The Last Green Valley, Mark Sullivan [most read books in the world of all time .txt] 📗

When he was done, he went toward the fire. Before he could get there, his mother, a hard, flinty woman in her sixties, appeared around the back of her wagon, as if she’d been hiding there, waiting for him.

Karoline Martel gestured at her grandsons squatting over by the fire.

“I expect you’ll be feeding them from your own stores, Emil.”

“We will,” Emil said. “Though it hardly makes sense to start two fires.”

His mother scowled slightly. “It can’t all be on your father.”

“Agreed,” he said, then called to Walt and Will. “Boys! Go find all the dead branches you can before it gets too dark and drag them up here. I see some down there by the stream. Nothing wet, now.”

His sons looked ruefully at the roaring fire but then got up, and, as boys are wont to do, made it a game. Even at four and a half, Will was the more competitive of the two.

“I’ll find more than you, Walt!” he cried, and took off.

“Who cares about finding more?” Walt called as he ran after his little brother. “You have to bring back the biggest one.”

“And before dark,” their father yelled.

They went off toward the stream, laughing and shrieking, the terror of the tank battle forgotten for the moment. Emil ignored his mother’s disapproval and watched them go, his heart warmed that his sons could find a way to play and laugh while trying to outrun a war.

Johann coughed, then coughed deeper, rattling from his chest. He paused, but then was racked by a longer coughing fit that finally brought up mucus that he spat out on the ground. He took a step with a bewildered expression on his face.

“You should sit now, Johann,” Karoline called over, looking concerned and then glaring at her son. “You see, getting the wood has already weakened him.”

“It’s just a little cough, Karoline,” Johann said, but sat on a stump, his back to one wheel of his wagon. “I’ve been through worse.”

“It’s a little cough that almost killed you in the mines,” his wife shot back.

“A little cough set me free, didn’t it?”

“And look at you,” she said, still bitter that he’d been taken from her by Stalinists in the middle of the night and sent to Siberia, just like Adeline’s father.

Johann, a farmer, had been a man used to living outside, but they put him to work below ground. He spent nearly seven years in the mines, digging coal, before his cough began, and then spread to other prisoners. By his own account, Johann almost died twice while more men came down with the mysterious ailment. The Soviets in charge of the mine feared they’d lose their entire work base and decided that instead of treating or killing the sick men, they’d set them free, kick them out of the camps, tell them to go home.

Sick, feverish, Emil’s father had boarded a freight train in the middle of summer and rode west for weeks in blistering heat before finding his way back to southern Russia. He was emaciated, racked by coughing, and filthy with grime when he knocked at Karoline’s door. She had not recognized her own husband.

Neither had his son, who thought his father had aged forty years in the seven he’d been gone. And it wasn’t just the mysterious lung sickness. The years in the mines of Siberia had done something to Johann, broken him somehow, robbed him of his inner fire. In the years after his return, he’d often be found staring off into the middle distance, transported to some dark past he rarely spoke of. Emil’s mother said he would often awake screaming at night, feverish and drenched in sweat.

“Where is Rese?” Emil said.

“Your sister’s sleeping,” she said. “All the jolting in the wagon that last bit made her sick to her stomach.”

“Emil?” Adeline called before Emil could reply. “Are we good for the fire?”

Emil turned to see Adeline, Lydia, and Malia bringing pots and cooking supplies.

“We’re good,” he called. “And the boys are bringing more wood.”

Adeline nodded, but as she came closer, her attention left her husband and darted to her mother-in-law, focusing then on Karoline gazing at the fire. Try as she might, Adeline could not help thinking of a small bottle of cream and feeling a familiar bitterness spoil her stomach. She mentally put her armor on, went to the fire, crouched, and with a stick began drawing glowing coals off to the side.

From childhood, Adeline had been by nature a warm, giving person, with hardly ever a cross word to say about anyone. But her mother-in-law was not anyone. Karoline was a cold, heartless being. Adeline could not stand being around her and avoided the woman as often as possible.

“No hellos?” Karoline said out of the corner of her mouth.

Adeline looked up, forced a smile. “Oh, hello, Karoline. I’m sorry. Mind’s on supper. Thank you for letting us use your fire. It’s very nice of you.”

Karoline studied her a moment, and then moved her focus to Adeline’s mother. Lydia greeted Emil’s mother, and thanked her for the fire as well, knowing that acting subordinate tended to make Karoline less testy. Adeline put the pot on the coals and heated a stew they’d made from potatoes, onions, and salt pork.

“Put these in, too!” Malia cried, rushing over with a bunch of baby wild asparagus. “I found them near our wagon! Like someone planted them just for us!”

Adeline’s older sister seemed so delighted, not even Karoline’s presence could stop Adeline from smiling and taking the asparagus from her. It had been twenty years since Malia had gone to feed the family mules and been kicked, two decades since she’d lain in a coma when no one thought she had a chance of living. But Malia had spirit and woke up, certainly changed in many ways, but also the same as she’d ever been: sincere, kind, loving, and oddly funny. Adeline had adored her as a child and adored her still.

The boys returned, pushing