“It was filled with young, healthy boys,” Uncle Pasha told us. “Their parents had caught the sickness but told them to run off before they caught it too. We had no choice. We had to stay with them and hope they were not infected.” The boys were hardly teenagers, he said, and did not know how to fend for themselves. There was one young boy named Slavik who reminded my father of a friend from the orphanage, a helpless, scrawny child for whom he quickly developed an inordinate fondness. As the village went up in flames, they searched for mushrooms in the woods and even cooked a few squirrels, waiting for the soldiers on their side of the village to beg off. “Finally, we found an opening. It was the dead of night. The tank that had blocked our path had disappeared. Slowly, we crept away, holding hands in a chain. Fedya was in the back, making sure everyone got out. But then the shots were fired. The soldiers were shooting at us. The boys were screaming and shouting for mercy and running as fast as they could, but the young boy tripped and fell.”
Mama put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Fedya,” she said.
“Fedya couldn’t help himself,” said my uncle. “He ran back for the boy, and they were both shot at once.”
“Of course they were,” Mama said, her head in her hands.
“You know Fedya. He could not let an innocent boy die,” said Uncle Pasha.
I stared at my lap and wished I, too, were holding a cup of tea. I understood that I should not have heard this story, that Polya, my grandmother, Aunt Tamara, and everyone but Uncle Konstantin and my mother should have been removed from the scene. But we were too weary to sort this out. I couldn’t believe it. My poor father, killed by his own people.
“He could not let the boy die,” Uncle Pasha said again, crying into his hands, and I could see him as the small, weak child he once was, back at the orphanage with Papa, who did everything for him, no doubt, who tied his shoes and sliced his bread and tucked him in and helped him navigate the cruel, dark world. When my father and Uncle Pasha visited their mother’s fancy home, my uncle tripped over the polished parquet and broke his nose. My dear father was too sturdy to slip in the same shined shoes. And yet—
“Fool!” Mama said again. “My darling fool,” she said more quietly, and then she began to cry the only tears I would ever see her shed in her life. Misha put an arm around me, while Bogdan put an arm around Polya, where it belonged. I wanted to touch and comfort Mama, but I was too scared to move toward her. But I finally did. I hugged her and so did my sister, and as the three of us embraced I thought of the long-ago time Mama had given us the buttered bread in the middle of the night, when I thought she could solve everything. My grandmother stood at our periphery, clutching her necklace. My sister opened her arms to welcome her into our circle, and together, all of us wept. I didn’t even care when her filthy boa fell over my face.
“I am exhausted,” my grandmother said.
The days after my father’s death were hideous and long. We dragged about our apartment without purpose, like bugs trapped in a jar. Even Uncle Konstantin was diminished by the news, and paced around on the balcony, though he was prone to dizziness. I was fairly certain I even saw him wiping his face, at one point. Aunt Yulia and Madame Renata came by with a sack of food a few days early. “You look awful, the lot of you, you need to eat,” said Madame Renata, and we thanked her while I held my tongue and did not point out that we had looked awful for a while now and she didn’t care until one of us died. Aunt Yulia even held out a handful of chocolate, but Polya and I said we didn’t want it, agreeing on something at last. “Suit yourselves,” she had said, pivoting away on her heel.
Since there was no body, we couldn’t hold a proper funeral, but something needed to be done. I couldn’t take much more of our collective anguish. I came up with the idea of burying the framed portrait of Mama and Papa under his favorite linden tree behind our building. Mama was in no state to make decisions, but she did not protest. In the photograph, where my parents held a ridiculously large pot of dumplings, laughing at some private joke, my father looked nothing like himself. He was young and smooth-skinned and full of hope, and so was my mother.
I did not want to bury the man in the photograph. I wanted to bury the tired man who spoke about the importance of family the last night I saw him alive under that tree, so a newer, more energetic Papa could be resurrected, though this plan was as likely to work as Aunt Tamara’s failed scheme to grow potatoes from the sliced seeds. And so it was that all of us and Uncle Ivan and Snowball stood over the small pit where we had buried the portrait on a cool, breezy morning, the grass just starting to sprout from the earth. It was difficult to get started.
“A brilliant mind,” Uncle Konstantin managed at last.
“A loyal friend,” said Aunt Tamara.
“Commander,” Misha said.
“Guide,” Bogdan said.
“Dearest brother,” said Uncle Pasha.
“Sweet husband,” said Mama.
“Kind father,” I said, speaking for me and Polya.
My sister wouldn’t look at the Papa pit, or anything else besides her feet. She stood with one arm around Mama and the other on Snowball. She and my mother had been fused in their sorrow, while I was left out, standing with Misha’s dutiful arm around me. During the days, my sister either cuddled with Mama or my grandmother or roughhoused with Bogdan and the stupid dog; at night, she wandered the balcony in the main room to stare at the dark pines, as if she could summon Papa that way. I sensed that she no longer looked for Licky out there, that at least she had forgiven us for that. But I had failed to take care of her as I promised Papa I would do. I tried hovering around her, even hugging her on one occasion, but she didn’t seem interested. Besides, she had enough people caring for her already.
Since I had spoken for me and my sister, we all turned to Baba Tonya, waiting for her to complete our recitation by stating what kind of son Papa was. We hoped to hear just one kind word bestowed upon our patriarch, but what did Baba Tonya do? She watched a flock of birds flutter through the cloudless sky.
I couldn’t believe her. Of course she was in shock, but her silence made me livid, for some reason, while Polya’s did not. She was the elder, after all, batty or not, and it was her turn to dredge the corners of her mind for a scrap of kindness toward her firstborn boy. But this was just the kind of thing she got away with because she was weak, like my sister. I would never be able to pull off such a thing. Aunt Tamara even put an arm around her in sympathy, as if it were a badge of honor that she was so troubled that she could not speak. No, the honor came in being maddeningly overwhelmed with sadness and standing upright and saying something in spite of it.
“Caring neighbor,” said Ivan at last, just to fill the silence. “Comrade.”
He put a hand on my shoulder when our ceremony ended. “Is the war over yet?” I asked him, and he just shook his head, unable to find a clever retort.
As we walked away, my grandmother began to speak at last. But she did not intend to be heard, no. She was muttering to my father. “Oh, Fedya,” she said. “You used to have the rosiest cheeks! You were such a beautiful, healthy boy! Who would have thought I would outlive you?”
“What right do you have to speak to my father?” I said, but she barely seemed to hear me. I expected one of the adults to admonish me for causing a scene, but they did not, not even Mama. Misha stood at my side in solidarity but did not touch me.