Chap­ter V begins on a qui­et evening dur­ing the Fast of the Assump­tion, where the small, cramped hut seems to shrink under the weight of hunger and silence. Marya moves about slow­ly, her hands steady but tired, por­tion­ing out what lit­tle food they have. Granny mut­ters dis­ap­prov­ing­ly as she breaks the fast ear­ly, too weak to care, while the chil­dren watch with a strange mix of curios­i­ty and qui­et judg­ment. Sasha and Mot­ka don’t ful­ly under­stand the spir­i­tu­al mean­ing of fast­ing, but they’ve absorbed enough to believe break­ing it could lead to eter­nal fire. Odd­ly, this idea com­forts them—if Granny is doomed, at least she isn’t alone. Their twist­ed ver­sion of moral­i­ty reflects not wicked­ness, but a child’s des­per­ate attempt to make sense of depri­va­tion. In this dark domes­tic rhythm, the line between faith and fear becomes blurred.

Sud­den­ly, the air shifts—smoke curls into the sky, and cries pierce the calm. A fire has bro­ken out near­by, set­ting off a chain of pan­ic that rips through the vil­lage like light­ning. Doors fly open. Buck­ets are grabbed. Bare­foot men and weep­ing women rush toward the blaze. The flames rise fast, fierce, swal­low­ing fences, thatch, and hope. Marya screams for Sasha, her voice ragged as she scans the crowd for his small fig­ure. Granny stum­bles after her, too slow to help but unwill­ing to stay behind. In the chaos, the glow of the fire col­ors everyone’s faces with a sick­ly orange hue, and even the small­est chil­dren under­stand that this is not just a vil­lage fire—it is a threat to every­thing they own, every­thing they are.

Despite the vil­lagers’ des­per­ate efforts, the fire spreads, unhin­dered by the weak tools and untrained hands try­ing to stop it. In the back­ground, drunk­en songs float from the tavern—men too deep in cel­e­bra­tion to grasp what’s unfold­ing out­side. The dis­con­nect is mad­den­ing. The fire doesn’t care for feast or fast; it eats through both with­out pause. Amid the noise, Marya final­ly finds Sasha, cling­ing to a fence, his face black­ened with soot and streaked with tears. Relief crash­es through her, but the fear remains—fear of loss, of help­less­ness, of not know­ing what comes next. For many, the flames don’t just take roofs; they burn through the illu­sions of safe­ty that pover­ty bare­ly held togeth­er.

Help even­tu­al­ly arrives, not from with­in but from across the riv­er. A stu­dent and some stew­ards from the estate bring equip­ment, order, and calm. Their voic­es rise over the con­fu­sion, direct­ing vil­lagers into coor­di­nat­ed action. It’s not per­fect, but it’s enough. The fire is pushed back, though not before sev­er­al homes are left in ruins. The vil­lagers gath­er around the black­ened remains, stunned by the loss but grate­ful more wasn’t tak­en. Kiryak, shamed and red-faced, becomes the sub­ject of ridicule when his reck­less behav­ior dur­ing the fire is men­tioned, and the judg­ment lands hard. No words are need­ed; his slumped shoul­ders say enough.

The mourn­ing begins even as the smoke still curls above the rooftops. Women weep open­ly, not just for burned homes, but for all the hopes that lay in ash­es. Their wails rise like a funer­al dirge, echo­ing across the dark fields. In their grief, they are unified—not by reli­gion, not by struc­ture, but by shared ruin. The fire, in its cru­el­ty, has stripped away the pre­tense of sep­a­ra­tion. Every­one has lost some­thing. Yet, in that shared dev­as­ta­tion, there is also a frag­ile bond—a reminder that com­mu­ni­ty, even when bat­tered, endures.

This chap­ter explores more than destruc­tion; it reveals how quick­ly life can shift from qui­et despair to open dis­as­ter. The fire acts as both a lit­er­al and sym­bol­ic force, reveal­ing the fragili­ty of rur­al sur­vival and the unpre­dictabil­i­ty of suf­fer­ing. While it takes mate­r­i­al things, it also expos­es emo­tion­al truths—how peo­ple react, how chil­dren cope, and how dig­ni­ty is pre­served even in the face of loss. It is not hope that shines bright­est here, but resilience. Among the ruins, with smoke still hang­ing in the air, life—wounded but breathing—carries on.