and pelicans disturbed by cannon fire flew overhead; then bell towers and cobblestones of Berlin, chains of Prussian footmen in dirty-white uniforms marching in inhuman unison to be butchered between the Oder River and the Russian artillery batteries at Kunersdorf—
“Bone is yellow blood is dark meat is dirt,” he cried, “and they’re bringing their teacups and wig powder! Do you understand me?” Yes, yes, I do, I said, though I didn’t. My brother was wiser—or sicker than me, I thought. And he kept racing, all the way to his very first battle: sunrise in August in a forest at Gross-Jagersdorf, springy carpet of needles underfoot, the softness of the realization that the vanguard column had lost its way and scattered; the unlikely feeling of peace, like home ; discovering a bright clutch of chanterelles, and then cannonballs and shells started crashing all around and one did not know where to run and stood hugging a fir tree and picked with shaky fingers at its scales and sap leaks, and was so afraid, so afraid, so afraid.
And I was whispering, It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s all over now. And it was. We were past all the wars, down to our own battle, brother and brother.
Once, Anna came in with a plate of broth and stared as if afraid of us both. He whispered, Tell her to leave, I’m not decent . I covered him and I said to Anna, Let me feed him. He would not eat more than two spoonfuls at a time by then. I would help him onto a chamber pot. I’ve got you, I’ve got you . He would laugh, all coughs and wheezes, his breath sour. Look at me, can’t hold myself up on a shitter. What, I’m so light you can lift me up now, little brother? His fever kept climbing. His wound had opened like a slit in a leavened loaf, and the doctor only shook his head at it.
I waxed, Andrei waned. He sweated, hallucinated, vomited his memories out, while I gained mine back. I picked out my memories among his expelled ones. His wound smelled of decay. We were up to our necks in our childhoods now, far away, and I felt I had recalled everything. I said, Remember how we used to charge into each other? Said he, I do .
I said, “I never wanted to be at war with you. Why were we?”
“That is the harshest kind of war,” he said and drifted, momentarily, out of touch.
“Andrei?”
“Mmm? . . . I’ve been jealous of you.”
“You shouldn’t be. I am a freak—”
“You bet you are. Not of this world. Nothing sticks to you. Father hated us but you don’t care. I was ashamed of our birth, you were proud. You somehow made it into this—”
“—and I’ve been jealous of you, because I am abnormal. A virgin, for one. You know why?”
“—into this wonder. Don’t know how you do it. Just saunter through life and it keeps parting before you . . . no ass-kissing . . . nor kicking . . . and I go and there is a wall . . . My head’s burning up.”
“Andrewsha?” But he’d drifted again. “What I mean is my body is freakish, not just . . . my mind,” I insisted. “Let me show you,” and I put my hand on his forehead—
He returned, “Good to have you. My damned lucky little brother. Spare us some. Save my wife and son for me. Promise.”
I pressed my hand to his forehead and imagined snow, fields of it, all the chill of broken hopes, all the gelid drafts of ravaged homes, all the anger, all the lust—I needed to cool his head, now, I so wanted to relieve him.
He jerked his head. “Let go already! You’re heating me up!”
What?! I recoiled. I stared at my palm. “Is my hand not cold?”
“Alexasha. Serious now. Get your sweaty hands off me. My wife and son. They are your responsibility now. Do you understand?”
Had I been cured of my cold?
Dumbstruck, I muttered, “Yes, yes. But you’ll pull through. We’ll do it together.”
He drifted off. I called his name once, twice, to no avail, then pitched my voice high, like a child, and howled, “Andrewsha-a-a-a . . .” as
“Bone is yellow blood is dark meat is dirt,” he cried, “and they’re bringing their teacups and wig powder! Do you understand me?” Yes, yes, I do, I said, though I didn’t. My brother was wiser—or sicker than me, I thought. And he kept racing, all the way to his very first battle: sunrise in August in a forest at Gross-Jagersdorf, springy carpet of needles underfoot, the softness of the realization that the vanguard column had lost its way and scattered; the unlikely feeling of peace, like home ; discovering a bright clutch of chanterelles, and then cannonballs and shells started crashing all around and one did not know where to run and stood hugging a fir tree and picked with shaky fingers at its scales and sap leaks, and was so afraid, so afraid, so afraid.
And I was whispering, It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s all over now. And it was. We were past all the wars, down to our own battle, brother and brother.
Once, Anna came in with a plate of broth and stared as if afraid of us both. He whispered, Tell her to leave, I’m not decent . I covered him and I said to Anna, Let me feed him. He would not eat more than two spoonfuls at a time by then. I would help him onto a chamber pot. I’ve got you, I’ve got you . He would laugh, all coughs and wheezes, his breath sour. Look at me, can’t hold myself up on a shitter. What, I’m so light you can lift me up now, little brother? His fever kept climbing. His wound had opened like a slit in a leavened loaf, and the doctor only shook his head at it.
I waxed, Andrei waned. He sweated, hallucinated, vomited his memories out, while I gained mine back. I picked out my memories among his expelled ones. His wound smelled of decay. We were up to our necks in our childhoods now, far away, and I felt I had recalled everything. I said, Remember how we used to charge into each other? Said he, I do .
I said, “I never wanted to be at war with you. Why were we?”
“That is the harshest kind of war,” he said and drifted, momentarily, out of touch.
“Andrei?”
“Mmm? . . . I’ve been jealous of you.”
“You shouldn’t be. I am a freak—”
“You bet you are. Not of this world. Nothing sticks to you. Father hated us but you don’t care. I was ashamed of our birth, you were proud. You somehow made it into this—”
“—and I’ve been jealous of you, because I am abnormal. A virgin, for one. You know why?”
“—into this wonder. Don’t know how you do it. Just saunter through life and it keeps parting before you . . . no ass-kissing . . . nor kicking . . . and I go and there is a wall . . . My head’s burning up.”
“Andrewsha?” But he’d drifted again. “What I mean is my body is freakish, not just . . . my mind,” I insisted. “Let me show you,” and I put my hand on his forehead—
He returned, “Good to have you. My damned lucky little brother. Spare us some. Save my wife and son for me. Promise.”
I pressed my hand to his forehead and imagined snow, fields of it, all the chill of broken hopes, all the gelid drafts of ravaged homes, all the anger, all the lust—I needed to cool his head, now, I so wanted to relieve him.
He jerked his head. “Let go already! You’re heating me up!”
What?! I recoiled. I stared at my palm. “Is my hand not cold?”
“Alexasha. Serious now. Get your sweaty hands off me. My wife and son. They are your responsibility now. Do you understand?”
Had I been cured of my cold?
Dumbstruck, I muttered, “Yes, yes. But you’ll pull through. We’ll do it together.”
He drifted off. I called his name once, twice, to no avail, then pitched my voice high, like a child, and howled, “Andrewsha-a-a-a . . .” as
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