Ashes of War

“Don’t move.”

Eran lowered his head. His mother knelt in front of him, holding the edge of his trouser leg. A thread stuck from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not moving.”

“You just did.”

He shifted his weight onto his other foot.

Illa looked up.

“There.”

“My heel itches.”

“Your heel can wait.”

She pulled the needle from the cloth. Eran tried to see how it was coming along, but his mother held him by the knee.

The trousers used to be longer. Illa had already hemmed them once, and now she was unpicking the old seam. A pale line remained in the fabric.

“You’ll be able to see it,” he said.

“After they’re washed, you’ll hardly notice.”

“Why do it now? I can still wear these.”

Illa ran her fingernail along the fold.

“I’ll forget later.”

Two shirts lay on the chair beside her. Both had been washed. Next to them were the socks Eran had thought he’d lost back in winter.

He wanted to ask about them, but the gate slammed outside.

“Papa’s home.”

“I can hear. Hold still.”

Bran came in with his head ducked. Stone dust had settled on the shoulders of his jacket. He shut the door with his foot, set his work bag against the wall, and only then looked at his son.

“Growing?”

“She’s sewing my leg back on.”

“Wouldn’t be much to sew,” Illa said without looking up. “All knees.”

Bran took off his jacket and hung it on the hook. Eran waited.

His father noticed him looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Bran patted his pocket as if he’d only just remembered. He took out a small stone and put it on the table.

Eran stepped toward it at once.

“I told you to stay put!”

He froze. Illa pulled out the needle and leaned back.

“All done. Take them off. Carefully.”

She still held the trousers in her hands. Barefoot and wearing only a long shirt, Eran made his way to the table.

The stone was gray, with a narrow white stripe. He turned it near the lamp.

“Is it wet?”

“I washed it.”

“There?”

Bran nodded as he pulled off his boot.

Eran ran his finger along the stripe. It disappeared under a chip and came out on the other side.

“Did you chip it off yourself?”

“Found it like that.”

Eran took the stone with him.

“Put on your other trousers!” Illa called after him.

“I’m getting them!”

Bran sat down to unlace his other boot.

***

The stones were kept in a wooden box under the bed. Eran crouched and looked at them, but didn’t put the new one away. He turned it in his fingers once more, then slipped it into his pocket.

His mother’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Did you ask about the academy?”

“I did.”

“And?”

A chair creaked.

Eran went still, listening.

“Illa, not now.”

“When, then? Thursday?”

He looked at the door.

He would turn eleven on Thursday. Four days left.

After he turned eleven, a notice could come from the military office. All Eran knew was that once one arrived, children didn’t stay home anymore.

“Eran!” his mother called.

He hurriedly shut the box.

“Coming.”

His father was in his usual place at the table. Illa was ladling soup. When Eran came in, she set the ladle back in the pot and told him to show her his hands.

He did.

“Did you wash them?”

“The stone’s clean.”

“I mean your hands.”

He had to go back to the washbasin.

His parents were silent while he washed his fingers. Eran took his time on purpose: dried one finger, then another, straightened the towel on its nail. The only sound from the kitchen was the clink of a spoon.

He sat down.

“What’s happening on Thursday?”

Illa put bread beside him.

“It’s your birthday.”

“I know. What were you asking about?”

Bran pushed a plate toward him, but kept his hand on it.

“I went to see if there was anything we could do before the notice came.”

Eran stopped reaching for his spoon.

“And?”

“They said there’s nothing to decide until the papers arrive.”

“That’s all?”

Bran looked at him.

“For now.”

Illa broke the bread and put half in front of her husband.

“Eat first.”

Eran picked up his spoon. The soup burned his tongue.

He wanted to ask more.

Bran was already eating. Illa sat down too.

Eran blew on his spoon and held it over the bowl, but didn’t try another bite.

***

After that supper, Eran began noticing things he’d never paid attention to before.

Several adults stood by the military office noticeboard outside the bakery. Just as Illa and Eran reached it, a clerk in a gray coat opened the glass panel, took down the old sheet, and pinned up a new one.

Eran stopped.

At the top was a crowned eagle. Beneath it, in large letters:

“MIDWEEK DRAW — WEDNESDAY.”

Smaller lines explained that exemptions would be taken into account first, then the remaining names would enter the general draft until the district quota was filled. Eran read it twice. He didn’t understand all of it, but he understood the word “Wednesday” right away.

“Come on,” Illa said.

A woman by the road called to her before they could walk away. A boy of about five sat in her arms.

“He turns eleven on Thursday?” she asked, looking at Eran.

Illa nodded.

The woman fell silent. Her older son had been taken a year ago. Eran used to see him at the well and outside the bakery; he hadn’t seen him once since that day.

Behind them, the clerk locked the glass panel.

The lock clicked.

Illa put a hand between Eran’s shoulder blades.

“Go home. I’ll catch up.”

Eran took a few steps, then stopped.

“I don’t have the key.”

She came over, placed it in his palm, and went straight back to the woman.

Eran walked on. At the turn, he looked back after all: other parents were already gathering in front of the noticeboard.

At home, he left the key in the door so Illa wouldn’t have to knock.

By the time she returned, the stone with the white stripe was on the table.

“Put it away. I need the table for rolling dough.”

Eran took it.

His mother poured out flour and swept her palm across the tabletop, humming softly under her breath—the same tune she’d sung him to sleep for as long as he could remember. He sat beside her.

“Are they going to take me too?”

Illa stopped. Flour clung to her fingers.

“If the notice comes, yes.”

Eran turned the stone in his palm.

“For how long?”

This time she didn’t avoid the question.

“Until you’re sixteen at the academy.”

He counted quickly.

“Five years?”

“Five.”

“Then I come home?”

Flour fell from her fingers onto the table.

Illa returned to the dough, but stopped again almost at once.

“No. Then you serve for another ten years.”

Eran added five and ten.

Fifteen.

He counted again, as if he might have made a mistake.

“How old will I be then?”

“Twenty-six.”

Eran looked at his cup beside the bowl. He couldn’t imagine being twenty-six.

“Will they let me come home on leave?”

Illa pressed her lips together.

“If you study well and the officers allow it, sometimes they give you a few days. Sometimes they don’t.”

“What about that boy by the well?”

She knew who he meant.

“He didn’t come home during his first year.”

Eran lowered his eyes to the stone.

“Could I go down the mine with Papa instead? I’d rather do that.”

“No.”

“I can work up top. I can already hold a chisel. I can carry things too.”

Illa kept kneading for a few strokes, then stopped. Her hands stayed in the flour.

“You’ve seen what your father looks like when he comes home in the evening?”

“I have.”

“His jacket covered in dust. His hands are cut up. Sometimes he can hardly get his boots off.”

“But he comes home.”

Illa looked at him.

For several seconds, she didn’t answer.

Then she wiped one hand on her apron and gently drew his hand out of his pocket.

“Your father has already been asking around. Let’s wait until he comes back with an answer.”

The edge of the stone had left a red line on Eran’s palm.

“The edges are sharp.”

“I’m careful.”

“I can see that.”

She ran her thumb over the mark and let him go.