Texas Pages

SOVIET UNION
UKRAINE
VILLAGE OF CHERVOY
25 JANUARY 1933

Since Maria had decided to die her cat would have to fend
for itself. She'd already cared for it far beyond the point where
keeping a pet made any sense. Rats and mice had long since
been trapped and eaten by the villagers. Domestic animals had disappeared
shortly after that. All except for one, this cat, her companion
which she'd kept hidden. Why hadn't she killed it? She needed
something to live for; something to protect and love--something to
survive for. She'd made a promise to continue feeding it up until
the day she could no longer feed herself. That day was today. She'd
already cut her leather boots into thin strips, boiled them with nettles
and beetroot seeds. She'd already dug for earthworms, sucked
on bark. This morning in a feverish delirium she'd gnawed the leg
of her kitchen stool, chewed and chewed until there were splinters
jutting out of her gums. Upon seeing her the cat had run away, hiding
under the bed, refusing to show itself even as she'd knelt down,
calling its name, trying to coax it out. That had been the moment
Maria decided to die, with nothing to eat and nothing to love.
Maria waited until nightfall before opening her front door. She
reckoned that by the cover of darkness her cat stood a better chance
of reaching the woods unseen. If anyone in the village caught sight
of it they'd hunt it. Even this close to her own death, the thought
of her cat being killed upset her. She comforted herself with the
knowledge that surprise was on its side. In a community where
grown men chewed clods of earth in the hope of finding ants or
insect eggs, where children picked through horse [expletive] in the hope
of fi nding undigested husks of grain and women fought over the
ownership of bones, Maria was sure no one believed that a cat could
still be alive.
. . .
Pavel couldn't believe his eyes. It was awkward, thin, with green
eyes and black-speckled fur. It was unmistakably a cat. He'd been
collecting firewood when he saw the animal dart from Maria Antonovna's
house, cross the snow-covered road, and head toward the
woods. Holding his breath, he glanced around. No one else had spotted
it. There was no one else about; no lights at the windows. Wisps
of smoke, the only sign of life, rose from less than half the chimney
stacks. It was as though his village had been snuffed out by the heavy
snowfall; all signs of life extinguished. Much of the snow lay undisturbed:
there were hardly any footprints and not a single path had
been dug. Days were as quiet as the nights. No one got up to work.
None of his friends played, staying in their houses where they lay with
their families huddled in beds, rows of enormous sunken eyes staring
up at the ceiling. Adults had begun to look like children, children
like adults. Most had given up scavenging for food. In these circumstances
the appearance of a cat was nothing short of miraculous--the
reemergence of a creature long since considered extinct.
Pavel closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he'd
eaten meat. When he opened his eyes he was salivating. Spit ran
down the side of his face in thick streams. He wiped it away with
the back of his hand. Excited, he dropped his pile of sticks and ran
home. He had to tell his mother, Oksana, the remarkable news.
. . .
Oksana sat wrapped in a wool blanket staring at the fl oor. She
remained perfectly still, conserving energy as she devised ways of
keeping her family alive, thoughts which occupied her every waking
hour and every fretful dream. She was one of the few who'd not
given up. She would never give up. Not as long as she had her sons.
But determination itself wasn't enough, she had to be careful: a misjudged
endeavor could mean exhaustion, and exhaustion invariably
meant death. Some months ago Nikolai Ivanovich, a neighbor and
friend, had embarked on a desperate raid upon a State granary. He
had not returned. The next morning Nikolai's wife and Oksana had
gone looking for him. They'd found his body by the roadside, lying
on his back--a skeletal body with an arched, stretched stomach, his
belly pregnant with the uncooked grain he'd swallowed in his dying
moments. The wife had wept while Oksana removed the remaining
grain from his pockets, dividing it between them. On their return
to the village Nikolai's wife had told everyone the news. Instead of
being pitied she'd been envied, all anyone could think about were
the handfuls of grain she possessed. Oksana had thought her an
honest fool--she'd put them both in danger.
Her recollections were interrupted by the sound of someone running.
No one ran unless there was important news. She stood up,
fearful. Pavel burst into the room and breathlessly announced:
--Mother, I saw a cat.
She stepped forward and gripped her son's hands. She had to be
sure he wasn't imagining things: hunger could play tricks. But his
face showed no sign of delirium. His eyes were sharp, his expression
serious. He was only ten years old and already he was a man. Circumstances
demanded that he forgo his childhood. His father was
almost certainly dead: if not dead then dead to them. He'd set off
toward the city of Kiev in the hope of bringing back food. He'd never
returned and Pavel understood, without needing to be told or consoled,
that his father would never return. Now Oksana depended upon
her son as much as he depended upon her. They were partners and
Pavel had sworn aloud that he'd succeed where his father had failed:
he'd make sure his family stayed alive.
Oksana touched her son's cheek.
--Can you catch it?
He smiled, proud:
--If I had a bone.
The pond was frozen. Oksana rooted through the snow to find a
rock. Concerned that the sound would attract attention, she wrapped
the rock in her shawl, muffling the noise as she punctured a small
hole in the ice. She put the rock down. Bracing herself for the black,
freezing water, she reached in, gasping at the cold. With only seconds
before her arm would become numb she moved quickly. Her
hand touched the bottom and clutched nothing but silt. Where was
it? Panicking, she leaned down, submerging all of her arm, searching
left and right, losing all feeling in her hand. Her fingers brushed
glass. Relieved, she took hold of the bottle and pulled it out. Her
skin had turned shades of blue, as though she'd been punched. That
didn't concern her--she'd found what she was looking for, a bottle
sealed shut with tar. She wiped away the layer of silt on the side and
peered at the contents. Inside was a collection of small bones.
Returning to the house, she found that Pavel had stoked the fire.
She warmed the seal over the fl ames, tar dripping onto the embers
in sticky globs. While they waited Pavel noticed her bluish skin
and rubbed her arm, restoring the circulation, ever attentive to her
needs. With the tar melted, she tipped the bottle upside down and
shook. Several bones snagged on the rim. She pulled them free, offering
them to her son. Pavel studied them carefully, scratching the
surface, smelling each one. Having made his selection he was ready
to leave. She stopped him:
--Take your brother.
Pavel thought this a mistake. His younger brother was clumsy and
slow. And anyway the cat belonged to him. He'd seen it, he'd catch
it. It would be his victory. His mother pressed a second bone into
his hand:
--Take Andrei.