Beyond the Shadow of Night(11)

The greengrocer would occasionally appear and tell him to move along, which made him run home in embarrassment. He would usually have composed himself by the time he arrived, although if he tried hard enough he could still sense the joy of the music, and picture the girl and her smile.



Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1939

Three years had now passed since Asher left the farm, and, as Mykhail’s papa had predicted, harvests had grown year on year.

“And it’s all down to you and your new tractor machine,” his papa would say.

But Mykhail’s day-to-day life on the farm hadn’t changed much, for the cycle of seasons was a constant, requiring much the same attention every year. The vocation wasn’t exactly dynamic, but there was a never-ending amount of physical work involved. He would help his papa with plowing, sowing, and harvesting, as well as fencing areas off and dealing with pests. It was hard work, but it was also boring.

They rented out the larger farmhouse for money, but did all the work themselves; Papa said it was better to save money rather than pay people to do work the Petrenkos could do themselves. Papa also said that if Mykhail did the work, then he would learn how to run the farm, which was much more useful than anything he could ever learn at “that schooling place.”

By now, schoolwork and farm duties were leaving little time for fishing trips, and besides, it just wasn’t the same on your own. Mykhail would still often think of the day, three years before, when his papa had told him the Kogans were leaving and the Petrenkos were the new owners of the farm. Those three years had been ones where friendships were fluid and loyalties anything but fixed.

During that time, he’d finished attending the government school his papa derided so much, but had kept two best friends from his schooldays. Taras was a studious but humorous sort, whereas bullish Borys reminded Mykhail more of his papa.

One day, while he and Papa were out on the tractor at the far end of the farmland, they stopped to eat the midday meal Mama had packed for them. Mykhail casually mentioned the idea of traveling.

“Traveling?” Papa said between mouthfuls. “Why would you want to travel? Everything you need is on this farm. Well, here or in the village.”

Mykhail didn’t reply to that.

His papa tried again: “So . . . where exactly are you thinking of traveling to?”

“I’m not sure. Probably west.”

“You mean Germany? Austria?”

Mykhail shrugged. “And Poland.”

Papa chewed for a few moments, then said, “You mean Warsaw. You want to see your old friend, Asher, don’t you?”

“I’m just interested to learn what’s become of him. What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing. But, Warsaw? I mean . . . surely you’ve heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The city has become a cesspit. Too many undesirables in one place.”

“That’s hardly Asher’s fault. He was my best friend. And I’d like to go to other countries too, honestly I would.”

Papa tutted. “Those schoolbooks have given you some strange ideas, Mykhail. What’s wrong with staying here?”

The boy shrugged shoulders that had grown melon-shaped with hard work. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, just perhaps . . .”

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps it’s not what I want. Perhaps I have ambition.”

His papa laughed. “Ambition? What’s ambition?”

“Papa, I’m not sure I want to spend my life here on this farm, sowing, plowing, and harvesting—just doing the same thing year in, year out.”

“So, who would do these things, if not you?”

“If not me?” Mykhail said tentatively, leaning his body away from his papa. “Well, if I had any brothers or sisters . . .”

“Well, you don’t. We . . . ah . . . we just have to accept that.”

“I remember asking you a few years ago why I have no brothers or sisters. You just said it was something I shouldn’t worry about.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m a man now, aren’t I?”

Papa looked him up and down. “Perhaps a little more growing to do, some filling out, but a fine figure of a young man nonetheless.”

“So tell me now, Papa. Why am I an only child?”

The breath from his papa’s long sigh swirled in the strong rays of the midday sun. Even after that, it was a while before he answered. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not worth talking about.”

Mykhail disagreed, and opened his mouth to say so, eventually choosing to take a large bite of stuffed pancake instead.



In August, Mykhail’s plans to travel were thrown into disarray.

He was vaguely aware of events to the west, where Germany had been “assisting” other countries with their social problems, but everyone he spoke to said it was stuff and nonsense that wouldn’t affect Ukraine.

One day, they’d all just sat down at the dinner table when Papa spoke.

“Interesting news today,” he said.

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” Mama said.

Papa pondered for a while and muttered, “I’m not sure anyone can answer that question yet. But you know how we’ve all been worried about Germany lately?”