The guard busies himself and walks away, answering as he does so, reluctant to make eye contact.
“Try the concourse, there might be some on the information stand.”
Sofya and his mother walk towards him, looking around for possibilities.
His mother puts her hand in her pocket, brings out some roubles, and puts them in his hand.
“See if you can find something hot.”
“To eat or to drink?”
“Either. I don’t care.”
Artyom pushes open the main door of the station, steps onto the concourse. The place is deserted. Artyom is surprised that some of the crowd haven’t filtered inside to get some respite from the chaos. He hears his footsteps reverberate around the empty space. It’s an otherworldly sensation, to be alone in this grand expanse, a single figure under the great, arching roof of the Minsk train station. The information booth is closed, but there’s a map of the city on the wall, behind a plastic pane. He digs his fingers beneath the frame and slides out the map, rolls it up.
He steps inside an empty waiting room, which houses a boy, asleep, alone, head on a table. The boy is almost embracing the tabletop, an empty packet of cigarettes beside his ear, a jar with some ash and old butts beside the empty packet. The boy’s head resting on his hand, a grubby finger laid on his eyelid. Light filters through the discoloured plastic sheeting of the roof in a cool aqua-green. Artyom touches the tabletop and rubs some ash between his fingers.
Someone has a radio on in the distance. Folk music finds its way into his ears.
He finds an arcade where small stalls sell trinkets, all closed up. More people in this section, also searching for food. Station guards are silhouetted against the light, their caps flattening their profiles, giving them the grandeur of chess figures. There are old men hunched in corners, lying on plastic bags containing books and old coats.
In the station shop there are empty, square glass cabinets. A crowd is pressed against the counter. An old woman on the fringes eats a blini from wax paper. There is no anger in the queuing, no aggression in the gathering. People slope and drift. There is no more food to be had here, but they wait anyway, in hope.
He returns to the portico and shows his mother the map.
“Did you steal it?”
“Of course I stole it. You think there’re shops selling maps for tourists?”
“I don’t like you stealing.”
“Fine.” He walks towards the door. “I’ll leave it back.”
He has his own mind now. She can’t scold him anymore.
“No. You’re right. It’s fine.”
They’ve been fighting more in the past year. She can tell from his eyes that he’s chalking up another victory. She’ll win very few arguments from now on—not that she wants a competition, just a recognition that she still has some authority, that she knows things.
He lays the map on the ground in front of her.
“Her place is near the bus station. Get us to the bus station and I’ll find it from there.”
Artyom runs his finger over the districts and finds it.
“Okay. It’s not far.”
“Did you get any food?” Sofya asks.
“No. All the shops have been cleared out. There were probably hundreds of buses before us. I’m sure people have stocked up.”
Artyom takes his mother’s sack. Sofya can carry her own.
“How do we know when Father gets in?” Sofya asks.
“He’ll find us at Lilya’s.”
They head out into the road in single file, Artyom leading. He stays close to the walls. A man passes by with his head down, looking at his shoes. There are women and children sitting in the middle of the tarmac, quaking through tears. Artyom’s mother approaches them and coaxes them into doorways, sheltering them from the pressing crowd. A woman in her forties walks backwards, screaming obscenities at the arrivals. She uses a term they don’t understand: “glowworms.”
They cross through the park, still keeping close. His arms are aching from the sacks, but he doesn’t want this to be known, otherwise his mother will insist on carrying her own. Eventually, though, he stops, places them on the pathway, and shakes out his shoulders.
His mother looks at him, concern weighing on her. Artyom sees her differently here, away from home, under the iron lamps of the pavement. She looks older than her age. The land, the work, has hardened her. Hardened her skin and face, but maybe also made her more determined. He thinks about how she works at harvest time, bent low over the straw, tying it together, gathering it into ricks. All day bent over, stopping only for the occasional drink of water. She’s determined to get them where they need to go. A different strength to his father’s.
“You’re tired.”
“Yes.”
“Let me take them.”
He leaves the sacks on the ground, and she heaves them over her shoulder and begins walking again. He’ll take them back in a few minutes, when his shoulders have had a rest.
At the bus station there are more people, more chaos. The confusion is relentless, but they are becoming accustomed to it. They move through the crowd more quickly now, spotting the gaps, less tentative in their steps. Artyom’s mother doesn’t hesitate in her direction, and he and Sofya know that she recognizes where she is.
They reach a tree-lined street of apartment blocks. It’s quieter here. They pass a group of men gathered around the opened bonnet of a car, drinking, one underneath with a torch, tinkering away. The men stare as they pass, carrying their belongings. The group don’t say anything, but Artyom can feel their eyes trailing him, aggression in their look. So this is what Minsk is like, he thinks.
“They don’t like us here, do they, Mama?” Sofya says.
“No. I suppose they don’t,” Artyom’s mother replies.
They find the building and, pushing open the door to the entrance, they see the lift doors are wide open with the lights off and wires hanging out where the buttons should be. Artyom’s mother lays the sacks on the ground and looks dolefully up the steps, and arches her back, stretches her neck from side to side.
“What floor is she on?” Artyom asks.
“The eighth.”
“I’ll take the bags from here.”
“Thank you, Artyom.”
The steps are crumbled at the edges, stones peeping through. So Artyom steps sideways, keeping the sacks at an even height to balance himself. There’s a smell of piss in the enclosed space, and it joins together with the scent of potatoes ingrained in the cloth, which rises up as he swings the sacks. The walls are covered in writing. Names in huge, black letters, connected in a fluid scrawl, a series of interlocked curls. On the fourth-floor landing there’s a kid’s disembowelled bear, its cotton insides greyed and trampled upon.
He pushes into the corridor and looks at his mother as she knocks on the fifth door down.
No answer. She waits and knocks again. No answer. She calls: “Lilya. It’s Tanya. We need your help.”
They wait. She looks at Sofya, who is staring at the ceiling, her fists curling around the opening of her sack. Sofya always looks upwards when she’s angry. Artyom’s mother leans against the wall and puts her ear to the door.
“You’re in there. Your light was on. I can hear you. I have Artyom and Sofya. We need to come in. Please, Lilya.”
Artyom stays at the end of the corridor. He understands there’s something private about the moment. He needs to let his mother go through this on her own.
His mother steps away from the door. Movement, a voice from inside.
“I can’t help. It’s too dangerous. You need to go to the shelter.”
His mother bangs on the door.
Some neighbours appear. Stripes of light cross the green tiled floor. A shirtless man stands in the corridor, his chest hair curled into dots. He fills the gap between the walls, hands on his hips, like a goalkeeper waiting for a penalty.