Beyond the Shadow of Night(20)

A few paces later, she was at the kitchen doorway and her face was on fire.

Her father, sitting at the table but slumped on it, blood everywhere.

The back door swinging nonchalantly in the breeze, as if a careless child had left it in a game of chase.

Her father, who’d carried her up to bed every night for a week when she’d sprained her ankle, his body now slumped over the kitchen table, a shiny pool of blood all around his head.

The door handle, smeared in blood, and above it one panel of glass broken through, more blood dripping from its edges.

Her father, the man who once drove her at breakneck speed to school to make it for the bus for the school ski trip, his form now slumped over the table, blood everywhere on one side of the room.

Blood everywhere.

A gun on the ground in the backyard, just beyond the doorway as if trying to escape, but caught in the light thrown from the kitchen. And next to that a spilled pot of paint, obviously knocked over by someone escaping in a rush.

Her father. Her father. Her father. The man who used to take her to the local park and push her on the swings until she screamed in joyous terror.

Now there was only terror.

This was no longer her father. This was a corpse with a large black hole in the side of its head. Beyond that hole, a spray and splatter of blood had found its way onto every surface and object.

That night had only been five days ago, but Diane still had no recollection of what had happened after she’d discovered the body. She was told that a neighbor had found her in the street, unable to talk, only able to point, and that the neighbor had gone in to check and subsequently called the police.



Brad drove on. Diane shut the window. Switched the radio on. Listened for a few seconds. Turned the radio off. Said nothing. Brad drove on. Brad said nothing. That was good.





Chapter 8

Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1941

It was now almost two years since the Soviet-German invasion of Poland, and for the Petrenkos, that time had gone by with little fuss.

For those interested, there had been many news bulletins about the events there and in the rest of Europe, but for most, the existence of the non-aggression pact with Germany was all they needed to know about.

And while Mykhail occasionally thought about how the Kogans were managing in Warsaw, he convinced himself he had more pressing issues to deal with. After all, that was his past life; he would probably never see Asher again. At seventeen he’d gotten into the habit of meeting up with friends in the village center to talk about girls and, increasingly, politics. Likewise, his papa had gotten into the habit of groaning every time he went there.

“You think you can change the system,” he would say, “but you’re too young to even understand the system.” Or he might say, “It’s easy to talk a fight.” Or even, “Youngsters, anything to avoid hard work.” There was, however, always a crooked grin and a twinkle in his eye when he said those things, so Mykhail knew there was a grudging respect beneath his words.

By the start of June that year, the invasion of Poland was very old news, and the minds of the youngsters had turned to fighting for Ukraine.

One lazy afternoon, Mykhail, Borys, and Taras were sitting around the village clock tower, talking politics.

Taras was shaking his head. “This Russian collaboration with the Germans is awful for us,” he said. “It means we have to fight two armies for our independence.”

Mykhail raised a finger. “Don’t be so sure. It keeps the Russians occupied. More troops busy keeping the Poles in check means fewer troops available to fight us.”

“Us?” Taras said.

“I mean the nationalists.”

“So you’re joining the nationalists?”

Mykhail held his head high. “Why not? I’m a proud Ukrainian. Wouldn’t you fight for your country?”

“You, Mykhail?” Borys said. “You’re going to fight against the Red Army?”

Mykhail shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. You know there are a few organizations pledging to fight for Ukraine and for Ukraine only. And they have people with ammunition and the training to use it.”

“I’ve heard. But, you know, most of the people who would fight are in prison. Look at my Uncle Viktor. He’s behind bars just for trying to organize talks on the history of Ukraine.”

Mykhail spat on the ground. “What does that tell you about the Russians?”

“That they’re in charge?” Taras said, laughing.

Mykhail grabbed his shirt. “Don’t laugh. It’s not just his Uncle Viktor. Many people have been taken away or even . . .”

“What?”

“Killed. Executed for daring to speak out against Russia.”

Taras apologized, and Mykhail let go of his shirt.

“Mykhail’s right,” Borys said. “The Russians classify proud Ukrainians as enemies of the people. We can’t accept that.”

“Enemies of the Russian people, perhaps,” Mykhail said. “But one day Ukraine will be a free nation—a proud and independent nation.”

Taras smirked. “So you would take up arms? Even kill?”

“If it comes to that, yes. I’m certainly a strong, brave Ukrainian. Aren’t you?”

Taras shrunk slightly at the question.

Mykhail turned to Borys. “And you?”