The Orphanage

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

The soldier freezes. And his eyes are completely still, like tin that’s been poured into a mold. “Shouldn’t have asked him about that,” Pasha surmises.

  “Nobody’s home,” the soldier says. “Everyone’s gone.”

  Where they went he doesn’t say. This time around, Pasha doesn’t ask.

  “Everyone’s gone, yeah,” Metal Head repeats. “I went to a museum this morning. You’re a teacher, right?”

  “Yeah,” Pasha says loudly.

  “Take this with you,” says Metal Head.

  He reaches under his seat, roots around in the pile of metal, finds a gas mask pouch, pulls out a knife, hands it to Pasha, wooden handle first, and then keeps rummaging through the pouch. Pasha holds the knife, notices clumps of red blood on the blade. “What else is he gonna whip out?” he thinks. The soldier produces something heavy, wrapped in a page of newspaper filled with ads, and Pasha realizes that it could be anything—it could be a stick of dynamite, or it could be an enemy soldier’s liver, cut out of his body with this very knife. Could be anything. His motions leisurely, the soldier unfurls the parcel, layer by layer, as if he’s peeling bandages off a dry, scabbed-over wound, and he reveals a piece of coal coated with damp soil.

  “Do you know what this is?” he yells, sticking it right in Pasha’s face.

  “Coal?” Pasha asks skeptically.

  “Coal!” the soldier yells, as if he’s contradicting Pasha. “Gimme it!”

  He takes the knife from Pasha and begins scraping clumps of dirt off the rock. Then he hands it back.

  “See that?” he asks.

  Pasha strains his eyes in the twilight, adjusts his glasses. It’s a rock. So what?

  “No,” he admits.

  “It’s a fern,” the soldier yells. “It’s a fossilized fern.”

  Pasha turns toward the smashed window, and under the thick yellow moonlight, he sees some patterns—barely noticeable, seemingly outlined with a slate pencil—imprinted on the hard surface of the rock. He touches it, feeling the cold, rocky notches, feeling the thin grooves and nicks on the rocky surface. “What bizarre patterns,” he thinks. “Who could’ve traced them all?”

  “It’s a fern,” Metal Head repeats. “It’s a million years old. How old are you?” he asks Pasha.

  “Thirty-five,” Pasha answers, perplexed.

  “Well, it’s a million,” the soldier reminds him.

  “So what?” Pasha’s confused.

  “And it’s still holding up just fine,” the soldier explains, like Pasha’s a little kid. “A million. It was a million years old before we were even born. We’ll kick the bucket, and it’ll still be lying there somewhere in the ground. That’s history, you know? The two of us, we aren’t history. We’re here now, gone tomorrow. I took this from the museum,” he explains.

  “Why?” Pasha’s still confused.

  “What do you mean ‘why’?” the soldier asks him adamantly.

  “Why’d you take it? Why not leave it there at the museum?”

  “The museum’s gone,” the soldier yells patiently. “They wiped it out. Now it’s a trash heap. A heap of burned trash. The fern’s still holding up, though. You’re a teacher, right?” he asks, as if he’s already forgotten.

  “Yeah,” Pasha answers, irritated.

  “Take it.” The soldier points at the rock. “You probably have some sort of museum there. Or a geography classroom. Keep it there. I mean, it’s a million years old. It shouldn’t just rot in the ground. All right?”

  “All right,” Pasha yells.

  “You’ll take it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, thanks.” Metal Head sighs in relief, tucks the knife under the seat, and wipes off his hands with the wet newspaper. “Thanks.”

  They step outside. Pasha touches the kid on the shoulder. He lifts his head, curious. Well? You have a nice chat?

  “Had a nice chat,” Pasha explains. “Yep.”

  The soldier comes over, shakes their hands. Pasha wants to say something in parting, but nothing comes to him; he tosses the rock in his backpack, places his hand on the kid’s shoulder, nudges him forward. Once they get a certain distance away, the soldier yells at their backs.

  “My aunt worked at the museum,” he yells. “Now there’s not gonna be a museum.”

  “That’s bad,” Pasha answers quietly.

  “That’s bad?” Surprisingly, the soldier understands him.

  “That’s bad.”

  “It’s only gonna get worse,” the soldier assures him.

  He goes back into the bus, sits down by the window, hides his head in his fur coat. “He’s sleeping,” Pasha surmises. “Or crying.”

  The moon smears itself across the sky and moves toward the night, leaving behind black desolation. “Gotta get going,” Pasha thinks suddenly. “Gotta get home.” The metal spring digs sharply into his heart, goads him forward, reminds him about time—it’s running out. The water in the puddles is starting to freeze, becoming coated with a sharp crust. The kid slips along the building, Pasha follows him. They walk down the street among the soldiers. There are more and more of them. Black pits under their eyes. The inflamed eyes, the parched mouths, and the screams—abrasive, loud, discontented—that they let out in an attempt to communicate. Some more vehicles pull up. Buses battered by shrapnel, cars covered in clay, trucks with military slogans on the sides. More and more soldiers climb out of cabs, hop out of truck beds, clamber through the shattered windows. The smell of smoke, the smell of sweat and gunpowder become more distinct, it becomes harder and harder to push forward, dodge the frozen figures. But Pasha pushes forward, persistently shoving his way through, realizing that he’d better get the kid some food soon, he’d better take him someplace warm, he ought to find some form of transportation and try to make it home. While Pasha may be able to hang around here, out in the wet wind, under the yellow moon, a little bit longer, there’s no telling how much longer the kid will last. Better not risk it, better not push their luck. If, God forbid, it starts up again with the kid, they simply won’t know where to run, who to call. So their best bet is to get out of here, find a taxi, head home, forget all this, and never think about it again. “Can someone forget all this?” Pasha asks himself. “Of course they can,” he answers his own question. “Of course. I’ll forget all this,” Pasha tells himself. “And the kid will, too. There’s no need for him to remember all this, he has no need for the smell of sulfur and raw human flesh, he shouldn’t remember the dirt under fingernails. People aren’t meant to keep so much fear and anger in their memories. But how do you live with this? He’ll forget everything, he’ll be fine, he’ll forget about the orphanage, about being abandoned, about that feeling of being boxed in when you wake up in a black basement. Let him have good memories, memories that don’t stir up hatred or despair. The smell of home or the smell of the trees out in the yard, or the smell of a thaw—a long January thaw that smells like a river. He’ll remember a thaw,” Pasha assures himself. “He definitely will. No blood, no metal.” And the more passionately he’s telling himself all this, the more distinctly and firmly he understands. Nope, nobody’ll forget anything, nobody’ll leave anything in the past, and the kid, no matter how things play out for him, will keep carrying these memories, like bags filled with rocks, and the smell of torn skin and men’s salty tears will pursue him until the end of his days, and the shadow of the orphanage will linger behind him, no matter where he goes, no matter how sunny those places may be. And for the rest of his life, food will smell faintly of the orphanage cafeteria, and his dreams will be filled with orphans’ voices, and women will remind him of those girls from the bunker, their tears and makeup, and he won’t be able to do anything about it, and nobody will ever be able to help him with it. And all Pasha can do is drag him back home, get him all washed up, give him some hot tea, and put him to bed. Let him catch up on sleep, let him sleep as long as he can, as long as he wants, as long as his dreams stay with him. Everything’ll be different tomorrow, everyth
ing’ll be just the way it always is, just like it used to be. Relaxed days at home where everyone’s busy doing their own thing, where everything’s where it’s supposed to be, where there’s nothing superfluous but you have everything you need. Mornings filled with domestic tasks, a job you’ve gotten used to like it’s one of your outfits—it’s not too constricting, it doesn’t get in the way, wear it while you can. Quiet evenings, dark nights. Actually, there’s so much joy, so much warmth in all of this. You had to wind up here, in the middle of hell, to feel how much you had and how much you’ve lost. Just have to get home as quickly as possible, finally step off the circles of others’ misfortune, get home fast, very fast. Pasha speeds up, noticing that the soldiers have become more lively, too; they jolt up, run, pass Pasha and the kid, warily shouting something into the black air. Panic immediately overcomes Pasha. “What’s up?” he thinks. “What’s going on? Where are they all going?” And he runs after them, still trying to hold on to the kid’s hand. They race through the wet, unnerved crowd, shoving soldiers in the back, throwing elbows, moving forward, more and more nervously. And they run out into the square and bump into a wall of dark backs—there’s nowhere to run, the square’s packed with people. “The hospital,” Pasha thinks. “The city hospital.” A two-story red-brick building. Windows battered by shrapnel and covered with plastic sheets. The windows glow into the night, and at a distance the hospital looks like an ocean liner that’s slowly, unhurriedly sinking. The crowd sways like cattails in the wind. Pasha tries to break free, but they’re being pushed from behind, squeezed forward. Then, a KAMAZ truck—no windshield, open bed—pulls up, coming from somewhere off to the side, and the driver yells so furiously that the crowd parts, steps back, makes way for him. The KAMAZ crawls past the crowd, closer to the hospital building. The crowd advances again, shoves Pasha and the kid forward, right up to the truck. Four people carrying stretchers race out of the hospital and fight their way to the back of the vehicle, pushing aside people who respond by pushing, yelling, arguing, but not getting out of the way. They seem to be waiting for something important. Someone lowers a metal ramp, and it turns out that the truck is loaded with wounded people—there’s no counting how many of them there are. Pasha stands nearby, examining the bent wet metal up close, the water mixed with blood, examining boots—at eye level—black, metal-lined soles, right there on the metal floor, on the cold metal. Someone hops up.

  “Take it,” he yells. “Take it, fuck, wake up!” And Pasha realizes that the guy’s yelling at him.

  “What?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

  “Hold him!” the guy yells from above. “Fuck! Hold him.”

  “How?” Pasha’s panicking.

  “By his legs. Fuck!”

  Pasha flings his backpack off, hands it to the kid.

  “Wait for me here! Got that? Wait!”

  The kid nods. Okay, don’t worry, I’m here. Pasha picks up the person lying closest to him, grabs him by his combat boots.

  “Where you going?” the guy above yells. “Fuck! Where you going? Not him! The other one! Get the other guy! The one who’s still alive!”

  At first Pasha doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and then it hits him. He abruptly releases the combat boots. They land on the metal floor with a hollow bang. He automatically looks at his hands—any blood? But the guy above yells at him again.

  “C’mon! Wake the fuck up!”

  Pasha grabs another pair of combat boots, pulls them toward himself. The guy yelling—a young chubby orderly in camo and a bulletproof vest wearing a cross made out of red tape—takes a wounded man by the shoulders. Down below, someone immediately grabs him. The body falls, into the soldiers’ hands. Pasha clings to the boots, not letting them slip away. Heavy, unwieldy, cramped. The crowd wobbles, but nobody’s going anywhere. They make their way toward the hospital, stepping on other people’s feet. Pasha can’t see the kid anymore, but he catches a glimpse of the next wounded man being lowered off the truck.

  “Move out of the way!” someone yells up ahead. “Move it! Fuck!” Step by step, they move forward, advance, carrying a still living load, hastening toward the illuminated hospital steps, then go up them. Someone opens the doors. Hurry up, this way, hurry! Pasha’s panting; he nearly trips on the steps. He can hardly keep up. Two middle-aged soldiers are carrying the wounded guy, holding him under his armpits. Pasha’s running, bent over, holding the guy’s boots from behind. The hospital hallway is also packed with soldiers. It’s warm. It smells of dirty clothes and motor oil. Blood-colored clay is smeared across the wet floor. The hospital is run down, hasn’t been renovated in years, handwritten posters cover the walls. Plywood over the windows, rags drying on massive radiators. Stretchers line the hallway. On the first one lies an old soldier: bare chest, dirty body, unwashed skin, bloody bandage over the heart area. Worn boots, ripped camo pants. Eyes closed. He might be sleeping. Or pretending he’s sleeping. Unshaven, frigid skin. Next to the stretcher on the floor a bloody bucket, some boxes filled with supplies delivered by volunteers. It looks like they were brought inside, placed here, and forgotten. They keep carrying the body, past another stretcher. A body, partially covered with an army jacket, is lying on it. Pasha timidly tries to get a closer look. Still breathing? He can’t tell. They keep moving. One of the guys up ahead kicks open a door. They carry the body into a room—six beds, all of them occupied, two wounded men just lying there, right in the middle of the room, on some blankets. Someone’s moaning in the corner; a woman in a wet coat is hovering over him, whispering something, soothing him, crying.

  “Keep going!” one of the guys up front yells, turning around and gripping the wounded man with his other hand. “C’mon, c’mon!” he yells furiously at Pasha.

  Pasha backs up, still holding on to the man. He stumbles, can’t open the door.

  “Hurry up!” someone yells at him. “Hurry the fuck up!”

  He turns around, releases one leg, opens the door. They charge back into the hallway. Where to now? Pasha doesn’t know. He stands there, looking all around, and then someone yells at his back. Go, go! C’mon! Get your ass moving! And Pasha runs down the hallway, carrying the wounded man, feeling the furious hissing at his back, running forward, not knowing where to stop. He dashes to the next room, kicks the door open with the tip of his boot, peers inside. But there are bodies on the floor here, too—dirty, exhausted, bloody, lying on mattresses, on blankets, on peacoats, wall to wall. He keeps running, down the cramped hallway: people sitting against the wall, giving themselves shots, reapplying bandages on someone’s head. Nobody’s paying any attention to Pasha, so he has to stick out his chest and clear a path, clear the way. He sees a skinny little guy in a white coat up ahead. Doctor, yeah, he’s gotta be a doctor.

  “Hey!” he yells. “Hey, sir!”

  Sir turns around, and Pasha nearly loses his balance. His white coat is covered in blood, and his overall appearance—well, it definitely doesn’t befit a Sir, not even close. But Pasha keeps looking at him and says:

  “Where should we put him, sir?” He’s referring to the wounded guy.

  The doctor is clearly exhausted, all wrung out. It’s scary to think about when he last got some sleep. And he was apparently about to lie down and curl up in a corner, wait it out, take a little nap—just twenty minutes. And at first he looks at Pasha with poorly concealed irritation. Nah, it’s not that he’s poorly concealing his irritation; he’s looking at Pasha like he’s a pile of shit. And he’s just about to give him a piece of his mind. Suddenly, though, it’s like a switch flips inside Sir, and he starts living up to his title. He adjusts his bloody coat, wearily rubs his stubble, and asks,

  “Is he in bad shape?”

  “Nah,” Pasha replies cheerfully. “He looks pretty fit.”

  “Damn it,” Sir says. “I mean what’s wrong with him? Something serious? Is he critical?”

  “Sir!” the guys holding the wounded man by the shoulders wail. “Fuck, sir! He’s almost de
ad! Can’t you see that?! Where should we put him?!”

  That catches the doctor’s attention; he looks over Pasha’s shoulders, sees those two other guys, and quickly thinks of something.

  “C’mon!” he says. “Follow me!”

  He’s speaking calmly, judiciously, unlike those two guys who are carrying the body with Pasha. Seeing that he isn’t throwing a fit, they quiet down, stop yelling. All right Sir, do your thing. And he walks down the hallway, and all the wounded, all the dirty and deafened men, step aside, let him through, giving Sir the respect someone with his title deserves. Sir responds with a nod, a pat on the back, and a handshake. His hand is small, bony, his bald spot is wide, shiny, groomed. Thin, nimble body, hunched back. His coat droops off him like he’s a hanger. His shoes are stained with muck. All of him is stained—with blood, iodine, black earth. He looks like a passenger who’s been stuck at a train station for several days, just can’t escape. He’s been sleeping on the benches, subsisting on fast food. But everything’ll be fine once he gets home. Just wash up, clean up, catch up on sleep. But for now, he has to handle one more body, keep it from dying, try to bring it back.

  Sir walks to the end of the hallway, opens a barely visible door with a thick coat of green paint on it. In here. A nod. They hastily push their way into the room and see they’re in the cafeteria: several tables, chairs, the little window where the patients are given something edible. And the smell of overcooked food, stagnant, dirty dishes. “I’ve seen this somewhere before,” Pasha thinks. “Just the other day. Feels like I keep walking around in circles—from cafeteria to cafeteria, from shelter to shelter, from orphanage to orphanage.”

  “Fuck, what is this?” yells one of the guys standing behind Pasha. “What is this?”

  But Sir isn’t listening. He’s already on the phone, calling someone. “And he has service, goddammit,” Pasha thinks. “And clearly, someone’s been expecting his call, goddammit.” He promptly begins issuing orders, talking to some lady named Lida, giving her some pointers, asking her to get right on it, telling her she can do it. Then he switches off his phone and turns toward the three of them.