A Goddamn Moskal

When snow began falling amidst the darkness of november, children ran screaming with joy and laughter. Parents looked worried as they pondered the things they’d have to handle come winter; plowing was a chore shared between the neighbours. Firewood was in short supply and prizes had staggered. Food-stamps were thinned out since the beginning of the conflict in april. Above all worry was the fear that the war would come to them next.

They had been pretty much unscathed by the waring factions and enjoyed safety in a relatively small community in the outskirts of Raspiza, one the major eastern cities. While the city itself had seen it’s fair amount of fighting, it never came close to the fighting seen in the northern parts of the country, where ravaged farmlands bore a fair resemblence to the fields of the Somme. Massive craters led up to small farms in ruins, roads were damaged beyond recognition, they blended in with the rest of the mud and debris. The only thing distinguishing them were the broken trucks, and cars and tanks. Lined up in rows alongside them, halfway down ditches. Heavy rainfall always seemed to trickle down at the heat of every small skirmish that occured, as if mother nature motioned for a halt in all the madness, it never did much more than prolong the fighting.

When Anita was tucked in for the night, she calmly listened to the crackle of gunfire in the distance, sometimes more intense than the day prior. It never bothered her too much, most likely due to her childish bravery, being only twelve at the time. She usually imagined the origins of the sharp, frightening noises, seeing them as some sort of abstract instrument playing a feral hymn to all those within reach, letting them know of the danger that surrounded them. She was thankful her father wasn’t involved in that strange, devastating orchestra.

A couple of days later, a group of olive-green trucks came rolling into the small hamlet. Indistinguishable young men with green and brown uniforms slowly emptied out the back of the trucks. They were like toy soldiers in appearance, all with similiar weaponry, all carrying the same rucksack and helmet and boots. At first glance they didn’t seem too organised, some of them sat down by the side of the road, whilst others lit fags and began chatting. But a few of them stod out from the rest, with caps on their heads, spangled with stars and leaves upon a blue band. They seemed very calm and issued orders to their subortinates to sieze foodstamps, water and, if any existed, weapons. The men seemed eager to begin their pillaging, and alot of them redied their rifles as a mark of authority, though redundant considering the small hamlet housed only elderly, children and those not capable of fighting. Their mere presence imposed dismay, residents cowered behind closed curtains, and locked doors. Anita could recall her parents hastily forcing her and the rest of the children into a backroom, then rushing to the front door. They were nervous when they opened the door, not sure if they’d be shot by trigger-happy rookies, or something worse. Instead they got something far more gentle; As the door slowly slid open, they were greeted by a large figure, he was clean shaven, both scalp and chin. He held his hands behind his back and didn’t seem too pleased at first glance. However, when Anitas mother revealed herself from behind the door, the officer’s face lit up with a sensation of joy. A smirk grin appeared on his chapped lips. The couple seemed utterly displeased with this stereotype of a character, as if he had just walked out of a propaganda poster with the posture still firm in his structure. There was, however, little ease in not having your door kicked in by armed teenagers. In the background, across the street, they could hear screaming and rustling as soldiers forced themselves on people and their homes.

“What do you want?”
The husband asked, quite eager to close the door and go hold his children close.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question all the way over here. And truth be told, I think I’ll settle for a glass of water.”
The man replied, never breaking his guise.

“Love, go get this man a glass of water why don’t you?”

“No. Not her, I really want you to go get it, sir. I implore you.”

The man seemed doubtful in complying with the order, but he wasn’t about to risk his family’s safety over a small game of fetch. He gave his wife a knowing look and headed off towards the kitchen in haste. Ljublina tried never to met the intensity of the man’s gaze and simply stared towards the kitchen, impatiently awaiting her husbands company. The man stared intently into the side of her face, as if to lure her into meeting his eyes.

“How are the kids?”
He asked, as gently as he could amount.

“Fine.”
She replied. He spoke as if he’d known them since earlier, despite being alien to all of them. His stare seemed relentless, his eyes never deviated from common bustle, despite people screaming, and shots echoing through the streets. It was as though he programmed himself to asume a certain pose and to retain it for hours on end. His whole character seemed shaped around the idea that all hostile foreigners were deeply psychotic and would jump at the first opportunity to rape and kill as they please. Anita’s father came jogging back with a full glass of water splashing infront, though a serious man, he had always believed in the mantra that kindness, always paid itself back. However this time around, he seemed sceptical to the idea of succumbing to the will of such a man. He couldn’t help clenching his fists in insecurity, and fear after handing over the perspiring glass.

“I wanna kill you. But not now.”
The man fixed his eyes on the father, and kept his smile stretched wide on his face.

“Think of the children, and your wife.”

The father tensed even further, and replied;
“Get the fuck out of here.”

His wife looked at him with a terrified expression on her face, urging him to step down less he be shot, or worse. However, he wouldn’t yield as his knuckles paled. His impatience gnawed at the tiny barrier halting the rage that grew inside him each passing second. Tiny drips of sweat slid down his palm, and down his tense arms, his face started blossoming and he seemed on the brink of lashing out. His wife grabbed his arm, hoping to drag him back to reality before they had a tragedy on their hands. He tried desperately to think of the consequences, but they were a tiny speck in his mind as he thought of all the ways he’d hurt the man before him. He took confidence in remembrance of brawling as a youth. He’d go head-hunting with his friends along his neighbourhood, proudly bearing the title; “ruffian of Sjaposnik.”.

“You take one step towards me and you’ll be filled with so many holes your children will have nothing left of you to grieve over.”
With a monotenous voice, the man came barreling with threats, forcing the father to finally give in.

“I am not here to rape and pillage, like my fellow comrades are doing, so you have no reason to worry. I am here to propose to you my sincerest apologies for my comrades behaviour. They can be a bit, rowdy once given the privilege. I also wish to thank you for this cold glass of water.”
He stated, and chugged the crystal-clear water down in one quick sweep, he let out a distinct grunt of appreciation.

“I do see the allure in living here when the water is this good. This won’t be the last you’ll see of me, our company will settle down on the old farm-lands just south of here. We shall stay a couple of weeks, so we’ll have plenty of time to socialize and get to know one another. I expect dinner to be served here at twelwe-hundred hours, tomorrow?”
He had made so many plans from the get-go, the parents were baffled at the thought of having to spend even more time with this figure. They looked to eachother for an answer until the man coughed to express his dwindling patience. The wife quickly blurred out an uncertain; “Uh… yes?”
Her husband wasnt to pleased with her answer but quickly realized they had no real choice in the matter.

“Excellent! I shall be here five-minutes prior, you’ll greet me with a friendly hello, and we’ll sit down and enjoy a good… (?)”

The man half-expected the couple to fill in the blank, however they seemed preoccupied thinking of something else. The woman, with a nervous undertone, came;
“I’m sorry, what?”

“How do you feel about, spinach and potato stew?”

They never even bothered to formulate a vocal response and simply noded in agreement.

“I shall see you tomorrow then, I wish you a good nights sleep, mrs. and mr…?”

“Ljublina and Pavlev Troskji.”

The woman filled in, quickly and nervously, eager to escape the tension and see her children, and prepare herself for the coming day.

“Goodnight mrs. and mr. Troskji, take care of your children and I’ll see you tomorrow. And by the way, the name is Artiom.”

The door slammed shut with the last parting words and Ljublina hurried towards her children with the haste of a greyhound. Anita backed away from the door so as to not make her mother worried about what she had just witnessed. She jumped back into bed with her three younger siblings, who all sat in impressed awe over witnessing their sister dare go up against their parents. She barely managed to make it under the covers before her mother pushed open the door and consoled them, kissing their foreheads and pressing them against her chest. She was a particularly overprotective mother, and despite knowing that fact well enough, she couldn’t help but worry for her children in any given situation. Anita would often be subject to intense care, following even the slightest accident or scrape. At the time she could barely stand her mother’s anguish, and would often to go to extreme lenghts to simply obscure her wounds from her parents cunning gaze.

These days she would often look back on it with wonderful nostalgia. She didn’t know what happened to her mother, or her siblings after the war. She was away with her father at the market when he became little more than a statistic, killed in a grenade blast nearby. His body managed to absorb the magnitude of the blast, leaving Anita with a ruptured lung, exterior shrapnel damage and a minor concussion. She couldn’t remember much from it, except struggling to fetch the slightest breath of air. She was tended too by some paramilitary units and sent across the border, where she received medical attention and was then sent off to a nursing home. She tried to repress what ever she had left of her time in her home country, but would often lapse into sobbing at the slightest recollection. Of course she would often speculate over what had happened to the remnants of her family, perhaps they were still living back home, perhaps they perished alongside the hundreds of thousands who succumbed to illness, winter, fire or just the cruel nature of man.
To her, the notion of them still being alive hurt more than the harsh image of their chilled, pale bodies. For she was here, hundreds of miles away, quartered behind massive concrete walls with two years pay inbetween. Had she remembered their phone number, she would’ve called, even if that meant listening to the numb tone of a single beep on repeat. Perhaps they had been relocated or moved during the migration period, Anita hadn’t a single clue and chances were, she would never know.