The Light Between Candles

In future Russia, a young doctor and indentured servant cross paths and fall into a strange love, but relationships like that in this future are taboo and all love dies in the face of fascism

Chapter I: The Rebel

            Ancheyk set down the folio and buried his face in his hands. With a stifled sigh, he sifted through a nearby stack of envelopes and tucked the patient file snugly within. He leaned back from his desk, his eyes monotonously scanning the ceiling in thought. He could still see the ink on the paper, a constant reel streaming beneath his eyelids. It had haunted him for days. In his sleep, he could hear the man breathing, coughing. He was not contagious, but Ancheyk’s contemporaries failed to recognize that fact, still isolating the weakened man in the quarantine ward, avoiding him like a leper. He had little companionship, save for Ancheyk and a select few nurses whose eyes regarded him with distaste and suspicion.

            His condition was not their only reason for treating him coldly. He was old, his temper stout and fierce when awakened, seemingly oblivious to his illness. On the outside, he appeared cold and severe, a dissident man with a stale humor and distrusting disposition. He refused food if he disliked his attendant. He was known to curse and, on more than one occasion, had been let to bouts of physical altercation, at least, as much as his failing body allowed.

            During the early morning, three days a week, Ancheyk would make the long walk to the isolation of ‘B’ ward to visit Rhov Mudryy’s lonely room. It always felt strange greeting him of a day, as of two friends who had not spoken in the space of many years. Mister Mudryy had a different temperament towards his young doctor. Ancheyk’s colleagues jested that his long, blonde ponytail put the elderly man off guard. He must think you a woman for being so fair. Yet the old man was far from senile. Even in sickness, the man had an air about him of distinguished pride. He had lived a mutinous life, a rebel and a revolutionary whose efforts had been greeted with disappointment and horror in the wake of failure. Ancheyk had listened for hours, tuning out all resp0nsibility and interference, to the dying man’s tale of woe.

            Mudryy had been a member of the Podavlennyy, the repressed, during the rise of the Vechnyy Republic. He had moved to Kiev after the devastation at Irvesk, as so many other refugees had. Mudryy had been arrested, imprisoned, interrogated, brutalized. After the civil riots in Moscow, his wardens had given him release on parole, the public outcry being that any war prisoner above the age of seventy be given clemency. But, by that time, Mudryy had been incarcerated for thirty years. Ancheyk was bothered by the marks of violence on Mudryy’s aging body: scars of floggings, chemical burns, and broken fingers- his left hand gnarled by arthritis and injury- the bones knit haphazardly, having never been properly set. The survivor’s endeavors had not brightened much after his release. He had trouble finding work and had been shut out from societal normality. It was no wonder the man had become prickly and cautious. Ancheyk imagined one had to be cunning to survive as long as the bruiser had in the work camps.

            A nurse stumbled from Mudryy’s room as Ancheyk came down the hall, an aluminum tray crashing out after her, followed by a multitude of foul words which echoed off the white walls. The nurse seemed fit to rage, but forcibly pacified herself, seeing Ancheyk.

            “Difficult today?”

            The slim woman scoffed, “As ever. I don’t know what you see in him. What a brute.”

            Ancheyk gave a soft smile and shrugged, “He takes patience.”

            “Well I wish he would take his medication.”

            “Did he not?”

            The nurse waved an enlightening hand over the spilled contents that had been on the tray, now on the floor, “See for yourself.”

            Ancheyk looked in the room, Mudryy’s back to him, his arms crossed, grayed head down. The nurse took this as a chance to excuse herself, walking briskly towards the ‘B’ ward nurse’s station. Ancheyk gave a light knock on the door as he entered. Mudryy waved his right hand beneath his crossed arms in dismissal, “Damn woman, I don’t want to take it. I told you.”

            “Is that the way you talk to all your friends?”

            Mudryy turned, his face changing, brightening as he saw the teal-eyed doctor, “Only the ones I don’t like.”

            “And toss your breakfast at their heads?”

            “Those trays aren’t as heavy as they look.”

            An awkward silence resumed over the two. Despite the age gap, both mutually respected one another. They had an understanding that both were certain the other felt.

            Mudryy’s face tightened, his brows knitting in alarm, “Grave news today?”

            Mudryy turned to cough as if on cue, the thick, hateful sound a haunting confirmation of his words. Ancheyk bit his inner cheek forlornly, noticing the blood in Mudryy’s handkerchief. The man was in the late stages of a mycobacterial infection. It wasn’t tuberculosis, as he’d wrongly been diagnosed upon internment into the hospital, but a terminal infection of the lungs which had progressed long past the point of help. It was a slow death, a painful death. Ancheyk had put off telling Mudryy the severity of his symptoms, though he was sure the man was prepared for his death, maybe even longed for it; the man had become one of his favorite patients in the course of his stay. It seemed a terribly unfair way to die for a man whom fate had already chewed and weltered. He’d had his life stolen, forged by fire. He walked through hell for a righteous cause and had come to its end no better off from the fight.

            Mudryy nodded, turning his face away from Ancheyk and towards the picture window, “So, I’m dying then.”

            Ancheyk sighed, “Yes. The nodules, they’re past healing.  I’m sorry.” The words felt hollow and sour on his tongue as he said them, a foul concoction of remorse and defeat. He felt that his apology was a pin in the eye of justice for the hurt intoned within the statement; it was like tying a ribbon to a broken wrist, pretty in passing, but fixing nothing, glossing over the pain.

            Mudryy folded his thin hands together, “Don’t be sorry. You’ve done all you can for me, doctor. I’m not an easy man to get along with. I know that. I suppose… I should be sorry for causing you trouble. I’m not worth the effort you’ve given me.”

            Ancheyk crossed the room, straddling a chair at Mudryy’s bedside, “Do you have family? Anyone you’d like me to send for?”

            Mudryy shook his head, “Only distant relatives. If it’s to be soon, it’s of no matter. I won’t be missed. I’m lucky. That’s what’s sad. Did you know I have a nephew in one of the camps outside Moscow? If he’s still alive; he was only five the last I saw him. He must be thirty and five by now. I’ve missed his whole life. They took him from my brother. Danse wasn’t even involved with the rebellion, but I didn’t have any sons to take.”

            “I could try to send for him.”

            “I appreciate the sentiment but, no, doctor, he’s gone. Even if he still lives, he’s gone. I miss my nephew, but I doubt he much resembles the little boy I loved. A slaves mind is as good as one dead.” Mudryy held his broken hand up to the sunlight, studying its distorted structure, “He would be better off dead.”

            Ancheyk chilled, his mind wandering to the camp on the outskirts of Kiev, the very city in which he lived, he worked. There were men and women interred there at that very moment, children who had grown in confinement for the actions of their parentage, tortured, mutilated. It was commonplace, routine. The Lyatkin household, his home, had over a dozen servants from the camps, taken on by his father. They had been told that after the course of twenty years, their services would result in freedom, but Ancheyk knew, all too well, that was not the case. The thought put into perspective both sides of the spectrum. There were the very poor and the very wealthy. All shades of gray were smote. Ancheyk stood, placing his hand on Mudryy’s cadaverous shoulder. How strong he still feels even through his last days. The man looked like a stout breeze might knock him flat but, if anything, his resilience proved how much of a warrior he was.

            “I will be back sreda. We can discuss things further if you wish.”

            The old man bowed his head and smiled, “No. No more talk of nodules and darkness. Bring me light, Lyatkin,” He turned and caught the young doctor’s eyes a moment, “We all need light zajka, to find our way.”

           

            As Ancheyk walked back into his office, he closed the heavy office door, leaning against it. The chill metal was solid against his back. He could feel it through his shirt, feel his heart drumming- hear it in the silence. He slid to the floor, closing his eyes. In actuality, he was not a recognized doctor. He was still completing medical school but had been allowed to start practicing on a limited basis several months before. Rhov Mudryy had been in his care longer than any patient, going on six months.

            Every distinguished doctor had shunned the man, dropping him into the laps of the hungry medical students and training nurses- the only ones willing to take on the socially awkward task of helping a war criminal through the terminal stages of a messy illness. Looking back, Ancheyk could now see the damage such a case might inter on the reputation of a respected doctor. It would make one look politically biased, maybe even rebellious, to take on a man who, publicly, was looked on as a murderous, radical, terrorist. So Rhov Mudryy’s condition had been shoved under the carpet. The hospital would claim responsibility for his care to the liberals, knowing full well that he was receiving minimal care, and when the ex-rebel was buried they would play the patriot to the Republic and his name would be expunged from the hospital’s records. It was a sleazy way to use a human being, brushing off his life to maintain the sheer veneer of the hospital’s seemingly clean slate.

            Mudryy knew he was disliked and knew that Ancheyk was not a fully realized doctor. It made the hospital’s cheap trick sting all the more when Mudryy still spoke to him as if he were to be respected as such. With every mention of his false title, Ancheyk felt the urge to correct the man, until he’d realized that Mudryy didn’t care. He feigned ignorance, if only for the fact he enjoyed the company of his young clinician. Maybe he just wanted to shove the disrespect back in the hospital board’s faces. Maybe he just knew he was dying and knew it didn’t matter.

            Ancheyk ran a hand through his hair. He quickly stood as a nurse tapped on the door. The little blonde was surprised at his dishevelment, “Are you alright?”

            He nodded, “I’m fine. What do you need?”

            She raised her eyebrows questionably, “Doctor Amstrauss wanted to make sure you still remembered your meeting.”

            “Of course. Let him know I’ll be down shortly.”

            She gave a terse nod, “I’ll get you some coffee.”

            Ancheyk leaned into the hall to rescind her offer, but she was already gone.

           

            Dr. Picard Amstrauss was an incomparable man. Ancheyk had met him when first entering medical school and had been awed by his compassion and expertise. He was one of the best surgeons in the country. As such, he was not always present at Ancheyk’s workplace, but moved with regularity between many hospitals. He was nearly seventy but outwardly appeared far younger, his hands steadier than men half his age. He was tall and thin, with a beard cropped close and cleanly; it made Ancheyk’s thin scrub of stubble look beggarly. He had a fine mustache which snuggled his upper lip comfortably and twitched when he spoke with enthusiasm.

            It was twitching now, as Ancheyk entered the room, his hands both occupied with steaming coffee. Amstrauss opened his hands in exclamation, “Coffee? A pleasant surprise. How are you wolf pup?” Amstrauss’ fading German accent echoed across the large office.

            Ancheyk flicked his head towards him, “Conflicted, Sir.”

            “Is it the man in ‘B’ ward?”

            Ancheyk nodded.

            “I might’ve known. He still lives?”

            Ancheyk crossed the room, placing a cup on Amstrauss’ desk, before taking a seat across from him, “He lives. I think- I think he wants to die.”

            Amstrauss nodded, “Who is to say? If he does, I don’t blame him. The man has become a husk. The Republic assured him of that.” The aging doctor tapped his finger on the desk. He had been interested in Mudryy’s case. He would not get directly involved, but Ancheyk was sure Amstrauss was pulling strings to help Mudryy pay for his medical bills. To the date, Mudryy had provided no payment to the hospital- someone was covering the tab.

            Ancheyk felt the searing heat of his drink slither down his throat. He had never heard Amstrauss speak so openly about his feelings towards the Republic. Such open speech was a dangerous pastime.

            “No. Actually, I’ll be sad to see him go. He still has life in him. His body is a walking scar, but he still talks to me of the weather and asks me of my family. It’s like he doesn’t remember life in the camps.”

            Amstrauss folded his hands around his cup, “To be sure, he still remembers. Ancheyk?” Ancheyk started at his name, “The camps are worse than hell. Their bodies, their minds; all is taken from them.” Amstrauss’ eyes took on a dark vigilance, his mind calling on some horrible memory.

            Ancheyk shook his head, “I’ve never been to one.”

            Amstrauss settled in his seat and glanced down, “I saw a child last month. She was emaciated, covered in parasites. Luck would’ve let hunger take her. But the guards- they had their way with her in some dirty back room. She was maybe twelve. When I saw her- I wanted to kill them. They were my countrymen, soldiers, neighbors- and I wanted to kill them. I received a call that one of the guards was injured and needed assistance. When I arrived, three men greeted me at the gate. They were apologizing, gesturing me to enter one of the outbuildings. She was wrapped in a jacket in the corner- I suppose one of them felt guilty, hoped to save her.”

            Amstrauss’ eyes were tearing over with grief, with repugnance. His hands shook and he removed them from his cup to stop it spilling.

            “She must’ve laid there hours before they called me. I gave her water and a shot of morphine from my personal stores to ease her pain. I thrice cursed the guards when they asked me if I was done. ‘Done? Done!’ I said, ‘There is nothing to be done!’ They thought they could erase their transgressions with the hands of a surgeon. I should’ve told them that you can’t heal sin. You can’t stitch humiliation.”

           

            Amstrauss locked his fingers together and pressed his chin atop them, leaning on his elbows, “Ancheyk. I know you’ve been looking for an assistant for when you finish your lessons. I know your father has insisted you visit the camps to find one. Just know: the best partner is one that corrects you when you are wrong, who upholds your name, someone who takes nothing at face value. You do not need a slave. You need a like mind. That’s how a good doctor becomes an exemplary one.”

            “My father- he goes once a season to inspect the camp in Kiev. He says they aren’t as bad as they seem. I’ve never believed him. But…knowing what happens there, would it be of use to me? Would I find anyone as you describe? Wouldn’t they be… broken?”

            Amstrauss shrugged, “Just because they are prisoners doesn’t mean they are mindless. They are wary, tamed. Many still have the strength of Russia in their veins. Some have become lost. Look in their eyes. You can see all that a man is if you look him in the eyes. Start there, and keep looking. You’ll know if you find the right person. Also, Ancheyk, do not go there with your father. You might find things,” Amstrauss tilted his head back and forth, “You may find things skewed.”

            Ancheyk ran a finger around the lip of his cup, “He has a way of doing that, my father.”

            “He is an upstanding citizen of the Vechnyy Republic. I will not insult your father in front of you, wolfjungen. After all, you cannot choose your heritage. I will speak with you again soon. I have an appointment with Gospodin Berich. I need a moment to…to clear my head.”

            Ancheyk stood. Turning to leave, he paused, “That girl in the camp.”

            “Hmm?”

            “Why did the guards not get penalized for their actions? Are they not still Russian citizens?”

            Amstrauss scoffed, “Criminals have no rights, boy. Vergessen Sie nie, dass alles Hitler in Deutschland tat, war legal.”

 

 

“Маленькие �™оры по�™есили, но большие из них бежать.”

“Little thieves are hanged but great ones escape.” �"Russian Proverb

 

 

Chapter II: The Girl From Irvesk

            Esra felt the arrow click into place on the taught string. The tiny vibration tickled through her fingertips, her arm, the small movement swirling in her stomach, her heart. She inhaled through her sharp, angled nose, letting the breath out through her small, perfect mouth. Her eyes, yellow as a tiger’s, closed; the lashes were long, thick, flecked with dew. The mud on her face was running down her neck, her camouflage quickly disintegrating. The entire forest looked hung with crystals, the sun catching on liquid diamonds that clung to every surface. A red hind had her head down in the foliage, her back soaked in the falling rain, twitching with the impact of hundreds of water droplets. With another step, the deer strode clear of the tree that blocked her lungs, presenting her broadside.

            Esra studied her- dark eyes, the thin but powerful build of her legs- and she released the arrow. The strike was too quick to be seen. The red doe kicked out with her back legs, stumbling, her front legs buckling, failing. Her breath slowed to a hoarse whistle and Esra crept to the dying animal’s side. She placed a hand on the hind’s back, running her fingers through the thick, wet fur. With a final strain, the life left her, the last, warm fog of breath forming a halo round her mouth.

            The arrow rested just beyond her body, coated with black crimson. Esra climbed over the doe and plucked the wooden shaft from the ground.

            “I’m sorry, you know. It’s not fair that you had to die.”

            Esra grunted as she pulled the serrated blade up the hind’s sternum from the belly, the cut spilling the hot entrails onto the earth. The rain was almost finished, the sun peering between the clouds, rays of sunlight dancing on the ferns, the pine needles that covered the forest floor.

            “My mother is very weak. I can go home now because of you. I left her three days ago. She told me to be careful. Have you seen the men, I wonder? The patrols?”

            Esra gasped as the flesh gave way under the doe’s leg and the knife slipped, spraying blood onto her face in a broken line. She spit and cursed in German. Cursing always seemed to sound better in German.

            “I suppose you haven’t. But what should a deer know about patrols?”

            She wiped her face, mud and blood smearing. She would have to wash in the stream to the west. When she was finished, she slung the meat over her shoulder, leaving the rest of the doe for the forest scavengers. She slid her pack over the opposite arm, along with the stained yew bow that had been her father’s.

            The stream was swollen with the runoff from the rain. Settling on a protruding rock, Esra set the bow on her lap, the familiar weight of it lulling her into an almost catatonic state. The cold ticklish play of water diverted around her bare feet. Her eyes focused aimlessly at a half-submerged rock several meters away. Without taking her gaze from the protruding stone, she shuffled her feet in the silt below, tiny fry gathering in droves to feast as the cloud of sediment grew into a murky miasma. In short order, the incoming water from upstream began to pull the particles towards the rock, splitting and separating and eliminating all evidence of her disturbance; the fish followed suit. Esra stared at the sky, split in two by a fast-approaching cumulonimbus. She knew that word from somewhere. That cloud, with its bulk and dark layers, the twists and curls at its base; it meant rain. Another front was moving in. She needed to get home.

            She plunged her hands into the cold water, the flakes of dried blood dissolving, making her feel pure again. She cupped water in her hands and washed her grimy face, her short, brown hair. Suddenly, a snap sounded in the trees behind her. She stood, drawing the bow, her pant legs rolled to the knee, shoes sitting on the bank. The foliage parted, a dog emerging; her hair filthy, the color of cream mixed with gray.

            Esra lowered the bow, “Igrivyy? What are you doing here?”

            Igrivyy splashed into the water, licking her master, tail wagging. Esra chuckled and tossed the bow gently on the bank. “Why aren’t you home with mom? Did you miss me? You look terrible.”

            Igrivyy ran across the rocky shore, shaking water from her coat. She was a schnauzer mutt. Father had brought her home one day, a present for Esra. He never said where he’d gotten the squirming, velveteen puppy. Esra suspected that he’d made a perilous trek into town and had probably paid dearly for her. It had been Esra’s birthday and when father had walked in the door carrying the whimpering, wiggly bundle, Esra loved her immediately.

            Esra tightened the laces on her shoes. Father was dead now. He would never come back. Igrivyy was the last gift he’d ever given her before the Republic had taken him away. There was a hole inside her, a longing. Common sense told her that he was a traitor, a criminal; there was no way he hadn’t received the death penalty. He’d likely been tortured to death. But the horrible, loving tendrils of hope told her that there was a chance he’d survived, been interred in some work camp or was locked in an oubliette somewhere, more than half mad and starving. She pushed the thoughts from her mind. There was no point in hoping. Hope would not free him.

            Igrivyy picked her way over the roots and brambles, Esra following close behind, but being careful not to run into thorny dead-ends. Igrivyy, being far smaller, didn’t heed the low-hanging branches and prickly bushes that lined the makeshift trail.

            Esra squealed as a burr caught on her ankle, “You know. Life is much easier for a dog!”

            Igrivyy paused and turned to look at her. Home was getting closer. All for the better; the second barrage of rain was like a heavy stone overhead. Esra felt strange, suddenly. Her feet felt heavier, her mind clouded. She walked the path haphazardly, blindly. Finally, she halted. Igrivyy was standing stock-still in her way, her ears up, hair standing on end. Something was wrong. It was as if the smell of evil was moving through the woods. Nothing outwardly appeared altered, but Igrivyy could feel it and Esra’s stomach tightened in response.

            Unexpectedly, Igrivyy shot forward, dashing into the ferns. Esra called quietly for her to return, but the gray dog had already vanished, heading towards the house. Without thinking, Esra took off after her, shedding her pack, tightening her grip around the bowstring, securing it as she ran. Igrivyy was ahead, barking, howling. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. Esra nearly fell flat as she came over the hill leading to the house. She slid in leaves and damp earth, spitting rain making the leaves tap and come alive around her. Esra was already crying, trying to keep her eyes from burning in case she needed to fight, wiping her face as she slowed to catch her breath.

            Like a sudden jab, a shrill cry pierced the valley, followed by the sounds of growling and men spouting irate curses. Esra was close enough now. She could see the men at the house, Igrivyy dancing circles around them. It took everything in her power to stop herself from bolting into the open to help her. Esra was surprised to find her presence unnoticed. Between the rain and the lewd jokes and the truck engine, the men had not been alerted to her chaotic plunge down the hill. She watched in horror as Igrivyy turned towards the soldiers once more, running directly for a recruit that couldn’t have been older than Esra, and clamping her mouth on the man’s leg.

            She barely heard the shot. It echoed in her ears. It stung her mind. The middle-aged squad captain lowered the pistol, walking over to Igrivyy. The bullet took her in the back, her body going slack as she tried crawling across the ground, through the mud, sharp hisses of pain escaping her mouth, whimpers. Esra clamped a hand over her own mouth, bidding herself to stay hidden, to not give herself away. Maybe it was the memory that Esra had been behind her; maybe Esra’s scent caught on the wind, but suddenly the wounded dog was limping towards her, her only thought of the girl she loved and the terrible pain that just wouldn’t go away.

            And then the captain spotted Esra. With an exasperated shout, the dark-haired man ordered his underlings after her. Esra turned to run, the mud making her feet suck into the earth, the leaves scattering in a fluster behind her. The ascent up the hill was tiring and difficult. She could see but a blur beyond the tears that were overtaking her. And, as fate loves its stereotypes, she fell.

            The men were so close behind her, it was almost automatic the speed in which she was apprehended. Hard hands closed over her shoulders, dragging her brusquely to her feet. She struck out with her boot, catching one man unawares in the shin, and was met with a head-rocking blow to the jaw. Blood exploded in her mouth, her senses winking into black stars.

            A voice called from below, a mellow, experienced drone that could only be the captain’s. Her captors answered him. Every word bashed at the insides of her skull and made her want to vomit. Somehow, she had been led all the way back to the bottom of the hill. Maybe she hadn’t made it far to begin with. The men drug her through the mud, supporting most of her weight, and deposited her on her knees at the captain’s feet. They held her shoulders and let her dangle between them. A rough hand gripped her beneath the chin and she was greeted with the captain’s eyes in hers. They were ice blue, the same as the devil’s, and just as cold.

            Crashing sounds were coming from the house. The rest of the dozen or so soldiers were in the house, her house, or milling about the perimeter of the clearing.

            “Girl? How old are you?”

            The young soldier that Igrivyy had bitten cleared his throat, “She looks about my age.”

            The captain nodded, “Yes. That sounds about right.”

            A gray figure came into Esra’s peripheral vision. Igrivyy was limping to her, still seeking asylum in the company of her master. She was nearly to Esra’s side when the captain looked upon her, emotionless. He lit a cigarette and blew out a long smoke cloud.

            “Is this your dog?”

            Esra glanced down, the strength of the captain’s hand grabbing her jaw once more.

            “Tudansky?”

            The soldier at Esra’s right shoulder answered, “Sir?”

            “Kill it.”

            Esra struggled, “Please! No! Please! Not Igrivyy! Please!”

            The captain shrugged, “Well then, it shouldn’t have attacked us.”

            The soldier on her left compensated for Tudansky, his fingers digging into her flesh so deep it made her dizzy. Tudansky gave her a regretful look and then nodded to his superior, pulling out his hand-gun. He leaned down to Igrivyy, stroking her head and whispered something to her in old Russian, almost sweetly, then pulled the trigger. Tudansky walked away, taking his place back at Esra’s side without a word. Esra sunk to the ground. Her ears were ringing with the intensity of the report.

            She only heard the captain the third time he repeated himself. She looked up but couldn’t meet his eyes.

            “Are you here alone?”

            Esra nodded almost too enthusiastically. The captain smirked, and his fist met the soft spot below her cheekbone.

            “Don’t lie to us, c**t! We know someone was in the house. And it wasn’t you.”

            “You don’t know s**t!”

            The captain’s eyes dilated at the affront, his nostrils flaring. He gave a nod to the men at Esra’s back. The captain blew smoke into her face just as the man on her left tore down the back of her shirt.

            “So?”

            “She has flog marks, burns.”

            “Ah, so, as the Americans say, ‘not your first rodeo?’ hmm?”

            “You are all monsters!” Esra flung back her head, blood and spit seething through her grit teeth. Deep bruises were already building beneath her pale features, “These are marks of pride!” She spit towards the captain and watched with satisfaction as the glob of spume landed on his shined, brown boot.

            The captain flicked his cigarette ashes and the tiny flakes drifted onto her knees, “Feisty. They like that in the camps. A girl with spirit. Just like horses. The best ones are broken.” He nodded and another hit struck her in the head over the ear, this time from the man still to her left. As his hand landed, her teeth cut the inside of her mouth. Every swallow tasted of iron.

            “Do you know how I know you are lying?” He turned away, his back to her, “I’m a people person. I read faces like some would books. I feel words. I can almost taste them. And, right now, your face tastes of a lie, and so do your words.”

            “There is no one here. It was just Igrivyy and I.”

            “Ah?  The playful one. Well then, why the drama?”

            “You shot my dog, you a*****e.” The hands on her shoulders tightened but no hit came.

            “No, no, no. That is finished. I mean, why are you being so insistent you are alone? Most would try to make themselves look stronger, make us sweat, pack mentality and all that. You haven’t. Meaning you either have no idea the danger you’re in, or you’re not truly alone. I’m willing to bet on the latter.”

            A soldier appeared at the captain’s left, holding her bow, “She had this on her.”

            “Tsk, tsk, tsk, you had a weapon on you? Correct me if I’m wrong, soldier, but are weapons not in violation of the code?”

            The soldier nodded, pulling out a knife, “They are in violation, Sir.”

            The captain turned back to Esra and the soldier cut the bowstring with a twang. The soldiers in the house were carrying things out: furniture, clothes, blankets, utensils. They were dumping them in a heap close to the house, searching every object thoroughly. The soldier with her bow carried it to the heap, pulling a large canister from the back of the olive military vehicle, and started pouring the liquid over the pile. The smell of gasoline filled the clearing and Esra hung her head, waiting for the captain’s next words but none came.

            Instead, a scream escaped the peat hovel. It was followed by the sound of broken glass and suddenly a dark-haired woman stumbled out, her face bloodied in a straight line from forehead to upper lip. One of the younger soldiers had his hand buried in the thick wefts of her curls, a revolver pressed into her lower back. She was led to Esra, to the captain, her hazel eyes not quite as yellow as her daughter’s.

            “Is this your mother?”

            Her mother’s hazel eyes burned through the man, through his ring of foul smoke. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe; she searched his soul and came back wanting. There wasn’t one there to see.

            “Would be damn beautiful without the blood. Looks like a fighter, like her daughter.”

            “Scheibe fressen, Dreck!”  She spit blood from her mouth and held up her head in indignation.

            The captain walked up to her, smiling, and backhanded her, “Sorry, I don’t speak German. Do you know what language I speak best?” He glanced over his shoulder at Esra, “Pain.” The soldier behind her mother grabbed her arm and thrust it forward. The captain’s mustache twitched as he lowered the lit end of the cigarette and held it against her mother’s thin, inner elbow.

            The soldier dropped Esra’s mother into the mud and she hissed, holding the assaulted limb close to her body. “I never did like the Nazis, or their w****s.”

           

            He kicked her mother’s knee with his boot, then wiped the mud across her pale leg. “Ok. That’s enough. Do what you will.” He waved his hand in dismissal and Kalle’s eyes found her daughter’s. Would she have known it was the last time she would see her mother’s eyes, she would’ve said something different but instead the only words that came to mind were I’m sorry. I love you and I’m sorry.          

            As the sun went down, Esra lay in the mud trembling. The soldiers were burning the house, everything she ever owned, ever loved. Father’s books, years of propaganda, drawings, an American flag, a Soviet portrait, her bow- all things crumbled to ash. The soldiers were talking about what a dog her father had been, making lewd comments about how thin the rural women’s breasts were, the last time they’d had a f**k. Esra couldn’t hear them. Not really. All she heard was her mother screaming behind the house, knowing but not knowing what was being done to her, trying to remember the faces of the men who had led her away, trying to mark them in her memory. The captain’s words were branded into the back of her mind. They were taking her to the camp in Kiev. She would be a war prisoner, charged with possession of propaganda and a dangerous weapon, of assault on an officer. She didn’t care about the charges. The Republic had a right to lie- they were the government.

            The men had handcuffed her hands and feet, ignoring her as they became drunk around the fire. They obviously weren’t worried about her escaping. And they didn’t have to. She was too exhausted to move. Numbness had taken hold to save her sanity. She glanced towards the burning house and carefully crawled to where Igrivyy’s body lay. She rolled to the dog’s side, stroking her back, touching her paw pads, her soft ears. Finally, neither asleep nor awake, she lay on her back. She looked at the stars. Each one seemed brighter than before. She touched the scars on her left hand at the knuckle where the ring and middle finger were missing. And she prayed for her mother. She prayed for her father. And she prayed for her dog.

Author's Note

Vocabulary:
Sreda- Wednesday
Zajka- Little Rabbit
Podavlennyy- Repressed
Vechnyy- Everlasting
Wolfjungen- wolf cub
Gospodin- mister
Vergessen sie nie, dass alles Hitler, in Deutschland tat, war legal- never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was legal- Martin Luther King jr.
Gray dog- In European folklore, seeing a gray dog represents death
Igrivyy- playful one
Sheibe fressen, Dreck!- Eat shit, filth!