“You’re young,” she tells Svetlana. “You don’t even know who upyri are.”
“I know,” Svetlana whispers, eyes downcast. The very word, Upyr, makes her skin crawl, materialism notwithstanding. There was never a Russian child not scared half to death by the stories of those dead who rose from their graves and ate the living.
“You just remember,” Olga Petrovna says, “if they ever come for you, all you have to do is to call them for what they are. ‘Upyr,’ you must say, and he’ll turn into a man—for a little bit, at least.”
Svetlana smiles, imagining herself confronting a gang of cannibals with words. “Men are still men. They’re still dangerous.”
“But if they’re human, they won’t try to eat you.” Svetlana shrugs, not convinced. With hunger like that, why wouldn’t they try to eat anything alive and made of meat?
In her mind, Svetlana never recognized her relationship with Ilya as courtship. It was only when Yasha and Vanya, re-energized by playing at Valya’s quiet, cavernous apartment, as barren of floorboards as any other, and by her grandmother’s stories and slivers of bread she fed them throughout (children ate from her hands, opening their mouths wide and stretching their thin necks, like baby birds) started teasing. “Bride and groom,” they started in a whisper and then, growing bolder, in a singsong, when Ilya and Svetlana walked side by side behind them, heading home to mother. “Bride and groom.”
Svetlana blushed and looked at her boots, the slicks of ice, the river swelling up leaden and white up ahead, and at the boy’s shaven heads, blue under their hats—anywhere but Ilya’s steady gaze and his hale earth smell.
Ilya murmured under his breath, as embarrassed as she felt. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but thought that he said “Heart” or “My heart,” and her stomach felt warm and tight.
When they reached her house, she looked up at him, into his sparkling eyes. “You can come in, if you wish.”
She told the boys to be quiet or she’d box their ears if they breathed a word to mother, probably asleep in her room. The boys tittered, and she twisted Yasha’s ear harder than she meant—that quieted them right down. Ilya waited patiently as she herded the boys to kiss their sleeping mother (her breath so shallow) and then to their own room.
She was not on the air-raid duty that night, and she motioned for Ilya to follow her into her room; he instead remained standing as if stuck to the spot, until she whispered fiercely, “What are you waiting for? Come on.”
She didn’t light the candle and undressed in the dark. She could feel Ilya’s solid presence, smell him as she unbraided her hair. She slipped under the covers and soon he followed, the mattress shifting under his weight, his body dense like iron. They lay side by side, their arms barely touching, until Svetlana fell asleep.
In the morning, he was gone.
In the morning, she also discovered that her mother was up unusually early—a fat lardy candle burned in the communal kitchen, and mother, wrapped into two shawls over her nightgown, coat, and boots, her bare venous legs ghostly white in the dusk, sighed and pulled the folding kitchen table to the center. Svetlana’s heart sank.
“The neighbor’s dead,” mother said. “Something awful happened.”
Svetlana raised an eyebrow—dead was normal. “Awful?”
“The door was ajar this morning,” mother said. “Someone must’ve broken in. Yasha heard her whimpering and woke me, but when I got there, she already bled out. People are turning savage.”
On numb feet, Svetlana hurried down the hall, to the usually closed Lyuda’s door. Thoughts buzzed in her head, without taking shape but content with general notions—cannibals, someone killed her, wonder if Ilya’s all right.
The woman lay in her bed, and one could think her sleeping if it wasn’t for the wide gash in her neck, an extra mouth, blooming in a red obscene flower across her neck. The mattress was soaked with dark blood, but they could probably still sell it, or give it to someone who needs a bed, even if blood-soaked.
The edges of the wound were torn and raw, and there were definitive toothmarks. Svetlana tried to imagine a serrated knife that would leave a cut like that, but the mind rejected the possibility. She folded a doily from the bed table into a dense white rectangle, and stuffed it into the wound, and watched the doily turn slowly pink.
It is important for a city in crisis, no matter how terrible, to maintain elements of normalcy, something people can anchor their sanity to. This is why there’s still theater and musical concerts, and this is why when Ilya invites her to see a play, Svetlana accepts. She insists that the boys should come too, and Ilya buys them tickets to see Les Miserables—Gavroche is being played by a middle-aged woman, but otherwise the play is fine, and the boys seem to enjoy themselves. Both have been subdued lately and laugh little. They don’t even tease when Ilya comes home with them again.
This time, Svetlana is asleep—a sick heavy nightmare sleep— before her head even touches the pillow.
And as I tell you this, I know that you’re wondering the same thing that I and my brother, although still too young at nine, wondered about: why didn’t she have any suspicions? I have my own theory. I do think that some facts are merely too terrible to consider. Love complicates everything further.
She has nightmares about Ilya leaning over her, his chest pressing on top of hers like a tombstone, stilling her heart, stealing her breath, “My heart,” he says. “I hold you in my hands. For the sake of your brothers…”
Mother is dead next morning.
Svetlana decided now that she was the head of the household, the boys would have to go. She bundled up Yasha and Vanya—or rather, Vanya, my brother, and me, and gave us all the food she managed to scavenge in these past days. She gave us our clothes, wrapped in blankets, and we stood in the hallway like two tiny transients. “They will be taking more children out this morning,” she told us as we walked side by side with her. “Or maybe the next. You must go though, while the ice is still strong. We’ll go by Valya’s house, see if Olga Petrovna would send her out too.” All the while, her gaze cast about, looking for Ilya, but he failed to show up that day. Who can tell why.
None of us mentioned the dead kindergarten teacher and our mother, lying side by side on the kitchen table, with their windpipes torn out and gnawed raw.
Olga Petrovna, superstitious as she was (Svetlana said to the children that it was because she was from a village, not city-born like us), crossed herself. “When you take them to be buried,” she said, “don’t take them out of the door—go through a wall or a window. And don’t carry the bodies along the roads.”
Svetlana sighed. “We live on the third floor, we can’t just toss them out of the window. And it’s silly anyway.”
“Not when an upyr takes a life. Do you want your mother to become one of the cursed? Do you want the devil to take her?”
“There’s no such thing as upyr,” Svetlana said, and paced back and forth across the cold corridor while the children waited, huddled, by the entryway. “Or devil, for that matter.”
“Who gnawed them then?”
“Cannibals broke in.”
“And left the bodies?”
“Someone startled them.” Svetlana froze to the spot. “I think it was my friend who did—he…”
Olga Petrovna didn’t need to hear the rest. “Dear child!” she cried. “Daughter! You brought a stranger home? Do you even know what he is?”
“Just a young man,” Svetlana said. “A handsome fellow. In any case, I only came to ask if Valya would like to come with us. I want to send the boys out, by the Road of Life. I know there are bombs, but at least they have a chance of getting out.”
Olga Petrovna nodded slowly. “Better than them dying here, of hunger or worse.” She gave Svetlana a piercing look. “Listen to me, daughter, and if there’s anything you’d do, do this one thing: find out where your handsome fellow goes when you’re not with him.”
“How’d I do that?”
“By cunning.” Olga Petrovna hobbled into the darkened cave of her living room, and returned momentarily with a ball of uneven black yarn. “Next time you see him, you tie that string to the hem of his coat. And then you
