Free Baba Dunja's Last Love by Alina Bronsky, Tim Mohr

corrupt and drunk.”
    â€œI can’t manage the hike there.”
    â€œWho here is in the best shape?”
    â€œMe, I’m practically dead.”
    â€œI’ve had water in my lungs for five years.”
    â€œMy heart laughs itself silly if I take more than three steps.”
    The ones who feel sickest of all are the two rosy-cheeked Gavrilows. Of course. In the end, it emerges that they all consider me the fittest.
    â€œThe audacity you all have to suggest an old woman, who already has one foot in the grave, undertake this journey. Don’t you have any conscience? I was just in Malyschi and won’t manage it a second time.”
    â€œAll right, Baba Dunja.” That’s Petrow now. “I’ll go. You look really pale. Everyone out, she needs to lie down.”
    The Gavrilows do in fact make a show of trying to get up from my bed. But then they sit back down. I look at Petrow’s translucent face. He almost certainly hasn’t eaten anything today, and very little yesterday. His eyes gleam and the few hairs on his head are standing on end. You didn’t have to have been a nurse’s assistant to see that Petrow wouldn’t make it far.
    It really will have to be me. I’ll take Glascha. If I walk slowly and breathe gently, I might make it. I just need to gather my strength a little, for fifteen minutes at least. But before I can tell everyone, Sidorow’s voice quakes through my house.
    â€œOne could also call the military police.”
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    He really said it: One could also call the military police.
    A feeling of awkwardness spreads through the house.
    â€œPerhaps you can phone home like E.T., but us earthlings need a functioning line.”
    That’s Petrow. I can tell from the faces of the others that as far as they are concerned he is speaking in riddles. Who knows what half-rotted book he’s been reading.
    â€œI only wanted to help you idiots.” Sidorow’s voice wells up, offended. “It won’t be long before he stinks to high heaven.”
    Everyone nods. Nobody wants Sidorow to get upset.
    â€œThe sound quality is VERY GOOD!”
    â€œThank you, Sidorow,” I say. “Maybe later.”
    He slams the door as he leaves, shaking my entire cottage. Someone must have found what was left of my gooseberry vodka, which I keep for medicinal purposes. When the bottle is passed to me it is as good as empty. I look around for a glass but then just pour the rest straight into my mouth from the bottle.
    The door suddenly opens and Glascha appears on the threshold in aluminum foil.
    â€œI called Mama,” she says loudly, after she has found me.
    I shove the empty bottle behind my back, ashamed.
    â€œI told you.” Sidorow rocks back and forth behind Glascha like a reed in the wind. Glascha’s whole face is lit up.
    â€œI called Mama. I knew the number.”
    â€œYou are my clever little piece of gold,” I say. “Sidorow, I tell you this in all sincerity: I’m already sick to my stomach without your help. Get out of here and don’t make the child crazy.”
    â€œMama is picking me up!” says Glascha. “Together with the military police.”
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    I feel during the next few hours that they could be the last for our village. The Gavrilows have done something sensible for the community for a change and covered the dead man with a tarp. I didn’t even know they had one, though I had a feeling their farm was a stockpile of valuable and useful things. The others have scattered and gone back to their own houses and yards, and I’m alone with Glascha and Marja, who has spread out on my bed. I sit on a chair and try to find a position in which my ribs hurt a little less.
    â€œI don’t think the foil does anything,” says Marja.
    â€œPffff,” I say. “It helps a lot.”
    â€œDo you know who did it?” asks Marja.
    As long as the child is sitting nearby with