Valerian Pidmohyl'nyi 1901 - 1937

In the morning, Vania would get up at eight o'clock, wash, kiss his father and mother, and sit down to tea. All this he would do in great haste, because mornings there was the most to do. First of all he had to run down to the garden to see if the eggplant that had started reddening yesterday had ripened. He had to weed out the grass in the furrows where the flowers were planted. Then, quietly, so no one would see, he had to sneak out of the yard and run into the steppe to the gully. There, far from any people, Vania had his own little garden. In the spring he had planted some eggplants and melons there. True, only two bushes of eggplant and one vine of melons had taken root, but even this little patch was enough trouble—three times a week he had to sneak out there with a jug of water to water it.

In general, until the fruit was ripe and ready to be picked and eaten, Vania had to keep up his diligence. He couldn't tell any of his friends about his garden, because they'd be jealous and ruin everything. But oh, how he wanted to show off his work! To see the jealousy in their eyes! But he couldn't allow himself that satisfaction.

To reduce the temptation, Vania spent less time playing with his friends and mostly sat in his room building a railroad out of wooden blocks.

Vania drank his tea and went outside. He went over to look at the little boar his mother had given him as a present. The boar was completely red, and neighbors always came to look at it because of its unusual color. Vania was proud to be the owner of this unusual boar and took especially good care of it. Vania pushed a stick through a crack in the pigpen and carefully scratched the boar behind its ear. Conscious of the favor bestowed on it, the boar rolled over on its back and grunted in delight. Finishing up with the boar, Vania went over to the garden to look at the eggplant. It had reddened, but only on one side. Vania broke it off and left it to ripen on the pigpen, where the chickens wouldn't peck at it. There wasn't much grass growing in the flower bed, and Vania decided to leave it till tomorrow.

And now for the main thing—to run out unobserved to his own garden in the gully.

None of his friends were on the street. Vania quickly ran up the hill and down the other side. There he walked on quietly, pushing aside the tall grass. Swarms of grasshoppers jumped out of the grass, buzzing off in every direction. Somewhere above a lark was singing—a happy, powerful, easy tune. Ahead and on either side out to the horizon stretched the endless and monotonous expanse of the steppe.

Vania feared the steppe. It was so silent and morose that if it were not for the song of the lark and the chirr of the grasshoppers, perhaps Vania would never have ventured out on it. The summer savory underfoot gave off a strong aroma—heavy and tangy. Mixed with the hot rays of the sun, it filled his head with sweet waves of immediate and desired somnolence. The grass on the steppe was not green but yellow-gray, as if some evil thing had sucked out its life juices, leaving behind worthless stalks.

Vania was walking into the heart of the steppe. There were no trails or paths, because no one else ever rode or walked there. The gully was far away. Cut into the ground by rain water, with every passing year it became deeper and more frightening. In the middle of the flat steppe it abruptly plummeted, its banks glistening with yellow clay. It seemed as if a part of the steppe had deliberately been ripped out to
show that it was even yellower inside than on the surface.

The gully wound its way though the steppe, here and there removing giant clumps of earth. But it always appeared the same: steep, yellow, and deep.

The first time Vania saw it, he shuddered in fear as he stared at the terribly silent and inscrutably mysterious gully. To Vania it seemed that the earth had parted and was waiting for someone to climb down into its depths. Then, with a slow and stubborn determination the gully's walls would begin to close and disregarding the frenzied cries and furious struggle, would crush the unwitting sacrificial victim and then come apart again to lure more people. Descending into the gully for the first time, Vania took a step and waited to see if its walls would indeed close. Only when he was convinced that they wouldn't did he become calm and take another step.

Vania carefully climbed down the bluff. The dry clay slipped out from under his feet, and to avoid falling he had to grab hold of prickly shrubs of wild boxthorn—the only green plant on the sides of the gully. The bottom of the gully was bright with the sun's rays, which reflected off the yellow banks. All the clay's moisture had been sucked out by the sun, and the dry air, saturated with the bitter clay dust, irritated his throat with every breath. Everything turned red before his eyes; he wanted to thrust out his tongue and pant with his mouth wide open, like a dog.

In one place the gully narrowed, and the passage was blocked by a couple of trees, which had somehow survived in these inhospitable conditions. This passage was the most frightening place in the gully, and it was no wonder that Vania was scared of it. Once, while he was climbing through the grabbing branches of the trees, Vania's shirttail had caught on a small branch. When he turned to look back, he saw among the tangled branches the indistinct outline of something large and gray. Knowing that it was the man-eater who had caught him by the shirt and was not letting go because he was going to eat him, Vania let out an unearthly cry. As the cry echoed loudly down the gully, he pulled free and ran, leaving a piece of his shirt on the branch. Breathless from trying to flee the wild cries, which the gully angrily reverberated, and hearing, without looking back, the heavy footsteps of something behind him, Vania fell to the powdery ground, beat his head against it, and tore at it with his fingers, terrified of imminent death.

Having calmed down a little, Vania started climbing out of the gully. But then he changed his mind and taking a thick stick, crawled back to the trees on his stomach.

He peered eaglelike into the thicket. He made a wild lunge and with stick raised high threw himself into the tangled branches. But no one was there any longer. Vania sat down and chuckled from happiness. The man-eater had run away, the man-eater got scared!

After this unexpected encounter with the man-eater, Vania thought long about whether it wouldn't be better to go deeper into the steppe to avoid the scary narrow passage. Thinking about the man-eater was both frightening and enticing. As if by a strong magnet, Vania was pulled back into the gully by those secrets that were hiding so carefully between its yellow, crumbling walls.

As soon as Vania again reached the gully, a force drew him to descend in the same spot as before. When he again approached the trees, he felt nothing at all except a hellish chill. His hands and feet went cold. He felt something heavy on top of his head, crushing it. His heart was barely beating. Pale as a corpse and with his fists tightly clenched, he climbed into the thicket, not even protecting himself from the branches that scratched his face. Once on the other side of the passage, Vania laughed and cried.

A little beyond the terrible place, a patch of black earth drew attention to itself amidst the yellowness. Here, carefully marked off by stakes, grew two green bushes of eggplant and a vine of melons. Vania straightened one of the stakes. Everything was in order, as it should be.

On his way there, Vania always worried about seeing footprints other than his own. That would mean not only the death of his garden, but the gully itself would lose its mystery and allure. Ever since he had chased away the man-eater, Vania considered the gully his very own. One time he even gave the gully a strict order not to let anyone onto its bottom, and if anyone should be so bold as to try, to crush him between its walls. The gully silently accepted this command, and in this silence Vania felt he had been given a solemn promise, an oath.

On the way home, Vania met one of his friends—Mytka, whom he didn't like. He didn't like him because Mytka was stronger than he was and also because Mytka always found things in the forest, like a mulberry tree or a wild pear, but wouldn't show them to anybody until he got a few kopecks.

Now Mytka was running up the street, riding on a big stick with a whip in his hand. From the big smile on his face, Vania could see that Mytka had found something again. "Hi," said Mytka. "Where've you been?" "Around." "Know what I found? I found a melon in the forest. Cross my heart—a real melon. It's yellowing already."

This was getting interesting. "Will you show me?" pleaded Vania. Mytka made a fist. "Here it is! Want it? I'll eat that one myself. And it's big, too!" Mytka laughed gleefully and made his horse rear. Vania wanted to hit him, but Mytka stopped laughing and, coming up close to Vania, whispered in his ear: "I know where Zhuchok is!" Vania was shaken by this. "You're lying. Where?" "Nothing doing. Give me your white toy pistol and I'll tell you. Otherwise, don't even ask."

Mytka snapped his whip, spurred his stick, and galloped off down the street raising a cloud of dust. Vania stood there for a while and then slowly set off for home. He was angry at Mytka and didn't believe that he knew where Zhuchok was.

Vania's Zhuchok had gotten into a fight with a rabid dog and had had to be killed. Before they killed him, they tied him to a stake in the yard for two days just to make sure that he had really been infected.

On the first day Zhuchok had been calm. A couple of times he barked steadily for a while, but that was because he didn't like being tied up. Vania watched him from a distance, not understanding why Zhuchok was tied up and why he wasn't allowed to go near him and play with him as usual. When Vania brought out some bread for him, Zhuchok caught it in the air, yelped, and wagged his tail.

The next day Zhuchok was not himself. His eyes had become bloodshot, large, and fierce-looking. He barked raspingly and tore constantly at his leash. Later he put his tail between his legs, raised his head, and began howling, quietly and sorrowfully at first but then more loudly, wildly, uncontrollably. Vania wanted to calm him and brought out some bread. Zhuchok attacked the bread as if it had been a stone thrown at him. He tore at the bread, scattering it everywhere, and continued to growl and howl. "Zhuchok, Zhuchok!" Vania called to him. Zhuchok stretched his head toward the boy and looked at him misty-eyed. In that blank expression, those red, uncomprehending eyes, in the open and frothing mouth, Vania could see what was called madness. Although he didn't know or understand what it was, in his heart Vania could immediately feel that it was a stubborn and ruinous force. It frightened him. Vania ran to his mother. "Mommy, mommy! What's the matter with Zhuchok?" Vania was sent out to play, and Zhuchok was shot and dragged off somewhere. Vania cried and begged to see Zhuchok, but he was told that the dog had broken off the leash and had run away. Vania accepted this story and calmed down.

And now Mytka was saying that he knew where Zhuchok was. True, he wanted the white toy pistol, which didn't quite work right, but was still worth keeping. Yet he really wanted to see Zhuchok. After lunch, Vania took out the white toy pistol and looked at it for a long time. He started building a railroad, but that didn't go well. Then Vania called Mytka and told him: "For this pistol, you show me where Zhuchok is." Mytka examined the pistol. "It's not in the best of shape, but it'll do. Isn't your mother going to ask what happened to it?" "I'll tell her I lost it." "O.K. Let's go." "Where?" "The forest. That's where he is." "What's he doing there?" "What do you mean 'What's he doing there?'" laughed Mytka. "He's dead. He's lying there." Vania's heart thumped and his eyes filled with tears, but he said nothing. They went on.

The forest was large and dense. Going into it was like entering a different world. On one side of the wall of trees were life, sun, day—while on the other side were death and chilly evening. The air smelled of damp soil and vegetation. Last year's grayish-yellow leaves rustled, and the dry fallen branches crackled underfoot. The trees silently raised their gray fungus- and moss-covered trunks to the sky.

From somewhere came the chirp and chatter of unseen creatures that lived in the forest. But this monotonous chatter and singing of distant birds did not disturb the silence that always ruled the forest. On the contrary, they gave to it a finished quality, they made it harmonious.

Above, in the dark thicket of branches locked in a kiss, through which even the brightest daylight couldn't pass, reverberated the songs of the forest, songs as sad as grief itself. These songs called to some- thing great and strange, but unknown. Yet no matter how long you might listen, you won't hear it—no matter how much you might plead, you won't be answered. The forest won't tell you to what its songs, magical as happiness, are calling you.

Mytka and Vania took each other by the hand. "I'm scared," said Vania. "Why does it rustle?" "The forest? Good question. Why does it rustle?" They both stopped, deep in thought. "I think because something is hurting it," said Vania. "Maybe. Let's hurry up." They reached the swamp. Their legs sank over the ankles into the cold, sticky mud. The air was so heavy and filled with plant mold and the strong aroma of the colorful swamp flowers that breathing was difficult and unpleasant. Here, by the rustling reeds on the trampled soft grass, lay Zhuchok. On his side, in those places where the buckshot had hit him, little lumps of dry blood glistened red. Above the battered corpse, the air was thick with the unpleasant buzz of a small swarm of greenish-gold flies frightened by the appearance of these two creatures, terrifying and incomprehensible to them. After a moment, the flies again settled down on Zhuchok and scurried around the dried blood, pausing here and there, wherever there was a tasty portion.

Zhuchok's eyes were closed and he seemed to be slowly, almost imperceptibly, breathing. Vania had immediately noticed how rhythmically the mangled side moved. "He's breathing!" yelled Vania. "It's true," whispered Mytka. "I didn't notice it before. He's still alive." They stood still, not knowing what to do. "You know what," said Mytka gruffly, "let's kill him off so he doesn't suffer anymore."

"How?" asked Vania. "You can't kill anything with the pistol." "Not with the pistol.. .just with rocks and sticks." "Let's," said Vania, and he shuddered. They ran off to gather rocks and collected a whole pile. Mytka threw the first stone. It struck Zhuchok's side with a dull, heavy thud, scaring off the flies. In the swamp, some frogs jumped. Vania threw a stone next, but he missed. It smacked into the wet ground, splattering bits of thin, gray mud in every direction.

Vania seemed to take offense at this. Picking up as many rocks as he could, he ran up to Zhuchok and from a distance of one step began savagely hitting him in the head, side, and stomach. Following Vania, Mytka also ran up, and together the two boys threw even heavier rocks, breathing hard, not remembering anything, and not feeling any desire other than wanting to hit their target and finishing off Zhuchok. Their faces grew long and pale; at times they showed a glint of madness. Something dull and wild gleamed in their wide-open eyes. When the rocks ran out, thick clubs appeared in their hands, and the clubs fell on Zhuchok with sudden, muffled whacks. Mytka's cap had fallen off, and his disheveled hair rose with every swing of his club. In those moments Mytka was frightening.

The beating continued until the clubs fell out of their trembling hands. Then bitter dissatisfaction—because they wanted to continue the beating but had no strength—and a feeling of overwhelming anger, which they hadn't felt before, overcame them. Vania was gasping from exhaustion, gulping air, and barely on his feet. Mytka was only out of breath, swallowing hard from time to time. They glanced at each other and agreeing without speaking, started for Zhuchok to tear him to pieces, pull out his eyes and tongue, grind up his flesh with their teeth.... But when they saw Zhuchok, they stopped. Zhuchok was no more. In his place there was only a formless, reddish-gray piece of meat. "A-a-a-a-a-!" cried out Vania uncontrollably and took to his heels. Mytka ran off behind him. Tearing away from the clutching branches, tripping and scrambling up again, they ran with arms outstretched to avoid running into the trunk of a tree, for all they saw were black dots and splotches.

At the edge of the forest, they stopped and rested for a few minutes, without saying a word. Then, slowly, they went home. Near his house Vania said in a barely audible whisper, "Don't tell anyone." Mytka nodded, took the toy pistol from his pocket, and gave it to Vania. "Here... you can have it back. I don't need it.... " Vania took the pistol; he wasn't surprised that Mytka had given it back. At home Vania lay down on his bed and buried his head in a pillow. He felt that something bad had been done. It tortured him, drew him in oppressively. Finally he could bear it no longer and began to cry. But the crying made him fear that someone would walk in and see his tears and then surely guess what he'd been doing a half hour earlier. Vania stopped crying, grabbed the pillow with both hands, and rolled over against the wall, so no one could see him. But inside heavy boulders of black despair were rolling onto and crushing the tender breast of this small person. Vania wanted to go somewhere among strangers, where people would think he was a nice, good little boy. Then he felt a sorrow for something that seemed already to be shattered, trampled, never to be brought back again. This sorrow, mixing and blending with the suppressed terror of the punishment he had earned, clamped his chest in a painful grip, and Vania began wailing, his sobs punctuated by long pauses. "O-o-o-o-!" cried Vania louder and louder. "U-u-u-u!" he continued, almost hoarse. Then his crying diminished, until it trailed off completely. It seemed he was calm. But after a moment of this uncertain tranquility he would begin bawling again in a variety of shrill tones, until again he calmed down. But because there were no tears, the pressure on Vania's chest grew greater and greater, as if more and more weight were being piled on it. It was as if in his crying Vania wanted to pour out the sorrow, the grief in his heart, that made him feel something had been done that shouldn't have been. But rather than pouring out, the sorrow grew, shrouding Vania in an implacable, dense, and impenetrable fog. "Oo-oo-a-a-agh," groaned Vania, and in this groaning there was no longer a child crying. It was the shriek of a mother watching her child being tortured. It was the sigh of a man facing death.

His mother and the old nanny ran in and began quieting him and asking what had happened. "Vania, Vania, my little darling, what's the matter?" Vania only trembled and clutched at his pillow. He was ashamed to show his face, because it seemed to him everything was written on his face and that everyone would read what Vania was already hiding from himself in the dark recesses of his soul. "I was running ... and I fell and hit myself... very hard ... it hurts...," he said, between long pauses, as if he were hiccuping. "What did you hurt?" "My knee... over here." His mother bent over and kissed the injured knee. Vania pressed close and hugged her. "Mommy, do you love me?" "Yes, I love you my son, my pet."

After the episode with Zhuchok, Vania became pensive and withdrawn. He almost never went out to play with his friends. He sat in his room all the time, building a railroad with the toy blocks. At school he did well, keeping up with his homework, but in all his actions there seemed to be a lack of concentration, as if he were always thinking about something else. He also took a liking to horror stories and listened to them with such an expression as if he were seeking an answer to a particular question. His mother, of course, noticed the change in her son's behavior and even mentioned it to the boy's father. But his father had his own explanation: Vania had finally realized that it wasn't appropriate for the son of a respectable landowner to be playing with tomorrow's drivers and lackeys. This was something that could only be applauded. As for Vania becoming thoughtful, that was good too—maybe he was going to be a scholar or a writer. After hearing this explanation, his mother was relieved. And Vania was left alone; no one bothered him any more.

Vania tried not to think about his garden in the gully, and he stopped going there. He left his room rarely and unwillingly, and avoided being left alone anywhere. Even when he was building his railroad, his nanny, granny Anna, who used to take care of him and now just lived with them, knitted gloves, and plucked feathers, would have to sit in the room with him. When Vania got tired of his railroad, he would sit down beside Anna, take her hand, and ask: "Tell me about the robbers...." "What a boy! He wants to hear about robbers! I know nothing about robbers—they're wicked people, and someday they'll all be burning in hell." "Granny, who else will be in hell?" "Those who don't listen to their parents, those who fight, those who swear...." Vania listened, pressing close to the old woman. "And they will be put into huge caldrons of boiling tar, and the devils. Lord forgive me, will poke at them with iron pitchforks and hang them by their tongues. 0 Lord, forgive us our trespasses." Grandmother yawned and made the sign of the cross over her open mouth. "Granny, will Zhuchok be let into heaven?" asked Vania one day. "Which Zhuchok? The one we used to have? But that was a dog, an unclean creature. How can he go to heaven? It's a sin to say such things, Vania. God will punish you!" "Then where will he go?" Vania persisted. "What do you mean, where? Nowhere. He's dead and that's that."

But Vania imagined it differently. He could clearly see Zhuchok, black and healthy, running around in the green garden of paradise and barking happily while the righteous and the saints threw him pieces of meat and bread. Even God Himself, old and gray, with a long beard and whiskers like those of ²ukym, the watchman, was smiling and petting Zhuchok on the neck. Zhuchok was living there very happily.

Now another picture floated before Vania's eyes. In a large gray room, which smells of frying and burning, he and Mytka are being cooked on a large iron pan. It's very painful. Hairy black devils flip them over with sharpened skewers and then toss them into boiling tar while the boys scream and writhe in pain. Sometimes the Blessed Mother comes in and eases the suffering of all the other sinners, but when she reaches them she says:

"Are these the boys who tortured and killed Zhuchok? I don't want to help them. Let them suffer forever and ever...; "

Meanwhile, the two boys are pleading, crying, falling to their knees.

"Mommy, mommy, do you love me?" asked Vania. "I love you very, very much. What's wrong?" Sit by me until I fall asleep." Mother would sit beside him, stroke his head, and give him a kiss from time to time. "Mommy, tell me, is there a hell?" "Yes, my darling, that's where sinners go." "I don't want there to be a hell.... Mommy, say there is no hell." "No, there is a hell, but you needn't worry about it. You're a good and obedient boy." "Is God good?" "Yes, He's good. Very good. You pray to Him every morning and evening. It's important to pray to Him." Vania would become calm, but he still couldn't sleep. The past few evenings it seemed to Vania that some terrible creature had struck its paws in the space between the bed and the wall and was clawing at the wall, as if it wanted to climb up onto the bed from the floor. Terrified, Vania would move closer to the edge of the bed, almost falling off. In the morning he wanted to move the bed closer to the wall, but there was no place to move it. The bed already stood right against the wall. "How can anything get a paw through there?" Vania wondered. He thought about it for a long time, but he said nothing to his mother or granny. That's when he started asking his mother to sit beside him until he fell asleep. The first evening his mother sat by him, there wasn't any scratching under the bed, but on the second night, Vania could again hear something moving and clacking its teeth. He squeezed his mother's hand and, breathing hard, asked: "Mommy, don't you hear anything?" "No, son, what is it?" "Nothing.... Are there any wolves around here?" "No, they never come here. They live far, far away. You go to sleep now, sleep."

Earlier Vania had thought that maybe a wolf was trying to get into his room at night to steal him, just as a wolf had stolen the girl in that story granny had told him. But if there weren't any wolves around, then it must be Zhuchok wanting to bite Vania because he had beaten him. Like sharp pinpoints, this thought kept piercing the child's brain, stopping his breathing and chilling his skin. As he was drifting off to sleep, Vania would curl up in fear and mumble: "Zhuchok... forgive me... don't bite." Eventually, during the day Vania didn't mention Zhuchok at all. He laughed and played with his friends. He even thought it was time to visit his garden. But as evening approached, something seemed to dispel his happiness and laughter. He became moody. As darkness covered the world, Vania would become deeply troubled by every rustle. Vania would go to bed with an unpleasant, sorrowful feeling, and even though his mother or grandmother sat beside him, he knew that the black paws would come out from beneath the bed and he would hear the clacking of teeth. With a tense, faint heart and a heavy head he would wait for it to begin. And when the stubborn scratching of claws on the wall began, Vania would feel a terrible satisfaction. It could be no other way—Zhuchok had to and would take his revenge.

Vania wanted very much to go into the forest to look at Zhuchok and perhaps make his peace with him. He had already approached the silent wall of trees a few times, but he hadn't been able to go in. He was ashamed before the trees, which had seen how he had beaten Zhuchok with rocks and sticks. It seemed to him that if he went up to the spot where Zhuchok lay, the willows that leaned over the bog would moan: "Go away, you bad boy. Away from here. Your place is in hell." And the birds would repeat the same words in their songs, and the reeds in their rustling, and the forest in its whispering.

Once, roaming at the edge of the forest, Vania, with trembling heart and beclouded mind, went in. As before, it was dark, clammy, and cold. Carefully hiding behind the trees, Vania approached the swamp. When he was still at some distance, the stench of rotting flesh assailed him. What was once Zhuchok now wasn't even a yellowish-gray piece of meat, but a putrefying black carcass. At first, Vania didn't notice it among all the rocks, but on coming closer, he scared off a swarm of flies and an army of scurrying, long-legged black beetles.

Vania stood for a long time watching the becalmed flies and beetles finishing what was left of Zhuchok's body. He no longer took notice of the nauseating stench of decay that filled the air. He thought about how he couldn't do anything for Zhuchok any more, about how he'd like to do something and by this "something" atone for his sin. If only a sorcerer would walk out from the thick of the reeds with a golden staff and say: "Vania, if you wish, I will eat you and then Zhuchok will live." Without hesitation Vania would respond: "Eat, the faster, the better." But the sorcerer didn't come. If only a good angel would fly down from heaven with Zhuchok alive and well in his arms. If only Zhuchok would say: "Vania, I'm not angry at you." But there was nothing, no one. The sky was clear as light, a bee droned monotonously over a red flower.

Then, with a long sigh the seven-year-old fell on his knees in the thick green grass, and sinking into the cold slimy mud, with lowered head and arms raised to the heavens, cried: "Zhuchok, dear. I know you're in heaven, I know you like it there.... Forgive me. Say you forgive me." There was no answer. "He doesn't want to forgive me. That's what I deserve," thought Vania as he slowly got up. A silent sorrow sucked at his heart. Now Vania was quite sure that Zhuchok would seek revenge. Ready to go home, Vania stepped up to the black meat one more time. Once again the flies flew off with an angry buzz and the beetles ran away with a faint rustle. Vania examined the filthy carcass closely and thought about how it was his fault that only this revulsion and ugliness was left of Zhuchok. "Zhuchok," he whispered. A frog croaked in the swamp and the reeds began swaying with even greater solicitude. Suddenly Vania noticed the stale, morbid smell of decay rising from beneath his feet. Breathing made him feel nauseous, as if smelly dishwater were being poured into his chest. Anger, sudden and overwhelming, took possession of Vania. With eyes aflame he began trampling the putrid meat, which made a smacking sound with each kick.

"I'm not afraid of you, you accursed beast. If you won't forgive me, then take this!" yelled Vania. His savage desecration over, he laughed; his laughter echoed across the indifferent swamp and died in the reeds. "I'm not scared of you," Vania said with conviction and went home.

Walking past the red boar, he stopped and spent a long time scratching its sides with a stick. Then he remembered the eggplant he had long since put on the pigpen to ripen. He scrambled up to get it, but the sparrows had long since pecked it to pieces. By now, many eggplants had ripened, so Vania wasn't very angry with the thievish sparrows. At home he ran straight to his mother and said with a guilty smile: "Mommy, I was playing around a bog and fell and dirtied my pants. Don't be angry. Mommy. Give me another pair, I'll go play on the street." Mother quietly pulled his ear, but gave him clean pants right away, and a short while later Vania was out on the street playing horseback on a Fine hemp stalk and trying to outpace the best riders.

That evening Vania resolutely announced that his mother didn't need to sit beside him any more. And indeed, nothing tried clawing its way up the wall. "Aha, so you got scared," whispered Vania happily. That night, when everyone else was asleep, Vania awoke when he felt someone choking him. He opened his eyes and saw that it was his mother. She was leaning over him and squeezing his throat with one hand. "Why... are you... choking me?" gasped Vania. But, half-awake, he had been mistaken. It wasn't his mother, but a snake that had wound itself around his neck. Vania wanted to tear it off, when suddenly it wasn't a snake but Zhuchok that had caught him by the throat and was gnawing at his neck, which felt heavy and ticklish. Vania grabbed Zhuchok with both hands and, straining with all his might, tore him away from his throat. "What is this, Zhuchok?" asks Vania. "We lived together nicely, every day I brought you bread, bones, and sometimes even meat, and now you're biting me."

"Have you forgotten how you beat me?" snarls Zhuchok, sparks flying from his eyes.

At this Vania froze. Suddenly he saw a devil with a pitchfork climbing out from under the bed and baring his teeth in a malicious smile. Behind him... another one... and another. There were many of them, all big, black, and hideous! His teeth chattering from the cold terror that gripped him with its icy fingers, Vania stretched out his hand to defend himself, when Zhuchok sprang from the bed to the door and hid behind it; he was followed by all the devils.

Vania felt that he had to get out of bed and run through the doorway past the door behind which Zhuchok and the devils were hiding. Vania also knew that when he did, they would all jump out of hiding, attack him, bite him, and pierce him with pitchforks. The icy terror that numbed his legs and made them tremble was spreading and taking hold of the rest of Vania's body, crushing his chest in its powerful, cold embrace and cramping his arms. There was a pounding in his head as if pebbles were raining on it. Vania wanted to shout for help, but his entire being was imprisoned in an iron cage and he could move neither his lips nor his tongue. His breathing was failing, his heart was stopping, and his entire body was numb; the invisible pebbles kept raining on his head even harder. Vania jumped up and ran.... By the door something dark, slimy, and cold attacked him. It engulfed Vania completely, squeezed him, and forced itself into his mouth, causing him to feel sickening nausea. He squirmed, writhed, and flailed out with his arms and legs; hoarsely he mumbled something incomprehensible and struggled with his whole body, resisting with his head while it squeezed him tighter and tighter.... He could no longer move. The awareness of his helplessness terribly distressed Vania. He felt life slipping away from him. With superhuman strength, he jerked, threw off the slimy creature, and with halting breath awoke.

At the same moment he heard furious clawing and stubborn gnashing of teeth from under the bed. Vania screamed in someone else's voice and fainted.

March 19, Pavlohrad

Translated by Maxim Tarnawsky