by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
When the old man hears “analgin,” he starts coughing violently—a sign of approval, clearly.
“Is it far from here?” Pasha asks.
“How should I put it . . . ?” she answers, and Pasha realizes it’s a long way.
He heaves the old man over his shoulder like a knight’s cloak and carries him, stopping several times along the way to catch his breath. The girl runs alongside him, and Vira keeps pace, too. They cross the street, duck between some buildings, pass a day care center, reach the next street over, and walk along a row of linden trees. Something starts burning on the horizon again. It seems like they’re bombarding the city in a circular pattern. The sky goes from dark to blue-tinged pink; it hollowly snatches every explosion. You can hear intermittent bursts of automatic gunfire coming from the avenue. Not a single person, empty city, colorful sky, black lindens growing out of the dark fog. Pasha finds a bench, lowers the old man onto it, and collapses next to him. Vira stands nearby; the fog wraps around her, so it looks like smoke is rising off her fur coat. The girl is crying, holding her grandpa’s hand. Suddenly, there’s some movement at the end of the street. A vehicle. No headlights, obviously. It’s heading in their direction, though.
“Quick!” Pasha yells, grabs the old man, runs under an archway, and looks back to make sure everyone’s with him. Then he cautiously peers around the corner and sees a swamp-colored minibus tear down the street. Lacerated metal sides, like the flanks of a battle-hardened dog, smashed windows. It seems like the passengers are jumping out while it’s still going full speed.
They get to the vet’s building around seven. A nine-story prefab apartment block. Half the windows are gone. Shadows, silence. The bench outside the building is all bashed up. Pasha looks at it and realizes that it was like that before the war, in peacetime, as they say. The building had an intercom, but now the door’s wide open. Gloom flows out of it like black water.
“You remember what floor?” Pasha asks.
“Third, I think,” Vira answers hesitantly. “Or maybe fourth.”
“Damn.” Pasha lowers the old man onto the ground. He slumps over into the fog; his granddaughter scampers over and grabs his hand. “Wait here,” Pasha says, and goes inside the building.
He takes out his phone once he steps inside and turns on the flashlight. Smashed bricks, a thick layer of broken plaster, somebody’s shoe, some scraps of something. He goes up the stairs, carefully stepping over everything. Vira follows him. They go up to the third floor. Vira examines the doors.
“Nah,” she says. “This isn’t it. He had a metal door.”
They go up to the fourth floor. No metal doors.
“Are you sure it was metal?” Pasha asks.
“I don’t know,” Vira answers, beginning to doubt herself.
They go up the stairs and go up some more. And then head back down to the third floor.
“Well, I think this is it,” Vira says, pointing at a black door with no number on it.
The door is metal—but it’s been charred black, so it takes a minute to figure that out. Pasha walks over and delicately bangs his fist against the metal surface. A heavy echo rings through the building. This frightens Pasha at first, but then he summons his courage and starts pounding on the door, not holding anything back. No response.
“Maybe they can’t hear us?” Pasha asks.
“You gotta be kidding,” Vira answers in a surly tone.
They go back outside and turn off the flashlight. The old man doesn’t even acknowledge them. His granddaughter’s been standing on her tiptoes, looking up, waiting for them.
“Nobody’s home,” Pasha informs her.
She starts crying. Vira tries to console her. But it’s not like that’s going to do any good. “What should I do?” Pasha thinks. “What should I do?”
“Who are you?”
Suddenly, someone’s standing in the darkness, but there’s no telling who. It’s as if the darkness is talking to them.
“We wanted to see the vet,” Pasha answers the darkness.
“What vet?” the darkness asks.
“In the apartment on the third floor,” Pasha says.
The darkness mulls over what it’s heard, not saying anything for a bit.
“There’s no vet on the third floor,” it says. “One apartment’s empty, some businessmen lived in the other one. But somebody threw a grenade in there last summer.”
“Listen,” Pasha says and takes a cautious step toward the darkness. “Don’t be scared. I’m a teacher.”
“Huh? Whose teacher?”
“I’m just a teacher. We’ve got an old man with us. He’s really hurting. He needs a doctor.”
“Why are you asking for a vet then?” The darkness is confused, once again.
“Is there anyone else around?” Pasha asks.
“Nope.” The darkness starts moving. A small woman breaks away from the wall and heads toward Pasha. Long jacket, warm hat, can’t make out her face. She’s wearing glasses, though. She’s blind as a bat, just like Pasha.
“How’d you wind up with him?” she asks, nodding at the old man.
“We were coming from the train station,” Pasha explains. “Trying to get out. And then he started to feel real lousy. Is there a hospital around here? Or a pharmacy at least?”
“A pharmacy?” the woman asks indignantly. “A hospital? We’ve been living in the basement for the past two weeks!”
“All right, all right,” Pasha says, trying to calm her down. “There’s no need to yell.”
He turns toward Vira. “Gotta get going,” he says. “Keep looking.” The old man gets up, Vira holding him on one side and his granddaughter on the other.
“Hey!” the woman yells at their backs. “What are you doing dragging him around? That’ll kill him. Leave him here. I have a first aid kit and some water, too. If he dies, at least it won’t be out on the street.”
Pasha heaves the old man over his shoulder again. They walk along a wall, turn a corner, and go down into the basement. Up ahead, the woman is walking resolutely, even though it’s pitch black—the moon or something like that should be hanging overhead, but the fog’s lying so low that there isn’t any sky. Once again, there’s a blast somewhere on the other side of the city—dull and deep, stretched to steady, drawn-out intervals. Pasha moves in the dark as if he’s walking along a riverbed; he’s afraid he’ll lose his balance and topple over, along with the passenger on his back. They go downstairs, and the woman opens a door. They walk down a hallway, and then the woman gropes for another door and opens it. Stale, stagnant air hits them immediately. Pasha can’t see anything, but he can hear a lot of people breathing.
“Come on in,” the woman says. The door closes behind them. Then, in the darkness, someone turns on a flashlight and shines it right in Pasha’s face.
There are about two dozen people stuffed into a small room. They’re sitting against the wall, leaning against each other. Mostly women and children. There’s one guy, though—about forty, winter coat, deerskin hat. He looks at Pasha and then averts his eyes. There’s a gas camp stove and a grocery bag off to the side. But everyone has their own food with them, something homemade. They’re dressed warmly and wrapped up in blankets, rugs, and coats, too. Have they been here for a while? Can’t tell. Based on the heavy scent and red eye-pits, it’s been several days. Or maybe it’s pushing two weeks already. Pasha takes a look around and then lowers the old man onto the cement floor. Several women spring up; the man in the winter coat burrows even deeper into the wall. The women pick the old man up, toss a gray winter jacket on the floor, lower their patient onto it, lean over him like myrrh bearers, and begin noisily deliberating over how to save him. His granddaughter is standing next to them, crying. Pasha’s listening intently to the sounds outside. Two hits—can’t tell what side they came from, though. “If one lands here, there’ll be no digging us out,” he thinks. He takes out his phone. It’s almost eight.
“OK,” he says to the wo
man who brought them here. “I’m gonna get going. Could you look after him?”
“Yeah, may as well, since he’s here and all,” the woman says calmly.
“Why don’t you take my number?” Pasha suggests. “Just in case.”
“Well, how’m I supposed to call you?” the woman inquires. “A paper cup on a string?”
“All right, all right,” Pasha says. “I’ll try and come back tomorrow. With a doctor.”
“Uh-huh,” the woman says unenthusiastically. Then she adds, “Where are you going this late?”
“Well, I have to get to the orphanage.”
“The orphanage?” the woman asks in a frightened tone.
“Yeah, the orphanage” Pasha repeats, irritated. “Gotta pick up my nephew.”
“Damn,” is all she says in reply. “You better just stay,” she offers again.
“Maybe I really should stay?” Pasha thinks, hesitating. “I’ll spend the night and then push off in daylight. Don’t want any run-ins with anyone tonight.” He scans the room: damp walls, low ceiling, doors that open outward. “If it hits in the hallway, there’ll be no escaping. It’ll be a mass grave,” he thinks.
“Nah,” he says, more or less decisively. “I’m gonna get going. I’ll try to stop by on the way back.”
“Uh-huh,” the woman answers, stepping aside.
“Wait,” Vira says as he’s leaving. “I’m gonna get going, too.”
Nobody keeps them there any longer.
As soon as they step outside, they start inhaling the air deeply. Because there’s finally some air to breathe. They start walking, hugging the buildings and hiding between the trees. The rain picks up, the air turns frigid. A fireworks show starts off to the north. The sky blazes unwaveringly, and Pasha realizes that even if he does make some headway, it’s highly unlikely he’ll want to come back this way. Vira wordlessly tries to keep up. They walk with their heads down. Have to watch your step. When Pasha lifts his eyes, he spots some figures—two or three, can’t make them out in the dark—at the end of the street. Pasha yanks Vira’s sleeve and pulls her down. They crouch, tumble up against the wall of an apartment block, and steal over to the entrance.
“Is it locked?” Pasha thinks frantically. He cautiously pulls on the door—it gives. They slip inside, run up the steps, stop between the second and third floors, freeze by the window, tensely examine the oily darkness down below. Time passes slowly, very slowly. “Are they gone?” Pasha wonders, and instantly sees the first figure down below, standing right in front of the building, looking up, right at the window—right at them. “Yep,” Pasha thinks. “He saw us all right.” But the figure down below turns to the side, waits for his buddies. His buddies come over, walking quickly. Three of them? Three of them. Armed. One of them has an RPG on his shoulder. The first one takes out a map, shines a flashlight on it. They all stand around him. The broken light snatches his black gloves, the heavy tactical goggles on his helmet, and the insignia on his uniform out of the darkness. Pasha tries to get a better look, but the flashlight turns off and all three of them dissolve in the black rain. Nothing to see but still, sodden silhouettes. They look like drowned men floating along a riverbed with a map in their hands. Eventually, the first one points off to the side. Everyone starts moving. Pasha exhales with relief. But one of them suddenly stops, turns around, looks right at Pasha again, like he discerns him in the darkness, unerringly sees him in the blackness, and heads toward the building. Pasha jerks to his feet, stands straight up, but Vira intercepts his arm.
“Sit still,” she whispers. “Sit where you’re sitting.” The first one steps into the building. Broken glass crunches dryly under his boots. He doesn’t turn his flashlight on. He moves through the gloom. With caution, with skill. One step, two, three, four, five. He tries the door of the first apartment, then the second. Everything’s locked. Everything’s quiet. He stands there for a bit, listening hard. Pasha’s heart is pounding so loudly that it’s impossible not to hear it. “He can hear it,” Pasha thinks. “He can hear everything.” Metal quietly taps against metal. “The RPG,” Pasha thinks. He goes up one step, then another, stops between the first and second floors—directly below Pasha and Vira. He listens hard again. “Run for it,” Pasha thinks, panicked. “Run upstairs and hide somewhere.” He tries getting up again, but again Vira brusquely pulls him back down.
“Sit,” she mouths. Pasha can’t see that in the dark, but he can feel her hissing: “Sit, sit where you’re sitting.” The guy down below goes up one more step, freezes, hesitates—should I keep going or not? Suddenly, the door opens down below.
“Where are you?” a surly voice calls to him from outside. “What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m coming,” he replies. He turns around and stomps down the stairs. The metal door squeaks sharply. Two shadows run past the window and disappear into the night.
“They gone?”
“Think so.”
“Wanna get going?”
“Wait,” Pasha says judiciously. “They’re still somewhere nearby. Let’s wait a little.”
“Are you actually a teacher?” Vira can’t help but ask.
“Yeah.”
“What do you teach?” she probes.
“I’m just a teacher.”
“Who’re you going to meet at the orphanage? Your nephew?”
“Yeah.”
“So he doesn’t have any parents?”
“It’s just his mom. Well, my sister. We’re twins.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, why isn’t she picking him up then?” Vira asks.
“Her job’s . . . ,” Pasha explains reluctantly, and then tries changing the subject. “What kind of coat you got there?”
“It isn’t mine. I grabbed it from the office.”
“Where do you work?”
“At a massage parlor.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s this parlor,” Vira says, choosing her words carefully. “Officially, it’s called a massage parlor. Do you know the big new office building downtown?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, um, that’s where our office is. There’s a sign outside for a travel agency, too. A lot of people think that we actually are a travel agency. So I woke up there this morning. Well, in the parlor. I mean the office,” she corrects herself again. “There really hadn’t been much shelling in our neighborhood before that. And then it really started coming down. We just threw something on and ran to the train station. I grabbed someone’s fur coat. All I got underneath is jeans and a bra. Damn, if I could just get home somehow, change my clothes.”
Pasha wants to say something encouraging, but he can’t come up with anything, so he just keeps quiet.
“I can see me not picking him up earlier, sure. With my job and all.” She can’t help but say something. “But what about you? You saw perfectly well what was going on. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I don’t,” Pasha says. “I don’t like politics.”
“Well, now you’re stuck sitting here,” Vira tells him angrily. “Some fuckin’ teacher . . .”
She gets up a little later. C’mon, get up, quit sitting around. Pasha gets up obediently, grabs his backpack, fixes his glasses (good thing she can’t see that in the dark), and follows her. They stop when they get outside.
“Where should we go now?” Pasha asks, hesitating.
“Let’s go back to those guys in the basement,” Vira suggests. “It’s late. How far do you think you’re gonna get? To the first checkpoint?”
“Nah, I don’t wanna go back to the basement. It’s too crowded.”
“Have it your way,” Vira says stiffly.
“Want me to walk you back?”
“You don’t have to,” she says, reaches for him, squeezes his hand, lingering briefly on his hardened fingers.
Even though it’s dark, and even though all Pasha wants to do is hide his hands deep in his pockets, he can still feel her thin
bones, thin engagement ring, and her nails—so chipped that you might think she just finished doing some hard work. Like cleaning fish. Or digging herself out of her own grave. Pasha suddenly feels uncomfortable. He yanks his hand away, tucks it into his pocket, turns around, and starts walking. Vira starts walking, too, trying not to click her worn heels too loudly.
Pasha gets to the Palace of Culture and finally begins to recognize the area. Not much farther—cross the square, take the main road to the tram ring, go past some houses, then cut through the park. And then the orphanage will be somewhere up there. Better not cross the square, though. Actually, better go back to the basement and chow down on their food. But there’s that old guy who’s dying. And Vira wearing someone else’s fur coat. So Pasha keeps walking under the trees, crouching down, looking in every direction. When there’s an explosion behind the apartment blocks, he squats down in the tall grass, sits there for a bit, then musters the resolve to keep going. “TV,” he thinks, irritated. “What does the TV have to do with this? And what does politics have to do with this? Who even needs politics?” Pasha thinks back to the election last fall. Some guys from the city who worked for one of the candidates rolled into the Station, asked him to campaign for them. Pasha turned them down. They weren’t planning on paying him.
“You aren’t just all about the money, are you, Pasha? This is about something bigger!” they said.
“I’m nonpartisan,” Pasha replied.
They didn’t pressure him, but their parting words weren’t exactly kind, either. Then, on Sunday, during the election, Pasha had to sit around at the school—it was a polling place, and he was on duty—until late at night. People were reluctant to go to the school. Some came, though. Pasha greeted childhood friends he’d lost touch with, greeted his students’ parents, who he didn’t really care for and who didn’t really care for him, greeted his former teachers, who didn’t recognize him. They trudged off, as if possessed, to booths draped in blue, where they cast their ballots for a brighter future. “I’ll be just like them one day, as soon as I retire,” Pasha thought. The soldiers who kept coming by to make sure everything was going smoothly didn’t even look in Pasha’s direction, like he wasn’t even there. He acted like that, too, like he wasn’t even there. He was one of the first to vote. Which box did he check? He couldn’t tell you. In the early evening, one candidate’s representatives—the same guy Pasha decided not to campaign for—made a real fuss, started pressuring the election commission, argued with the voters, and kicked their competitors’ representatives out of the school. Soldiers arrived. The candidate’s representatives and the soldiers locked themselves in the principal’s office. They were talking for a while. “It’s a good thing I didn’t campaign for him,” Pasha reassured himself. Then, a month later, the candidate, who, for some reason, didn’t even wind up winning, stepped on a mine. They gave him a hero’s funeral. It suddenly turned out that everyone in town loved him. Even though, for some reason, nobody had voted for him. “Well, how could I have helped him?” Pasha thought, as he stood there at the farewell rally. Pasha stood far away and looked at his face, tinged dark by death, looked at the white cloth covering him, at the red casket, at the soldiers standing off to the side and looking at all the men like they were murder suspects. Then the casket was taken from the Station to the city. And then, several weeks later, things got really bad.