Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Serhiy Zhadan

instead of him. I guess that’s just how it goes sometimes in a big family. “Can’t they get by without me?” I asked. “I don’t know a thing about their church stuff.” Kocha, who was still quite sick, replied hoarsely, “Look, you don’t have to do a thing. They’ll handle it, so just chill, dude. All you gotta do is hang around them, that’s it.” His voice fizzled out then like a dying car battery. He couldn’t manage more than a feeble mumble when he went on: “I just can’t— you see I’m hurting.” “What I don’t get is why they needed you in the first place.” “It’d be bad news if we only sent Gypsies over. They need a regular person there, you know, just in case the shit hits the fan.” “What’s their beef with the Gypsies?” “Herman, they’re uncivilized

people. They already don’t trust each other, and then you throw Gypsies into the mix? Listen, if this weren’t so important to the family I wouldn’t have asked you. The thing is, you’re like a brother to us now. Just make sure you wear my suit. You look like some sort of POW in that getup. Come on, Herman— you gotta take life by the horns.” “Who are we doing all this for, anyway?” I asked. “Smugglers,” Kocha explained. “They live by smuggling. The border’s right there, see. They just get by however they can.” “They ever get caught?” “Yeah, of course. Some of them get locked up and others are let go.” “How’d they wind up here in our neck of the woods?” “They do business with our

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