over. The only window looked like it might have been a mistake: a snag of light near the door, white as a rag. If she faced away she could almost be in her attic in Odessa. If not for the smell of dung. If not for the uncovered straw beneath her, or the knowledge that in this room, this plank bed was the trophy. Last night, before laying himself down in the hole with his sons, Max had lowered his eyes and said, “You’ll have the bed.”
She’d been full with meat, and sleepy, and glad to be left alone. She was glad for it now. Still, there was a flatness in her chest, as if she were trapped beneath a pane of storefront glass. She thought of the eggbeater in Galina’s kitchen. She thought: I should have taken it. I should have taken the eggbeater and the good spatula and the good knife. Like Faga. I should have taken as much as I could carry.
The door was lighter than her hand expected, made of brokendown crates, and opened too quickly: the sky was fierce in its light. She stumbled out squinting; seeing no one, hearing nothing, she squatted to pee. Then haltingly, warily, she blinked her way to vision. She couldn’t believe, at first, that her eyes were working properly, for there was nothing to see but grass, the same infinite monotony they’d ridden through on the train. Minna turned to face the house and saw that it was built into the side of a short hill. It was, she realized, more of a cave than a house. She circled around to the other side, where there was no wall or door; if it weren’t for the little tin chimney poking out, the hill would look like nothing more than a hill. So that must have been where Max had stood for the photograph. He’d appeared to be standing in front of nothing but sky because he was. There might be nothing for miles as tall as this meager hill they called a house. She thought of the brick house on Beltsy’s square, and remembered its secret: there wasn’t a single brick. It was a wood house, like all the others, glued over with tin plate and painted to look like brick. A trick—empty as the magician’s rings. And everyone had gone around adoring it.
She stepped carefully up the side of the hill, stopping before she got to the place where she estimated the hollow began underneath. If she fell through, she guessed, she would land on the stove. It would make a fine cartoon.
She raised an arm to shade her eyes. Behind the hill stood a tree, and tied to the tree, like a horse, stood a cow. Near the cow was a small kitchen garden, a few feet across, and a little roof, under which six or so chickens dozed on their nests. The cow was thin, her udders like raindrops about to split from an eave. The tree itself was barely twice the size of a man, and hunched and tangled—stunted, not young. Twenty feet away, a structure of some kind had collapsed into a pile of boards.
This was the yard, then. Minna lifted her eyes slowly, uncertain she wanted to see beyond. But there was a field, a small field yet real, a real field plowed and planted with a respectable crop of wheat. It was something, she thought. Next year—she dared think it, Next Year, and was proud, for she’d made a promise of her own accord, or as close as she’d ever come to her own accord—Next Year there would be more. More rows, more crops, more food, more money. Minna could picture the order of it, the bounty. She could see fields running to the horizon.
Then she saw more clearly through the sun’s glare: the wheat wasn’t right. The seeds had fallen off; the stems were bent and tangled; in some patches they were lying down, all in one direction, as if they’d been flattened by an impossibly massive wheel. Minna was conscious, suddenly, of the air at her back. She was alone, not as she’d been in her father’s house, or in Galina’s attic, but an alone that made her afraid to move in case she’d find herself gone.
At the edges of the ruined field, there were rocks, piled into little mountains. Past these, a
She’d been full with meat, and sleepy, and glad to be left alone. She was glad for it now. Still, there was a flatness in her chest, as if she were trapped beneath a pane of storefront glass. She thought of the eggbeater in Galina’s kitchen. She thought: I should have taken it. I should have taken the eggbeater and the good spatula and the good knife. Like Faga. I should have taken as much as I could carry.
The door was lighter than her hand expected, made of brokendown crates, and opened too quickly: the sky was fierce in its light. She stumbled out squinting; seeing no one, hearing nothing, she squatted to pee. Then haltingly, warily, she blinked her way to vision. She couldn’t believe, at first, that her eyes were working properly, for there was nothing to see but grass, the same infinite monotony they’d ridden through on the train. Minna turned to face the house and saw that it was built into the side of a short hill. It was, she realized, more of a cave than a house. She circled around to the other side, where there was no wall or door; if it weren’t for the little tin chimney poking out, the hill would look like nothing more than a hill. So that must have been where Max had stood for the photograph. He’d appeared to be standing in front of nothing but sky because he was. There might be nothing for miles as tall as this meager hill they called a house. She thought of the brick house on Beltsy’s square, and remembered its secret: there wasn’t a single brick. It was a wood house, like all the others, glued over with tin plate and painted to look like brick. A trick—empty as the magician’s rings. And everyone had gone around adoring it.
She stepped carefully up the side of the hill, stopping before she got to the place where she estimated the hollow began underneath. If she fell through, she guessed, she would land on the stove. It would make a fine cartoon.
She raised an arm to shade her eyes. Behind the hill stood a tree, and tied to the tree, like a horse, stood a cow. Near the cow was a small kitchen garden, a few feet across, and a little roof, under which six or so chickens dozed on their nests. The cow was thin, her udders like raindrops about to split from an eave. The tree itself was barely twice the size of a man, and hunched and tangled—stunted, not young. Twenty feet away, a structure of some kind had collapsed into a pile of boards.
This was the yard, then. Minna lifted her eyes slowly, uncertain she wanted to see beyond. But there was a field, a small field yet real, a real field plowed and planted with a respectable crop of wheat. It was something, she thought. Next year—she dared think it, Next Year, and was proud, for she’d made a promise of her own accord, or as close as she’d ever come to her own accord—Next Year there would be more. More rows, more crops, more food, more money. Minna could picture the order of it, the bounty. She could see fields running to the horizon.
Then she saw more clearly through the sun’s glare: the wheat wasn’t right. The seeds had fallen off; the stems were bent and tangled; in some patches they were lying down, all in one direction, as if they’d been flattened by an impossibly massive wheel. Minna was conscious, suddenly, of the air at her back. She was alone, not as she’d been in her father’s house, or in Galina’s attic, but an alone that made her afraid to move in case she’d find herself gone.
At the edges of the ruined field, there were rocks, piled into little mountains. Past these, a
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