Beyond the Shadow of Night(31)

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. All I meant was that . . . Oh, I don’t know.”

“And while I think of it, what’s all this crap about some sort of bond between you and me?”

“Oh, you know about that.”

“What the hell did you mean by it?”

“Well . . .” He thought for a moment. “It’s hard to put into words. Something in common in our pasts, I guess.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps I’m being presumptuous.”

“Perhaps you are, with a little arrogance on the side.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Okay, let’s cut the bullshit. Just tell me why you killed my father.”

He glanced at the guard standing next to the door.

Diane did the same, then said to the guard, “Could you leave us alone please?”

The guard kept his head straight and looked down along his nose. “You must know I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“Why can’t I leave you alone in a room with a man who’s confessed to murdering your father? Are you serious?”

“He’s seventy-eight. He has cuffs on. And we’re old fr—” She huffed. “We used to be old friends. Perhaps we aren’t anymore, but I still don’t think we’re likely to harm each other.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t just take your word for it.”

She turned away from the guard. “Well?”

He shook his head. “I can tell only you, Diane. Nobody else. I’m sorry, but there are certain things . . . things I promised your father I wouldn’t tell the authorities.”

“You promised him? Do you have any idea how empty that promise sounds now? You murdered him, and now you’re . . . somehow honoring him?”

He narrowed his eyes, looked at the guard and then at Diane. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and lowered it. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Why not? This guy’s a guard, not a cop.”

“I’m sorry, Diane. This has to be just between you and me.”

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “Right,” she said. “You’d better get your excuses good and ready, because I’m gonna sort something out here even if it gives me a nervous breakdown.” She stood up sharply, her legs knocking the chair away.





Chapter 12

Kiev, Ukraine, 1941

Mykhail’s papa had told him he had more things to worry about than letters from Asher. The words were becoming painfully true. The German blitzkrieg machine advanced with such speed that troops had to be rushed out to defend western Ukraine before they were fully trained. And it was to no avail.

Mykhail and Taras found themselves fighting in the same regiment, and together they witnessed their country being overrun with frightening ease. They dug into one line of defense, lived through days of blood and bullets, then were ordered to destroy anything that might be of use to the Germans—often razing whole villages to the ground—before retreating to the next line, where the cycle repeated itself. It was like a recurring nightmare, the smell of cordite and rotting flesh alternating with that of burning buildings.

By September, after months of unrelenting death and defeat, the Red Army had been pushed back to within a few days’ march of Kiev, the capital city of Ukraine.

There were many losses at that position. Taras and Mykhail had to help drag half a dozen corpses out of the small trench they were occupying. But by now they were accustomed to such tasks.

During a lull in the fighting, Mykhail lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, and closed his eyes for a few moments. He felt a rush of ecstasy that, for that brief time, took him away from the bloody reality.

He crouched down next to Taras, who was sitting on the floor in the mud. He almost passed the cigarette to his friend, but took another dose of relief himself instead. He slowly exhaled before offering it over.

But Taras didn’t respond.

“Here.” Mykhail gave his friend’s face a tap with the back of his hand and placed the end of the cigarette against his lips. “Taras,” he said. “Take some of this. You’ll feel better.”

Still there was no movement. Mykhail grabbed his friend’s chin, pulling him to look. “Taras. Snap out of it. You have to.”

But Mykhail saw glazed eyes that looked through him.

“I can’t,” Taras said. “I’ve had enough.”

Mykhail grabbed his shoulder and gave it a shake. “Oh, come on. You’ve said that before.”

And then they both flinched as a rifle grenade exploded yards away from them. Gunfire and more grenades followed.

Mykhail poked his head out of the trench and fired his rifle indiscriminately, the cigarette still drooping from the corner of his mouth. He took a break to reload and looked down. Taras was still sitting there, staring into space.

“Taras! Stand up and—”

An explosion interrupted him. A few minutes of bombardment followed, and when Mykhail looked down again, Taras still hadn’t moved.

A bullet glanced off Mykhail’s helmet, making him stumble and drop down to his knees. He could hear Taras mumbling to himself. Mykhail pulled him close, forehead to forehead. “What is it?”