Grandmother looked at the wall as if she could see through it and the kilometer of intervening forest to the train itself.
“Be prepared to hide,” she said. “Be prepared to flee.”
The pitch of the whine dropped as the train neared the station.
GRANDMOTHER WAITED by the door, cracking it open every few minutes to peek outside. Each time, she closed the door and shook her head. Nothing. An hour passed, maybe more.
The Leonids had scavenged small bits of edible plants the day before, a few stems still with a hint of green in them, and they picked off the less-bitter bits and nibbled. Kasha sat by Grandmother’s heels at the door. Mykola tried to tempt Kasha over with some of the twins’ breakfast, but she ignored him.
The older Leonid started to think that maybe he had imagined the sound. Could the other three have imagined it, as well? Was it possible to share a delusion? Maybe some other noise had carried through the valley. Maybe now that all the trees of the forest were completely bare, when the wind passed through them it mimicked a train. Mykola’s mother had said that if you listened carefully after a person died that you could hear their soul ascending. So maybe the sound was all the lost souls still lingering in the valley. Since the Soviets had abolished heaven, where else would the souls have to go? Maybe they waited for the train like everyone else.
Grandmother opened the door again, but this time she did not close it right away, leaning her head outside. Kasha was next, squeezing halfway through the crack. Then the boys, Mykola followed by the Leonids. From outside, they would have looked like a stack of heads leaned against the doorjamb, dog–boy–boy–boy–old woman.
At first, Leonid did not see anything, nearby or farther on through the bare trees, but then at the other end of the village he spotted the specks of figures moving down the path. They passed the first cottage without stopping, and then the next and the next. They moved through the main cluster of cottages and by the old church and the abandoned schoolhouse. As they got closer, Leonid made out the uniforms, the same as he had seen on the men who shot Mr. Tarasenko. Leading the procession was a man in civilian clothes, a black hat and a black coat.
At the near side of the village, the group paused. The black-clad man pointed to where the path to Grandmother’s cottage twisted around the woods, and then set off, leading the soldiers straight for it. They could have looked up at any point and seen the cottage. They could have made out the faces in the doorway. But they seemed unconcerned, engaged in a casual conversation about the valley, if their frequent gestures at the trees and up to the mountain peaks were any indication.
“Should we run?” asked the older Leonid.
“We’ll wait,” said Grandmother.
“But the soldiers…”
“We’ll at least make them knock,” said Grandmother.
She pulled the boys inside and clapped for Kasha and closed the door behind her.
When the knock finally came and Grandmother opened the door, the only one there was the man in black. In addition to his black hat, he wore a pair of circular spectacles with a thin leather strap that dangled from the sides of the frame. His beard, gray streaked with black, dropped from his chin like roots reaching for soil. Deep lines creased either side of his long nose all the way to the edges of his mouth. His lips trended toward a frown. He could have been fifty or he could have been ninety. Parts of him seemed strong and parts seemed weak. Leonid did not know which parts to trust.
“Will you invite me in?” he asked. His voice was deeper and more resonant than his thin body should have allowed. His Ukrainian was clear but stilted.
“Who are you?” asked Grandmother.
“I am Konstantin Tsiolkovski,” he said.
“You say that as if your name should mean something to me.”
The older Leonid tugged at Grandmother’s dress. “He writes stories. The teacher made us read them.”
Those stories were about the only thing Leonid remembered from school. He didn’t know all the big Russian words, but he had loved the impossible places the stories represented. He imagined that all the different worlds were other valleys, only a train ride away. He imagined that everyone who was gone from Bohdan lived on in fantastical settings. Grandmother looked down at Leonid, then back at Tsiolkovski.
“What business could a writer possibly have in my home?”
“Your son is only half-right,” said Tsiolkovski.
“Grandson.”
“My apologies. I do write stories, but first I’m a scientist. I work in rocketry.”
Grandmother’s expression remained blank.
“A rocket is like a plane, but instead of flying in the air, it flies in outer space. With rockets, we will send Soviet citizens to the stars.” His voice was flat, as if he were discussing the weather or a distant relative.
“That’s not possible.”
“Not today, but soon.”
Grandmother looked over Tsiolkovski’s shoulder to a patch of cloudy sky, focusing her eyes on as far a point as possible.
“Still,” she said, “that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Your sons. Pardon me, grandsons. Twins such as these will be of great benefit to the mission.”
“You’ll send boys into outer space?”
“We will train the boys to become the men we send into space.”
Kasha scampered up to Tsiolkovski and sniffed him. Immediately, her sniff shifted into a snarl. She reared back, crouched, ready to pounce. Mykola jumped forward and held her, stroking her with his free hand. Her body relaxed, but a continuous growl rumbled from between her bared teeth.
“The dog doesn’t like you,” said Grandmother. “And she likes everyone.”
Tsiolkovski scowled at the dog. “Then I am no one. And that is the point. Your grandsons, though, they will be heroes. They will be more famous than even Bohdan Khmelnytsky himself.”
“This village has had heroes before, but none of them returned after the war.”
“This is not a war. Might it be dangerous? Of course. But we have decided it is better to be brave.”
“You’re so brave that you find boys to assume the danger for you. Why these two?”
The older Leonid had listened to the conversation, not really comprehending. But now, acknowledged by Grandmother, he realized that he was the subject being discussed. It felt bizarre. Who had ever talked about him before? Probably no one. His father when he was still alive, but Leonid was so small then. He had no memory of that time.
“Just look at them,” said Tsiolkovski. “They are perfect specimens of humanity. Pure blood. They will be strong, handsome men. They will be brilliant. They will be leaders in the coming Utopia.”
Grandmother looked past Tsiolkovski again, this time to the barren trees and the silent village beyond.
“It used to be ideal here,” she said.
“This place is a hundred years behind. And look at it now. Do you think it will survive a hundred more?” He rapped his knuckles on the frame of the door. The wood tapped back a sound that was thin and hollow, not like wood at all.
“What’s he talking about?” asked the younger Leonid, tugging again at Grandmother’s dress.
Grandmother smiled. “This man can help you. He can take you to a place with real food and new clothes.”
“Does that mean you agree?” asked Tsiolkovski.
“You say that as if the choice, in the end, will be mine. Can you promise that they’ll be safe?” asked Grandmother.
“No more than you can promise that they will be safe here,” said Tsiolkovski.
Grandmother pulled the younger Leonid close and beckoned the other. She bent herself into a hug around both of them. The older Leonid felt wetness on top of his head and realized Grandmother was crying, her face buried in his hair. He could not recall her crying before, not even when news of his father…