The Secret Speech

thrown up and forward, landing on their hands and knees. Ears ringing, coughing in the dust, they studied the devastation in front and now behind them: two gaping holes as if a giant monster had taken two bites out of the building.

Leo surveyed the shelled-out apartment in front of them. The first shell had hit high, causing the roof to crumble and fall, compressing the top floor with the floor below. They could climb down through the splintered roof beams. He took the lead, hoping the tank would presume them dead. Reaching the layer of ceiling that had crashed down, he saw the dust-covered hand of the woman who’d hung the flag. No time to linger, he searched for a way out. The stairway was at the back. He pulled at the remains of a door, trying to get access, but it was filled with rubble.

At the front of the damaged apartment, looking out at the boulevard, Raisa said:

— They’re coming around!

The tank was returning. Trapped, they had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

Leo doubled his efforts, trying to clear the stairs, the only way out. Zoya and Raisa joined him. Malysh was gone. He’d fled, saved himself — a vory to the end. Leo looked over his shoulder. The tank was taking up position directly outside, lining up a third shot. It would fire again and again, until both houses were rubble. Boxed into the shelled-out apartment, brick walls on either side, the stairway blocked, the only chance of escape was to jump down to the street below.

Leo grabbed Zoya and Raisa, running straight toward the tank. At the edge he stopped. Malysh had already scampered down the broken building onto the street. He was making a beeline for the tank. There was a grenade in his hand.

Malysh pulled the pin, nimbly scaling the front of the tank, clambering up. The tank lifted its turret toward the sky in an attempt to stop him from reaching the opening. But Malysh was too quick, too skilled, wrapping his legs around the gun barrel, pushing his way up. The hatch opened, an officer was going to shoot Malysh before he could drop the grenade.

Leo drew his gun, firing at the emerging officer, bullets pinging off the armor. The officer was forced to retreat, closing the hatch. Malysh reached the end of the barrel, dropping the grenade down it. He let go, falling to the street.

The grenade exploded, then a fraction later, the shell inside the turret exploded, a much larger blast — the force ripping through the tank. Malysh was picked off his feet and slammed down onto the street. Smoke rose from the tank. No one emerged from inside.

Zoya had already climbed down the building, rushing forward, helping Malysh up. She smiled. Also climbing down and catching up with Zoya, Leo said:

— We need to get off the street…

Malysh’s shirt turned dark red, a stain forming in the center.

Leo dropped to his knees, ripping open Malysh’s shirt. There was a cut as long as his thumb, a slash across his stomach, a black line — two bloody lips. Checking the boy’s back, Leo could find no exit wound.

SAME DAY

WITH MALYSH IN HIS ARMS, Leo rushed into the Second Medical Clinic, Zoya and Raisa by his side. They’d reached the hospital, hurrying along the streets, risking the patrolling tanks. Several turrets had tracked them but none had opened fire. The hospital entrance was filled with injured people, some leaning on friends and family, others lying on the floor. There was blood on the walls, blood on the floor. Searching for a doctor or nurse, Leo saw a flutter of a white coat. He pushed forward. The doctor was surrounded by patients, unable to give each more than a couple of seconds of his time, examining the wounds, issuing orders as to where they needed to be sent, ushering only the most needy into the hospital. The rest remained in the corridor.

Leo waited in the circle for the doctor’s judgment. Finally arriving at him, the doctor touched Malysh’s face, feeling his brow. The boy’s breathing had become faint. His skin was pale. Leo had used Malysh’s shirt to press against the wound, the material now soaked with blood. Removing the shirt, the doctor leaned close. His fingers touched the lip of the gash, opening it — blood seeping out. He checked the boy’s back, finding no exit wound. For the first time the doctor glanced at Leo. He said nothing, giving an almost imperceptible shake of the head. With that, he moved on.

Zoya grabbed Leo’s arm:

— Why aren’t they helping him?

Leo, a soldier, had seen injuries like this before. The blood was black: shrapnel had penetrated Malysh’s liver. On the battlefield there was no hope of survival. Conditions in this hospital were little better than that. There was nothing they could do.

— Why aren’t they treating him!

There was nothing Leo could say.

Zoya barged through the crowd, grabbing the doctor’s arm, attempting to pull him back toward Malysh. The other people scolded her. But she wouldn’t let go until eventually she was pushed back and shouted at. She tumbled to the floor, lost among their legs. Raisa lifted Zoya off the hospital floor.

— Why aren’t they helping him?

Zoya began to cry, putting her hands on Malysh’s face. She stared up at Leo, her eyes red, imploring:

— Please, Leo, please, I’ll do anything you want, I’ll be your daughter, I’ll be happy. Don’t let him die.

Malysh’s lips moved. Leo lowered his head, listening.

— Not… in… here.

Leo carried Malysh to the entrance, through the blood-soaked arrivals, out of the main doors, away from the reception area, finding a place where they could be alone. In the flowerbeds, where the plants had died back and the earth was frozen, Leo sat down, propping Malysh against his legs. Zoya sat beside him. She took hold of Malysh’s hand. Raisa remained standing, restless, pacing:

— Maybe I can find something for the pain?

Leo looked up, shaking his head. Twelve days into the conflict— there’d be nothing left in the clinic.

Malysh was calm, sleepy, his eyes shutting and opening. He regarded Raisa:

— I know that…

His voice was faint. Unable to hear, Raisa sat beside him. Malysh continued:

— Fraera lied… I know… you’re not… my mother.

— I would’ve wanted nothing more than to be your mother.

— I would have liked to… have been your son.

Malysh shut his eyes, turning his head, resting it against Zoya. She lay beside him, her head close to his, as if they were both about to go to sleep. She wrapped her arm around him, whispering:

— Did I tell you about the farm we’re going to live on?

Malysh didn’t reply. He didn’t open his eyes.

— It’s near a forest, that’s full of berries and mushrooms. There’s a river and in the summer, we’ll swim… We’re going to be very happy together.

SAME DAY

STANDING ON THE REMAINS of the roof, Fraera was no longer holding a gun but a camera, photographing the destruction: images that would soon be printed around the world. If this, her last reel of film, didn’t survive, it didn’t matter. She’d already accumulated many hundreds of photographs, smuggling them out of the city, using the families of the dissidents and insurgents as well as the international press. Her images of dead citizens, buildings destroyed, would be published for years to come under the title: source anonymous.

Perhaps for the first time since her son had been taken from her nearly seven years ago, she was alone, no