Marrya

When the first flyer fell from the sky, it was as soft as a fluttering bird. It had caught on the broken wooden panel Mother had salvaged from the rubble to hold up the glass, sliding down crookedly before fluttering out into the wind again.

Now, that the sky outside was full of them, it was clear that it hadn’t been a bird at all. White rectangles with bold red words printed onto them, so large even the blind old woman down the street could probably make them out. She must’ve, or why else would she be hobbling out onto the street with the rest of the neighborhood residents, shuffling out of the city?

In the street below, people were shouting.

A woman calls for her son. A man curses at a car that will not start. Somewhere close, too close, an evacuation siren wails and drags its long metal throat through every room in the building.

Grandfather pours the tea.

His hand shakes badly enough that some of it misses the cup and darkens the cloth beneath it, but he does not seem to notice. He only leans closer to the tray, frowning.

“Sugar?” he asks.

The girl standing by the window does not move nor answer.

She has one arm through her coat and one arm still out of it. She was wearing so many layers of clothing, it had been a hassle getting the first arm in, so she had given up on the second. Her schoolbag hung open against her hip, stuffed with all the things her mother had told her to grab quickly and then, when quickly became impossible, screamed at her to grab faster: passport, charger, scarf, socks, the little envelope of family photos from the top drawer. The zipper had caught on the corner of something inside and would not close.

Her mother was in the hallway, arguing with a neighbor.

“No, I know–I know. You know what he’s like, it’s going to be impossible–get away from the window!”

The girl shuffles back.

Grandfather walks over to her, reaching over to pat her shoulder. His fingers are darkened and knobbly, gripping uncomfortably into her shoulder. Where his ring finger should be, there is nothing but empty space.

“Come,” he ushers her to the sheet on the floor. “Come. I know you are hungry from your lessons.”

The girl allows herself to be guided to where Grandfather has laid down some food—a humble meal that consists only of bread and tea. Mother makes a frustrated noise somewhere in the back of her throat, throwing her hands up. But she knows it's a futile thing to fight against it now, so she retreats, busying herself by hurriedly packing some of Grandfather’s clothes.

“Tell me,” Grandfather says, beaming with all five of his remaining front teeth as he lowers himself onto the ground before their meal. “How did you find school today, my Marrya?”

The girl does not sit for a moment. All of the local schools have been shut down for the past year, and anyway, she has never been to one. Her mother had preferred to keep her close to her at all times, especially since “the accident.” She does not know what “the accident” is, only that the adults never spoke of it if they could help themselves.

“Good,” Her empty jacket sleeve flops at her side when she sits and grabs for the bread. It is hard and stale but the tea softens it when she dunks it inside. Grandfather opens and closes his mouth, mimicking her actions as she eats. He is still beaming.

“I know how much you love sugar in your tea, but there just isn’t any to be found these days.” Grandfather says. “It’s the first thing they take in war, you know. The sweetness.”

“It’s okay,” The girl says through a mouthful of bread. “I like it like this.”

Grandfather smiles. “My Marrya. No sugar is as sweet as the words from your tongue. Eat. Eat, I shall bring you more.”

Mother slams the cupboard shut, startling them both. “No, Baba, we’re leaving now.”

Grandfather waves her away, paying her no mind. “There is more bread in the kitchen–”

“Baba.” Mother grabs a flyer off the floor where it had slipped inside through the broken window. She thrusts it right in front of Grandfather’s face. “Look. Look at this. Does this mean anything to you?”

Grandfather squints at the paper for a moment. Then he smiles politely, already turning away. “Put it on the table, we will read the paper after dinner.” His eyes crinkle almost shut when he smiles at the girl, pushing his bread toward her. “Eat. Eat.”

The girl lowers her gaze to the bread in her fingers. It has begun to crumple now, falling into her tea. The dry lumps sink to the bottom of her cup.

Grandfather nudges the bread closer.

Outside, something booms.

It shakes the ground hard enough that dust falls from the ceiling. Grandfather only looks sheepish, brushing away the dust from the girl’s plate, careful as a host embarrassed by an unclean house.

“Forgive me,” He tells her. “It’s not like the last time you were here.”

Mother turns away with a strangled sound.

The girl looks at Grandfather.

There is an old photograph on the shelf behind him, half-covered by a folded blanket Mother had thrown there in her rush. The frame is cracked across the corner. In it, Grandfather is young and black-haired, standing beside a girl with a ribbon tied around the end of her braid. A girl with a round face and serious eyes. A girl looking slightly away from the camera, as if someone outside the frame has called her name.

The girl has seen the photograph before.

She has seen it all her life, though no one ever explained it.

Grandfather follows her gaze and brightens.

“Ah,” he says. “You remember that day?”

Mother goes still.

Grandfather laughs softly to himself. “Your mother was furious with me. She said, ‘Why are you taking her picture in that dress? She’ll ruin it before the wedding.’ But I told her, let the child ruin it. What is a dress for, if not living in?”

The girl says nothing.

Mother folds one of Grandfather’s shirts with hard, violent motions. Once. Twice. Then she gives up and shoves it into the bag without folding at all.

Grandfather leans forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“You did ruin it, you know.”

The girl looks down at her own clothes: the coat hanging half-on, the empty sleeve limp against her side, the dust on her knees. “Did I?”

“Oh, completely.” Grandfather’s eyes shine. “Mulberries all down the front.”

Mother’s hands stop moving.

The siren rises again, shrill and endless.

Grandfather does not seem to hear it.

“You cried and cried,” he says. “Not because of the dress. Because your brother laughed at you.”

Mother turns sharply. “Baba.”

Grandfather looks up, startled by the interruption. “What?”

“Please don’t do this.”

The girl looks between them.

Mother’s face has gone pale beneath the sweat and dust. Her scarf has slipped back from her hair, and there is a streak of soot along her cheek. For one second, she looks less like Mother and more like a girl herself.

Grandfather frowns. “Don’t what?”

Mother swallows. “We have to go.”

“You always say that.” He turns back to the girl with an indulgent smile. “She was born with her shoes on, this one. Always going somewhere. Always shouting at people to hurry.”

“I am shouting because we are going to die.”

The words land flat.

Mother breathes hard through her nose. Her eyes are wet now, though her voice stays harsh. “Do you understand me? We are going to die if we stay here. They are bombing the south blocks. The soldiers are already past the hospital.”

Grandfather’s expression tightens at the mention of the hospital.

For a moment, something clears.

Not completely. Not enough. But the air behind his eyes shifts, a curtain lifting in a dark room.

“The hospital,” he repeats.

Mother steps closer, seizing on it. “Yes. The hospital. We need to go north before the road closes. I packed your medicine. Your coat is here. Please, Baba. Please.”

Grandfather stares at her.

Then at the flyer in her hand.

Then at the girl.

His face crumples, just slightly, at the edges.

“You were at the hospital,” he says to the girl.

Mother closes her eyes.

The girl’s fingers tighten around the stale bread until it breaks in her palm.

Grandfather reaches across the tray, his hand trembling so badly the tea glass rattles against the saucer.

“They told me I could not see you,” he says. “Do you remember?.”

Mother’s voice is very quiet. “Baba.”

“I climbed through the window,” Grandfather continues. “Do you remember? I lost my finger on the drainpipe. Foolish thing. The metal cut me clean through, and still I climbed. Your mother said I was mad.”

He lifts his hand and studies the empty space where his ring finger should be.

The girl stares too.

She had always thought the finger had been taken by age, by work, by some ordinary accident involving a door or a machine. That was the story Mother used when she was little and rude enough to ask.

Grandfather looks back at her and smiles.

“But you laughed when you saw me,” he says. “You were so small in that bed, but you laughed..”

Mother’s hand flies to her mouth.

The girl does not know what to do with her face. So she lowers it. She lifts the tea to her lips and drinks, though it tastes like dust now. Like rusted pipes. Like old leaves left too long in the pot.

“Baba,” Mother says, and there is warning in it. Pleading too. “Enough.”

Grandfather blinks at her. “Why are you angry? She remembers.”

“She doesn’t.”

The girl looks up quickly.

Mother’s eyes cut to her, full of apology and command all at once.

Grandfather chuckles. “Of course she remembers. Don’t you, my Marrya?”

The name sits between them.

Mother’s voice cuts through the silence. “Baba, where are your papers? I could not find them.”

Grandfather tears his eyes away from the girl now, looking confused. “My what?”

“Your papers, Baba. Your ID.”

“Oh.” He thinks hard. His lips move around silent words. Then he smiles. “In the green box.”

“I’ve looked but I couldn’t find it. Can you go check?”

Grandfather grumbles but stands. “What kind of daughter tells her father to do some menial task?” He throws back one last smile at the girl. “Eat. Eat, My Marrya.” And then he shuffles away.

When he is gone, Mother collapses to the floor, holding her head in her hands.

“Mama,” Says the girl. “Why does Grandfather call me Marrya?”

Mother’s hands sink further into her hair. She does not look at the girl. For a moment, she does not think she will answer at all. But then she takes a shuddering breath and says:

“Marrya was his youngest daughter. She died twenty-three years ago of starvation. She was around your age then.”

The girl looks down at the bread in her hand.

Starvation.

Grandfather finds the papers three minutes later.

By then, Mother has wiped her face dry.

By then, the girl has adopted the name Marrya like a shawl wrapped around her shoulders in a winter storm.

“Found them,” Grandfather says proudly.

Mother takes them with trembling hands. “Good. Shoes, Baba.”

Grandfather frowns. “We are leaving?”

The siren screams again.

The girl stands first. Her coat hangs crookedly from one shoulder, the empty sleeve swinging as she reaches for him.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m scared to go alone. Will you come with me?”

Grandfather looks at her.

“Oh, my Marrya,” he whispers. “Of course.”

Mother makes a sound behind them, small and broken.

Grandfather takes the girl’s hand. His missing finger presses nothing into her palm.

Together, they step over the spilled tea, over the bread gone soft on the floor, over the red warning soaked dark beneath the tray.

At the door, Grandfather pauses and looks back at the little meal he made for his dead daughter.

“Will we come back?” he asks.

No one answers.

Outside, the hallway is full of smoke and flyers.

The girl squeezes his hand.

“Come on, Baba,” she says.

And because she says it in the voice of a child he lost twenty-three years ago, Grandfather follows.