Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of The Pittsburgh That Stays Within You Review of If Instead of Apes We Had Come from Grapes Review of Anson County Review of Dissolution of Ghosts Crossword (Solution Posted in July. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) Mar/Apr Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction 1998 By Samuel Hazo Booing the Pope By Matthew D. Taylor Sgt. Robert Starbuck, USMC: Elegy and Essay By John Guthrie Shrink Wrap, Diet Cokes and a Kazoo By Sara J. Ford Poetry And the Time Is By Samuel Hazo In His Winter By Wanda D. Campbell Lester By Thomas Reynolds Generation Gap By Valerie Lauria Stanske Two Poets By Gary C. Wilkens Mongolia, 1930 By Gary C. Wilkens Fiction A Death in the Family By John Speeking Letters By Suzanne Abbot Among the Briars By Pat Tompkins Filling in the Angles By Jessica DelBalzo Miss Mary By Beth L. Block Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/volunteer.html.

A Death in the Family By John Speeking I was at the table, cutting some tobacco leaves, when there was a knock at the door. When Galya opened it, she turned so white that it scared me. Stepan was standing at the threshold, in full uniform. He looked worn and drawn, but his eyes – his eyes were full of rage, as he looked at his wife. Poor Galya – she was so spooked that she froze for a while, but then she came to again, and reached out to embrace her husband. She stopped short and shrank away just as fast, though, because of the way he looked at her. So much anger burned in those dark eyes. 'What in Good God's na ' I started. 'Where's Dima. Where's my boy?' Galya fell to the floor in a heap at his question, and began to weep. But he didn't stoop to raise her up, or try to console her. He looked about the room, stopping for a moment to where I sat, but I felt that he was looking straight through me, and that gave me a chill. 'How did you get here?' I asked. 'Timosha, old man, no questions,' he replied. 'My boy?' 'Dead. Dima died yesterday. Scarlet fever.' 'I knew it. I felt it. That's why I'm here.' 'Here?' 'I was granted leave,' he said. 'Leave? They don't grant leaves. Stalin doesn't give leaves, Stepan. Did you desert? I wouldn't blame you if you did.' 'Where is he? Tell me, old man. Is he buried yet?' I didn't answer him. I only pointed to the bedroom with my chin. The door was partly opened, and you could see part of the bed, but not the body. Stepan ran into the bedroom and shut the door. Galya kept on crying on the floor, so I figured I best get up and come to her aid. 'Galya,' I said, lifting her up by her elbows. Oh, how she made herself heavy when she was upset, just like when she was a child, and her crying - she couldn't stop her crying till she lost all her wind and started to gag for air. I had to shake her good before she could catch her breath again. 'Galya. Get a hold of yourself. Your husband has come back. Act like a wife.' 'But the hate in his eyes, Papa. And his smell. He smells like dead animals smell. And the blood on his boots – on his boots.' 'He hasn't been on holidays at the Black Sea, Galya. Be a good wife.' 'Papa.' 'Make him something to eat.' Stepan came back shortly after, and sat in the chair nearest to me. He didn't look that upset. His face had a blank expression on it, and I could see the trails that the tears had made on his dirty face. I looked at his outfit, and saw how filthy it was, covered with dry mud, even manure, with some spots of red on his boots. 'You need a good bath, Stepan.' I said. He didn't answer. 'The priest is coming this morning,' I said. 'Priest?' 'Priest for the last rights – we tried to fetch him last night, but his boy came back to tell us he was drunk – so drunk, he couldn't wake up. So he's coming this morning. There was a wedding yesterday, and he got really drunk, as usual – drunk, and spirited too, if you know what I mean. When he got too drunk to stand, he got down on all fours, and hid under the table, and started pinching the ladies on the legs when they walked by.' 'He's an animal,' said Stepan, as he looked over to Galya who was now standing at the stove. She turned quickly to give him a quick look over her shoulder, but turned away when she met his frown. 'Clothes, Galya,' he said to her. 'I need to change so I can wash my army clothes.' But Galya did not answer; she didn't even turn around. I could tell she was crying again. 'How can I meet the priest and see my sweet, dear boy buried, looking like a pig, Galya. My clothes?' 'Hold on,' I said to him. 'She had to sell your clothes, Stepan. Last winter was a tough one. We almost starved. So we sold you clothes. We all wear rags now.' Stepan lowered his head, and then brought a hand to his brow, and held it there for a while. 'Well,' he finally answered. 'These have served me well enough these past months.' 'Just take them off, and Galya can wash them at least,' I said, as I reached over to tug on his sleeve. 'Don't touch me old man,' he said to me, with that look of rage in his eyes again. 'Leave my clothes and me alone.' 'You're too hard boy!' 'You'd be hard too, if you saw what I've seen. Is the well dry this summer?' 'Not quite. Water's a little muddy ' 'I'll draw some then, and go wash in the barn.' 'You'll be lucky to find a good bucket though; all dried out - all full of cracks.' Stepan's face softened and he smiled. When he spoke again, his voice shook. 'No Dima to tend to them anymore. I remember when I used to make him sit by the well, in the hot sun, all day, and make him fill those old buckets over and over, till they swelled up and could hold water again. For hours he'd filled them up, and watch the water trickle all out of the cracks, and fill them again, and never complain. Poor boy. I was hard on him, Timosha, hard. These are the memories I have of him. Are they all to be bad ones? Aren't there any good ones to recall?' 'Death always brings out the bad ones first, you know. The good ones will come soon enough, Stepan. He was a fine boy, a good son.' 'So young, yet so hard working. I made him unload a huge pile of wood one day, and he worked so hard and so fast, he got a nosebleed. Not a sloth like me.' 'Now you're being too hard on yourself, Stepan.' 'Papa ' he began - he almost never called me papa -, but then he got up without saying another word and left the house, without shutting the door. Galya ran to the door to look at him walk away. 'Should I follow him, Papa?' 'Where's he going? Is he leaving?' 'No. He's going to the well.' 'Then leave him be, Galya. Leave him be, and make me a bowl of soup.' *** I was having my bowl of soup when there was another knock at the door. Galya let in a small, grubby boy who seemed quite out of breath. 'He's coming. Just round the bend,' he said. It wasn't long before Father Xavier came to the door, and shoved the boy aside. He looked really stiff, as if trying to be austere and stoic and gain our respect, but it didn't look genuine. It looked more like he was trying not to fall over on his face from a hangover. I invited him to sit. He snapped his tongue because he was all dry-mouthed. 'It's too hot,' he said. 'Some water, Timosha, some water.' I nodded to Galya, and she brought over a pitcher of water. 'Too hot,' he said again, after downing the pitcher. 'And the whole place stinks of cow dung. What a place.' I was tempted to tell him that if he didn't drink so much, he might have been in a better place by now, maybe in a nice town like N__, giving confession to the gentry, and teaching Latin to their spoiled children. He might even be a bishop by now. But, of course, I held my tongue. 'Here!' he barked out the door, which brought in the grubby boy, who came in carrying a purple sack. 'Here,' said the Priest, pointing to the table. 'Lay out my stuff.' The boy drew the cinch and pulled out two glass vials, one with clear water in it, the other with red liquid, and set them on the table. Next he took out a bundle and began to unroll it carefully, under the stern eye of the priest. It was touching to see with what care the boy tried to undo the bundle, looking up to the father now and then, and also trying to rub his nose, which had the drip. 'Don't you dare dirty any of it!' said Father Xavier to the boy, as he snatched the half-undone bundle from him, and finished unrolling it. He took up a purple hat - all rumpled – a Skufia I think it's called – and put it on. Next he tried to put on his outer cassock, still sitting down, and had lots of trouble doing it. The boy had to help him pull it over his head and down his body. The priest's head came out looking even scruffier than before. When he reached up to adjust his Skufia, he realized that it was missing. He started to feel for it through his cassock, and groped the whole front of it without finding it. Then he looked round him with his bleary eyes, down on the floor, to see if it had fallen. He did all this with all the dignity of a drunkard, moving very slowly, because he was still leaden from the drink, but he seemed sure that those around him took it be the quiet gravity of a pious man. Just as his eyes began to darken with rage, the boy held out the hat to him. He ripped it out of the boy's hand and shoved him away with his foot. I almost laughed out loud watching. 'A ward of the parish,' he said, nodding towards the boy. 'A stupid, little brute, but ' 'But all God's creatures deserve his charity. Do they not, Father?' I said. 'Not exactly the words I had it mind,' he said. I pointed to the bedroom. 'In there, Father.' He seemed quite annoyed that he would need to get up again. Perhaps he hoped I would drop my grandson's corpse on the kitchen table because it would suit him better. His conduct truly offended me at that moment. He finally got up, or should I say he barely managed to stand up. 'Take those up,' he grunted to the boy, who grasped the two vials, and followed him into the bedroom. 'Call Stepan,' I said to Galya, after which I followed the priest and his grubby ward into the bedroom. I'm sure Stepan heard Galya's calls but he never came to witness the last rights. All the better, I thought, because Father Xavier was not at all in good form. After a swift reading of the Extreme Unction, which he muttered so that none of us could make it out, he came back to the kitchen, and sat down in the same chair. He took up the pitcher to take a swig, but it was empty, because he had downed it all the first time. 'Water,' I said to Galya. 'You can bury him now. He's been blessed and ready to meet the Lord,' said the priest, after taking a large gulp of water. 'Not before he gets a proper burial,' said a voice, which surprised us all. It was Stepan, who was standing at the threshold of the open door. We had not heard him come in, or even seen him open the door. 'Get a shovel, and I'll say a few words,' replied the priest. 'You mean bury him in back of the barn, like a dead animal!' shouted Stepan, whose face was pale, and his eyes full of anger. 'Mind who you speak to, son,' said the priest. 'Mind how you talk about my dear boy.' 'He's not your dear boy anymore. He's a corpse now. Your boy is gone to a better place.' 'So I'm to throw his naked cadaver in the soil behind the manure pile?' 'From dust onto dust son remember the scriptures.' 'I won't have it,' said Stepan, looking at me, and then at Galya, who shrank from his glare. 'I won't have it. I came here to see my dear Dima given a proper burial, in a proper casket, in the church graveyard.' 'Graveyard? Graveyard's full to busting, from the yellow fever last spring, and those plots are for ones that can pay. Holy ground cost money you know.' 'Oh, I'll get money.' 'You should call me Father, you know – out of respect.' 'Respect?' I cringed because I was sure Stepan would speak his mind. 'Respect,' Stepan repeated. 'I mean to get the money – Father. For a proper set of clothes for him, and a pretty casket for him, and for a piece of your holy ground,' said Stepan as his eyes were filling up with tears, and as he shook his fist at the priest. 'Get the money,' said the priest, laughing, 'where will you get this money? Do you have it in your pocket, Stepan Grigorevich? Do you? How long will that take? It's the dead of summer. The boy must be covered with lime and buried. He smells already!' 'Father! Do not speak of him that way!' 'Bury him and move on. Have more children. You haven't borne a child in many years, Galya,' said the priest, staring at my daughter. 'You know child prevention is a mortal sin – that can lead to excommunication.' My Galya went as pale a ghost, and nearly fell over. I thought Stepan was going to lose all control and hurl himself at the priest, but he checked himself. I could see he was in great anguish. 'Father, now I will ask you to leave my house. Please.' 'Timosha,' said the priest, looking to me, 'are you going to allow him to speak to me like that?' 'Forgive him, Father, he's just come back from the war.' 'Don't apologize for me, old man. Get out Father Xavier. Get out before I throw you out! When I need your services, which will be shortly, I'll call you. And I'll expect you'll do your duty. And, by God, if you show up crocked again, I'll – I'll write a letter to the archbishop.' Father was too enraged to speak. His face was swollen and red, and his teeth were clasped so hard, they looked ready to shatter. He seemed to have gone sober on the spot. He walked out the door, without saying another word, dragging his grubby boy behind him. *** I found him in the barn that night, kneeling by cold store, with his haunches resting on his ankles. His head was bowed low. 'What are you up to Stepan Grigorevich?' I asked. 'Praying.' 'You've changed Stepan.' 'For the better?' 'I haven't made up my mind yet. How did your day go?' 'I hauled ice for Aloysha, so he let me have a load, and lent me his donkey and his cart to haul it here. Look at my hands; they're chafed from work – that's a change. I use to sleep all day and let an old man like you do all the work.' 'But you gave me a place to stay, with my dear Galya.' 'At a heavy price, old man. Remember that summer the crops rotted in the field, because you were stricken with gout and Galya was heavy with Dima, and I was too lazy to handle the harvest. Remember?' he stopped briefly to look down at the cold store. Then he removed his cap and passed a hand over his hair to flatten it, though it was flat enough, because he was nearly bald, with only a few strands combed over his pate. 'You'll never believe how hard I worked today. I cut peat for Georgiy, and tomorrow I help him dig a well. He wanted to pay me only in food, but I begged and begged and he promises to give me a few Kopecks tomorrow. And I'm an undertaker's apprentice too now. I talked Petr into giving me some good planks, and some varnish, and I'd put together the casket myself, all in exchange for free work. I hope to get enough money for a nice suit of burial clothes for my boy. Petr has some pretty ones to sell.' I squatted beside him, just at the brink of the cold store, which was now covered up with straw. I couldn't see any ice, but I could feel a chill coming up from underneath the straw. 'How many days can he wait?' I said pointing to the hole with my chin. 'However many it takes.' 'I praise your efforts, Stepan, as a good father, but sometimes the living end up honouring themselves when they try to honour the dead too much. You carry a burden of guilt with you, Stepan. Don't make your boy suffer for it. He suffered enough in life.' Stepan began to weep. I had never seen a man cry so hard, and it stunned me. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, like he had been shot, and his wailing was pitiful. I didn't know he had it in him to love so much. He was always so hard and so cold. I came to touch him, but he shrank back just as I was about to put my hand on his shoulder. And he looked at me with such eyes that I was troubled. 'Stepan, take heart. Get a hold of your self. For Galya's sake. Come to the house and spend some time with your wife. Spend some time with the living, Stepan, and let the dead rest in peace.' 'Papa,' he replied, as he stopped crying as abruptly as he had begun. 'The dead do not rest in peace. They cannot, not during these times.' 'These times will pass, son. And better ones will follow.' 'How can I believe that? When I look into men's eyes, I cannot believe that. And I can see into their hearts too, and all I see is blackness. The war has given me enlightenment, Papa. I can see into men's souls. The war has given me clarity. Either you live or you die. When I was engaged in my first battles, I'd shit in my boots, and piss myself every time. After a while, though, you gain tranquillity and poise – even indifference. You even have the time and leaning to find a quiet place where you can gratify yourself. You'd be surprise at what times you think of having a woman. You've never been in battle, old man.' I was startled by his words. I had never known him to be so thoughtful, and so grim. The war had truly changed him. I felt deeply sorry for him at that moment. 'Well tonight, you can gratify yourself with your lovely wife, or does it take bullets flying over your head to rouse you,' I said, grinning. Stepan paused for an instant, and looked me deeply in the eyes, but it was such an empty look. Then he began to laugh, and I laughed with him. I almost added, 'and you don't want Galya to be excommunicated,' but I didn't, and I'm glad for that. 'Come to your home Stepan. It's night. Come and make love to your wife.' 'I can't, Papa. I truly can't. I have to watch over my boy. Don't look at me like that, Timosha. I know. I've heard stories - about stealing corpses for food. I saw it with my own eyes at the front - eating the flesh of our dead brothers when we could not find anything else, and when the pigs didn't get to them first. All's fare in war they saw. The pigs tried to eat us when they had the chance. So we had Germans in front and the feral pigs at our backs. What do you think of that Tima?' 'I think it's all too deep for an old ox like me, that's what I think. Remember that soon you'll have to leave again and ' 'And maybe never come back you mean? Even if I do, I'll never be the same.' 'Whatever you become, Galya will love you anyways. That's all I have to say, Stepan.' I got up, and made my way back to the house. It was very dark. *** I didn't see him at all the next day, and neither did Galya. I didn't ask her up front, but I knew it just looking at her swollen eyes. I had puttered in the field most of the day, near the barn, mostly hoeing the green beans – they were in pretty bad shape because the weather had been so dry. Maybe I was keeping a watch on Dima – I don't know. I even took a couple of rest breaks inside the barn. I sat near where he lay, but not too near, and smoked my pipe. I could see vapours rising from the small pile of straw that covered the hole, and I felt very strange. I felt like Dima was still alive, and those vapours were his breaths. I was tempted to have a look at the boy, but I didn't. At just about sunset, old Georgiy came to visit, bringing a bottle of his home-brew. I drank enough of it, but I had made up my mind not to get drunk. Though Georgiy got really soused and started to rattle on, as he was in the habit of doing when he drank too much. I stopped listening after a while, till he mentioned Stepan. 'He worked like a demon, Timosha. I never saw anything like it. All day. Under the hot sun, and he never took one drink of water or ate anything I offered him. I don't remember him being such a hard working boy.' He paused, hoping I would bear out his recollections, but I said nothing, so he went on. 'Damdest thing too. Been digging that hole for a week – dry. I was about to give up, but your Stepan took a small crucifix from his neck, and hung it to a root jutting out from the face of the well, and then he told me to keep digging. You won't believe this, but it couldn't have been more than half an hour - and we hit a source! The clearest water you'll ever see. Can you believe that?' 'These days I'll believe anything.' 'It's a small miracle, Timosha.' 'No such thing as a small miracle. It's getting late you know.' Georgiy looked out the window; it was pitch-black. 'Guess I should leave. So long, Timosha,' he said, springing up like a young calf. Allowing for how much vodka he had taken in, I was quite surprised. 'I'm off,' he said. He turned to go, but instead of walking to the door, he walked towards the hearth, and halfway to it, he fell on his knees, and then reeled forward and his head hit on the floor hard. I guess I should have been more startled, but I wasn't because I'd seen him do that before, and I couldn't get out of my mind Georgiy's story about the crucifix. 'Georgiy?' I said. No answer. But then he began to snore loudly. 'Papa,' I heard a feeble voice say. It was Galya, looking out from the bedroom door. Though I was a bit puzzled at first, but who else could it be, since there was only the two of us now. True, she sounded so much like Dima. When she came into the kitchen, I saw how pale she looked, with her eyes all red and swollen, with circles round them. I grew alarmed. She looked at Georgiy sprawled on the floor but didn't seem to mind it much. 'Is he alright, papa?' she asked. 'Sure, I'll put him in my bed, my dear.' 'There is room for you in mine, Papa.' 'You look poorly, child. I know you've not eaten all day, or even yesterday. Go to bed, my dear, I'll bring you soup and tea.' 'Yes papa,' she replied meekly, and went back into the bedroom. When I brought in the bowl of watery soup, and cup of tea, I found her lying on the floor. She had laid a sheet upon it. When she saw me, she propped herself up on her elbows, and gave me a little smile. 'But why are you sleeping on the floor?' I asked. 'I can't sleep where Dima died. I can't, Papa. I tried, and I'm always thinking he's there, and I'm afraid to roll over him.' 'We've changed the covers my dear. The priest's maid gave us some new ones.' 'I know, but still If only Stepan would come to me ' she said, and then she started crying. I lay the bowl and cup on the dresser, and lifted her up – she was making herself heavy again, and it was hard for an old man like me. 'Lay in your bed, my dear,' I said 'Don't leave, Papa,' she said in between sobs. 'Sit up on the bed, and eat your soup, and drink some tea. It'll do you good.' 'Stay with me tonight.' 'Of course, but first let me tend to Georgiy. In the meantime, eat.' I dragged the old man – why I call him old man when I'm his elder – to my mattress, which was little more than a sack of course burlap filled with straw, on the floor by the wood stove. I rolled him over onto it. By heavens, he was heavy. He rolled over like a sack of potatoes – just a load of dead weight, but he was snoring, so he was alive all right. When I got back to the bedroom, my Galya was lying on the bed, eyes closed. I could tell she had hardly touched her soup. I sat by the bed as quietly as I could, and I cleaned by pipe, filled it, and had a good smoke. But she wasn't sleeping at all, because she said: 'Oh, Papa, I like when you smoke, I like the sent.' 'You're not always so kind to my smoking, dear girl, when it stinks up the kitchen, eh.' She didn't answer; she only smiled a bit, with her eyes still closed. Soon she was asleep. *** I was stiff from sleeping on the chair all night, though it was the best chair in the house. What age can do to your bones. But I managed as best I could. Old Georgiy was worse off than me, but he had insisted on coming to the gravesite for the service. His hands were shaking pretty badly, and he was doddering too, so I held on to him when I thought he was going to fall over. So it was just I and Galya, and Georgiy, waiting quietly in the small cemetery, on the only hill there was around. The small church lay just at the foot of the hill, and that's where we here were looking to, watching he grim procession come up. The priest's ward was not the grubby boy anymore. He was dressed in a tight, black outfit, very clean, but so worn at the knees and elbows you could see the shiny patches from where we stood. He carried what looked like a small frond, which he waved about feebly, and he seemed to be trying to say something - maybe a prayer. Behind him the Father Xavier followed, head bowed over his prayer book. He looked very solemn. Behind, Stepan was carrying a small, brown casket in his arms. I hadn't seen him since the day before, and he couldn't have looked more different. He stood upright and seemed to be bearing the weight of the coffin as if it were nothing. He wore his uniform, which was spotless. The bill of his cap, and his boots were polished to a perfect shine. I felt so proud of him at that moment – so proud. The ceremony went quick, with the priest reciting the Prayer for the Dead, then the 23rd Psalm, after which we sang a hymn. None of us besides Father knew the words, so we all hummed along. Stepan didn't sing or say anything. He stood the whole time with his head low, looking straight at the small casket. Galya, whether she was praying, or singing, or being quiet, stared at him the entire time. Once the ceremony was over, Stepan and I lowered the coffin into the grave. I tell you it was the best dug grave I'd ever seen. I'd heard after that it was Stepan that had dug it the evening before. It was deep, and its walls were smooth and straight. I hope to God mine is this well done. I looked at the small gravestone at the head of the grave as I lowered Dima's casket. 'In memory of our dear Dima,' it read, 'Born Aug 26, 1936, Died July 15, 1942.' Stepan walked over to the priest, who was standing apart from the others, and they said a few quiet words. It was such a difference from their last meeting. Now there was a serenity between them that was very touching to see. Stepan bowed his head, and Father Xavier passed a benediction over him. How different the Father looked now, clean, dignified, upright, with such a caring smile. He looked every bit the bishop he should have been and I made up my mind then and there to treat him like one. After a final exchange between them, Father Xavier called over his boy, and they walked away quietly hand in hand. I believe I will never forget this moment so long as I live. It was a small piece of Heaven in this dirty old world. 'It's time to go home.' I said to Stepan, and Galya. 'Come too, Georgiy. Come and eat and drink with us, on this sombre day, to pay homage to a life, though short and difficult – poor Dima – but, still, a life well lived.' 'Fine words, my friend,' said Georgiy. 'Go on ahead, all of you, please,' said Stepan. 'I'd like to stay a bit. I'll be along shortly.' 'Don't be too long,' I said. 'Remember, you don't have much time. Soon you'll have to be going.' 'Please, my love,' said Galya, and she could barely get the words out. Her eyes were full of tears, and her hands were shaking. She was trying to reach out to her husband, but she was stopping just short and I don't know why. 'Please,' said Stepan, looking into his wife's eyes with much tenderness. It was the first time since he'd been back that he had showed her any kindness. 'I won't be long, dear.' I took my Galya by the arm and turned to leave, but I said a few more words. 'Mind, Stepan. Remember the living here that love you. Don't be too long.' Stepan smiled at me, but didn't say anything. I pulled Galya away with one arm, and with the other I help old Georgiy down the hill. I looked behind me once more, and I saw Stepan standing over Dima's grave, tossing a handful of dirt on the fresh earth that covered it. When I got to the bottom, I turned to look up again, but Stepan was gone. The small graveyard was empty. 'Where's he gone to, Papa?' said Galya. 'Give him time, my dear. He'll come soon enough. Sometimes, a man needs some time alone.' 'He's so very strange, Papa.' 'Shell-shocked,' added old Georgiy. 'Shut up, Georgiy,' I said. *** Stepan didn't come home, not that night or the next day. Galya was beside her herself and had to be put to bed. Ludmilla, Georgiy's wife, agreed to watch her while Georgiy and I went to inquire. No one had seen him in town, at the pub, or the train station. We went to see Father Xavier, and he told us he had not seen him either. 'The boy is quite disturbed,' he said, in a gentle, caring way, not in a callous way, which was his usual manner. 'I have a feeling that, perhaps, he has just gone back to his unit. War does strange things to men. He is a changed man. Let's hope God keeps an eye on him, and sends him back home to us when this fighting ends.' He gave us a blessing, and we were on our way. We heard nothing of him, and held no hope of seeing him anytime soon, till we got the news that our army was in massive retreat, because it had been so badly beaten. Stepan's unit, we heard from Father Xavier, would soon be passing here, and going on to S___ for a final stand. Soon our soldiers came into town, bit by bit, dragging themselves pitifully in ragtag groups, stopping by the way to beg for bed and food. What a miserable sight. It was the dead of winter now. The men had gone to battle in summer dress, and now they were returning, in their meagre, ragged clothes, trying to survive as best they could. I was watching a column of them across the road, when I heard a voice. 'Timosha! Papa,' it shouted. 'Tyoma? Is that You?' 'It's me, Papa.' He always called me Papa. 'Dear boy!' 'Though there's less of me, Papa,' he said, giggling, but I could hear the sadness in his voice. He pointed to a bandage that covered one of his eyes. 'A man can manage well enough with one eye. At least, it got me out of the army. I'm home.' 'Thank God for that, Tyoma.' 'It's been a hard one, Papa. Uncle Joe said it would be easy, but it's been a hard one.' As he came to me, he began to cry. I held him to my breast, and wept with him. So young, yet so distressed – such sadness. Then I held him at arms length to get a good look at him. 'Tyoma, listen, have you seen Stepan?' 'Oh, Papa, I have such bad news for you and Galya, and little Dima.' I didn't have the heart to tell him about Dima, not now. 'He's dead isn't he?' 'He died in my arms, Papa, without saying a single word. He only handed me a letter, and then just died. Here it is. I saw him writing it the morning of the day he died.' He pulled out a small envelope, with blood on the front of it, but not much. The letter was addressed to Galya. Since it was addressed to her, I felt it would a betrayal to his memory and to their love if I read it. So I put it away, and told Tyoma not to say anything, for now, if he saw her. 'You're not going to read it Papa?' 'Not mine to read, son.' 'It was an awful fight Papa, in the heat of summer.' 'Summer? 'The smell of the bodies! Al least in the winter they don't stink.' 'Summer?' I repeated, pulling out the letter and unfolding it. 'July.' I looked for the date at the top but there was none. It was at the bottom, right beneath his signature: 'July 15, 1942.' I felt a weakness in my joints, and a feeling I would collapse. And a deep - a very deep chill came over me – especially in the nape of my neck. Not a winter chill though – that's for sure. Nothing I'd ever want to feel again. 'Are you alright Papa?' asked Tyoma. 'You can't tell Galya of this letter. Ever.' He looked very puzzled. 'Do you hear me, Tyoma? Never,' I said, grabbing him by the shoulders. 'You scare me Papa. Ok, I promise, never. Anyhow, I'm not stopping here. Home is now in N_. That's where I'll be living now, with my Aunt and Uncle, and God knows how many kids. Good Bye, dear Papa. I expect I won't see you anytime soon. And that saddens me. I never knew my real father, so you're the closest thing I've ever had.' 'You're a sweet boy, Tyoma. God Bless,' I said, as I embraced him, kissed him on both cheeks, and then on the mouth. He bade me goodbye with the wave of the hand, and I watched him vanish down the road. 'God Bless,' I repeated under my breath. I pocketed the letter. I decided not to burn it, so I could remember that these things really happened, and were not just the stupid dreams of an old man. I hid it well - in the cold store, buried at the bottom. I know Galya would never dare approach that place. So, when I'm alone, resting after an afternoon's work in the hot sun, I go for a smoke in the barn, and sometimes I dig up the letter. I unfold it and go straight to the bottom to where the date is written. That's all I read, I swear. If you asked me what the rest of the letter says, I'd tell you I don't know, and I wouldn't be lying.