“Shee, Vasha. Meat is for Sundays.” Mama ladled out four bowls and set them on the rough-hewn table. The smell curled off the top like fingers, clawing at his empty stomach. “Go, wash for dinner.”
Vadick crawled off the bench and ran to the bucket sitting by the door. He grabbed a chip of soap and scrubbed his fingers. The chilly water sent a thousand icicles through his arms as he plunged them in to his elbows.
The outside door thumped, then voices—Papa and Maxim, back from the store to purchase fresh bread to accompany the cabbage soup. Vadick slid onto his seat and had his spoon in hand when the two swept in. Frost spiked Papa’s brown mustache and beard and he made a show of slobbering a kiss on Mama. Vadick smiled as something warm barreled to the center of his chest.
Vadick’s older brother, Maxim, didn’t even elbow him as he slid onto the stool and reached for his bowl, blue eyes alive with hunger. Mama sliced the bread and piled it in the center. “And what did you learn at school today?”
Vadick scowled, then remembered. He had learned something today… something about brotherhood. He dug in his pocket, and handed his mother a note. “They sent this home.”
“Not now, Sveta. Let us thank the Lord.” Papa’s hand on Mama’s arm made her slip the note into her apron. Vadick’s heart fell. He needed an answer by tomorrow.
But prayer came first. He knew that well. Eight years of habit made him stand, clasp his hands, bow his head. Papa prayed for them until the soup cooled.
Vadick’s parent’s warned him never to ask questions about God, or even hint at his family’s regular church attendance. But he never understood why they didn’t pray in class, why, in fact, his teachers never mentioned God. Father Lenin, yes. Once he’d made the mistake of asking Papa if Father Lenin and God were one in the same.
He’d earned a whippin’ and never asked again.
The soup warmed his insides and filled him better than any fried peroshke or blini, although he’d happily stuff himself to the ears with any of Mama’s baked goods.
“The Bible, Maxim.” Papa slid his bowl away, his blue eyes trailing Max as the elder brother went to the sofa, opened the cushion, and dug out the family treasure. He carried it like a piece of Babushka Anna’s china, tiptoeing to the table. The book had been in the family for three generations. Gold embossed words had faded off the top, and the corners of the leather cover peeled. Two pages were missing, one in James, and the other in Hebrews. His father had painstakingly copied the Hebrew passage from someone else’s Scripture and tucked it into the back page. Once, he’d read it aloud. Vadick remembered something about Esau, but nothing else except the memory of shivering at Mama’s crying.
“Tonight we’ll read in John, chapter nine.”
Vadick listened, then, “Papa, why was the man born blind?”
Papa’s blue eyes always entranced him, drew him in, and finally rendered him powerless to escape. “That’s the point of the story, Vasha. There was no reason except that God be glorified in the healing.”
“But then that man suffered for no reason.”
“Not for no reason. The reason is clear. What confuses you is why God allowed it.”
“Yes. Why would God allow his child to suffer?”
Papa laid down the Bible, steepled his meaty fingers, elbows propped on the table. “That is part of the mystery of faith. God allows suffering. It is a part of the believer’s life. When we suffer, we turn to God. Through it, our faith grows. It is hard to understand, child, but God plans for us to suffer. It’s not ours to ask why. It’s only ours to trust, to hold onto our Lord for strength.”
“But what if it is too hard to trust?” Vadick saw his mother’s face blanch white, but Papa smiled. “You will suffer in this life. It’s your choice to suffer trusting in God’s plan or to turn away and walk alone.” He closed the Bible, and rubbed his hand on it. “When your time comes, you will choose, Moy Lapichka. If you choose God, you will find He will give you the light and comfort you need to walk the path of pain.”
Vadick swallowed a lump of horror, not wishing for any of his father’s words to be realized. Desperate to change the subject, he looked at Mama. “The note? Please, read it. Say, yes, please!”
Mama smiled, tiny wrinkles lining up and curling around her blue eyes. She dug the note out of the pocket of her apron and opened it.
The color drained from her face. “No. Oh, no.” Her brow furrowed and a troubled gaze settled on Vasha.
Something inside him tore open, bringing a wave of pain.
“What is it?” Papa took the note and read it. “They want Vadick to join the Pioneers.”
Dread cinched Vadick’s chest. “Please?” he asked feebly, bewildered at their ghastly expressions.
“Oh, Lord, please help us.”
“Lord, please, help us!”
Vadeem spiraled away from the echo of the past, into the moaning of a voice, this time in English. “Please, don’t let him die.”
“I’m not dead.” He heard his voice. It thundered inside his head. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself swallowed whole by Kat’s horrified gaze. Her worried expression went straight to his soul. Then her face spun at retching angles. He clenched his eyes shut. “Give me a minute here. My head feels like it’s scattered all over the street.”
She answered only in sobs.
Slowly he became aware of her… holding him. Her hand clutched the back of his head, probably to keep his gray matter from draining completely onto the sidewalk. Her other hand, she rested on his chest, over his heart. It radiated warmth through his muscles down to his toes. Her hair spilled onto his face, and her perfume—it spiraled to the urge inside which had him longing for sweet oblivion, and yanked him back to the living.
Except, he was in her arms—did he have to wake up?
She hiccupped a sob, then begged, “Please.”
Perhaps it was the pleading in her voice. Or the way she held him, her hands warm against his throbbing pain. Or maybe it was simply that she was still here when she could have sprinted into the night.
She wasn’t in cahoots with General Grazovich. For some insane reason, he wanted to break out into tears.
He opened his eyes. “I’m okay.”
Her concerned expression left him breathless. When was the last time he’d seen a look like that… for him? “What happened?”
Her face crumpled.
He sat up, aware of the world spinning, feeling like he’d left a part of his skull behind on the pavement. He braced his hand on the ground and cupped her chin, suddenly panicked. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
He blinked, sorting through the final moments. They’d been walking, his head exploded… “Did you get a look at who did this?”
She shook her head. “He hit you, and then… and then…” She looked away, her chin trembling. For the first time he saw the angry red line around her neck, a rip in the sleeve of her blouse.
He felt sick, as if he was going to empty his stomach right there on the street, right beside his brains. He scanned her quickly, terrified at what he might find. Her hair was a tousled rat’s nest, her eyes swollen. A vicious red scrape ran down her chin. He went cold when he glanced down and saw her blouse lacked two buttons. Oh no, please, no.