“He was never much of a reader. Or was he? Of all the people I knew at Star City, he was not one of them. I saw him only a few times in all the years. Did you see Mars? Your brother, I mean.”
“I didn’t see him even on the day he launched. He refused my visit.”
“I won’t lie. I resent my brother and the fact that he gets to live. Perhaps your brother felt the same.”
“Sometimes I think it was simply his way to have the final word in all our boyhood arguments. We spoke through the radio after he launched, but that’s something different.”
“My point is,” said Leonid, “that I had friends in Star City. I had a life that was not so bad. Even knowing it had to end, I enjoyed it. I won’t speak of my childhood, but know that it wasn’t pleasant. I never expected to escape it. But I did and I found a measure of happiness. My fear, then, was that leaving Star City would be a return to the dark past that preceded it. A silly fear, yes? The only future I have is this little capsule, this egg, hurtling so fast through the dark that no other darkness could possibly catch up.”
“So your fear was unfounded?”
“I now know that leaving one place is not the same thing as returning to another.”
Static popped the speaker. Mars did not know if Leonid had fallen silent or simply passed out of range.
Bohdan, Ukraine—1950
Even Grandmother had finally grown thin. When she hiked up the hem of her dress before kneeling to pray, her calves, once fat as tree limbs, were withered to twigs. The prayer, too, was something new. One day she knelt out of nowhere and spoke to herself in whispers. Leonid just barely remembered his father doing the same, and knew that Grandmother had as well, but she was one of the few villagers who seemed happy when the Soviets came and dismantled the church. She was one of the few who did not gather at the train station to say goodbye to the priest.
At first, the two Leonids had just watched Grandmother pray. Sometimes they walked outside. At the very least they went to the other side of the cottage. But as the prayers came day after day, first the younger Leonid and then the older joined her, kneeling on the floor, facing the blank wood of the east wall. The older Leonid did not know what he was supposed to pray about. Usually, he just whispered the thoughts in his head, carrying on a conversation with himself. He tried to eavesdrop on Grandmother, but whatever she said never made it beyond her lips. No, he never learned why they prayed, but he knew for sure that he did not want Grandmother to have to pray alone.
As they knelt today, Kasha would not stop being a bother. She nuzzled up into Leonid’s crotch as if trying to lift him on her snout. She walked behind and pawed at the bottoms of his bare feet. When he refused to budge, she moved on to his brother. And when his brother did not move, Kasha tried with Grandmother. She tolerated a few pokes of Kasha’s nose to her buttocks before dropping back into a crouch and scratching Kasha behind the ears.
“What is it, dog?”
Kasha streaked to the door, still as fast as ever despite suffering the same starvation that affected everyone.
“Let her outside,” said Grandmother.
The Leonids rose and headed to the door. Letting Kasha out had become a ritual of sorts. One of the brothers would go out first, halfway up the path to the rest of the village. From there he could signal back to the other brother if someone headed their way. The brother who stayed with Kasha led her around to the other side of the cabin. With the trees leafless, they worried that the white flash of the dog would be easily spotted against the gray earth even from a distance. Kasha did not need to be led. She seemed to know to head to the back on her own. If anyone came from the direction of the village, Leonid felt sure Kasha would know to hide. The ritual then was for the sake of the brothers. It gave them something to do. A brief, twice-daily distraction from the pain that became more and more pronounced in their guts each morning.
When the older Leonid reached the door, Kasha darted to the other side of the room.
“Do you want to go outside or not?” he said.
Kasha pushed herself into the corner where the cabinet met the wall. None of them had ever seen her cower before.
“What is it, girl?” asked the younger Leonid.
A knock came on the door, and the older Leonid, who still stood right next to it, jumped at the sound. The motion sent a sharp pain through his ankles, knees, and hips, fading into a dull burn in the long muscles of his legs. The door swooped open, almost clipping his shoulder. Mykola burst in.
The younger Leonid stood in front of Kasha, though his skinny legs did little to conceal the dog.
“It’s customary to allow someone to answer the door after you knock,” said Grandmother.
“There are men coming,” said Mykola, panting.
“Soldiers?” asked the older Leonid.
“Mr. Honchar and Mr. Dyachenko. They’re half-mad. The Honchar baby died this morning. Dyachenko is the uncle, you know, and his own children died already. They were outside saying they would hunt down anyone who was hoarding food. They didn’t hide their suspicions about your cottage. They said that out here by yourself you could have enough food hidden away for everyone, the whole village.”
“Does it look like any of us have eaten?” Grandmother held up her arm, and the skin hung like a sheet drying on a line.
Leonid realized how little of her there was left. He wondered if there would come a day when he would discover just her empty skin, all the stuff on the inside wasted away. Already she no longer matched his memory of her, the pleasant roundness of her face replaced by angles.
Mykola said, “They already came through our cottage and flipped all the furniture and threw everything from the cabinet. It didn’t matter that there was no place food might be hidden.”
“Let them come,” said Grandmother. “I won’t allow them to enter.”
“Honchar has an ax. He threatened Mother with it when she tried to stop him. I think he would have struck her if I hadn’t pulled her away.”
“That man was barely strong enough to wield an ax even when he was well fed. I’m not worried about that.” She looked back at the younger Leonid. “However, I don’t think it would be good if they found Kasha.”
Kasha poked her snout from behind the younger Leonid’s legs. Mykola, across the room, stepped forward.
“She’s still alive? I thought surely someone had…” The phrase choked off in his throat.
“Will you tell them about her?” asked the older Leonid.
“I can’t believe she’s still alive.”
Mykola was crying, thin tears that did little more than glisten his cheeks. He gripped the older Leonid at the biceps. His fingertips touched on the back side of Leonid’s arm.
“We have to protect her,” said Mykola. “We can’t let the men find her.”
Grandmother crossed the room and pulled Mykola’s hand from Leonid.
“Did anyone see you come?” asked Grandmother.
“I snuck away while Honchar and Dyachenko were in another home.”
“Then take Kasha around back and follow the path up the hill. Do you know the path?”
“We’ve played there before.”
“It leads to a dry creek bed, which cannot be seen from below. Go there and follow the creek toward the pass. Find a place to conceal yourself as best you can and wait. I’ll send the twins to find you when it’s safe for Kasha to return.”
“Will the dog follow me?”
“I’m sure of it. She’s a wise animal, and she’ll do whatever it takes to protect us.”
Mykola looked at Kasha, now emerged from behind the younger Leonid and sitting on her haunches in the center of the room. Mykola’s brow furrowed in worry. Grandmother grabbed the boy’s chin and directed his gaze to meet her own.