Roman Coins, Scythian Pottery: "An Exercise In Homeopathic Archaeology"

At the close of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Bohdan Zahajkewycz stands in front of a firing squad. His shirt itches. He's worn it a week now. Beside him, fellow prisoners reeking of urine murmur goodbyes and prayers. The sun rises into clouds. Across the border, his pregnant wife Theodosia unfolds the wrinkled table cloth like a map. The child inside her kicks. She sets the iron on its end and sighs. He tries standing tall, but his scholar's slouch, perfected over decades, defeats him. He fingers the holy card in his pocket. A rat rips along the rockwall above the prisoners' heads. Theodosia traces a river in the linen. They aim and shoot. A dozen bodies fall. In the bedroom, she pulls back the sheets. He opens his eyes, picks the dead man's hand off his face, and sits up. His left shoulder throbs. The Bolsheviks have gone. He opens his palm and studies the holy picture. Jesus among the lambs. It looks like a photograph. Far away, his wife can't sleep. She turns to the open window and peers out at the stars, my mother inside her.