Beyond the Shadow of Night(25)

He walked on toward Borys, and the first thing the two men did—before a word was spoken—was shake hands.

“I hear you had a visitor too,” Borys said.

Mykhail nodded. “And I hear that you . . . declined the invitation?”

Borys laughed. “You should have seen the man’s face. I tell you, he was so angry. God, he was trembling so much I thought his stupid Stalin mustache was going to explode.” He straightened his face. “But enough of this. Have you decided what you’re going to do—whose side you’re on?”

Mykhail’s jaw dropped, and stayed there. He could see Borys’s nostrils twitching in anticipation, the rest of his face frozen.

Before Mykhail could speak, he heard shouts coming from behind him. He went to turn but was flung to the side before he got the chance.

Three men appeared in front of him—three of the men he’d seen before, asking questions. He could now see they were soldiers, and all three were pointing their rifles at Borys.

“Hands on your head!” one shouted.

Borys waited for the man to shout it a second time, then did as he was told, but slowly and with a dark scowl.

Mykhail stepped forward, but the butt of a rifle in the stomach winded him. Gasping to recover, he pulled back, and the man turned his attention to Borys again.

“You are Borys Popovych of Dyovsta?”

Again, Borys didn’t hurry to react. “And . . . what of it?”

“You are hereby charged with defacing official government documents.”

Borys narrowed his eyes at them. “My conscription papers? If that’s what you mean, they aren’t official papers. This is Ukraine, not Russia.”

One of the soldiers nodded to the other two, who pounced on Borys, one pulling him by the arm, one pointing a rifle at his back.

Mykhail felt his stomach turning in on itself as he watched them drag Borys away and throw him into the back of a truck. He went to the truck, running at first, then slowing to a tentative walk and holding his hands up as a rifle was pointed in his direction.

“Where are you going?” he shouted. “Where are you taking him?”

The soldier ignored him, but lowered the rifle and headed for the front of the truck.

“Please!” Mykhail quickened his pace, keeping his hands high. “Where are you taking him?”

The soldier opened the cab door and rested his hand on it as he addressed Mykhail. “He’s going where all the anti-Soviet insurgents go. Prison.”

“For ripping up papers? He hasn’t done any harm. It’s all talk.”

“Oh, he’s been talking all right—to the other agitators. He’s an enemy of the people.”

“But . . .”

The soldier pointed at the truck. “Do you want to come too? We have room.”

“Just tell me which prison you’re taking him to.”

“He’s going to Kiev.”

Mykhail held his head in his hands as he watched the truck drive off.



Mykhail got home just as the golden ring of sun was about to plunge below the horizon.

His parents turned and stared at him as he stood by the door.

“I’ve decided,” he said. “I’m joining the Red Army.”

Mama let out a sharp gasp and held a hand over her face.

“Please don’t cry,” Mykhail said to her. “It’s for the best.”

“I know,” she murmured, and wiped away a few tears.

“And what about Borys and Taras?” Papa said.

Mykhail was flustered for a second, then said, “You were right about self-preservation.”

Papa nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a practical decision.”

“I’m still scared,” Mama said. “Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”

“I can’t promise that, Mama.” He saw her face start to collapse, then added, “But I’ll try.”

“So, come sit down,” Papa said. “It’s your final night here. We can—”

“His final night until he returns on leave,” Mama said.

“That’s what I meant, of course. We’ll get out the vodka and the playing cards.”



Mykhail suffered a restless night, with thoughts of Borys—and his own future—churning in his mind. He gave up trying to sleep and got up. Before sunrise, while his parents were still sleeping, he went outside and took a last look at the fields and the livestock.

The memories whirled around in his head of the sunny days spent working on the land, as well as the rainy ones when his boots became encased in mud. There were also the games of hide-and-seek with the children of neighboring farms, and the races through the long meadow grasses. Even those torturous days laboring in the sun now seemed magical.

He gave the horse a last brush, and couldn’t resist giving the tractor a farewell pat on the seat. He smiled to himself as he did this, then jumped up onto it. A final sit for old time’s sake.

For a few seconds he was a young child again, with a lust for learning about this new metal beast—an enthusiasm he shared with his old friend Asher.

No, his best friend Asher.

Asher was long gone, but not forgotten. The games, the fights, the fishing trips, and, yes, even the day when they’d been robbed and had tried to cover for each other.