For that which is without a beginning, a final
cause need not be sought.
Maimonides, The Guide for the Perplexed
The weather is harsh, the winter long, a dusty cold. He grows slowly, his body stunted, almost night-blind from malnutrition, although his mind is sharpened by the ever-present fear. By ten, he has learned how to avoid some of the blows, to dodge and duck and hide. Curled up inside the fear, though, something is growing, something bitter is filling his chest. And then his hard world begins expanding awkwardly, in small jolts.
Jolt. Piles of beets, eggs, garlic, radishes, pickled cabbage, handwoven shawls. He fingers the wrinkled sausages, entranced, before the seller shoos him away. The market is crowded, people pushing past him, blocking his path, their bundles knocking against him. He runs a furtive hand over the shawls as he passes by another stall. The smells — sheep hides, seed bread, bunches of dried thyme strung up on a line.
Men in rough linen shirts, girls in kerchiefs, mothers with red-faced babies, the babies wailing in the clear air. More people here than he has ever seen together before. He is overwhelmed by them, almost reaching out to feel the dark hair of a child, shining in the sun, to touch the skin of her older sister, so close to him.
While his father is haggling with another farmer over the price of barley seed, the boy wanders from stall to stall. At the end of the line of stalls, a girl — fifteen, sixteen? — has set out a collection of things on a blanket on the ground: bunches of onions, a bowl of eggs, some mismatched dishes, old lace curtains, a wool vest. She has a broad brow, dry lips, a chipped tooth, fair hair falling in a tangle across her face. A baby is crawling around her, over her in the sun, pulling at the front of her blouse.
Here, she says to the boy, gesturing towards the blanket. Bring your mother to buy. Bring your father.
The baby begins pawing at the onions, tries to put one in his mouth.
No, no, no, says the girl, laughing, pulling it out of the baby’s fingers. He begins to howl, and she sighs, picks him up, and tucks him firmly in the crook of her arm. Then she brings out a small white breast, and the baby settles down to nurse. Her body relaxes, the baby relaxes, asleep in a minute.
The boy is mesmerized by this breast, by the tracing of blue veins, the fawn-pink nipple lodged in the baby’s mouth. The girl catches his eye, smiles at him, showing her chipped tooth, and shrugs.
Pick something out, boy, she says.
But he has no money. He tries on a sneer, and walks away.
A fragment of music. Three people standing together, playing a ragged melody. The piping is reedy, underlined by the jangling of the timbrel. One of them gestures to the pile of kopecks on the ground in front of them, and he backs away.
A burst of laughter from a group of young men, slapping each other on the back, their shirts belted with rope. He draws closer to hear what they are saying.
We have a mouse with big ears, says one of the young men, reaching out to the boy and shaking the back of his neck. The boy is so startled he almost bites him, but jumps back instead, and they laugh again.
Jolt. A few months later, the river. Black water surging around, clear sheets of it sliding off rocks, the light reflecting across them. He wades in, barely keeping a foothold, clinging to a rock to avoid being swept away.
There, says his father. That one. And that one.
The boy struggles to lift a stone, then to wade back, fighting the drag of the chilly water. He is almost at the bank when he drops it. His father swears. Back he goes for another one, his small chest heaving. He manages to push this one onto the grass, and his father loads it into the cart. Another and then another, black rocks speckled with grey, they will use them to shore up the crumbling foundations of the barn. Stones worn smooth by the river. How long does it take for water — the softest of things — to shape stone, the hardest of things?
Half an hour later, he is exhausted. A last trip, he slips and the current seizes him, rushes him away, his legs, his body scraping against the rocks. Panicking, he splashes wildly, trying to keep his head from going under.
A rotten log, sticking out of the water a few yards downstream. He grabs at one of the branch stubs and manages to hold on. Hand over hand, stub over stub, he pulls himself over to the bank.
On the way home in the cart, he is shivering, dripping, his sides, his legs bruised. But his head is piercingly clear. For the first time, he thinks: this river goes somewhere, somewhere else. Past other farms, yes, he knows this, but somewhere else. More places. Other places. A water road.
Jolt. Sunday morning. His grandmother combs out her grey hair and rebraids it, wrapping the braids around her head. Next her blouse embroidered in red and black, a shawl, her best head scarf. She rubs her lips and surveys herself in the black-spotted mirror, satisfied.
Backward superstition, says the government. The stupefaction of the working class.
But these services are comforting, elemental — the chanting, the singing, the candles. A familiar solace.
His father usually drives her to the wooden chapel — bleary-eyed, cursing, his head aching from samahon. This morning, he rolls over in the iron bed and says: the rat can do it, he’s big enough to handle the horse.
The boy is indignant, he handles the horse every day, putting on and taking off the collar, the girth strap, attaching the cart shafts, leading it out to the field to spread muck. But he is still small and skinny, and the horse is a draft horse, heavy — driving the cart requires more strength, strength and weight. Hovering in the background, too — their suspicion that if the horse doesn’t take off, out of control, the boy might.
Where can he go? says his father to his grandmother today, his throbbing head wiping out everything else.
The horse is balky, but the boy understands that this is a battle he must win. He jerks the animal’s head back with the reins, wrestling it for control, whipping it over the flanks and neck until it settles down to sullen obedience.
Twenty minutes later, they are at the chapel — a small building, painted white, the three-barred cross on top.
Inside, she says.
She doesn’t trust him to wait, she doesn’t trust him to return for her. And it will do him good.
The smell of stale incense envelops him as he steps inside. In the dim light, he can see the icons on the wall, the altar covered with brocaded cloth. His grandmother crosses herself, bows, and motions him to do the same. A quick nod to some of the other congregants, and then she waves him over to the men’s side while she joins the women. They stand for the service, no pews or benches — only a man with a lame leg has a chair.
The others are singing already, a hymn, low, haunting. People drift in, light a candle, move over to stand in position. Then the singing stops — some signal given, received — and the priest emerges, inclining his head with its cylindrical hat. His voice sonorous, he starts the liturgy. Now and then, he fingers the silver cross on his chest.
The boy is mystified by the words, but he watches the others closely and mimics them as they chant, as they sing, as they cross themselves again and again. The procession starts, the painted chalice held up, some of the people kissing the hem of the priest’s cassock. Not his grandmother, though, so he stays where he is. But then he follows her to line up for a piece of wine-soaked bread. Some of the others look at him questioningly, but his grandmother waves him forward.
The next Sunday, the same, and the next, and then it is every Sunday. Now he is accustomed to it — proud of mastering the horse, knowing the rituals. And soon he has learned the order of the liturgy, the hymns, the epistle, the creed, the calls and responses. Lord have mercy. To you, O Lord. Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.
You like the service, boy?
The priest is at his elbow as he waits for his grandmother after the prayers — she is talking to a neighbour, a thin woman with a withered face. Standing together, they look like two dried barley stalks.
You like the liturgy?
The boy nods.
I see you following it, the priest says, combing his fingers through his beard.
In a minute, a bargain: he will be an altar boy, he will help with the services, wash the floor every week, clean the candelabra, scythe the grass in the small cemetery, anything else the church needs. And what will he get in return?
This is an honour, says the priest, scandalized.
The boy has seen the prayer books in a corner of the chapel. No one uses them; either they are unable to read or they have the prayers and hymns lodged in their memories. The boy has an inkling, though, a shadow of an idea that these marks, these scratches on a page could be useful. That they might even provide a means of escape.
I want to learn to read the prayer books.
The priest is startled, then pleased.
···
In the months that follow, the priest is kind enough towards him — he can spot a starved boy when he sees one — and gives him tea, bread and lard, sometimes even a glass of kvass. A man younger than he looks, etched with frustration, his longing to do great works, his devotion to holiness, all derailed with the denunciation of the Church. Exiled to this barren patch, he provides services to several of these small chapels, his vision slowly curdling inside him. But teaching this boy, he feels a faint echo of his original calling.
The boy’s grandmother is wary, she is not convinced the boy has a grain of genuine piety. But the priest is the priest, a man with the grace of God in him, someone who should know. And the distinction of having her grandson singled out is gratifying. His father has no opinion, drunk most of the time now, hair matted, glassy-eyed, not enough in him to go after the boy, except to curse him and demand more work.
The boy tries hard to dull their suspicions, to induce at least a lack of curiosity. What is it they need, what will soften them up, or if not soften them — impossible — at least distract them? Food.
···
How long has the rabbit been here, in the growing dusk? A few hours, a day? Frozen with fear, long ears back, attempting to flatten itself against the ground. The grey-brown fur has been rubbed off its foreleg by the wire snare. He looks more closely at the bloody leg and realizes that the rabbit has been biting it with its incisors, a desperate attempt to free itself.
He makes the snares from wire, rusty scraps he finds at the sides of the fields or roads. Nooses that grow tighter with every struggling movement of the animal. He sets them out on the narrow paths left by the rabbits, the grass beaten down by their paws, using loose underbrush to block the ways around them.
He looks in the grass now, feeling for a rock. Here, a good-sized one, he hefts it in his hand. A strange exhilaration comes over him — as always — anticipating the impact, when the animal stops struggling, when its eyes glaze over. Now. He grabs the rabbit’s neck and smashes the stone down on its skull. Immediately he is flooded by a sense of relief, an easing of the tautness, the hardness in his body.
Rabbit, his father says scornfully.
Meat is meat, says his grandmother.
···
The priest — wickery, mild, mournful. A weakness for Saint John of Kronstadt and sacramental kagor wine.
See, he says, pointing out the letters. Ah. Beh. Vey. Geh. Deh. Yeh. Yo.
The boy rubs his eyes in frustration, the words seem sealed into the page. And they are in Russian, not Belarusian. Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. He is fiercely determined, though, clinging to the idea that deciphering these markings is a key to something, desperate to believe that there is a way out of this deadening life.
It will become easier, says the priest.
His expression is a mixture of wistfulness and something like greed. But he is patient with the boy, working through the verses slowly. And once in a while, he gives him a kopeck from a small pouch he wears beneath his cassock.
At night, under his thin blanket, the Cyrillic letters swim in the boy’s head, almost taunting him. Ah. Beh. Vey. Geh. Deh. Yeh. Yo. It will become easier.
···
Get up, screams his father. You miserable piece of goat dung. You are trying to read? You are too stupid. You will never learn to read. And what good is it, anyway?
Thwack. The board hits him on the back, on his legs. The boy tries to scramble away, but his father grabs him.
Who do you think you are? Goat dung. Pig dung. You think you can make yourself better than that?
Thwack.
Stop it, says his grandmother. Stop it.
She stands in front of his father and slaps him, hard enough to leave his cheek reddened, his mouth gaping open in surprise, the boy gaping, too.
The priest has chosen him, the priest has decided to teach him. That is enough.
The makeshift lessons go on.
At eleven, he begins growing so quickly, so intensely that it makes him weak sometimes, as if his strength, his energy, were being siphoned off for this purpose. His body is unfamiliar territory now, he is often surprised by his own large hands — nails split and dirty, palms calloused. Perhaps it is the rabbit — he keeps some of them for himself, skinning them and roasting them over small fires, often burning his fingers or his tongue as he pulls the meat off the bones, gulps it down. Then his growth stops as suddenly as it began, leaving him tall enough, but slope-shouldered, still thin.
The priest is becoming more gloomy, more mired in the vinegary ruin of his hopes. The boy’s youth tantalizes him, gnaws at him. He paces restlessly, he prostrates himself, he reads by the hour, absently pulling hairs from his beard. He mutters parts of psalms, his eyes blank.
My wounds grow foul and fester because of my foolishness, I am utterly bowed down and prostrate; all the day I go about mourning. For my loins are filled with burning, and there is no soundness in my flesh. I am utterly spent and crushed; I groan because of the tumult of my heart.
The boy can feel his eyes on him as he goes about his chores, as he empties the censer, sweeps the altar, cleans the icons with vodka and water. He knows all of them now, these icons, he knows every crack, every stain. Solemn-faced Saint Efrosinia with her small, pursed mouth, descendant of Vseslav the Sorcerer, holding her two-barred jewelled cross, her hand raised in blessing. Pale-skinned Archangel Michael, framed by his grey wings. Saint Cyril, eyes morose, a book under one arm. The paintings are coated with linseed varnish, and the priest has shown him how to wipe the candle soot and dirt off — very carefully — with a rag and the vodka mixture.
One day he finds the priest holding up his hands as if they were unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. He bangs them against the wall, and then clutches his head, moaning, swaying, berating himself, a stream of condemnation, muttered prayers for absolution. There is something almost sly in his despair, though, as if he sees other failures ahead.
At other times, he is unnaturally elated, fingering his cross. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Fill me with joy and gladness; let the bones which Thou hast broken rejoice.
The boy moves around him cautiously, warily. But this man is his link to a larger world, to unimaginable places. Places the priest has been, has seen — Minsk, the monastery in Grodno, Mogilev, the St. Sophia Cathedral in Polotsk.
A godless place, Minsk, says the priest.
Just as well, thinks the boy.
In that moment, he decides on Minsk, this is where he is going. Sooner or later, one way or another, he will get there. If he has to walk all the way, if he has to crawl, he will get there, away from this wretched existence. In Minsk, he will eat until he is sated, he will wear clean clothes, he will have a paid job, even a girl — warm-skinned, sleek-haired, breath like wild fennel — a girl eager to please. He hungers after these last things as much as he does the food, the thoughts of them drumming in his head.
At night he dreams about the food, though, hard dreams, about sitting down at a table loaded with thick stew, hunks of caraway bread and butter, buckwheat and blood sausage, soft white cheese. The food so close he can smell it, his mouth filled with saliva. But when he starts to eat, the food dries up, shrivels before his eyes until all that is left is a handful of stones and husks.
There is no rabbit meat in these dreams, no rabbit and mushroom stew, no rabbit sausages, no haunches of roasted rabbit. He is sick of the gamey meat, of skinning them, gutting them, cracking their joints. But it is better than hunger, better than the weasel gnawing in his stomach, and now it helps to mollify his grandmother.
···
Summer. He is fifteen. The flax fields are smudged with pale blue, the cart bumps and rattles along the rutted road. In the distance, plumes of smoke curl where a farmer is boiling milk.
He finds the priest asleep in the little room at the back of the chapel, his hair dishevelled, a glass with the dregs of sacramental wine beside him. His cassock has been pushed to one side, and he sees the small pouch.
Now, he thinks. Now.
Quietly, very quietly, he picks up the knife they use for the communion bread, edges towards the bed. The priest snorts suddenly, mumbles something, and the boy jumps back.
He waits until the man is still again, until his stertorous breathing is even, then he edges over once more. The thin leather strap holding the pouch is tougher than he thought, and he saws at it frantically. The priest stirs, starts to roll over, but one last slash and the boy has the pouch.
In a second, he is out the door, as the priest begins to sit up, holding his head groggily.
He jumps into the cart, and begins whipping the horse up. The horse rears, and then lunges forward.
The last thing he sees is the priest, staggering into the doorway, his mouth open as the boy drives past.
The drumming in his head now is so loud he can barely think.
Minsk. Minsk. Minsk. Minsk.