Beyond the Shadow of Night(26)

“Good morning.”

Mykhail turned to see his papa standing in the doorway of the tractor barn.

“Volunteering for a quick shift before you go?”

Mykhail nodded. “Put me down for one later in the year—I’ll be back by then.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I was just thinking of old times.” Mykhail caressed the steering wheel, just as he’d done when it had been brand new. “And of Asher.”

Papa dropped his smile and turned away for a moment. When he turned back, Mykhail noticed his face was a little flushed and he was blinking.

“Papa? Are you okay?”

His papa nodded, but with no great conviction.

“Are you upset because I’m joining the army, or upset because I’m joining the Russians?”

Papa let out a laugh, and a crooked smile appeared on his face.

“I know how much you hate them,” Mykhail said.

“Mykhail, sit down for a moment.”

They sat side by side on a rough wooden bench. Papa patted his son’s knee. “Perhaps I should explain something before you go. It’s something you should know.”

Mykhail said nothing, and stilled himself to listen.

“You asked a few times why you were an only child. You see, after your mama had you, we waited a couple of years before trying to give you a little brother or sister, but by then we were living in the shadow of the Russians, and times were hard. We waited as long as we could and tried again, but along came the Holodomor. Thanks to the Russians we were starving, just like everyone else in Ukraine, and she . . . she miscarried.”

Mykhail saw redness around his papa’s eyes, then he blinked and a teardrop fell to the dust.

“We tried again the next year, but still the great famine continued, so we had the same results. And after that, she . . . didn’t have the heart to try again. For many years I hated the Russians—for that and for many other things, but mainly for that.”

“And now?”

“Age dulls your hatred. You see things differently. And, I guess, there’s a level of acceptance.”

“So I’m an only child because of the Russians?”

Papa stood up, and motioned for his son to do the same.

But Mykhail stayed seated. “I’m confused,” he muttered, shaking his bowed head. “You tell me that about the Russians, and now I’m fighting on their side?”

“Nothing has changed,” Papa said. “The arguments are the same. What choice do you have?”

“What choice?”

“You have the choice of self-preservation or self-destruction. I know what I and your mama both want.”

Mykhail took a long breath to settle a heart that was running away. “But I feel like I’m betraying you.”

“Nonsense. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. Now, come on. A final breakfast. Your mama’s waiting. She has sweet egg bread and meat sausage.”

It took a while, and Papa waited without speaking, but eventually Mykhail stood up and forced himself to smile. “A final breakfast,” he said. “Let’s go.”



After breakfast, Mykhail fetched his sack of clothes and dropped it by the door. He turned to Mama and was immediately engulfed in her arms.

She swallowed away her sorrow and told him to look after himself.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back before the end of the year.”

Mama nodded, but kept her mouth tightly shut.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few months, definitely.”

“Definitely,” she repeated, her face creasing up.

Then Papa opened the door and ushered him out. He followed, then shut the door, leaving Mama inside. Mykhail stopped, puzzled.

“Your mama says she can’t watch you walk away,” Papa said.

They shook hands, and embraced.

“There’s something else,” Papa said as he stepped away. “Something else I need to tell you. A confession of sorts, I guess.”

“Go on,” Mykhail said, eyeing him suspiciously.

Papa rubbing his silvered stubble as he bowed his head. “It’s . . . it’s about your old friend Asher—your best friend Asher.”

“What about him?”

“I did it for the best, Mykhail. I was thinking of you.”

Mykhail shrugged, too puzzled to speak.

“After he left for Warsaw, he . . . he sent you some letters.”

“Letters?”

“I burned them.”

Mykhail paused to take in the words. “You burned them? You burned my letters?”

“I know it was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

“But . . . why?”

“I thought it best you didn’t read them. I wanted you to forget him, Mykhail. I didn’t want you to have false hope.”

The men stood face to face for a few moments.

“It’s something I regret,” Papa said. “But it’s something you should know.”

Mykhail looked him in the eye; he saw sadness and a little shame.

“And now you have more important things to worry about.”

Mykhail aimlessly flicked dry dirt with the toe of his boot, then looked in the direction of the village center. He nodded, then again, more firmly. “You’re right. It’s not important now.”