As the twins reached the top of the pass, one final shout in Russian, louder than those before it, and then a series of pops like wood being chopped, at first one and then a cluster and then tapering back out. The older Leonid crawled to the crest, peeking over when one of the villagers bounded up and almost stepped right on top of him. The man jumped back when he saw the twins. One final pop from the other side of the pass and the man lurched forward, falling halfway back into the valley.
He squeezed the older Leonid by the shoulder. “Run,” he said.
“Mr. Yevtushenko?” asked the younger Leonid.
Mr. Yevtushenko, like his father before him, made small wooden toys for the children in the village. His hands had thick knuckles and the fingers curled in on themselves.
“Just run,” said Mr. Yevtushenko. He winced, then vomited on the older Leonid’s hand. Leonid jumped to his feet and backed away, wiping the milky pink sputum on his pants. The younger Leonid pulled him by his other hand, and then they were bounding down the mountain, taking steps like giants, almost out of control.
The climb had seemed to take forever, but the descent happened out of time. The older Leonid leaned on the building at the train station, wondering what had happened to the mountain and how he had gotten here and why his lungs burned and his heart felt ready to burst. His brother still stood on the tracks, looking up at where they had been, but it was too far away, too high to see from where they were.
THE LEONIDS RETURNED to the village slick with sweat and gasping for breath. They doubled over in the small square, beneath the bare tree planted in the center. The younger Leonid sucked up a lungful of air and forced out a shout, “Everyone!” No one stirred in the cottages. He shouted again. This time Mrs. Tarasenko opened her door and came out.
“What is it, boys?” she asked.
The younger Leonid shouted again.
Another door and another villager, but no more.
The younger Leonid shoved his brother. “Go, go.”
The older Leonid loped to the opposite side of the square and knocked on doors, calling for everyone to come out. His calls were weak and the effort left him light-headed.
“Come to the square!” The younger Leonid seemed to have found a new wellspring of energy. He sprinted down the row of cottages and shouted full from his throat.
The villagers emerged one by one and crept toward the square. They all moved as if awoken from naps. One of the women carried a rifle. Kasha poked her head from around the Tarasenko cottage. Her fur looked like snow against the gray rocks of the mountain and the black trunks of the bare forest.
“What is it, boys?” repeated Mrs. Tarasenko.
The older Leonid leaned against the tree, still trying to gather a full breath, and the villagers looked to him. He did not know what to say. Among the faces, he saw Mr. Yevtushenko’s family, and the families of the other villagers who had trekked to the pass. They bore an expression of curiosity. They had no idea the news to come. Leonid had memories from during the war. Then, when such news was delivered, the families already knew it before a single word was spoken. The sight of a soldier at the door contained the full content of the message. How did it work now, when they were dumb with peace?
Leonid stammered out a few syllables that failed to form into words. His younger brother stepped in front of him.
“We followed the villagers to the pass,” said the younger Leonid. “There were Russian soldiers on the other side. Everyone from the village was shot.”
The older Leonid saw Mrs. Yevtushenko staring at the bloodstain on his pants, her face shifting through a series of emotions he could not name. He brushed at the stain with his fingers. The spot was still damp, or was it the same sweat that soaked his clothes everywhere else?
“Surely you’re mistaken,” she said.
“We heard the guns,” said the younger Leonid, “and then we saw Mr… . we saw one of the villagers fall right before us. As he died he told us to run, and we ran.”
“No,” said Mrs. Yevtushenko. The word echoed through a dozen other mouths.
“We have to go to the pass,” said someone.
The nos were replaced with yeses.
“No.” Grandmother walked up the path from her cottage. Hers was the first voice to carry any sense of authority. The murmur of broken conversations silenced.
“They may still be alive,” said Mrs. Yevtushenko.
“You know better than that,” said Grandmother. “Even if they were alive when the twins left, they’re dead now. And if any fool goes to the pass, that fool will be joining them in death.”
“We can’t just leave them.”
“It’s the war all over again,” said Grandmother, “and that’s how a war works. One leaves behind what can’t be carried.”
Grandmother went to the center of the square and led the Leonids away, squeezing their hands so tight that it hurt. The older Leonid wanted to protest, to ask her to loosen her grip, but his lungs felt empty, the rest of him hollow, too.
Behind them, the shock of the news must have worn off. First a few and then many of the villagers began to weep.
GRANDMOTHER CLOSED THE DOOR to the cottage, turned, and slapped the younger Leonid hard on the cheek. The older Leonid staggered back as if it was he who had been slapped. The sound reminded him of the gunshots. Every time he managed to breathe in, a sob spasmed through him, squeezing out the air. The younger Leonid stood there, unmoving.
“You shouldn’t have followed those people,” said Grandmother.
“We always follow the villagers when they go to the train,” said the younger Leonid.
“What train! There hasn’t been a train in months.”
“All the more reason to see if one would come.”
She drew her arm back for another slap. The older Leonid winced, backing into the table, clattering it into the wooden chairs. Grandmother started at the sound. She looked up at her hand, still raised beside her. Tears flowed from her eyes as if someone had pulled the handle of a pump inside her.
“What if something were to happen to you?” she said.
“Are we any safer here?” The younger Leonid gestured down at the warped planks that made up the floor. “The last time soldiers came, they murdered Mr. Tarasenko in his own home. Even if the soldiers don’t come, there’s not enough food.”
“I know all this. Of course I know.”
“We don’t know where the danger will come from.” The younger Leonid’s voice was raised, louder than his brother had ever heard it except outside. “It might rise up from the ground. It might fall from the sky. It’s as likely right here”—he stamped his foot—“as anywhere. What’s the point in waiting?”
“As you discovered today, the only option we have left is to wait. Otherwise, we’ll bring ourselves to the danger that much sooner.”
The younger Leonid turned his head and spat. He ripped open the door and left without closing it behind him.
Grandmother closed the door slowly, so slowly that it felt almost painful to the older Leonid, like a bone being bent and bent until it broke. The door clacked shut. Grandmother walked to the table and hugged Leonid and muttered soft apologies and meaningless phrases, and he heard her say the name of his father, so he was not sure to whom she apologized, his father, his brother, or himself. He worried that Grandmother did not completely know the difference.
Baikonur Cosmodrome—1964