Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Serhiy Zhadan

holding the weapon with one hand, and came over. The rising sun flashed behind his shoulder. The October air was dry, like gunpowder. He stopped, dropped his hands, and shouted amiably at the presbyter: “Father?” The presbyter was doing his best to exude an air of self-importance. “It’s me, Tolik,” the guy in the AC Milan jacket said to the presbyter, dashing over to embrace him. The presbyter tolerated his affection with surprisingly good grace, and then the soccer star headed over to embrace me. “Tolik,” he forced out his name, nearly hugging me to death. “Herman,” I answered, freeing myself from his grip.

around in my pockets, but then I remembered I was wearing someone else’s clothes. Digging around in my jacket pocket, I was surprised to find Kocha’s screwdriver. The tips of my fingers felt its sharp edge. “God’s watching out for me,” I thought, smiling at the presbyter. But he wasn’t looking at me—he was watching the strangers, quite concerned. Admittedly therewas cause for concern— the tallest guy was holding a hunting shotgun, come to think of it, while the pot- bellied one was expertly flourishing a machete. The teenager was the only one not holding anything, but he had his hands in his pockets, so one could only imagine what he was hiding in there. The distance between our two groups closed. The tall guy unexpectedly swung the gun off his shoulder, cocked it, and fired a blast into the sky. Then he spread out his arms,

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