by JV Love
Olga wrinkled her short, fat nose and snorted. Dima could tell she was surprised at his insolence. He was a little surprised himself. Misha had already warned him to be wary of her, and yet here he was. "That's none of your business," she said. "Now get out, before I throw you out."
Dima grabbed a stool from near the entrance and sat down. "I'm making it my business," he said. He expected her to get more angry, but instead, he thought she looked intrigued by his challenge.
"I'm in charge around here," she said, "in case you didn't know. I suggest you don't get on my bad side, because I can be very unpleasant."
"Oh, I understand that you're in charge," Dima said. "I don't question your authority." He crossed his legs in front of him and wrapped his hands around his top knee. "As for getting on your bad side, I don't really care."
Olga raised her eyebrows. "I don't have a problem with you," she said. "You're a Russian. I only have a problem with your Jewish friend."
"Well, good," Dima said, "I'm glad we're clear on that. I came here to tell you that if you've got a problem with Varilensky, then you've got a problem with me too. If anything unfortunate happens to him, you'll have to answer to me. Are we clear on that as well?"
Olga took a step toward him. "Are you threatening me?" she asked.
"Absolutely," Dima replied.
"I could give the word and have you killed right now," she said.
"You could," Dima agreed. "But I want you to know that I can put a bullet through your head faster than you can utter another obscenity-laden order."
Olga retreated a step, and Dima knew he'd gotten to her. "Either you're really crazy or really stupid," she said.
"That's for you to decide," he said, "but you lay off Felix and do your best to keep him out of harm's way, and you don't have to worry about me plunging a knife into your throat while you sleep."
Dima got up and went to the door of the tent.
"I already regret we rescued the two of you," Olga said.
Dima said nothing. He opened the tent door and saw that the rain had turned back into a fine mist.
"Don't think for a minute that you've won," Olga said, just before he slipped through to the outside.
Dima turned and looked at her. "Oh, I don't think that at all," he said. "I know I've already lost. That's why I came to speak to you in the first place."
He went back to the campfire, but Misha had taken his seat. Felix was stoking the fire on the other side, and Dima sat down on a log behind him. Misha pulled a flask out of his coat, took a swig, then offered it to Dima. He accepted it and took a drink. It burned his throat, and he gasped as it went down. Misha grinned and laughed. "Good stuff, huh?" he said. "An old farmer from the village sells it. He makes it himself." Dima handed it back to him and Misha took another drink. "It's the only thing that keeps me going out here. Not only does it keep the bears away, it gives you some really interesting dreams at night." He laughed and passed the flask to Felix who took a drink and gasped just as Dima had done.
Dima studied Misha's face and clothes for few seconds. He had gray worker's pants on and a shabby brown coat. Most of the other partisans were dressed similarly. None of them wore uniforms.
Misha saw Dima looking his way and ran his arm down the sleeve of his coat. "Pretty stylish, huh?" he said in jest.
"It looks warm at least," Dima said.
"Don't worry," Misha said. "We'll get you guys some warmer clothes. We'll head into the village tomorrow evening and see what we can find."
Felix had set up a tarp to keep the rain off the fire, and he made one last adjustment to it before sitting down.
"So what did you think of our little rescue earlier today?" Misha asked. "Those Nazis guarding you didn't know what hit 'em when Olga pulled that blanket off. Rat-tat-tat, and just like that, three less Nazis. That was the second time we've tried that stunt. It worked like a charm the first time too."
Felix and Dima stared at the fire, neither responding.
"It was certainly a lot more fun than what we've been doing lately," Misha said. "For the past few days, we've been hauling farm machinery out here to the woods to hide it from the Germans. Talk about boring."
Dima felt his body becoming warm once again as the fire came back to life and the alcohol spread out from his stomach.
"Where are you from?" Misha asked. "Me, I'm from Moscow. Don't know if I'd want to be back there now though. I hear the Nazis are closing in and that it's complete chaos there. Not like here. Ha-ha!"
Misha handed Dima the flask once again and he took another sip. "We're both from Leningrad," he answered.
"I knew it," Misha said. "I can tell immediately if someone's from the country or the city, and when I saw you guys, I just knew you were from the city." He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and a piece of newspaper and offered to roll a cigarette for Felix and Dima.
"He doesn't smoke," Dima said, referring to Felix, "but I'll take one."
"Doesn't smoke?" Misha said. "How on earth do you make it from day to day?"
Felix continued poking a stick at the logs and coals, situating them so that the fire burned brighter and hotter. "You're pretty damn good with fires," Misha said and handed the flask to Felix again. "Tell me, what was it like to be a German prisoner?"
Felix took the flask but didn't answer Misha's question. Dima had an idea the Germans had beaten Felix just as badly as they had him. He'd seen the burn marks on Felix's hands and neck, but every time Dima had asked him about it, Felix would only reply that it was over and he didn't want to revisit it - that nothing positive could come from dwelling on what they'd done to him. Dima wondered if he, too, had broken down and told the Germans some important piece of information. Since Felix used to do clerical work for the army, he probably knew quite a few secrets that the Germans would find interesting.
But somehow Dima just knew that Felix hadn't broken down. He'd noticed a change in Felix since those days long ago at the beginning of the war. He was no longer hesitant. With each passing day, he seemed more determined about things, less unsure of himself.
"I understand," Misha said. "You guys are probably exhausted. It's been a long day. I think I'll turn in myself." He stood up, handed Dima the cigarette he'd rolled, and stretched his arms over his head. Dima currently had the flask and held it out for Misha to take with him as he left, but Misha waved it off. "No, you guys can keep it. You need it. I've got more anyway."
The camp was deep in the woods and Dima found the quiet difficult to deal with. There was only the crackle of the fire and an owl hooting in the distance. His thoughts drifted back to that day two weeks ago when the German bombers set the warehouse afire. He thought about that a lot now - how Felix had risked his life to go back into the inferno to rescue him. Felix claimed that they'd made it out together - each helping the other find the way outside. But Dima knew better. He remembered struggling toward the exit, the thick smoke blinding and choking him. He remembered seeing Felix a few steps in front of him, his broad back pointing the way for him to follow. Then he remembered falling to the ground, unable to take the smoke anymore. He crawled on his hands and knees for a few seconds, then collapsed completely. A long list of regrets began screaming at him, and he knew the end of his life was near. Before he lost consciousness, he heard Felix calling out his name. He'd wanted to answer but had blacked out as he tried.
And then the next thing he remembered was the dusty boot of a Nazi kicking him in the side. He'd opened his eyes and saw he was twenty yards from the burned-out shell of the warehouse. Felix, still unconscious, was lying next to him.
In spite of everything Dima had said and done to Felix (even threatening him with the firing squad!), Felix had risked his life to go back into the burning warehouse to save him. Dima couldn't get over it, couldn't comprehend it. And he was so full of raw hate for Felix that he detested him now even more than the Nazis. Felix was an idiot - a bloody fool to do what he did. Didn't he understand anything in this world? Anything at all?
> He looked at Felix now, sitting across from him, staring at the fire, deep in thought. Dima guessed he was probably thinking about Katya, probably worried about her well being - even though he himself was in such a precarious situation. How could Dima have been friends with him? They were nothing alike.
Dima took another big drink from the flask and afterwards Felix blurred and then split into two. Dima refocused his eyes and put him back together. "I know what you did," he said, slurring a few words.
Felix looked up. "You do?"
"Da," - yes - Dima replied.
"They told you?"
"Who?"
"The Germans, of course."
Dima was really feeling the effects of the alcohol. He thought Felix was trying to trick him out of the conversation he wanted to have. "Don't play games with me," he said. "I know you ran back into the warehouse to save me."
Felix motioned for the flask and then took a swig. "Oh," he said.
"Why did you lie to me about it?" Dima asked. "Why did you say we made it out together? That without me, we wouldn't have made it?"
Felix shrugged his shoulders. "Partly because I don't remember everything," he said. "The last thing I remember is the two of us still inside the warehouse."
Dima wasn't sure if he believed him. Even if Felix didn't specifically remember pulling his unconscious body to safety, he must have figured it out later. He watched Felix empty the last of the liquor from the flask. "It was a stupid thing you did," Dima said.
Felix fixed his eyes on him. "No, it wasn't," he said. "It wasn't stupid at all."
Dima felt his emotions starting to get the best of him, but he didn't care anymore. He was tired of holding them in check. "Bullshit!" he yelled. "You could have been killed."
"You would've done the same thing if our positions had been reversed," Felix said.
Dima shook his head. "You're a bigger fool than I thought if you believe that," he said.
"No, I'm not," Felix said. "If you were in my shoes, you would have done the same thing. I know you."
"You don't know me at all," Dima said, his voice rising. "You knew me when we were kids, but that was a long time ago. We're very different now. You're a . . ."
"You're still that same kid I grew up with," Felix interrupted.
The mist grew more and more dense until it turned into light rain once again. "I wish," Dima answered, shaking his head again. "I wish I was, but I'm not. Life was simple back then. Not like now. Now, everything's so fucking complicated."
"It doesn't matter if you see it or not," Felix persisted. "I do. You're still that same kid who wants to change the world. The same kid who cried for days after your pet mouse died. The same kid who wants to save everyone and everything."
"That kid," Dima said, dropping his head and staring into the fire, "died a long time ago." He closed his eyes and felt a strange pain near his heart, like someone had stabbed him with a tiny knife. He'd never felt anything like that before. It was like a wound had suddenly been opened and all of the pain and misery it had been holding inside was now gushing out. He opened his eyes to try to stop it, but it kept coming.
"Tell me the truth," he said to Felix. "If you have any respect at all for me, then tell me the truth now, because I really want to understand. I want to know why you risked your life to drag me out of that warehouse."
"All right," Felix said, "I'll tell you the truth. I did it because I'm selfish."
Dima breathed a sigh of relief and his emotions died down. He understood selfishness. That was what he was accustomed to seeing in those around him. He nodded his head at Felix.
"I did it," Felix continued, "because I wanted you to continue living. I wanted you to survive to see the end of this war, and to fall in love and get married and have children and grow old, fat, and happy. I risked my life for you because I consider you my friend. Despite all that's happened between us, when I look at you I see that same person I grew up with - the same person I had so much fun with, the same person I admired and . . ."
Dima took a deep breath to calm the rage that was rising within him. The other negative emotions he kept in check - anger, jealousy, hate - could come out, but not rage. He could never let that one out. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his breathing and counted down from twenty. But when he reached zero, he still felt only marginally in control.
Rage was always there for Dima, just beneath the surface. It had accumulated through years and years of denying himself, of always trying to do what everyone else expected of him, of trying to live up to what his father - the great engineer and decorated Civil War hero - had done in his life. This endless drive to please others, to receive their accolades and to avoid their criticism, had built a mountain of resentment within Dima. And unbeknownst to those around him, this seemingly harmless mountain was filled with molten rage, and it took a tremendous amount of effort to keep it in, to prevent it from erupting and burning everyone and everything around him.
Dima was desperate to know why he was feeling so much rage right now, though he wasn't sure he'd like the answer. He decided to refocus his energy on containing it, but it was too late for that. "Shut up!" he yelled, jumping from his seat. "Just shut the hell up!" His eyes were glossy and his throat hurt. He inhaled quickly to try to keep the glossiness from trickling down the edge of his nose.
"I did it," Felix added, "in short, because you're worth saving."
"Shut up you son-of-a-bitch!" Dima charged at him and knocked him from his seat to the ground. "Damn you," he said under his breath, "you don't understand fucking anything in this world - nothing." But Dima's voice betrayed him and he could no longer keep the salty water in his eyes from streaming down his face. He turned and started for the woods, kicking a small log and breaking a low-hanging branch that was in his way.
"You asked for the truth," Felix said as Dima walked away. "You asked for the truth and you got it!"
Dima started to run. He had to get away. "And I'd do it again if I had to," he heard Felix's voice call out after him. He ran and ran until he tripped and fell and didn't get back up. He stayed there and cried in shame and the light rain soon turned into a downpour, mixing with his tears and washing them into the earth, where they were accepted unconditionally.
~
-- Chapter Seven
Forever Hungry Ghosts
____________________________
Senses alight,
walking at night;
I feel what God had in mind,
when he was bored,
on that dreary day long ago.
But he was at his peak.
And in his own image,
to a fault,
to today,
am I.
God's creation,
from his imagination . . .
I see him,
from time to time,
in glimpses,
when I'm not thinking,
when I'm at my peak,
I am He.
And He is me.
"It's coming your way!" Petya shouted. The sound of claws struggling to get a grip on a polished wood floor and the plodding footsteps of Petya chasing behind filled the apartment.
A second later, the black cat came racing around the corner, slipped and rolled on its side, then regained its footing and charged toward Igor. Igor spread his feet wide and sunk low to the ground to block the hallway. The cat made a quick decision to try to squeeze by his right side. Petya made it around the corner just in time to see the cat jump over Igor's outstretched leg and down the hallway. Igor lunged after it and caught it by its hind legs before it got away, but the cat screeched, then bit and clawed Igor's hands viciously until he let go.
"Damn it," Petya said. "You had it."
Igor slowly got to his feet and inspected the blood from the scratches on his hands. "Where did it go?" he asked.
"In my room," Petya said. "I'll go get it. You stay out here and keep a lookout for Oksana. She shouldn't be back for another three hours, but y
ou never know with her."
Igor nodded while he licked the blood off his hands.
Petya went into his room, closed the door behind him, and sat down on his bed to rest for a minute. It took so much effort to move his body, and he was so damn hungry. They'd been chasing the cat for the last fifteen minutes.
He bent down and saw the skinny creature hiding under his bed. It hissed when it saw him and wedged itself further into the corner of the wall. It was probably the last pet left in their building. Petya used to see and hear cats and dogs wherever he went, but not anymore. As hunger became more dire, all the cats, dogs, and birds in the city had started to disappear.
He retrieved a pair of thick leather gloves from a drawer and put them on. It was a terrible thing he was about to do, but he'd convinced himself and Igor that it was the lesser of two evils.
He crawled under the bed until he could reach the cat and then grabbed it by the tail and pulled it toward him. It made its terrible high-pitched screeching sound again and sunk its claws into the hand that wouldn't let go of its tail. But Petya's gloves were too tough and thick for the cat's claws to reach his skin.
Once he got the cat out, he put it on the bed and wrapped his gloves around its neck and squeezed. It thrashed its body from side to side and bared its fangs and claws, but it was all in vain. Petya would not release his grip.
After a short time, the cat stopped moving and Petya let go of its neck and stared into its lifeless eyes. It was the first thing he'd ever killed in his life, and he felt a strange mix of immense power and overwhelming guilt. So many times in his life he'd wanted to kill that cat for waking him up at night, for stinking up the apartment, for pissing in his shoes. And now he'd finally done it and he didn't know whether to jump for joy or pray for forgiveness.
Igor came in and saw the motionless cat lying on the bed. "Do you know how to skin it?" he asked.
Petya shook his head no. He was trying to convince himself that it had been an act of mercy. After all, the cat was old - already half blind - and had been slowly starving to death. "I'm sure I can figure it out though," he said to Igor.
