The Orphanage

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

  “As per our instructions, we’re now finishing meal service,” he says.

  “Yes, you’ve carried out your assignment,” Pasha replies. “That’s a wrap. When’s the bus coming?”

  “It’s coming,” Alexei answers reluctantly, his chubby cheek twitching, “at the scheduled boarding time.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Pasha says. “Well, that’s just terrific.”

  The soldiers are standing off to the side, looking at the drenched, all-female line, trying to boost their morale, defuse this shitty-ass situation, cracking jokes, and making fun of each other. This scares the women, though—they don’t expect anything particularly nice from the soldiers here, so they grab their food and run back to the building. The soldiers keep giving Pasha nasty looks. A local guy who isn’t fighting, who’s hiding behind a bunch of women. They’re whispering to each other, laughing and showing their young, strong teeth. Pasha adamantly pretends that none of this has anything to do with him. He stands leaning against the column and listens to the freezing pigeons cooing up above him. Out of the tent comes one of the soldiers—young, about twenty, light brown hair, well groomed. Scrupulously polished combat boots. Even his nails are nicely trimmed. He’s a bit chubby, though. White ghillie suit, black puffy jacket. “Looks like a penguin,” Pasha thinks. “Black top, white bottom.” And an old officer’s map case rests on his shoulder. He looks like an old-time political officer. He walks up the steps toward Pasha, slings the map case over his shoulder, takes an apple out of his pocket, and offers it to the kid. The kid looks at him with disdain, yet accepts the apple and immediately begins munching on it. He purposely doesn’t say “thank you.” The Penguin looks at him, yet can’t withstand his gaze, so he turns toward Pasha.

  “So how’s the situation, Pops?” he asks in a businesslike tone.

  He’s speaking proper Russian, with no accent. It’s immediately obvious that he isn’t from around here. He wants to see how the civilian population is feeling.

  “It is what it is,” Pasha replies. Well, what else could he say?

  “Was it rough?” the Penguin asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, under those guys.” He nods to the north. “Was it rough under them?”

  The kid lifts his head toward Pasha. Well, did you have it rough, huh? And up above, it seems like the pigeons have stuck their beaks out so they can hear his answer.

  “There are women and children here,” Pasha says cautiously. “They have it rough.”

  “Gotcha.” The Penguin nods in understanding. “Well, we’ll push through, rebuild. Your son?” He points at the kid.

  “Nephew.”

  “Where’s your dad?” The Penguin leans in toward the kid. His tone is friendly, but he’s scrutinizing everything, doesn’t want to miss anything.

  “He burned up in a tank,” the kid says, crunching on his apple.

  “Whose tank?” The Penguin’s eyes light up.

  “His,” the kid answers without blinking. “His dad, my grandpa, brought it back from the war,” he explains.

  “He’s pulling your leg.” Pasha can’t help but interrupt. “His dad walked out on them. He was staying at the orphanage.”

  “So he’s an orphan.” The Penguin nods sympathetically. “Is your mom still around?”

  “Yeah,” Pasha explains. “She’s on the road. She’s a train stewardess.” And then he immediately bites his tongue.

  “A train stewardess?” the Penguin asks warily. “Well, where is she now? What route?”

  But then Alexei calls to him. Perfect timing, actually.

  “Vasya,” he says, “quit fucking pestering the civilians.” Vasya gives the kid another discontented look, but he continues imperturbably munching on his apple and gives him a look right back. Yeah, Vasya, quit fucking pestering us. Vasya turns around, runs back to the group. The pigeons dejectedly huddle closer together to stay warm.

  Two LAZ-model buses pull up a little after nine—beat-up, one blue-green, the other gray . . . well, just dirty. They were being used by soldiers, too; frayed flags hang on the blue-green one, and a military slogan that’s now indecipherable was spray-painted on the side of the other one. The dirty gray bus has broken windows with wet curtains like ripped sails sorrowfully drooping out of them. The headlights are busted, too. And to be perfectly frank, it doesn’t have a license plate, either. And soldiers are driving both buses. They’re military vehicles. The dirty one even has several holes in the side. It’s taken a beating. The women immediately spill outside, carrying their bags and bundles and dragging their children and kitchenware along. They dart toward the buses, yelling and carrying on. At first Alexei doesn’t know what to do with the civilian population, but then he quickly regains his composure, shoves his way closer to the buses, raises his hand, and waits for everyone to calm down. Once they all do calm down, more or less, he angrily starts telling everyone to calm down and listen to what he has to say or they aren’t going to get anything done, and that he’s getting pretty fucking sick of them. He tells them that he had to take these vehicles off the front line, where blood is currently being shed for a just cause, and that his superiors have given him explicit instructions to tell them all to fuck off and send the vehicles back to continue the fight for their bright future unless they all take a few steps back. When they all quiet down, Alexei says with an air of importance, his chubby cheeks flapping, that the blue-green bus is going to the plant and the dirty one’s going to the residential area.

  “And that’s it?” a young woman wearing an elegant hat and holding a down blanket asks dejectedly.

  “What else do you want?” Alexei snarls at her. “You want us to walk you home? I’d be glad to!” he promises threateningly and begins pushing his way through the crowd, back to his guys.

  The woman starts to cry, while everyone else storms the buses—it’s better to go to the plant than sit here at the train station with this chubby-cheeked bastard. Alexei summons Pasha with a commanding gesture. He reluctantly walks over.

  “So here’s the deal,” Alexei says. “You’ll be in charge of the lead vehicle.”

  “What vehicle?” Pasha asks, confused.

  “Uh, that one.” Alexei points. “The dirty one that’s going to the residential area. You’ll be responsible for the noncombatants. Got it?” he asks. Actually, he’s giving an order, not asking.

  Pasha and the kid are the last passengers to cram into the bus. The only spots left are on the steps, down below, by the front doors. The driver’s getting angry, yelling at the women to keep going, move down the aisle. But how are they supposed to do that when the bus is packed with pillows, mattresses, and jars of preserves? The women sit by the smashed windows—two or three to a seat, all on top of each other. They’re packed together, arguing and crying. Children are whining; feathers fly out of ripped Chinese down jackets. The driver tucks his AK away and yells to Pasha:

  “Calm them down already.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Pasha yells in reply. “Get moving. That’ll calm ’em down.”

  The driver spits. Pasha shuts the smashed doors, even though that’s pointless. Since the windows are smashed, too, closing the doors is like putting a newspaper on your face to stay warm in the winter. But rules are rules—the doors shut, the LAZ heads out, Alexei rubs his cheeks in relief. The field kitchen cools off like a lover’s heart after a torrid romance.

  The ride is cold and uncomfortable. Pasha and the kid are pressed up against the doors; a woman has rested her large leather suitcase right on top of Pasha. At first he tries to distance himself from her, scoot over, but there’s nowhere to scoot to, so he stays put. The rain flies through the windshield; the driver’s put on yellow tactical goggles, but they aren’t helping much. In the north, at the edge of town, there’s a series of explosions. They can’t see the flashes through the rain, but they can hear something coming down behind the quiet residential neighborhoods. The women begin wailing again, all at once, all
together. The kid’s bewildered, huddling into Pasha’s jacket. He might be cold or he might just want to cry. He holds it together, though.

  They pull away from the station, turn to the right, to the south, dodge a fallen road sign, then a bullet-riddled bread truck, and then a heap of discarded furniture: a couch, a wardrobe, a chair with ripped upholstery. Guess someone was shedding their dead weight as they fled. Morning city, apartment blocks singed like fireplaces, shattered grocery store windows. It’s dark inside. The bars on the windows are bent—looks like somebody tried stealing stuff but couldn’t pull it off. The owners took almost everything with them, leaving behind empty shelves and old, dead fridges that the thieves were too ashamed to take. What does anyone need an old fridge for? Maybe for hiding corpses, but that’s about it. The driver sees a newly built church behind the stores, and he automatically crosses himself, as do some of the women. They look at those who don’t cross themselves defiantly, disdainfully, like beachgoers standing in cold water up to their throats look at people who’re afraid to get wet.

  They bear right at the intersection, skirt past the black courthouse, the savings bank with boarded-up windows, and the pharmacy: the cold apertures of windows, the twisted bars. Somebody tried to find something, anything, but did they? Can’t tell. Then there’s an empty school, a destroyed newsstand, a bullet-riddled obelisk, scraps of metal, burnt bricks, bloody clothes. There’s hardly anyone out—just a few soldiers standing by the newsstand, smoking, talking, not paying any attention to anyone. And an elderly lady is dragging a sled loaded with cardboard across the wet asphalt. She might be going to burn it or she might use it to patch up the windows. Other than that, it’s just empty and damp. No movement, no voices. And here at the intersection a car nearly crashes into them. The driver’s so surprised that he only hits the brakes at the last second. The LAZ screeches, freezes, the driver’s chest hits the steering wheel. And the car, unmoving and dead, freezes, too. Pasha peers out the window, and what he sees renders him speechless. Right in front of them is an Opel, meticulously smeared with mud. And at the wheel is the Iguana, gray from sleeplessness, frightened, angry. He’s sitting there, his eyes wide, not knowing whether to berate the bus driver or apologize. And next to him, in the passenger’s seat, sits a guy in a muskrat hat and a gray winter coat, also frightened, also gray. But that’s not important. What’s important is that there’s a coffin tied to the roof of the Opel. Pasha doesn’t believe his eyes at first. “This can’t be for real,” he thinks. “Where’d they pick it up?” It really is a coffin, though. The women see it, and they watch it, mesmerized. And the driver even takes off his goggles to check. Yeah, it’s a coffin. And Pasha realizes that the guy in the muskrat hat has probably just ordered the coffin, that he’s taking it home to bury someone. Public transportation isn’t running in the city, so he’s taking a taxi. And it seems that the Iguana will carry just about anything. A coffin? Well, a coffin it is. Knowing the Iguana, there’s a good chance that the coffin isn’t empty—there’s already somebody in there. All this lasts only a few seconds. Nobody has time to say anything; the women whimper, and the driver looks at the Iguana like he’s the captain of a ghost ship. The Iguana recognizes Pasha, and his eyes—always round, fishlike—become as round as the moon. He looks at Pasha like he’s a dead man who’s returned from the cemetery for his own wake. The Iguana’s fear passes quickly, though; he steps on the gas, the Opel jerks forward, races to nowhere, disappears into the rain.

  The neighborhood ends. Then the road stretches along an empty field—concrete structures started in the eighties yet never finished, abandoned forevermore and now finished off by mortar fire. Beyond the field is a little ditch with a bridge running over it, and right in front of the bridge a checkpoint. It’s obvious that they were fighting for control of this area for quite a while. How’d the bridge remain intact? Couldn’t tell you. It’s still standing, though. They pull up, stop. Mortar fire has slashed the asphalt around the checkpoint—it looks like someone’s been hacking at it with a shovel. The cinder blocks have been slashed, too, and blackened with smoke. Soggy clothes, empty water bottles, and medical kits are scattered all around. A broken tree, torn paper, bent metal. There are caution signs off to the side, on the ground. Three or four soldiers—anxious, angry—are in charge. They’ve clearly just taken over, the checkpoint’s just been vacated. They’re steering clear of the dugouts—don’t want to risk it—standing out in the rain, inspecting the vehicles. The driver pulls up a little closer, looks out the smashed window. A soldier approaches him: red beard, winter footwear, a tourniquet wrapped around the stock of his Kalashnikov. The driver cheerfully asks a question or two, cracks some jokes, but the bearded guy merely grimaces in reply as he peers inside the bus. Pasha slowly turns away from the window so as not to draw any attention to himself, and notices in the cracked rearview mirror that another soldier is swinging out from behind the LAZ. He’s walking, swaying heavily, steadily thumping his fist against the side of the bullet-riddled bus. Slight, short-legged, heavy, high boots, short hair, gray, even though he looks very young. Mirrored sunglasses. Fresh scar along his skull. Fingerless leather gloves, dark-colored, with shreds of blood on them. It’s as if he’s been in the kitchen, trying to tenderize meat with his fists. He’s walking, approaching, not paying any attention to the women. They don’t interest him. He can tell that what’s most important is up ahead, next to the driver. He comes closer and immediately locks eyes with Pasha. And Pasha can see his expression change, his gaze begin to drift, his right eye give a deathly twitch, as if he’s taking aim at Pasha. And putting two and two together, his jaw locks up, and he furiously grinds his teeth. Pasha goes as stiff as a board. The kid, who’s standing with his face buried in Pasha’s stomach, can sense, just with his back, that something’s up, but he can’t turn around because he’s pinned between Pasha and the doors, so he just looks up and asks in a whisper:

  “What?”

  “We’re fine,” Pasha answers, also in a whisper, without taking his eyes off the soldier. “Everything’s fine.”

  But the soldier thinks Pasha’s talking to him, that he’s addressing him, which makes him grind his teeth even more furiously.

  “What?” he says, swallowing lingering saliva and resentment. “What the fuck is fine?”

  “Pasha?” The kid questioningly tugs on Pasha’s sleeve.

  “We’re fine, we’re fine.” That’s all Pasha can say, and his stiff fingers squeeze the kid’s shoulder firmly, very firmly.

  “What?!” The soldier’s getting all riled up. He yanks his gun off his shoulder. “What?!”

  At this point, a very young soldier, who can see what’s going on, moves away from the cinder blocks, his stride powerful. Black slightly askew winter hat, dark hair, skinny, smiling, hand resting confidently on the stock of his gun. He walks over, peers over his buddy’s shoulder, sees Pasha, smiles, and realizes that he knows him—can’t remember where he’s seen him before, though. But he knows him, he definitely does. And Pasha knows him, too. And he can’t remember where he’s seen him before either. And they look at each other briefly, for a split second, but that’s long enough for the soldier to put his hand on his buddy’s shoulder—earnestly, with authority.

  “Everything’s fine, Rustem,” the soldier says. He’s still smiling, yet it looks mechanical. “Everything’s fine. Let ’em go. It’s cool.”

  Rustem’s shoulder twitches. It’s as if he wants to shake the hand off, but the bearded guy isn’t letting go. He keeps smiling, his grip firm. Rustem, overcome with hatred and suspicion, merely narrows his eyes and grinds his teeth, but he restrains himself, doesn’t say anything. He isn’t saying anything, so no one else around him has anything to say either. The driver waves goodbye to the bearded guy; the LAZ heads out, slips between the cinder blocks, and rolls onto the bridge.

  Only now does Pasha feel just how scared he is. How sticky and cold he is. It feels like someone just came up to him, took his death out of a sack, sh
owed it to him, and then tucked it back into the sack. He’s seen it, though, so he realizes that someone can take it out again, anytime, anywhere. But how does he know that second guy, the young one? Who is he? Who was that?

  “Who is he?” the kid asks him. “Who was that?”

  “Dunno,” Pasha replies. “Don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The kid gives him a doubtful look. “Maybe he was one of your students?”

  “Maybe,” Pasha answers, and it starts coming back to him.

  Two years ago? Or three? When was it? Springtime. Must’ve been April. Or May? Yeah, May. So many smells—new, fresh smells. The city, the high-rises, the cold apartment block, the elevator as cramped as a coffin, the last floor, the freshly whitewashed hallway, the dark stains showing through the plaster, the metal stairs attached to the wall, the gaping opening. What’s he doing there? Who has he come to see? Pasha tries to recall, but before he can the sky lights up above their heads. Bright, horizontal flashes slice through the gray, rainy expanse. Grad rockets are soaring from the factory, right over their heads—pale shadows whiz over them and fly to the north, to the other side of the city. And once again, Pasha can feel the metal spring digging into his heart, speeding it up, pushing him forward, forward, pushing him farther away from here, before something hits in retaliation, before the flashes come crashing to the ground, flooding everything with metal and death. The driver tenses up and tries to squeeze everything he can out of the LAZ. There isn’t much there, though. The bus continues through the industrial park, passes one factory, followed by another, then a depot, followed by some warehouses. Just get out of here. Poplar trees along the road, gate arms, closed metal gates. Just get past the industrial park, where there isn’t a soul in sight. If anything happens, nobody will find out, nobody will come help. The spring inside him tightens, making his blood pump faster. “Just get out of here,” Pasha thinks. The driver looks frightened; he wasn’t expecting rockets flying right over him. Now he’s clutching the wheel, not hiding anything at all—not his fatigue, not his anger or fear. “Just like that soldier at the checkpoint,” Pasha thinks. “The young guy who kept smiling. He wasn’t hiding anything either, everything was right there on his face, everything was in his smile.” Pasha thinks of the soldier, thinks of his victorious smile. That guy really wasn’t hiding anything. It was like he was telling Pasha, “I stormed this shitty-ass city, took over this checkpoint, drove everyone out, wiped ’em out, I’m the one in control around here, I’m the one calling the shots, I can hand you over, all of you, right down to your guts, bitch, but I won’t, run along now, you’re fucking worthless to me, get out of here, scram, you’ll be dead soon anyway.” “Something else, there was something else,” Pasha thinks frantically. “But what was it?” Freshly whitewashed hallway, metal stairs, last floor. Something from a previous life.