The warm air was a relief, but my nose nearly closed up with the ripe smell of animal dung. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw a pair of eyes staring out at me from one of the stalls. The others seemed to be empty. The eyes were not frightened, but inquisitive. I hobbled over and reached out my hand so the horse would know I didn’t mean it harm. It sniffed my palm, then rubbed its face against my neck. It inhaled, shuddered, sneezed — getting horse snot all over me. It was so unexpected that I nearly laughed out loud. I leaned into the horse’s warmth and closed my eyes, feeling almost safe.
Memories flooded in of when I was young, of my grandfather’s farm beyond the woods outside of Kyiv. On Sundays, before Tato was arrested, we would go for a visit once we’d tended to our own small garden.
Old farmers like him who weren’t working communally on the kolkhoz lived simply, but he did have a sway-back mare named Kulia — for Bullet — even though she was anything but speedy. Once, Tato had lifted me onto the old mare’s back. It was so high up that I was terrified at first, but Kulia just stood there, tolerating me. Her grey mane stuck up in all directions like Baba Yaga’s hair in the old tales. I tried to comb it down with my fingers, but they just got stuck in the knots. So I leaned forward and hugged Kulia’s neck, feeling safe.
“Is your name Kulia?” I whispered to the German horse. She leaned in and licked some of the mud off my cheek. I offered her the rest of my turnip. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, then licked my cheek again. This horse had good taste. She knew that even mud was preferable to too much turnip.
I heard a low breathing from the shadows, so I ventured down the length of the barn until I came face to face with a mangy white cow.
“Hi, Beela,” I said, scratching the bony ridge between her ears. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” I held my other hand up to her nose. She sniffed, then looked up at me with trusting eyes. I took that as a yes.
Once I was fairly certain that the animals were comfortable with my presence, I looked around the barn and heard my father’s voice in my mind, just as if he were right beside me: You have the tools to heal yourself.
There was a bundle of hay in front of each animal, but no water. In the shadows across from Kulia’s stall, I found a bin of oats with a wooden scoop. I grabbed one handful and poured them into my mouth, but when I tried to chew, I nearly broke a tooth, so I spat them out.
I tried to look at this barn with my father’s eyes. What did it contain that I could use?
A cow. Cows give milk.
Footsteps sounded at the front of the barn. I stood still. The person outside whistled a tuneless melody.
Where could I hide? Wooden stairs led up — probably to the hayloft. Not the best hiding place, but it would have to do. I climbed the stairs, dragging my injured foot. I settled into a dark corner behind one of the bales and hugged my knees to my chest.
Before our pharmacy was destroyed, Tato had begun to teach me his craft. Not only how to compound medications with store-bought items, but also how to use the gifts of nature. To keep a wound clean, salt water worked wonders, and so did honey, but if you had nothing else, you had to improvise. A piece of mouldy bread was the best, or a cloth soaked in whey. Fresh cow’s milk was also good. But would I be able to get some from the cow down below without being caught?
The barn doors scraped open and the entry to the loft became visible in the early dawn light. There were spaces in the floorboards, and they let in light too, so I burrowed farther into the dark corner, making myself small. I looked down through gaps between my feet. I was directly above the old man’s balding scalp.
Could he smell me? I had a moment of panic, but then I realized that my own smell couldn’t possibly be stronger than this filthy barn.
The man walked over to the horse’s stall and cooed something in German to her. I held my breath. If he looked up, surely he’d see me.
I had an urge to sneeze as he untied her rope. Almost as if we were of one mind, the horse sneezed, spewing snot all over. The farmer chuckled. I looked down and saw that he had darted out of the way just in time. I guess he was used to it.
He led the horse outside and set her loose, walked back into the barn and put a scoop of oats in Beela’s trough, then grabbed a pail from a hook on the wall and sat on a stool in her stall. I heard the rhythmic sound of milk drumming the inside of the metal pail. I needed that milk. Not just to soothe my hunger and thirst, but to help heal my festering wound.
The farmer then led Beela outside. I watched through a slat as she ambled over to Kulia, and the two animals munched grass peacefully side by side. The farmer took the pail of milk back with him to the house and I was hoping that he’d be doing other chores somewhere else and wouldn’t notice me. The barn door was still wide open and sunlight shone through. That’s when I noticed the staff I’d used as a walking stick down by the cow’s trough. Had the farmer seen it?
I waited until he had gone inside the house, then crept back down. I snatched my stick and scrambled back up the stairs.
I had just settled back into my dark corner when the door of the house opened again. A thin woman stepped out. Was she his daughter? Wife?
She walked to the caved-in outbuilding, yanked open a door and stepped inside. Some time later she came back out, a few chickens following after her. I had been right beside that bombed building and hadn’t realized there were live chickens inside!
She now held her basket with both hands. It looked heavy with fresh eggs. My mouth was so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of it. If I could get one of those eggs, I would crack it over my mouth and swallow it down whole.
I stayed in my hiding spot for the entire day, watching the activity on the farm. When the man used the water pump, it screeched. So much for sneaking out later and getting water. That sound could wake the dead.
The man hitched Kulia to a wagon and went into the muddy field, pulling up turnips and also beets, which I hadn’t noticed in the night. I wish I had, because raw beets are much better than turnip. Anything is better than turnip.
It seemed odd that this large farm was being run by just one old man and a frail-looking woman. Where were all the farmhands, or the children? It didn’t add up.
While the man harvested, the woman was in and out of the house and other buildings. She brought out a load of laundry and hung trousers and shirts and undergarments on the line. I looked down at my shredded hospital gown.
When the wagon was full, the man led Kulia back to a small building — probably a cold cellar — close to the house. He and the woman unloaded the beets and turnips onto a wheelbarrow and took them inside.
As I watched, my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep.