Chapter IV opens with the intense heat of August weighing down on the village, pressing even the air into silence. Sasha, a young girl full of restless energy, is given the simple task of guarding the geese from the kitchen-garden. Her grandmother’s trust rests on thin ice, for Sasha’s sense of duty is often overpowered by curiosity. Just as expected, she soon slips away, unable to resist the pull of something more engaging than shooing birds. Her wandering feet carry her to the edge of a ravine, a quiet spot touched by sun and shadows. There she finds Motka, Marya’s daughter, lost in her own world. Together, they let their minds drift toward heaven and the church, where they imagine angels and divine sorting playing out behind sacred walls.

In the hands of children, theology becomes a tale of glittering stars, ascending churches, and judgment rendered by familiar figures. Sasha and Motka blend folklore and belief with innocent speculation, placing local characters into imaginary heaven-bound or hell-sent fates. They discuss whether God ever sleeps, where angels hide during the day, and how the world might look from above. The conversation holds both humor and gravity, echoing how deeply cultural and spiritual notions root themselves in even the youngest minds. Their musings are untethered from doctrine, yet they strike a chord of sincerity that adult conversations often lack. It’s in this dreamlike space that they bond, shielded momentarily from the world’s harshness.

Their brief escape is shattered by the furious shout of Sasha’s grandmother, who has discovered the geese trampling her garden. She appears like a storm—loud, wild-eyed, and armed with a stick. Her anger is fierce and absolute, a voice of order in a world where survival hinges on discipline. Sasha and Motka roll laughing down the slope, but the joy ends when the stick finds Sasha’s back. The grandmother’s rage isn’t just about vegetables; it’s about control, poverty, and the fragility of the order she tries to keep. Each lash is punishment not just for the moment, but for the fear of losing even more to chaos and carelessness.

What follows is a strange moment of theater—the gander, puffed up and indignant, charges the grandmother as though to defend its flock. For an instant, the natural world seems to rebel against the cruelty of the human one. The villagers, peeking from their homes, laugh. But the laughter is uneasy, tinged with recognition. They see not just a scolding elder, but the cycle they are all caught in—of frustration, discipline, and fleeting power. The grandmother backs down, her pride injured more than her body, while Sasha, now sobbing, is led away.

The chapter is small in scope but rich in its portrayal of rural dynamics. It captures how authority is wielded not always with justice, but often out of desperation and fatigue. The grandmother isn’t evil; she’s tired, perhaps broken by years of scraping together a life from stubborn soil and scarce resources. Her outburst isn’t isolated—it’s the echo of generations surviving through control when compassion feels like a luxury. Meanwhile, Sasha and Motka’s imaginative world offers a sharp contrast—a reminder that even in hardship, wonder and innocence find space to breathe.

By embedding divine narratives into their playful banter, the girls demonstrate how belief systems are shaped not just in churches, but in meadows, kitchens, and whispered stories between children. Their imaginations act as both refuge and compass, helping them make sense of a world that often feels unjust. The scene offers a glimpse into how harsh environments forge resilience but also risk extinguishing the very joy that gives life its meaning. In the end, the clash between Sasha’s dream-filled world and her grandmother’s reality leaves a lasting impression—one that lingers like the heat of a midsummer day and the sting of an unexpected blow.