The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

it all just to say something. Not to be silent. Talking to shut up his own conscience. Because, had he been in Stodólya’s shoes, wouldn’t he, Kyi, have given the same order?
    It was like he comforted Levko in Stodólya’s stead. And Levko did cheer up a bit, brightened like a finch brought in from the cold (looking at him made Adrian think, for no particular reason, shame about your rosy cheeks, brother; winter’ll paint you green like potatoes in a cellar...). And it was only now, as he waited at the edge of the forest for the clouds that raced across the sky, swiftly unspooling into ribbons of smoke, to cover the moon and allow him to come out, that the conversation came back to him, like a bitter heartburn after a heavy supper, and he thought, coldly and clearly, yes, he would’ve given the same order but under his command Levko would have
found the courage
to step up. He would have clicked his heels and said, hand to the peak of the cap in salute, “Permission to speak, friend commander, I vouch for him.”
    And to hell with what comes next.
    Adrian was now finally awake, completely. Inside he felt empty, like before stepping into the line of fire. With a quick sharp whine, time came together, squeezed like a Moscow harmonica’s bellows—into the streaming minute, a singular chink open for immediate action. And that disgusting tremor inside faded, went still. And his hands weren’t shaking.
    He was free.
    Around him, his land breathed in the quiet of the night. The spirits of the woods who had watched over him guiding him through the thickets, stood behind him. This was
his
land—his strong-as-death love pulsed like invisible light in the dark. Those who had come to stomp it down with their boots had no such strength. Could do nothing to him.
    He felt the angry glee enter him. The berserk heat that comes in battle and—if you have luck—on a mission, fills your body withdreamlike ease, with the tease and tickle of danger that arouses and intoxicates more irresistibly the more boldly you deny that danger, until it retreats, tamed, because you showed yourself to be
stronger.
Ahead he could see the white field—no, not white but already speckled, welcoming him with black wet inlets of thaw; his mind—a white knight in icy armor—observed from outside his body, watch in hand, and the watch ticked loudly, calculating the minutes measured before his turn, and somewhere in space, or perhaps inside himself, an invisible hand wound up a barrel organ for a bawdy kolomyjka tune, tighter, tighter, don’t crack the spring—no, that’s a twig cracking underfoot, like a girl who’s done waiting. “To the mountains go white sheep, up higher and higher, I slept with a partisan and I ain’t yet crying.... ” He grinned, noisily drawing in a full chest of sharp forest air, stretching his lungs like an accordion’s bellows in anticipation of a dance, cruel like a wolf hunt. Only it wasn’t him anymore—it was a demobilized Soviet Army captain, Anton Ivanovych Zlobin, dispatched, with magnificent documents and a Nagant revolver engraved with his name, by the grain supply department to finalize grain collection in the district.
Alright, motherfucker, let’s go!
said Anton Ivanovych. And crossed himself.
    Let the games begin.

Adrian’s Lost Dream
    W hy am I creeping, half-bent, along this wattle fence with no end in sight?—the weaving glistens wet, as though varnished, and drops of water leave earthbound trails on it here and there, like tears on the wrinkles of an ancient face seen up close—a thaw, it’s dawning, patches of flimsy threadbare snow like moth-eaten wool grow lighter on the black ridge as my foot finds them, spellbound, obedient, to avoid stepping on the white—
    —that’s a rule we have, sweetie, like in hopscotch: “Don’t step over!” Jump on each square, miss none, to get to the main nave of the heavenly sky—here I am, Lord!—but watch out, don’t step on a single line, because each line is a line of fire, and he who steps over is out of the game—boom, dead!
    And then can’t reach the heavenly sky.
    Has to start all over again from the beginning. Again and again—until he comes all the way.
    I am ready. Ready to do it all over again if they kill me now.
    You still have time. And you have all eternity before the heavenly sky. Because the Lord gathers all who’d been killed in one place where the living cannot go—turns their shoulders to the sky and their faces to the