There was no coffin. Dad was buried on a mattress, wrapped in a duvet, for a more comfortable sleep. A familiar priest arrived. He wore a quilted coat over his cassock and galoshes. He was weary and haggard. I took the last two hundred hryvnias from my pocket, as if sensing I would no longer need them, and gave one note apiece to the priest and the bearded commander. Each silently took their share and placed it in their pockets.

One of the assistants handed me a marker and nodded towards an unused cross. I bent down and wrote my father’s name and date of birth, lovingly tracing each letter. Then I faltered. What was the date that day?

The assistants looked at each other.

“Fifth?” suggested the shorter one.

“Sixth?” said the taller one, jabbing his colleague in the side.

“It was the sixth yesterday,” said the bearded man, pulling at his moustache. “Let’s hurry up, though, we could get incoming any moment now.”

“The kingdom of God is eternal,” said the priest, with a note of admonition. But he sounded painfully indifferent.

I filled out the date and stood over the pit, trying to force out some tears as they lowered Dad with two ropes.

The battle in the north was bubbling over. The priest recited the prayers bravely, without showing any sign of fear, but when a shell struck a fence, he dropped down into the mud, crossed himself and crawled along the path to the exit. The two assistants crouched and headed in the same direction. The bearded man waved me on.

“Come on, let’s go home. We’ll fill in the grave later.”

He helped up the priest and calmly accompanied him. His assistants had gone.

I stayed behind. Once all four men were out of sight, I picked up the shovel and began throwing down the dirt. The earth was wet and heavy, but I didn’t feel tired. My body had ceased to understand what it felt or needed. At least this would keep me warm. When I patted down the last handful of soil on the mound, I placed the shovel next to the cross and went home.

I don’t recall how I got there. Another blank. But I seem to have got there quickly. I do remember the sense of emptiness when I entered the flat. I went into his room from habit and sat in the corner, looking at the walls. I had no idea what to think.

Tugging at the threads of the novel on the wall, I summoned memories.

I was twelve. Mum fished a red flag out of a drawer. It was in this room. She got a pair of large scissors, cut out the hammer and sickle and used the fabric to sew me a dress—it was red and off the shoulder, velvety to the touch. The tradition of sewing clothes from improvised objects was deep-rooted in our family. Mum put her finger to her lips as a sign that I was not to tell anybody. Dust cast to the ceiling by the heavy red cloth shimmered in the warm summer sun.