Beyond the Shadow of Night(22)

The farmhouse was much like any other the three young men had seen, a solid affair with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof that looked waterproof just by the skin of its teeth.

“Is this it?” Mykhail said.

“Doesn’t look much, does it?” Taras said. “Nobody would guess there’s a small hidden room that’s been turned into a distillery.”

“I’m impressed,” Borys said.

Mykhail slapped the backs of the other two. “And I’m excited. I haven’t tasted good vodka since . . . yesterday.” He spluttered a laugh.

Taras knocked on the door, while his two friends casually rolled around on their haunches, glancing left and right.

The door was opened by a woman in tears.

Taras’s face dropped. “Aunt Natali? What’s wrong? What is it?”

“You haven’t heard?” She looked at all three in turn. “None of you have heard?”

“Heard what?” Borys said.

“The news,” she said. “It’s too bad. Oh, it’s terrible.”

“Tell us!” Mykhail shouted.

Taras gave him an admonishing stare.

“I’m sorry,” Mykhail said. “Please, tell us the news.”

“The . . . the Germans have invaded.”

Mykhail leaned his ear toward her. “What did you say?”

“The Germans invaded Ukraine early this morning.”

Taras held a hand to his forehead, mouth agape. The other two cursed under their breath.

“I guess news travels slowly,” the woman said. “But it’s true. They’ve taken towns and villages all along the border, in both Russia and Ukraine. They’re moving quickly by all accounts, sweeping away all resistance.”

“Now I definitely need a drink,” Mykhail said.

The woman went back inside and returned within seconds. She thrust a couple of bottles into Mykhail’s arms.

“Here,” she said. “I feel sorry for you. Enjoy it. It might be your last taste of freedom.” She shut the door.

Mykhail gave his friends a confused look. “What did she mean by that?” he said.

“What do you think she meant?” Borys replied. “We’ll be expected to join the army. Perhaps our families will have to move if the Germans overrun this place.”

Taras nudged his cap and scratched his head. “We should go home and prepare for war. I need to tell my parents. We have to be ready to leave Dyovsta at short notice.”

Mykhail looked to Borys, who shrugged and said, “I think we should have a drink. What else can we do?”

“I’m with Borys,” Mykhail said. “Who knows when we might get a sniff of vodka again, let alone get drunk.” He turned to Taras. “Look, if your parents don’t know, telling them will only upset them, and if they do know, there’s no point reminding them.”

“Come on,” Borys said to Taras. “One last drunken night, how about it?”

Taras bowed his head for a few seconds, then looked up and nodded. “And my aunt could be right. It could be the last chance I get for a while.”

“Good,” Mykhail said. “And while we’re getting drunk, we can talk about who we’re going to fight with.”

They sloped off to a tin shed fifty or so yards away that had been baking in the sun, and sat down together against the still-warm metal.

They drank, watched the sun fall to the horizon, and drank some more. But despite the vodka, there was little talk. Eventually the cold came, and Taras said his goodbyes and left.

“Are you definitely joining the nationalists?” Mykhail asked Borys after a few silent minutes.

Borys took another slug of vodka and handed the bottle over. “Of course. I’ll fight Hitler and Stalin together.”

“In that case, I’ll join you.”

“You know, the old woman has it wrong. I’ve been talking with some of the nationalists.”

“Your Uncle Viktor’s friends?”

Borys nodded. “They’ve been saying for some time that the Germans could be good for us. As you said, if they get the Russians out of the way it could help the Ukrainian cause.”

Mykhail nodded slowly, but said nothing.

They talked a little more, raising a toast to Ukrainian independence, but soon after that Borys also left. Mykhail stayed to finish the last few drops of vodka, and to think.

As the sun’s final rays were vanishing, he shivered. It was so peaceful here, and yet at his country’s brittle edges, German guns and tanks were wreaking havoc. Mykhail was only eighteen, but he knew the good times were coming to an end.

And Papa was right. Strong beliefs were easy to talk about. But now events were conspiring to test his mettle, so how much were those beliefs worth? At eighteen he could no longer hide behind the privileges of childhood. Soon he wouldn’t be able to talk about fighting and step away; he might have to do it.

A couple of weeks ago he’d felt like a boy. Now he got to his feet unsteadily, and walked home a confused and apprehensive young man.





Chapter 9

Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1941

The next morning Mykhail was shaken awake by his papa, and found himself babbling meaningless phrases.

“Are you all right?” his papa said.