Shandi Mitchell

by Under This Unbroken Sky (v5)

  Maria and Teodor haven’t spoken since that night. Too much was said that night. They can’t find the words to start again. When she finally found the strength to enter the house, she stood in the middle of the room, unable to comfort her children. She knew the sight of them would release the tears and she would tell them everything. No child should know such things.

  In the past three days, she has bottled two dozen jars of borshch and sauerkraut; rolled countless holubtsi, using up three of her soured cabbage heads and four cups of rice; baked buckwheat rolls; and braised a rabbit. Each meal is a grander feast. The children eat hesitantly, not asking for seconds, worried by their mother’s sudden abandonment of restraint.

  She doesn’t let the children help. She doesn’t look them in the eye. She doesn’t hold them, or touch them. She consumes herself with her recipes, chopping and stirring, frying and baking. She empties her mind. She cooks from early morning to late at night. She washes the cast-iron pots and scours them in boiling water, unable to get them clean. Her hands are red and chapped. She hasn’t prayed. She hasn’t sent any baskets down the hill. She doesn’t allow herself to think about them. She is out of milk and eggs. She crosses from her mind recipes that require milk and eggs and scrubs the pots harder.

  Teodor sits with a stillness learned in prison. If he sits quiet enough, long enough, he can make himself disappear. Empty his mind, no more thoughts. He can become a rock, the dirt floor, a log, the snow. He can just exist and not feel.

  He gets up, startling Maria, who steps aside not knowing which way to turn. He crosses to her side of the room, slides aside the picture, retrieves the jug, and pours himself a drink. He feels her eyes watching his hand. He hammers the drink back, lets it burn his mouth, sear his insides, clean his brain. It churns in his stomach, gags in his throat. He stoppers the jug, puts it back in the wall, returns to his chair, and waits for it to dull the ache.

  He should get up and check the horse, cut the fence poles for the new paddock, clear another acre of bush, get ready for the spring, finish the barn, build a granary, sharpen the tools … there is so much he could do if he was still alive.

  A snowball hits the window with a thud, splays wide and trickles down the pane. Teodor looks at the dissolving shape, trying to understand what has broken. Maria marches to the window, her mother instincts rearing up. They look outside and see a circus of snow children, laughing faces, ducking and running, dodging a snowball ambush. They see their children. Still innocent. Still alive.

  Ivan pats another snowball in his mittened hands, waves at them to come out, ducking too late to evade Myron’s perfect aim.

  Maria places her hand on Teodor’s shoulder. It’s time for them to go outside.

  LESYA SHOVELS the chicken shit from the coop. She doesn’t speak to the two hens. She doesn’t dally. She does her job, briskly and efficiently. She changes their water, tops up their feed, reaches under their warm, fat bodies, retrieves the eggs, and sets them in the pail. She looks at the empty roost. The straw has been brushed away, revealing the chipped, faded advertisement of the smiling chin and the hand holding a cake of soap. A hard white lump of dung mars the model’s perfect teeth.

  Lesya recognizes the soap. It’s the same soap that Aunt Maria gave them. Half a bar, anyway. It’s the soap her mother has been washing herself with. She’s had two baths a day since that night. With each use, the bar of soap diminishes. The edges round and soften. Now it is the size and shape of a pale grey egg. Soon it will crack and break apart and there will be nothing inside.

  Her mother has been cleaning everything. She’s changed the bedding, swept the floor, scrubbed the table, washed all the dishes, mended clothes, and burned the ones that were stained. She’s rearranged the shelves, folded and packed away the summer clothes. She’s cleaned up everything except the soapbox sitting in the middle of the floor.

  Lesya gathers up an armload of clean straw and spreads it over the roost. She forms a deep nest and sets the two eggs inside. Happiness … she calls.

  Happiness … she sings, her voice chokes, knowing it won’t come.

  PETRO STANDS on the edge of the road, looking across the field toward town. At first, he planned to make another attempt to find his tato, but his feet stopped when he reached the road. He took a few steps forward and couldn’t go farther, like his ankles were shackled. A part of him afraid to leave, another part afraid to stay. What if he went searching and while he was gone his tato came back? What if they passed each other coming and going, going and coming? What if he veered too far east or too far west? They would never find each other. Petro kicks at the snow.

  He remembers how far he walked the last time. The snow never ended. He never saw the town. His father wasn’t following the road, maybe he wasn’t going to town. Maybe Tato was looking at something else when he used to stand here. Petro scans the fields but sees just a grey curtain of clouds rolling in from the east.

  If he goes, who would chop the wood? Not his mother. And Lesya isn’t strong enough. He spits twice, like his father. The second spit sticks to his lip and dribbles down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his mitten.

  He misses Lesya the most. She doesn’t talk any more since her hen ran away. The same night the baby ran away. Petro wants to believe that his uncle stole the baby. He broke down the door and took it like he took the horse. But he knows the baby was gone before his uncle arrived. He saw his mama carrying it outside. Poor little mouse.

  Petro thinks the hen was found by someone who knew it could dance. Now it’s wearing a fancy dress and hat, performing for rich people in a travelling show. Maybe the baby is with it. The World’s Largest Tailless Mouse and the Amazing Dancing Chicken. He looks across the field. He could go find Tato, the hen, and the baby, and bring them all home. Be a family, like the family on the hill. On their hill.

  If Teodor was gone, like Tato said, everything would be better. Everything would be theirs. The wheat, the house, the money. They could live in the house on the hill and have their own rooms. There’d be nobody to make him feel the way his uncle made him feel the night the baby ran away. That same feeling when the teacher slaps his wrists with the switch for speaking Ukrainian. Or when the town boys laugh at his clothes, or the little blond girl refuses to sit beside him because she says he smells. It makes him want to cry. It makes him want to kill something.

  If Teodor was gone, Tato would come back. He’d brush Mama’s hair and make her laugh. Her hair would grow long and beautiful again. She’d dress up in fine clothes and Tato would be proud to be with such a lady. And Mama would tell Tato how much their boy had helped while he was gone. She’d show him the stack of wood that he cut all by himself. They’d ask to see his muscles and they’d notice how he’s outgrown his pants. How his trouser hems dangle above his ankles. Lesya would talk again. She’d tell him stories and hold him until he fell asleep and her hen would dance on the foot of the bed. And the baby … the baby wouldn’t cry.

  Petro’s first instinct is to run into the bush and hide when he sees the police car lumbering toward him, veering slowly through the wagon ruts, spewing black smoke from its tail, its engine growling. But he doesn’t run. He stands there like he just happened to be walking down the road. He holds up his hand and waves them down, like old friends, just like his father.

  The car rolls to a stop. Petro shifts his weight to his left foot and slides his hand deep into his pocket as the window lowers.

  IVAN SHIFTS the basket from one arm to the other. He leans backward, balancing the weight. Mama said he’s not to talk to anyone. He’s to set the basket on the stoop and leave. She waited until Tato and Myron were in the barn and she could hear them busy hammering. She sent Sofia and Katya to collect twigs for kindling and Dania for water. Then she told him the basket was for Lesya and Petro. She said it was their secret, he wasn’t to mention it even to Tato or he wouldn’t be allowed to go again.

  Ivan is thrilled that he has been entrusted with such a special job. He’s worri
ed, too; he’s never had to keep a secret from Tato. Maybe he’ll get to see Petro. A surge of excitement quickens his pace. He wants to show him his new mittens, and the mice holes in the snow, and the hollow tree you can sit inside, and the red berries that will make you sick, and the tree that tastes sweet when you peel back its bark. But then he remembers he’s not allowed to talk to him.

  He sucks solemnly on his last butterscotch candy. It coats his tongue but doesn’t bring him any joy. Today it seems sticky and thick. Ivan glances up at the grey, swollen sky. A light wind is building from the northeast. Tato says it’s going to snow. He’s been watching the crows all morning. They are sitting in the fields, not moving. Tato says it’s a sign of bad weather, when the birds are afraid of the sky.

  Ivan looks down at the grey house, grey barn, grey posts. Even the smoke coming from the chimney is grey. His arms ache where the handle cuts into his forearms. He plops the basket on the snow; it’s heavier now than when he left. He peeks under the cloth: jars of borshch and sauerkraut and half a loaf of bread. He grabs the handle and drags the basket behind him like a sled. He’s almost halfway there. He can’t see anyone outside. The thought that they can see him coming when he can’t see them worries him.

  What if they’re still mad at him? It was his fault that Tato hit Uncle Stefan and Myron fired the gun, his fault that everybody is fighting. Maybe Mama’s sending him to Petro’s house because that’s where he is going to have to live from now on and that’s why it’s a secret. It’s his punishment for making everyone not allowed to talk. Maybe he can tell them he’s sorry. But then he would have to speak.

  Ivan heaves the basket onto the stone wall. He crawls over the rocks and jumps down on the other side. He hauls the basket over; it drops heavily to the ground. He is startled to find Petro sitting against the wall. His cousin glances at him, then looks away. Maybe this is part of the secret; Petro has been sent to meet him, but Mama said to put the basket on the stoop. She didn’t say Petro would be waiting for him. Ivan slides the basket over the snow and sits beside his cousin.

  He is glad to see that Petro is wearing his socks and mittens and hat. The boys stare out over the field dotted with crows. The bellies of the clouds are a threatening black. Ivan rolls the butterscotch over his tongue, glances at his cousin. He looks tired and sad. Ivan spits the candy into his mitten and offers it to Petro. Petro looks at the glistening, smooth buttery ball in Ivan’s palm and reaches for it. The candy sticks to their mittens and for a moment they are attached, before it pulls away, stuck to Petro’s mittened palm. Petro licks it, then puts it in his mouth. He sucks on it, rolling the sweet candy from cheek to cheek, his tongue smoothing away the woollen fuzz.

  Ivan brushes away the snow and loosens a stone. He tosses it toward the crows. One lifts, then settles again. The others ignore the disruption. He finds another pebble. Stands up and takes aim. The rock skitters over the drifts and ricochets among the flock. The birds flutter upward, a jumble of wings and beaks, then land again. Ivan scratches at the snow and finds a flat, grey stone perfect for skipping. He hands it to Petro.

  The boys scour the base of the wall, filling their hands with small rocks. Then, side by side, they fling their mittfuls. The stones hail down, peppering the crows. The birds screech and swirl upward. Some grab at the stones as if they were seed, catching them mid-air then letting them plummet. They circle between the snow and the clouds.

  Ivan notices Petro reach into his pocket. He sees a sparkling glint of metal. A round, large coin … a quarter. Before he can ask him where he got it, Petro hurls the coin skyward.

  Dania is in charge today. Maria and Teodor have gone to visit the Petrenkos. Old Man Petrenko is turning seventy today, which makes him the oldest man in the area. His son, Josyp, invited the entire congregation to celebrate. Rumour has it that he butchered a pig for the occasion. Maria was afraid they would get caught in the storm, but Teodor assured her it would be night before it reached them; besides, he wouldn’t insult his neighbour by not making an appearance.

  The children watched their parents get dressed for the event. Dania pressed her father’s pants and shirt. She gave the black trousers an extra-crisp crease. Myron polished his father’s boots, unable to hide all the cracks and ripples marring the leather. Teodor smeared his hair with pomade and allowed Ivan to do the same to his. Ivan pressed his shiny, wet-looking hair tight against his cheeks, then twirled the ends into cowlicks.

  Maria wore her embroidered shirt with the red sash and her long grey woollen skirt. Sofia braided her mother’s hair, then coiled it into two tight buns on either side of her head. Maria said she had never had such perfect braids. Katya buckled her mama’s shoes and pulled her stockings up tight. She took her mama’s belly in her hands and kissed the baby goodbye. Dania packed the two jars of chokecherry jam and the babka bread that Maria had made for the occasion. Two little dough birds perched on top of the braided loaf seemed about to take flight. Teodor winked and suggested taking some “honey medicine” for Old Man Petrenko, but Maria vetoed the idea. She said they would be home before dinner.

  The children watched as their father gave his hand to their mother and guided her onto the flatbed sled he had recently made. It was designed to haul logs, but today it would serve as their sleigh. He gallantly draped a blanket over Maria’s legs and with a snap of the reins, the horse cantered away. The children sit quietly in the wake of their parents’ happiness. Their absence somehow makes them feel closer. They can smell the soap they scrubbed their hands and faces with, the shoe polish and shaving cream. They notice the half a cigarette Teodor butted and Maria’s apron draped over the chair, as though they were coming back at any moment. A thin dust of flour coats the corner of the table where she rolled the dough. The children don’t feel the urge to test their new freedom; there is no giddy excitement to race outside and explore forbidden boundaries. They feel the need to stay close to home.

  It is Katya who asks Sophia to tell them a story. Without much coaxing, she complies. She loves the English stories about poor servant girls, fairy godmothers, sleeping princesses, pumpkin chariots, and happy endings. English stories aren’t about working hard, being good to animals, taking care of one another, and that the lazy get punished. English stories are about riches and gold and being more than you are.

  Dania lets them sit on their parents’ bed, close to the fire. Ivan and Katya curl up against the pillows. Katya takes Mama’s side and Ivan Tato’s. Katya eyes the wood stove, but all is calm since she started praying to the fire. She quickly recites the prayer in her head to keep it happy. Our Father, who art in Fire, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Fire. Give us our bread our daily bread and forgive us for trespassing.

  Myron, who pretends he’s not interested in stories, takes down the gun to oil, even though he cleaned it two nights ago. And Dania, who should fetch water, decides to peel potatoes.

  Sofia plays to her audience. Her eyes shine at the exciting parts, her voice drops low for suspense, her hands draw the scene. She walks around the room, transforming herself into the princess, the servant, the wicked stepmother. A spoon becomes a wand. A bowl a helmet. A broom a sword. She enchants them.

  A knock on the door breaks the spell. Dania holds a potato in midair, half the peel dangling down. Sofia stands with her hand upraised about to turn a prince into a frog. Ivan and Katya lie still in the bed. They listen. Myron, who is closest to the window, looks out and sees two scarlet tunics. He ducks back down and jams the bolt into the gun. He waves Sofia over to the bed. Another knock.

  “Open up,” a gruff voice orders. “Police.”

  Dania puts down the potato.

  “No,” Myron whispers.

  “Open it or we’ll break it down,” the voice commands.

  Dania silences Myron with a look. “I’m coming.” She forgets the English words. She wipes her hands on her apron and releases the latch, opens the door a crack. The door fills with red and shining button
s. A man with a walrus moustache braces his hand against the door. The other man, shorter and younger, with sharper eyes, asks, “Where’s your father?”

  “They no here. All gone,” Dania stammers, searching for the words.

  The man with the walrus moustache cases the room, taking in the children huddled on the bed. They are thin, with the wide, sunken eyes of the malnourished. Their clothes are dingy. The shack smells musty and reeks of garlic and lye. A small boy with greased hair glances to the corner and quickly lowers his eyes. A young girl in a too-short skirt and stained blouse, with a bowl on her head and a spoon in her hand, stands as if in detention.

  The moustached officer looks at his partner and deftly unfastens his holster. He rests his hand on the butt of his revolver. “We need to look around. Step back from the door.”

  Dania glances to Myron, who is squatting with the .22 across his lap. The moustached officer kicks open the door as he draws his weapon and swings around the corner.

  “Drop it!” he yells, his gun trained on Myron’s chest, his eyes on the .22. Myron doesn’t move.

  “It’s just a kid,” the other one calms. “Put it down, if you don’t want to lose it, boy.” Myron hesitates; the .22 hangs loose in his hand. He sees only the end of the police officer’s barrel.

  “Now!” barks the moustache man, his finger tight on the trigger.

  “Put it down!” Dania orders. Myron lowers his eyes and lays the gun on the floor, careful not to spook the man.

  “Get over there.” Moustache man waves his gun toward the bed. Myron moves slowly, not turning his back.

  The younger officer checks the chamber. “It’s empty.” He leans the rifle against the wall.

  “They back at supper. You come then.” Dania motions them to leave. “No nothing here.”

  The walrus officer holsters his gun. He walks to the bed and looks down at the children clinging to one another like a litter of mice. He goes directly to the picture of the Virgin Mary and stands before it. The children think he might be praying. He lifts the edge of the frame and slides it aside, exposing the niche. He reaches in and extracts the half-gallon jug, pulls the cork and takes a whiff. He stoppers the jug with his fingers and inverts it, touches his fingers to his lips. He nods to the other officer.