23 Bread Lviv Outside the dacha where I sleep, I follow the mud, the gooseprints that lead to the table. Babushka brings bread and salt. If we have nothing, we will always have bread and salt— a psalm of communism and wars. She cooks long shoots of chive, mushroom spice, a storm of oil. I eat and eat. Onions, pig-fat, black bread. Later I will be taken to the new church, the lavish missionary’s table. He is American and a believer. I bring onions, salted bread tucked in my pockets. ...