Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  “Us?” Taras said.

  “I mean the nationalists.”

  “So you’re joining the nationalists?”

  Mykhail held his head high. “Why not? I’m a proud Ukrainian. Wouldn’t you fight for your country?”

  “You, Mykhail?” Borys said. “You’re going to fight against the Red Army?”

  Mykhail shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. You know there are a few organizations pledging to fight for Ukraine and for Ukraine only. And they have people with ammunition and the training to use it.”

  “I’ve heard. But, you know, most of the people who would fight are in prison. Look at my Uncle Viktor. He’s behind bars just for trying to organize talks on the history of Ukraine.”

  Mykhail spat on the ground. “What does that tell you about the Russians?”

  “That they’re in charge?” Taras said, laughing.

  Mykhail grabbed his shirt. “Don’t laugh. It’s not just his Uncle Viktor. Many people have been taken away or even . . .”

  “What?”

  “Killed. Executed for daring to speak out against Russia.”

  Taras apologized, and Mykhail let go of his shirt.

  “Mykhail’s right,” Borys said. “The Russians classify proud Ukrainians as enemies of the people. We can’t accept that.”

  “Enemies of the Russian people, perhaps,” Mykhail said. “But one day Ukraine will be a free nation—a proud and independent nation.”

  Taras smirked. “So you would take up arms? Even kill?”

  “If it comes to that, yes. I’m certainly a strong, brave Ukrainian. Aren’t you?”

  Taras shrunk slightly at the question.

  Mykhail turned to Borys. “And you?”

  Borys nodded vigorously. “Of course. We should fight for Ukraine together. I’ll join the underground fighters if you will too.”

  Mykhail looked Borys in the eye for a moment, then Borys spat on his hand and offered it out. Mykhail spat on his own hand and they shook.

  “See,” Mykhail said to Taras. “We fight for our country.”

  Taras nodded to the clock tower and laughed. “Not yet, though. First you have fields to plow.”

  Mykhail smiled. “Oh, very funny. At least I have ambition and courage. And at least my intentions are good.”

  The three friends agreed to meet again the next day, and Mykhail left.

  When Mykhail got home and shut the door behind him, the noise disturbed his papa, who was sitting at the table, leaning forward as though he’d nodded off.

  “Your papa’s been waiting for you,” Mama said.

  “And he’s been waiting for some time,” Papa added, stretching as he roused himself. “We have fields to plow and seeds to sow. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, just talking with my friends in the village.”

  His papa groaned.

  “We were talking about the nationalists,” Mykhail said.

  “What about them?” Papa asked.

  Before Mykhail could reply, his mama forced a chunk of bread smeared with cream into his hand and said, “Eat.” She turned to her husband. “He’s told you where he’s been, Dmytro. In the village. Now stop moaning at him.”

  Papa tutted. “He’s been sorting out all the country’s problems, no doubt.”

  “Isn’t it good he takes an interest in politics?”

  “Pah! I wish he’d take more interest in the farm. The tractor keeps misfiring. He needs to take a look at it.”

  “Only because you can’t fix it.”

  “But he’s wasting his time talking when he could be working.” He prodded a muddy finger at his son. “Not even eighteen and he thinks he knows it all. Yet he knows less than my little toe does.”

  “He knows how to fix your tractor,” Mama muttered.

  Papa opened his mouth wide and looked aghast for a second. Mykhail laughed, almost choking on the bread.

  Papa tried to suppress a cackle of laughter and failed. “You have a point there, Iryna. Give me a horse any day. Horses I can understand. You feed them hay, they pull. That’s all there is to know. They don’t go wrong.”

  Mama stepped over to Mykhail and placed an arm around his waist. “You take after your papa—passionate about what you believe in, a proud Ukrainian. You’ll settle in time, I’m sure. You’ll learn which things are really important.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Papa said. “And to be fair to you, Mykhail, I happen to agree with your politics. It’s just that we don’t need you talking in the village center; we need you on the farm, fixing and driving the tractor.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mykhail said. He kissed his mama’s head and headed for the door. “I’ll go make my magic fingers dance over the engine.”

  “Good boy,” his mama said as he left.

  It was another few weeks before Mykhail could take a break from work out in the field to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, and one evening he met up with Taras and Borys in the village center again.

  Mykhail gave a firm handshake to Borys, then held a hand out to Taras, who showed a little reluctance to do the same. But they did shake hands, and Mykhail kept an eye on him as they all sat cross-legged on the dry earth.

  “What’s wrong?” Mykhail asked him.

  “He’s worried,” Borys said, laughing. “He worries about anything. And he was just telling me of his latest worry.”

  “I’m serious,” Taras said. “It’s not good, all this talk of who’ll fight on whose side. And with the German military building up at the border, who wouldn’t be worried?”

  “Ignore the Germans,” Mykhail said. “It’s just for exercises, everybody knows that.”

  “Of course,” Borys said. “That’s what I’ve been telling him. The Germans are our allies. The pact says so.”

  Mykhail nodded. “If anything, they could help us.”

  “They couldn’t be worse than the Russians,” Borys said.

  Taras grimaced and struggled to speak for a moment. “It’s just . . . I don’t like talk of war, that’s all. What I want is to be left alone to find a wife, run my family’s farm, and enjoy life.”

  “And you feel you can do that with the Russians breathing down your neck?” Mykhail asked him.

  Taras shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t like the way things are going. And . . .” He sighed. “Look, we’re supposed to be celebrating your birthday. Could we forget wars and fighting and talk about something else?”

  Mykhail and Borys looked at each other and shrugged. “Like what?”

  “Like the quality vodka at my Aunt Natali’s place.”

  The others immediately stood up and pulled him to his feet.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Mykhail said. “Lead on.”

  Taras broke into a smile and they all started walking.

  The farmhouse was much like any other the three young men had seen, a solid affair with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof that looked waterproof just by the skin of its teeth.

  “Is this it?” Mykhail said.

  “Doesn’t look much, does it?” Taras said. “Nobody would guess there’s a small hidden room that’s been turned into a distillery.”

  “I’m impressed,” Borys said.

  Mykhail slapped the backs of the other two. “And I’m excited. I haven’t tasted good vodka since . . . yesterday.” He spluttered a laugh.

  Taras knocked on the door, while his two friends casually rolled around on their haunches, glancing left and right.

  The door was opened by a woman in tears.

  Taras’s face dropped. “Aunt Natali? What’s wrong? What is it?”

  “You haven’t heard?” She looked at all three in turn. “None of you have heard?”

  “Heard what?” Borys said.

  “The news,” she said. “It’s too bad. Oh, it’s terrible.”

  “Tell us!” Mykhail shouted.

  Taras gave him an admonishing stare.

  “I’m sorry,” Mykhail said. “Pleas
e, tell us the news.”

  “The . . . the Germans have invaded.”

  Mykhail leaned his ear toward her. “What did you say?”

  “The Germans invaded Ukraine early this morning.”

  Taras held a hand to his forehead, mouth agape. The other two cursed under their breath.

  “I guess news travels slowly,” the woman said. “But it’s true. They’ve taken towns and villages all along the border, in both Russia and Ukraine. They’re moving quickly by all accounts, sweeping away all resistance.”

  “Now I definitely need a drink,” Mykhail said.

  The woman went back inside and returned within seconds. She thrust a couple of bottles into Mykhail’s arms.

  “Here,” she said. “I feel sorry for you. Enjoy it. It might be your last taste of freedom.” She shut the door.

  Mykhail gave his friends a confused look. “What did she mean by that?” he said.

  “What do you think she meant?” Borys replied. “We’ll be expected to join the army. Perhaps our families will have to move if the Germans overrun this place.”

  Taras nudged his cap and scratched his head. “We should go home and prepare for war. I need to tell my parents. We have to be ready to leave Dyovsta at short notice.”

  Mykhail looked to Borys, who shrugged and said, “I think we should have a drink. What else can we do?”

  “I’m with Borys,” Mykhail said. “Who knows when we might get a sniff of vodka again, let alone get drunk.” He turned to Taras. “Look, if your parents don’t know, telling them will only upset them, and if they do know, there’s no point reminding them.”

  “Come on,” Borys said to Taras. “One last drunken night, how about it?”

  Taras bowed his head for a few seconds, then looked up and nodded. “And my aunt could be right. It could be the last chance I get for a while.”

  “Good,” Mykhail said. “And while we’re getting drunk, we can talk about who we’re going to fight with.”

  They sloped off to a tin shed fifty or so yards away that had been baking in the sun, and sat down together against the still-warm metal.

  They drank, watched the sun fall to the horizon, and drank some more. But despite the vodka, there was little talk. Eventually the cold came, and Taras said his goodbyes and left.

  “Are you definitely joining the nationalists?” Mykhail asked Borys after a few silent minutes.

  Borys took another slug of vodka and handed the bottle over. “Of course. I’ll fight Hitler and Stalin together.”

  “In that case, I’ll join you.”

  “You know, the old woman has it wrong. I’ve been talking with some of the nationalists.”

  “Your Uncle Viktor’s friends?”

  Borys nodded. “They’ve been saying for some time that the Germans could be good for us. As you said, if they get the Russians out of the way it could help the Ukrainian cause.”

  Mykhail nodded slowly, but said nothing.

  They talked a little more, raising a toast to Ukrainian independence, but soon after that Borys also left. Mykhail stayed to finish the last few drops of vodka, and to think.

  As the sun’s final rays were vanishing, he shivered. It was so peaceful here, and yet at his country’s brittle edges, German guns and tanks were wreaking havoc. Mykhail was only eighteen, but he knew the good times were coming to an end.

  And Papa was right. Strong beliefs were easy to talk about. But now events were conspiring to test his mettle, so how much were those beliefs worth? At eighteen he could no longer hide behind the privileges of childhood. Soon he wouldn’t be able to talk about fighting and step away; he might have to do it.

  A couple of weeks ago he’d felt like a boy. Now he got to his feet unsteadily, and walked home a confused and apprehensive young man.

  Chapter 9

  Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1941

  The next morning Mykhail was shaken awake by his papa, and found himself babbling meaningless phrases.

  “Are you all right?” his papa said.

  Mykhail rubbed his eyes, looked around, and sighed with relief. “I was just having a . . . a dream.” Vague imaginings of fighting alongside Borys and other Ukrainian nationalists lingered in his consciousness.

  “It sounded more like a nightmare,” Papa said. “Probably all that vodka you drank last night.”

  Mykhail shook the thoughts from his head. “Why have you woken me up so early?”

  “You have a visitor. And I think you know why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A man at the door. Asking for you.”

  Mykhail looked up at Papa. Why was he struggling with a brave smile? And why did he appear glassy-eyed?

  Then Mykhail remembered the news from the day before, and his headache became a little worse. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  By the time Mykhail got to the door, buttoning his shirt as he shuffled along, the man was huffing impatiently. But he quickly gathered himself together and his face became almost as expressionless as the whitewashed walls.

  Mykhail didn’t speak, just listened. It only took a minute, the man reeling off the words as if he didn’t really mean them. But Mykhail knew the meaning very well. And only at the end, when the man handed him the slip of paper and asked whether he understood, did Mykhail respond, nodding silently.

  The man left, and Mykhail turned to his parents. Papa had his arm around Mama, who was dabbing her eyes with a cloth.

  “Mmm,” Papa said. “The Red Army.”

  Mykhail stared at the slip of paper. “I have to report tomorrow. They’re collecting me at the village clock tower.”

  Papa nodded. “They’re picking off the easy targets first. For now, they need me for food production, but I’m sure my time will come soon enough.”

  “But . . . it’s the Red Army. The Russians. I can’t fight with them. I just can’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be fighting at all,” Mama said. “You’re too young.”

  Papa held her closer but kept his gaze on Mykhail. “I know how you feel. In an ideal world you would be fighting for Ukraine against both the Russians and the Germans. But this is the real world—most of the nationalist leaders are locked up.”

  “But I don’t know what to do. I mean, are the Germans good for us or not? I . . . I just don’t know.”

  “Me neither, I have to admit. While you were out getting drunk last night, I was talking with some of the other farmers. The stories I heard from the west are of the Germans being welcomed. And why not? They can hardly be worse than the Russians. But for you, in your situation? I just don’t know.”

  “Aargh!” Mykhail screwed the paper into a ball and threw it against the wall. “I hate this situation. I mean, who are we? Are we Ukrainians? If we are, then why do I have to fight for the Russians?”

  Papa pulled his arm from around Mama. She sniffed and nodded, telling him she was okay. Then he approached Mykhail, and the two men stood square in front of each other.

  “Son, I know how you feel.” He placed one of his meaty hands on Mykhail’s shoulder and patted it. “I know because I feel the same. I’m a proud Ukrainian, and that’s exactly what I’ve brought you up to be. But it’s time to be a man and not a boy. Sometimes you must compromise. The practical overcomes the ideal.”

  “You’re saying I should join the Red Army?”

  Papa thought for a moment. “I’m saying you should ask yourself what choices you realistically have.”

  “I can run.”

  “And be captured and shot?”

  “I could join the nationalists.”

  “And live rough in the countryside, or in a stinking prison in the middle of a war?”

  “At least I’d have my principles.”

  “Can you live on principles? Can you eat them? Will they shelter you from the wind and rain?”

  Mykhail gulped. “I’m confused.”

  “At least in the Red Army you’ll get trained and you’ll have a rifle. You can be sure of having food and
shelter.”

  “But . . . I’m Ukrainian, not Russian. I want to fight for Ukraine.”

  “Remember this, Mykhail.” Now Papa held a hand against the side of his son’s face. “Self-preservation is never an unworthy cause. Sometimes it’s all that matters. Your mama and I want to see you again. In time we want to see you marry and have children.”

  “But that isn’t what I want.”

  His papa showed him a crooked smile. “Sometimes what you want isn’t the best thing for you. And who knows, the fight for Ukraine could carry on after you’ve helped the Red Army fight off the Germans.”

  “I guess it could.”

  “You only have a day to decide. But whatever you decide, your mama and I will always be here for you.”

  Mykhail nodded. Then he felt his papa’s full embrace for the first time since he was a boy. It felt strong, and Mykhail sensed a little of that strength pass through into him.

  After breakfast, Mykhail’s papa picked up his cap and headed for the door. He stood there, readjusting the cap, until Mykhail finished eating and followed.

  “Wait,” his mama said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “But you only look after the chickens and goats,” Mykhail said.

  She gave a resigned smile. “I’ll have to do more when you’re gone. I might as well learn now.” She put on her shoes, slung a shawl over her shoulders, and the three of them headed for the fields.

  Mykhail did his best to show his mama how the tractor worked, and they spent the morning harvesting barley from the nearest field and plowing the farthest.

  It was early afternoon by the time they finished, and they walked back to the farmhouse to eat. Afterward, while his parents took a nap, Mykhail slipped out and headed for the village center.

  There, something was clearly different. Few people spoke or even smiled as they passed this way and that.

  The conscription men had obviously been busy.

  Only subdued nods of hello escaped the purge of greetings, and after a few of these, Mykhail reached the clock tower.

  He waited there for a while, but there was no Taras or Borys. Taras’s farm was the closest, so Mykhail headed in that direction, down a narrow track and over a small stream, eventually reaching the edge of a bright amber field where a few people were gathering wheat into bales. He squinted to see but couldn’t quite make out the figures. So he stuck two fingers into his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. The workers all stopped and turned. One of them started trudging toward him.