I run after Pavlik up the steps of the underpass. It’s a quarter past nine. We slept in, exhausted by all of the questioning, and now we’re late. We sprint along the sidewalk and halt by the crossing. I stoop and wheeze and clutch my sides. My belly is getting heavy. Sweat trickles down my face, so I wipe it off with the back of my hand. The light turns green, the cars don’t move, and we have to weave in and out of them to get to the other side.

“Look,” says Pavlik. “Pensioners on the promenade.”

I turn my head.

About a hundred meters up the street marches the reason for the stalled traffic, a rally, a dark mass of people holding up signs with slogans and pennants and Soviet flags. A shrill voice shouts through a megaphone.

“For Motherland! For Stalin!”

“For government’s resignation!”

“Death to capitalism!”

“Off with unemployment!”

A pair of retired women head the procession. They hold up a red banner with semi-profiles of Stalin and Lenin, cheek to cheek, like newlyweds gazing into a bright socialist future.

Fucking communist party supporters. Mules, too dumb to think. Let’s resurrect the dead so they can solve my problems for me—save me from poverty, impotence, and fear—because I’m too lazy to do jack-shit on my own. 

Distracted, I stumble on the curb. Pavlik catches me. We draw away from the tide of bystanders, bolt along the street, under the archway, around the theater, and crash through the back door.

A sense of unease smothers me.

“Who is it?”

“It’s us, Ilinichna.” Pavlik catches his breath. “It’s us.”

She clambers out of the booth. “Ah! Pavlik? Irina? You scared the devil out of me. Hurry up, he’s waiting.”

“I know,” Pavlik pants. “How long?”

“About an hour now. He’s furious, you hear me?” She grins at me from behind her oversized glasses. “Ah, so it’s true what I heard? Congratulations!”

I smile and nod and unbutton my coat. My shirt is sticking to my back and my face is sweltering hot and I have an urge to get back out onto the street. The theater air suffocates me. It’s ominously quiet.

“Did you hear what happened?” says Ilinichna conspiratorially.

“Please, not right now.” Pavlik pulls on my hand.

“Shakalov got sacked.”

We exchange a glance.

“He did? When?”

“This very morning. Now go, go! I’ll tell you more later. You don’t want to anger him any more.” She waves us to the stairs.

Shakalov is gone. I should feel happy, I should beam. Instead, I skid down the steps after Pavlik. Everything about the theater I came to love—Ilinichna with her turtle clumsiness and cookies and tea, the actors’ posters on the walls, the smell of the velvet draperies and the makeup and the dust—all feels wrong.

It’s too quiet, I don’t like it.

We enter the auditorium. It’s vast, dark, and hushed. The curtains are drawn. The lights are turned off except for a handful of projectors over the stage. In the front row sits the hunched figure of Sim, a sequined scarf about his neck, his hands interlaced. He doesn’t raise his head as we approach, doesn’t indicate he heard us, his eyes cast down. 

“You’re late,” he says to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Sim. We—”

“Pavlik, my child.” He looks up. His eyes are tired, his whole face is sunken. “When did I tell you to be here?”

“At nine a.m., but—”

“And what time is it now?”

“Sim, please, let me—”

“Silence! I don’t want to hear any excuses. Why didn’t you tell me right away, right when it started?”

Blood drains out of Pavlik’s face. “Why didn’t I tell you what?”

Oh no, no, no. I slap my forehead. Don’t do this.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure—”

“The notes. The threatening notes. I want to know when you got the first one.”

Pavlik takes a step back. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sim. There was only one, the one that we got yesterday—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Thin silence spreads over the stage. I watch the dust dance in the light and feel my stomach twist tighter.

“Do you want to get shot?”

Pavlik flinches. “No.”

“Then talk to me.”

It takes him a moment, then he says to the floor, “In December, that day you dropped us off after—”

“What did it say?”

“Something about...Kostya forgetting to tell me—”

“You’re next, Jewish homo.”

Pavlik’s eyes widen. “Who told you?”

“Nobody told me anything. They send me notes like that on every holiday. I get particularly nasty ones on my birthday, promising to rip my Jewish ass in two. They’re not very elaborate, I must say, rather primitive and to the point.” He suddenly looks at me. “Did you know about this, Irina?”

I want to slip through the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sim, we didn’t want to bother you—”

“Bother me?” His face darkens. “Do you understand what this means? I’ve already lost—”

“I know!” Pavlik’s voice bounds to the ceiling, high-strung and upset. “You don’t need to remind me!”

“Come here. Sit with me.” 

Pavlik reluctantly walks over to Sim.

I lower myself onto the edge of the seat by his side. It’s so quiet that the silence makes my ears ring. I strain to listen to any trace of any noise I can detect, and I hear something faint, some scratching, like the claws of a dog on the wooden floor. I spin around and scan the darkness. Nothing.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re an actor. You have given yourself to the theater, you must keep performing, keep creating.” 

“But how, Sim, how? How can I perform when I can’t even be myself? When I can’t even tell my own father...” He hides his face.

“Go on.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Pavlik shakes his head.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Of being harassed,” he whispers. “Beaten. Killed.”

I slip my hand into his. 

“Listen to me. I understand how you feel. You think I’m not afraid? I am afraid, very much so. It’s okay to be afraid, but don’t let it stop you. That’s what they want, for you to tuck your tail and to stay quiet. What would happen if we all did that?”

Pavlik shrugs.

“This”—Sim spreads his arms—“all of this, the theater, the plays we stage here, it’s our way of changing our country, this savage place we’ve been born into. And don’t you ever be afraid of who you are. Everything in you has a right to live, to be free and to be beautiful.” Sim lifts Pavlik’s face. “Listen to me. Listen carefully. The moment you stop creating, you die. Not when you’re killed. When you’re killed, only your body is gone, your art will live on.”

“And what’s it to you? What’s my life to you? Why do you care?” Pavlik’s eyes well up with water.

“Come here.” Sim pulls him close and buries Pavlik’s face in the folds of the scarf. Pavlik’s shoulders shake. Sim strokes his head, fatherly almost. “Shhh. Cry it out, crying is good for you. I miss Kostya, too. I miss him very much.”

Movement catches my eye, by the curtain, high up under the ceiling. Something stirs in the shadow. I peer up and see nothing, and that’s when I hear it: muffled croaking outside the theater building.

The ravens. 

I spring up. The cushioned seat behind me folds with a soft thud.

Why did I tell Pavlik to see Sim? Why? 

I ripple with guilt and shame and regret and horror. Awful horror. It shoots down my spine and slides inside my stomach and drives all blood down to my feet. I pull the bundle from the sleeve of my coat and unwrap it. 

You won’t catch me unaware this time.

I hide the knife behind my back and take hold of Pavlik’s arm. 

“What is it?”

I mime and make noises.

“Some kind of a bird? A vulture?”

I shake my head and try again and croak.

“Ravens? Those same...ravens?”

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

I give him the look that makes him grab his hair. “They’re coming here?”

They already are.

“Now?”

“Is that a kitchen knife?” says Sim.

I edge back and mount the steps to the stage and survey the hall, straining to hear any noise, any disturbance. My heart thumps in my mouth and my saliva tastes metallic. Darkness solidifies, impatient, hungry.

We’re trapped. The theater is closed for mid-season break, so there is only us and Ilinichna. They’ll intercept us if we try to get out. I bet Shakalov still has all the keys.

Pavlik is frantic. “Sim, we need to get out of here.”

“Why? What is going on? Irina, get off the stage and give me that knife before you poke your eye out.”

“Sim, please. Irina can sense things, right before they happen. First she hears an animal noise, then—” 

“Sense things? What are you talking about? What things?”

“Please, there’s no time! The Nationalists are coming here, they’ll be here any minute!”

“Is that true, Irina?” Sim measures me with a heavy look. “Is that true, what Pavlik is saying?”

I don’t respond, I can’t even nod. Dread spreads over me. They’re inside the building. I hear their rustling wings and scraping claws. The ravens and a jackal. 

Come here then, scum, come and show me your real faces.

There is movement in my belly, a faint kick. 

Eaglet?

“They’re here,” says Pavlik.

Running footsteps reverberate along the halls.

Eaglet, talk to me.

Silence.

They’re coming, eaglet! The ravens!

Nothing an eagle can’t kill, says the eaglet.

I’m not an eagle!

You’re not a mouse either.

Who am I then?

Who do you want to be?

They enter through the doorway. A pack of young guys in black coats, black caps, and black gloves, Shakalov in the back.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my theater?” Bellows Sim, then he sees him. “Vladimir Kuzmich? What a surprise. I thought I asked you to vacate the premises this morning.”

Shakalov doesn’t answer. He looks scared and he avoids Sim’s gaze. “Go ahead, boys, do them. Quickly and quietly.”

“What’s all this about?” says Sim calmly.

“Don’t listen to him, do them!”

“Do us?” Sim chuckles. “What is this, a farce? Ten boys against an old man and two children?”

Shakalov shouts, “Now!”

It happens very fast. 

We’re swarmed with bodies. An arm flies up with a truncheon that’s usually used by militants. A blunt whack, and Sim topples to the floor and takes the hitter with him. Pavlik gets wrangled and pinned to the wall. 

“Run!” he yells at me.

I’m not going anywhere, I’m done running. I bound off the stage and charge. Somebody sticks out a foot. I sprawl, and the knife flies out of my hand. Arms catch me and position me in front of Pavlik.

“Don’t touch her! Can’t you see she’s pregnant?”

“Pregnant with a Jewish freak,” says someone, “from a Jewish faggot.” A jitter of laughter.

“Let her go!”

Shakalov’s breath is on my neck. “Watch, whore.”

Arms work on Pavlik like pistons with sounds of flat impact. His face changes. His eyes open wider and the fear is gone from them, replaced with reckless daring. “Vladimir Kuzmich! Does it excite you to watch a bunch of guys beat up a fairy?” 

“Shut him up,” Shakalov spits.

Pavlik forces a laugh. “Is that what you’re afraid of? My words? I’ll give you more.” He begins to fight back, clumsily at first, then fueled with some insane abandon. He hooks a man closest to him and sends him flying, clips another, and all this time he keeps yelling. “Are you a voyeur, Vladimir Kuzmich? Do you get hard watching men fuck?” His punches grow weaker under the blows. There are simply too many of them, and they quickly recover from the shock of him resisting. 

“You guys like hitting me? Go ahead, hit me more, I’ll moan for you.” A gloved hand swipes at his mouth. He spits blood. “You don’t get laid much, do you?” The breath gets knocked out of him. He doubles over, raises his face. “I understand...girls won’t have you. That’s why you want me so bad...that’s why—” A blow cuts him off.

“This is a lesson for you, for fucking Jewish trash.” Shakalov speaks in my ear. “How did he do it, tell me. Did he wank off in a napkin and stick it up your cunt?” His hand moves down between my buttocks.

Pavlik’s face lifts one more time, bloody and disfigured. His eyes find me. “I’m sorry...” A kick, and he slumps to the floor.

“Looks like your lover boy has taken the hint.” Shakalov feels me about.

Rage grips me, blind and overwhelming. 

I hope you die, you petty chauvinistic shit. 

I ram my heel into his crotch. He gasps and releases me. I spot the knife under a seat, lunge for it, swirl around, stab him and miss. Two guys rush at me. I snarl and brandish the blade around. They start back, surprised.

“Bitch!” Shakalov straightens, his face contorted with pain. “Put that away, before I carve your face with it!”

I push forth with my belly, daring them. 

Go on, hit me! Hit me! The words are on my tongue, by my teeth. They want to spill, but instead of speech a string of unintelligible noises breaks through, like the screech of an eagle.

They eye me, uncertain.

“She’s crazy.”

“Finish her,” says Shakalov.

“But, Vladimir Kuzmich, she’s pregnant.” 

“I said, finish her!”

I lunge at him. He catches my wrist and twists it. The knife drops, something sharp hits my head, and I fall.