Beyond the Shadow of Night(2)

So they didn’t worry.

On this trip, they each had three rods to keep an eye on, but the fish were less inclined to bite than usual, and after an hour they’d caught nothing. Mykhail left his fishing rods to fate and flopped onto his back, soaking up the sun’s rays. Then Asher did the same.

“My papa says it’s the Russians’ fault,” Mykhail said.

“What is?”

“The situation. The hunger. Papa says the Russians are trying to starve us all.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. He says they hate Ukrainians. He also says . . .”

“Says what?”

“He says the Jews don’t help.”

Asher frowned. “What does he mean by that?”

“Oh, not you. Not the Kogans. I’m sure he’s talking about the other ones—the bad ones.”

“Good. Because I can’t remember doing anything wrong. Except I don’t let my sisters tell me what to do. And anyway, we’re Jewish and Ukrainian.”

“Of course. Perhaps I didn’t hear him properly. I don’t think I was supposed to be listening.”

Asher nodded. “I hear my papa talking sometimes too. He says these lands have been chopped up so many times that most Ukrainians don’t know who they should be fighting, so they usually end up fighting each other.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about it,” Mykhail said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Something caught Asher’s eye: one of the lines twitching violently. “Fish matter,” he said, tapping Mykhail.

Mykhail lifted his head, noticed the bite, and grabbed his rod. “You’re right,” he said. “And we’ve just caught one.”



The fishing carried on with mixed success for the rest of that summer, and whenever they fished together the two boys spoke of what food they’d eaten recently, what tricks Asher’s sisters had played on him, even the weather—anything apart from “the situation.”

By the summer of 1933, however, “the situation” had clearly become more serious. A heavy atmosphere clung on to the whole farm like a curse, and the boys’ parents were having a lot more whispered conversations.

The boys had been attending school for a few years, but still managed to make time for fishing trips. Their parents had always encouraged the trips, but now they were being told to go, and to stay longer, and to bring back more fish. At least, they were told that by their papas; their mamas usually said nothing.

And most of the time there were no seeds or bottles of milk to take with them on their fishing trips.

On one occasion, Mykhail’s mama was sweeping the dust from the kitchen as he was preparing to leave.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve nothing for you to take. We’re just so short of food.”

Mykhail knew; he’d heard it many times before. “Yes, Mama,” he said, much as he had all year.

“Things will get better, have a little faith. But for now you’ll have to drink river water instead of milk, and make sure you bring back anything you catch.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Even the small fish. Don’t throw anything back in, will you?”

“No, Mama.”

Then Mykhail saw that worried frown on his mama’s face again—the one he’d seen more often lately. She laid down the broom, drew the back of her hand across her brow, and rushed over to him so quickly he was frightened for a moment.

“And please God, take care of yourself,” she said, and kissed him on the head.

Mykhail, slightly confused, left the farmhouse and crossed the yard to his friend’s farmhouse.

“He’s in the barn,” Asher’s mama said as she pummeled the dirty water out of a soaking-wet shirt. “Helping his papa sort out the seeds.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kogan.”

In the barn, Asher and his papa were sitting on the ground, sifting through the seeds, discarding the rotten ones. Mykhail’s papa was there too, grooming the two horses. As Mykhail entered, his papa glanced at him, but held a blank expression and turned away.

“Are you coming fishing?” Mykhail said to Asher.

Asher looked over to his papa, who nodded. The boy stood up, wiped the dust from his hands, and headed for the door.

“They were arguing again,” Asher said when they were well away from the barn.

“What about?”

Asher shrugged. “I don’t know. But your papa is a nice man.”

“Yours too.”

“So why do they argue so much?”

“They don’t agree about the Russians,” Mykhail said. “I don’t know what it means, all this talk of the state and food production. They said the authorities take what food they want and don’t provide enough seed.”

“What’s that got to do with the Russians?”

“I don’t know, but they say that’s why everyone’s hungry.”

The fishing hadn’t been good recently, so the boys walked upstream, to somewhere they’d never fished before. They found a calm, deep section of water their lines could reach, and sat down on the riverbank facing the sun.

Their rods were the usual long sticks with string tied onto the ends; their floats were rough chunks of wood. They found grubs to impale on the bent nails tied to the ends of the string, then tossed the lines into the river and settled back.