Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

The boys scour the base of the wall, filling their hands with small rocks. Then, side by side, they fling their mittfuls. The stones hail down, peppering the crows. The birds screech and swirl upward. Some grab at the stones as if they were seed, catching them midair then letting them plummet. They circle between the snow and the clouds.

Ivan notices Petro reach into his pocket. He sees a sparkling glint of metal. A round, large coin… a quarter. Before he can ask him where he got it, Petro hurls the coin skyward.

DANIA IS IN CHARGE TODAY. MARIA AND TEODOR have gone to visit the Petrenkos. Old Man Petrenko is turning seventy today, which makes him the oldest man in the area. His son, Josyp, invited the entire congregation to celebrate. Rumor has it that he butchered a pig for the occasion. Maria was afraid they would get caught in the storm, but Teodor assured her it would be night before it reached them; besides, he wouldn’t insult his neighbor by not making an appearance.

The children watched their parents get dressed for the event. Dania pressed her father’s pants and shirt. She gave the black trousers an extra-crisp crease. Myron polished his father’s boots, unable to hide all the cracks and ripples marring the leather. Teodor smeared his hair with pomade and allowed Ivan to do the same to his. Ivan pressed his shiny, wet-looking hair tight against his cheeks, then twirled the ends into cowlicks.

Maria wore her embroidered shirt with the red sash and her long gray woolen skirt. Sofia braided her mother’s hair, then coiled it into two tight buns on either side of her head. Maria said she had never had such perfect braids. Katya buckled her mama’s shoes and pulled her stockings up tight. She took her Mama’s belly in her hands and kissed the baby good-bye. Dania packed the two jars of chokecherry jam and the babka bread that Maria had made for the occasion. Two little dough birds perched on top of the braided loaf seemed about to take flight. Teodor winked and suggested taking some “honey medicine” for Old Man Petrenko, but Maria vetoed the idea. She said they would be home before dinner.

The children watched as their father gave his hand to their mother and guided her onto the flatbed sled he had recently made. It was designed to haul logs, but today it would serve as their sleigh. He gallantly draped a blanket over Maria’s legs and with a snap of the reins, the horse cantered away.

The children sit quietly in the wake of their parents’ happiness. Their absence somehow makes them feel closer. They can smell the soap they scrubbed their hands and faces with, the shoe polish and shaving cream. They notice the half a cigarette Teodor butted and Maria’s apron draped over the chair, as though they were coming back at any moment. A thin dust of flour coats the corner of the table where she rolled the dough. The children don’t feel the urge to test their new freedom, there is no giddy excitement to race outside and explore forbidden boundaries. They feel the need to stay close to home.

It is Katya who asks Sophia to tell them a story. Without much coaxing, she complies. She loves the English stories about poor servant girls, fairy godmothers, sleeping princesses, pumpkin chariots, and happy endings. English stories aren’t about working hard, being good to animals, taking care of one another, and that the lazy get punished. English stories are about riches and gold and being more than you are.

Dania lets them sit on their parents’ bed, close to the fire. Ivan and Katya curl up against the pillows. Katya takes Mama’s side and Ivan Tato’s. Katya eyes the woodstove, but all is calm since she started praying to the fire. She quickly recites the prayer in her head to keep it happy. Our Father, who art in Fire, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Fire. Give us our bread our daily bread and forgive us for trespassing.

Myron, who pretends he’s not interested in stories, takes down the gun to oil, even though he cleaned it two nights ago. And Dania, who should fetch water, decides to peel potatoes.

Sofia plays to her audience. Her eyes shine at the exciting parts, her voice drops low for suspense, her hands draw the scene. She walks around the room, transforming herself into the princess, the servant, the wicked stepmother. A spoon becomes a wand. A bowl a helmet. A broom a sword. She enchants them.

A knock on the door breaks the spell. Dania holds a potato in midair, half the peel dangling down. Sofia stands with her hand upraised about to turn a prince into a frog. Ivan and Katya lay still in the bed. They listen. Myron, who is closest to the window, looks out and sees two scarlet tunics. He ducks back down and jams the bolt into the gun. He waves Sofia over to the bed. Another knock.

“Open up,” a gruff voice orders. “Police.”

Dania puts down the potato.

“No,” Myron whispers.

“Open it or we’ll break it down,” the voice commands.

Dania silences Myron with a look. “I’m coming.” She forgets the English words. She wipes her hands on her apron and releases the latch, opens the door a crack. The door fills with red and shining buttons. A man with a walrus mustache braces his hand against the door. The other man, shorter and younger, with sharper eyes, asks, “Where’s your father?”

“They no here. All gone,” Dania stammers, searching for the words.

The man with the walrus mustache cases the room, taking in the children huddled on the bed. They are thin, with the wide, sunken eyes of the malnourished. Their clothes are dingy. The shack smells musty and reeks of garlic and lye. A small boy with greased hair glances to the corner and quickly lowers his eyes. A young girl in a too-short skirt and stained blouse, with a bowl on her head and a spoon in her hand, stands as if in detention.

The mustached officer looks at his partner and deftly unfastens his holster. He rests his hand on the butt of his revolver. “We need to look around. Step back from the door.”

Dania glances to Myron, who is squatting with the .22 across his lap. The mustached officer kicks open the door as he draws his weapon and swings around the corner.

“Drop it!” he yells, his gun trained on Myron’s chest, his eyes on the .22. Myron doesn’t move.

“It’s just a kid,” the other one calms. “Put it down, if you don’t want to lose it, boy.” Myron hesitates, the .22 hangs loose in his hand. He sees only the end of the police officer’s barrel.

“Now!” barks the mustache man, his finger tight on the trigger.

“Put it down!” Dania orders. Myron lowers his eyes and lays the gun on the floor, careful not to spook the man.

“Get over there.” Mustache man waves his gun toward the bed. Myron moves slowly, not turning his back.

The younger officer checks the chamber. “It’s empty.” He leans the rifle against the wall.

“They back at supper. You come then.” Dania motions them to leave. “No nothing here.”

The walrus officer holsters his gun. He walks to the bed and looks down at the children clinging to one another like a litter of mice. He goes directly to the picture of the Virgin Mary and stands before it. The children think he might be praying. He lifts the edge of the frame and slides it aside, exposing the niche. He reaches in and extracts the half-gallon jug, pulls the cork, and takes a whiff. He stoppers the jug with his fingers and inverts it, touches his fingers to his lips. He nods to the other officer.

“Tell your father he has tonight to get his things in order. We’ll be back in the morning for him.” And with that they are gone.

The children stare at the Virgin, unsure if they’ve just witnessed a miracle.

THE SNOW STARTED FALLING BEFORE DUSK IN LARGE, wet, fluffy flakes. Already the trees and house are frosted in a thick, white coat. The wind has picked up quickly, driving the snow at a sharp, hard angle, slashing the north side of the buildings and trees, quickly erasing the indiscretion of their footprints.