The Orphanage

by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler

  Then the kid says quietly: “Hey, how’d you get here? You remember?”

  “Uh, I came from the train station,” Pasha replies, after a moment’s thought.

  “Well, let’s go to the train station then,” the kid says. “That’s if they haven’t burned it down yet.”

  “Are you for real?” Pasha’s skeptical. “How do you know who’s there now?”

  “Pasha.” The kid’s starting to get mad. “You’re a local guy, you’ve got health problems and a kid. What do you have to be afraid of? We can spend the night at the station. Can you find the way? Just not down the main avenue. They’ll definitely be shooting there.”

  “I think I can find it,” Pasha answers. “I’ll try.”

  “There’s no way in hell I’ll find anything out here,” he thinks, growing angry with himself. He stares at the row of trees tinted silver by the moonlight. But he keeps walking, trusting his inner voices to lead him through the dead city.

  They reach the remnants of the footbridge. Boards and rebar hover over a black pit, like a ski jump for suicides. “The bridge,” Pasha whispers confidently. “I was here yesterday.” He nods to the kid and cuts between some trees. He walks through the park, touches crooked acacias, feels the frozen spring in his heart loosening up even more, pushing him forward, not letting him stop. They plod out of the park and walk through the thick grass, right up to the black frame of an apartment block that rises over them like an ocean wave at night. Playground, charred swings, cellar hatches with busted locks—someone cleaned out everything they could get their hands on. “Any second now,” Pasha says, to himself more than anyone. “It should be somewhere around here.” And there it is. He comes across the tram tracks, gleaming in the tall grass. “Everything’s fine,” Pasha assures the kid. “Now we can get out.” They walk at an even pace, not rushing. A little while later, they bump into something big, something that’s lying right on the tracks.

  “What’s that?” Pasha asks.

  “A cow,” the kid says.

  Pasha comes closer, cautiously touches the supple carcass with the tip of his shoe. The carcass appears to still be somewhat warm.

  “Yeah,” Pasha says. “It’s a cow.”

  Detached horns, right rear leg twisted unnaturally.

  “What happened to it?” the kid asks.

  “Maybe they were hauling it behind a car, and they drove too fast,” Pasha suggests. “So they broke its horns and twisted its leg.”

  “But why’d they just leave it here?” the kid asks, surprised.

  “Who the hell knows?” Pasha replies. “They were in a rush. Anna fuckin’ Karenina,” he curses, walking around the carcass through the wet grass.

  The kid doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even ask who Anna Karenina is.

  At around ten, they get to the run-down building where Pasha and the group of people were hiding out during the shelling.

  “Through the window,” Pasha commands curtly.

  The kid obediently starts crawling through the opening. Pasha gives him a boost from behind and then crawls in after him. They jump down onto the floor one after another and sit, their backpacks resting against the wall. The kid takes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He flagrantly takes one out, not hiding anything, rolls it between his fingers to warm it up—he’s clearly done this before—sticks it in his mouth, and takes a lighter out of his other pocket. Pasha reacts to the lighter more than anything; he grabs the kid’s cigarette, rips it right out of his mouth, crumples it, and tosses it aside. He takes the lighter, too.

  “What the hell!” the kid yells, aggrieved.

  “The light,” Pasha says in a conciliatory tone. “They’ll start shooting if they see it.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The kid still looks aggrieved, but it’s mostly just an act. He tucks his cigarettes away and doesn’t ask for the lighter back.

  They sit for a while, not saying anything. Pasha feels bad about his outburst. The kid realizes that he really doesn’t have any reason to be mad. They don’t say anything for a while. Pasha cracks first.

  “You hungry?”

  “Do you have anything?” the kid asks, incredulously.

  “Some canned stuff,” Pasha replies. “I don’t have a knife, though.”

  “Gotcha.” The kid smiles crookedly, rummages through his pockets, and takes one out—foldable—blade on one end, spoon on the other.

  “Where’d you get that?” Pasha asks.

  “From the locals,” the kid answers. “Traded some cigarettes for it.”

  “Where’d you get the cigarettes?” Pasha’s surprised.

  “From the locals, too,” the kid explains.

  Pasha realizes that he’d better not ask any more questions. He takes out a can, pierces it with the knife, and begins ferociously slicing through the metal in the dark. He cuts his hand right away. For the second time today. He smears blood all over his jacket and jeans, then tries to stop the bleeding. The kid takes a handkerchief—clean, ironed, neatly folded—out of his backpack. Pasha awkwardly wraps it around his hand.

  “Where’d you get that?” Pasha asks, pointing to the handkerchief.

  “It’s grandpa’s,” the kid explains. “He gave me a whole bunch of them. I used them to clean my shoes. This is the last one.”

  Pasha thinks of his dad. “Should call him,” he thinks. “He’s all worried, probably.”

  “I forgot to call him,” Pasha says.

  “You forgot or you didn’t want to?” the kid asks.

  “Didn’t want to? What’s that supposed to mean?” Pasha says with affected surprise.

  “Do you call him a lot?”

  Pasha considers arguing with the kid but then eases up. “Come on,” he thinks. “Who am I kidding?” He hands the kid the can. Drops of blood shine duskily in the moonlight.

  “Want some?”

  “Not anymore,” the kid answers.

  Pasha folds the knife up, gives it back to the kid, and puts the cans on the windowsill.

  “I bought him his first phone a while back,” he says, referring to his dad. “A basic Nokia. I put in our numbers, mine and my sister’s. Uh, your mom’s. I tried to teach him how to text. Didn’t pan out. He didn’t like writing. He sent me a text once, though. You know when?”

  “When?”

  “On the anniversary of mom’s death. Uh, your grandma’s death. He texted to remind me. I asked him later on, ‘Why didn’t you call?’ He said, ‘I was afraid I’d start crying.’ Can you imagine that? I think that’s why he doesn’t talk to us—he’s afraid he’ll start crying.”

  “Well, I think that he doesn’t talk to you two because you don’t have anything to say.”

  Pasha’s quiet for a bit. They stand up, head toward the exit. Pasha suddenly turns around, grabs the cans off the windowsill, and puts them on the floor.

  “What for?” The kid’s confused.

  “For the dogs,” Pasha explains.

  They set off into the moonlight and across the field, and find a hole in a concrete wall. Next comes a little ditch, a path, a burnt-out truck—there’s no telling how it got here. They walk through high cattails for a while; the path bends toward a railroad switch. Train cars. Pass through an endless corridor of burnt metal, crawl under a tanker black with soot, clamber onto the platform, and get to the station building.

  There are even more people here, even though this is supposed to be where the shells were coming down. Those who came earlier look at the newcomers with mistrust. We don’t have enough room as it is. This whole place looks like a ship that’s going down in the open sea. The passengers are sitting and watching the water rise; meanwhile, passengers from another ship that has already successfully sunk are emerging from the depths of the ocean. They climb onto the sides of the ship and cling to the ropes and life preservers, overjoyed that everything’s working out so well. The people sitting at the top, on the deck, are fuming, looking at them with hatred in their eyes, showering them with curses, not showing
any sympathy, not a single drop of empathy. Even though they’re all going to drown, obviously.

  A two-man patrol immediately identifies Pasha in the waiting area. Two young guys wearing brand-new, spotless uniforms, like they just came from a parade. They fish Pasha and the kid out of the motley, mostly female crowd. They come over, offer a markedly polite greeting, turn on their flashlights, and ask to see Pasha’s documents. While he’s rooting around in his pockets, they suspiciously eye the blood on his jacket sleeve, the fresh clay on his boots, the dark bags under his eyes, and his gaze, inflamed by the cold and his overwhelming fatigue. They take no interest in the kid, but their eyes catch the baseball bat sticking out of his backpack. But when it comes to these locals, who knows? Maybe they just like baseball, we’ll have to ask our bosses about that one. They flip through Pasha’s passport, scoffing when they see the flag on the first page. They still aren’t used to the fact that all the locals have passports with enemy flags in them. They check Pasha’s address and hand his papers back to him.

  “What about the trains? Are they running?” Pasha asks, once he’s mustered the resolve. He’s speaking proper Russian, like they are, even trying to replicate their accent. That doesn’t make much of an impression on the soldiers, though.

  “Nothing’s fuckin’ running in your town,” one of them replies reluctantly. The second guy has turned his back on Pasha so he doesn’t have to answer.

  “How can we get out of here?” Pasha isn’t giving up.

  The soldier sizes Pasha up. He considers retreating, but then he sees the kid looking at the soldier like he’s a toad—looking at him with hostility, that is. Then Pasha’s eyes slide over him, from bottom to top. He notices his neatly trimmed nails, notices the cut he got on his neck while shaving, notices that the soldier is sniffling—caught a cold during a military campaign, clearly. “He’s a kid,” Pasha thinks. “Just got called up.”

  “You’re representatives of the new authorities, right?” Pasha asks, with overt sarcasm. “I have a kid on my hands.”

  “You’re completely safe here.” The second guy turns toward him. Wide cheekbones, narrow, somewhat swollen eyes. He’s a kid, too.

  “Okay,” Pasha says. “Can the new administration provide the temporarily displaced persons with food?”

  “What persons?” Narrow Eyes asks, confused.

  “The temporarily displaced persons,” Pasha repeats. “We,” he says, pointing at the kid with his dead finger, “are the temporarily displaced persons. We’re only going to be here temporarily, isn’t that right? You’re the new administration, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Narrow Eyes confirms. “Why don’t you go talk to the commandant?” he says in a confidential tone.

  “Where is he?” Pasha asks, all business.

  “In the train station attendant’s room. You know where that is?”

  “Yeah,” Pasha replies flatly, takes the kid by the hand, goes around the patrolmen, and walks across the waiting area, stepping over the drowsy, temporarily displaced passengers who have sprawled out in every place imaginable: on the floor, on the windowsills, against the columns.

  The newcomers didn’t bring a lot of stuff with them. It doesn’t seem like they had any time at all to pack or change their clothes. They just grabbed whatever was at hand and ran. Sleeping on their coats, sleeping on their bedspreads, using their winter boots as pillows. No suitcases, no bundles, faces dark with fear and sleeplessness, laden eyelids, wrinkles around their eyes. They’re sleeping, their children pressed up against them—shielding the children from the cold with their warm bodies. Pasha treads carefully; he doesn’t want to bump into anyone. The kid hops over the drowsy bodies with care, too. There are two guys with Kalashnikovs by the train station attendant’s room—they’re sprawled out in office chairs. One of them is dozing off; the other guy is looking at some pictures on his phone. They don’t even look at Pasha—one of them just blocks the entrance with his rifle. That doesn’t stop Pasha, though.

  “In his office?” he asks.

  “In his office? What?” The armed man looks up from his phone.

  “The commandant, for fuck’s sake. Is he in his office?” Pasha repeats his question.

  “What are you swearing in front of the kid for?” The armed man sounds aggrieved.

  “I’m a teacher, I’m allowed to,” Pasha explains.

  For a second, the armed man tries analyzing what he’s heard. Nothing comes of this analysis.

  “Yeah, he’s in his office,” he says. “He’s busy, though.”

  “Sure,” Pasha says, opening the door.

  The commandant’s well over fifty. Large frame, red mug. Clearly has high blood pressure. He’s anxiously spinning in an office chair. Stripes on the sides of his pants, officer’s boots. A strange tunic with some curious epaulettes. Crosses on his chest. He looks like a small-town opera singer. He’s tossed a peacoat with a beaver collar over his shoulders; Pasha’s seen that style before. Standing next to him is another soldier—his adjutant, Pasha immediately deduces—portly, chubby cheeks, shaved head. Wearing camo, holding a Cossack whip. “He punishes those who violate fire safety regulations at the station,” Pasha thinks. The room’s very stuffy. The curtains have been resolutely ripped off, the window’s covered with plywood. The television in the corner has a smashed picture tube. Trampled calculator on the floor. Next to it is a gas generator humming laboriously. There are cables running away from it; a large lamp is shining. The commandant tenses up when he sees Pasha and the kid. A pink splotch, like a tender burn, immediately spreads across his face.

  “Who are you?” he asks severely.

  He’s speaking Russian; his accent comes through in the interrogative.

  “I’m a teacher,” Pasha answers, and proffers his hand.

  Flustered, the commandant shakes it. And the adjutant does, too—he has no other choice.

  “I’m here on behalf of the citizens,” Pasha says, without releasing his hand. “Their authorized agent.”

  The commandant doesn’t like the phrase “authorized agent.” If he were acting in good conscience, he’d put Pasha against the wall for that. He jerks his hand back.

  “What’s with your hand?” he asks severely, nodding at the bloody handkerchief.

  “Oh, that,” Pasha answers casually. “It’s nothing.”

  Then he meaningfully touches the bandage, seemingly demonstrating—uh-huh, it’s nothing, things get a lot hairier out on the battlefield. The commandant gives Pasha an understanding look, but he isn’t saying anything, which makes him nervous.

  “So what do you want?” he asks.

  “The citizens would like to know how you will provide food and transportation,” Pasha says. “Many of them have children on their hands.”

  “Children,” the commandant replies discontentedly, wiping his sweaty neck with his sleeve. “You see what’s going on. The city’s under bombardment. And you’re talking about children.”

  “What actions will the authorities take with regard to the temporarily displaced persons?” Pasha can feel that he’s adopted the gym teacher’s manner of speaking. That immediately makes him sound more convincing.

  The commandant tenses up again. He shifts his gaze from Pasha to the kid and then back to Pasha, as though he’s thinking about who he should shoot first.

  “All right,” he says. “Here’s the deal. Alexei, you take care of Comrade Authorized Agent. I have a call with the command center.”

  He takes out his phone, turns his back on them. Chubby-cheeked Alexei makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he’s shooing some butterflies away. “C’mon, everyone out, no eavesdropping on his conversation with the command center.” Pasha leaves. The kid follows him. Alexei’s next. He’s walking, lazily tapping his whip against his thigh. He steps out into the hallway, stops, and looks around. Pasha and the kid stand next to him, waiting. A crowd of women and old people immediately gathers.

  “Comrades,” Alexei says in a choppy
and official-sounding voice. “I ask that you not succumb to panic. The authorities are handling the situation that has arisen. A field kitchen will arrive in the morning. We’ll send one bus to the factory and another one to the main residential area. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” says an elderly woman in a wet wig. “What should we do until morning?”

  “Suck dick,” Alexei answers irascibly, turns around, and disappears behind the door.

  The crowd mulls that one over, then disperses. Pasha takes out his phone. He tries to call his old man. He doesn’t have service, obviously.

  They find a spot by the luggage room. The kid takes out an extra sweater, tosses it on the floor, sits down. Pasha sits next to him. He can feel that moisture has seeped through his jacket; it can’t withstand the local climate. Pasha shrivels up and huddles into himself, trying to capture some remnants of warmth. It’s just like when you wade into the sea in the morning—you search for a warm current, cling to it. You can’t quite get warm, though, like when you can’t quite fall asleep. The kid’s dozing off, hat pulled over his eyes, head resting against the wall. It’s painted blue. Pasha pulls his hood over his head, tries to forget about the cold and the dampness, tries and tries, but he can’t. He scans his neighbors from underneath his hood. Most of them are sleeping, but one small woman is telling her neighbor something in the corner. The woman looks about forty: gray coat, dark boots, short hair. She’s pressing a folder against her chest. “A bunch of important documents,” Pasha thinks. “They were in a drawer. She grabbed them on her way out. Nobody’ll have any use for her if she loses them.” Her neighbor—older than her, portly—is sitting on some bundles that have sprawled out underneath her. It looks like she’s sitting on top of someone, almost done strangling them. She’s only half listening, keeps crying. Short Hair realizes she should stop, calm her friend down, but she can’t. She’s going on and on, in a hollow, insistent whisper. Everyone around her can hear; they listen in, catching some words here and there. So nobody’s sleeping, and this lady sitting on the bundles is crying, crying so bitterly that nobody would even think of saying anything to her.