The darkness descended into a deeper shade so dark it was purple. Click. Blackness. Click. Stars. The Zeus cluster. Vanya reached for another. Click.
Clay called out something in English. The words were jumbled but the meaning was clear—they were witnessing a miracle. Vanya worked with a precision he’d never experienced. No movement or time was wasted.
And just as quickly as night had come, it began to fade. The stars disappeared. A sliver of sun eked out around the moon. Light poured down on the lawn. “Another. Another,” Vanya yelled. He rammed a plate into the camera, his last, and snapped the trigger for Yuri.
The sun began to reemerge as if it had never left.
“Vanya,” Yuri said. His hand was on his shoulder. “We’re done.”
“There must be more. There’s always more.”
“No. It’s over,” Yuri said.
“Vanya,” Clay yelled, running toward them. His glasses were crooked. Dima was at his side. “Have you ever seen anything more glorious?”
“The photographs?” Dima asked. “How many did you take?”
“Seven,” Vanya said. “Some might be blurred.”
“Six.” Yuri pulled the last plate from Vanya’s hands. “One was taken in the light. One shattered.”
Clay took one of the plates off the table. “Six,” Clay said. “Incredible.” He took a step toward the darkroom. Vanya jumped up to take one of his own, to help develop the plates, but Yuri’s hand came down on his shoulder like a metal vise.
“Brother,” Yuri said. “You need to sit. Catch your breath.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“He’s right.” Dima pressed Vanya into a chair so Yuri could examine him. “You’re covered in sweat. Your eyes won’t focus.” Yuri held a hand to Vanya’s forehead. “Look at how your hands shake.”
“I’m excited.” Vanya tried to break free. “Let go. I have to get to the darkroom.”
“It’s not fever,” Dima said to Yuri. “He’s crazed. I’ve seen it before.”
“Ridiculous! I’ve never felt better.”
“You need to rest,” Yuri said.
“I’ll do it. I’ll develop them,” Dima said, reaching for the plates.
“No. I’ll go.” He tried to stand. Dima shoved him back into the chair.
Vanya knew the folklore. Staring straight at the source of darkness could unhinge even the strongest of the strong. But that was only a myth. No, he wasn’t crazed. He was thrilled. He was on the verge of history. “I have to develop those plates.” He jerked away and jumped to his feet. The barn door slammed in the distance. Vanya grabbed one plate and set off toward the darkroom. “I must know if I have proof. Yuri, guard the rest,” he said over his shoulder.
“There are parts in this world that not even science can explain,” Dima called after him.
XXX
It’s late,” Sasha said as they watched clouds beginning to shift, the storm finished. “The eclipse must be over.”
“But we didn’t see anything. Just a dark afternoon,” Miri said. Her face was wet from the rain, maybe from tears, too. And she felt the darkness Vanya had taught her to push away creeping back over her, this time heavier than it had been in years. “All of this, and for what? Vanya saw nothing.”
“We don’t know that,” Sasha said gently. “Until we do, there is hope.”
“Hope?” The word sounded hollow. “We don’t have much time to find them. Before they run.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You said they have to pack and prepare. That your brother would never leave the American alone.”
“That’s true.” Miri nodded. There might be hope at least in that, that she could still find him in Kiev, but not in much else.
XXXI
Slowly, slowly, Vanya walked toward the darkroom. Six. All he had were six photographs. Six chances.
They’d used albumen, egg whites, to increase the quality of the images. Up close, the coating smelled both sweet and sour. He tried not to hold on too tight, to cause any damage. He opened the door to the darkroom, pulled the curtain aside, and stepped in. It took a moment to adjust to the lack of light. His eyes teared at the tang of chemicals. Clay was already bent over a series of trays.
Vanya carried the glass plate he cradled over to the table and submerged it in the first tray, the one Clay had already used. He sloshed the solution over the glass. Back and forth. He tried to be patient, but it wasn’t working. “Come on,” he mumbled to himself. Then Dima crashed through the door. Vanya jumped, splashing chemicals.
“There’s a villager outside,” Dima said in Russian, then in English, Vanya presumed.
Clay and Dima began arguing over something. Dima turned to Vanya to explain. “He thinks the villager is here to deal with the animals, because they made so much noise. But he’s missing my point.” Dima’s voice was serious the way it had been the time they’d come up against the soldiers in the alley in Riga. “It’s Vadim. He says his cows fell over dead because the moon swallowed the sun. You need to speak to him. Now. He’s very angry. And scared.”
“We can’t talk now,” Clay called.
“Tell him it’s just an old superstition, animals dying during an eclipse. It couldn’t have happened because of it,” Vanya said.
“But it did. Call it superstition or belief, but it happened. His cows are dead. I saw them,” Dima said. “Vadim says it was magic that forced the darkness. Your magic.” The skin on Vanya’s arms prickled. The solution in his tray continued to slosh. “The whole barn is dead.”
“Every cow?” Vanya asked.
“Every one.”
“Tell him to come back later,” Clay ordered. “Go!” Dima closed the door behind him with so much force, dust fell from the ceiling. Vanya leaned over the trays to protect them. He and Clay examined the liquid developer to make sure no contaminants had fallen into the medium. Vanya swished the tray faster. Clay worked with him, in unison. They brought their trays up and flattened them.
Vanya transferred the plate to the next bath. Then there was a thud at the door. Vanya jumped and liquid splashed over the sides of one of the trays. Clay said something. Vanya understood he wanted him to ignore the door; his voice was high, excited as he pointed to the glass. Had the photo come through? Vanya tripped, trying to get a better look, and just missed disturbing the table. In the tray Clay held, the black splotch of moon was clear. So too were the sun’s limbs, stretching out from behind. But where the sun’s rays should have been straight, they blurred. There were no clear lines. Vanya couldn’t make out the Zeus cluster. “No good,” Vanya said. Clay shrugged as if to say Vanya could be wrong. He continued moving the tray up and down.
There was a voice outside the darkroom. Someone yelled. It was a woman. She sounded hysterical but Vanya couldn’t make out her words. “Damn it. No, it’s still out of focus,” Vanya said, pointing to the image in Clay’s hand. Only five more chances.
The door cracked behind them. Wood splintered. Someone crashed into the darkroom. Vanya threw himself over the plate he was developing to protect it from the light. His face was wet. His skin burned from chemicals. “Where is the American devil,” a man yelled.
“Get out,” Vanya screamed. He was still bent over the table. Someone grabbed Vanya’s arms and twisted him up. Pain shot through his shoulder. “No,” Vanya yelled. “They’re glass.”
Vadim had Clay. He dragged the American toward the stairs. Even with only one good leg he was stronger. “Let go,” Vanya yelled, and tried to yank himself free. He had to save the negatives. Had there already been too much light? Were the ones in process already destroyed? “Please, close the door. At least close the door.” The man who had Vanya by the arm shoved him, hard, into the wall. Vanya crumpled to the ground while Vadim dragged Clay away.
The door swung partway shut. The hinges were broken. Vanya ran to the table. Both negatives had shattered. “Damn it,” Vanya yelled. He clawed his way up the stairs. There were still four more plates.
Four more chances. Vanya hoped Yuri had protected them.
Outside there was a crowd of villagers. Old men and young women, even children, held swords and rakes. They were loud. Vanya ran for the table where he’d left the plates with Yuri but the table was empty. The plates were gone. Where? No shattered glass. No toppled chairs. “Yuri,” Vanya yelled. “Yuri, where are you?”
Suddenly, Stepan appeared at his side. He swung his fist into Vanya’s stomach. Vanya gasped. Convulsed. Pain. All he felt was pain as his gut caught fire and he fell, crashing against a chair. He clawed at the ground.
XXXII
Miri and Sasha followed the road toward Kiev. Mud oozed under their boots. It stuck to their heels and gave every step the weight of three. Late in the afternoon, it was clear they wouldn’t make it to Kiev by nightfall and so they huddled under the thickest tree they could find, ate the last of their berries, and saved the end of the cheese for the next day. At sunrise, they continued their hike, and again, by nightfall, it was clear they still wouldn’t make it to Kiev. This time they were so cold, so wet, they looked for a farm where they might take shelter in a barn for the evening. The first one they found had a straw roof tinged green with mold. An orchard rimmed the fields. Every branch was plucked naked, not a single piece of fruit left. A black-and-white dog came at them, baring its teeth. Sasha gripped his knife.
“You stealing my pears?” a woman asked. She stepped out from behind one of the trees. She held a scythe, pointed it at them, the blade clean as if it had just come off the whetstone. The dog sat at her side, his teeth still exposed.
“There are no pears to steal,” Miri said.
“You were looking to steal.” She raised the blade. Sasha stepped in front of Miri.
“No!” he said. “We’re traveling to Kiev.”
“If you did steal my pears, I’d kill you both.” A child peeked out from behind her skirt. Her face was withered and her hair hung like greasy string.
“We’re not thieves. We’re looking for my brother. And an American.”
“An American.” The woman barked out a laugh. “That’s the best I’ve heard in a while. What do you really want? Soldier, you here for my pig?”
“No!” Miri said. “We didn’t even know you have a pig.”
“That’s what they said when they came for my mule, my husband, and my boys. Your husband, he’s wounded?” She pointed to Sasha’s neck, to his open shirt.
“Yes,” Miri said. Husband. Miri shook off the heaviness of that word as she reached for the rucksack around Sasha’s good shoulder. She moved in slow motion, not wanting to startle the woman, and found the last corner of cheese they’d saved. Miri held it out toward the girl.
“For the child,” Miri said. “Please.”
The woman hesitated, only for a moment. She leapt forward and grabbed the cheese without touching Miri. Then she retreated, equally as fast, but now she leaned the blade against her shoulder and unwrapped the food. She brought it up to her nose, inhaled like she hadn’t smelled anything so good in a long, long time. “Fresh,” she said with approval. She handed the full piece to her daughter without even a nibble for herself. “You can sleep in my barn.”
Miri exhaled. She realized her hands hurt. They’d been balled into fists so tight her joints were frozen. The skin of her palms was scored. “Thank you,” Miri said.
She and Sasha started walking toward the barn. No Americans. That was clear. And for the first time she wondered if she’d misunderstood. Surely if there was one even close by, the woman would have heard. What if Miri had misunderstood “Levi’s Monster”? What if it didn’t mean they’d gone to Kiev?
XXXIII
Vanya felt nothing but pain and terror like he’d never imagined. He knew he was on the ground but he couldn’t get up. He must have lost consciousness. A crowd of villagers, the army’s rejects, huddled around him in a tight circle with clenched fists. It was loud. Someone heaved him up to his feet. He faced Vadim and Stepan. “Your American killed our cows,” Vadim said. His eyes were narrow and fierce. He pointed to Clay, who was on the other side of the circle, leaning against a wagon. Blood from Clay’s mouth pooled on his shirt. His spectacles were gone and one eye was swollen shut. It looked as though he’d lost a few teeth. Had Yuri and Dima escaped?
“The American unleashed the eclipse,” a woman in the crowd yelled. She was the villager who sold them butter.
Vanya looked around. “Yuri,” he yelled. “Yuri!” Stepan punched Vanya in the gut again, hard. Lights exploded behind his eyes. He slumped to the ground. He heard a woman yelling; she seemed far away. When he could breathe again, he focused on the woman still yelling.
“My child is blind,” she screamed. “It was the devil that did it.”
“The devil in the form of the eclipse.”
“It’s the American and his split tongue.” Each accusation was louder than the last.
“Blood requires blood,” yelled Vadim. “My cows died, all at once. They broke out of the barn. While I was hiding I heard them splashing in the pond. The sun came back and they were…”
Did Vanya get his photographs? Where were his glass plates? His head throbbed. With every breath he felt as if he was being stabbed. They’d broken his rib. He lumbered up to his feet. The enormous effort was excruciating, but he was better off standing; it seemed to relieve the pressure on his chest. “The eclipse didn’t kill your cows,” Vanya gasped.
“Shut your mouth. Traitor.” Vadim was so fierce it was clear he wouldn’t hesitate to strike—to kill. “Your American, he brought the devil to Brovary. Admit it. Admit it.”
“How could a man control the moon?”
“Not a man. Lucifer.”
Stepan heaved Clay up into a wagon. Clay screamed something. Stepan cracked a whip on his mule, and the old animal heaved. The wagon wheels lurched but slid into a rut. Stuck. Vanya began clawing his way to the wagon. The mud and stones scratched his hands but he had to find a way to stop this.
“Vadim. Listen to me!” Vanya shouted as loud as he could manage. Vadim looked back at Vanya, his face lined with fury. “It was not the eclipse. You heard splashing.” Vanya gasped for air. “It must have been algae.”
“What’s he saying?” The crowd pressed in, angry and loud.
“Algae. A poison. Can grow in ponds,” Vanya said, again. “Vadim, please. Let the American go.” Did Vadim hesitate or did Vanya imagine that?
Either way his eyes went dark. “Traitor,” he said. “Why defend the devil?” Stepan climbed down to push the wagon. He angled his shoulder under the back to give it a shove.
Clay lay in the back of the wagon, whimpering. He rolled his head to the side and his one eye, the one not puckered and already black, caught Vanya’s gaze. He held him there, for a moment. Then Clay tilted his chin toward Vanya, took a deep, deep breath, and yelled one unmistakable word: “Jew.”
Stepan and Vadim stopped. Vanya froze, feeling the label and its meaning trickle through the crowd. It cut as deep as ever. Their anger would boil now. They weren’t going to kill a man—they were going to kill a Jew. Of course a Jew had slaughtered their cows.
“A Jew?” Vadim turned to Vanya.
The crowd began jeering and hissing. Stepan said something. Then came Dima’s voice. “Don’t listen to the American devil,” he called as he pushed his way through the crowd. Dima! But where was Yuri? The crowd paused. Just then a flash of lightning split the sky.
“A sign, a terrible omen,” someone screamed, and at that, the crowd surged. Vanya had never seen so much hate. They dragged him down into the mud with enough force he was sure they’d crush him. There were too many blows to count or distinguish. The pain was so excruciating he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. No mob would ever spare a Jew. Surely, Clay had known. All Vanya could think about was death. And he prayed it would come faster.
XXXIV
The crowd was out of control. Dima had seen it before, on ships, on land. Crowds were powerful. Lout. It was what the tele
grapher had called Clay, and the word was perfect. Clay’s betrayal was despicable. Pathetic. Was that what Kir’s telegram had told Clay, that his scientist was a Jew? Whatever else Vanya might be, he was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like this. Dima spit on the ground, wiped his mouth with his hand. There was no question this crowd would kill Vanya, and if they went that far, they wouldn’t stop. Blood wants blood. Dima, Yuri, and Clay all worked with Vanya—they were all in danger. Dima knew he should run. But he couldn’t do it. That man, that Jew, had gotten under his skin.
Cook had screamed over all that noise, calling the lightning a terrible omen. Of course, Dima thought. Her birthmark was a witch’s mark, and that’s what Dima needed, a witch. He’d seen her flee toward the house. He took off after her, slammed through the barricaded kitchen door. She was cowering under the table. Her face was wet with tears, her thin hair a mess. The worse she looked the better, anyway. He dragged her toward the door, grabbed two pans behind him. He was in too much of a rush to be gentle. She must have fought but she was easy enough to handle. “Please, no,” she said through hard sobs. “Not outside.”
“You saw the lightning?” Dima asked.
“Yes.” Her tears were harder now and she’d dropped to her knees.
He grabbed her wrist at the birthmark. “You’re a witch? And the villagers know?”
“Yes, yes!”
“You can stop this madness.” Dima jerked her back up to her feet. He hated being rough with her. “Come with me or I’ll slit your throat. Understand?” She shook like a rag doll, and he realized it was because he was doing it, shaking her.
“What’s happening?” It was Yuri. At the door. His eyes were wild, his clothes torn.
“I’m saving Vanya. What are you doing?”
“Also saving Vanya. Hiding his work.”
Yuri was gone, in the blink of an eye. Dima didn’t have time to wonder—he could hear the mob roaring. He hauled Cook outside, fought through, kicked and shoved, and scrambled up onto the wagon where he expected to find Clay, but Clay was gone. The wooden rails tore into his skin but there was no time to feel it. From above, it was an awful scene. More than one had blood soaking their hands, Vanya’s blood. Cowards, Dima thought. Anyone can kill in a crowd.
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