, all
the voices hoarse from dehydration, all the silhouettes shaken by
sleeplessness, all the cold and all the dampness, and he suddenly

224
gets this queasy feeling—because he’s chilled to the core, because
he’s really hungry, because of this old guy who smells like death and
seems to be decomposing right here, in the streams of rain.
“You see?” he asks. “Can you see it?”
“No,” Pasha answers.
“Exactly,” the old guy continues. “Exactly. There’s nothing over
there.” And he’s speaking like he’s delirious, pointing into the dark-
ness. “Two freight trains filled with bodies. Two whole cars, Soldier
boy. I saw them. With my own eyes. There’s nothing over there.
Don’t feel sorry for anyone.”
He picks up his bags, pulls on the door, sticks his head out into
the rain, and disappears around the corner.

225
This page intentionally left blank
 DAY THREE

Looks like a fisherman who didn’t wind up catching anything

all day: raincoat, camo underneath, rubber boots. His gut hangs
down like a mailman’s bag. A Cossack whip sticks out of his boot-
leg, so everybody knows just who they’re dealing with. He shakes
his large buzzed head, shouts, snaps orders. Nobody’s listening,
though. The soldiers are scurrying all around—not to accomplish
anything, just to keep warm. A field kitchen, black with smoke, rolls
up to the station steps; they get it going and heat up the food. The
rain hasn’t abated since last night. It persists, douses the flame. The
soldiers haul over a large tent with an ad for a local beer on it, set
it up above the kitchen, and cram themselves inside. Alexei stands
under the cold January sky, not knowing where to go from here—
step under the tent and sink to his subordinates’ level or keep wait-
ing around out in the rain and get absolutely soaked. Cold heavy
drops flow down his chubby, unshaven cheeks. He stands there and
berates the soldiers. They berate him in response, and it becomes
abundantly clear that that’s just the way they interact with each
other, always getting too emotional or something, like a married
couple that’s been living together for decades. They used up all their
cordial words a long time ago, so they communicate with curses and
maledictions. Well, it’s not like they’re going to sit there in silence.

227
 Pasha and the kid make their way to the waiting area, push-
ing through the crowd to get closer to the windows. Outside the
windows, facing the soldiers, Alexei is hollering his head off. You
can’t hear what he’s shouting, but he’s gesticulating so vigorously
that you understand exactly what he’s getting at. The smoke from
the kitchen, broken up by the rain, drifts over the ground. The last
thing they want to do is leave the train station, go out into the rain.
The women stand around, huddle against one another, draw closer
to the windows. It’s as if they’re watching a movie with no sound.
Starring Alexei. He’s big, silent, waving his arms, threatening some-
one with his fist, menacingly directing his gaze at something beyond
the horizon. He suddenly turns around, falters for an instant when
he spots a group of spectators, dozens of women’s frightened faces
carefully tracking his every move and gesture, surveys them all with
the severity of an ataman, focuses his eyes, and begins yelling again,
invitingly, spiritedly. Apparently he hasn’t adjusted his language, yet
he instantly sucks in his gut, and his cheeks, too. He’s a military man,
through and through. Pasha watches him and finds himself thinking
that Alexei’s expression is so piercing, so sincere that it seems like
he’s directly addressing Pasha, sharing something remarkably inti-
mate with him. “Damn, that’s because he is,” Pasha eventually real-
izes. “He’s yelling something at me.” Pasha shoves a couple of small
women aside, forces his way toward the doors, and opens them.
“Representative,” Alexei says, his voice discontented, “of the
cocksucking citizenry.” Pasha walks down the steps, puts his hood
up. The kid is at his heels, holding the bat. They approach. Pasha
proffers his stiff hand. Alexei tenses up, yet shakes it. He mechani-
cally shakes the kid’s hand, too. Apparently he doesn’t know how to
talk to them. He has to strike the right tone. He clearly can’t talk to

228
Pasha like he does to the soldiers. First off, Pasha is a representative
of the citizenry. Second, there’s a child around. So he gathers his
thoughts, wipes some raindrops off his face, and nods in the direc-
tion of the kitchen, making one chubby cheek flap.
“So here’s the deal,” he says hoarsely, with the authority of
a commander. “Just like we promised.” He points at the kitchen.
“We’re providing . . . ,” he pauses, “food for the civilian population,”
he concludes, businesslike. “So, you, Mister Esteemed Represen-
tative of the Citizenry, take care of this. So those were the instruc-
tions,” he says. “From the command center,” he adds.
The soldiers look at Pasha with hatred in their eyes. If it weren’t
for this asshole, we’d still be sleeping. Wouldn’t be getting soaked
outside this godforsaken train station. Pasha can feel their eyes,
filled with justified indignation, fixed on him, yet there’s nothing
he can do about it. If you’re going to call yourself a representative
of the citizenry, oversee the smooth delivery of their meals. That’s
exactly what he’s doing. He goes back to the main hall, where a
crowd of soaked and mistrustful women surround him, listen to
him wordlessly, and Pasha can already hear their grievances in their
silence. But he raises his hand resolutely and begins speaking.
“So here’s the deal,” he says. “Instructions, just like they prom-
ised,” he says. “Meals,” he adds. “For the civilian population,” he
explains. The women listen without interrupting. Pasha feels as if
they don’t understand him, as if he’s not using the right words. He
lowers his hand, fixes his glasses.
“Listen,” he says wearily, “there’s food over there.” He points
out the window. “Walk on over, put some on your plate.”
“Are they going to send some buses?” a woman wearing a
mournful black headscarf asks, just as wearily.

229
 “Promised they would,” Pasha answers.
“That came from the command center?” a woman asks.
“Yep.”
The women slink outside, shielding themselves from the rain
with whatever they can, surround the tent, and hold out empty
plates. A soldier in a dirty white apron and rubber gloves is heaping
on generous portions of porridge with pieces of dark-­colored meat
in it. Another guy is serving them tea in mugs and thermoses.
“There’s enough to go around,” he says with a laugh. “There’s
enough for all you little ladies.” The women don’t react; they don’t
even cry. Cold, wet, hungry. They grab their rations and run back
through the streams of water to the building. Pasha stands on the
steps, pretending he’s overseeing the process. The kid runs through
the crowd, somehow digs up a disposable plate, and runs over.
He devours half of his meal quickly and greedily, like a duck, and
hands the rest to Pasha. He declines at first, as if he’s not hungry,
but then he breaks down, picks up a spoon, and quickly finishes
what the kid’s left him. He immediately realizes just how long
it’s been since he last ate, just how hungry he was. Pasha wearily
rests his back against a column and surveys the crowd out in the
rain. As the women pass, some of them nod at him like he’s an old
friend. We’re good, thanks, we’re eating. They look at him like he’s
in charge. They might think that he’s actually responsible for some-
thing. Moreover, Alexei makes a big point of talking only to him. He
comes over, frostily rubbing his hands.
“As per our instructions, we’re now finishing meal service,” he
says.
“Yes, you’ve carried out your assignment,” Pasha replies. “That’s
a wrap. When’s the bus coming?”

230
 “It’s coming,” Alexei answers reluctantly, his chubby cheek
twitching, “at the scheduled boarding time.”
“Well, that’s good,” Pasha says. “Well, that’s just terrific.”
The soldiers are standing off to the side, looking at the drenched,
all-­female line, trying to boost their morale, defuse this shitty-­ass
situation, cracking jokes, and making fun of each other. This scares
the women, though—they don’t expect anything particularly nice
from the soldiers here, so they grab their food and run back to the
building. The soldiers keep giving Pasha nasty looks. A local guy
who isn’t fighting, who’s hiding behind a bunch of women. They’re
whispering to each other, laughing and showing their young, strong
teeth. Pasha adamantly pretends that none of this has anything to
do with him. He stands leaning against the column and listens to
the freezing pigeons cooing up above him. Out of the tent comes
one of the soldiers—young, about twenty, light brown hair, well
groomed. Scrupulously polished combat boots. Even his nails are
nicely trimmed. He’s a bit chubby, though. White ghillie suit, black
puffy jacket. “Looks like a penguin,” Pasha thinks. “Black top, white
bottom.” And an old officer’s map case rests on his shoulder. He
looks like an old-­time political officer. He walks up the steps toward
Pasha, slings the map case over his shoulder, takes an apple out of
his pocket, and offers it to the kid. The kid looks at him with disdain,
yet accepts the apple and immediately begins munching on it. He
purposely doesn’t say “thank you.” The Penguin looks at him, yet
can’t withstand his gaze, so he turns toward Pasha.
“So how’s the situation, Pops?” he asks in a businesslike tone.
He’s speaking proper Russian, with no accent. It’s immediately
obvious that he isn’t from around here. He wants to see how the
civilian population is feeling.

231
 “It is what it is,” Pasha replies. Well, what else could he say?
“Was it rough?” the Penguin asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, under those guys.” He nods to the north. “Was it rough
under them?”
The kid lifts his head toward Pasha. Well, did you have it rough,
huh? And up above, it seems like the pigeons have stuck their beaks
out so they can hear his answer.
“There are women and children here,” Pasha says cautiously.
“They have it rough.”
“Gotcha.” The Penguin nods in understanding. “Well, we’ll
push through, rebuild. Your son?” He points at the kid.
“Nephew.”
“Where’s your dad?” The Penguin leans in toward the kid. His
tone is friendly, but he’s scrutinizing everything, doesn’t want to
miss anything.
“He burned up in a tank,” the kid says, crunching on his apple.
“Whose tank?” The Penguin’s eyes light up.
“His,” the kid answers without blinking. “His dad, my grandpa,
brought it back from the war,” he explains.
“He’s pulling your leg.” Pasha can’t help but interrupt. “His dad
walked out on them. He was staying at the orphanage.”
“So he’s an orphan.” The Penguin nods sympathetically. “Is
your mom still around?”
“Yeah,” Pasha explains. “She’s on the road. She’s a train stew-
ardess.” And then he immediately bites his tongue.
“A train stewardess?” the Penguin asks warily. “Well, where is
she now? What route?”
But then Alexei calls to him. Perfect timing, actually.

232
 “Vasya,” he says, “quit fucking pestering the civilians.” Vasya
gives the kid another discontented look, but he continues imper-
turbably munching on his apple and gives him a look right back.
Yeah, Vasya, quit fucking pestering us. Vasya turns around, runs
back to the group. The pigeons dejectedly huddle closer together
to stay warm.

Two LAZ-­model buses pull up a little after nine—beat-­up,

one blue-­green, the other gray . . . well, just dirty. They were being
used by soldiers, too; frayed flags hang on the blue-­green one, and a
military slogan that’s now indecipherable was spray-­painted on the
side of the other one. The dirty gray bus has broken windows with
wet curtains like ripped sails sorrowfully drooping out of them. The
headlights are busted, too. And to be perfectly frank, it doesn’t have
a license plate, either. And soldiers are driving both buses. They’re
military vehicles. The dirty one even has several holes in the side.
It’s taken a beating. The women immediately spill outside, carrying
their bags and bundles and dragging their children and kitchen-
ware along. They dart toward the buses, yelling and carrying on. At
first Alexei doesn’t know what to do with the civilian population,
but then he quickly regains his composure, shoves his way closer
to the buses, raises his hand, and waits for everyone to calm down.
Once they all do calm down, more or less, he angrily starts telling
everyone to calm down and listen to what he has to say or they
aren’t going to get anything done, and that he’s getting pretty fuck-
ing sick of them. He tells them that he had to take these vehicles
off the front line, where blood is currently being shed for a just
cause, and that his superiors have given him explicit instructions
to tell them all to fuck off and send the vehicles back to continue

233
the fight for their bright future unless they all take a few steps back.
When they all quiet down, Alexei says with an air of importance,
his chubby cheeks flapping, that the blue-­green bus is going to the
plant and the dirty one’s going to the residential area.
“And that’s it?” a young woman wearing an elegant hat and
holding a down blanket asks dejectedly.
“What else do you want?” Alexei snarls at her. “You want us to
walk you home? I’d be glad to!” he promises threateningly and be-
gins pushing his way through the crowd, back to his guys.
The woman starts to cry, while everyone else storms the
buses—it’s better to go to the plant than sit here at the train station
with this chubby-­cheeked bastard. Alexei summons Pasha with a
commanding gesture. He reluctantly walks over.
“So here’s the deal,” Alexei says. “You’ll be in charge of the
lead vehicle.”
“What vehicle?” Pasha asks, confused.
“Uh, that one.” Alexei points. “The dirty one that’s going to the
residential area. You’ll be responsible for the noncombatants. Got
it?” he asks. Actually, he’s giving an order, not asking.
Pasha and the kid are the last passengers to cram into the bus.
The only spots left are on the steps, down below, by the front doors.
The driver’s getting angry, yelling at the women to keep going,
move down the aisle. But how are they supposed to do that when
the bus is packed with pillows, mattresses, and jars of preserves?
The women sit by the smashed windows—two or three to a seat,
all on top of each other. They’re packed together, arguing and cry-
ing. Children are whining; feathers fly out of ripped Chinese down
jackets. The driver tucks his AK away and yells to Pasha:
“Calm them down already.”

234
 “How am I supposed to do that?” Pasha yells in reply. “Get
moving. That’ll calm ’em down.”
The driver spits. Pasha shuts the smashed doors, even though
that’s pointless. Since the windows are smashed, too, closing the
doors is like putting a newspaper on your face to stay warm in the
winter. But rules are rules—the doors shut, the LAZ heads out, Ale-
xei rubs his cheeks in relief. The field kitchen cools off like a lover’s
heart after a torrid romance.
The ride is cold and uncomfortable. Pasha and the kid are
pressed up against the doors; a woman has rested her large leather
suitcase right on top of Pasha. At first he tries to distance himself
from her, scoot over, but there’s nowhere to scoot to, so he stays
put. The rain flies through the windshield; the driver’s put on yellow
tactical goggles, but they aren’t helping much. In the north, at the
edge of town, there’s a series of explosions. They can’t see the flashes
through the rain, but they can hear something coming down be-
hind the quiet residential neighborhoods. The women begin wail-
ing again, all at once, all together. The kid’s bewildered, huddling
into Pasha’s jacket. He might be cold or he might just want to cry.
He holds it together, though.
They pull away from the station, turn to the right, to the south,
dodge a fallen road sign, then a bullet-­riddled bread truck, and then
a heap of discarded furniture: a couch, a wardrobe, a chair with
ripped upholstery. Guess someone was shedding their dead weight
as they fled. Morning city, apartment blocks singed like fireplaces,
shattered grocery store windows. It’s dark inside. The bars on the
windows are bent—looks like somebody tried stealing stuff but
couldn’t pull it off. The owners took almost everything with them,
leaving behind empty shelves and old, dead fridges that the thieves

235
were too ashamed to take. What does anyone need an old fridge
for? Maybe for hiding corpses, but that’s about it. The driver sees a
newly built church behind the stores, and he automatically crosses
himself, as do some of the women. They look at those who don’t
cross themselves defiantly, disdainfully, like beachgoers standing in
cold water up to their throats look at people who’re afraid to get wet.
They bear right at the intersection, skirt past the black court-
house, the savings bank with boarded-­up windows, and the phar-
macy: the cold apertures of windows, the twisted bars. Somebody
tried to find something, anything, but did they? Can’t tell. Then
there’s an empty school, a destroyed newsstand, a bullet-­riddled
obelisk, scraps of metal, burnt bricks, bloody clothes. There’s hardly
anyone out—just a few soldiers standing by the newsstand, smoking,
talking, not paying any attention to anyone. And an elderly lady is
dragging a sled loaded with cardboard across the wet asphalt. She
might be going to burn it or she might use it to patch up the win-
dows. Other than that, it’s just empty and damp. No movement, no
voices. And here at the intersection a car nearly crashes into them.
The driver’s so surprised that he only hits the brakes at the last sec-
ond. The LAZ screeches, freezes, the driver’s chest hits the steering
wheel. And the car, unmoving and dead, freezes, too. Pasha peers
out the window, and what he sees renders him speechless. Right in
front of them is an Opel, meticulously smeared with mud. And at
the wheel is the Iguana, gray from sleeplessness, frightened, angry.
He’s sitting there, his eyes wide, not knowing whether to berate the
bus driver or apologize. And next to him, in the passenger’s seat,
sits a guy in a muskrat hat and a gray winter coat, also frightened,
also gray. But that’s not important. What’s important is that there’s
a coffin tied to the roof of the Opel. Pasha doesn’t believe his eyes

236
at first. “This can’t be for real,” he thinks. “Where’d they pick it
up?” It really is a coffin, though. The women see it, and they watch
it, mesmerized. And the driver even takes off his goggles to check.
Yeah, it’s a coffin. And Pasha realizes that the guy in the muskrat
hat has probably just ordered the coffin, that he’s taking it home
to bury someone. Public transportation isn’t running in the city,
so he’s taking a taxi. And it seems that the Iguana will carry just
about anything. A coffin? Well, a coffin it is. Knowing the Iguana,
there’s a good chance that the coffin isn’t empty—there’s already
somebody in there. All this lasts only a few seconds. Nobody has
time to say anything; the women whimper, and the driver looks
at the Iguana like he’s the captain of a ghost ship. The Iguana rec-
ognizes Pasha, and his eyes—always round, fishlike—become as
round as the moon. He looks at Pasha like he’s a dead man who’s re-
turned from the cemetery for his own wake. The Iguana’s fear passes
quickly, though; he steps on the gas, the Opel jerks forward, races
to nowhere, disappears into the rain.
The neighborhood ends. Then the road stretches along an
empty field—concrete structures started in the eighties yet never
finished, abandoned forevermore and now finished off by mor-
tar fire. Beyond the field is a little ditch with a bridge running
over it, and right in front of the bridge a checkpoint. It’s obvious
that they were fighting for control of this area for quite a while.
How’d the bridge remain intact? Couldn’t tell you. It’s still stand-
ing, though. They pull up, stop. Mortar fire has slashed the asphalt
around the checkpoint—it looks like someone’s been hacking at it
with a shovel. The cinder blocks have been slashed, too, and black-
ened with smoke. Soggy clothes, empty water bottles, and medical
kits are scattered all around. A broken tree, torn paper, bent metal.

237
There are caution signs off to the side, on the ground. Three or four
soldiers—anxious, angry—are in charge. They’ve clearly just taken
over, the checkpoint’s just been vacated. They’re steering clear of
the dugouts—don’t want to risk it—standing out in the rain, in-
specting the vehicles. The driver pulls up a little closer, looks out
the smashed window. A soldier approaches him: red beard, winter
footwear, a tourniquet wrapped around the stock of his Kalashni-
kov. The driver cheerfully asks a question or two, cracks some jokes,
but the bearded guy merely grimaces in reply as he peers inside the
bus. Pasha slowly turns away from the window so as not to draw any
attention to himself, and notices in the cracked rearview mirror that
another soldier is swinging out from behind the LAZ. He’s walk-
ing, swaying heavily, steadily thumping his fist against the side of
the bullet-­riddled bus. Slight, short-­legged, heavy, high boots, short
hair, gray, even though he looks very young. Mirrored sunglasses.
Fresh scar along his skull. Fingerless leather gloves, dark-­colored,
with shreds of blood on them. It’s as if he’s been in the kitchen, try-
ing to tenderize meat with his fists. He’s walking, approaching, not
paying any attention to the women. They don’t interest him. He can
tell that what’s most important is up ahead, next to the driver. He
comes closer and immediately locks eyes with Pasha. And Pasha
can see his expression change, his gaze begin to drift, his right eye
give a deathly twitch, as if he’s taking aim at Pasha. And putting two
and two together, his jaw locks up, and he furiously grinds his teeth.
Pasha goes as stiff as a board. The kid, who’s standing with his face
buried in Pasha’s stomach, can sense, just with his back, that some-
thing’s up, but he can’t turn around because he’s pinned between
Pasha and the doors, so he just looks up and asks in a whisper:
“What?”

238
 “We’re fine,” Pasha answers, also in a whisper, without taking
his eyes off the soldier. “Everything’s fine.”
But the soldier thinks Pasha’s talking to him, that he’s address-
ing him, which makes him grind his teeth even more furiously.
“What?” he says, swallowing lingering saliva and resentment.
“What the fuck is fine?”
“Pasha?” The kid questioningly tugs on Pasha’s sleeve.
“We’re fine, we’re fine.” That’s all Pasha can say, and his stiff
fingers squeeze the kid’s shoulder firmly, very firmly.
“What?!” The soldier’s getting all riled up. He yanks his gun off
his shoulder. “What?!”
At this point, a very young soldier, who can see what’s going
on, moves away from the cinder blocks, his stride powerful. Black
slightly askew winter hat, dark hair, skinny, smiling, hand resting
confidently on the stock of his gun. He walks over, peers over his
buddy’s shoulder, sees Pasha, smiles, and realizes that he knows
him—can’t remember where he’s seen him before, though. But he
knows him, he definitely does. And Pasha knows him, too. And he
can’t remember where he’s seen him before either. And they look
at each other briefly, for a split second, but that’s long enough for
the soldier to put his hand on his buddy’s shoulder—earnestly, with
authority.
“Everything’s fine, Rustem,” the soldier says. He’s still smiling,
yet it looks mechanical. “Everything’s fine. Let ’em go. It’s cool.”
Rustem’s shoulder twitches. It’s as if he wants to shake the hand
off, but the bearded guy isn’t letting go. He keeps smiling, his grip
firm. Rustem, overcome with hatred and suspicion, merely narrows
his eyes and grinds his teeth, but he restrains himself, doesn’t say
anything. He isn’t saying anything, so no one else around him has

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anything to say either. The driver waves goodbye to the bearded
guy; the LAZ heads out, slips between the cinder blocks, and rolls
onto the bridge.
Only now does Pasha feel just how scared he is. How sticky
and cold he is. It feels like someone just came up to him, took his
death out of a sack, showed it to him, and then tucked it back into
the sack. He’s seen it, though, so he realizes that someone can take
it out again, anytime, anywhere. But how does he know that second
guy, the young one? Who is he? Who was that?
“Who is he?” the kid asks him. “Who was that?”
“Dunno,” Pasha replies. “Don’t remember.”
“Yeah, sure.” The kid gives him a doubtful look. “Maybe he was
one of your students?”
“Maybe,” Pasha answers, and it starts coming back to him.
Two years ago? Or three? When was it? Springtime. Must’ve
been April. Or May? Yeah, May. So many smells—new, fresh
smells. The city, the high-­rises, the cold apartment block, the ele-
vator as cramped as a coffin, the last floor, the freshly whitewashed
hallway, the dark stains showing through the plaster, the metal stairs
attached to the wall, the gaping opening. What’s he doing there?
Who has he come to see? Pasha tries to recall, but before he can
the sky lights up above their heads. Bright, horizontal flashes slice
through the gray, rainy expanse. Grad rockets are soaring from the
factory, right over their heads—pale shadows whiz over them and
fly to the north, to the other side of the city. And once again, Pasha
can feel the metal spring digging into his heart, speeding it up,
pushing him forward, forward, pushing him farther away from here,
before something hits in retaliation, before the flashes come crash-
ing to the ground, flooding everything with metal and death. The

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driver tenses up and tries to squeeze everything he can out of the
LAZ. There isn’t much there, though. The bus continues through
the industrial park, passes one factory, followed by another, then a
depot, followed by some warehouses. Just get out of here. Poplar
trees along the road, gate arms, closed metal gates. Just get past the
industrial park, where there isn’t a soul in sight. If anything hap-
pens, nobody will find out, nobody will come help. The spring in-
side him tightens, making his blood pump faster. “Just get out of
here,” Pasha thinks. The driver looks frightened; he wasn’t expect-
ing rockets flying right over him. Now he’s clutching the wheel, not
hiding anything at all—not his fatigue, not his anger or fear. “Just
like that soldier at the checkpoint,” Pasha thinks. “The young guy
who kept smiling. He wasn’t hiding anything either, everything was
right there on his face, everything was in his smile.” Pasha thinks
of the soldier, thinks of his victorious smile. That guy really wasn’t
hiding anything. It was like he was telling Pasha, “I stormed this
shitty-­ass city, took over this checkpoint, drove everyone out, wiped
’em out, I’m the one in control around here, I’m the one calling
the shots, I can hand you over, all of you, right down to your guts,
bitch, but I won’t, run along now, you’re fucking worthless to me,
get out of here, scram, you’ll be dead soon anyway.” “Something
else, there was something else,” Pasha thinks frantically. “But what
was it?” Freshly whitewashed hallway, metal stairs, last floor. Some-
thing from a previous life.
When it gets so cold that the kid wraps his arms around him,
trying to get warm somehow, when the driver stuffs his hands in his
pockets, leans against the wheel, and starts steering with his stom-
ach, and when the women, all padded with pillows and blankets,
stop shouting, they finally roll past the last factory wall, cross a black

241
plowed field, and roll into the neighborhood. Pasha has tucked his
head into his shoulders and turned his side toward the windshield
so he doesn’t feel the draft as much, but soon enough he can’t help
glancing at the road, checking out what’s up ahead. What’s up
ahead is a long street, lined with houses. Many houses with signs
of shelling, holes in the slate, black marks on the walls and fences.
A local guy, frightened, enraged, peers out from behind a green
metal gate. He looks at the newcomers with suspicion. Who are
you? What’ve you come for? And most important, is the shelling
going to start again? Pasha came here several times as a kid, with
his old man. That’s to say that he doesn’t remember anything. Or
anything good, at least. A mining town that merged with the city
in the eighties, even though an endless industrial park has always
separated the two. A certain degree of autonomy, separation. Never-
theless, everyone works in the city. They used to, that is. Before the
war. The neighborhood’s been cut off; they were fighting for con-
trol over it in the fall, but then stopped a while back. When the city
was getting shelled, the people here were already patching up their
roofs and putting up new fences. Fences are an absolute must, obvi-
ously. The LAZ continues down the main street, reaches the end—
apparently this mining town’s historic district—and pulls up to the
bus stop. Pasha’s frozen fingers open the doors; he and the kid spill
out like two paratroopers with one parachute between them. Stiff
bodies, numb feet, damp clothes, heavy heads. Ten a.m. It’s a nice
January morning.
Pasha immediately notices what’s changed over the past thirty
years, since he was here last. Nothing. A new church was built. And
a supermarket. That’s it. The old town council building doesn’t have

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a flag on it—apparently, they tore down the previous one, the na-
tional flag, but haven’t had time to put the new one up. The old cul-
tural center—showing no signs of life. The nearby school is empty,
too; rain hovers over the soccer field. Stores stretch along the street:
the white brick, darkened by time, the blue paint of the window
frames, the Coca-­Cola ads taped to the doors. And a crowd, black,
taciturn, tracking them tensely, suspiciously. Just watch—the
crowd’ll charge and rip ’em to shreds. The women begin disembark-
ing, tossing their bags and pillows out the windows, step out into the
rain, mill around near Pasha, continuing to view him as the guy in
charge, staying near him, assigning responsibility to him for what-
ever happens to them. As everyone’s disembarking, the driver eyes
the crowd that’s been standing by the store. Then he shifts to Pasha,
who’s now getting soaked along with his expeditionary force, flashes
a crooked smile, starts up the bus, and puts it in reverse. And the
two groups are standing opposite each other—two packs of fierce
wet passengers at the empty bus stop, and just a hundred yards
of thick damp January air separates them. They stand there, not
knowing what to expect from each other, what to say to each other.
Pasha doesn’t know what to say either; he stands there, surveying
the crowd opposite him, discerns several older men in black jackets
and a woman in a raspberry down coat and two girls about ten years
old, standing by themselves, no adults nearby, backpacks slung over
their shoulders. He can’t make out anyone else—just blurs of faces
under headscarves and warm hats, deep cavities of eyes, makeup
smeared by rain, strands of hair that poke out from under hoods,
hastily applied lipstick. Women, mostly women. Harsh expressions.
It’s as if they can tell something bad is brewing. Nobody’s smiling.

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Pasha remembers the driver’s crooked grin, remembers that guy
who recognized him but didn’t say anything, smiling at the check-
point, and suddenly he remembers everything.
A year before the war, a previous life. Pasha’s been tutoring a
happy-­go-­lucky sixteen-­year-­old kid all spring, prepping him for his
entrance exams. The kid’s dad is a highly regarded and quite dis-
agreeable businessman—sells coal. He wants to send his son to the
capital. And then he’s planning on moving there himself. He finds
Pasha. Have to know Ukrainian, for the future. Pasha’s a good, af-
fordable teacher. And he hardly ever talks. He doesn’t talk more
than he should, that is. He only speaks Ukrainian during their les-
sons. It’s as if the language consists solely of medical terms that
simply have no practical application in everyday life. The kid knows
his future is riding on this. And he wants to move to the capital.
What could he even do in this town? Sell coal? His dad’s the one
who sells the coal. So he has to study. The only problem is that he
hates all this: Pasha, coal, his dad. His dad more than anything. And
he isn’t Pasha’s biggest fan either. He doesn’t even bother hiding
that. So twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Pasha takes
the train to the city and walks the fifteen minutes from the station.
The kid lives in his own apartment. Two rooms, not very big. Pre-
fab building, last floor. Ninth floor. Every lesson ends with a fight.
With the kid throwing a fit, actually. Pasha just sits there, hears him
out. He considers dropping the kid several times—calls his dad,
who insists that Pasha continue the lessons. He even starts pay-
ing him more. Not much more, but still. One time, in May, prob-
ably—warm days, clear, high-­hanging sky—the dad shows up un-
announced, right in the middle of a lesson, decides to pay his son
a visit, which throws him off for some reason. He flat-­out ignores

244
Pasha, gets all riled up, starts yelling; his dad stops playing nice, too.
Turgenev’s fathers and sons, basically. Pasha tries to mediate, calm
them both down, but first the kid tells him to go screw himself and
then the dad does, too. When the kid, swept up in the moment, tells
his dad to go screw himself, he cuts loose and nails his son right in
the head. The kid falls back into a chair but springs right back up,
saliva dribbling out of his mouth, wipes the tears away, grinds his
teeth helplessly, wildly, and runs out of the apartment. His dad fol-
lows him; Pasha, sensing that something’s up, also runs after him.
He even catches a glimpse of the kid scrambling up the metal stairs,
to the roof, his dad laboriously following him, and them disappear-
ing through a hatch, one after the other. Pasha stays down below,
looks up, at the bright blue square of May sky, and keeps repeating
to himself: “Just don’t jump, just don’t jump.”
Summer passes. The kid doesn’t get in anywhere. He fails his
entrance exams. Passes Ukrainian, though. Pasha’s still all wor-
ried, beating himself up; he thinks that he’s partially at fault, too.
He’s worried the kid’s dad is going to give him trouble. But no-
body hassles Pasha. He never sees the kid again and he quickly for-
gets about him. Now this has made him remember. “Man,” Pasha
thinks, surveying the dark crowd in front of him. “How’d that hap-
pen? My students fighting against me—how did I not notice that?
How’d I miss that? Well, not really against me.” He tries to reassure
himself. “Not against me. Why bring me into this? Yeah, fine, they
aren’t fighting against you.” Then he immediately disagrees with
himself. “But they are against you, directly against you. Against
everything that has anything to do with you. But what has anything
to do with you?” Pasha asks himself, confused. “All of it,” he answers
himself. “Your subject, your school, the flag outside. They’re fight-

245
ing for that. Against it, actually. Why didn’t he turn me in?” Pasha
thinks. “Why’d he let me go? He could’ve turned me in. He had
reason to, after all. Then what would’ve happened to the kid?”
And Pasha gets scared again. Very scared. And very cold.

This is how they take the dead to the cemetery. They’re walking
down the street at a leisurely pace, in no rush whatsoever, carrying
the coffin, passing the last houses, reaching the end of town. It’s like
they’re discarding useless things. Away from prying eyes, away from
their homes. Just like now. The group sprawls down the street like
a fire hose, stretching through the rain toward the city limits, away
from downtown. The people out front are now lost behind a sheet
of rain; those in the back are milling around here, by the stores,
arguing, deliberating.
The two groups just came together. Everyone was asking each
other where they’ve come from, where they’re going. Several
well-­informed individuals emerged right away and started talking.
They’re definitely going to try and take the town back in the eve-
ning. Convoys kept arriving at the Station all night, coming from
somewhere by Kharkiv, and they’re all going to head this way today,
to take the town back. But why try and take it back? An exhaustive
answer followed that question. First off, there are mines and coal
here, second, it’s a straight shot to the city from here, and third, no-
body wanted them to come in the first place. Those guys who rolled
in yesterday—they’re all in the city, none of them are in the town.
So just come on by and hang the national flag on the town coun-
cil building. The men held meaningful pauses, letting the women
interrupt them, and they unabashedly interrupted the women, too,

246
saying that nobody would come anywhere near here, that the Sta-
tion, along with all the military equipment there, got hit yesterday,
but that staying here still wasn’t an option. There’d be a battle to
retake the city and those new guys, the ones who rolled in yester-
day, would probably retreat through the town, so not a stone would
be left standing. The women yelled in protest, referencing relatives
they’d spoken to just yesterday who’d talked to some people in the
know who said that nobody would be retreating, that the new au-
thorities would be here awhile, so it was time to flee, no matter
what. The men sneered in response. Yeah, yeah, they’ll be here
awhile. Sure . . . They’ll cut a deal, the new guys’ll leave the city, the
other guys’ll come back, but still, we really ought to get the hell out
of here. Needing to get the hell out of here—that’s what everyone
is talking about. Some voices are sharp and resolute, others quiet
and confused. Nobody wants to stick around. Pasha tries to make
sense of where they’re all planning on going, how they’re going to
escape, what route they’ll take. He calls for order, asks for permis-
sion to speak. But nobody’s listening to him anymore; they aren’t
paying attention to him anymore. They merely look at him mistrust-
fully when he approaches, talk in hushed voices so he can’t hear
them, turn their backs on him, hiding something important from
him. Eventually, the kid can’t take it anymore.
“What are you even talking to them for?” he asks. “Let them go
wherever they want. Leave ’em alone.”
Pasha suddenly notices the kid. He’s been kind of quiet since
morning, not saying anything, not smoking, not hassling anyone.
Hands tucked in his pockets, back turned to the rain. “Is he all
right?” Pasha thinks, worried. “Last thing we need is another attack.”

247
 “Are you all right?” he asks.
“Are you?” the kid answers. He really does want to hear the
answer, just like Pasha.
“So.” Pasha sits down on a wet step and tries to speak calmly,
yet with conviction. “So, we gotta get out of here. Can’t stay here.”
“But where should we go?” the kid asks him.
“Home.”
“Through the fields?”
“We’ll go with everyone else,” Pasha says, after a moment’s
thought. “They’re looking to leave the city by the railroad crossing.
They say the checkpoint’s empty over there. Our guys left yesterday,
but those other guys haven’t come yet.”
“Your guys?” the kid scoffs.
“All right, don’t start with me,” Pasha says angrily. “Basically,
there’s no front line over there. We can just cross on over, go some-
place, and call a taxi. We’ll be home tonight. That’s if they haven’t
blown everything up by now.”
“How long are we gonna have to walk?” the kid asks. “To get to
the railroad crossing,” he adds.
“Five or six miles,” Pasha says. “And then it’s another five or six
from the railroad crossing to the closest village.”
“Man.” The kid’s surprised. “How’re we gonna swing that?”
“We’ll swing it,” Pasha says. “If we want to.”
“What if they actually did blow everything up?” the kid asks
quietly.
“There’s no way,” Pasha reassures the kid. “Nobody blew any-
thing up. Don’t worry.”
“You don’t worry,” the kid replies. “All right, nobody blew any-
thing up. Get up,” he says, setting off after the group. Pasha gets

248
up, surveys the city. In the north, behind streaks of rain, the air
trembles now and again, as if someone’s using power tools behind
thick curtains.
The street’s empty. The sky looks like a mountain of sheets
piled outside the train stewardess’s compartment by passengers in
the morning—heavy clusters of clouds all the way out to the hori-
zon, scattered and twisted inside out. The procession sprawls down
the street. They walk as if they truly are accompanying a body to
its final, sorrowful resting place. The women carry their bundles,
sidestepping potholes filled with water, but that doesn’t help much.
Water, cold wintry water, is everywhere. “For three days now, I’ve
been trying to escape,” Pasha thinks. “For three days now, I’ve been
running around in circles, like a circus bear. And there’s no end in
sight. For three days now, I’ve been walking with some people I
don’t even know. Like some metal spring in the air is pushing me
forward, goading me along, not letting me stop. Just like them,”
Pasha thinks, looking around. “Something’s goading them, too,
pushing them farther away from their homes. Half of them have no
homes. No relatives. So they’re wandering along the edge of town,
with no chance of escaping. They’re walking in circles, walking
around their city. And I’m walking with them, for some reason. And
I’m dragging the kid along with me, too.” Pasha’s most concerned
about the kid—his shoes aren’t made for this weather, and they’re
soaked—have been for a while. Just how are they going to make it?
Pasha could turn to one of the locals, ask for a ride, but there simply
aren’t any locals around. It’s like a ghost town, and they’re the last
ones left. They’re walking down a long, empty street, their wet shoes
kneading a gruel made of snow, mud, and sand, moving in a dark
stream past other people’s yards.

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 Steppe begins beyond the last fence. The snow is almost blue
from all the moisture, with black melted spots on higher ground.
There’s a row of prickly, barely visible trees on the horizon. Up to
its belly in snow, an old ambulance sits by the side of the road. The
driver’s side door is gone and its insides have been ripped out; they
lie nearby in a snowbank. The back doors stick up. Empty inside.
Dirty rags, camo jacket, spare tire. The group walks by, examining
the abandoned vehicle fearfully. Several women cross themselves.
It looks as if they’re crossing themselves because they’re passing the
red cross on the ambulance. Pasha walks, his hand resting on the
kid’s shoulder, which is probably weighing him down, but he keeps
it there—it’s warmer that way. “Really should dry his feet,” Pasha
thinks uneasily. “Change his socks. He might not make it otherwise.
I’d have to carry him.” That wouldn’t be easy—he realizes that right
away. Just beyond the town, the road starts going uphill. They’re
moving at a decent clip at first, trying to pass each other or keep
pace, at the very least, but just a mile or two later, in the middle
of a field, the women stop, sit down on their bundles along the
side of the road, to rest, catch their breath. They’re trying to stay
warm in the rain—fine, invisible, implacable. One of the women—­
headscarf concealing her face, yellow winter coat, high boots—is
sitting on an upside-­down bucket, hanging her head, looking at her
feet, not moving. Pasha can’t help but go over, try to do something.
The woman lifts her head abruptly—abscesses, bloody, cracked lips.
Pasha takes a step back, involuntarily averts his eyes. Eventually, he
works up the nerve.
“Everything all right?” he asks. “Need any help?”
The woman looks at him, not understanding anything. And

250
not saying anything, obviously. Pasha stands there, hunching over
her and trying not to look her in the eye. The kid timidly peers out
from behind him.
“Do you need any help?” Pasha asks again.
The woman thrusts her hand forward—no. She has abscesses
all over her hand, too. Pasha grips the kid’s shoulder, nudges him
forward.
“What could you do to help?” says an irritated voice behind
him.
Pasha turns around. Some teenager, about fifteen or so, not
very tall, though, only about a head taller than the kid, black Adidas
hat, spring jacket—isn’t keeping him warm at all—wet sneakers that
sink into the snowy mush. Frozen to the core, hands tucked in his
pockets, carrying an old, sun-­faded hiking backpack. He gives Pasha
a contentious look, sniffles. Where’d he come from? Who knows.
“Do you know her or something?”
“What’s there to know?” the teenager asks, surprised. “She lives
here, everyone around here knows her.”
“Here?” Pasha’s confused. “Like in town?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What’s wrong with her skin?”
“Fucked if I know,” the teenager answers honestly. “She’s sick,
don’t get too close to her.”
“But why’s she running away?” Pasha’s still confused. “If she
lives here . . .”
“Everyone’s running away, so she is too,” the teenager explains.
“I’m telling you, she’s sick. Don’t get too close to her,” he reminds
Pasha.

251
 He lifts his hood and goes around Pasha and the kid, hopping
through the puddles and running ahead.

The road slopes downward, into the valley. There’s more snow
all around. Cattails line the road. Sharp, deathly stalks show what
direction the wind’s blowing. The women stop more frequently,
wrap headscarves around the children, toss their clothing on the
children’s shoulders, walk slower and slower, their arguments grow-
ing quieter and quieter—all this jostling around in the snowy slop
is taking a lot out of them. It’s best to keep quiet. The descent into
the valley is long; then they climb back out, ascend a hill. When
they reach the top, they see a freshly made path that runs off the
road. Over there, off to the right, about two hundred yards away,
several structures loom: a small hamlet. Poplars around the build-
ings, barns. Looks like someone’s farm. One line of travelers head-
ing away from the road. And another line heading back, away from
the buildings, toward the road. They approach, their expressions
somewhat empty, and scared, seemingly regretting that they spent
time there, that they went there in the first place.
“What’s over there?” Pasha asks the women who are making
their way out of the deep snow, back to the road.
One of them immediately hangs her head, turns away, and
keeps walking, as though she didn’t hear him. Another woman runs
into Pasha, then goes around him, which makes her trip on her fur
coat. While she’s lifting the flaps and stepping onto the asphalt, she
says:
“You can get warm over there. They made a fire.”
Hurrying to catch up to her friend, she’s not looking at Pasha

252
either. “Who are they?” Pasha thinks. “No bags, no things. Where
are they going?”
“Let’s go warm up, all right?” he says to the kid.
The kid nods wordlessly. All right, let’s get moving. Quit stand-
ing around.

They walk down a narrow path as a wet crust coats the snow
right before their eyes. Don’t want to veer off the path—the snow’s
pretty deep here. The closer they come, the stranger things get: large
house with a slate roof, apple trees by the windows, sheds, small
fence, people scurrying around the yard. Can’t tell what’s going on.
A man who was toward the front of the pack heading away from
the town emerges from someplace outside, walks over to the fence,
knocks down part of it with a kick. He picks up the broken boards,
carries them back to the house. Bricks and slate are scattered across
the yard; the remnants of a broken couch poke through the snow.
“What was this place?” Pasha asks himself.
The kid doesn’t know what to say. They turn the corner of the
building. It looks like a stage once the colorful curtains have been
taken down—now you can admire the bare brick walls and the dis-
gruntled stagehands wandering around, not knowing what to do
with themselves. One of the walls is completely gone—probably a
direct hit. The house has been split in half; furniture spills outside,
like someone’s guts after they’ve been cut open. The house is large,
yet destitute. There’s hardly anything left inside: dishes filled with
snow, broken plates, sauce-­covered curtains stomped into the wet
floor, jagged shards of brick, newspapers, rags. And a lot of folks in-
side, clearly freezing. They’re sitting by the stove, burning the fence,

253
trying to get warm. It looks as though the place was cleaned out
a long time ago, and there’s nothing more to take—no food, no
valuables. The owners might not even know how many walls they
have now; they might be hoping nobody breaks in, worrying about
someone busting the lock. Well, nobody’s busted any locks, it’s just
that one of the walls is missing. Oh, and the porch is gone, too. And
the front door. Pasha steps inside, under the roof. It’s full of holes,
but there’s hardly any rain inside and it’s even warm by the stove.
Granted, pushing his way over there won’t be easy. Men in black
jackets have occupied strategic positions. They’re the ones who
keep an eye on everything, determine who to let near the family
hearth and who to chase out into the rain. They look at Pasha like
he’s their enemy. Who’s this character with the glasses and beard?
Where’d he come from? They instantly sense competition. The
women who were with Pasha at the train station avert their eyes,
acting like they’ve never seen him or the kid before. But Pasha un-
abashedly steps over some bundles, approaches the fire, and gives
one of the men a gentle punch.
“Let the kid get closer,” he says.
The man looks at Pasha with defiance and disgust, yet his dis-
gust doesn’t last long, and his defiance lacks conviction, and he
can’t say anything to Pasha, so he merely looks at him in silence.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Pasha adds severely. He says it quite firmly, so
the man’s compelled to answer, yet rather amiably—last thing he
needs is to get into a brawl here, in the ruins.
“Well, c’mon,” the man mutters. He’s about to say something
else, but Pasha isn’t listening to him anymore.
“Sit down,” the man says to the kid. He comes over, sits down
on a pile of bricks, and extends his frozen hands toward the fire.

254
 “Take off your shoes,” Pasha advises him. “Put on some dry
socks.”
The kid complies: takes off his shoes, peels off his socks, roots
around in his backpack for a dry pair. Pasha steps aside so he won’t
agitate the serious-­looking men in the black jackets. He finds a
busted chair missing one leg, places it against the wall, gets situ-
ated, more or less. The men, seeing that Pasha has stepped aside
and isn’t laying claim to anything else, ease up, leave the kid alone.
They’re just like dogs—ward off the danger, then relax. The women
stay away from them; they’re afraid, sitting off to the side and catch-
ing some warmth.
“So where should we go?” one of them—dark face, yellow
teeth, shabby hat, looks like a beaver—asks. “How far can you get?”
It’s unclear who he’s asking.
“We’ll cross the front line, get to the Station,” another guy—
slight, mouse eyes, high-­pitched voice—answers him.
“Well, what’s the point?” the Beaver asks him. “They’ll take the
Station any day now. You think they’re just gonna let up?” He points
at the ceiling. “They’ll chase those guys.” He points in Pasha’s direc-
tion. “All the way to the Dnipro. So where are we supposed to go?”
“Where are you headed now?” asks the guy with the high-­
pitched voice.
“If only I could get to the motel,” Yellow Teeth says. “My
daughter’s there. She’s a waitress. I’ll camp out at her place. She
has her own room.”
“The motel?” someone asks him. “At the edge of town?”
“Yep, that’s it,” Yellow Teeth says with satisfaction. “I could
camp out there until summer. Nobody’ll be trying to blow up a
motel. I know the owner, too. He’s a good guy.”

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 “What’s your daughter’s name?” Pasha interjects loudly.
The group’s dead still; they all turn toward Pasha.
“Anna?” Pasha asks, just as loudly.
“Huh?” Yellow Teeth forces out a response.
“I’m asking you, what’s your daughter’s name?” Pasha repeats
clearly. “Anna?”
Yellow Teeth’s somewhat flustered; he turns toward his pack
and smiles somewhat timidly, seemingly apologizing to them for
something. Like for leaving himself exposed. Then he hastily roots
around in his pockets, produces an old cellphone—all dirty and
beat up, looks more like a shoe brush than a phone—presses a but-
ton, runs outside just as hastily, and disappears around the corner.
His friends are sitting around, their silence oppressive, looking at
the flame, not knowing how to act. Eventually, one of them gets up,
goes out into the rain, disappears. Then someone follows him. The
small guy with mouse eyes is the last to leave. He stands up, looks
into the kid’s eyes obsequiously, tosses several boards into the stove,
and runs out without saying goodbye.
“Did someone call him or something?” Pasha asks loudly, turn-
ing to the women. But the women avert their eyes, not saying any-
thing either.
Pasha takes out his phone. No service, obviously.

Wonder who could’ve lived here. Pasha scans the wrecked

house. In the kitchen, above the table, last year’s calendar. In the
large room, where they’re sitting around getting warm, faded wall-
paper dangling loosely. Wooden floor. In the corner a bent metal
bed. Three women, as dark as trees in the winter, lying on it. Sev-
eral small, shredded pillows scattered around it. Clearly, children

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slept in that bed. Some people come inside, make their way closer
to the fire. Others head out into the rain once they’ve warmed up a
little and eaten something out of their bags. “I wouldn’t ever want
a bunch of people to gather in our house and be all warm like this,”
Pasha thinks. Examining someone else’s domestic life is like flip-
ping through someone else’s porn magazines—you never know
what not to touch. Here someone else’s whole life has been turned
inside out like pockets. Actually, it’s like an orphanage. You can’t
hide anything, everything’s exposed. The wallpaper and the pil-
lows. And hundreds of strangers pass through your life, not leaving
a single trace. They burn someone else’s furniture, not knowing
who’s living in their houses now. Maybe someone’s fueling the stove
with their library. “Gotta get out,” Pasha thinks. “Gotta get home
fast. Dad’s probably scared out of his mind. Yeah, and the kid really
shouldn’t be seeing all this.”
“All warmed up?” Pasha asks.
“I’m fine,” the kid answers.
“Time to go,” Pasha says. “It’s almost one. Don’t want to be
walking in the dark.”
The kid gets up, tosses a painted board into the fire. The flame
immediately licks the old, cracked paint. The women sit there, their
eyes fixed on the fire. And not saying anything, afraid they’ll say
too much. No one’s listening to them, though—everyone has had
enough as it is.

Soon enough, their clothes are wet again. Their shoes squelch,
it’s tough going, and there’s nowhere to stop and get warm. Endless
rainy fields that drop off in the south, turning into heavy, soggy slopes
that roll all the way down to Azov. They’re white from the snow and

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black from the dirt on the bends. A low, twisted row of trees that’s
supposed to block the wind and snow stretches along the road. It
doesn’t actually block anything. Wind crawls under their clothes,
clutches them, constricts their movements. Discarded belongings
occasionally loom in the snowbanks: an empty bag, an extra pair of
shoes, a woman’s sweater. Travelers shed what they don’t need. It’s a
long, arduous trip—ascending past the chalk quarry or sliding down
to the empty steppe lakes surrounded by cattails. This one hill is par-
ticularly tough. Their feet slip, the wind cools their blood, an end-
less expanse of white stretches to the other side of life. It feels like
you’ll never get out of this valley, this trap, like you’ll be trudging on
among these wet, frightened travelers until you lose consciousness.
On his way up, Pasha notices that a crowd’s gathering at the top;
they’re standing around, discussing something, in no hurry to move
forward. “Might have to turn around,” he thinks, scared, and picks
up the pace. He’s dragging the kid along. He asks the kid if he’s all
right every once in a while, and the kid nods wearily in reply—I’m
all right, just fine. They crest the hill. The wind’s particularly nasty
up here. The rain has let up, though. The air smells like wet snow.
The next snowy valley opens up before them; a cold forest sinks
into it blackly. And the road under their feet falls sharply, weaving
between some trees into a cold, frozen thicket. On the other side
of the forest, the path shoots up a hill. Spoil piles from the mines
and the gray blocks of buildings come into view beyond. It seems
as though a whole new life begins over there. It’s really close—just
go down the hill, walk through the forest, head up the next hill, and
you’re saved. The only problem is that a black tail of smoke—thick,
ominous, like someone’s burning casualty lists—hovers high and
crooked over the forest. The thing is, the road leads down there, to

258
where they’re burning them, and there’s no going around the forest.
Unless you want to wade through knee-­high snow for who knows
how long, who knows how.
“Where’s the fire?” Pasha asks the men who are standing
around and anxiously smoking.
“By the tracks,” answers one of them, turning around. It’s the
Beaver. He immediately recognizes Pasha, bites his tongue, but it’s
too late. “At the railroad crossing.”
“In the woods?” Pasha asks incredulously.
“Well, yeah. The front line runs along it. There’s some guys on
one side,” he says, giving Pasha a confidential glance. “And some
other guys are on the other side. It’s like a border.”
“What about the trains?” Pasha’s still confused.
“Well, they let some through,” the Beaver explains. “And stop
some others. It’s just like a border,” he reminds Pasha.
“What’s burning?” Pasha inquires.
“Oh, I don’t know.” The Beaver grows anxious, choosing his
words with care, and turns toward his friends. They avert their eyes,
though, not saying anything. “It might be a stronghold.”
“What now?” Pasha walks right up to him, looks him in the eye,
not letting him step aside.
The Beaver realizes that Pasha has no grounds to get tough
with him, but something forces the Beaver to keep standing there,
on his tiptoes, and keep answering his questions. He can feel some-
thing inside Pasha that he knows he should be wary of. And his
friends, wet and smoke stained, are just biding their time, not get-
ting involved. They’re smoking out in the wind, tucking their ciga-
rettes in the sleeves of their black winter jackets.
“Well, I don’t know,” the Beaver says. “Hafta go back, maybe.”

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 “Go back?” Pasha’s surprised.
“Well, there’s smoke everywhere.” Pasha’s reaction scares the
Beaver. “How are you gonna get through?”
“Yeah,” adds the small guy with the high-­pitched voice and
mouse eyes. He’s standing somewhere down below. “Gotta head
home and wait. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Then they all suddenly turn toward Pasha and the kid, seem-
ingly on cue, and start talking. “Yeah, yeah, gotta go back home
and wait. We’ll come back tomorrow. And you can wait with us,
too,” they hint cautiously. “Don’t be afraid. Just wait it out with us.
What do you have to be afraid of ?” And the Beaver notices that
everyone’s turned toward Pasha, walked over to him, and they keep
repeating, seemingly to each other, to no one in particular, yet actu-
ally to Pasha, first and foremost: “We’ll come back, yeah, just have
to wait it out.” And the Beaver lowers his head and looks at Pasha
defiantly, feeling he has his friends’ backing. We’ll wait it out, we’ll
all wait it out. And you’ll come along with us. Pasha senses his gaze
on him—and not just his. Mouse Eyes with the high-­pitched voice
tries to block Pasha’s path with his chest, but he doesn’t have much
to block with. Pasha easily pushes him aside, pulls the kid along,
and then turns around.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll come with you. Be right there,” Pasha
says. “Let’s go,” he whispers to the kid.
They head downhill, trying not to hurry, getting farther and
farther away from the group. Pasha can hear the men having an
anxious discussion that quickly turns into a fight. Why the fuck
did I have to tell him? You should’ve stopped him. Why were you
just standing around? And so on. “Faster, faster,” Pasha whispers
under his breath, more to himself than to the kid. “Faster, faster,

260
they won’t run after us, they don’t have the guts.” The afternoon sky
hangs low over the forest itself. A dark rope of women, just women,
both young and old, walking down the road cautiously, afraid
they’ll slip. But the closer they get to the forest—smoke splits above
it—the hastier their movements become, the more anxious their
strides become. Pasha and the kid speed up; they walk, not look-
ing back, hurrying to distance themselves from the group on the
hill. They pass some women, now nearly running. The women see
that they’re hurrying, so they speed up, too. Those two, they might
know something, maybe we should go hide in the woods right away,
maybe, back there, behind us, on the hill, something terrible, some-
thing that you just can’t run away from, something you just can’t
avoid, is going to appear any second now. Pasha and the kid can
hear the women conscientiously splashing through the puddles,
trying to keep up. The string shuffles along, runs to the first cluster
of trees. They don’t even cast any shadows under the gray January
sky. And it doesn’t get any easier when the forest encircles them.
It gets worse, scarier: trees battered by shells, trenches stretching
along the side of the road, and snow, the snow!—a dark yellow, like
it’s rotten or something, like someone died a few days ago and is
now rotting out in the fresh air. In a few spots, the yellow stains have
spread and turned completely brown. In others, dark clumps show
through faintly, like birthmarks on someone’s skin. But it’s all like
this, touched with rot.
“What’s with the snow?” the frightened kid yells, running,
gasping for air, yet not stopping. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know!” Pasha exclaims, not stopping either. “Run
for it.”
“What’s wrong with it?” the kid demands.

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 Horror and hysteria cut through his voice. It’s as though he’s on
the verge of bursting into tears, but he realizes that he can’t cry, he
shouldn’t cry, even though he really wants to. So he holds it in, but
he can only hold it in for so long—that’s obvious. “That’s obvious,”
Pasha thinks, immediately understanding what’s going on. “That’s
obvious. He can only hold it in for so long.” This is just like that
time. Just like when he had his first attack. When he turned his
stomach inside out, and he ran out of the house, into the night,
and Pasha had to run after him, chasing him between the trees, like
he was trying to catch his own shadow. “The same thing’s going to
happen now,” Pasha says to himself. “That’s obvious.” So he picks
up the kid, along with his backpack, and heaves him over his shoul-
der. He immediately feels all the weight of this thirteen-­year-­old
kid and all the weight of his winter clothes, and he feels all three
days’ worth of fatigue. “Just stay on your feet,” Pasha reminds him-
self, and he keeps running, hearing the weary women’s labored
breathing alongside him. He runs past the yellow, dead snow and
the slashed trees, down a long, very long winding road littered with
boards ripped out of something, pieces of metal stomped into the
snow, dirty rags. The farther he runs, the darker the snow becomes.
Then suddenly it’s just gone. There’s only black burned earth be-
tween the trees. And the trees are all burned, too. And smoke and
fire seep through everything around them. And then they reach the
railroad crossing.

Looks like a big dumpster that someone’s carelessly set on fire:

metal beams, a shattered tree, clothes stomped into a ball of soot.
Melted glass, destroyed foodstuffs, sandbags ripped like pillows in a
child’s room. Off to the side, between tree trunks slashed by shrap-

262
nel, a gate arm lies on the ground. A busted-­up booth, trenches all
around—also burned out and packed with frigid sand. The cold
steel of train tracks, white as bone. Marks left by mortar fire and a
bunch of military equipment. Shredded, blood-­stained camo scat-
tered across the embankment. The blood hasn’t frozen yet—looks
like the garment was just cut off someone’s body, just a little while
ago, and it looks like whoever cut it off is somewhere nearby, hasn’t
gone far, could come back any minute now. But that’s not it. It’s
just that there’s a Ural-­model truck, loaded with dark crates, parked
behind the booth, on the other side of the embankment. The cab’s
burned out, the wheels reduced to scorched scraps. For some rea-
son, the crates aren’t burning, though, just smoldering, and smoke
rises off them, like the truck bed is a crematorium, methodically
filling the winter sky. “Guess this is where the smoke’s coming
from,” Pasha surmises. “This is what’s burning.” Pasha lowers the
kid onto the ground; they stand there, apprehensively eyeing the
Ural. The women who were following them come running over,
wheezing wearily. A woman carrying a large plastic bag slings it off
her shoulder, collapses on top of it. She doesn’t have the energy or
words to gripe about anything.
“What is that?” a frightened woman—roughly fifty—yells to
Pasha. Heavy fur hat with black-­dyed hair sticking out, dirty sheep-
skin coat, winter boots with broken heels. Her makeup has been
washed away like a drawing in the sand.
“It’s on fire,” Pasha explains. “Shrapnel, probably.”
“I mean what’s the smoke coming from?” she continues, still
yelling. “What’s in the crates?”
“Dunno,” Pasha admits. “Food, maybe?”
“Food?” she yells. Terrified, she covers her mouth so as not to

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scream and then darts forward, over the embankment, across the
tracks, far away. Just get away from here.
The kid yanks on Pasha’s sleeve.
“C’mon,” he yells. “Quit standing around. It’s gonna blow.”
He darts forward, too. Pasha runs after him. They cross the
tracks, slip through some bullet-­
riddled cinder blocks, dodge
trenches, coils of barbed wire, tumble behind the last dugout. Out
of the corner of his eye, without turning his head, Pasha sees a
black army boot on a breastwork—right foot, cut shoelaces, blood
everywhere. Pasha even thinks there’s a foot inside, the remnants
of a foot, with bloody mush inside it. He wants to stop and move
closer, wants to get a better look, but the kid, still running, shouts
piercingly. C’mon, c’mon! Keep moving, follow me! And Pasha
runs forward, down the ripped asphalt, through the black, broken
forest and the wet afternoon air, running, grabbing the kid by the
shoulder and dragging him along. He wants to give the woman in
the fur hat a hand, but she lurches back, as if she’s just seen her
death at the front door, and Pasha and the kid abandon her, leaving
her on the black road. They run, not looking back, racing farther
and farther down the winding, wooded road, charging ahead, only
thinking about one thing. Now, right now, any second now, at this
very moment—it’s gonna blow, wipe everything out, implode this
wet, wintry space, implode the sky above them, stop time, now,
right now, right here.
They reach a row of trees, collapse into the snow, gasping for
air, breathing laboriously, like they’ve just taken the stairs up to the
top floor.
“Hear that?” the kid asks once he’s caught his breath.
Pasha listens intently. Engines. He lifts his head, glances at the

264
main road. Way up there, atop a hill, beyond the fog, two jeeps are
creeping, crawling along. They descend apprehensively, as though
they’re afraid of bumping into something unpleasant. Haven’t
turned their headlights on, though—they’re too afraid.
“What should we do?” It’s unclear who Pasha’s asking. “Are
those our guys? Hope they’re on our side.”
“What if they’re not?” the kid asks him.
“That’s bad if they’re not,” Pasha answers. “Really bad.”
“You know, Pasha,” the kid says to him, his tone serious, judi-
cious. “If those guys aren’t on our side, they’re gonna kill you. I have
no idea why they haven’t killed you already.”
“Haven’t given them a reason to,” Pasha replies, aggrieved.
“Uh-­huh, haven’t given them a reason to, sure. You know what
I’m getting at . . .”
“Yeah.” Pasha unexpectedly agrees with him. “Got to stay off
the road. Who knows who’s over there.”
That’s exactly what the kid wants. He gets up and runs toward
the road. They race across the asphalt, skid onto the shoulder, dive
into the snow, and make their way down a barely visible track that
shoots off to the side. It seems like nobody’s driven along this track
for a while, but the frozen imprints of treads crisply come through
the freshly fallen snow, like a scar through a thin T-­shirt. They run
along them, reach higher ground, and then quickly go down a hill,
gradually fading out of view. The kid, still running, pulls the bat out
of his backpack and hurls it into a heap of snow. “He’s all grown
up,” Pasha thinks as he runs after him. “So mature, so serious. He’s
absolutely right—they might not kill me, but they’ll throw me into
some pit. And I’ll sit there until they pull me out. It’s all so obvi-
ous, who I am, where I work, what I do.” And Pasha realizes that

265
he hasn’t actually seen the kid for a while. And that when he did
see him, they didn’t have real conversations. They’d just exchange
a few words about something trivial, something neither of them
found interesting, and go their separate ways. Back to their respec-
tive corners, until the next time, until the next conversation. “Until
the next fight,” Pasha adds to himself, and thinks back to how he
found the kid among the trees, how he dragged him along, how
the kid resisted, didn’t want to go with him. How he eventually bit
Pasha’s hand. How he screeched in surprise and grabbed the kid by
the scruff of the neck like a naughty puppy, how the kid squirmed
and howled—just like a puppy, actually—fearfully and maliciously.
How later on, at home, in the kitchen, everyone was yelling, their
voices angry, like they were at someone’s funeral, like they were
blaming each other for someone dying—no chance of forgiveness,
no hint of leniency, letting their voices get loud and uncontrolled,
not listening to anyone. That time the kid curled up into a ball.
He started shaking, all shriveled up and huddled with convulsions.
But everyone was yelling so loudly; they wanted to scream it all
out, so they weren’t even paying attention to the kid. They only
started when he let out a screech and began rolling across the floor,
as though demons were crawling out of him. Pasha was the first to
notice, but his voice just snapped. He darted over to the kid, turned
his head toward him. Pale face, eyes rolled back in his head, a string
of saliva dangling from his lips. Pasha picked him up and placed
him on the bed. After that, his sister, the kid’s mom, that is, began
wailing, howling as loud as she could, and then rushed over to the
kid’s side. Pasha’s old man stopped short before he could get out
his most cherished curse. Everyone was hovering over the kid, not
knowing what to do with themselves or how to act; they stood there

266
and watched warily as the kid got really quiet, as if he was falling
into a warm, deep sleep. And Pasha rushed to call the ambulance,
still not knowing what he would say or how to explain what was
going on, while his sister was hovering around the kid and wailing—
despondently, as loud as she could—scaring Pasha and his old man.
“How old was he then?” Pasha thinks, trying to remember. “Nine,
ten? How many more times did it happen after that? Twice, three
times?” That went on until his sister started talking—quietly at first,
on the phone, to her girlfriends, and then loudly, more firmly, with
conviction, with authority to Pasha and his old man. The kid’s not
doing well, need to do something, need to get him treated before
it’s too late, even though, in all honesty, it’s already too late. There’s
no real point, what’s done is done, it’ll be easier to just send him to
the orphanage, save myself the hassle. Pasha’s old man was indig-
nant, obviously. And Pasha was indignant, too. But his sister did as
she pleased. Neither of them, not Pasha and especially not his old
man, could deter her, stop her. Maybe they actually started believ-
ing that the kid had something really wrong with him, and things
would be better that way. But actually, they probably just didn’t feel
like fighting for the kid. They surrendered him, didn’t protect him.
Maybe they thought, “The kid’s just a kid, he doesn’t understand
what any of this means anyway, we’ll see once he gets a little older.”
But it seems that the kid understood everything; he understood
everything perfectly well. “That kid, he really does understand
things, and now he understands everything perfectly well, and he’s
absolutely right,” Pasha thinks as he stomps down the snowy slope.
“He’s really matured since then. Why am I such a wimp?” he thinks,
wheezing. “Why didn’t I protect him? He’ll never forgive me for
that. Never,” Pasha agrees with himself. “No matter what.”

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 The track runs along the foot of a hill. People clearly used it
to avoid the checkpoints on the main road. Their feet slide, a brisk
wind wafts in from the steppe. It’s getting even colder, even more
foul. In one spot, where the track veers to the right and goes up-
hill, they can see that some tanks stopped and lingered for a while,
long enough for their treads to plow up the ground all around. The
snow has sunk by the track. It’s as if someone did some digging and
then filled up the pits, and the earth has sunk under the pressure of
heavy rain. Pasha stops and looks, trying to figure out what this is,
what’s buried here, what it could be. The kid comes over, catches
Pasha’s eye. They stand there, not daring to speak. And then a phone
rings. Right in the middle of the field, in the gray, wet, snowy field.
Pasha twitches. He immediately thinks of the demolitions guy by
the orphanage. “From underground,” he thinks, terrified. “They’re
calling from underground. Buried him with his cellphone.” And
the kid cowers, tucking his head into his collar, not saying anything.
Then he can’t take it anymore.
“C’mon,” he says. “Pick up already, someone’s calling you.”
Pasha slaps at his pockets, pulls out his phone. Someone really
is calling him! His dad. He holds the phone against his ear, tries to
make something out, anything. Mechanical noise, crackling, then
some sort of cold echo, like the call is coming from a barrel that’s
been welded shut. The call drops. Pasha tries to call back, but he
doesn’t have any service. There’s no knowing how his old man got
through.
“Dad called,” Pasha says. “I’ve got to call him back.”
“Yep. And what are you gonna tell him? That you’re hiding
from tanks out in some field? Let’s go.”
He starts moving again, tucking his hands into his jacket

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pockets, not saying anything. Pasha’s breathing heavily, but he’s
keeping pace. Suddenly, behind them, where the woods are, some-
thing explodes. Pasha slumps onto the snow, the kid crouches. One,
then a second, then another.
“What’s that?” Pasha yells.
“It’s coming from the woods,” the kid answers intently, ada-
mantly, seemingly afraid that Pasha won’t listen to him. “Run, hurry
up.”
They get up, run down the track, sliding on the hardened,
snowy crust, go down into a gully, and dodge some thornbushes.
There are more and more of them as they go. The track snakes be-
tween black, twisted branches, and they suddenly pop out by some
people’s yards. Back there, amid the thorns, in the field, Pasha heard
dogs’ voices—chilled, hoarse—but he thought he was just imagin-
ing things. But no, he wasn’t. There’s a village up ahead. They’ve
popped out right on someone’s property, and a dog—somewhere
over there, in the early twilight, beyond the snow and trees—is tear-
ing through the air with his teeth, sensing their approach, wailing,
warning everyone that outsiders are approaching, snapping the so-
norous afternoon silence.
“Stop,” Pasha yells.
The kid stops, discontentedly. Pasha walks over, places his hand
on his shoulder. The kid’s wiped out, wheezing, his eyes red with
fatigue, scanning the area for any possible danger. He waits word-
lessly.
“What are we gonna do?” Pasha asks, looking the kid right in
the eye.
“Well, isn’t it obvious? Let’s find someone who’s still alive and
get the scoop.”

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 “What if they turn us in?” Pasha asks quietly.
“What if they don’t?” the kid asks in reply.
“It’s risky,” Pasha says.
“It’s cold,” the kid reminds him. “Get with the program, Pasha.
Let’s go look for some people already.”
The street starts abruptly, seemingly coming out of nowhere,
out of the air. And the air all around is like a boot someone’s kicked
off after coming in from the snow and placed by the radiator so the
cold water can drip off it. It starts raining again. The first yard is spa-
cious. An old brick house hides behind a lopsided fence. There’s a
pile of firewood by the porch—somebody clearly stocked up that
morning. Moisture seeps into the fresh notches on the wood. The
windows are dark. But everything around here is dark; there aren’t
any lights on in the house across the street either. Just dogs erupting
in some barns nearby.
“It’s dark,” Pasha says, nodding at the house.
“Clearly it’s dark,” the kid answers. “They cut the power lines.”
Farther down the street, a fallen pole lies on the ground. The
wires around it look like hair that’s been brushed with a rough
comb. Beyond the trees, at the end of the street, they can hear a
powerful engine. Sounds like a tank. There’s no knowing where it’s
going, but it’s best not to wait around.
“C’mon,” the kid says, slipping through a hole in the fence.
Now the kid’s telling Pasha what to do, and he’s listening.
“Well, why not?” he thinks. “He’s absolutely right, knows what he’s
talking about.” They walk through a little garden. Garage to the left,
smells like gasoline, rickety addition to the right, a soggy path be-
tween them. They walk, watching their step, past the garage. And
here, bursting at their backs, comes a dog’s heavy bark. The kid

270
leaps forward, Pasha instinctively ducks—a dark German shepherd
with yellow spots is thrusting all of its muscular body at a wobbly
barn fence, extending its hind legs like a ballerina in pointe shoes,
trying to break out of its open-­air cage, its mouth grabbing air spite-
fully, viciously barking at these two outsiders, sticking its snout out
into the rain. The smell of wet dog. The front door swings open; on
the threshold, warily hunching over and peering into the twilight,
stands a man. Track bottoms, shabby sweater, bare feet. He’s curl-
ing his toes, like he’s stepping into the cold sea. He’s shivering, can’t
make anything out.
“Who’s there?” he yells and breaks into a coughing fit. He’s
holding on to the door with one hand so it doesn’t shut and he’s
holding an ax, which he apparently used to chop the firewood just
before this, in the other. “Who’s there?”
The dog’s going wild, lurching at the fence, banging his tense
body against it, trying to break free somehow and devour them.
“Cool it!” Pasha suddenly yells. “We aren’t going to hurt you!”
They move closer. The man is about fifty. He gives them a
frightened look, still not lowering his ax.
“We’re from the Station,” Pasha yells over the dog. “I have a kid
with me. We just want to get warm real quick.”
He squeezes the kid’s shoulder. I’ll do the talking, you just keep
quiet. The kid plays along, slouching and sniffling out in the rain.
The man keeps coughing; then he turns around and disappears into
the house. Without closing the door behind him. Pasha walks up
the steps, the kid in tow.
There’s a table heaped with apples on the porch. The apples
are as chilly as the extinguished meteorites that kept falling in the
steppe all through autumn. The place smells of dampness and rot.

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They walk into a room. Bed in the corner, winter coat instead of
a blanket. A lightbulb dangles like a disconnected studio micro-
phone. The lights are out, the owner’s got a gas lamp burning. He’s
sitting at the table, his expression surly. He’s placed the ax next to
him, on the table. Two mugs, two plates, gray bread. One might
think he’s planning on slicing it with his ax. There isn’t much light,
but his face is still visible. Yellow skin, heavy bags under his eyes,
bald spots. “Heavy drinker,” Pasha thinks. “Or he used to be.” His
bare toes tap across the dirty rug. Pasha and the kid stand in the
doorway, in no rush to come in, yet not intending to leave.
“Excuse me.” Pasha’s tone makes it sound like he’s telling the
owner to go screw himself. “I’ve gotta dry his clothes, otherwise
he’ll catch a cold.”
“Who are you?” the owner asks gloomily. He’s clearly trying to
sound tough, but he lacks natural toughness. And the bags under
his eyes make him look hungover, not intimidating. He’s speaking
Russian, but it’s far from flawless. He’s stressing the wrong syllables
and such.
“I’m a teacher,” Pasha explains. “From the Station. We were in
the city. Heading home now.”
“You’re coming from the city?” he asks, surprised. “How’d you
get through? They closed the checkpoint over there, at the railroad
crossing.”
“There’s no checkpoint there,” Pasha replies, and then word-
lessly begins peeling his jacket, heavy with moisture, off his body.
The owner looks at him morosely, yet doesn’t say anything; he
restrains himself, observes. The kid pulls off his shoes—also word-
lessly, without waiting for an invitation—squelches over to the table
in his wet socks, and sits down, opposite the owner. And then a

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woman peers out of the next room. Fat, frightened. Short hair dyed
chestnut brown, heavy chin, wet eyes. She sees her husband at the
table, the ax next to him, two strangers—one an adult with a beard
and glasses, the other just a kid. Who are they? No clue.
“What do we have here?” she asks discontentedly, primarily ad-
dressing her husband, as if he just invited them in off the street to
have a nice chat. “Well?”
“Where can we hang our clothes?” Pasha interrupts her.
He walks over, his eyes red behind fogged-­up glasses. The
woman gives in, averts her eyes, and then looks at the kid, but he
has red eyes, too, from the rain and sleeplessness.
“What are you sitting around for?” she yells at her husband.
“Huh?”
The owner anxiously springs up and grabs Pasha’s coat out of
his hands. Let’s go, the stove’s over there. They walk into the next
room. Bed, chair, torn photo wallpaper. Lit stove, dry firewood on
the floor. They hang up their clothes; Pasha moves two pairs of
shoes, his and the kid’s, closer to the fire. They come back. The kid’s
already sleeping on the bed. The owner walks over, gently covers
him with the coat. He comes back and sits down at the table, closer
to his ax.
“What’s going on in the village?” Pasha asks severely.
The owner looks at him, waits, doesn’t answer. There’s no ap-
parent reason for him to be afraid of this teacher, but something still
compels him to exercise caution. “There’s something off about this
teacher,” the owner thinks.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t left the house in three days.
There was some shelling over there.”
“Is public transportation running?”

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 “Is public transportation running?!” he repeats, aggrieved.
“Did you hear what I just said? There was shelling.”
“Well, how can we get to the Station?”
“How am I supposed to know?” the owner answers wearily.
He sits there. His eyes wander, his fingers drum on the table.
Pasha’s bearing down on him, not stepping back.
“So what are we gonna do?” he asks.
The owner strokes his ax, contemplates, deliberates, and runs
his hand through his thinning hair.
“What’s going on over there, at the Station?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine,” Pasha replies, growing a bit anxious. “If he
tries to kick us out,” he thinks, looking at the owner. “I’ll knock him
out. With his own ax.” “Everything’s under control. The situation
is stable.”
Hearing that, the owner warily lowers his eyes. “Something’s
up,” he thinks with a tinge of doubt. “This teacher, he’s hiding some-
thing.”
“Well, all right then,” he says, eventually. “Are you gonna tell
me what side you’re on, at least?” he asks hopefully.
Pasha walks over to the table, rests his fists on it, and looks the
owner right in the eye, his gaze persistent and draining.
“Well, what do you think?” he answers.
The man thinks, hanging his head. It looks like he’s thinking
with the bags under his eyes.
“I see,” he says eventually. What do you see? What the fuck do
you see? Pasha only says that to himself.
“Okay,” he says to the owner.
“So,” the man says anxiously, “why don’t I give you a ride out of
the village? If the checkpoint’s gone.”

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 “And?” Pasha’s bargaining with him.
“I’ll try to slip out to the main road. I’ll drop you off there. Then
you’ll call a taxi and head home. Don’t have to pay me anything.”
“Why’s that?” Pasha asks severely.
“Listen.” The man’s growing even more anxious. “I’m not ask-
ing you any questions. Just let me give you a ride, all right? Maybe
you’ll bail me out one day.”
Pasha doesn’t reply. He looks at the owner like he’s a piece of
spoiled meat.
“I’ll bail you out,” he says harshly. “I’ll give you a medal.”
The owner gives him an aggrieved look. The bags under his
eyes twitch. But he restrains himself, doesn’t say anything.
“Let the kid sleep,” he says, standing up. “We’ll leave in an
hour.”
He gets up, turns off the lamp, leaves. Pasha stands there in
the dark for a bit. He looks at the kid, at his face, as tranquil as a
dead person’s, at his jacket, which he’s sleeping in—didn’t bother
taking it off. At one point, it seems as though the kid has stopped
breathing. Pasha breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of that. The
kid’s saying something, though, incoherently, in his sleep, so Pasha
calms down. Everything’s fine, he’s still alive. He gropes for a chair,
sits down, rests his head in his hands, and sinks into a deep sleep. In
his sleep, all he sees is snow that he has to wade through. He steps
through this snow, sinks into it, pulls his leg out, sinks into it again,
takes one step after another, struggling, like he’s walking through a
river. He wades through the snow, continuing to do what he’s been
doing all day, just in his sleep, though—trying to escape, trying to
get somewhere, feeling that spring inside him compressing, feeling
it compel him to take step after step. Feeling someone’s breath—

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heavy, animal—at his back. He turns around. He doesn’t see any-
one, though. Just white snow stretching to the horizon. He occa-
sionally wakes up, sees the damp moonlight through the window,
hears raindrops pattering against the glass, catches the sweet smell
of gas, and sinks into his snow again, wades through it again, shivers
in it, gets lost in it, tries to escape death. But how are you supposed
to do that in this snow? You won’t escape, don’t even try. The snow
makes you helpless, vulnerable. You sink into it. It burns you down
to the bone, and then you’ll never cast off the touch of death, you’ll
feel it for as long as you live. But how long will you live, huh?
It hadn’t snowed for a while that winter. All December, cold
dry air was coming up from the south, from the sea, chilling the
trees and rivers. Then, sometime around the holidays, before New
Year’s, it snowed. And it snowed for a few days straight, without let-
ting up. On New Year’s Eve, they—still the whole family—sat in
the main room, endlessly flipping through the channels, seemingly
expecting to receive some good news. How old was he then? Fif-
teen, going on sixteen. His sister went to bed. She couldn’t take it
anymore. His parents weren’t saying anything, and it felt like some-
thing had been taken from them, they’d been deprived of some-
thing, something important had been stolen from their home. And
everyone knew that, but for some reason they weren’t saying any-
thing. At some point, Pasha went to bed, too, but he didn’t lie there
for long. He stood by the window, looking at the snow that kept
falling and falling and listening to his parents switch off the tele-
vision and begin clearing the table. He listened to his mom rattling
the dishes in the kitchen, his dad going outside, grabbing some-
thing from the yard, coming back inside, and the brisk breath of
the blue nighttime snow flowing through the house, touching your

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skin. And you instantly feel the entirety of winter, just how much
of it there is, how it begins right here, outside the window, between
these trees, how it fills up the space around you: their snowy yard,
the street lined with sleepy houses with smoke rising out of them
into the sky, the road they’ll have to shovel come morning, the foot-
bridge that’s also been coated by nighttime snow, the stores and
library, the school, the local businesses, the railroad buildings, the
train station, empty at this hour. The route that he could walk with
his eyes closed, the route that he got used to as a child, the route
he associates with his childhood. Winter is at every intersection,
reflected in every dark window, making itself felt on the roofs and
hillsides. And everything that he’s used to, that he knows so well,
is filled with winter, like a mailman’s bag with newspapers. Have
to embrace this winter, live it, have to get used to it, have to learn
to derive pleasure from it, feel joy. “I’m gonna start learning right
away, tomorrow morning,” he says to himself. “I’m going to work
long and hard at it.” Winter shouldn’t scare you, you shouldn’t be
afraid of it. It’s like a dog that you let into your home, make a part
of your life. Then, for the rest of its life, it’ll be willing to die for you,
it’ll recognize your voice and scent, follow you wherever, wait for
you, no matter where you go or when you come back. “I’m gonna
learn that,” he thinks. “I have so much time ahead of me, it’ll all
work out.” And with that, he falls asleep.
In the morning, he runs over to the window and doesn’t see
anything! Just snow—deep, shiny, its crystals wounding his eyes,
blinding him. And he quickly gets dressed and slips outside. Before
anyone else gets up, before anyone notices that New Year’s Eve is
long gone and a new day filled with light and snow has begun, he
runs outside and drowns himself in the snow, jumps in it, tramples

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through it, wades under the trees, white and laden. He makes his
way out to the street, the empty street of the new year—no one’s
out, no one’s moving around—walks at random through the fresh,
untrodden snow, reaches the school, passes the stores, pops out
by the train station. It’s empty here too this morning. Everyone’s
asleep. Nobody’s aware that a new year has started, that a new life
has started. Nobody’s aware of anything. Nobody’s around. And he
trudges across the railroad tracks, plunging into knee-­high snow,
climbing the embankment, a white expanse now hovering over the
tracks, and an entire world opens up before him, one filled to the
brim with snow. And he immediately wants to cross it, from begin-
ning to end. And he slides down the embankment, runs through a
row of trees, wades through the snow, which is getting deeper and
deeper. He descends into the valley, passes some snowbanks that
faintly outline the foundation of an unfinished factory, plods into
an open field that stretches all the way up to the sky, as far as the
eye can see. He’s walking endlessly, losing all sense of time and
space, feeling only the snow around him and the sun that’s rising
higher and higher in the January sky. When he’s worn himself out,
he just falls onto the snow, his face sinking into it, his lips touching
it, burning himself. Then he rolls onto his back and looks up at the
sky—endlessly high, immaculate. And then he spots a cloud—the
first and only one in this immaculate, shining space. “Where’d it
come from?” he asks himself, annoyed. He turns his head and sees
clouds rolling in from the south, from the sea, covering the hori-
zon. They’ll be here soon, above him, right over his head. He shrugs
frostily and feels that lying in the snow isn’t all that cozy: his fingers
are frozen, the snow on the lapels of his coat has turned into an icy
film. “Time to go back,” he says to himself. “Screw that,” he replies

278
to himself. “Don’t think so,” he adds less firmly. “Just not today.
Today, nobody can stop me, no matter what. Today, I’m going to
learn to love the world and take it as it is. And have the world learn
to love me.”
He gets up and keeps going, through the deep, untouched
snow. It’s getting harder and harder to move, though. And his feet
in his short winter boots are freezing, aching. “Gotta head back,” he
reminds himself somewhat anxiously. “Don’t think so,” he sharply
answers himself again. “Well, all right.” He begins bargaining with
himself. “Walk to those trees over there, and then turn around.
We’ll see,” he says to himself in a dismissive tone. He walks, pull-
ing his legs out of the snow. The trees float forward, slowly, unhur-
riedly. It’s getting even colder. Eventually, the clouds roll into his
valley, blocking out the sun. Suddenly, it’s so gray and gloomy. But
he’s already reached the trees; he victoriously stands on the slope,
looking at the frozen river below. “The river!” he yells to himself
cheerfully. “I made it to the river!” “That’s great,” he answers him-
self anxiously. “Now head back home. Wait a sec,” he disagrees with
himself. “I’ll go down to the river and then turn around.” “Don’t,
go home,” he objects. “Whatever,” he says, not listening to himself.
“There and back, that’s it.”
He rolls down the slope, reaches the bank dotted with cattails,
and runs out to the middle of the river. He victoriously throws his
arms up toward the leaden sky as snow starts to fall. “Ye-­e -­a-­h!” he
shouts and then crashes through the ice. Under the thick layer of
snow, he didn’t even notice that the ice was very thin, especially in
the middle of the river. It all happens before he can get scared. It’s
a good thing that the river’s so shallow and silty. So he’s up to his
waist in icy water. Frightened, helpless. And he instantly realizes

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that it’ll be dark by the time he gets out of here, by the time he gets
home. And he’s wet and frozen. Will he make it through the deep,
dark snow? Now that’s a big question. And at this point, he starts
to panic.
He plods through the snow for a long, very long, endlessly long
time, his hands and feet numb, expending every ounce of energy
to keep himself from stopping, to push through another snowdrift,
to trudge to the top of another hill. Walk, walk, don’t stop, just
don’t stop. He looks back and sees a flat, gray expanse sprawling
out, encircling him, robbing him of any chance of escape, and this
all-­encompassing gray is so eerie that it somehow gives him new
strength, and he starts running, running and crying, occasionally
looking back, fearfully discerning black dots emerging over behind
him on the horizon—one, two, three, four, five—and they’re grow-
ing in size, moving in his direction. He still can’t make out what
they are, but he clearly, lucidly understands that he has to escape,
no matter what, run far away from those dots on the gray backdrop,
because that’s his death heading toward him, and he just can’t let
it catch him. Don’t let it catch him, break out of this deep, gray
mush, get home, try to outwit his own death—that’s all that needs
to be done.
Then, through a whole night of feverish heat and chills, feeling
his body burning up and his heavy head exploding from exhaus-
tion, he curses everything in this world, curses himself for being
so foolhardy, curses himself for being so naive, curses the world
for its deception. He curses and realizes that the wintry tinge of
mortality, the icy breath of fear and nothingness will accompany
him until the day of his death, the death that’s missed its target this
time around, yet probably hasn’t waived its rights. No, death hasn’t

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waived anything, it knows how to wait, and it’ll catch him at this
time of year—in the deep snow, under the leaden skies, among the
cold rivers. One of these days, it’ll do it, as soon as he lets his guard
down and forgets about its presence, its lingering resentment. So
he’ll have to go through his whole life with this fear of the snowy
unknown, the icy wasteland. But for now, he still has to try and sur-
vive. Because the dead aren’t afraid. At all. Of anything. With that,
he falls asleep.
“Pasha,” the kid says. “Wake up.”
Pasha springs to his feet. The kid produces some matches, lights
the lamp, all business. He’s already got his shoes on. Pasha drowsily
rocks his head back and forth, finds his glasses, which slipped off his
nose while he was sleeping, and puts them on.
“Where’s the owner?” he asks.
“He went out—” the kid begins.
“He went out?” Pasha interrupts him, springing up. “He’s
gonna turn us in,” he thinks in a panic. “That’s gotta be it.”
“He went out to the garage,” the kid says, seemingly hearing his
thoughts. “To warm up the car. He’s gonna take us to the bus sta-
tion. Grab your stuff.”
He steps outside. Pasha goes into the next room, finds his
clothes, retrieves his boots. His jacket’s dry, and so are his boots,
more or less. He puts them on, laces up, picks up his backpack,
leaves the room. He bumps into the lady of the house in the hall-
way. Frightened, she presses herself against the wall. Pasha cau-
tiously walks past, taking in the smell of hard soap. It’s as if she was
eating it. Pasha leaves without saying goodbye.
A blue Zhiguli, Model Three. Rotten fenders held together
with playdough. There’s a layer of paint on top, but it still looks

281
like the Zhiguli is made of playdough. The passenger’s seat is gone.
Clearly, the owner uses the car to haul vegetables or something, so
he just threw one of the seats out. Pasha and the kid hop into the
back. The owner has pulled on his rubber boots and put on his pea-
coat. He isn’t looking at Pasha. He walks on, opens the gate, gets
behind the wheel, roots around in his pockets awhile, seemingly
trying to delay their departure, but eventually gets going. He pulls
out, cautiously enters the street fog. Pasha sits behind him, examin-
ing the wrinkles on his neck, the gray, unwashed hairs poking out
from underneath his black hat. The kid’s sprawled out beside him,
extending his legs all the way up to the driver’s seat. He’s peering
with great interest at what’s happening out the window. And out the
window, absolutely nothing is happening. The street’s empty, dark,
the fog merely accentuating the darkness. The driver isn’t turning
on his headlights. He gropes ahead slowly, yet confidently—he ap-
parently knows the way—moving down the street like it’s the hall-
way in his own home. He even tries to dodge the potholes. They
reach an intersection, slow down. The driver warily peers into the
fog, practically sniffing it, deliberates for a moment, then turns left.
He drives a hundred yards, slows down again, crosses himself.
“What are you doing?” Pasha asks him, surprised.
“There’s a church over there,” the driver explains, nodding at
the darkness.
Pasha peers out the window. But he can’t see any churches,
obviously. The kid turns toward him and winks cheerfully, seem-
ingly saying, “Well, aren’t you gonna cross yourself?” Pasha smiles
in reply. They drive into a field. The fog comes apart like an old
boot. The driver steps on the gas.

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 “They took down the checkpoint,” the driver explains. “It was
there, on the edge of town.”
“Whose checkpoint was it anyway?” Pasha asks.
“Well, uh . . . ,” the driver hesitates. “Your guys,’” he finally
musters. “They pulled out two days ago.”
“I see,” Pasha replies coldly, seemingly saying, “That’s what
they had to do—guess nobody bothered asking you.”
That’s how the driver interprets what he’s said, too. He rides
on in silence, his eyes fixed on the black asphalt. The rain’s calming
down. It gets very quiet, spacious—everything’s filled with black-
ness, flooded with it. They actually get to the main road a little later.
A bent metal sign protrudes somewhere off to the side. The driver
stops, turns off the engine, gets out, walks forward.
“Where’s he going?” Pasha inquires.
“Who the hell knows,” the kid replies. “Maybe he’s running
away.”
“What about his car?”
“He’s so afraid of you, he’d think nothing of just leaving his car
here,” the kid says, laughing.
Suddenly, in the surrounding blackness, the moon—big,
bright yellow—comes into view. It’s been hanging over them the
whole time. They just couldn’t see it behind the clouds. But now the
clouds have parted, and it’s spilled out, right at them, and suddenly
everything’s translucent, so close. It’s like somebody’s switched
on the light in a child’s bedroom to ward off their fears and make
sure there weren’t any monsters under the bed. Pasha and the kid
start paying attention to the driver; he’s flustered, stopped on the
main road and looking in every direction. Emptiness all around,

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nobody’s going anywhere, nobody has anywhere to go. There’s just
the bent sign reminding them that the former border isn’t that far
from here. A one-­hour drive and you’re there. But what can you
even do there? The driver comes back, plops heavily into his seat,
sighs and moans, trying to elicit sympathy. But he can’t. So he pulls
out onto the main road and turns right. Then he turns on his head-
lights and pushes his Model Three to the limit, seemingly afraid he
won’t make it on time. He goads the car forward, squeezing the last
bit out of it and paying no mind to the potholes. Shortly thereafter,
out of the darkness drifts a spoil pile.
Pasha recognizes this area. The mine they’re passing now hasn’t
been shut down, so there’s still some life here. The Station is close
by—about twenty miles if you take the main road. It’s longer if you
stick to the back roads, naturally. They pass the spoil pile, empty
dachas. Five-­story apartment blocks emerge up ahead. The driver
stops.
“That’s as far as I go,” he says.
“You can’t be for real!” Pasha says cajolingly.
“There are soldiers over there.” The driver shakes his head.
“That’s it.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Pasha says. He’s full of it, though. “Don’t be
afraid, those are my guys over there.”
“Nah.” The driver shakes his head resolutely. “You’re gonna
have to walk from here.”
“Just leave him alone,” the kid suddenly interjects. “He still has
to make it back. Let him go.”
The driver jerks to say something in reply but can’t muster any-
thing—he just tucks his head into his shoulders, patiently waits in
silence. Pasha suddenly loosens up. “Yeah,” he thinks. “What am

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I hassling him for? What do I even know about him? He could’ve
taken us right to the commandant’s office. But he didn’t, he didn’t
hang us out to dry. Why’m I getting into it with him?”
“All right,” Pasha says to the driver. “No need to get all bent out
of shape. Things happen.”
The driver nods. Uh-­huh, yeah, they do. Get out already.
“Here.” Pasha produces his cans, holds them out to the driver.
He grabs one with his big hands. He doesn’t know what it is,
but he grabs it anyway.
“What for?” He’s perplexed. “You don’t have to.”
“Take it,” Pasha insists. “We’ll settle up after the war ends. If we
make it . . . ,” he adds.
The kid reaches into his pocket, takes out his chocolate bar,
and hands it to the driver.
“Here,” he says condescendingly. “Don’t get bent out of shape.”
The driver is unexpectedly flooded with emotion. His eyes
even become moist. Deeply moved, he shakes the bags under his
eyes and tries to smile, but nothing comes of that.
“Good luck with everything,” he says to Pasha and the kid.
“Same to you,” Pasha answers. “Same to you.”
The kid gets out of the car. Pasha follows him, shuts the door.
Once they’ve taken a few steps, they hear tires screeching behind
them. The driver turns around sharply and steps on the gas.
“Why didn’t you eat the chocolate?” Pasha asks.
“I wanted to share with you,” the kid answers.
“He’s kidding,” Pasha surmises. “Or maybe he isn’t.”
They pass the first apartment block. And then a school, and
then the black cube of a mall. They squat, frightened, when an
APC, packed with people and things, pops out behind the mall.

285
But the APC disappears around the next apartment block, like it
was never here in the first place. Now what should they do? They
don’t know. They have to head toward the bus station, follow the
APC. Or stay here, in the middle of the street. They don’t want to
stay in the middle of the street, so they turn behind the apartment
block and stop, stunned.
The street’s packed. Cars dark with dirt, frozen armor, multi-
farious military vehicles—there’s no end to the column, the cars are
parked next to each other in two rows, so you can’t walk between
them, can’t squeeze your way through. The APC they just saw is
now off to the side; soldiers hop out of it, splashing into puddles,
and trudge along the street, shoving through a crowd of soldiers
just like them who are standing around, not knowing where to go
from here. They’re standing in groups—some large, some small—­
building fires, warming up, standing by some buildings, sitting or
lying on benches, hiding in the darkness. The buildings are dark,
devoid of life, but if you look a little closer, behind the curtains and
the blankets hung up instead of drapes, you can spot some appre-
hensive gazes, some faces that immediately recede into the depths
of their apartments as soon as they sense another gaze from outside.
Pasha and the kid stand at the beginning of the street, and they real-
ize that they’ll have to pass through this frigid crowd, and that it’s
best to stick close to the soldiers instead of continuing to wander
through the black empty city on their own. “What could they even
do to us?” Pasha reassures himself. “After all, I have the same flag in
my passport that they have on their tanks. I’m a teacher, after all. I
could be their kids’ teacher. Yeah, their kids’ teacher,” he thinks and
moves forward. Sasha is at his side.

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 “You haven’t lost your passport, have you?” he asks. “And what
if they want to check your address?”
“You think that’ll help?” Pasha follows with a question of his
own.
“It might,” he says tentatively. “Or it might not,” he adds calmly.
Pasha notices that the kid’s voice has changed over the past
few days—he speaks calmly, unhurriedly. Like he actually trusts
Pasha. “Now I just have to get him home,” Pasha thinks, as he peers
at the soldiers through the darkness. The soldiers aren’t paying any
attention to them; they’re talking among themselves, asking ques-
tions, offering explanations. Occasionally yelling out each other’s
call signs and then quickly going quiet, as if they don’t want to talk
about that anymore. Occasionally arguing, getting all riled up, de-
bating in hoarse voices. Then they grab their riled-­up buddies by the
shoulders, take them aside, grasp their heads, look into their eyes,
say some soothing words. And everyone—the ones doing the sooth-
ing and the ones being soothed—is speaking loudly, shouting, like
they’re at a soccer match. “Why are they shouting?” Pasha thinks,
confused. “What for? Maybe they want to sound more convincing,
so they’re shouting over each other? That’s what kids always do to
get everyone’s attention, to force people to listen to them—they
start shouting, blotting everything else out with their own voices.
These guys, they’re like kids,” Pasha thinks, his eyes sliding over
their faces, dried out by the cold, their unshaven cheeks, their un-
combed hair. And suddenly he spots a dried strip of blood under
one of the soldiers’ ears—very young, about eighteen, holding a
metal mug filled with something hot, warming his hands on the
heated metal, not actually drinking much. And he’s shouting, too,

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shouting into his mug. “Kid’s ears don’t bleed,” Pasha thinks, and
then he figures out what’s going on. They’ve come under heavy
artillery fire and they’ve all gone deaf. That’s why they’re shout-
ing, like kids listening to loud music with headphones who don’t
realize that nobody else can hear it. Yep, they’ve just come from
the battlefield, they’re trying to figure out what’s happened, what’s
next, trying to call whoever they have to call. “Oh, yeah,” Pasha re-
members. “I have service here. Have to call dad, tell him where we
are, put him at ease.” He takes out his phone. It’s slowly nearing its
demise, but it’s still glowing faintly. One bar appears, then another.
Gotta try it. Pasha calls his old man. Waits awhile. Calls again. The
kid’s standing there, patiently anticipating, knowing full well who
Pasha’s trying to get hold of. His old man picks up, unexpectedly.
He’s barely coming through. Moreover, everyone around Pasha is
screaming and making so much noise. All this ruckus could make
his old man very anxious. But he cuts out right away, before he
can hear anything. Pasha tucks his phone away and clears a path,
cautiously, so as not to attract any attention, moving from group to
group and catching movements and colors out of the corner of his
eye. Mud on combat boots, blood under nails, unwashed camo,
voices chilled by the wind, stubble on faces—it’s immediately obvi-
ous that they’ve spent the past several days outside in the rain, and
they still don’t have anywhere to hide from the rain that’s encroach-
ing upon the high-­hanging January sky. Someone adjusts a stick in
a fire, sparks soar, soldiers stick their hands very close to the flame.
Everything smells of smoke and sweat, worn clothing, and diesel
fuel. Somewhere beyond the city, in the darkness, there’s a rhyth-
mic series of blasts; the soldiers automatically turn toward them,
listen tensely, yet quickly lose interest. They return to the flame,

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to their screaming. Clouds drift, the rain lets up again, for the nth
time today, and a round moon materializes above a long row of
apartment blocks, a golden glint gushing onto the metal of the cars.
Women in down coats mill around outside one of the apartment
buildings. They’ve brought pots filled with something edible, and
they’re ladling the warm, thick stew into disposable bowls, handing
them to the soldiers, crying. The soldiers, slightly mistrustful, sur-
round them, accept the hot plastic bowls, unfazed by the tempera-
ture, offer some words of appreciation, soothe the women. They
eat quickly, seemingly afraid they’ll soon have to drop everything
and run. They swallow their hot meals whole. There’s an old mini-
bus—riddled with bullets, smashed windows, busted doors—in the
middle of the sidewalk. They have to squeeze against the building
to get past. The door of the bus is busted, and an elderly soldier is
sitting inside. Below him on the ground a small fire is burning. He’s
warming himself up on the little steps without getting out of the
minibus, extending his combat boots right up to the flame. He spots
Pasha and the kid.
“Hey,” he says, waving. “Come over here.”
Pasha pretends he doesn’t hear him. He pulls the kid along,
wanting to slip between the minibus and the building. I just didn’t
hear you, there are so many people all around making such a racket,
I’ll be on my way, leave me alone. You can’t even hear your own
footsteps or the disgusting squelching of wet boots in cold puddles
over all this racket. The soldier seems to think otherwise, though. He
thinks very differently.
“Hey, brother,” he shouts hoarsely, like he’s calling to an old
friend.
Pasha stops, probes. Whadaya want? The soldier waves again.

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Come on over here. Pasha and the kid exchange glances, then walk
over.
“All right then, brother,” the soldier yells. “Got any smokes?”
Wrinkles—looks like someone’s been kneading his face. Hair—
gray and so short that it seems like his skull is metallic gray, made
of cold iron. Appears to be about sixty, sagging camo, gut propped
up by his belt. Fur coat on his shoulders. He stares at Pasha and the
kid blankly. It’s as though he’s looking at them but seeing something
only he can see. And he’s yelling, his voice raspy, strained.
“Got any smokes?” he asks again.
“I don’t smoke,” Pasha answers.
“What?” Metal Head doesn’t understand him. “I can’t hear
anything, brother. The shelling . . .” He’s speaking a mix of Rus-
sian and Ukrainian, hopping back and forth between the languages.
“Just slow down,” he says. “I’ll lip-­read.”
“I don’t smoke,” Pasha says. “I do not sm-­o -­ke.”
“You don’t smoke?” the soldier surmises.
Pasha shakes his head.
“Why’s that?” the soldier asks, disappointed.
“It is bad for you,” Pasha answers slowly.
“Bad for you?” the soldier surmises. “Sure is. What about you?”
he asks the kid.
“What about me?”
“You smoke?”
The kid hesitates for a moment, glances at Pasha, then takes a
step forward, pulls out his cigarettes, and proffers them to the sol-
dier, who takes one, thinks for a second, and then another.
“Just take the whole pack,” the kid yells. “I quit.”
“You quit?” Metal Head surmises. “Good work. What do you

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do for a living, brother?” The soldier lights a cigarette from the fire
and shifts his attention to Pasha.
Pasha looks at the fire, at the cigarette in his black, somewhat
metallic fingers, at the kid who’s warming his hands over the flame,
and he feels warm, calm.
“I’m a teacher,” he says to the soldier. Then he repeats slowly.
“A tea-­cher.”
Metal Head freezes. The cigarette’s sticking out of the side of
his mouth, releasing smoke, shedding ashes. His eyes narrow, as if
he’s looking at a bright light. His gaze hardens. Pasha gets the chills.
“What’s wrong?” he thinks. “Was it something I said?”
“I’m a teacher,” he repeats. “We’re on winter break.”
But the soldier doesn’t appear to be listening to him anymore.
He gets up, hops down into a puddle, adjusts the fur coat on his
shoulders.
“C’mon, Teach,” he says. “Come on in.”
“What for?” Pasha’s confused.
“Just come on in,” Metal Head repeats.
Pasha hesitates, glances at the kid. He seems oblivious, though,
crouching there by the warm fire. Well, Pasha doesn’t have anything
to be afraid of. He goes around the fire, grabs the handle, puts his
foot on the step. The soldier gives him a gentle push from behind,
follows him into the bus.
It smells like wet wool, as though there are sheep in there,
huddling together, trying to get warm. Actually, there’s just a heap
of clothing on the shabby seats: fur coats, sheepskin coats, down
jackets. “Are they selling them or something?” Pasha thinks in sur-
prise, keeps going. Farther back are some crates filled with ammu-
nition, several scorched AKs, and entrenching tools on the floor.

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They’re all piled up, right in the middle of the aisle. They have to
step over them. And they have to watch their step—there’s no know-
ing what else could be in that pile. The soldier follows him, warily
peering out the smashed windows. He isn’t saying anything. Pasha
just can’t get himself to climb over all that prickly, burnt metal; he
takes a metal container off a seat, plops down. The soldier hovers
darkly over him, giving off that faint smell of wet wool. Pasha finds
himself thinking that this smell has been stalking him for the past
few days. It’s as if wet, famished dogs are stalking him, trying to
catch his scent, lurking in the darkness, moving in on him, refusing
to retreat. And heaps of household items have been accompany-
ing him for the past few days, too. Clothes, dishes, wrecked furni-
ture, wet books that look like fallen birds left out in the rain. Other
people’s domestic lives just lying there, completely exposed, like
someone’s ripped off the decorative tiles, torn off the wallpaper, and
laid the old walls bare, and now every vein, every fissure and crack
has become visible. And their domestic lives look so sad, so hope-
less: the clothing—worn and washed; the books—yellowed by time
and unread; the dishes—cheap, unsightly, the kind of dishes made
for burned or undercooked food. In their warm homes—off-­limits
to strangers—all of this might have had a nice, domestic feel to it,
something you can call your own, something you’ve grown used
to. But now, removed from their usual setting, tossed out into the
rain, sprinkled with ashes, all these household items have immedi-
ately lost their value, and the clothes smell of poverty and disorder,
and the dishes, coated with grease, glisten in the headlights, and
the furniture looks like bones dug out of the wet January earth. And
this smell pervades everything—there’s no washing it off, no scrub-
bing it off.

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 “So, you’re a teacher?” the soldier asks, for some reason.
Pasha nods wordlessly. “What’s the point of talking if he can’t
hear anything anyway?” he thinks.
“Where’s your school?” the soldier asks, bowing in Pasha’s di-
rection, like he wants to ram him with his metal forehead.
“At the St-­a-­tion,” Pasha says in a singsong voice.
“We held the Station. The Station’s ours,” the soldier replies,
his eyes still fixed on Pasha.
“Yeah,” Pasha agrees. “It’s ours, of course.”
The soldier isn’t saying anything more, though. He’s just look-
ing straight ahead, which makes Pasha feel uneasy, once again, like
he’s just said something he shouldn’t have, once again. They sit
there in silence for a bit. Pasha cracks first, obviously.
“It’s ours,” he says loudly, looking the soldier right in the eye.
“The Station is ours!”
“Yep,” the soldier replies, and his eyes instantly go out of focus.
It’s as though he’s remembered something unsettling yet very im-
portant.
He takes the metal containers off a seat, tosses them onto the
pile of metal, and sits down across from Pasha.
“So you’re a local guy?” he asks.
Pasha nods.
“You know our mine’s over there?” the soldier asks, pointing
out the window.
“Yeah.”
“I used to work there,” Metal Head explains. “Before the war,”
he adds. “Ten years,” he continues. “I came here ten years ago,” he
says, but he doesn’t say where he came from.
“Where’d you come from?” Pasha asks him.

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 The soldier answers with an amiable smile. He can’t hear Pasha.
Or he’s pretending he can’t.
“I see,” Pasha replies.
Well, what else could he say?
“Have you been back home?” Pasha inquires.
“What?” the soldier asks apprehensively.
“Ha-­ve you been back ho-­me? Seen your fam-­i-­ly?” Pasha asks
slowly.
The soldier freezes. And his eyes are completely still, like tin
that’s been poured into a mold. “Shouldn’t have asked him about
that,” Pasha surmises.
“Nobody’s home,” the soldier says. “Everyone’s gone.”
Where they went he doesn’t say. This time around, Pasha
doesn’t ask.
“Everyone’s gone, yeah,” Metal Head repeats. “I went to a mu-
seum this morning. You’re a teacher, right?”
“Yeah,” Pasha says loudly.
“Take this with you,” says Metal Head.
He reaches under his seat, roots around in the pile of metal,
finds a gas mask pouch, pulls out a knife, hands it to Pasha, wooden
handle first, and then keeps rummaging through the pouch. Pasha
holds the knife, notices clumps of red blood on the blade. “What
else is he gonna whip out?” he thinks. The soldier produces some-
thing heavy, wrapped in a page of newspaper filled with ads, and
Pasha realizes that it could be anything—it could be a stick of dyna-
mite, or it could be an enemy soldier’s liver, cut out of his body with
this very knife. Could be anything. His motions leisurely, the sol-
dier unfurls the parcel, layer by layer, as if he’s peeling bandages off

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a dry, scabbed-­over wound, and he reveals a piece of coal coated
with damp soil.
“Do you know what this is?” he yells, sticking it right in Pasha’s
face.
“Coal?” Pasha asks skeptically.
“Coal!” the soldier yells, as if he’s contradicting Pasha. “Gimme
it!”
He takes the knife from Pasha and begins scraping clumps of
dirt off the rock. Then he hands it back.
“See that?” he asks.
Pasha strains his eyes in the twilight, adjusts his glasses. It’s a
rock. So what?
“No,” he admits.
“It’s a fern,” the soldier yells. “It’s a fossilized fern.”
Pasha turns toward the smashed window, and under the thick
yellow moonlight, he sees some patterns—barely noticeable, seem-
ingly outlined with a slate pencil—imprinted on the hard surface
of the rock. He touches it, feeling the cold, rocky notches, feeling
the thin grooves and nicks on the rocky surface. “What bizarre pat-
terns,” he thinks. “Who could’ve traced them all?”
“It’s a fern,” Metal Head repeats. “It’s a million years old. How
old are you?” he asks Pasha.
“Thirty-­five,” Pasha answers, perplexed.
“Well, it’s a million,” the soldier reminds him.
“So what?” Pasha’s confused.
“And it’s still holding up just fine,” the soldier explains, like
Pasha’s a little kid. “A million. It was a million years old before we
were even born. We’ll kick the bucket, and it’ll still be lying there

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somewhere in the ground. That’s history, you know? The two of us,
we aren’t history. We’re here now, gone tomorrow. I took this from
the museum,” he explains.
“Why?” Pasha’s still confused.
“What do you mean ‘why’?” the soldier asks him adamantly.
“Why’d you take it? Why not leave it there at the museum?”
“The museum’s gone,” the soldier yells patiently. “They wiped
it out. Now it’s a trash heap. A heap of burned trash. The fern’s
still holding up, though. You’re a teacher, right?” he asks, as if he’s
already forgotten.
“Yeah,” Pasha answers, irritated.
“Take it.” The soldier points at the rock. “You probably have
some sort of museum there. Or a geography classroom. Keep it
there. I mean, it’s a million years old. It shouldn’t just rot in the
ground. All right?”
“All right,” Pasha yells.
“You’ll take it.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, thanks.” Metal Head sighs in relief, tucks the knife
under the seat, and wipes off his hands with the wet newspaper.
“Thanks.”
They step outside. Pasha touches the kid on the shoulder. He
lifts his head, curious. Well? You have a nice chat?
“Had a nice chat,” Pasha explains. “Yep.”
The soldier comes over, shakes their hands. Pasha wants to say
something in parting, but nothing comes to him; he tosses the rock
in his backpack, places his hand on the kid’s shoulder, nudges him
forward. Once they get a certain distance away, the soldier yells at
their backs.

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 “My aunt worked at the museum,” he yells. “Now there’s not
gonna be a museum.”
“That’s bad,” Pasha answers quietly.
“That’s bad?” Surprisingly, the soldier understands him.
“That’s bad.”
“It’s only gonna get worse,” the soldier assures him.
He goes back into the bus, sits down by the window, hides his
head in his fur coat. “He’s sleeping,” Pasha surmises. “Or crying.”
The moon smears itself across the sky and moves toward the
night, leaving behind black desolation. “Gotta get going,” Pasha
thinks suddenly. “Gotta get home.” The metal spring digs sharply
into his heart, goads him forward, reminds him about time—it’s
running out. The water in the puddles is starting to freeze, becoming
coated with a sharp crust. The kid slips along the building, Pasha fol-
lows him. They walk down the street among the soldiers. There are
more and more of them. Black pits under their eyes. The inflamed
eyes, the parched mouths, and the screams—abrasive, loud, dis-
contented—that they let out in an attempt to communicate. Some
more vehicles pull up. Buses battered by shrapnel, cars covered in
clay, trucks with military slogans on the sides. More and more sol-
diers climb out of cabs, hop out of truck beds, clamber through
the shattered windows. The smell of smoke, the smell of sweat and
gunpowder become more distinct, it becomes harder and harder to
push forward, dodge the frozen figures. But Pasha pushes forward,
persistently shoving his way through, realizing that he’d better get
the kid some food soon, he’d better take him someplace warm, he
ought to find some form of transportation and try to make it home.
While Pasha may be able to hang around here, out in the wet wind,
under the yellow moon, a little bit longer, there’s no telling how

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much longer the kid will last. Better not risk it, better not push their
luck. If, God forbid, it starts up again with the kid, they simply won’t
know where to run, who to call. So their best bet is to get out of here,
find a taxi, head home, forget all this, and never think about it again.
“Can someone forget all this?” Pasha asks himself. “Of course they
can,” he answers his own question. “Of course. I’ll forget all this,”
Pasha tells himself. “And the kid will, too. There’s no need for him
to remember all this, he has no need for the smell of sulfur and
raw human flesh, he shouldn’t remember the dirt under fingernails.
People aren’t meant to keep so much fear and anger in their memo-
ries. But how do you live with this? He’ll forget everything, he’ll
be fine, he’ll forget about the orphanage, about being abandoned,
about that feeling of being boxed in when you wake up in a black
basement. Let him have good memories, memories that don’t stir
up hatred or despair. The smell of home or the smell of the trees out
in the yard, or the smell of a thaw—a long January thaw that smells
like a river. He’ll remember a thaw,” Pasha assures himself. “He defi-
nitely will. No blood, no metal.” And the more passionately he’s tell-
ing himself all this, the more distinctly and firmly he understands.
Nope, nobody’ll forget anything, nobody’ll leave anything in the
past, and the kid, no matter how things play out for him, will keep
carrying these memories, like bags filled with rocks, and the smell
of torn skin and men’s salty tears will pursue him until the end of
his days, and the shadow of the orphanage will linger behind him,
no matter where he goes, no matter how sunny those places may
be. And for the rest of his life, food will smell faintly of the orphan-
age cafeteria, and his dreams will be filled with orphans’ voices, and
women will remind him of those girls from the bunker, their tears
and makeup, and he won’t be able to do anything about it, and no-

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body will ever be able to help him with it. And all Pasha can do is
drag him back home, get him all washed up, give him some hot tea,
and put him to bed. Let him catch up on sleep, let him sleep as long
as he can, as long as he wants, as long as his dreams stay with him.
Everything’ll be different tomorrow, everything’ll be just the way it
always is, just like it used to be. Relaxed days at home where every-
one’s busy doing their own thing, where everything’s where it’s sup-
posed to be, where there’s nothing superfluous but you have every-
thing you need. Mornings filled with domestic tasks, a job you’ve
gotten used to like it’s one of your outfits—it’s not too constricting,
it doesn’t get in the way, wear it while you can. Quiet evenings,
dark nights. Actually, there’s so much joy, so much warmth in all
of this. You had to wind up here, in the middle of hell, to feel how
much you had and how much you’ve lost. Just have to get home as
quickly as possible, finally step off the circles of others’ misfortune,
get home fast, very fast. Pasha speeds up, noticing that the soldiers
have become more lively, too; they jolt up, run, pass Pasha and the
kid, warily shouting something into the black air. Panic immedi-
ately overcomes Pasha. “What’s up?” he thinks. “What’s going on?
Where are they all going?” And he runs after them, still trying to
hold on to the kid’s hand. They race through the wet, unnerved
crowd, shoving soldiers in the back, throwing elbows, moving for-
ward, more and more nervously. And they run out into the square
and bump into a wall of dark backs—there’s nowhere to run, the
square’s packed with people. “The hospital,” Pasha thinks. “The
city hospital.” A two-­story red-­brick building. Windows battered by
shrapnel and covered with plastic sheets. The windows glow into
the night, and at a distance the hospital looks like an ocean liner
that’s slowly, unhurriedly sinking. The crowd sways like cattails in

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the wind. Pasha tries to break free, but they’re being pushed from
behind, squeezed forward. Then, a KAMAZ truck—no windshield,
open bed—pulls up, coming from somewhere off to the side, and
the driver yells so furiously that the crowd parts, steps back, makes
way for him. The KAMAZ crawls past the crowd, closer to the hos-
pital building. The crowd advances again, shoves Pasha and the kid
forward, right up to the truck. Four people carrying stretchers race
out of the hospital and fight their way to the back of the vehicle,
pushing aside people who respond by pushing, yelling, arguing, but
not getting out of the way. They seem to be waiting for something
important. Someone lowers a metal ramp, and it turns out that the
truck is loaded with wounded people—there’s no counting how
many of them there are. Pasha stands nearby, examining the bent
wet metal up close, the water mixed with blood, examining boots—
at eye level—black, metal-­lined soles, right there on the metal floor,
on the cold metal. Someone hops up.
“Take it,” he yells. “Take it, fuck, wake up!” And Pasha realizes
that the guy’s yelling at him.
“What?” he asks. “What’s going on?”
“Hold him!” the guy yells from above. “Fuck! Hold him.”
“How?” Pasha’s panicking.
“By his legs. Fuck!”
Pasha flings his backpack off, hands it to the kid.
“Wait for me here! Got that? Wait!”
The kid nods. Okay, don’t worry, I’m here. Pasha picks up the
person lying closest to him, grabs him by his combat boots.
“Where you going?” the guy above yells. “Fuck! Where you
going? Not him! The other one! Get the other guy! The one who’s
still alive!”

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 At first Pasha doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and
then it hits him. He abruptly releases the combat boots. They land
on the metal floor with a hollow bang. He automatically looks at his
hands—any blood? But the guy above yells at him again.
“C’mon! Wake the fuck up!”
Pasha grabs another pair of combat boots, pulls them toward
himself. The guy yelling—a young chubby orderly in camo and
a bulletproof vest wearing a cross made out of red tape—takes a
wounded man by the shoulders. Down below, someone immedi-
ately grabs him. The body falls, into the soldiers’ hands. Pasha clings
to the boots, not letting them slip away. Heavy, unwieldy, cramped.
The crowd wobbles, but nobody’s going anywhere. They make their
way toward the hospital, stepping on other people’s feet. Pasha can’t
see the kid anymore, but he catches a glimpse of the next wounded
man being lowered off the truck.
“Move out of the way!” someone yells up ahead. “Move it!
Fuck!” Step by step, they move forward, advance, carrying a still
living load, hastening toward the illuminated hospital steps, then
go up them. Someone opens the doors. Hurry up, this way, hurry!
Pasha’s panting; he nearly trips on the steps. He can hardly keep
up. Two middle-­aged soldiers are carrying the wounded guy, hold-
ing him under his armpits. Pasha’s running, bent over, holding the
guy’s boots from behind. The hospital hallway is also packed with
soldiers. It’s warm. It smells of dirty clothes and motor oil. Blood-­
colored clay is smeared across the wet floor. The hospital is run
down, hasn’t been renovated in years, handwritten posters cover the
walls. Plywood over the windows, rags drying on massive radiators.
Stretchers line the hallway. On the first one lies an old soldier: bare
chest, dirty body, unwashed skin, bloody bandage over the heart

301
area. Worn boots, ripped camo pants. Eyes closed. He might be
sleeping. Or pretending he’s sleeping. Unshaven, frigid skin. Next
to the stretcher on the floor a bloody bucket, some boxes filled with
supplies delivered by volunteers. It looks like they were brought in-
side, placed here, and forgotten. They keep carrying the body, past
another stretcher. A body, partially covered with an army jacket, is
lying on it. Pasha timidly tries to get a closer look. Still breathing?
He can’t tell. They keep moving. One of the guys up ahead kicks
open a door. They carry the body into a room—six beds, all of them
occupied, two wounded men just lying there, right in the middle
of the room, on some blankets. Someone’s moaning in the corner;
a woman in a wet coat is hovering over him, whispering something,
soothing him, crying.
“Keep going!” one of the guys up front yells, turning around
and gripping the wounded man with his other hand. “C’mon,
c’mon!” he yells furiously at Pasha.
Pasha backs up, still holding on to the man. He stumbles, can’t
open the door.
“Hurry up!” someone yells at him. “Hurry the fuck up!”
He turns around, releases one leg, opens the door. They charge
back into the hallway. Where to now? Pasha doesn’t know. He stands
there, looking all around, and then someone yells at his back. Go,
go! C’mon! Get your ass moving! And Pasha runs down the hallway,
carrying the wounded man, feeling the furious hissing at his back,
running forward, not knowing where to stop. He dashes to the next
room, kicks the door open with the tip of his boot, peers inside. But
there are bodies on the floor here, too—dirty, exhausted, bloody,
lying on mattresses, on blankets, on peacoats, wall to wall. He keeps
running, down the cramped hallway: people sitting against the wall,

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giving themselves shots, reapplying bandages on someone’s head.
Nobody’s paying any attention to Pasha, so he has to stick out his
chest and clear a path, clear the way. He sees a skinny little guy in a
white coat up ahead. Doctor, yeah, he’s gotta be a doctor.
“Hey!” he yells. “Hey, sir!”
Sir turns around, and Pasha nearly loses his balance. His white
coat is covered in blood, and his overall appearance—well, it defi-
nitely doesn’t befit a Sir, not even close. But Pasha keeps looking at
him and says:
“Where should we put him, sir?” He’s referring to the wounded
guy.
The doctor is clearly exhausted, all wrung out. It’s scary to think
about when he last got some sleep. And he was apparently about to
lie down and curl up in a corner, wait it out, take a little nap—just
twenty minutes. And at first he looks at Pasha with poorly concealed
irritation. Nah, it’s not that he’s poorly concealing his irritation; he’s
looking at Pasha like he’s a pile of shit. And he’s just about to give
him a piece of his mind. Suddenly, though, it’s like a switch flips
inside Sir, and he starts living up to his title. He adjusts his bloody
coat, wearily rubs his stubble, and asks,
“Is he in bad shape?”
“Nah,” Pasha replies cheerfully. “He looks pretty fit.”
“Damn it,” Sir says. “I mean what’s wrong with him? Some-
thing serious? Is he critical?”
“Sir!” the guys holding the wounded man by the shoulders
wail. “Fuck, sir! He’s almost dead! Can’t you see that?! Where
should we put him?!”
That catches the doctor’s attention; he looks over Pasha’s shoul-
ders, sees those two other guys, and quickly thinks of something.

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 “C’mon!” he says. “Follow me!”
He’s speaking calmly, judiciously, unlike those two guys who
are carrying the body with Pasha. Seeing that he isn’t throwing a
fit, they quiet down, stop yelling. All right Sir, do your thing. And
he walks down the hallway, and all the wounded, all the dirty and
deafened men, step aside, let him through, giving Sir the respect
someone with his title deserves. Sir responds with a nod, a pat on
the back, and a handshake. His hand is small, bony, his bald spot is
wide, shiny, groomed. Thin, nimble body, hunched back. His coat
droops off him like he’s a hanger. His shoes are stained with muck.
All of him is stained—with blood, iodine, black earth. He looks like
a passenger who’s been stuck at a train station for several days, just
can’t escape. He’s been sleeping on the benches, subsisting on fast
food. But everything’ll be fine once he gets home. Just wash up,
clean up, catch up on sleep. But for now, he has to handle one more
body, keep it from dying, try to bring it back.
Sir walks to the end of the hallway, opens a barely visible door
with a thick coat of green paint on it. In here. A nod. They hastily
push their way into the room and see they’re in the cafeteria: sev-
eral tables, chairs, the little window where the patients are given
something edible. And the smell of overcooked food, stagnant, dirty
dishes. “I’ve seen this somewhere before,” Pasha thinks. “Just the
other day. Feels like I keep walking around in circles—from cafeteria
to cafeteria, from shelter to shelter, from orphanage to orphanage.”
“Fuck, what is this?” yells one of the guys standing behind
Pasha. “What is this?”
But Sir isn’t listening. He’s already on the phone, calling some-
one. “And he has service, goddammit,” Pasha thinks. “And clearly,

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someone’s been expecting his call, goddammit.” He promptly be-
gins issuing orders, talking to some lady named Lida, giving her
some pointers, asking her to get right on it, telling her she can do it.
Then he switches off his phone and turns toward the three of them.
“What are you holding him for?” he says peevishly, yet quietly,
seemingly saving his strength for an impending outburst. “Put him
down.”
“Where?” Everyone’s confused.
“On the tables, that’s where!” Sir finally explodes. His nerves
aren’t made of steel, after all.
“On the tables?” one guy—short, fat, gray crewcut on his big
skull—asks, perplexed. “What about the operating room?”
“There’s a two-­day wait for the operating room,” Sir replies
coldly. He’s already regained his composure. “I said put him down.”
They move two tables together and carefully lower the sol-
dier onto them. Then a nurse runs into the cafeteria, holding some
sheets and a metal medical thingy. The soldier is lifted carefully
and a sheet is spread underneath him. Sir produces a pair of scis-
sors and begins snipping through his sweater from his throat to his
stomach, like he’s making construction-­paper art. At one point, he
stops, looks up at the fat guy, then at his buddy, and finally at Pasha.
His eyes settle on Pasha.
“You,” he says firmly and dryly, seemingly delivering an un-
pleasant, yet inevitable message. “You, hold this.”
And he points at the sweater. Pasha grips the sweater, pulls it
toward himself.
“Easy, there,” the doctor advises. “The blood’s dry. This is gonna
hurt.”

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 He says that to Pasha, not the wounded guy, as if Pasha will be
the one in pain. He keeps cutting. Then he tears the sweater out of
the wound—abruptly, quickly. The soldier shrieks and jolts up.
“Hold him!” Sir yells at Pasha. “Make sure he doesn’t fall off.”
Pasha grips the soldier’s hand and tries to avert his eyes so as not
to see the dried blood and torn flesh.
“Wake up!” Sir shouts. “Hold him tighter!”
Pasha has to look then, whether he likes it or not. The soldier’s
just a boy, probably still in his teens. Shaved skull, nicked chin—
must have been shaving in the dark. Sharp nose, dark eyes, shut in
pain. Striped sleeveless undershirt beneath his sweater. Heavy mili-
tary belt, camo pants, combat boots. And a wound just below the
neck. He coughs violently, and blood soaks the undershirt. So he’s
holding his breath, like he’s about to go underwater. But he bursts
into coughing each time he exhales, expelling blood. And Pasha
looks at the blood, mesmerized, transfixed, looks at the tender rasp-
berry drops that seep into the fabric, looks at the dark, dry crust
around the wound, at the cut flesh, as life escapes from the soldier.
“Cut his shirt,” says Sir. “Get cutting!”
He gives him the scissors, takes out a syringe and some vials,
starts doing something with them. Pasha clasps the fabric hesi-
tantly, doesn’t know where to start. He freezes up.
“Cut it,” Sir orders dryly.
And he cuts it. Shreds the undershirt all the way down to his
stomach. The soldier’s skin is white, wintry. Hardly any chest hair.
His body makes the pink blood look very bright. And there’s more
and more of it. The soldier laboriously swallows air. He’s clearly
having a hard time breathing; his eyes roll back, his hand grasps at
emptiness. Pasha intercepts his hand, squeezes it. C’mon, c’mon,

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just a little longer, c’mon. Sir swings around, syringe in hand, leans
in, drives the needle into his body. The soldier trembles, tries to
break free.
“Hold him!” Sir yells angrily. “Hold him down.”
Pasha throws his body on the soldier, yet tries not to put too
much pressure on him. Sir begins working his magic on the wound,
treating it with something, which makes the soldier tremble again
and begin crying loudly. Pasha presses his whole body down on
him, averts his eyes, looks to the side so he doesn’t have to see the
blood flowing out of his body. The soldier jerks. He begins plead-
ing. Don’t, don’t touch that, don’t. But then he bursts out coughing
again. Pasha can feel how much the soldier’s chest has tightened
up, but he keeps holding him, not letting go. The fat guy and his
buddy avert their eyes, too. They can’t take it anymore. They turn
around, disappear into the hallway. Sir whispers something to the
nurse. She takes out a metal box, opens it, takes out some forceps,
hands them to the doctor. He accepts them without even looking.
He works with automatic precision, like a gardener pruning flowers.
He isn’t rushing, he isn’t worrying. It’s as if he’s sure that everything
will be fine, that there’s a happy ending to this. His confidence
should put Pasha at ease, but for some reason it doesn’t. Pasha’s
shaking, he’s freezing, and the smell of blood becomes more dis-
tinct, more intrusive. He gulps down some air, breathes deeply, and
tries to calm himself.
“What’s wrong?” Sir asks as he digs around in bloody flesh with
the forceps.
“I’m fine,” Pasha replies curtly.
“You sure?” Sir doesn’t believe him.
“Yeah,” Pasha assures him.

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 “Well, that’s good,” Sir says, and thrusts the forceps right into
the shredded mush.
The soldier shrieks and tries breaking out of Pasha’s embrace.
Pasha squeezes him, realizing that he won’t be able to hang on
much longer. But then the soldier slumps back down, like the spirit
has gone out of him.
“Sir!” Pasha yells, turning toward the doctor. “What’s wrong
with him?”
“Nothing,” Sir answers. “Guess he’s feeling better now.”
“What should we do now?” Pasha’s confused.
“Well, nothing,” Sir replies, irritated. “Just let him lie here.”
“Is he gonna live?” Pasha continues his line of questioning.
“Who the hell knows?” Sir answers bluntly. “Yeah, he will,” he
adds, after a moment’s thought.
Then he gets a call. Sir reaches his bloody hand into the pocket
of his coat, takes out an iPhone. He drags a finger across the screen,
leaving a streak of blood, starts listening.
“Yeah,” he says. “And?” he asks. “Is he in bad shape? Can’t you
do without me? All right, I’ll be right there.”
So he begins putting his instruments away, tossing each one
into the box with a cold, metallic bang.
“Where are you going, Sir?” Pasha asks.
“To the operating room,” Sir answers imperturbably.
“What about him?” Pasha starts panicking.
“Hold him,” Sir advises. “So he doesn’t fall off. Just hold him.
I’ll come back when I’m done and take a look at him.” He points at
the wounded guy.
He leaves. The nurse leaves, too, without even promising to
come back. Pasha stands over the soldier, holding his hand, not

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knowing what to do. Out in the hallway, people screaming, running
around. In here, there’s the dusky light, the smell of the cafeteria,
and this kid on the table. He’s quieted down, not saying anything.
The fresh bandage on his neck is soaked with blood.
Pasha scans the room. Tiled floor, whitewashed walls. Just like a
morgue. And there’s a faucet on the wall, wrapped in a rag, like a fin-
ger with a band-­aid on it. And the water, drop after drop, dropping
into the sink. Resonantly and rhythmically. Irritating, infuriating.
Echoing somewhere in his skull. Pasha tries to focus on something
else, but he can’t. It feels like the drops are trying to drill a hole in
his skull. Drop after drop, drop after drop. Methodical and deathly.
Knock it off! Pasha can’t take it anymore, and he jolts toward the
faucet. But at that very moment, the soldier grabs Pasha’s hand. His
grip is firm and predatory.
“Hold on.” He struggles to move his lips. “Wait, don’t go.”
He wants to say something else, but then he bursts out cough-
ing, gasping for air.
“Wait,” he says to Pasha after he’s finally caught his breath.
“Who are you?”
He’s speaking Ukrainian, not mixing the languages at all. He’s
probably a student.
“A teacher,” Pasha explains.
“From around here?”
It’s hard for him to speak, but he keeps talking, straining.
“From the Station.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Gotcha,” the wounded guy says, even though he clearly
doesn’t get it. “So, Teach, what’s your name?”

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 “Pasha,” Pasha answers.
“So, Pasha, my phone’s around here somewhere. Call my
family.”
“What for?” Pasha’s confused.
“Tell them I’m doing all right.”
“You tell ’em,” Pasha suggests.
“Are you a complete idiot or what?” the wounded guy asks him
sharply, and has another coughing fit.
He coughs hoarsely and deeply, as though his heart is lodged in
his throat. Pasha holds him by the elbow, waits. The soldier catches
his breath, looks Pasha right in the eye.
“Are you a complete idiot?” He repeats his question. “How’m I
supposed to talk to them with my voice like this?”
“Well, just tell them you’re at the hospital.”
“Are you for real?” the wounded guy asks, aggrieved. “They
don’t even know I’m here. You have a family?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Pasha answers. “A nephew.”
“Okay, then,” the wounded guy replies. “C’mon, call ’em.”
Pasha hesitates, but the soldier’s looking at him firmly. And he’s
holding Pasha’s hand firmly, too, not letting go. Then Pasha reaches
into his pants pocket and actually finds a basic Nokia right away.
“What’s the number?” he asks.
“The last one I dialed,” the soldier answers. “Called them right
before we got hit. C’mon already.”
He keeps holding Pasha’s hand, but Pasha can tell that his grip
is loosening—running out of strength, eyes rolling back, labored,
choppy breathing. “Just don’t die on me,” Pasha thinks. “Where’d
that doctor go?” Pasha anxiously finds the last number—“Home.”

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That’s it. He goes for it, thinks about what to say, but doesn’t come
up with anything, so he just presses the button.
The soldier tenses up, listens. It keeps ringing and ringing, ring-
ing for an eternity. Well, c’mon—Pasha encourages someone, who
knows who, though—c’mon, pick up. Well, where are you? C’mon,
he’s gonna croak any second now. Pick up the phone, c’mon.
“No one’s picking up,” he says to the soldier, somewhat re-
lieved.
“Well, what would I’ve told them anyway?” he thinks.
“Would’ve had to make something up. They aren’t answering, that’s
on them,” he thinks and places the phone on the table, next to the
soldier. But he squeezes Pasha’s hand once again.
“Wait,” he says. “Hold on, Teach.”
He catches his breath, musters his strength.
“Try. One more time.”
“They aren’t picking up.”
“It’s my grandma,” the wounded guy explains. “She’s almost
deaf. She just didn’t hear it. C’mon, just call.”
All Pasha can do is make the call. He presses the button, listens.
And he notices that the soldier is also listening, tensing up, and it’s
getting harder and harder for him to keep listening. Well, and it’s
getting harder and harder for Pasha, too. He wants to sit down and
relax. Not look at anyone, not see anything. Forget all the sounds
and smells. Forget the train station, forget the bus, the crumbling
road, the moonlit landscapes out the window, the hapless travelers
trudging through the January fields, the black, scorched forest, the
dark houses, the frightened voices, the lifeless windows, the inter-
sections where death may be waiting for you. And all of that is sit-

311
ting inside him like lead—heavy and cold, dragging him down to
the bottom, making him unwieldy and vulnerable. And the drops—
the drops are hitting him right on the head, echoing in his mind,
drop by drop, as if someone’s mocking him, as if someone’s stand-
ing nearby and watching him, laughing at him, seeing him struggle,
yet not doing anything about it, not rushing to help, not rushing to
pick up the phone. Well, c’mon, c’mon, let’s go already. Well, where
are you? But nobody’s answering. And the wounded guy’s fading,
closing his eyes, not saying anything. He merely squeezes Pasha’s
hand, squeezes, seemingly pleading. C’mon, one more time, Teach,
c’mon. Pasha keeps calling and begins counting the drops as they
smash coldly. He counts, loses track, starts counting again, skips
around, starts all over, stubbornly, insistently, feeling that the metal
spring isn’t letting him breathe. It’s pushing his heart out of his
chest, not letting his heart beat, jabbing into it—sharply and im-
placably. Well, why aren’t you picking up, huh? Why? C’mon, pick
up while he’s still here, while he’s still alive, pick up while he can
still hear you, before it’s too late. C’mon already. He’s about to pass,
right here, right now, close his eyes, and that’ll be it—you won’t
hear him ever again, he won’t say anything ever again, he’ll be here
a few more minutes, you can still say something to him, he can’t
pass without hearing you talk—pass like this, on these two lunch
tables moved together, with a slit throat.
Pasha suddenly feels someone else’s presence alongside him—
someone invisible, someone standing there and waiting persis-
tently. Like someone’s transparent silhouette is standing there,
watching, plotting. Who’s it waiting for? And who has it come for?
“For me, clearly,” Pasha surmises. “Clearly. It’s what’s been on my
heels for three days now, it’s what reeks so much of wet dog, it’s

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what’s been hunting me, aiming at me. And now is the perfect
moment—we’re here all alone, this kid won’t notice anything, he
doesn’t notice anything anymore. Yeah, right now,” Pasha thinks re-
signedly. “Right here.”
Then the soldier squeezes his hand again. C’mon, don’t give
up, keep calling. And Pasha feels the silhouette behind him tense
up and finally start paying attention to the kid, to its new victim,
scrutinizing, considering. And as soon as he shuts his eyes, as soon
as he drifts off, as soon as he releases Pasha’s hand, there’ll be no
saving him. “Hold on,” Pasha says. “This can’t be, you came for me,
what’s he got to do with this? Hold on.” And he presses the green
button again. “C’mon,” he repeats in despair. “C’mon, where’d you
all go? Pick up. Someone just pick up! Why isn’t anyone answering?
Where’d you all go? Anyone there? Anyone at all? Where are you?
Anyone out there? Can’t hear anyone. No pity for anyone. Anyone,”
Pasha repeats, mouthing the words. “No pity for anyone. No pity
for anyone, anyone at all.” He can feel death retreating, sidestep-
ping him, moving on to someone else. The ringing dissolves, time
flows out, the air thins. There’s no fixing anything, there’s no saving
anyone. The main road stretches out, just a series of snowy fields.
There’s so much white all around. It’s as if all the other colors have
disappeared and only white remains. It stretches as far as the eye
can see, never-­ending white, deep and unmoving, all the way out
to the horizon. White fields and the black thawed streak of the road
that he’s following as he tries to escape, the road that ought to save
him. He’s running, shielding his eyes from the blinding, white mist
all around, running, dragging all his fatigue, all his drenched tor-
ment. Just don’t stop, don’t stop no matter what. You’ll make it, you
will, you’ll break free, you’ll slip through. You’ll pull it off, you will.

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Just a little more, a little bit more. Footsteps. The asphalt echoes hol-
lowly. Snowy fields approach, like the sea at high tide. The white,
white surface of life. The white, white space where no one can help.
And then he spots some movement. The white canvas sways ever
so slightly; his retinas respond to a nearly imperceptible quivering.
Black dots—one, two, three, four, five—emerge distinctly on the
horizon, expand, move toward him, and in all this movement, he
suddenly senses some sort of danger, something irreparable, some-
thing that will usher in the end of this, something that he has to es-
cape—as fast as possible, as far as possible. And he’s running, on the
brink of exhaustion, down the black channel of the road. He runs
and catches the cadenced, contentious movement of black dots on
the white canvas, sees them expanding, throbbing, charging toward
him, seemingly reacting to his body heat. “Don’t look,” he says to
himself. “Don’t look, don’t, just run, run as fast as you can, until you
drop, until you’re out of time, run and don’t look,” he orders him-
self. And he looks. And he clearly makes out dark dogs on the white
backdrop: their heavy chests sinking into the icy expanse, their paws
churning scraps of snow, their throats wailing as the warm smell
of their victim reaches them more and more sharply. Closer and
closer, more furiously, more consumed with the hunt, realizing that
their victim won’t be able to escape, that he isn’t going anywhere,
that he’s up ahead, a few strong spurts away. Almost there, one more
second, and they can pounce, sink their teeth into his neck, but
he’s trying to escape, trying to trick fate. He’s already picking up
that wet dog smell, hearing the snowy crust crunch under heavy
paws, deafened by their hoarse barking that shreds the surrounding
silence. “How many of them are there?” he thinks. “How many?”
One, two, three, four, five—he jerks forward, runs, his eyes trying to

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latch on to anything that could save him or simply delay his death.
But the space is empty, rarified, and there’s just the white light that’s
burning his eyes, and there’s so much of this light—nothing else,
nothing at all, just light, that’s it, nothing more. And all he can do is
run—don’t stop, don’t turn around—until he drops, until he’s out
of time. How much time does he have left? “How much?” he asks
himself and begins counting:
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
There’s more and more light; it floods everything all around. There’s
just so much of it; it fills up everything. It’s as if life consists solely of
light, as if, in this light, there’s no place for death.

I’ve been sitting in the hallway for over an hour now—just wait-
ing at first, then walking around, reading the posters on the wall.
That gets old pretty fast, so I take out my phone. Finally have ser-
vice. I think about who I should call. Nina. I can’t get through, obvi-
ously. I send her a text, just in case. I’m doing fine, don’t worry. But
is she worried? Maybe. She’s always worried about everyone. I think
that’s why nobody likes her.
Pasha shows up sometime around midnight. Tired, pale. He

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sees me, sits down on the floor, shakes his head. “No pity for any-
one. No pity for anyone,” he repeats. I don’t really get what he
means. I sit down next to him.
“No pity for who?” I ask.
“Anyone,” he repeats.
Then he turns toward me. He looks at me long and hard, like
he’s looking through me. He smiles in recognition. I pat him on
the back.
“Want some tea?” I ask. He nods. I walk over to the soldiers, get
some tea, bring it back. Pasha thanks me, holds the cup in his hand,
but he isn’t drinking. His fingers are shaking. His fingers have always
scared me. I’ve never seen anything like them. But his fingers aren’t
what matters, obviously. Making sure he’s doing all right—that’s
what matters. The past few days have taken a lot out of him: all
slouched over, gray face, tired eyes. I carefully touch his shoulder.
“You all right?” I ask. He gives me an exhausted look, fixes his
glasses the way he always does, nods.
“Everything’s fine,” he says. “You hungry?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Let’s go home already.”
We can’t go out the main exit. A stretcher got stuck in the door-
way when the soldiers were wheeling it in. They’re arguing, pushing
it forward and trying to pull it back, which has caused a little traf-
fic jam. Can’t get through. We find the back door, open it, pop out
into some sort of storage area. Freshly whitewashed hallway, stains
showing through the plaster. Metal staircase attached to the wall.
“Wait,” Pasha says. “I wanna finally see what’s up there.” He
points at the staircase.
“Nothing’s up there,” I answer. “Forget about it.”

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 He listens, doesn’t argue. He nods at me, as if he’s getting rid of
something nasty that’s been bothering him.
We go outside, push our way through the soldiers. I’m walking
up ahead, leading him, like a guide. He’s following me, his hand
resting on my shoulder.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s find the train station and take a taxi.
Got any money on you?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“We’ll have enough then,” he replies cheerfully.
I like the way he talks now, the way he talks to me. He used
to sound like he was always apologizing for something. It was awk-
ward—for him and for me. What was he even apologizing for? He
didn’t have anything to apologize for. Actually, I always felt bad
when I gave him a hard time. Pasha has a heart condition, shouldn’t
upset him. His heart could give out anytime, anywhere. That’s why
I was so worried about him these past few days. I didn’t know if he’d
make it. But he did it. So now he’s speaking in a calm voice, like
he trusts me, figures I’ll understand what he wants. He isn’t yell-
ing or ordering me around. He’s calmly explaining everything—go
to the train station, find a taxi, we’ll have enough money, we’ll eat
at home. The worst is behind us. Nothing’s going to happen to us
here. We’ll be home soon. The soldiers aren’t paying any attention
to us; they’re yelling to each other, carrying the wounded inside,
and taking those who’ve already been treated out into the fresh air.
We make our way out to the main road, go around a tractor, and
when we’re already some distance away, someone behind us sud-
denly yells,
“Hey, Teach!”

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 Pasha stops. Out of the darkness emerges a man: dark, expen-
sive jacket, dirty boots, backpack. His outfit looks pretty sharp, but
it’s kind of rumpled, like he was being held in some pit for the past
few days. He speaks with confidence, takes his time. He’s speaking
Russian, but even I can tell he’s a foreigner.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking at Pasha with an
unpleasant smile.
“Heading home,” Pasha answers.
“That must be your nephew?” He points at me like I’m a dog.
“Picked him up after all?” And he talks about me like I’m a dog, too.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t think you’d risk it.” The man keeps smiling.
“Would you have?” Pasha asks him. The man simply scoffs.
“Well, I . . . ,” he says tentatively. “What do I have to do with
this? Cigarette?” He changes the topic, takes out a pack of cheap,
strong cigarettes, offers Pasha one.
He shakes his head. The man, still smiling, extends the pack
toward me.
“I don’t smoke that kind of shit,” I reply.
“Sasha,” Pasha says severely.
“It’s all right.” The man chuckles. “It’s fine, no need to scold
him.”
“I’m not,” Pasha explains. The man stops smiling, tucks his
cigarettes away.
“Going to the Station?” he asks Pasha. “I can give you a ride.
Let’s go?”
“Okay,” Pasha agrees, and gives me a gentle push forward.
The man turns around and walks down the road, past a long
column of military vehicles. He walks, head down, like he’s hiding

318
from someone. And the soldiers look at him like they know that he’s
hiding from someone. He goes over to an ambulance—a fat guy’s
sleeping in the driver’s seat. He drums on the door. The driver shud-
ders, peers into the darkness, eventually discerns the man, curses.
Well, I can’t hear what he’s actually saying, but he’s obviously curs-
ing. The man climbs inside, nods at us. Get in the back. Pasha opens
the door, lets me in first, then follows.
“To the Station,” the man says. He’s speaking like a supervisor.
One who isn’t that high up, though.
The driver gives him a dirty look but doesn’t say anything.
“We’re in odd company,” I think. “Well, it is what it is.”
The streets are packed with soldiers. There’s no knowing where
they all came from. They trudge down the sidewalks, make fires so
they can get warm—in groups, by themselves. Some of them have
weapons, others don’t have anything. There’s a big crowd outside
the train station, too. A tank crawling with soldiers is parked off to
the side. It’s as if the soldiers are afraid to get too far away from it.
We pass the central square, the railroad crossing, and then leave the
city. It’s dark—no lights, no movement anywhere. The man up front
takes out his cigarettes and lights up.
“All right if I roll down the window? The kid won’t get too
cold?” he asks Pasha.
“It’s fine,” I reply.
Pasha merely scoffs at him.
“You call Grandpa?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Everything’s fine.”
I know he isn’t telling the truth. He doesn’t want me to worry.
He’s just looking out for me. He’s always looking out for me, afraid
something’ll happen to me. Honestly though, I’m worried about

319
him. I might be the only person who worries about him. Maryna left
him, his sister—my mom, I mean—takes no interest in his life, and
Grandpa’s at war with him. I love him, though. I knew he’d come
get me, I was sure. I was just counting on him coming earlier, when
you could still leave the city. And when he showed up two nights
ago, I immediately thought to myself, “How are we gonna get out?”
Well, it’s a good thing everything went okay. And the fact that he
isn’t telling the truth—that’s a good thing, too. Talk all you want,
Pasha. Just don’t worry about me. I simply don’t understand how
he’s still hanging in there, after three days out in the wind and rain.
When I saw him in the hospital, out there in the hallway, I thought
that he’d just spoken to his death. And he was able to sway it. Or
maybe he wasn’t. But it wasn’t able to sway him either.
“Well, so . . .” The man holding the cigarette turns toward
Pasha. “When do you go back to school?”
“After break,” Pasha answers calmly.
The man laughs heartily, like he’s just heard an old joke.
“What do you teach again? History?” he asks.
“No,” Pasha answers.
“Chemistry?” the man inquires.
“Ukrainian.” The man whistles in reply.
“That’s like teaching Latin,” he says, chuckling.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Well, all right.” The man doesn’t want to argue with Pasha. He
takes out another cigarette and lights it from the butt of the last one.
“Just tell me this—how are you going to teach your language now?
After all of this?” He points into the black night.
Pasha thinks, doesn’t say anything. “He’s feeling blue,” I think.
But no, he isn’t.

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 “Peter,” he says to the man. It turns out he knows his name.
“Do your readers send you letters?”
“My readers?” The man’s confused.
“Like the people who read your newspaper,” Pasha elaborates.
“Do they send letters to your office?”
“What?” The man’s still confused.
“Basically, I’m trying to say that even if they do, you probably
don’t read them. You probably aren’t interested in that. And you
aren’t interested in us either. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Uh, why would you say something like that?” The man’s of-
fended, but he’s trying to speak amicably.
“That’s how we talk at school,” Pasha explains. “We say what we
think. Otherwise, what’s the point of even talking, right?” The man
apparently doesn’t know if he should outwardly take offense or keep
his hurt feelings to himself.
“You’re a strange guy,” he begins softly. “I don’t get you.”
“That’s just because you don’t understand our language,” Pasha
replies offhandedly. “We all speak Latin around here.”
“Very funny,” the man replies.
“Yeah, but tell me I’m wrong.”

We pass a checkpoint on the road that leads out of the city. The
lights of the Station shine in the distance. The soldiers instantly
recognize the ambulance. It’s clearly been here before. They nod at
the driver. And give Peter the cold shoulder.
“We’ll drop you off at the motel,” he says to Pasha stiffly.
“Thank you,” Pasha says just as stiffly.
They don’t say anything more. The driver turns on the radio,
picks up noise.

321
 There’s a ton of military equipment by the motel. The soldiers
are running from vehicle to vehicle. They scan the ambulance and
spot Peter, so they lose interest. The driver stops but doesn’t switch
off the motor; he considers pulling up a little closer. Everyone’s sit-
ting, waiting wordlessly.
“They picked up a woman here yesterday.” The driver cracks
first. “Special ops guys came in. Turns out she was leaking infor-
mation.”
“Who was she?” Pasha asks lazily.
“A waitress.”
Peter sneers.
“Name?” Pasha suddenly asks.
“Huh?” The driver’s confused.
“What was the waitress’s name? Anna?”
“Nah,” the driver answers, flustered. “Not Anna. Definitely not
Anna. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind,” Pasha replies. “Get out,” he says to me. “Let’s
go home.”
In parting, Pasha hollowly shuts the ambulance door. But Peter
leaps out as soon as we start to walk away.
“Teach!” he yells. “Wait.”
Pasha takes several more mechanical steps but then stops. He
stands in silence. Peter walks over, frostily rubs his hands, seemingly
not knowing what to do with them.
“Want me to tell you the password?” he asks.
“What password?”
“It’s getting late,” Peter explains. “You won’t get past the first
checkpoint without it.”

322
 “We don’t need it,” Pasha says. “But thanks,” he adds after a
moment’s thought.
“No hard feelings, all right?” Peter somewhat awkwardly ex-
tends his frozen hand.
Pasha shakes it. They stand there, not knowing what to do.
Peter pulls his hand out of Pasha’s just as awkwardly, tucks it into
his pockets.
“You probably think I’m a real asshole,” he says. “You really
shouldn’t, though. You don’t know anything about me. All right?”
“All right,” Pasha replies, smiling.
He doesn’t challenge the asshole part, though.
“Why were you being like that to him?” I ask Pasha once we’ve
walked away.
“Is there any other way to be with guys like him?” Pasha asks,
surprised. “He really just isn’t interested in anyone. And he isn’t
interested in us either. He’ll leave, we’ll stick around. That’s all
there is to it.”

On the way back, it starts raining again. You don’t really pay
attention to that, though. Just want to get home. Service is spotty,
but Mom gets through. She’s speaking calmly, as if everything’s fine
and nothing has happened. She tells me she’ll be back tomorrow.
I answer in a calm tone, too. Actually, nothing did happen. Pasha
calls Grandpa, tells him we’ll be home soon, asks him what to pick
up at the store. It feels like we just went for a hike and now we’re
coming home—tired, dirty, smelling of smoke. The closer we get
to the Station, the more soldiers there are. A long column of heavy
armor heads past us, toward the city. They were clearly coming from

323
where the tracks are. Just disembarked. The soldiers are focused and
calm. Nobody’s yelling. Nobody’s berating anyone. Everyone’s pre-
paring for the war that’s still going on. Everyone’s planning to sur-
vive, thinking about returning. Everyone wants to return home;
everyone likes returning. I like returning to the Station, too, I like
counting the buildings, seeing our neighbors at the bus stop, wait-
ing for our house—looks like a half-­loaf of black bread—to appear
around the corner. On the trees around the bus stop, groups of
birds. Drowsy, wet, motionless. It’s as if they’re waiting for a ride.
They may’ve flown here from the city, come back to their flock.
They feel safer here.
Rain-­drenched street, black windows, low-­hanging sky. I see a
box by the bus stop. Something’s squeaking quietly inside.
“Pasha,” I yell. “Hold on.”
Two puppies. Red with spots. One’s cold. The other one is al-
most dead, too.
“Let’s take him home,” I say to Pasha.
“Ugh, no,” he replies. “Grandpa’ll have a fit.”
“And then he’ll deal with it,” I say.
“Just leave him. He’s gonna die anyway.”
“Yeah, if I leave him he will.” I carefully pick him up, tuck him
under my shirt.
Then the puppy starts peeing, right on my sweater. But he’s
calmed down, stopped whimpering. “Well, all right,” I think.
“He dead?” Pasha asks, now obviously interested.
“Yeah right!” I answer. “He’ll be a badass when he grows up.”
Pasha laughs skeptically. We turn the corner. Smooth tele-
vision light shines through our windows.
At home, it smells like fresh sheets.

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This page intentionally left blank
Serhiy Zhadan was born in the Luhansk Region of Ukraine and
educated in Kharkiv, where he lives today. He is the most popular
poet of the post-­independence generation in Ukraine and the author
of twelve books of poetry, which have earned him numerous national
and European awards. His prose works include Big Mac (2003), De-
peche Mode (2004), Anarchy in the UKR (2005), Hymn of the Demo-
cratic Youth (2006), Voroshilovgrad (2010), Mesopotamia (2014), and
The Orphanage (2017). Zhadan’s books have been translated into
Belarusian, Czech, English, French, German, Hungarian, Italian,
Latvian, Lithuanian, Norwegian, Polish, Russian, and Swedish. He
is the front man for the band Zhadan and the Dogs.

Reilly Costigan-­Humes and Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler are a

team of literary translators who work with both Ukrainian and Rus-
sian. They are best known for their translations of Serhiy Zhadan’s
prose, including Voroshilovgrad and Mesopotamia.

The translators are grateful to Hanna Leliv and Yevhenii Monastyr-

skyi for their generous and thoughtful assistance with the text.