Sorrow and the Grain Ch 1-20

                Sorrow and the Grain.
                By Vladimir Vorobiev Abadensky





Chapter 1 – The Plowing
Poltava region. Summer of 1932. The sun hung over the fields like a copper basin — dull and joyless. Somewhere around June, the larks stopped singing. The wheat still grew — thick, ripening — yet the air already carried something foreign. Something ominous.

In the village of Hnilyi Yar, they had been plowing since spring. Just like every year. The horses — those that remained, those not requisitioned for the district — pulled the plows. The men worked in silence. No shouting. No laughter. Not even the old songs.

Stepan Trofimovich, gray-haired, sinewy, with hands like acacia roots, led the horse and the plow. Behind him — the earth. Black as sin. Deep as memory.

“The soil’s heavy this year,” he muttered over his shoulder to his son. “Feels like it’s holding back. Doesn’t want to give in.”

Hryhory, his son, followed behind, carrying the harrow. He said nothing. No one did — as if they all sensed: this might be the last plowing. Though no one spoke it aloud. In the village, people had started speaking less and less.

That spring, the procurement officer had come. His name sounded like a city man’s — Holubev. Pale face, well-fed. Polished boots, loud voice. He gathered the villagers by the school and declared:

“Comrades! Your task is to fulfill the grain requisition quota.”

And he named a number — so high that people exchanged stunned glances.

“Not even the Tsar took that much,” someone whispered.
“Well, now you must. For the country. For the Five-Year Plan. For the future.”

So they plowed. However they could. They plowed knowing full well: whatever grew would be taken. But not plowing — that was worse. Then they’d come with rifles and take everything.

In the hut, the air smelled of smoke, cabbage, and fear. Maria, Hryhory’s wife, stood by the stove. Nearby — the children. Fyodor, the eldest, seventeen, silent like his father. Nastya, fourteen, went to school, reading a book about Magellan. Little Misha — only five — chewed on a piece of flatbread and stared out the window.

Maria looked at the children and had only one thought:
To survive.
To protect them all.
So that none of them would die — not of hunger, not of the regime.

Neighbor Zinaida came by that afternoon, sat by the threshold.

“Did you hear? In Berezovka they cleared out all the grain. Even from cellars.”
“How could they?” Maria gasped.
“That’s how. New law. Everything belongs to the state now.”

Maria sat beside her. Embraced Zina. Both fell silent. Suddenly it was clear: the old world had ended. Even bread was no longer yours.

In the fall, the searches began. Drunken Komsomol boys — locals. Yesterday they had begged for milk. Today they smashed door latches.

“Where’s the hidden grain?”
“We have nothing…”
“Then you’re hiding it.”

They dug through trunks, pits, stoves.

At Stepan’s house, they found a small sack of barley. Seed grain. They took it. Called it “excess.”

“It’s not for eating… it’s for spring,” Hryhory whispered.
“Spring will be for the people. You’ll sow in the collective fields.”

And they left. Without a goodbye.

Then came the rumors. In Krasna Hora — five children buried in one day. In Sukhy Loh — a woman lay beside her dead child for three days, unable to leave. In the Upper Hamlet — the village head hanged himself. No trial.

People stopped speaking. Words became dangerous.

Only Stepan Trofimovich refused to be silent. One day he stepped into the middle of the street, looked to the sky.

“Lord, where are You?”

Like a cry. Like a plea.

“Grandpa, don’t shout,” Fyodor whispered. “They’ll take you for that.”
“Let them take me,” the old man murmured. “But they can’t take the soul.”

Then the snow came. And with it — hunger. Real. Ruthless. Unflinching.
There was no bread. No grain. Sugar had disappeared in summer.
People ate goosefoot. Boiled tree bark into soup.
Mother cooked shoes. Then the cat. Then the dog.

In January, the neighbor died.
In February — the woman next door.
In March — a mother of three. The children remained.

In April, the whisper spread:

“In the stanitsa, they were selling human flesh at the market.”
“What?”
“Meat. Children’s.”
“Dear God…”

But God was no longer there.
Only cold. Hunger. Fear.
And the earth.
The same earth they had plowed in summer.

All that spring, Stepan went to the fields. Watching. Silent. Sometimes kneeling. Not in prayer. Just pressing his forehead to the soil.

“Forgive us,” he whispered. “Forgive us for failing.
The bread. The life. The soul.”

End of Chapter One.

Chapter 2 – Black Boards
Winter of 1932 arrived without warning. Snow fell soundlessly, but with the clear intention of staying. The wind howled like wolves, and inside the hut, it became not just cold — but tomb-like, suffocating.

The Trofimovich family had no bread. None at all. Only a handful of goosefoot, a couple of frozen potatoes, and an onion that the old woman hid in her headscarf.
“We won’t touch it,” she said. “Not unless the little one gets worse.”

The little one was Misha. He wasn’t even six. He hadn’t spoken for three days. Just lay under a sheepskin, staring at the ceiling with eyes that looked ninety years old. Children grow up fast when they’re fed not by their mother, but by hunger.

On the fifth of December, a letter arrived. A notice from the district center. Red seal. Crooked signature: “The village of Hnilyi Yar has been placed on the blacklist.”

The blacklist wasn’t a metaphor. It was a sentence. It meant: no trade, no deliveries, no permission to leave, searches in every home. Not even a cow could be bought — no one would sell. Not even kindling could be brought in — it was forbidden.

“For what?” Hryhory asked.
“For failing to meet the quota,” the local officer replied, avoiding his gaze.

He was from a neighboring village himself, had herded geese with them just last fall. But now — he was the authority. He spoke softly, but enforced harshly.
“There’s bread somewhere. Hidden. We’ll find it.”

And they began. They came in pairs. Scoured attics. Tore open stoves. Flipped trunks. Kicked pots. Once, they overturned a coffin in a widow’s home — thought something was hidden under the corpse. Found nothing.

Then they started interrogations. Old folks, women, children. Anyone who might “know.” One day, Nastya’s classmate — Pashka Nelyubov — didn’t return. They said he’d run away. A day later, he was found in a ravine. No food. No footprints. Fingers blue, lips twisted. Nastya came home, collapsed on the stove, and fell silent. She didn’t speak again until spring.

“You believe them?” Stepan Trofimovich asked one day.
“Believe who?” Hryhory replied.
“Those who say, ‘It’s all for the country.’ That it’s temporary. That it’ll all get better.”
Hryhory said nothing.
“I saw this in twenty-one,” the old man said. “But that was famine. This — this is calculation.”

Each day, the village emptied. People left — if they could. If not, they just disappeared.

One morning, Maria woke and saw a woman in the field. Barefoot, in a single dress, staring at the sun. Maria called out — no response. She walked closer — the woman was dead. Died standing. Frozen like that.

In January, the denunciations began.
“The Ivanovs are hiding flour.”
“Petro has grain in his cellar.”
“Pelageya’s hiding lard under the floor.”

Nothing was ever found. But they searched. Activists wrote everything in notebooks. Then they went house to house — checking. Looking at children. At hands. At stomachs. If someone didn’t look thin enough — it meant they were eating. It meant they were stealing from the state.

That’s how Baba Klava was accused. Her cheeks were full — swollen from water retention. They beat her. She died two days later. Her daughter, seven-year-old Anya, went to the district center for help. She vanished.

In February, a new decree came to the village: “Baking bread using firewood is forbidden. Fuel is state property.”

So they started eating raw. Chewed grain if they found even a handful. Ate dog food. One old man ate his boots.

Maria held on. Tried to feed the children — with whatever she could. But soon there was no bark, no grass. She began boiling clay. Ground it up, dried it, mixed it with water and cooked it like soup. Misha ate. At first. Then he stopped. He died quietly. Just closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

Stepan Trofimovich buried him himself. No coffin. Just the sheepskin. Behind the garden. Then he sat down beside the grave and stayed until nightfall. Hryhory stood behind him, didn’t interrupt. Maria lay inside the house. She didn’t cry. Just rocked back and forth, back and forth.

In March, the snow began to melt. Beneath it — dead birds, dogs, human hands. In one house, they found a stove with a leg inside. A child’s leg. It was a family no one had seen since January. When they came — all were dead. Only the father was still warm. In his hand — a knife.

They nailed a sign to the house: “Perished due to sabotage. To disobey is to betray.”

And again the searches began. Again — blacklists. Again — raids. Yet spring was already breathing. The snow dripped from roofs. The smell of earth returned. But no one rejoiced. Spring now felt like mockery. Like bread you cannot eat. Like life you no longer want.

Chapter 3 – Easter Without God
Spring came like a dying man. Not bringing joy, but amnesia. The snow melted, and from beneath it rose not life — but death. Darkened bodies. Bones. Swollen hands. A child’s shoe on one. Only one shoe.

Outside, the air didn’t smell of earth, but of damp flesh. No one in the village dyed eggs. No one baked Easter bread. No one went to church — because there was no church. It had been dismantled for firewood in winter. All that remained was a charred cross and a cracked bell. It lay in the snow like God’s knocked-out tooth.

“Easter will be in the heart,” Maria whispered. But in her heart — there was only emptiness.

All of April, they buried the dead. No graves — just ditches. Family members, strangers, however it happened. Old Euphrosyne died. Then her granddaughter, nine-year-old Olenka. Then they came for the dog. And then — for the woman who had hidden the dog and shared it between three.

Fyodor Trofimovich, seventeen, walked to the city — looking for food, for bread, for anything. He returned four days later. On foot. Empty-handed. And hollow-eyed.

“It’s the same there,” he said. “Just cleaner. You don’t see the dead. They hide them.”

At night, the village echoed with a moan. Not a scream. Not a song. A moan. A mother who lost her children. An old man left alone. A boy who ate raw manure hoping to find a grain. A woman holding a dead doll like a baby. She later burned — along with her house.

That Easter in Hnilyi Yar, no one stepped out at dawn. No one said “Christ is risen.” Not because they didn’t believe. But because they couldn’t open their mouths.

Old Trofimovich went to the place where Misha was buried. He sat down. Took out a piece of bread — the last one. Placed it on the ground. And said:
“Forgive us, son. This is for you. And we… we’ll manage somehow.”

Nastya — silent since spring — sat by the stove and drew. With her finger on the floor. Using ash. She drew faces. One. Two. Three. And every face — was dead.

“Who are they?” Hryhory would ask.
She remained silent. Then whispered:
“They’re the ones God didn’t remember.”

At the end of April, a newly appointed commissioner arrived in the village. Young, in a leather jacket, with a suitcase. Looked at everything like it was a report. Sat down, pulled out papers.

“Population: 412 people.
Living: 198.
Working hands: 94.
Children under 10: 6.
Households fit for labor: 11.
Deaths from sabotage: 97.”

Sabotage.

He didn’t write down names. Said a commission would come. It never did.

By Trinity Sunday, the village no longer breathed. Children — like shadows. Women — like bones in headscarves. Men — like poles. They stood in silence. No longer asked. No longer prayed. No longer cursed. They simply were.

That day Maria walked into the field. Alone. And lay down on the earth. The same soil they had plowed last summer. Now — like concrete. Not because it was hard. But because it was dead.

She lay down and wept. For the first time.

“Lord,” she whispered, “even for a moment. Just one second. Show me that You exist.”

And at that moment, a breeze passed over her. Warm. Gentle. Like a breath. 
It didn’t answer. But it didn’t turn away. 
Maria smiled. For the first time. And the last.

Chapter 4 – The Seed
Spring came early, but not for everyone. The snow melted quickly, as if in a hurry to free the ground. But the ground wasn’t waiting for warmth — it had turned cruel, hardened. Nothing grew on it but fear. In the village of Hnilyi Yar, fewer than a hundred souls remained, each one like a candle stub in the wind. Those who had survived the winter no longer kept silent — they simply no longer wanted anything.

At the end of March, a truck arrived. Chalked on its side: “Commission.” Three men in leather jackets jumped out, along with two soldiers holding rifles. The lead man carried a folder thick as a stump. He went straight to the village council. The others began searching houses.

“By order of the district committee, an inspection for sabotage begins,” the official declared at the club. “All able-bodied residents are to report to the square.”

The people came. Not out of fear — they no longer knew how to hide. Hryhory stood in the front row. His son, Fyodor, beside him.

“Grain delivery was sabotaged,” the official continued. “The quota was not fulfilled. The peasants are evading labor discipline.”
“We’re dying out,” someone said.
“That’s no excuse,” the official snapped.

They began interrogations.
“You didn’t go to the field on March 12?”
“It was freezing. The ground was stone…”
“Violation.”
“You didn’t surrender root vegetables?”
“We ate them all.”
“Then you concealed them.”
“And you?”
“I’m a widower. Alone.”
“Dangerous. One is harder to control.”

Within an hour, ten people were taken behind the club. Five of them still strong enough to work. Fyodor was among them. Hryhory tried to speak up, but the two soldiers blocked his path.

“Will he come back?” Maria asked.
“They’ll process him and return him,” a soldier said. But he never returned.

Two days later, new notices were distributed. Thick black borders, bold print: “ENEMIES OF COLLECTIVIZATION.” Names. Ages. Details: who failed to deliver, who allegedly hid supplies. Baba Klava — for “unauthorized baking.” She made flatbread from oilcake. Stepan Dronov — for saying “the authorities lie.” The Palagin family — for “silence.” Yes, just silence. No denunciations, no songs, no reports.

In April, mass removals began. Those who remained were taken at night. No questions. No explanations. One man drove corpses — he survived. Another was killed for refusing to sign a “confession.” Some signed everything: “I admit,” “I regret,” “Please transfer me.” And still disappeared.

The commission labeled Nastya “socially inactive.”
“She doesn’t participate,” the new official said.
“She harms no one,” Trofimovich replied.
“That’s also a form of resistance.”
“She’s fourteen!”
“So what?”

In May, the village was listed again. Now as “destructively passive.” No rations. No trade. Aiding a convict — execution. Hiding a sick person — imprisonment. Complaining — deportation to a special settlement.

An old farm was turned into a transfer station. People sat in cages — like hens. Some mumbled prayers, others cursed. Nastya stood by the wire mesh, watching. What frightened her most wasn’t them — it was herself, for getting used to the sight.

Trofimovich walked the fields. They were empty. No plows, no people, no birds. He placed his hand on the soil and said:
“Forgive us. We were seed, but gave no growth.”
“They didn’t plant us,” Nastya whispered. “They buried us.”

One day, a man came to the village. Alone. No papers. He sat near the old church ruins. Stared at the rubble. A day later, they identified him — he had served in the cleansing squad. He had been on the firing team in the Ravine. Now, he was silent. Nastya approached him:

“Did you shoot?”
He nodded.
“Do you regret it?”
He nodded.
“Can you live with it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Well, we live with the fact that you remained.”

No one celebrated Trinity Sunday. They just drank water. Just sat. A child found a flower. Showed it to an old woman.
“Is this alive?”
“Yes. But only one.”
“So not everything’s dead?”
“No. It means — a seed.”

Chapter 5 – The Trace of Rain
The rain came on the night of Ivan Kupala. Quietly, without thunder or lightning. It simply dripped, as if someone above were smearing tears across the sky. First on rooftops, then on the ground, then on the lids of coffins in the abandoned cemetery beyond the village.

The old folks said it meant the earth was forgiving. But there were few young people left, and the children no longer believed in signs. Rain was just rain. Cold. Gray. But still — rain. After so many months when nothing had fallen but tears and blood.

Nastya was the first to wake. She had dreamed of water. Not a river, not a well — just clean water. Alive, clear, like before. She got up and stepped out onto the porch. The rain touched her face. She didn’t move. She simply stood there, drinking it with her skin.

“Alive,” she whispered. “It’s alive.”

Inside, Maria stirred. A hoarse cough, the floor creaked.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
“Is it coming?”
“Yes.”
“For long?”
“Let it stay even for a minute. Just let it fall.”
“Rain is a trace. Not a beginning. Understand?”

Nastya didn’t answer. She was already walking through the yard. Barefoot. In a wet shirt. Face uncovered. Her feet stuck in the mud, but she didn’t notice. Every step had meaning. As if each one left behind not a footprint, but a prayer. Or a scream.

The village was empty. Even those who remained hid away. Not from the rain — from memory. Memory now burned hotter than the sun. In every yard — silence. In every window — shadow. In every heart — a graveyard.

Nastya reached the former school. The flagpole still stood, bare. The roof had collapsed, lilac bushes grew from broken windows. In one of the classrooms, there had once been a pile of corpses — those who were never buried.

She went to the wall. Ran her hand along the plaster. Found scratches. Childlike. “Fyodor,” “Pavlik,” “Mama” — simple words carved by nails, a knife, a stick. She placed her palm over the letters and closed her eyes.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I remember everything. I live for you.”

By morning, the rain still poured. In the hut, Maria brewed herbs — what was left from last summer.
“Where did you go last night?” she asked.
“Out.”
“Why?”
“To remember.”
“You already carry too much on your heart.”
“Then it will hold.”

Old Trofimovich lay on the stove. He hadn’t spoken for two weeks. Drank water, stared at the ceiling.
“He hears,” Nastya said. “He just has nothing left to say.”
“He’s buried too much. Including inside himself.”

At noon, an official arrived from the district. Alone. Young. Clean uniform. Briefcase.
“Good day,” he said. “I’m here for the census.”
“No one was born here,” Maria said.
“I’m recording the survivors.”
“Then you’re the scribe of the dead.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Forgive me. It’s the job.”

He wrote down names. With dates. Some without names. Just “boy, 7 years.” Or “girl, mute.” At the end, he said:
“I’ve seen hundreds of villages. But your eyes are different.”
“We don’t have eyes,” Nastya replied. “We see through. You just don’t understand it.”

The official left. His briefcase soaked. The papers blurred.

In the evening, Nastya sat by the gate. Two children played nearby. They didn’t laugh. They just silently pushed a stone across the ground.
“Is that football?” she asked.
“No,” the boy answered. “It’s a grave.”
“Why two?”
“One digs, the other buries.”

She didn’t cry. She had no more tears. Only rain.

The next day, Maria lit the stove. Dried clothes. Dried crusts of bread. Nastya brought an old notebook.
“What’s that?” Maria asked.
“I’m going to write.”
“About what?”
“About them.”
“You don’t know how.”
“But I remember.”

Nastya opened the first page. Wrote two words: “I remained.”

That evening, they brought in a body. A girl, about seven. Eyes open, skin translucent like thin ice. Her stomach full of grass. Just grass. No words could suffice. Only the wind howled down the street, and the rain washed the blood from her legs.

Maria silently sat by the door, staring at one spot. Nastya couldn’t bear it.
“Will we bury her?”
“You think anyone’s coming?”
“We’ll do it…”
“We’re children too,” Maria whispered.

No one came to the burial. Only Nastya and the earth. Wet. Damp. Still full of last year’s bones. Nastya dug with her hands. Silently. There were tears — but the rain washed them away.

On Trinity Sunday, no one celebrated. They simply sat, like in a church without a priest. Each with a God they no longer heard. Trofimovich stepped out of the house and sat on the porch. Wordless. Motionless. His gaze was ice.

Nastya came up to him:
“Do you see?”
He nodded.
“It’s a trace.”
“A trace of rain,” he said.

Chapter 6 – Born of Silence
Those who survived no longer spoke. Not because they couldn’t — but because there were no words left. Mouths existed, voices too — but not meaning. Only trembling hands remained. Eyes fixed to the ground. And memory, rotting inside like a corpse in a cellar.

A boy named Yashka hadn’t spoken in three months. He wasn’t mute. He had simply gone silent. The last thing he said was: “Mama left.” Since then — not a word. He drew. With charcoal, on walls, on the floor, on his own skin. Always the same things — crosses. Big, small, with heads and without. Sometimes just mounds with a dot in the center. People said, “They’re graves.” He didn’t confirm or deny. Just kept drawing.

Nastya fed him with a spoon. He didn’t resist. Sat like an old man. After eating, he’d sit by the wall and keep drawing. Maria said, “He’s exorcising death.” Nastya nodded: “He’s teaching us how not to lose our minds.”

In the next house lived Baba Teklya. She had no one left. Her husband died during dekulakization, her son — in winter, while searching for bread, her daughter — from typhus. Only the doll remained. A real one. Stuffed with straw. She called her Liza. Placed her on the stove. Combed her hair. Fed her. Laid her to sleep. And sang lullabies. Every evening.

“She’s warm,” Teklya said. “See? She breathes. Just quietly. She’s shy.”

Nastya didn’t argue. Just stood in the doorway and watched. Then left a crust of bread by the doorstep. Teklya thanked her with a nod. Spoke to the doll: “Look, auntie came.” The doll stayed silent. Teklya too. But her gaze was more alive than most.

At the edge of the village stood a shack. A woman lived there. Nameless. They called her simply — “the whisperer.” Every night she sat by the window, muttering. At first they thought — prayers. Then they realized: names. Children’s. Women’s. Men’s. Alphabetically. From memory. With pauses. Sometimes repeating. One day Nastya overheard:

“Lena, Lyonya, Liuska, Lidka… forgive me, Lidka… who next? Misha… Mishenka… Mishutka…”

Graves began to appear at the cemetery. No crosses. Just mounds. Sometimes a twig. Sometimes a scrap of cloth. No one dug deep anymore. The earth had turned hard as stone. And so had the people.

A twelve-year-old boy dug a pit behind the bathhouse. Nastya asked:
“Why?”
He replied simply:
“Just in case.”

No one laughed. No one scolded. Maria said:
“That’s wise. We should dig too. So they don’t have to toss us.”

Spring came like a traitor. Leaves unfolded on trees as if nothing had happened. The sun warmed. A cuckoo cried in the woods. People stared in silence. It seemed nature itself had forgotten who had died here.

Nastya took the old notebook. Sat by the window. Wrote. Not like a writer. Like a witness.
“If I don’t write — it was all for nothing.”
Maria said:
“Even if you do — it was all for nothing. They won’t understand. They won’t believe.”
“I’m not writing for them. I’m writing for those who come after.”

And she wrote. About Teklya and the doll. About Yashka and his crosses. About the woman without a name. About the boy with the grave. About the grandmothers who no longer cried. About the children who no longer called themselves children. About herself too. How she stayed silent. How she was afraid. How she learned to walk among corpses without weeping.

One day, a man came to the village. On foot. In a tattered coat. From somewhere far. He sat by the well. Drank water. In silence. No one questioned him. Two days later, he began to speak:
“I thought we were the only ones. But you’re like us. Just quieter.”

He stayed. Lived in an empty hut. Tended a garden. Kept silent with the others. They gave him a name: Simply. Simply — that’s all.

Only on the Feast of the Savior did Nastya return to the school. The same one where she once drew. Where the walls still held the scent of death. She took a rag. Began to scrub. Slowly. One letter at a time. One scratch at a time. And said:

“Not because I forget. But because it’s time to speak again.”

Chapter 7 – The Earth That Remembers
That year, spring was like a fairy tale. Like in an old book — with the scent of apple blossoms, sparrows on the branches, and a soft sun that settled on your back like a warm shawl. The cherry trees bloomed so thick it seemed a white cloud hovered over the village. No one would have guessed this land was a cemetery. No one but the land itself.

The earth knew. Beneath its skin lay those who were never, could never be, properly buried. In the fields — children. In the forests — mothers. By the riverbank — the elderly. It kept them all. And when flowers bloomed — they were the words never spoken. When wind stirred the grass — it was their voices. When rain tapped the windows — it was their tears.

Nastya woke early. The window was open. The air smelled of grass, river mist, and fresh bread that didn’t exist. She rose, stepped to the door, and looked outside. Everything was green. Alive. Except the village — dead.

Children didn’t play. Women didn’t sing. Men didn’t smoke on benches. Only silence. So thick you could hear a fly tapping the glass.

“Nature is mocking us,” Maria said. “Everything blooms, and we rot.”
“Maybe it’s saving us,” Nastya replied. “So we don’t go mad.”
“No. It just doesn’t see us. It doesn’t care.”

On the slope where snowdrops grew, they found a body. A girl, about ten. Thin as a stick. Eyes closed. In her hand — a wreath of dandelions. Someone — one of the surviving children — had placed a headless rag doll beside her.

Nastya sat nearby. Watched as a butterfly landed on the girl's face. Sunny-yellow. Delicate. It fluttered its wings and didn’t fly away. As if saying: “Look, I’m still here. I stayed.”

They buried the girl right there. Among the flowers. Without words. Without a name. The earth took her as it had taken all. Gently. Like a mother.

Old Trofimovich stood off to the side. His eyes held no tears. Only pain — crusted like rust on iron.
“Nature is beautiful,” he said. “And we get in her way. So she cleans herself.”

That spring, the women began planting again. Some — onions, some — carrots, some — just beans. Not out of hope. Out of habit. Because hands could not stay idle.

Sprouts bloomed in the garden beds. And at night, the old quietly died nearby. No cries. No moans. Just stopped breathing.

A boy found an old calendar in an attic. It had a picture — a horse in a field. He sat and stared at it endlessly.
“What are you doing?” Nastya asked.
“I want to go there. Where the horse is. Where the sun is.”
“That’s not a place. That’s the past.”
“I thought it was heaven.”

Maria sewed shirts from old bedsheets. Not for the living. For the dead. She folded them into a chest.
“So they won’t go naked.”
“They don’t care anymore.”
“But I do.”

At night, screams echoed again. From the old club:
“Open up! I know where the bread is!” 
When Nastya entered — no one. Only bare walls. And echo.

One day, they found a woman in the field. Naked. Covered in mud. Alive. But she wouldn’t look up. Only down.
“Your name?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“There.”
“Where’s there?”
“Where the children cry. And can’t cry anymore.”

Nastya washed her. Fed her. A week later, the woman said:
“I heard the grass calling me by name. But people — never.”

It rained for three days. Torrents. Mud washed away paths. Flowed under doors. Nastya sat on the porch. In her hands — a letter. Written to herself. 
“I’m not dead. As long as I remember, I’m alive. As long as I write — I haven’t surrendered.”

Trofimovich built a wooden sign. Wrote on it: 
“People lived here.” 
And drove it into the ground at the village entrance. 
“Not so they’d know. So they’d be afraid to forget.”

Nastya walked into the field. Everything was in bloom. Poppies. Bellflowers. Yarrow. 
And beneath them — death. 
She knelt down, took a handful of earth.
“Do you remember them all?” she asked.

The earth stayed silent. But Nastya knew — it did. 
It remembered. Every one. Even those no one else did.

Chapter 8 – When the Shadow Returns
Summer came suddenly. Like a fire. Everything bloomed, sang, stirred. Except the children didn’t come out. They were simply gone. No laughter, no footsteps, no barefoot races down the dusty road. Empty. As if someone had cut them out of life.

The old men sat in the shade of barns. The women stared at the road. There were few young left. Some had left. Some didn’t survive. Some left and never returned.

And then he came back.

His name was Zakhar. Once — handsome, strong. A blacksmith. He knew how to joke. Knew how to drink. Women watched him. Men respected him. Then came the raids. The district officer arrived. With a list.

They didn’t take Zakhar then. They took others. The ones whose names matched the list.

Now he returned. In dusty clothes. With a satchel. His gaze direct — but lifeless.

“It’s him,” Maria said.
“It is,” Trofimovich nodded.

No one came to meet him. No one approached. He walked to the center of the village, sat on an old bench by the school. Silent.

Nastya watched him from the window. Then stepped outside. Slowly. Stood in front of him.

“Why are you alive?”

He didn’t answer.

“You knew they were coming for you. You knew who else they’d take. You knew!”

He nodded. His face — like scorched wood.

“You gave them our names?”
“I…” he began. “I didn’t want to. They…”
“You didn’t want to?” she cut him off. “And they wanted to die?”

He lowered his eyes. Nastya stood above him, like judgment.

“There’s no home for you here. No friends. Not even anyone left to curse you. Because — there are no children.”

He looked up. Nothing in his eyes.

“You want to stay?”
“I want to atone.”
“Atonement is for water. You’re in blood. Ours.”

Maria came forward, brought a bucket. Set it in front of him.
“You want to help? Carry water. For the garden. Until there’s a flower blooming on every grave.”

He took the bucket. Walked. People watched. No one stopped him. No one thanked him. No one forgave.

The next morning he came again. Took the bucket. Carried water. In silence.

A week later — again. A month — the same. He built a bench by the spring. Repaired the roof of an empty house. No one spoke to him. He didn’t expect it.

One day, a boy approached. One of the few. Born after.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m the one who remained.”
“Why?”
“Because I did wrong.”
“So you’re bad?”
“No. I’m alive.”

The boy sat beside him. Quiet. Then stood and left.

On the Feast of the Protection, Zakhar came to the school. There was a board. Names written by Nastya. Next to them — years of life. Sometimes just a year of death. Sometimes — a dash.

He stood. Looked for a long time. Then took a piece of chalk. Walked up. And beside his own name, wrote:

“Alive. But undeserved.”

No one erased it. No one added to it.

And that summer, everything bloomed. Poppies. Sunflowers. Nettles. The earth breathed. But not a single child’s voice was heard.

And the whole village knew: this summer had no future. No children. A living traitor. And a dead memory that smelled of mint and rotten soil.

Chapter 9 – The Women Who Remained
They didn’t choose to live. They simply didn’t die. And when everything quieted — the screams, the gunshots, the footsteps and the curses — only they remained. Women. Of different ages, bodies, and faiths. But equally tired. Equally silent.

Every morning, Maria walked to the stream with buckets. There was enough water, but walking was purpose. If you didn’t walk — you could go mad. She carried water, poured it on the empty garden. Not so anything would grow. So she wouldn’t forget what it was to care for something living.

Teklya still spoke to her doll. Sang it songs, told it who had come, who had gone. Sometimes sat with it on a bench, stroked its hair. No one interfered. No one laughed. Everyone knew: each had their own way to stay alive.

Nastya began writing things down. Every small detail. Who died where. Who was buried where. What a mother said when her last son was taken. How a woman in white stitched tiny crosses into her hem. Where the barrels once stood, hiding crumbs.

One day Nastya asked:
“Why didn’t you scream, when all of it started?”

Maria answered:
“Because no one would’ve heard us. And we needed strength to dig.”

At the cemetery, only women. They dug, they carried, they buried. The men who remained — couldn’t. Their arms wouldn’t rise. But the women — they did. Because they had to.

Old Yevdokiya placed three spoons on the table each night. One for her husband. One for her son. One for her daughter. None for herself. She’d sit and stare. Then wipe the table and lie down. She never said a word. Except once:

“If God exists, then now He must be a woman. Only a woman could endure this.”

Nastya walked alone down the street. A girl came toward her. Alive. New. From another village. They stood facing each other. The silence was heavy, like a bucket of filth.

“Who are you?” 
“I’m the daughter of the one who remained.” 
“And do you have anyone?” 
“Only the earth.”

That evening the women gathered near the school. For no reason. Just to be together. Someone brought bread. Someone — herbs. They sat in silence. Then Maria said:

“We didn’t just survive. We remained. And that’s worse.”

No one disagreed.

In a house at the village’s edge, they found a chest. Inside — letters. From women. To children. To the dead. Some were written on birch bark. Some — on scraps of cloth. “Forgive me, son, I couldn’t,” “You’re in heaven, I’m still here,” “Stay silent, daughter, silent like me.” Nastya gathered them all. Hid them in a box. Beneath the floor. Where no one would find them. So that one day. Someone. Might find and understand.

The silence in the village became feminine. It smelled of baked goosefoot, charcoal water, and old bedsheets. The women whispered names, stroked the earth, laid hands on the walls of huts and breathed — not for themselves, but for those inside.

In spring, they began planting again. Only the women. Only they knew how to hold a hoe when death was in their backs and children in their chests. The men drank. Or fell silent. Or disappeared. The women — remained.

On Trinity Sunday, Nastya stepped outside. All the women were dressed in white. Whatever white they could find. No wreaths. No songs. Just standing. In the middle of emptiness. In the middle of silence. Each holding a piece of cloth. White. Clean. Each knowing: in that cloth — she’d wrap the dead, if needed.

They stood like an army. No weapons. No commander. But with truth in their hearts.

Chapter 10 – After
The village survived. But it did not live. People walked. Breathed. Worked. But inside — nothing. Emptiness, scraped down to the bone. They no longer believed in the state, or the church, or even bread. Not even death — they didn’t believe in it. It had already happened.

Nastya continued to write each day. But her entries became short. Colorless. Meaningless. “Walked the street this morning — no one.” “Water in the well rose.” “Maria looked out the window. For a long time.”

The old men no longer gathered by the gates. There was nothing to say. Someone mentioned a cinema had opened in the district center. No one went. Not because it was far. But because — what for?

The school bell still rang. But no one came. The class register hung on the door. Empty lines. Sometimes, Nastya went in. Wiped the dust. Sat at a desk. Stared out the window. And thought: “Who needs this now?”

One man built a plow. Out of boards. Out of metal. He fixed it for days. Then walked into the field. Stood. Looked around. No horse. No helper. Just bare land. He sat down beside the plow. And never stood up again.

Every morning Maria walked to the station. Stood and looked at the tracks. Trains hadn’t run in years. But she waited. Silently. With a cloth bag. Inside — photographs, a crust of bread, a letter with no address.

Women gave birth less often. Some said: “Why? So they can be taken again?” One young woman gave birth. A month later she went into the woods. Left the child. They found him. Like a doll. Wrapped in a towel. Eyes open. Silent.

Empty houses lined the street. No one dismantled them. No one repaired. They stared with blind windows at the road. Sometimes — a door banging. Sometimes — the wind howling. Sometimes — a voice. But no one called. No one answered.

Nastya wrote: “Maybe this is hell. Not fire. Not screams. But this — when no one knows why to keep going. When hope dies quietly. Without a funeral.”

One day, a house burned. Old. Abandoned. It burned for hours, but no one came out. They watched from windows. Silently. No one ran for water. No one shouted. The fire was like a play. A reminder: we’re alive, but we no longer react.

An old man lost his voice. Simply stopped speaking. Doctors never came. He began writing in chalk on a board. “I’m alive.” Then — “I was.” Then he just sat with the board blank.

Old Ksenia embroidered a towel. Slowly, painstakingly. Patterns, letters, birds. Then she sat down and cried. For the first time in years. Because she realized: there was no one to give it to.

On Easter, no one baked bread. They just sat. Drank water. Stared at the ground. Only one old woman brought a basket. Inside — a stone, grass, and a pinch of salt. “Here’s your Easter,” she said. “With what’s left.”

Children appeared sometimes. New ones. Born after. They watched. Tried to understand. But no one explained. Just said: “Don’t ask. Look down. Work.”

At the cemetery, they began putting up crosses again. No names. No years. Just — “A person was here.” And silence.

Someone hung a sign on the well: “Not for quenching thirst. For remembrance.” People came, drank, wiped their lips, and looked at the sky. No questions. No thanks. Just — because one had to go on living.

In one hut, someone began painting flowers on the wall. Right over the cracks. A woman’s hand, a thin brush. First poppies. Then cornflowers. Then birds. A week later — she stopped. Stepped back and painted it all black. Silently.

In one of the fields, potatoes grew. Many. Large. People watched. Didn’t approach. For a week. Then someone pulled out a plant. Ate it raw. Silently. No salt. No thanks.

The old folks began sleeping during the day. At night — they couldn’t. Said the dreams got loud. As if the dead were calling. One got up and burned his bed. Moved to a bench.

At the end of her notebook, Nastya wrote: 
“We remained. But we don’t live. We walk. Breathe. Sleep. But inside — nothing. We were spared not for life. But for memory. So someone might one day say: they were. And it didn’t happen again. Though maybe — it’s only beginning.”

Chapter 11 – Bonfires and Lists
First came the lists. Real ones. With stamps. With signatures. In the lists — names, birth dates, and the note: “subject to eviction.” The village knew before the motors were heard.

In the morning, trucks appeared. Dust rose all the way to the horizon. In the beds — soldiers. From the doorways — mothers with bundles, old men with icons, children with spoons in their pockets. No one shouted. Only one boy asked, “Where are we going?”

The soldier answered, “East.”

“Is there bread?” a girl asked. 
“There’s land,” he replied.

The priest was taken first. Father Vasily. He had stayed in the village after the church was closed. Each evening he read prayers in the empty lot. Women came. They didn’t cross themselves — just listened.

“Father,” the officer said, “you are an enemy of the people.” 
“I’m dust. I’m nothing. Take me,” Vasily replied and stepped into the truck himself.

Two days later, he was shot behind the club wall. No trial. No paper. Just a list. Later, Maria found the shell. Wrapped it in cloth. Placed it in a chest. No inscription.

They came at night. Took them in threes, in fives. Sometimes — sevens. The word “eviction” sounded like a death sentence. They said “temporary resettlement,” “relocation to new lands,” “creation of a new labor base.” In reality — deportation to the hungry Siberia, to the Far East. Where there was nothing.

Nastya kept records: name, age, date of departure. Then crossed them out. Then wrote them again. Sometimes — just one word: “disappeared.”

The old church, closed the year before, was turned into a command post. The walls were peeling. Icons removed. Nastya walked in. Inside — a desk, lists, a stamp. A young lieutenant eating porridge from a mess tin. He said:

“All according to regulations.” 
“And your conscience — is that regulated too?” 
He didn’t answer.

When they came for Marta, mother of five, she stood next to her husband and said: 
“Together. Or not at all.” 
“He — execution. You — relocation.” 
“Then execution.”

And she stood by him. And went. They didn’t shoot. Not yet. Just tied them up. Then — vanished.

At the station where no passenger trains ran, they brought in cattle cars. No windows. No benches. People sat on the floor. Some — on bundles. Some — standing. Children didn’t cry out of fear. But hunger.

“Shall we take the hen?” a boy asked his mother. 
“Ask the soldier.” 
The soldier looked at him and said: 
“A hen is a luxury. You’re not entitled to luxuries. But you — are entitled.”

One old man ran. Across the field. They didn’t chase him. Didn’t shoot. Just let him go. Two days later, they found him hanging from an elm. Around his neck — a sign: “Better myself than on the list.”

Nastya opened her notebook again. Wrote slowly. Each line felt like a body: 
“Marina and her three children — taken. Said: the forest. Marta’s husband — dead. Father Vasily — killed. Shells found in the garden. Neighbor Zoya said — it’ll get worse. Church burned. Only the bell remains.”

The bell was removed. Broken down. For metal. One boy picked up a piece. Hid it under his pillow. Slept with it. Then disappeared. No one knew who. No one asked why.

Forty-seven people were taken from the village in one week. None returned. No letters came. From there — no one writes. From there — there’s only silence.

Nastya stood on a hill. Watched the last ones leave. One boy looked out the car window. She raised her hand. He didn’t. He no longer believed it was a farewell. Just — a shadow.

Those left behind were the ones who couldn’t walk. The blind. The sick. The old. They didn’t plead. They didn’t hide. They just sat in their homes. Waiting. Not for salvation. Not for trains. For an end.

Night. Wind. Silence. Barking dogs. A cry. A shot. Fire.

In the morning, a new list was posted at the club. Painted in black: “Cleansed.”

Beneath it, Nastya wrote in chalk: 
“They were. And you?”

Chapter 12 – Where the Earth Goes
They weren’t going to another place. They were going into nothing. The wagons creaked like an old man’s teeth in the wind. The smell — cold, coal, blood, and children’s urine. They traveled for weeks. Without stops. Without answers.

First, they stopped asking where the bread was. Then — where the water was. Then — where mama was. Then they asked nothing at all. Just lay still. Quiet. Blue lips. White fingers.

At one stop, soldiers opened the doors. Threw out three bodies. A woman screamed. A soldier struck her face. The door closed.

“Where are we going?” an old woman asked. 
“To the Molotov region,” they said. “To build. To new happiness.”

The wagons froze through. The floor — ice. People sat on bundles, on bodies, on sacks. A mother nursed her baby. Her breast was empty. The child sucked air. Then stopped.

At Bratsk station, they unloaded them immediately. Into the snow. It was forty below. They were given shovels. Told: “That way.” People walked. Fell. Got up. Walked again. One old man stayed down. No one helped. No one thought to.

The forest was quiet. Cold. Unknown. The pines stood like foreign soldiers. No squirrels. No birds. Only the crunch of snow and breath like steam from a dying body.

They were given axes. The ground was frozen. The forest — wild. The shelters — like beasts’. Dugouts. They dug with their hands. Slept huddled. One blanket — for five. Shared boots. Melted snow for water. No bread.

One woman tried to escape. Along the river. The ice cracked. Later, they found only her scarf. Red. On the snow. Like a scream.

In a month, a third had died. In two — half. In three — they stopped counting. Hares ran at night past the dugouts, leaving clean tracks across the white, as if something still lived rightly.

Nastya wrote: “Surroundings — forest. Around — no one. Work — felling. Bread — 200 grams. Water — snow. Bodies — nearby. Prayers — whispered. Faith — none. Only earth. And it is not ours.”

One boy began talking to the trees. Asked where papa was. Asked if heaven existed. Then fell silent. Then disappeared. All that remained was a hollow in the snow where he had sat looking up.

Soldiers came for firewood. They watched. Laughed. Sometimes gave salt. Sometimes a kick. Sometimes — nothing.

At night, they did roll call. The living answered their names. The others — were silent. The snow reflected the moon like a mirror with no faces.

One woman gave birth directly in the snow. The child breathed. Then froze. She wrapped him in her sweater. Placed him under a tree. And walked away. Returned in the morning. Sat beside him. And never spoke again.

The sky above the taiga wasn’t gray — it was dead. No clouds. Only whiteness. So blinding it hurt the eyes. Nastya looked up and whispered, “Maybe there’s no one there either.”

There was one Ukrainian man, exiled earlier in ’30. Gray-haired. He gathered people and said: 
“There won’t be justice here. But there will be memory. Write. Hide it. So one day, someone will know.”

Nastya wrote. On birch bark. On cloth. On tree bark. Hid it in a wooden box. Buried it under a stump. In spring, yellow flowers bloomed there. No one knew their name. But everyone stared at them for a long time.

“What if no one finds it?” 
“They will. The earth will show them.”

One day, a soldier asked: 
“Why are you here?” 
A woman replied: 
“For living. For believing. For being.” 
He said nothing. Just handed her a lump of sugar. And left.

In spring, the camp flooded. The river rose. The dugouts went under. People climbed trees. Those who didn’t — vanished. When the river receded, only boots, rags, and crosses remained.

Nastya wrote again: 
“We don’t know where the end is. We don’t know why it began. We know one thing — we were. And now our land is snow. Our faith is silence. And our pain — like smoke no one puts out.”

Chapter 13 – Those Who Did Not Leave
The village breathed like a dying man — heavy, quiet, without hope. Those who remained didn’t live because they believed — but because they had nowhere else to go. Their eyes held no light. Only the shadows of the past.

Every day, Maria went to the well. There was plenty of water. Few people. She drew a bucket, placed it on the bench, looked to the sky. Sometimes — she cried. More often — she simply stayed silent.

Nastya no longer wrote. There was no paper left. And no words either. She just listened: to the stove crackling, to the wind howling, to the clap of an unlocked door in a house no one lived in.

Old Trofim sat at the doorstep. Mending a fence. But not around his yard — around the cemetery. He said:
“Few are alive. But the dead — they’re still with us. We need to keep them in.”

The teenage boy Anton drew. With charcoal. On barn walls. Faces. Men. Women. Children. Portraits of those taken, those dead, those vanished. No one stopped him. No one erased them. Sometimes, people placed a crust of bread beneath the drawings. As if — in thanks.

Spring came quickly. The snow melted. The ground opened. But nothing grew. The seeds had rotted. Or the earth no longer wanted to give. The grass — yellow. No flowers bloomed.

One day, Maria entered an abandoned house. On the table — a mug. Inside — water, crusted with ice. Beside it — a spoon. No dust. As if someone had just left. She sat. Stayed a while. Then left.

The old folks no longer spoke. They just watched. Sometimes sighed. Sometimes shook their heads. Once, Nastya asked:
“What are you thinking about?” 
One replied:
“We’re not thinking. We’re waiting our turn. And we’re afraid it’s already come.”

Birds flew low. Past the village. A flock of cranes didn’t stop. Didn’t even dip. Children said, “We’re not on the path.” Nastya said nothing. She just placed a bowl of water by the road. In case someone returned.

At night, there was the sound of an axe. Someone chopping wood. But no one knew who. No lights in windows. Nastya once followed — found piles of logs stacked neatly at every empty doorway. No footprints. No breath. Only the scent of pine.

One day a house caught fire. People came out. Watched. But no one called for help. No one fetched water. They just stood. The flames rose high. And all thought the same thing: at least something still gives warmth.

The church remained. Without crosses. Without icons. Women gathered there. Not to pray. Just — to sit. To be silent. Sometimes — to hold hands. Sometimes — to stroke the floor. As if it were alive.

Nastya went there. Sat by the wall. Closed her eyes. And heard someone breathing nearby. Not God. Not a person. Just — someone. Who was still there.

But silence wasn’t always salvation. People remembered. And knew. Who knocked. Who denounced. Who, for a sack of flour, sold their neighbor.

One day, Hrysha Kulyk appeared in the village. A former Komsomol member. He’d been on the list-carriers. Now he came back — gray, hunched.

“I… I wanted to help. They told me — if not me, then someone else.”

Old Domna rose. Walked up to him. Stared a long time. Then spat at his feet.
“For a crust of bread? For your own hide?” she said. “You knew my son starved. And you came looking for what we had hidden.”

“I…” Hrysha lowered his head. “They gave me a piece. I wanted to live.”

“And now?” Maria asked. “Are you living?”

He didn’t answer. Turned. Left. That evening they found him at the old mill. Hanged. No one came for the body. He was buried without a coffin. Without a name. On the board they wrote: “He was. And unforgiven.”

At night in the cemetery, someone placed new wooden markers. With simple words: “He was.” Or: “She lived.” Or: “He knew.” Now there were new ones: “He betrayed.” “He stayed silent.” “He ate while we starved.”

Old Domna embroidered a towel. On it were the words: “Forgive. We survived.” She said:
“I don’t know who it’s for. But let it be.”

Summer brought rain. Torrents pounded the roofs like fists on a coffin. People hid, but not from rain — from memory. The water washed dust away, but not pain.

One boy ran away in the night. Left a note: “I can’t be among the living when everything is dead.” They found him a day later. In the marsh. Sitting. Staring at the sky. Silent. The doctor said: he won’t lose his mind — because he already has.

Anton ran out of charcoal. He started drawing in the dirt. Then — with his finger on the windowpane. Then — just in the air. People watched his hands. And believed he was still writing names.

Maria once whispered:
“I still hear him crying. So little. The fire crackled in the stove, and he reached for me. And I didn’t take him. I was afraid he’d die beside me. Better — alone.”

Nastya embraced her. They both wept. Without tears. Dry. As if burned out inside.

The sun rose, but gave no warmth. The moon sank — and no one slept. The earth breathed — but did not feed. And only those who didn’t leave kept rising, lighting stoves, feeding chickens that weren’t there, and waiting for guests who would never come.

Nastya wrote her final line on the wall of her hut:
“We are the ones who remained. Not to live. But to remember.”

Chapter 14 – Letters into the Void
Spring didn’t come. It crawled in. Wet, skinny, with black patches of snow on its shoulders. Ice melted in the village, but not fear. People walked the streets like it was a cemetery. They spoke quieter than the wind. Looked — as if into a grave.

Nastya decided to write. Not because she knew to whom. But because she could no longer stay silent. The paper was yellow, old. The ink — a solution of ash. She wrote with charcoal, sometimes with a stick on birch bark.

“Brother mine,” she wrote, “you were kind. You laughed. You pulled my braids. And then they took you. And no one knew where. If you're alive — know that I haven’t forgotten. If you’re dead — know that I’m still waiting.”

She placed the letter in the old mailbox by the club. It was rusty, tilted. No one had opened it in years. But Nastya slipped the letter in anyway. Because sometimes what matters is not the answer — but that you said it.

Maria wrote to her son. Misha. The little one. He had died in January. She couldn’t cry then. Now she wrote:

“My little one, forgive me. I couldn’t save you. I had no bread. I had no strength. I held you while you breathed. Then — I just held you. You were light. You were my last person.”

She placed the letter in a jar. Buried it by the doorstep. Said: “If the earth hasn’t betrayed us, it will keep this.”

Old Trofim wrote to his wife. He didn’t know why. But he sat by the window and wrote:

“Marfa, I’m still here. I walk, I breathe. The dogs don’t howl. The stove crackles. The people have gone quiet. Like after a battle. I miss you. I have a bench now. It’s old. But you would’ve sat on it.”

Anton, the boy, used to draw. Then he started writing. He didn’t write to someone, but about someone. About the faces he had drawn. The children. The elders. The women. He wrote:

“I remember grandma’s eyes. She wasn’t afraid of death. She was afraid of forgetting her daughter’s face. I drew her. But the wind took the charcoal. So now I write. So it’s known. So it stays.”

At the club, they made a corner of memory. On their own. No orders. They placed a box. Wrote: “For letters. Not for reply. For silence.”

Each day someone left something there: a note, a piece of embroidery, a child’s button, a scrap of a prayer. No one read them. No one removed them. It was a box not for words — but for pain.

One day, Nastya found a letter in it. No signature.

“You write like someone might hear you. Maybe I’m not alive. Maybe I never was. But I read you. Don’t stop.”

She wasn’t frightened. She just quietly sat on the ground. And sat there a long time.

Then people began writing more. Not because they hoped. But because it made breathing easier.

“Father, I don’t know if God forgives. But I want to believe He was.” 
“Petro, you knocked. I know. But you were afraid too. I forgave you. But I didn’t forget.” 
“Mama, I still talk to you. Even if I whisper.”

One day, Nastya opened an old schoolbook. Between the pages was a note. Her handwriting. Her tears. But she didn’t remember writing it.

“If someone finds this — tell them we weren’t enemies. We simply were. And now we are gone.”

Spring rain fell for a week. People didn’t go outside. Only the box stood there. Wet. Rusty. Stubborn. Inside were letters — soaked, faded, nearly illegible. But they were there.

One day, Nastya gathered the letters. All of them. Dried them by the stove. Read. Looked. Then folded them again.

She said: 
“When the children come, I’ll read these to them.” 
“And if they don’t come?” Maria asked. 
“Then it’ll be a prayer. Without God. But with hope.”

In summer, a boy began writing on trees. He carved words with a knife into the bark: “Alive,” “Was,” “Loved,” “Waited.” Then the tree fell. People said — from age. But Nastya knew: it couldn’t hold all that memory.

A woman named Zosia wrote to her husband. He had died at the station trying to save a sack of grain. She wrote the same thing every day: “You were right. But you’re gone. And I remained — to be wrong.” She wrote this on scraps of fabric. Sewed them into the hem of her dress.

Children began asking questions. One asked:
“Why write to someone who won’t answer?” 
Nastya replied: 
“Why do you speak at night, when everyone’s asleep?”

The silence thickened again. People began writing on walls. On the fence near the club appeared:

“We don’t want to die just to be forgotten again.” 
“They lived here. They survived here. They died here.” 
“And whoever reads — let them cry. Not out of pity. But because it hurts.”

When a new man arrived in the village — a resettler, silent, with eyes like soot — he asked:
“What are these letters?” 
An old man answered: 
“They’re not letters. They’re us.”

Chapter 15 – Black Soil Beneath the Nails
The kolkhoz was called “Victory’s Light.” Victory never came. The light had long since gone out. All that remained was a crooked, filthy sign. The “V” had fallen off. It just said “ictory.” People joked: it wasn’t light — it was the wind that blew away everything alive.

There was no work. But there was a plan. On paper — everything was fine. Reports were filed, grain was “delivered.” In reality — nothing. The storage shed had broken walls, and rats chewed rotting straw in the barn.

Every day at the meeting, the chairman said:
“Comrades! We must exceed the quota!”
People nodded. No one argued. But their eyes were empty. They knew: the quota could only be met by death.

Maria dug at night. With Domna and Zosia. In silence. Wordlessly. In the old field, where once the dead were buried. The soil there was softer. Sometimes you could find something — a root, a potato, a carrot stem.

“My husband is buried here,” Domna said. 
“I’m sorry,” Maria said. 
“He’d understand,” said Domna. “He asked me — if it ever came to this — to dig. He wouldn’t mind becoming bread.”

The women dug. The black soil crept beneath their nails, into their eyes, into their skin. They didn’t wipe their faces. The earth became their flesh. No one could tell where skin ended and dust began.

Anton found a pistol. Rusted. No bullets. Small. Wrapped in cloth in the dirt. He brought it to Nastya and asked:
“What is this?”
Nastya took it. Held it. Gave it back.
“It’s not a weapon. It’s memory.”
Anton kept it. In his boot. Not to shoot. To remember.

In the hut, Nastya wrote a new letter:

To: Whoever can understand. 
We live. That is — we don’t die. We don’t rebel. Don’t fight. We simply melt. Like ice on a river. Slowly. Silently. 
We’re not in the newspapers. We’re not in the wagons. We don’t run the streets screaming. We simply lie down. Or stand. Or dig. 
This is not death. It is waiting. As if someone forgot to switch us off.

Old Trofim entered the club. It was empty. Except for the letter box.
He placed a scrap of paper inside.
On it was written:

To Whom It May Concern. We do not beg. We do not demand. We only want you to know: we were.

In the evening, they gathered around a fire. They spoke quietly.

“What if they come tomorrow?” Zosia asked. 
“For what?” Maria said. 
“For silence. For digging.”

Domna laughed bitterly. 
“For living like we’re already dead.”

The wind carried ash over the field. Someone sneezed. Someone crossed themselves. Wordlessly. Just in case God was listening.

Nastya wrote on the board at the club:

We didn’t fight. We weren’t shot. We simply died. And that was worse.

A boy named Pavlo drew a cross. Around it — grains of wheat. He said:
“This is so they’ll remember. So whoever comes — will see.” 
“And if no one comes?” Nastya asked. 
“Then let the earth watch.”

That night it rained. It washed away the tracks. But the ground stayed loose. In the morning, the women came out. Took up shovels. Not for labor. For truth.

They dug by the road. In front of everyone. Without fear. Some passed by. Some turned to look. No one stopped them.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” Maria asked Nastya. 
“Because fear means living. I’m just… here.”

Anton sat by the fire. Wrote with charcoal on the ground:

If anyone finds this — tell them we didn’t scream. We whispered. And that hurt more.

Chapter 16 – Those Who Were Taken
There was a knock at night. Quiet, like a spit. Not a shout, not a command — a request. Or a reminder. Nastya’s father got up, barefoot. Walked to the door. Never came back.

In the morning, he was gone. Not even footprints — gone. Only a palm print on the doorframe. And a piece of paper beneath the doorstep. No seal, no name. Just one word: “Summoned.”

Nastya stood barefoot on the porch. Her mother sat on a stool. She didn’t cry. She just stared into emptiness. As if waiting for someone to come back from it.

The village council was silent. The chairman’s voice no longer echoed. He himself — was gone. Some said he left. Some — that he hanged himself. Some — that he was taken. Everyone knew the truth was somewhere in between.

In Zosia’s house, the windows were broken. She didn’t complain. Just stuffed the panes with rags. Her husband was taken a week ago. Then they came again. Looked at the children. Counted them. Left.

“What if they come back?” she asked Domna. 
“They will,” Domna replied. “But not for you. For what’s left.”

Neighbor Pakhom no longer left his house. Once, he betrayed his neighbor for a sack of wheat. Now no one spoke to him. He didn’t speak to himself. He just sat and whispered. Like a prayer. But wordless.

One day children played by the river. Found a piece of paper in the silt. It read: 
“I didn’t betray anyone. I just couldn’t say no.” 
Nastya hid the paper. Smoothed it for a long time. Then buried it.

Trofim no longer opened his door. Just sat. And waited. As if he knew — they wouldn’t come for him. Because he had already left. Inside himself.

One day, they brought three people. From a neighboring village. Housed them in the hut where the schoolteacher once lived. No explanation. One — silent, with three fingers. Another — pregnant. The third — a boy with frozen eyes.

“Where are you from?” Nastya asked. 
“From where everything once was,” the woman said. “And then wasn’t.”

The boy didn’t speak. Only screamed at night. In his sleep. Maria stroked him. Like a son. But couldn’t warm him.

People began disappearing from the village. Not loudly. Not quickly. Just — vanished. Someone went for water and didn’t return. Someone lay down and never woke. Someone went to the village council — and disappeared.

“It’s a purge,” said old Yeremey. “To make the silence even quieter.”

Nastya wrote down names. All of them. On the barn wall. With chalk. White. Then outlined them in charcoal. So they’d be seen. So they wouldn’t fade.

And then they came. 
First for Zosia. Then for Pavlo. Then for the girl who had just given birth. 
Taken quickly. Without words. Without noise. Just footsteps. Just breath. Just tracks.

Maria tried to find out — where. She went to the village council, to the barn, to the station. Everywhere they shrugged. Only one old man, a guard with a broken face, whispered: 
“Don’t ask. Better pray.”

She didn’t pray. She cursed. Quietly. Inside. For each one taken. For each one left behind.

The boy with frozen eyes found an empty cartridge box. He carried it in his pocket. As a memory. 
“Why?” Nastya asked. 
“To remember that we didn’t shoot,” he said. “We just lived. And that turned out to be worse.”

In one house, there was a bed. On it — an embroidered towel. On the towel — blood. The woman who lived there had cut her wrists. Not deep. But enough to leave. On the wall, she had scratched: “They didn’t take me. I left myself.”

Old Trofim still sat at the window. He told Nastya:
“I saw them take your father.” 
“Why didn’t you stop them?” 
“Because I remember not stopping them in ’32.”

Nastya stopped writing. Took a knife. Started carving names into the tree behind the hut. Big, rough. So they’d be seen. So they’d grow into the wood.

On the club board someone wrote in charcoal:
“Those taken — forgotten. Those left — won’t forgive.”

That night, Maria burned her old blouse. She said: 
“I want at least something they won’t get.”

The pregnant woman gave birth in the cellar. Alone. Nastya stood nearby. Then they sat in silence for a long time. Finally, the woman asked:
“What should I name her?” 
Nastya said: 
“Call her Hope. It’s the one thing we have none of.”

The boy with the cartridge box vanished. Nastya found his tracks near the forest. And a note: 
“I’m going to find my father. If I don’t — maybe he’ll find me.”

That night they came again. But no one opened. The village had gone deaf. Dead. No windows. No doors. Only the breath of the earth. And the dreams of those who were no longer there.

In the morning, someone had laid out wheat grains in the shape of a cross on the snow. No one confessed. No one removed it. Not even the birds touched it.

Old Yeremey, passing by, took off his cap. 
“If anyone survives — let them know. We were. And we didn’t stay silent.”

Maria returned home. Lay on the floor fully dressed. Beside her — an empty cradle. And then she was gone.

On the wall was written: 
“Here lived a mother. Here she was killed — without a shot.”

Chapter 17 – The Wasteland
From Protocol No. 14, OGPU Archive, March 1933:

“It has been established that the village of Gniloy Yar has seen an increase in sabotage of grain procurement.
Subversive attitudes, fueled by kulak elements, manifest in hiding grain, refusing to work on collective farms, and spreading panic.

A decision has been made to deport part of the population to eastern regions of the RSFSR.
Particular attention to be paid to individuals inclined toward agitation, and to those holding authority among the villagers.

Note the efforts of precinct officer Comrade Goloshchyokin, who distinguished himself in uncovering hidden grain and compiling denunciation lists.
Recommended for commendation.”

The snow had been falling for three days. Wet, heavy, blinding. The locomotive stopped at a dead end — no tracks beyond. Only forest. And snow. And barracks. A guard tower stood like a black splinter on the horizon.

A woman with an infant stumbled off the platform as if falling. Behind her — an old man with a sack. The children walked silently. One boy held a metal bowl, and it rattled in time with his steps.

“Is this the place?” the woman asked.
No one answered.

Only the dogs barked. And a guard in a greatcoat shouted:
“Move it! You’ll eat after the construction!”

In one of the wagons sat a teacher. Young, thin, with a face that no longer waited for anything. His name was Rudenko. He had been exiled “for incitement” — he had told his students that bread grows from the earth, not from a decree.

“They call the station Klyuchi,” someone said. “But there are no keys here. Only locks.”

They walked, knee-deep in snow. Aimless. They had simply been unloaded. And left. Without words. Without a plan.

The settlement was called Molchalino. Silenceville. There was nothing there — no store, no school, no bread. Only barracks and wind.

Far away, in Gniloy Yar, Nastya opened windows — not for air, but so the emptiness wouldn’t crush her. Old Yeremey sat by the stove. He didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling and said:
“We’re still here. For now. But them? Where are they?”

Domna embroidered with black thread on gray cloth. She couldn’t see color. Only shapes. She embroidered her husband’s face. From memory. So someone would be there to look when she was gone.

The locals — two dozen deportees from earlier. Some from Donbas, some from Vinnytsia, even one from Georgia. No one smiled. No one lived here. They simply remained.

An old man with a crushed ear showed the newcomers how to heat the stove so it wouldn’t smoke. He spoke slowly:
“There’s a well. But the water’s dirty. Better to melt snow.”

Beside the barrack was a trench. No names. No crosses. Just a trench. That’s where they buried them. No questions. No surnames. No prayers.

Rudenko wrote in his notebook: “Silence is the language of power.” And continued:

Petrova, child in arms. Silent. 
Yakovlev, one leg missing. Stares at the floor. 
Girl in scarf. Sings in her sleep.

In the barrack that smelled of mice and old coal, a woman sat by the stove cutting her own hair. Quietly. With a knife. 
“So the lice won’t eat me. Better to die all at once than piece by piece.”

A boy named Gavril stood at the wall, staring at a snowdrift. A cat lay frozen there. Stone-like. 
“If even she didn’t run,” he whispered, “then this place isn’t fit for beasts.”

In Gniloy Yar, Nastya cut the last bedsheet into strips. She made bandages. She didn’t know why. Just so she wouldn’t sit still.

Domna carved a cross from a crust of bread. Small. She placed it on the windowsill. 
“Pray if you want. Or just look. God’s deaf now. But maybe He’ll remember.”

The snow thickened. In Molchalino it was dark even during the day. The stoves went out. Smoke wouldn’t rise. People lay five to a bed for warmth. Someone recited Pushkin from memory. Someone recalled the smell of apples. Someone just died.

A woman who hadn’t spoken in three weeks began to sing. Dully. A wordless song. No one interrupted. Because the song was all that was still alive.

Rudenko continued:

4. Ivanov, died at dawn. 
5. Unknown woman, birthed a stillborn. Quietly. 
6. Boy with spoon. Sleeps clutching it. 
7. Old man in corner. Dead, still warm. 
8. Girl. Cries without sound. Doesn’t know her name.

One deportee, Mikhail, began digging a grave. Just so. Without orders. 
“Better to be ready,” he said. “They don’t bury here. They just stack.”

On the board in Gniloy Yar, someone had carved with a knife: “We weren’t taken. We were forgotten.”

Nastya sat on the ground and wrote in charcoal: 
“But we will remain. To remember for everyone.”

Late at night in Molchalino, a girl found a bone beneath the floor. Not chicken. Not dog. Large. She silently buried it again.

And Rudenko wrote: 
9. Pit. No date. No name. No prayer. 
10. Us.

Chapter 18 – Shadows That Aren’t There
In the morning, Yeremey didn’t come to the stove. Nastya approached and called him. No reply. He lay there with open eyes, as if staring through the ceiling.

Domna came later. Looked. Didn’t cry out. Just said:
“He’s still warm. So he can wait.”

No one rushed to bury him. The snow was as hard as iron. The ground refused.

Nastya covered him with a coat. It had once belonged to a husband. Now — just cloth.

“He often said he didn’t fear death,” Nastya whispered. “Only the silence that came after it.”

In the Molchalino barracks, a boy named Arkasha disappeared. They searched half the day. Then found tracks — small, light — leading into the taiga.

“He ran,” said Rudenko. “He didn’t want to wait for spring.”

One guard cursed:
“No matter. The wolves will explain faster.”

The woman who used to sing in her sleep stopped breathing. Just lay down and went quiet forever.

And then he entered the barrack. An old man in a black sheepskin coat, with a cross wrapped in cloth. His name was Father Iona. He used to serve in a church — the one they blew up. Then it was the camps. Then — silence.

He didn’t speak loudly. Just sat in the corner and whispered:
“The sin isn’t in fear. The sin is in forgetting your neighbor’s name.”

Rudenko approached.
“You’re a priest?”
Iona nodded.
“And you’re a teacher. We’re both unnecessary.”

Nastya sat beside Yeremey’s body until dusk. Didn’t cry. Just remembered how he once saved a puppy from the cold, how he built a shed, how he hummed songs under his breath. All that had been. And now — wasn’t.

“Forgive me for not finishing what I needed to say,” she whispered.

Domna brewed boiled goosefoot and poured it into a wooden cup like it was tea. Father Iona drank silently. Then rose and went to the dead woman.

“What was her name?” he asked.
“She never said,” Rudenko replied. “Maybe she forgot.”
“Then we’ll call her what we heard — Song.”

He began a prayer. Whispered. No books. Just from memory. His voice was thin, like cobwebs.

Outside, Nastya stood up. Took a shovel. Not for burial. To clear a path to the ravine where they could at least cover the body with snow.

In the barrack, a boy named Senya suddenly screamed:
“If God exists, why doesn’t He come?! Why doesn’t He take us all at once?!”

No one answered. Only Father Iona quietly embraced him and said:
“Because He still hopes one of us will make it to spring.”

A woman named Nyura, who had spoken yesterday, didn’t say a word today. Just sat and stared at the wall. Her toes were frostbitten.

Rudenko wrote in his notebook:
11. Woman without name. Died silently.
12. Arkasha — missing.
13. Yeremey — froze in his own home.
14. Senya — still believes, but screams.
15. Nastya — digs snow. Without hope.

That night, the stove barely warmed the barrack. The wood was wet, and the wind howled through the cracks like a wolf that had lost its pack.

Domna sat by the window and carved a face from birch bark. Neither male nor female. Just a face. So someone could look back in the dark.

Nastya returned late. Her fingers stiff. Snow on her shoulder, emptiness in her eyes.

“I covered him. But if this keeps on, no one will see spring,” she whispered.

Rudenko approached Father Iona:
“Do you want my last page? It’s clean. Death hasn’t touched it yet.”

“Write names on it,” said the priest. “So that if there is a later, someone will read.”

Senya woke in the night. Cried quietly into his pillow. Called out for his mother in his sleep. In the morning, he found a strip of cloth and tied it to his wrist.
“To remember. Who I am. While I still am.”

At dawn, another one died. An old man with a cough. They didn’t bury him. Just propped him by the wall. Looked like he was sitting. Looked like he was sleeping.

Rudenko wrote:
16. Old man in corner. Breathed until morning. Then — no more.

Nastya looked out the window. In the distance — a faint smoke. Maybe another village. Maybe someone’s stove. Or maybe just illusion.

“If there’s someone still out there,” she whispered, “let them know we’re still alive.”

That night, everyone in the barrack was silent. Even the children. Even those who had breathed loudly the day before.

Nastya whispered to herself:
“Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep. Until this day ends. So someone remembers it.”

Father Iona prayed wordlessly. Just sat, moving his lips. Maybe speaking to God. Maybe just warming his breath.

Domna rose and went to the window. In the distance — a light. Dim, like the eye of a dying candle.
“Maybe a fire,” she said. “Maybe a stove. Maybe a soul.”

Senya clutched a scrap of paper to his chest. He’d drawn a house on it. With a chimney. And a cat on the doorstep.
“It’s so I know where to return,” he told Rudenko. “If I survive.”

Rudenko looked at him. Then at the others. Then to the corner where the old man sat — dead, but still seeming alive.

“We need to bury him,” he said.

Nastya nodded. They took doors from the old shed. Made a stretcher. The snow squeaked like teeth left out in the frost.

Rudenko wrote:
17. Old man with cough. Buried. Without name. With a bow.

When they’d buried him, Father Iona said:
“Let the earth not be foreign to them. We’re all strangers here. But it’s easier for the dead.”

Nastya watched the snow settle. Then said:
“And what if spring does come?”

“Then,” Rudenko said, “we’ll remember everyone. By name.”

Chapter 19 – Footprints in the Snow
Nastya woke earlier than everyone. The fire in the stove had long gone out. The air was so cold that her breath fell on her chest and shattered like ice.

Senya was awake. He lay clutching the paper with the house and the cat.
“There was smoke,” he said. “I saw it. It wasn’t a dream.”

Nastya nodded. She remembered too. That light. That flicker that wavered in the distance.
“Let’s go. If we don’t come back—then we weren’t meant to.”

They walked on crusted snow. Step by step. Silent. Nastya held a stick in her hand, Senya a hatchet. Small. But sharp.

There were tracks in the snow—old, frozen in. Someone had walked once. But long ago. The snow had nearly devoured them.

In Molchalino, Father Iona was first to rise. He prayed aloud this time:
“Lord, we ask not for bread. Just for breath. For even one. Just for one more day.”

A man approached the barrack. Alone. In a coat. No insignia. He stared for a long time. Said nothing. Then tossed a bundle into the snow and left.

Rudenko stepped out and opened the cloth. Inside—bread. Small. A crust. Wrapped in a page of newspaper.
He read aloud:
“Building Dnipro. The Five-Year Plan is a matter of honor. Glory to labor!”

He crumpled the paper. Not in anger. In pain.

Nastya and Senya had been walking for nearly an hour. The smoke was closer. But the wind twisted and mocked, deceiving their sense.

“There!” Senya pointed. “You see the hut?”

It was half-collapsed. The roof sagged. Windows boarded shut. Smoke rose from a crack in the roof—cautious, as if someone feared being seen.

Nastya knocked. Nothing. Again. Then the door creaked open. A small boy stood on the threshold. Barely six. Filthy. A spoon in his hand.

“Are you alone?”
The boy nodded.

He pointed to a ragged stuffed toy.

Inside, it smelled of ash, grime, and death. They didn’t go in. Just handed him a crust of dried bread from Nastya’s pocket.
“We’ll be back. Hang in there,” she said.

He didn’t reply. Just closed the door.

In Molchalino, the bread vanished. Overnight. No one confessed. But in the morning, Nyura sat by the wall. Crumbs on her fingers. She stared at the floor and whispered:
“I didn’t mean to. I just… couldn’t anymore.”

Father Iona said:
“Only those who’ve never known hunger have the right to judge.”

Rudenko wrote:
18. One left bread. Another ate it. We—remembered.

Nastya and Senya walked back to the village. Wind on their shoulders. Silence on their faces. They didn’t speak their feelings. Words hinder remembering.

“Will we go back to him?” Senya asked.
“If we have time,” Nastya said. “If we’re not too late.”

At the gate, Father Iona sat watching the sky. For a long time. As if reading it like scripture.
“There’ll be rain,” he said. “Or tears. Hard to tell the difference now.”

That evening, the man returned. The same. But now with two others. One carried a crate. The other—a shovel.
“We’re ordered,” they said. “Take two. Any two.”

The barrack fell into silence. No one moved. No one looked. Only Nyura rose.
“I’ll go. I don’t sleep anyway.”

The second was the mute old man. He simply stood and followed.

They left. No farewells. No names.

Rudenko wrote:
19. Nyura—left of her own will. 20. Old man—followed. No one knew why. No one came back.

By morning, snow fell without pause. As if the sky wanted to bury everything it saw. Nastya kept glancing toward the hut. No more smoke.

“He’s still there,” she whispered. “And we promised.”

Senya took his drawing with the house and the cat, slipped it into his pocket. Then wrapped a scrap of cloth around his neck like a scarf.
“We’re going anyway. Snow or death.”

But the road had vanished. Snow erased the path, as if it had never been.

In Molchalino, Father Iona was silent the entire day. Not even prayers. He just sat staring at the door. As if waiting for someone to return. Or to come for him.

That evening, a boy approached Rudenko—the one who hadn’t spoken before.
“Write me down. While I’m still alive. I’m Lyova. I’m nine. I’m still breathing.”

Rudenko wrote:
21. Lyova. Nine years old. Breathing. Waiting for spring.

That night, no one cried. No one groaned. They simply lay there. As if learning from the dead—not to complain, not to call out, not to hope.

Outside the windows—footprints again. But not theirs. Someone had walked by. But hadn’t entered. Or left.

Nastya rose before dawn. Snow to her waist. She took her stick and walked. Senya behind her. No words. Only steps.

They searched again for the way to the hut. Even a crack on the horizon. A wisp of smoke. A memory.

“We can’t leave him,” Senya said.
“And we won’t,” Nastya replied.

Father Iona stood by the door. Whispering:
“If even one of us lives to see spring, then none of this was in vain.”

Rudenko opened his notebook. The final line trembled in his hand:
22. We walked. Even when the snow was deeper than the heart.

Chapter 20 – While We Still Breathe
The snow was chest-deep. They moved slowly. Nastya fell three times. Senya hit a root so hard he bit through his lip.

“You alive?” Nastya asked.
“As long as I’m breathing,” he answered. “That means yes.”

The hut was the same. But no smoke. No trace. No sound.

Nastya knocked. Silence. The door creaked open on its own. Inside—nothing. The boy was gone. Only the teddy bear remained. Dirty. One eye missing.

Senya crouched down. Touched the bear.
“He didn’t wait.”

On the floor—an empty bowl. In the corner—a bundle of rags. Nastya leaned over. A child’s boot. One. The other was gone.

“Maybe he left?” Senya whispered.
Nastya shook her head.
“Or they took him. Or the snow did. Or death came quietly, without knocking.”

She picked up the bear, wrapped it in her scarf, and said:
“If we leave with nothing, he’ll vanish completely. This way… at least someone will remember.”

In Molchalino, Rudenko woke to shouting.
“Lyova! Where’s Lyova?!”

Doors slammed. Footsteps on snow. The air smelled of smoke. Someone said they saw a small shadow heading toward the forest.

“Maybe he went after Nastya. Or the boy. Or just… left,” someone muttered.

On the barrack wall was a drawing. A house. A cat. Smoke from the chimney. Below it, a name in crooked letters: “Lyova.”

Father Iona knelt before it. And for the first time—he wept.

Nastya and Senya walked back in silence. The bear in the scarf felt heavier than it should have. As if all the sorrow of that place had settled inside it.

“What if he’s alive?” Senya asked.
“Then he’ll forgive us. And if not—we still didn’t leave him,” Nastya answered.

At the edge of Molchalino stood a figure. A man in a greatcoat, carrying a briefcase soaked with snow. He said nothing. Just waited.

“Who are you?” Rudenko asked.
“Supervisor for labor allocation,” the man said.

He pulled out a list and read aloud:
“In accordance with the need for rational use of labor, all able-bodied citizens are subject to new assignment. The rest will be placed under supervision.”

“Where?” Father Iona asked.
“Not specified.”

“What if we refuse?”
“That will be considered resistance.”

Father Iona turned to Rudenko.
“We’ve reached the point where even God is silent. Let the paper speak truth.”

Rudenko wrote:
23. Order—senseless. No answers. Only fear remains.

The people stood without moving. Hands in pockets. Some made the sign of the cross in the air. No one protested. Fear now spoke softer than words.

Nastya brought the bear into the barrack. Found a corner. Laid down an old coat. Placed the toy like a child. Sat beside it. No prayers. Just presence.

Senya held her shoulder. He didn’t cry anymore. Just stared at the wall.

“We did what we could,” he whispered. “Something. For someone.”

Father Iona looked long at the bear. Then said:
“Neither faith nor doubt will save us now. Only breath. If there’s any left.”

Rudenko opened his notebook again. The ink was nearly gone. He bit the end of his pencil and wrote:
24. Memory is heavy, but lighter than emptiness.

That night, the wind howled again. The stove had burned out. No one got up to rekindle it.

Nastya stayed awake. Watching the ceiling. Her fingers resting on the rough fabric of the coat where the bear lay.

“I keep thinking,” she said suddenly. “What if we’re not remembered either?”

Senya whispered:
“Then we’ll remember each other. We’re all we’ve got left.”

Father Iona sat with his head in his hand. Speaking to God. Or to a shadow. Or to himself:
“We live among the dead. But worse is that the dead are now quieter, purer, kinder.”

By morning, the official was gone. Without farewell. Just vanished into the snow.

Where he had stood, only a bootprint remained, and a torn scrap of paper. No one read it.

Rudenko wrote:
25. They no longer come for bread. They come for us.
26. We’re still breathing.