Pasha removes bread and dried fruit from a canvas lunch bag and lays them on a napkin, arranging the pieces until the composition pleases her. She usually places the bread on the left and the fruit on the right, but she reverses it whenever she is about to work on Goran, like today.

“Look at Pasha,” says Goran, who dumps his food onto the square metal table. “See how content she is that again she has no meat for her lunch.”

Raisa frowns. “Goran, you should spend more time worrying about meeting your quota and putting meat on your own table. Leave Pasha alone for a change.”

“I think Goran is jealous of Pasha always making quota,” says Niki. “How long since Goran made quota? A month?”

“I made it a week ago Thursday.”

“So twice in a month then?” Raisa says. A threadbare blue babushka exaggerates the movement of her head as she nods to make her point. The dim light makes her graying hair look rusty.

Goran grumbles and bites off a chunk of day-old bread, which crunches and resists his efforts. Pasha continues to eat as though the conversation hasn’t been about her, her mouth turned slightly upward, giving her the appearance either of being satisfied with her circumstances or of waiting patiently for an opening.

They sit, together as always, in the block-walled lunchroom with small windows, high up, with a view of only the hazy sky. Bare bulbs cast harsh shadows on the fifty or so workers who take the middle lunch period. It is their only break from a twelve-hour shift making metal parts that can be used for cars or trucks or tractors or tanks. They are never told which.

“Besides,” Raisa says, “I think that Pasha doesn’t much care for meat, do you, Pasha?”

Pasha finishes chewing and swallowing a raisin. “Meat or no meat, it’s no matter to me. My food is good enough.” She takes another raisin and chews deliberately.

...

Purchase the issue to read more of this piece and others