Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Tango of Death

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

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

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