The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

survival.
    “They lifted them up in the kolkhoz stable,” Gypsy said slowly; it looked like he was grinning with his very white teeth. “Ran the girth under the belly, like so, and ran it through a block, then pulled to lift them.... And ours, while they still tookthem out to the field, every night turned to our yard. He’d stand there by the fence and look in. He knew he couldn’t come in. A smart horse, he was. I took him my bread, and Mother cried...he recognized me on the train.” Gypsy spat off another nonexistent tobacco crumb and bared his teeth. “Gypsy recognized me, ye follow?”
    A gnat buzzed thin and high in the air between them.
    “He, while he still knew himself, said he had a girl somewhere,” Gypsy said abruptly, and without any connection to the previous topic. It sounded like a question, a feeling out. “Marichka she’s called.”
    “’Round here, they’ve got two Marichkas in every yard,” Adrian grumbled, sharper than he’d meant it. Gypsy, however, nodded with almost visible satisfaction, as though it was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. As if it provided further proof for some personal theory of his: for example, that everything in the world is vanity of vanities and chasing after the wind. He must make a heck of a soldier, Adrian thought. A good—a tough—one. The angry ones—those usually burn out fast. But this guy—he’s already burned into slag; he’ll last forever.
    They were quiet for a bit longer. The wordless understanding they’d found for a moment hung between them, then passed, and both felt it go. Gypsy stood up first. “Should we go, or what?”
    When they came back, Ash was gone. He left behind his dead body, which needed to be taken out and buried.
    That day Adrian really came to appreciate Yaroslav. Without him they would’ve turned into a pack of snarling dogs—everyone’s nerves had been worn to shreds, or, as Gypsy put it, gone to hell in a handcart. The priest served the parastás and stayed with them for the wake. Outside, a generous, thick rain fell watering Ash’s fresh grave—it seemed nature itself burst with tears, mourning the boy who couldn’t be mourned by a bride or his family; the drip-drop of water into tins under the vents coalesced in Adrian’s mind into the same, repeated bit of doleful song: “Neither Father’ll cry for me, nor my dear mother, re-la-re-mi-faa-mi,” and the next lineclawed its way in, “only will cry after me three fair lasses.... ” Of all things, he could do without wondering who would mourn
him
if he died—he knew, however, that others were thinking about it, too, could feel the morbid, unwanted ideas about the inevitable end to their struggle take shape in their minds; these always came when one of them perished—you bury a bit of yourself—but he didn’t know how to change it.
    He filled a barrel with rainwater simply to be doing something; Rachel boiled new potatoes, skin on, and Orko, in violation of the ban, mixed a sniff of his alcohol with water—to be drunk in the memory of the departed. Yaroslav told them the news: in such-and-such village they arrested a truck full of people who refused to join the kolkhoz, but our boys freed them in a fight around R., and there were wounded; in the other one, the turncoats wanted to ambush Woodsman, spent three days waiting for him in the village head’s house, got pissed as farts, shot holes in the ceiling, and Woodsman never came. Yaroslav purposely conveyed the simplest, most common news that everyone was curious to hear; Ash, too, would have been, had he been alive; and somehow Yaroslav made it feel as though the dead man had not left them at all, quite the opposite—could now, having been freed from the burden of his suffering body, join them at leisure and hear something he was curious to know. And Yaroslav kept talking to oblige him. In the same level, soft-as-silk voice, Yaroslav addressed the soul of the departed, inviting it to share their meal one last time; they prayed like respectful children at a village home where the oldest son had gone out into the world and learned something that they, the younger ones, were not yet to know—passed his leaving exams or joined the army.
    The candle burned evenly in the corner; spoons clacked, noses ran—from the drink and the rich potato steam savored by Ash’s soul, side by side with the living, and a heavy, complacent warmth filled their bodies; without anyone really noticing, Yaroslav tamed