Beyond the Shadow of Night(4)

“Only a rest,” he whispered. “Only a rest.”

He rubbed some feeling back into his shoulder, took a few deep breaths, then grabbed Asher’s arm again.

This time Asher resisted, and with a cough and a few blinks he was conscious. He spat out blood, but his lips were numb and swollen, so it merely dribbled off his chin and onto his clothes. He looked up. “Mykhail?” he said. “Where are we? My head hurts.”

“Can you walk?” Mykhail asked.

Asher staggered to his feet like a newborn foal. “What happened?”

“We were fishing. Some men came.”

Asher cast a glance back at the riverbank.

“A man hit you.”

Asher held his head, grimacing. “Now I remember. Did they get the fish?”

Mykhail nodded.

“Did you carry me over here?”

“Of course. I was going to carry you home.”

“Really? All the way?”

Mykhail shrugged. “You’re my best friend. You helped me get home when I fell from that tree, remember?”

Asher tried to smile, but only half of his face responded, the other half numb. “They’ll be expecting fish,” he said.

“We can only tell them the truth,” Mykhail said. “Papa says good Ukrainian boys always tell the truth.”

They started walking.



Once the cluster of thatched, whitewashed shacks came into sight, the boys’ pace slowed, as if each was trying to be the last one to arrive.

Eventually, Mykhail took the lead and strode into the farmyard.

His papa was busy grooming one of the horses, but stopped and flashed a smile when he saw his son. He hurried over, rubbing his hands on his overalls and chewing on nothing, as though priming his digestive system. His eyes darted around his own son, then Asher. “Where are the fish?” He struggled to hold his smile, which turned sickly before falling.

Asher looked to Mykhail, who shook his head.

“You didn’t catch any? None at all?”

“We were robbed,” Mykhail said.

His papa dropped the brush and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Robbed? Are you okay?”

“They stole all our catch.”

Mykhail’s papa cursed but didn’t take his eyes off his son. “Did you fight them?” he said.

“They were much bigger than us.”

“But you put up a fight, yes?”

Mykhail looked at Asher, and so did his papa.

Asher patted the dried blood on his chin and clothes. “We tried, Mr. Petrenko. Mykhail punched one of them and I kicked the other.”

Mykhail’s papa turned his attentions to Asher, peering at his face, holding his jaw and turning it left and right. “You have a split lip there, Asher. And a nasty bruise. Any loose teeth?”

Asher shook his head.

“And you . . .” Now he spoke to his son. “Did you take any blows?”

Mykhail made to speak but instead just stared at his papa.

“He’s a better fighter than I am,” Asher said. “So he didn’t get hurt.”

“But I gave one of them a black eye,” Mykhail added, with that same straight expression.

His papa’s gaze hopped between one boy and the other for a few seconds, before the man gave a well-considered nod. “Good,” he said, and gave his son a slap on the back. “You didn’t give up without a fight. You’re good Ukrainian boys.”



That evening, the two families ate together. As usual, the talk was more plentiful than the food.

The eight of them thanked God that they had some food at all when so many didn’t, then ate in silence for a few minutes. There was potato soup with matzos, a little cream, a few raisins, and water.

“I’m sorry,” Mykhail said.

“What for?” Asher’s sister, Rina, said.

“Well, I . . .” Mykhail stopped and looked across to his papa for approval.

“Mykhail and Asher caught some fish today,” Mykhail’s papa said, sullen-faced. “But they were robbed.”

“These are desperate times,” Asher’s papa said.

Mykhail’s papa harrumphed. “And we all know whose fault it is. If the—”

“Never mind that,” Asher’s mama said. She looked at her husband. “Hirsch, tell me what happened with the boys today. You told me the fish weren’t biting.”

“I’m sorry, Golda. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me?” She stared at her son. “I thought your face looked a little swollen, and I was right. Well, that’s it. No more fishing trips for my son—not without one of the men.”

Asher and Mykhail stopped chewing for a moment and looked at each other.

“We can discuss it later,” Asher’s papa said to his wife. “Let’s eat, not talk.”

For a few minutes, the only sounds were clinks of spoon on bowl and a few slurps.

Then Asher’s mama let her spoon rest on the bowl and wiped a tear from her face. “This is our only son, and we need him to risk his life to feed us?”

“Later, Golda.”

“No, we won’t talk about it later. He’s not going anywhere without an adult.”

Mykhail’s mama, silent until now, cleared her throat and said quietly, “I agree.” She looked at her husband. “The same goes for our son. It’s no use pretending, Dmytro. We’ve all heard the stories.”