The Man who Saved the World

He awoke in a cold sweat.

Each night seems to be broken into periods of sleep and contemplation. He thought age diminished memory; yet, night after night was riddled with the sirens. Friends, books, television all seemed to go with the turmoil of countless years full of hard labor, but that day will stay him until his final breath.

This

night, Vasili stubbornly thought he could just return to the hard pillow he

called his home, but his mind had other intentions. He swam in the pool of

recollection, constantly fighting the riptide of October 27^th, a day

most Russians view as normal, but one he cringes at. Every October 27^th

Vasili is given a party, but the parties here... here the parties are not to

celebrate an occasion, but to torment the person for their weakness.

“You know what happens when you confront the memory, you know it you know it you know it.”

Vasili in his addled age cared less about those who resided in block 22A as sleep’s embrace increasingly eluded him; however, the people he shared sleeping quarters with found it hard to keep silent when some crazy vagrant would not let them get enough rest for the cold day ahead. This is exactly what Petrov felt, which is why he found nights the best opportunity to work on his schemes of deception on an unwitting Vasili. To Petrov, Vasili was nothing more than a varmint, something to experiment upon for pleasure in the hellscape they both shared; yet, in a twisted way Vasili viewed Petrov as his closest companion, an almost apprentice in which the old man could pass on his stories and knowledge, if only Petrov had enough sense to truly listen.

By the time Vasili successfully attempted to trick his mind into sleep, the bane of every man’s existence in this region, what the populous deemed “мяч рабства” or roughly translated into “ball of slavery,” peaked its rotund eyes upon the tired landscape. With this, the morning alarms sounded, piercing every eardrum in a miles vicinity into a falsified wakefulness, yet Vasili wasn’t one of them. It truly was not his fault, for somehow, the sirens inside his muddled mind had an external force that made him partially deaf. One must be very close to Vasili and almost screaming in order to reach him. For this reason, a guard every morning had the job – one might say pleasure – of awakening the old man. Today, this job fell on First Lieutenant Feliks, who, despite his youth, had a natural ability at cruelty. Some said the cold only enhanced his ability to make men cry, but Feliks always knew deep down how lucky he was to be paid to hurt, and how easily he could lose the opportunity.

“Commander Vasili,” Feliks said as softly as he could to get the old man up. “Oh Commander, please awaken, it appears to be your turn directing the submarine.”

“Da, da. Back to your quarters, I will take it from here cadet.”

Vasili opened his eyes, but just as he did, a swift black entity was moving quickly to his abdomen.

“Sorry Commander, but it appears you have been relieved of your military duties. No worries, I have plenty of work for you to do around the yard.” Feliks said this with only the slightest smirk across his hard features. “Oops, should I say, prisoner you should get to work. Or have you forgotten, your days of leading are over, the weak were removed from duty after that traitor Gorbachev decided a Pizza Hut was more important than controlling Eastern Europe.” At this remark Feliks spat, but why waste good spit on hard, cold dirt when Vasili was there to enjoy it.

“Da, I remember where I am sir, and I prefer it to the past.” At this Vasili stood, and whether Feliks was just drunk from the night before, the addled man’s presence gave the young Lieutenant pause. Even as a prisoner, everyone who knew Vasili revered him, or at least the actions he had done, for if Vasili were a weaker man, not even Feliks or Petrov would be there to enjoy his torment.

The day offered no respite, just as the day before that offered none and the previous days just the same. Vasili, for all of his machinations realized no day ahead of him offered peace, warmth, or happiness, which would anger a less conflicted man; however, Vasili knew not whether the lot he was given was deserved. All he knew was his duty, and to a man with his past, that was enough.

Due to Vasili’s age, his work was not as laborious as most of the others, but that did not stop his supervisors from finding the right jobs and buttons to push him towards exhaustion. One of the crueler jobs was cook, which may seem odd to outsiders, but Vasili and the other cooks knew they would rather break rocks than prepare food. For one, a long established rule in this prison was that the cooks were never allowed to eat until everyone had their meal, not even a taste. The reason for this rule is twofold: one, the cooks were already the only workers performing jobs inside with some modicum of heat; therefore, they were already privileged in the guards eyes. Two, the guards played a game with the cooks every day. If the food did not meet adequate levels, one cook would be shot – this does not always mean killed – in order to ensure the highest quality meals in all the land. Vasili never got shot, plenty had, but he escaped the punishment time after time. This was not an oversight by the guards, rather, a realization that a man like that suffers more when omitted from suffering the pain of his brethren then partaking in it. This day though, was special. The guards were waiting in the kitchen to surprise their favorite prisoner on his anniversary.

“SURPRISE!!! Congratulations Mr. Arkhipov, you have made it another year in your new home, well I guess new hasn’t been the right descriptor for quite some time. What is it now? 25 years, no…”

At that First Lieutenant Feliks politely interrupted Commanding Officer Dimitri, “Sir, I believe it is 30 years to the day we received Vasili.”

At that Commander Dimitri sharply backhanded Feliks, “That was for interrupting, you are lucky I do not do worse for using our esteemed guest’s first name on such an important day.”

“Apologies Commander. Mr. Arkhipov, I ask for your forgiveness.” Feliks spoke these niceties, but somewhere in his head, Vasili knew he would pay for the pain Feliks caused himself by an idiotic display of youth.

With the apologies doled out, Commander Dimitri continued his yearly speech to the starved and tattered husk standing in front of him. “Now Mr. Arkhipov, you earned your spot here, for without you, the Soviet Union would not have turned into the backwater now known as Russia, and you would not be here in Siberia to be our plaything.”

Vasili knew what was coming next, but it did not make it any easier to hear.

“How could you, a commanding officer of one of our most valuable devices, not utilize the nuclear arsenal given to you, created for you, trusted with you, by our great leader Joseph Stalin? I have my guesses – cowardice, idiocy, weakness, apathy for the scum found in capitalist America – but my joy every year is to hear you say why yourself.”

Year after year, Vasili was given two options, provide the “correct” answer that he was a defective soldier of the USSR who failed his Motherland and wanted to be in Siberia, or give the true answer and face a wrath still unknown to him. In this case, like the 29 years prior, he gave the “correct” answer, “I was influenced by weakness and fear to turn my back on the Soviet Union, failing friends and superiors, failing my people and the people of capitalist nations who today suffer the turmoil of an unfair system because of me. I hate myself and am happy I am here, in the cold, forgotten land to be forgotten all the same, as is just for my actions.”

For some reason, one which Vasili cannot comprehend, this answer still found a way to upset the guards, so he got his yearly reeducation, which constitutes more as a physical with an emphasis on the knee tests. The other cooks – ones that were around from last year – knew they required a wheelchair for Vasili. To Vasili, the wheelchair was just an accommodation to the pain he felt in his soul, one which the coward feels daily, and the hero mocks. Vasili never used to feel this internal pain, he would never have been able to comprehend such an emotion as the youngest Commander of a nuclear submarine, all until the fateful day the sirens blared.

Vasili thought it as good a time as ever to finally recollect, as he was now going nowhere, both because he was in a wheelchair and because he was preparing the dismal stew for today’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Where he always chose to recall was the hard part. Should it be moments before the alarms, waking up that day, or even before that? With the time he had, he chose to remember the night leading up to the 27^th. It was a normal evening with his crew, one in which poker was played, cigars were smoked, and fine Russian novels were read aloud. Vasili preferred Chekhov, not for its brevity but because of the hope it gave him for a better tomorrow. His steward found Marx to be fascinating, an odd similarity all the young stewards Vasili had had shared. He did not know at the time if that concerned him about his peoples future, or if he should be disheartened they stilled cared about a political system that was so clearly against their benefit. Even to this day, Vasili wonders at what the youth are drawn to. Is it still Marx?

At this thought, Vasili shed a single cold tear, the first he had shed in a long while, but he made quick work of exterminating it before a guard saw. With that, he checked the that the stew reached a rolling boil, and went back to what he considered a long lost fantasy.

After he read Dostoevesky aloud, something the whole crew young and old could agree to, he went to his quarters to write his wife. Olga was not just his spouse, but his life. The days on the sub did their marriage good, because whenever he was gone he realized how much he wanted to be with her, and whenever he was with her, the fragility of their time together always permeated his mind . No moment with her could be bad, because it was time he was whole. The reason he took the submarine job was to provide a better life to her than she had while growing up, bound to the life of a former serfs daughter, her hopes of comfort were miniscule. Vasili knew this and promised her the world, and she agreed only because it was a world they would both share. All of this came back to the old Vasili as he reached the point in his recollection where he wrote his nightly letter to Olga, which he promised to give to her on his return along with all of the others. The promise he would never fulfill. This one read:

My Dearest Olga,

Today was another normal day on the seas. Nothing of import has reached my ears, and all this quiet rocking has made me miss you more than I could conceive. I hope our boy is well, he looked just like you when I left, and if he continues on that track the whole town will be wanting to befriend him. By all the good in this world how did I ever get so lucky, marrying the one person who understands me for good and ill. I just hope I do you justice in all that I try, and that one day you will understand why I leave you and the boy. I lie awake at night, wondering if this were all predestined, meeting you, joining the military, the revolution. Even if it weren’t, I’d prefer to think it has been, because that meant our union fits within the everlasting plan of the Universe, and who am I to argue with that. My love for you shall never cease, my sense of dread when I am home and must go away again will never exhaust the joy I have when I am with you.

                                                                                     I’ll love you always,

Vasili

For some reason Vasili remembered every word of that letter. Through all of the difficulties of daily life here, that letter almost seems like the last part of his humanity. Vasili always hoped that Olga remarried, found a man that could take care of their son, maybe give him brothers and sisters, and ensure both never went hungry in his long absence. He could not know for sure, but he felt in his cold heart the belief that they were, indeed, alright, and with a tinge of selfishness still within, Vasili hoped Olga taught their son about his life and ultimate choice, and that both would agree he did not ere.

With that, Vasili decided it was time he confronted the reason he was even going into the ravine of memory. He remembers being awakened by the steward and going to the bridge. About an hour or so into his shift, the terrible sirens sounded, the ones he knew to dread. In moments the whole crew assembled on the bridge, the secondary officer with his hand around the key on his neck, but Vasili was characteristically unflinching. At the behest of his whole crew, all begging Vasili to direct them on their next move, the Commander took action. The fateful words he spoke in that sub would be twisted and warped by the soldiers on that sub, men he viewed as friends, to better their positions in the Soviet military at the expense of his life. Vasili stated, “We have no clue if this alert is truly real do we Comrades? Who are we to play God? If we activate these nuclear missiles, and we are the only ones getting an alert, we have started the final genocide, the one that no histories will be written about. Are you all prepared to do that? If I am wrong, and this is a real attack, at least we die knowing the unjust still roam the Earth, in utmost torment that they, not the USSR, were the true villains of the Cold War. I say stand down and do not launch.”

That day, though few ever knew it or will ever know it, Vasili Arkhipov saved the world.

Miraculously, as Vasili finished up his tortured memory, the stew was also finished, and lunch was served not too long after. Vasili, broken and cold, sad and alone, was given the rest of the day off. He sat in his wheelchair, hobbled, listening to Petrov try to outsmart him once again, and Vasili once again went along and acted the doddering fool to please the man who would be here long after he was, suffering the same daily torment.

That night Vasili went to bed, only to wake up in a cold sweat to the sound of sirens. They will always be a part of him, but he knew he would endure.