Girl Meets Soldier

TW: abuse, war, death, mental illness, swearing.

“America is fucking stupid, man!” shout the guys in my squad over the noise of our APC driving to the border. “They just eat and get fat and don’t work!”

“All they do is make those stupid Hollywood movies!”

“Right!” spits the older bearded one who looks like a bum.

“And they’re all about some stupid stuff or those… gays!”

The armored personnel carrier erupts with laughter at the mention of gays, and I give a nervous smile to show I am on board. The conversation continues.

“Our greatness, our power annoys them! They can’t get us, so now they have Ukraine doing their dirty work!”

“Thankfully there won’t be any war. No one is crazy enough to go against us!” the bum-looking one pokes his thumb into his chest, nearly spilling the flask he is holding.

I watch the soldiers closely. Even though this is “my squad", I do not feel part of it nor do I command it. The C.O. calls me “ze fatso”, and some know me as private Pierre Tolstiy. Life, I guess. I can’t go anywhere without being the big guy. Playground, school, the army — I have always been an outsider because of my looks, and that’s why I took to literature.

Books make me feel seen and valued. They give me insight into the nature of human actions. But strangely, the more books I read, the more I feel distanced from the world of humans. There is nothing in it for someone like me. Those other guys in the unit? They all want to be here. I don’t. If I had been accepted into university, I would not have been forced to join.

Most of the guys in “my squad” are, frankly, quite stupid (another reason why I feel like I don’t belong). So I am surprised when one of them says:

“Ukrainians destroying monuments to Pushkin are disgusting!”

Others chime in, spitting vodka-scented saliva as they shout.

“True. Maybe they don’t like the threats of war, but why touch the greats? Whatever your personal opinion, you need to put it aside. Art is art!”

“Da, show some respect, you stupid shits! That’s a world-class poet!”

I am eager to impress them with my knowledge of the cultural scene before they change the subject. My opening is disappearing quickly so I risk everything to try and make the best of it:

“And they go as far as saying things like why don’t you have monuments to Byron in your country then?”

“Who?”

“Byron. Some American president, I guess,” I try to play it cool, adding the ‘I guess’ in, because I don’t want them to make fun of me for being a nerd. I’m pretty sure Byron was the 35^th… 37^th American president? Well it doesn’t matter, they are drunk anyway. I can look it up in a few days after all this is over.

“Da, they’ve went crazy. Monuments to Byron... America will pay for their propaganda!”

“They are so dumb, they don’t even know how to read anymore!”

“And look at our literature! Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky…”

“Yeah man, ‘War and Peace’ is respected all over the world. Tolstoy was a genius!”

The skinny shy kid sitting in the corner leans forward, taking deep breaths, his lips trembling. He raises his index finger and speaks for the first time:

“Russian literature is famous for being psychologically… psychologically deep and… and very humane. Our writers know the human soul in and out!”

This gets him the approval of others.

“Damn right, Vanya! I’ll drink to that!” they shout.

This may sound crazy, but I wish I were him right now. Vanya is about 18 like me, though we’ve never spoken. We both get a lot of crap from everyone in the army for being the youngest, but it’s never crossed my mind to befriend him. He just… doesn’t seem like my type. I’m sure I would get labeled as even more of a loser by being with someone like him. No, we are safer apart, two loners instead of a pathetic duo.

“That’s why we’re here today. We’re the last hope this world has!” someone yells, but I don’t listen. I look out the small window.

It’s a cold February morning, before dawn. We must be close to the border, but the task is still unclear. We know the big plan, of course, but it’s up to the commanding officer to let us know what we need to do specifically.

Ours is not the best trained squad so we are back-up. Odds are, we won’t have to fight, even if there is fighting, which is unlikely. I stare at the bottom of my flask. Could I have emptied it already? I have the stupid drunks to thank for distracting me. Can’t I just be respected right now for who I am, not what I do? I hate having to waste my time being so nice to everyone, having to watch and listen for the right moment… I wish they would listen to what I have to say. I have such great ideas!

For instance, I am of the opinion that war is unnecessary. I fully believe that it is much better to engage in non-violent resistance. I have read ‘War and Peace’, after all. Sadly, I have no choice. None of us do. And even if they heard me, I doubt they would understand.

We stop, and the C.O. yells: “Squad! Now is our chance to prove zat we are ze descendants of ze greats! Get your weapons ready! We are on standby! As soon as somesing changes, we engage. Ze plan is about to be realized, and all of you will be able to go home to your whores as heroes!” he looks at me “Well, all of you except zis fatso. I bet zis one’s never even smelled a woman!”

Another surge of happy laughter in the unit is killed by the sound of explosions from multiple directions at once. It has started.

I wake up with a scream at 4 a.m. The worst nightmare I never even had has come to life. War. War has started! The booming explosions still rumble in my veins, not letting my heart rate calm down. I sit bolt upright in my bed. Deep frantic breaths. I still don’t know if this is all true or not. Maybe Dad bumped into the book case on his way to the bathroom and that’s what woke me up? No, something’s wrong. The sounds are coming from outside.

I get out of bed and hurry to my parents’ bedroom, my head spinning from the abrupt movement.

I almost run into my dad in the living room. His eyes wide, he was going to my room to check on me. Is Dad scared? We stare at each other for a long second, letting it sink that our realities are the same.

“Dad…”

“You and Mom go now. I will go get your brother,” his decided tone doesn’t align with his lost expression.

My brother… My brother had a food poisoning after his friend’s birthday party. He has been hospitalized in a village nearby. To get to him my dad would have to find a safe way there and back. And how can he know where it is safe? I really hate my brother in this moment. No doubt they were drinking some unhealthy stuff, and now Dad will be risking his life. My parents are the most important thing in my life, and I don’t understand how my brother could have been so careless. After everything they’ve done for us!

“Get your mother and go to Grandma. Wait for us there. Don’t worry, we will be okay.”

“No, Dad, you can’t know this. Go with us-” I start crying.

“Get Mom!” he roars, and I swallow back my tears. Mom. Mom must be so sacred now. I need to focus. We rush into the bedroom. Mom turns her disbelieving face to us from the window. Oh, what a bad time to start a war!!! We just got her back…

“Mom, mom, we need to go. Get dressed, I will, too. Don’t worry, Dad will get Sashko and we will meet at Grandma’s.”

Dad stays a second to give her a “see you soon” kiss. I run back to my room and put on a pair of fleece leggings and a sweater over my sleep tee. I still feel hot from my sleep, and the warm clothes make me sweat even more. I risk catching a cold if I go outside like this, but I am going outside. I have no choice.

New explosions. Keys rattling. A glimpse of my dad rushing out the front door. Is this the last time we see each other?

Back in her bedroom, I pull my mother from the window, where she watches a big fire on the horizon, dazed. I hastily put a coat around her shoulders.

“Mom, you can’t stand near the glass, you know that. Come on, did you get all your documents? And your meds? They’re in this bag, right mom?”

I hop into the car.

“Go, Katia,” Mom tells me from the passenger’s seat, turning her face away from our house. I don’t need to look at her to know she is crying. “We will go to the movies some other day.”

A frantic laugh escapes my throat. I now remember that we were going to go see that premiere today. How is she even thinking about that now?

“Mom… it will be okay,” I say, trying to relieve her anxiety. I know I have a calming effect on her. That’s why I’ve been reluctant to take that job in the capital: Mom needs all the help.

“Dad will come back to us, Mom.”

I make myself believe that, because it’s the only way she will believe that too.

We drive. The morning is cold and misty.

How is this possible? So much controversy in the past few months… but surely, it was all for hype? There can’t really be a war here. With Russia? We live… we lived close to the border, and everyone I know speaks Russian fluently. I’ve read ‘War and Peace’! And boasted about it! I loved how it was just so grand, so big, so important. So real. But this can’t be real, can it?

My grandparents were only children in the last war, but they told me about the horrors they had endured. And they told me about the bravery and friendship of all the nations that had fought side by side. Every year we went to the Fallen Soldiers monument to commemorate the lives given for ours.

Every year on my birthday Grandma would say: “May you be happy, healthy and may you never know the hardships of war.” I always replied that she was being adorable.

I almost break down from all the emotion, but in my 21 years of life I’ve learned this about myself: in stressful situations, I’m a doer. Me and my dad. If Mom gets overwhelmed, we are there for her. It’s how it’s always been and it’s how I know that I need to be the one driving now. If something happens to Dad, at least she has m-

“Mom," I scream, "I need to turn the car!”

The mist reveals a tank blocking the road and an aftermath of a car crash. The distance between us and the tank is disappearing quickly on the slippery road. There is only one little driveway I can go to from here. I see my opening and risk everything to try and make the best of it.

“Stupid commuters!,” yells the C.O., throwing an empty bottle in the direction of the road. The bottle shatters against the icy ground.

“Zey are getting on my nerves. Isn’t zat right, private?”

“Tak tochno, sir!” Vanya affirms.

He is right. The operation hasn’t been going according to plan, and the C.O. has been taking it out on his troops. Verbally, for now.

“We don’t have enough tanks to block all ze roads! Ze fucking commuters will keep driving to ze city. You disagree, fatso?”

Ah, the magic word. He means me. I straighten my back and shout a reply: “Nikak niet, sir!”

“Hey squad!” he calls. Heads turn.

“Open fire on every vehicle zat comes zis way!”

What? I don’t find it in me to reply. Vanya looks like he’s been hit in the stomach.

“Civilian cars too, sir?”

“You see any ozer cars here? Get ze grenade launchers! Zat’s an order!”

Vanya’s eyes search mine and I know he thinks what I think. Peace is better. He must have read Tolstoy too, huh?

A pink car shows up on the road.

Mom and I are back on the highway. The little road veered away only to flow back into the big one. The tank is now behind us. My heartbeat gets louder and louder. Is this my heartbeat? Suddenly, the road explodes right in front of us and I jerk the wheel to the left.

On the side of the road I turn to check on Mom. She doesn’t look scared anymore. I nod. Two figures appear from the smoke. Men. No, armed boys.

“Get out of the car!”

I don’t move. The skinnier one gets closer. He looks terrified.

“Please,” his lips tremble, his hands go mechanically to the double-headed eagle sewn onto his chest pocket, “get out of the car. It is not safe… the cars are getting attacked.”

The cars aren’t attacking themselves. But I do believe that we are not safe. The cannonade in the background sends a clear message.

‘Mom, let’s go.” I grab her bag to help her get out of the car.

Voices sound from behind the soldiers:

“Hey, what are you two doing zere?”

“Don’t shoot!” the thin one raises his hands, “these are ours!”

Ours? A clicking noise from that direction.

“We are Russian! Don’t shoot!”

Another click.

His posture changes. He momentarily tenses, turns to me and pushes me to the ground. I fall on my back, shocked. Is he going to undress me? He reaches for Mom, but she falls on top of me. I hear gunshots. The soldier drops to the ground beside me, rifle in hands, and opens fire in the direction of the voices. Sound attacks my eardrums from all directions. There is blood on my face. His.

Mom lays on top of me, coughing. She must be so scared. The steam from my breaths in the cold air turns into tiny icicles on Mom’s long dark hair. We wait. That’s all there is to do.

I hide behind the pink car. Vanya’s done something crazy… he is out there against our squad. What do I do? This is my first time in an actual fight. Good thing no one can see me through the fog. I need to get out of here, but the squad…

I do have a hand grenade; how does it work again?

A loud boom cuts through all my senses. Pain. Heatwave. Shattering glass from the car windows above me. My ears ring. There is smoke.

Suffocating, I cough and sit up. Glass shards ding. Mom rolls to the ground and stares at the sky.

“Mom, get up!” I yell, but I can’t hear myself. Maybe she can’t hear me either? I yell louder: “MOM!”

She doesn’t respond. Is she… has she...

“Mom!” I shake her fiercely. Blood trickles from a huge gash on her side. She doesn’t move.

I look down. Mom’s bag sits in my lap, a bloodied piece of metal sticking out of it. The shrapnel that killed her. If I hadn’t taken the bag… if she’d had it… oh no…

“Oh no! Mommy… I’m so sorry…” I hear the girl say. Did she just lose her mother? Must be tough, though not as bad as I thought. This is my first encounter with death. The girl sobs over the body. I noticed long ago that people’s tears don’t affect me. Maybe it’s because I have such deep philosophical understanding of life.

Vanya croaks from the ground: ‘Help.”

The fat soldier reappears and looks at me as I cry. He shows no sympathy. After a moment he runs back in the direction he had come from. The boy who has saved my life keeps asking for help. I am a doer. I can’t save Mom, but I can still do this.

I grab him by the arm and pull him into the car, then jump into the driver’s seat and slam the gas. The car screeches through the frozen fields.

“Cold… give water… drink… hurt…” he mumbles.

“You! You’re gonna talk!” I shout, looking ahead, eyes wide. “I will get you into a hospital and you will be a prisoner of war! You’re gonna talk!”

“Thank you… And you?” he manages.

“I am going to join the army.”

The trees are in bloom and the days have grown longer. I enjoy my new position as the C.O. No need to wait for others to finish talking. I say what I want, do what I want. Feels good for a change.

I look at what a guy from my squad brings me.

“A portable speaker?! " I yell. "Are you kidding me, you dirtbag? Your pockets! Now!”

He sighs.

“That’s an order!”

He shows me an old jewelry box.

“That’s better now! These people are leaving their homes, they don’t know if they will return. Do you think they will leave their valuables behind?”

‘Nikak niet, sir.”

“Now go, wait for more on the road! And hit the wheels, not the interior, you shit! All the goods are inside!”

He leaves, and I smile, taking a sip from my bottle.

I smell something. Perfume? A figure appears from the bushes. A woman. A girl in camouflage suit.

She smiles. Is that… a gun in her hands?