Voroshilovgrad Read online

  That day was particularly quiet, and the sun seemed particularly bright. The summer was coming up on its halfway point. The days were warm and seemed endless. We went to the river sometime in the afternoon. Pakhmutova had been running up and down the hills all morning, so she was exhausted. She reluctantly followed me into the city, lagging behind and breathing heavily. I went into the water first. I stayed by the bank because I didn’t really feel like fighting against the current. Pakhmutova, on the other hand, drove forward, paddling down the river and enjoying the refreshing cold. The current carried her downstream, but I wasn’t too worried—our dogs can swim a whole lot better than us. But this time was different—the water carried Pakhmutova farther and farther, all the way down to the bridge, spinning her around like a twig. The river is usually pretty calm, but down below the bridge, where they made the bottom a little deeper, sometimes there are underwater currents. Pakhmutova was sucked into one of them. I got really scared and swam toward her as fast as I could. The closer I got, the more I came to realize that I probably wouldn’t have enough energy to pull her out of the water. The current caught me too and sent me down to the deep end where Pakhmutova’s head was still barely bobbing above water. I drew even with her and grabbed her around the neck. I was really scared. She must have thought we were playing, so she hopped on top of me, her front legs wrapping around me. I started choking on the water and going under. I tried shouting, pushing her away, and hitting the water with my hands, but this was all useless. I was really tuckered out, and started losing consciousness because I was so scared and frustrated. I was thinking, are you kidding me? All I wanted to do was rescue my poor German shepherd, but not only can’t I do that, now I’m gonna drown too.

  When I actually started going down, and a ring of blue-green light shut around me, Pakhmutova realized I wasn’t horsing around and she dove in after me. It’s a good thing I was smart enough to grab onto her and not let go. The current carried us really far down the river. Once we got back to a shallow bend, we collapsed onto the shore, gasping. We were shivering, but Pakhmutova calmed down pretty quickly and ran over to sniff something along the riverbank. I just sat there on the wet sand thinking how funny it is how things turn out sometimes. At first I was trying to rescue her, and then she wound up rescuing me. Now we’re bound together by something important and serious, something we’ll never tell anyone else, because I’ll be too afraid to and because Pakhmutova’s a German shepherd, after all, Herman.

  I think that’s roughly how it tends to play out, right? We’re forced to rescue the ones we love, and then we don’t even realize when the circumstances have changed and they need to rescue us . . . but maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be? We form the closest bonds by experiencing life together and facing death together. That’s when you know you love someone. Not all of us experience that, but that’s a whole other issue.

  Meanwhile, it’s starting to feel more like fall, the sun can’t heat up the trees and rivers as quickly, and it’s actually getting cold in the evenings. I practically don’t leave the house. I just sit in the kitchen watching nightfall sneak up on us. All we can do is wait for things to go back to normal—wait for the air to warm up and the water in the river to light up. The hills on the shore will catch the morning rays and blind us.

  Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you.

  XOXO

  P.P.S.

  “Let me tell you a story,” the presbyter said, carefully studying their faces. “Well, you’re farmers. I just remembered a story about the prophet Daniel that has to do with that. Were you baptized?”

  “Well, yeah,” their timid voices answered.

  “That’s good,” the presbyter said cheerfully. “Then you’ll understand what I mean. The thing is that we often underestimate what we’re capable of and we’re afraid to cross the line we’ve already drawn for ourselves. The Lord alone determines the measure of our possibilities, so by underutilizing our knowledge and skills we’re actually underutilizing the gifts given to us by the Lord. Am I expressing myself clearly?”

  “Yes, yes,” they assured him.

  “Good,” the presbyter said again, and just as cheerfully.

  “So what about Daniel? Well, in the course of events, due to, say, local social conditions, he wound up, as one does, from time to time, in a pit with lions. Real, live lions. His death, at the paws of the lions, was, only a matter of time. He had no chance. So, Daniel kneeled and prayed to God: ‘Lord,’ Daniel said, ‘these angry and godless lions growling at me—was it their will to be bestowed with such a thirst for blood and hatred? Were you, Lord, the one to fill their hearts with such yearning and rage? Isn’t it your voice that wakes them every morning and lulls them to sleep every night? Who else, then, could rescue me? Who else besides you should I ask? Who else should I appeal to, to whom should I address my words of gratitude and before whom will I be held responsible for my actions?’ And while he was praying, the animals leaned against him, warming their bodies, and their hearts beat softly as they harkened to his gentle words. And he caressed their golden manes, picking dry leaves and blades of grass out of them. When at last he was drifting off, the lions stood by, guarding his deep and tranquil sleep. I wanted to say that,” the presbyter went on, “because it just so happens that you all live together here—baptized and unbaptized people, Shtundists and barefoot, semiliterate villagers . . . I’ve seen lots of different people. You were born and raised here. Your families and businesses are here, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. But you’re fighting amongst yourselves, without realizing the most important thing—that you have no enemies here. You’ve been pitted against each other and made weak and vulnerable—but when you’re together as a team, you’ve got nothing to fear. There’s no need to be afraid, none whatsoever. Even when you’re thrown into a pit teeming with lions and there’s no one to lend a helping hand. Just believe in yourself and persevere. Well, and don’t forget to pray when it’s time to pray. Like Daniel did. You see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” the farmers chorused obediently.

  “One more thing,” the presbyter said, “the real reason the lions left Daniel alone was because he could breathe fire. The lions took that as a sign from God, so they didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “Huh?” The farmers were dumbfounded.

  “Like this,” the presbyter answered, bending over to retie his shoelace, straightening back up, lifting his hands to pray, and exhaling a blue-pink tongue of flame, the fire of bittersweet joy.

  SERHIY ZHADAN is one of the most popular and influential voices in contemporary Ukrainian literature: his poetry and novels are renowned and widely read both at home and abroad. He has twice won BBC Ukraine’s Book of the Year (2006 and 2010) and has twice been nominated as Russian GQ’s ‘Man of the Year’ in the category of Writers. Writing is just one of his many interests, which also include singing in a popular rock band, translating poetry, and organizing literary festivals. Zhadan was born in Starobilsk, Luhansk Oblast in 1974, graduated from Kharkiv University in 1996, then spent three years as a graduate student of philology. He taught Ukrainian and world literature from 2000 to 2004, before retiring from teaching and dedicating himself to writing. Zhadan has translated poetry from German, English, Belarusian, and Russian, from such poets as Paul Celan and Charles Bukowski. His own works have been translated into German, English, Polish, Serbian, Croatian, Lithuanian, Belarusian, Russian, Hungarian, Armenian, Swedish and Czech. In 2013, he participated in and led Euromaidan demonstrations in Kharkiv, Ukraine’s second-largest city, during the country’s Revolution of Dignity. He continues to live and work in Kharkiv.

  REILLY COSTIGAN-HUMES is a graduate of Haverford College, where he studied Russian literature and culture. He lives and works in Moscow, and translates literature from the Ukrainian and Russian.

  ISAAC WHEELER received an MA in Russian Translation from Columbia University, and is also a graduate of Haverford College, where he studied Russian Language and English Li
terature. Wheeler lives in Brooklyn, NY, where he is a professional business and literary translator.

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