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Tango of Death
preserves. The fire gladly
continued to lick the metal;
the berries frothed, boiled,
bubbled, and rose, and
reaching the edges of the
top of the basin, ran onto the
stove and put out the fire, but
the gas continued to flow and
filled the kitchen with its sour
smell. Aunt Lucia smiled in
her sleep, stretched out her
hands to meet someone, and
whispered: “Finally ... you’ve
come back....”
Yarosh returned in the
evening, and the house no
longer smelled of marzipan.
He instantly flung open all the
windows and doors, turned
off the gas, and called for an
ambulance. But it was already
too late; the preserves in the
end finally had killed her.
Auntie, as she promised,
bequeathed the house to
her nephew, and Yarosh not
long after the funeral moved
to Kryvchytsi. The house
was surrounded by an old
still fertile orchard, along
the length of the fence were
untidy gooseberry bushes;
red, yellowandblackcurrants;
white and black grapes
snaked through a metal
frame; beneath the windows
flower
beds
stretched,
proudly keeping sentry were
large sunflowers, hollyhocks
and dahlias. On the ground
floor there were two spacious
rooms and a kitchen, and on
the second – a large loft with
large windows, where he
set up his study. The house
was cluttered with auntie’s
things, an endless amount
of different stuff, which
for auntie probably held
immense value. In particular,
he was surprised to come
across a carefully packed in
a linen bag full uniform of a
Polish policeman, and when
he unfolded the uniform, he
saw a bullet hole and traces
of dried blood. What the heck
did this mean? They didn’t
take Ukrainians into the