The anger at his little brother’s incompetence had given way to excitement at the cat’s imprudence. The muscles in Pavel’s back went tight. No doubt the cat had tasted blood, and hunger was stronger than caution. He watched as the cat stopped midstep, one paw in the air, staring straight at him. He held his breath: his fingers clenched around the string and waited, silently urging the cat on.
Please. Please. Please
The cat sprang forward, opened its mouth, and grabbed the bone. Timing it perfectly, he tugged the string. The noose caught around the cat’s paw, the front leg was snared. Pavel leapt up, yanking the string, tightening the noose. The cat tried to run but the string held fast. He pulled the cat to the ground. Screeching filled the forest, as though a creature far larger was fighting for its life, thrashing in the snow, arching its body, snapping at the string. Pavel was afraid the knot would break. The string was thin, frayed. As he tried to edge closer the cat pulled away, keeping out of reach. He cried out to his brother:
—Kill it!
Andrei still hadn’t moved, not wishing to make another mistake. But now he was being given instructions. He jumped up, ran forward, immediately tripping and falling facedown. Lifting his nose out of the snow, he could see the cat up ahead hissing and spitting and twisting. If the string broke, the cat would be free and his brother would hate him forever. Pavel shouted, his voice hoarse, frantic:
—Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!
Andrei staggered up and without any clear idea of what he was doing bounded forward and threw himself on top of the cat’s thrashing body. Perhaps he’d hoped the impact would kill it. But now, lying on the animal, he could feel the cat was alive and wriggling underneath his stomach, scratching at the grain sacks that had been stitched together to make his jacket. Keeping himself flat on the cat to stop it escaping, he looked behind him, his eyes pleading with Pavel to take charge:
—It’s still alive!
Pavel ran forward and dropped to his knees, reaching under his younger brother’s body only to come in contact with the cat’s snapping mouth. He was bitten. He jerked his hands out. Ignoring his bleeding finger he clambered to the other side and slid his hands under again, this time arriving at the tail. His fingers began creeping up the cat’s back. From this line of attack the animal had no defense.
Andrei remained motionless, feeling the struggle play out underneath him, feeling his brother’s hands nearing the cat’s head, closer and closer. The cat knew this meant death and began biting at anything—his jacket, the snow—crazed with fear, fear which Andrei could feel as vibrations in his stomach. Imitating his brother he cried out:
—Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!
Pavel snapped the animal’s neck. Neither of them did anything for a moment, just lying still, breathing deeply. Pavel rested his head on Andrei’s back, his hands still tight around the cat’s neck. Finally he pulled his hands out from underneath his brother and stood up. Andrei remained in the snow, not daring to move.
—You can stand up now.
He could stand side by side with his brother. He could stand proud. Andrei hadn’t disappointed. He hadn’t failed. He reached up, took his brother’s hand, and got to his feet. Pavel couldn’t have caught the cat without him. The string would’ve broken. The cat would’ve escaped. Andrei smiled and then laughed, clapping his hands and dancing on the spot. He felt as happy as he’d ever felt in his entire life. They were a team. His brother hugged him and the two of them looked down at their prize: a scrawny dead cat pressed into the snow.
Transporting their prize back to the village unseen was a necessary precaution. People would fight, kill for such a catch, and the screeching might’ve alerted someone. Pavel refused to leave anything to chance. They’d brought no sack with which to conceal the cat. Improvising, he decided to hide it under a pile of sticks. If they encountered anyone on their way home it would appear as if they’d been collecting firewood and no questions would be asked. He picked the cat out of the snow:
—I’m going to carry it under a pile of sticks, so no one can see it. But if we were really collecting firewood you’d be carrying sticks too.
Andrei was impressed by his brother’s logic—he would never have thought of that. He set about gathering wood. Since the ground was covered in snow it was difficult finding any loose sticks and he was forced to rake through with his bare hands. After each sweep he rubbed his fingers together, blowing on them. His nose had begun to run, snot collecting on his upper lip. He didn’t mind, though, not tonight, not after their success, and he began to hum a song his father used to sing, sinking his fingers back into the snow.
Experiencing the same shortage of sticks, Pavel had moved away from his younger brother. They would have to separate. Some distance away he saw a fallen tree with branches protruding at all angles. He hurried toward it, placing the cat in the snow so that he was free to snap off all the dead wood from the trunk. There was plenty here, more than enough for both of them, and he glanced around, looking for Andrei. He was about to call out when he swallowed his words. There was a noise. He turned sharply, looking around. The woods were dense, dark. He shut his eyes, concentrating on that sound—a rhythm: the crunch, crunch, crunch of snow. It was getting faster, louder. Adrenaline shot through Pavel’s body. He opened his eyes. There, in the darkness, was movement: a man, running. He was holding a thick, heavy branch. His strides were wide. He was sprinting straight toward Pavel. He’d heard them kill the cat and now he was going to steal their prize. But Pavel wouldn’t let him: he wouldn’t let their mother starve. He wouldn’t fail as his father had failed. He began kicking snow over the cat, trying to conceal it.
—We’re collecting . . .
Pavel’s voice trailed off as the man burst through the trees, raising the branch. Only now, seeing this man’s gaunt face and wild eyes, did Pavel realize that this man didn’t want the cat. He wanted him.
Pavel’s mouth fell open at more or less the same time as the branch arced down, the end slamming against the crown of his head. He didn’t feel anything but he was aware that he was no longer standing. He was on one knee. Glancing up, head cocked at an angle, blood streaming into one of his eyes, he watched as the man lifted the branch for a second strike.
ANDREI STOPPED HUMMING. Had his brother called out? He hadn’t found that many sticks, certainly not enough for their plan, and he didn’t want to be told off, not after he’d done so well. He stood up, pulling his hands out of the snow. He stared into the forest, squinting, unable to see even the nearest of trees as anything more than a blur:
—Pavel?
There was no reply. He called again. Was this a game? No, Pavel didn’t play games, not anymore. Andrei walked in the direction he’d last seen his brother but he couldn’t see anything. This was stupid. Something was wrong. He called again, louder this time. Why wasn’t his brother answering? Andrei wiped his nose on his coarse jacket sleeve and wondered if this was a test. What would his brother do in this situation? He’d follow the tracks in the snow. Andrei dropped his sticks and knelt down, searching the ground on his hands and knees. He found his own footsteps and traced them back to the point where he’d left his brother. Proud of himself, he switched to his brother’s footsteps. If he stood up he couldn’t see the footprints, so, crouching down, with his nose only an arm’s length from the snow, he carried on, like a dog chasing a smell.
He arrived at a fallen tree, sticks scattered all around, footsteps everywhere—some deep and large. The snow was red. Andrei took a handful, crushing it between his fingers, squeezing it and watching it turn to blood.
—Pavel!
He didn’t stop shouting until his throat hurt and his voice disappeared. Whimpering, he wanted to tell his brother that he could have his share of the cat. He just wanted him back. But it was no good. His brother had left him. And he was alone.
OKSANA HAD HIDDEN a small bag of powdered cornstalks, pigweed, and crushed potato peelings behind the bricks of her oven. During inspections she alwa
ys kept a small fire burning. Collectors sent to check that she wasn’t hoarding grain never looked beyond the flames. They mistrusted her—why was she healthy when the others were sick, as though to be alive was a crime. But they couldn’t find food in her house, couldn’t brand her a kulak, a rich peasant. Instead of executing her outright they left her to die. She’d already learned that she couldn’t beat them by force. Some years ago she had organized the village resistance after it was announced that men were on their way to collect the church bell. They wanted to melt it down. She and four other women had locked themselves in the bell tower, ringing it continuously, refusing to let them take it away. Oksana had shouted out that this bell belonged to God. She might have been shot that day but the man in charge of the collection decided to spare the women. After breaking down the door he’d said that his only orders were to collect the bell, explaining that metal was necessary for their country’s industrial revolution. In response she’d spat on the ground. When the State began taking the villagers’ food, arguing that it belonged to the country and not them, Oksana had learned her lesson. Instead of strength she feigned obedience, her resistance remaining a secret.
Tonight the family would have a feast. She melted clumps of snow, bringing it to boil and thickening it with the powdered cornstalks. She added the remaining bones from the bottle. Once they were cooked, she’d grind them down to flour. Of course she was getting ahead of herself. Pavel hadn’t succeeded yet. But she felt sure he would. If God had given her hardship he’d also given her a son to help. All the same, if he didn’t catch the cat she promised herself not to become angry. The woods were large, a cat was small, and anyway anger was a waste of energy. Even as she tried to brace herself for disappointment she couldn’t help becoming giddy at the prospect of a meat and potato borscht.
Andrei stood in the doorway, his face cut, snow on his jacket, snot and blood running from his nose. His laptys had completely come apart and his toes were visible. Oksana ran over:
—Where’s your brother?
—He left me.
Andrei started to cry. He didn’t know where his brother was. He didn’t understand what had happened. He couldn’t explain. He knew his mother was going to hate him. He knew it was going to be his fault even though he’d done everything right, even though it was his brother who’d left him.
Oksana’s breath was snatched from her. She brushed Andrei aside and hurried out of the house, looking to the woods. There was no sign of Pavel. Maybe he’d fallen and injured himself. Maybe he needed help. She ran back inside, desperate for answers, only to see Andrei standing by the borscht with a spoon in his mouth. Caught red-handed, he looked at his mother sheepishly, a line of potato soup dribbling from his lip. Overcome with anger—anger at her dead husband, her missing son—she ran forward, knocking him to the ground and pushing the wooden spoon down his throat:
—When I pull this spoon out of your mouth tell me what happened.
But as soon as she pulled out the spoon all he could do was cough. Enraged, she shoved the spoon back down his throat:
—You useless, clumsy, stupid boy. Where is my son? Where is he?
She pulled the spoon out again but he was crying and choking. He couldn’t talk. He just kept crying and coughing and so she hit him, pounding her hands on his tiny chest. Only when the borscht was in danger of boiling over did she stop. She stood up, moving the soup off the fire.
Andrei whimpered on the floor. Oksana looked down at him, her anger melting away. He was so small. He loved his older brother so much. She bent down, picked him up, and set him on a chair. She wrapped her blanket around him and poured him a bowl of borscht, a generous portion far larger than he’d ever had before. She tried to spoon-feed him but he wouldn’t open his mouth. He didn’t trust her. She offered him the spoon. He stopped crying and began to eat. He finished the borscht. She filled the bowl again. She told him to eat slowly. He ignored her, finishing a second bowl. Very quietly she asked what had happened and listened as he explained the blood in the snow, the dropped sticks, the disappearance, and the heavy footprints. She closed her eyes.
—Your brother is dead. He’s been taken for food. Do you understand? Just as you hunted that cat, someone was hunting you. Do you understand?
Andrei remained silent, staring at his mother’s tears. In truth, he didn’t understand. He watched as she stood up and left the house. Hearing his mother’s voice, he ran to the door.
Oksana was on her knees in the snow, staring up at the full moon:
—Please, God, give me back my son.
Only God could bring him home now. It wasn’t so much to ask. Did God have such a short memory? She’d risked her life to save his bell. All she wanted in return was her son, her reason to live.
Some of the neighbors appeared at their doors. They stared at Oksana. They listened to her cries. But there was nothing unusual about this kind of grief, and people did not watch for long.
TWENTY YEARS LATER
MOSCOW
11 FEBRUARY 1953
THE SNOWBALL THUMPED into the back of Jora’s head. Caught by surprise, snow exploded around his ears. Somewhere behind him he could hear his little brother laughing, laughing really loudly—proud of himself, proud of that shot even though it was a fluke, a one-off. Jora brushed the ice off his jacket collar but fragments had already snuck down his back. They were melting, sliding down his skin, leaving snail-trails of freezing water. He tugged his shirt out of his trousers, reaching his hand up as far as he could, scraping at the ice.
Unable to believe his older brother’s complacency—busy with his shirt instead of checking on his opponent—Arkady took his time, clumping together the snow, handful on top of handful. Too large and the snowball became a dud shot: difficult to throw, slow in the air, and easy to dodge. That had been his mistake for a long time, making them too big. Instead of having a greater impact they could be swatted out of the air and more often than not they disintegrated of their own accord, falling apart and not even reaching his brother. He and Jora played in the snow a lot. Sometimes there were other children but most of the time it was just the two of them. The games would start casually, growing more and more competitive with each hit. Arkady always lost, overwhelmed by the speed and power of his brother’s throws. The games ended the same way: frustration, surrender, getting annoyed, or worse, crying and storming off. He hated that he was always the loser, and worse, he hated that he got so upset about it. The only reason he kept playing was because he was sure that today would be different, today he’d win. And today was that day. Here was his chance. He edged closer but not too close: he wanted the shot to count. Point-blank didn’t count.
Jora saw it coming: a glob of white arcing through the air, not too big, not too small, just like the kind he’d throw. There was nothing he could do. His hands were behind his back. He had to admit, his little brother was learning fast.
The snowball struck the tip of his nose, breaking into his eyes, going up his nose, his mouth. He stepped back, his face encrusted with white. It was a perfect shot—that was the end of the game. He’d been beaten by his little brother, a boy who wasn’t even five years old. Yet only now that he’d lost for the first time did he appreciate the importance of winning. His brother was laughing again—making a real show of it, like a snowball in the face was the funniest thing. Well, at least he never gloated like Arkady was doing now; he never laughed that much or squeezed that much satisfaction from his victories. His little brother was a bad loser and an even worse winner. The boy needed to be taught a lesson, cut down to size. He’d won one game, that was all: one fluky, insignificant game, one game out of a hundred: no—one out of a thousand. And now he was pretending that somehow they were even, or worse, that he was better than him? Jora crouched down, digging through the snow, all the way to the icy ground below, collecting a handful of frozen mud and grit and stones.
Seeing his older brother making another snowball, Arkady turned and ran. This would be a revenge shot: p
ut together with care and thrown with as much power as his brother could manage. He wasn’t going to be at the receiving end of one of those. If he ran he’d be safe. The shot, no matter how well made, no matter how accurate, could only travel so far in the air before it began to lose shape, fall apart. And even if it hit, after a certain distance they were harmless, barely worth throwing at all. If he ran, he could finish on a high. He didn’t want his victory overturned, tainted by a succession of quick hits from his brother. No: run and claim success. Finish the game now. He’d be able to enjoy the feeling until at least tomorrow when he’d probably lose again. But that was tomorrow. Today was victory.
He heard his brother shout his name. And he looked back, still running, smiling—sure that he was out of any effective range.
The impact was like a fist in his face. His head flicked round, his feet left the ground, and for a second he was floating in the air. When his feet touched the ground again his legs collapsed under him, he fell, crumpled—too dazed even to put his hands out—crashing into the snow. For a moment he just lay there, unable to understand what had happened. There was grit, mud, spit, and blood in his mouth. He tentatively pushed a mitten-covered fingertip in between his lips. His teeth felt coarse like he’d been force-fed sand. There was a gap. A tooth had been knocked out. Beginning to cry, he spat into the snow, raking through the mess, looking for his missing tooth. For some reason that was all he could think about right now, that was all he cared about. He had to find his tooth. Where was it? But he couldn’t find it, not against the white of the snow. It was gone. And it wasn’t the pain, it was the anger, outrage at this injustice. Couldn’t he win one game? He’d won it fairly. Couldn’t his brother give him that?
Jora ran toward his brother. As soon as the clump of mud, grit, ice, and stone had left his hand he’d regretted his decision. He’d shouted out his brother’s name, wanting him to duck, to avoid the shot. Instead, Arkady had turned around directly into the impact. Instead of helping him, it had seemed like a particularly malicious flourish. As he approached he saw blood on the snow and felt sick. He’d done this. He’d turned their game, a game he enjoyed as much as he enjoyed anything, into something terrible. Why couldn’t he have let his brother win? He would’ve won tomorrow and the day after and the day after. He felt ashamed.
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