by Zach Powers
“Come, girl,” said Mykola, “I have a treat for you.”
He took one of the seats by the table and opened his palm. Some sort of berry rested there, shriveled and sickly. He often brought a speck of leftover food to see if Kasha would eat it. Berries, stewed bark, insects, greens, any ort he could smuggle from his family’s makeshift meals.
Kasha sniffed at his palm, even nudged the berry with her nose, but she did not eat it. As always, she used her snout to push Mykola’s hand back. Then she stared at him until he ate the berry himself. After Mykola swallowed with a big deliberate gulp, Kasha sprinted a lap around the room, stopping again in front of him, panting happily.
“I often think that she’s an angel,” said Mykola, stroking the dog’s back.
“There’s no such thing,” said the older Leonid.
“The teacher told us there’s no such thing as a god, but why does everyone assume that means there can’t still be angels? I like the idea of angels much better than the idea of god.”
“Last I checked, Kasha doesn’t have wings.”
“Maybe the wings were made up by the same people who made up god. Maybe an angel can look like anything it wants.”
“What does an angel do, then, besides run in circles around a room?”
“It watches us from above, from heaven or whatever’s out there. And then sometimes it comes down, like Kasha here, to offer help.”
“I thought we were helping her.”
“We have nothing left in this valley,” interjected Grandmother, “but she’s given us some small purpose. Something more than simply waiting to die.”
“So you think she’s an angel, too?” asked the younger Leonid.
“I don’t know about that,” answered Grandmother. “I think she’s just a dog, though a very special one. One that has learned kindness. No, not an angel. But human? That I might believe.”
Mykola petted Kasha. Grandmother stood by the cold stove. The Leonids stayed where they were. All of them gazed at the little white dog in the center of the room, as if searching for something woven into her fur.
From the far distance came a low whine. At first, Leonid thought the sound came from inside his own head, a memory. But the sound grew, entering full-throated into the valley. It was the train coming through the pass. How many months since that had last happened? Could it possibly bring relief? Or was it soldiers again, come to rob the village of what little it had left?
Grandmother looked at the wall as if she could see through it and the kilometer of intervening forest to the train itself.
“Be prepared to hide,” she said. “Be prepared to flee.”
The pitch of the whine dropped as the train neared the station.
* * *
• • •
GRANDMOTHER WAITED by the door, cracking it open every few minutes to peek outside. Each time, she closed the door and shook her head. Nothing. An hour passed, maybe more.
The Leonids had scavenged small bits of edible plants the day before, a few stems still with a hint of green in them, and they picked off the less-bitter bits and nibbled. Kasha sat by Grandmother’s heels at the door. Mykola tried to tempt Kasha over with some of the twins’ breakfast, but she ignored him.
The older Leonid started to think that maybe he had imagined the sound. Could the other three have imagined it, as well? Was it possible to share a delusion? Maybe some other noise had carried through the valley. Maybe now that all the trees of the forest were completely bare, when the wind passed through them it mimicked a train. Mykola’s mother had said that if you listened carefully after a person died that you could hear their soul ascending. So maybe the sound was all the lost souls still lingering in the valley. Since the Soviets had abolished heaven, where else would the souls have to go? Maybe they waited for the train like everyone else.
Grandmother opened the door again, but this time she did not close it right away, leaning her head outside. Kasha was next, squeezing halfway through the crack. Then the boys, Mykola followed by the Leonids. From outside, they would have looked like a stack of heads leaned against the doorjamb, dog–boy–boy–boy–old woman.
At first, Leonid did not see anything, nearby or farther on through the bare trees, but then at the other end of the village he spotted the specks of figures moving down the path. They passed the first cottage without stopping, and then the next and the next. They moved through the main cluster of cottages and by the old church and the abandoned schoolhouse. As they got closer, Leonid made out the uniforms, the same as he had seen on the men who shot Mr. Tarasenko. Leading the procession was a man in civilian clothes, a black hat and a black coat.
At the near side of the village, the group paused. The black-clad man pointed to where the path to Grandmother’s cottage twisted around the woods, and then set off, leading the soldiers straight for it. They could have looked up at any point and seen the cottage. They could have made out the faces in the doorway. But they seemed unconcerned, engaged in a casual conversation about the valley, if their frequent gestures at the trees and up to the mountain peaks were any indication.
“Should we run?” asked the older Leonid.
“We’ll wait,” said Grandmother.
“But the soldiers . . .”
“We’ll at least make them knock,” said Grandmother.
She pulled the boys inside and clapped for Kasha and closed the door behind her.
When the knock finally came and Grandmother opened the door, the only one there was the man in black. In addition to his black hat, he wore a pair of circular spectacles with a thin leather strap that dangled from the sides of the frame. His beard, gray streaked with black, dropped from his chin like roots reaching for soil. Deep lines creased either side of his long nose all the way to the edges of his mouth. His lips trended toward a frown. He could have been fifty or he could have been ninety. Parts of him seemed strong and parts seemed weak. Leonid did not know which parts to trust.
“Will you invite me in?” he asked. His voice was deeper and more resonant than his thin body should have allowed. His Ukrainian was clear but stilted.
“Who are you?” asked Grandmother.
“I am Konstantin Tsiolkovski,” he said.
“You say that as if your name should mean something to me.”
The older Leonid tugged at Grandmother’s dress. “He writes stories. The teacher made us read them.”
Those stories were about the only thing Leonid remembered from school. He didn’t know all the big Russian words, but he had loved the impossible places the stories represented. He imagined that all the different worlds were other valleys, only a train ride away. He imagined that everyone who was gone from Bohdan lived on in fantastical settings. Grandmother looked down at Leonid, then back at Tsiolkovski.
“What business could a writer possibly have in my home?”
“Your son is only half-right,” said Tsiolkovski.
“Grandson.”
“My apologies. I do write stories, but first I’m a scientist. I work in rocketry.”
Grandmother’s expression remained blank.
“A rocket is like a plane, but instead of flying in the air, it flies in outer space. With rockets, we will send Soviet citizens to the stars.” His voice was flat, as if he were discussing the weather or a distant relative.
“That’s not possible.”
“Not today, but soon.”
Grandmother looked over Tsiolkovski’s shoulder to a patch of cloudy sky, focusing her eyes on as far a point as possible.
“Still,” she said, “that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Your sons. Pardon me, grandsons. Twins such as these will be of great benefit to the mission.”
“You’ll send boys into outer space?”
“We will train the boys to become the men we send into space.”
Kasha scampered up to Tsiolkovski and sniffed him. Immediately, her sniff shifted into a snarl. She reared back, crouched, ready to pounce. Mykola jumped forward and held her, stroking her with his free hand. Her body relaxed, but a continuous growl rumbled from between her bared teeth.
“The dog doesn’t like you,” said Grandmother. “And she likes everyone.”
Tsiolkovski scowled at the dog. “Then I am no one. And that is the point. Your grandsons, though, they will be heroes. They will be more famous than even Bohdan Khmelnytsky himself.”
“This village has had heroes before, but none of them returned after the war.”
“This is not a war. Might it be dangerous? Of course. But we have decided it is better to be brave.”
“You’re so brave that you find boys to assume the danger for you. Why these two?”
The older Leonid had listened to the conversation, not really comprehending. But now, acknowledged by Grandmother, he realized that he was the subject being discussed. It felt bizarre. Who had ever talked about him before? Probably no one. His father when he was still alive, but Leonid was so small then. He had no memory of that time.
“Just look at them,” said Tsiolkovski. “They are perfect specimens of humanity. Pure blood. They will be strong, handsome men. They will be brilliant. They will be leaders in the coming Utopia.”
Grandmother looked past Tsiolkovski again, this time to the barren trees and the silent village beyond.
“It used to be ideal here,” she said.
“This place is a hundred years behind. And look at it now. Do you think it will survive a hundred more?” He rapped his knuckles on the frame of the door. The wood tapped back a sound that was thin and hollow, not like wood at all.
“What’s he talking about?” asked the younger Leonid, tugging again at Grandmother’s dress.
Grandmother smiled. “This man can help you. He can take you to a place with real food and new clothes.”
“Does that mean you agree?” asked Tsiolkovski.
“You say that as if the choice, in the end, will be mine. Can you promise that they’ll be safe?” asked Grandmother.
“No more than you can promise that they will be safe here,” said Tsiolkovski.
Grandmother pulled the younger Leonid close and beckoned the other. She bent herself into a hug around both of them. The older Leonid felt wetness on top of his head and realized Grandmother was crying, her face buried in his hair. He could not recall her crying before, not even when news of his father . . .
“Why are you sad?” he asked.
“Quite the opposite,” she said. Her voice carried a tone that had been long absent. “You two will leave the village.”
“I don’t understand. What about you? And Mykola? And Kasha?”
“Hush,” said the younger Leonid.
The older Leonid looked at his brother. He felt like he was standing in the center of a secret he did not know the smallest part of. Even the dog seemed to understand. Her growling had silenced. That moment reminded him of the quiet at a funeral as the dirt was replaced in the hole.
Pulling himself out of Grandmother’s embrace to look into her face, the younger Leonid asked, “Who’ll pray with you?”
“My only prayer is answered. I don’t have much else to say to god, if he’s even there.”
Tsiolkovski held up his hand and snapped his fingers. Two soldiers entered the cottage, squeezing through the doorway on either side of him. One of the soldiers, a female officer, gripped each Leonid by the shoulder, firm but not unfriendly, and led them out the door. Tsiolkovski turned to follow, paused, and turned back.
To the other soldier he said, “And the dog. Filthy as it is, we might have use for it, as well.”
The soldier pushed Mykola away and lifted Kasha. The soldier seemed surprised at how light she was, how much of her was made of fur and how little flesh. Kasha, for her part, did not so much as squirm. She was the only one to look back, the last of the three to see the cottage.
As the officer led them away, she bent down and whispered to the twins, “One rare and exceptional deed is worth far more than a thousand commonplace ones.”
The older Leonid tried to look up at her, but no matter how he craned his neck, the officer’s face stayed out of view. There was something about her, though, that reminded him of Grandmother. He regretted the thought even as he had it.
Kharkiv, Ukraine—1964
The quadruple props of the Antonov An-12 whirred once and then came the thump of landing. Leonid rode in the cargo compartment at the back of the plane, sitting on a bent metal bench beside Giorgi’s casket, Kasha curled asleep in the space beside him. The compartment stank of oil and grease. There were seats up front, where the Chief Designer, Nadya, Mishin and Bushuyev, and other engineers had remained for the whole flight. Even Yuri and Valentina were there. The two of them had left the program so long ago that they seemed like strangers. The broader world had seeped into them. Their life extended beyond the Star City campus.
Ignatius had come back once during the flight with a canteen. Leonid accepted a few sips. He handed back the canteen and she left, never speaking. Every time the plane had hit turbulence, the casket would lift several inches from the floor before slamming back down. Leonid tried to tighten the straps that secured it, but they were as tight as they could go. The last half of the flight he spent leaning on the casket’s lid, holding it steady in the rough air.
The Antonov taxied to a stop. From the front cabin came the sounds of the other passengers disembarking. A few minutes later, the rear ramp lowered. The sun shot streaks through the cracks. There were no windows in the cargo bay, only pale yellow lights that flickered every time the pilot had throttled the engines. The sunlight seemed like the first flare of an explosion. Kasha roused and sprinted down the ramp to Nadya, who had been the one to insist on bringing the dog. The Chief Designer for his part did not argue against it.
Six soldiers in full dress uniforms ascended the ramp. The one nearest Leonid saluted him. These men were junior officers, and Leonid, according to the insignias on his own uniform, outranked them. The young officer held his salute until Leonid returned it, and then took position on one corner of the casket. The soldiers hoisted the casket onto their shoulders, an action they had obviously rehearsed many times before. Leonid wondered if that was all they did, whole days spent practicing with empty coffins. The soldiers marched their burden out the back of the plane. Leonid followed.
Outside, the other passengers stood in a line that led to the airport terminal. It was only after reading the name of the airport that Leonid realized they were in Ukraine. He had never known Giorgi was Ukrainian. Giorgi spoke such perfect Russian, no hint of an accent. Leonid had never thought to ask him about his hometown. Or his family. The twins all had stories they told, but they were fabricated. It never occurred to Leonid that someone might have a real life, real stories to tell.
Ukraine! The reality of the soil beneath his feet hit him. He had not been to his own country since Tsiolkovski took him and his brother and the original Kasha from Bohdan. This was the opposite side of the country, and he had been closer to the village on his tour through Eastern Europe, but still, knowing he had crossed the border made this feel like home, no matter how imaginary the line of a border might be.
The soldiers loaded the casket into the back of a Chaika hearse waiting by the tarmac. It was the same kind of car that the cosmonauts often rode in parades, though without the retractable roof. The back of the car had giant fins like those on the models of space capsules that were shown to the public. Pure decoration. Polished chrome ornamented the car’s every seam and angle. A black-clad driver revved the engine and drove away.
Closer to the terminal, a line of black state vehicles idled, their drivers standing by open back doors. Leonid watched everyone else from Star City choose a vehicle and funnel inside. No one en
tered the last car in line, so Leonid chose it for himself. The driver, an older man but not elderly, bone thin and twitchy, seemed relieved to actually have a passenger. Thankfully, he did not try to strike up a conversation. Kasha slipped into the backseat with Leonid just before the driver closed the door.
Leonid watched out the windshield as the convoy snaked in front of him, undulating as the cars rounded curves, bouncing in sequence over bumps, compressing as the lead car slowed, expanding as it accelerated. To the right, the city sprawled. To the left, dense forest. The road angled just slightly toward the city, growing the buildings with every kilometer. The highway hummed under the tires.
“Is it hard to drive?” asked Leonid.
The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror, thick eyebrows scrunched over sagging lids. His eyes were a gray long since faded from pale blue. Below, a long nose protruded over a mustache that hid the whole of his mouth.
“Drive?” Leonid held his hands in front of him and moved them as if he were steering.
Looking back at the road ahead of him, the driver said something that Leonid could not understand. It sounded like gibberish. Slowly, though, the gibberish turned to words in his head. Ukrainian. He had not spoken it since he was a boy, though sometimes his thoughts still came in his native language.
Leonid asked the question again, this time in Ukrainian. “Is it hard to drive?”
The driver looked at Leonid in the mirror again. His expression shifted from confusion to shock. Apparently, Soviet officers did not speak to him in Ukrainian very often.
“I don’t think about it,” said the driver. “It’s just something I do. You don’t drive yourself?”
“Giorgi taught me the basics once, on the roads of . . . the place where we worked. Giorgi is the man in the casket.”