“You ass,” said Leonid. “Where did you get the meat?”
Mykola cried, though the tears barely came. Everyone was too dried out to waste water on tears.
“It’s the cat,” said Mykola. “Mother is cooking the cat.”
Oksana crouched by Mykola, dusted him off, and then helped him to his feet.
She said, “That cat barely had any muscle.”
“Mother says it’s better than nothing.”
“It is,” said Oksana. “It’s better than not eating. Go back inside and have your meal.”
Mykola’s tears came then, real and wet. He held his ribs where Leonid had punched him. As he walked back to his cottage he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and straightened his posture. He banged the heels of each shoe on the front step and went inside.
“Who would eat a cat?” asked the older Leonid.
Oksana started walking away. “Anybody who’s lucky enough to have one.”
OKSANA DIED the next week. She contracted a fever, followed by diarrhea and vomiting. What little food could be spared for her she could not keep down. After the fever set in, she moved into one of the abandoned huts, and spent her final days alone so that she would not risk spreading the illness. Even before she took ill, she had been giving most of her food to her sister. When the villagers prepared her for burial, they discovered that under her dress her limbs were thin to the bone, her ribs as prominent as features on a face.
The Leonids stood next to Mykola at the funeral. They greeted each other with nods. There was not much to the ceremony, just a few words spoken by Oksana’s mother’s friend. No one had known the girl well, it seemed. After the frail body had been lowered into a shallow grave, as several villagers used shovels to push the dirt back into the hole—they did not seem to have the energy to actually shovel—everyone else filed by Oksana’s family and offered condolences. Leonid remembered all the funerals he was forced to attend during the war, and how everyone had a story to share about the deceased, how a long line formed before the grieving family. But now, no one said anything more than a couple words, and some simply tousled Oksana’s sister’s hair and patted her mother on the shoulder. No words at all.
Mykola ended up ahead of the Leonids in the line, and they all stood in front of Oksana’s family at the same time. Mykola looked at her sister and her mother and then looked away, vaguely in the direction of the grave. The older Leonid pressed his lips into what he hoped was an understanding smile. The younger Leonid took the hand of Oksana’s sister. He knelt before her, but lifted his head to speak to her mother.
“One time the three of us were in a fight, and Oksana broke it up. If she had not done that, we might not be friends today.” He spoke as if the event were from the long ago past, as if he had been one of the fighters.
Oksana’s mother, who had become silent during the burial, cried anew. Mykola and the Leonids moved on and other villagers took their places. Before they parted ways, Mykola and the older Leonid shook hands. The older Leonid said, “I was so hungry,” and Mykola nodded.
Grandmother remained near the grave, keeping herself busy talking to the other villagers while always keeping an eye on Oksana’s family. The Leonids walked home without her.
As they walked, the older Leonid thought about what his brother had said. At the time, he interpreted it to be a comforting lie. But now, now he knew the friendship was a prediction.
THE LEONIDS WERE the only ones outside in the village. The windows of all the cottages gaped open, but no noise came from inside, no motion could be seen. It was impossible to tell which ones were occupied and which were vacant. Who was alive and who was dead. Because an empty home tended to stay that way.
They passed beyond the cottages and into the forest, huffing up the straw-lined ground at the base of the mountain. Leonid watched his younger brother’s legs, barely more than twigs. And his face like a skull with skin painted on. Some of the younger children, those who had managed to stay alive, had fat bellies, like they had eaten too much. Leonid did not understand how both eating too much and not eating enough could cause the same condition.
Farther up the hill, two villagers crouched on either side of a box. The open side was down, and they were reaching under it, propping up one side with a stick. It was a squirrel trap, the same kind the children of the village made at the end of each summer, when the squirrels were busiest foraging food for winter. But these were adults, and Leonid had not seen a squirrel in months.
The younger Leonid knelt beside the box and lowered his head to peek through the gap.
“If you use a longer stick,” he said, “and prop the box from the inside, it’s easier for a squirrel to trigger it.”
“These are the sticks we have,” said the woman, Mrs. Oliynyk. She clipped each word she spoke. Her hair had turned white since the last time Leonid saw her.
The younger Leonid stood and wandered deeper into the forest. The older Leonid did not follow. Just the thought of taking another step made him feel tired. And anyway, he could see his brother through the bare branches. If they could see each other, then they were still as good as together.
The younger Leonid did not go far, bending down and fishing a long, thin branch from the dry needles on the forest floor. He returned to Mrs. Oliynyk.
“Here’s a longer stick,” he said.
She took it, an expression squeezing her face from all around toward the point of her nose. The older Leonid was not sure if she would use the stick to prop the box or to whip his brother for interfering. Mrs. Kharms slid out from under the trap. She took the stick from Mrs. Oliynyk and ducked back underneath. The woman’s fingers did not look much different from the stick they clutched.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Kharms. Her voice sounded trapped.
“There aren’t any squirrels,” said the older Leonid. “And you need bait. If you have bait, you’re better off just eating it yourself.”
Mrs. Oliynyk snapped her head to him. “What else are we supposed to do?”
Mrs. Kharms managed to get the box balanced and slowly withdrew her hand.
“Our bait is an old bone,” she said. “We’re not catching squirrels. We’re trying to catch the dog.”
“Kasha?” asked the younger Leonid.
“I didn’t know it had a name.”
Kasha had spent less time in the village lately, but when she did appear, she seemed as healthy as before, like she had some secret source of food. A few of the men in the village had tried to catch her, after the supply of cats was exhausted, but she darted away, a white flash that quickly left her would-be captors behind. The Leonids did not tell any of the villagers that they knew where Kasha went, a small cave, barely more than an indentation at the base of the rocky part of the mountain. They did not know where she might be finding food.
“She,” said the younger Leonid.
“What?” asked Mrs. Kharms.
“Kasha is female.”
“Stop it!” said Mrs. Oliynyk. She pushed herself up and took stumbling steps down the hill. She slipped on a patch of fallen needles and almost toppled back. Kicking at the ground as if in retaliation, she continued on her way.
“She ate her own cat last week,” said Mrs. Kharms.
“You’ll never catch Kasha,” said the younger Leonid.
“I hope not,” she said, patting out a rhythm on the top of the trap as if the box were a drum. “But we have to try. We’re alive and part of being alive is trying to stay that way for as long as possible.” She stopped drumming. “When one of the other villagers dies, I feel a little glad. I’m not glad that they died, but it means that there will be that much more food for me. Hunger shows us our selfishness.”