//------------------------------// // Monday // Story: Heart of Winter // by Dr.Shisno //------------------------------//         I ask self sometimes, where did it all go wrong? Though I am not sure I am completely to blame for it. Maybe it is in blood: the turmoil, the strife. That may be vodka talking. I guess it may be true. Three great great grandfathers were killed during the glorious revolution. One great grandfather lost a leg during the siege of Berlin while two were killed: one in Stalingrad, another in Kiev. Grandfather managed to survive when he flew MiGs in Vietnam. My father though, met his end in Chechnya, the second time around. One day, one has male lineage; next they are in a hole two meters down. Such is the life. Though I cannot say that my poor childhood to all to blame for it. Living in one of the coldest places on Earth really hardens one to accept life and its hardships. Words such as “camaraderie”, “duty”, “honor”, “Motherland” thrown about quite too often to be honest. Yet, most of my life I’ve been given not a single ounce of “camaraderie”, yet I have done my “duty” to protect the “honor” of the “Motherland.” What has she ever given me? Nothing. I have watched good friends perish in the misery that is winter of the Motherland and by the hands of fellow comrades. The government thinks of bullets and bandages while their starving people cry out for bread and water. Heartless bastards, but that is government for you, thinking of Moscow and profits while its people suffer. Government has made some changes, but nothing too significant. Again, such is the life. I should count self lucky. Multiple times I found self feeling the breath of death on neck, or it may have been a bear occasionally. Though Death and bear are usually interchangeable out in the Siberian wasteland, but that is not point. Living day to day out of a log cabin, a cabin for half the year is covered in snow, to say it’s a hardy lifestyle is laughable. Those not prepared for the harshness of the “General Winter” easily meet their end, very quickly I might add. Gutting a bear and finding human remains is quite humbling and laughable. Idiots don’t last long, thankfully. Such is the life. Me, what about me, you might ask, what makes me who I am. Being from a lineage of “true” Russians, those who embraced the call of the motherland and defended her, I too wonder how I am still here. When your mother calls you go, but there is difference between defending one’s home and jumping naively into the fire. My great-great grandfather would shoot me for such traitorous words and my great grandfather would add a second bullet, though my father might understand. Nyet, I am not embracing the West, and Da, I never will. I would rather be left to fight a bear with my hands, than say the West is “right”. To make things simple, my name is Arkady Sakharov, a name passed down from generations. Not really the best of names, but it is my name and who I am. I live alone, my father long dead, my mother followed after, and my sister, Nada, still living along the Volga River. Though I do not mind, it is me and me alone out here. I have learned it is only me to trust. Me and my M91/30 rifle, a Mosin-Nagant for you Westerners. Kicks like a small child, but hits like a mule. I have my great-grandfather to thank for it. He used it as a crutch after he lost his leg in Berlin, the crazy yuk. It’s been passed down since then and it’s been keeping me alive since I received it. I’m just happy the damn thing hasn’t rusted over yet, but such is soviet ingenuity. Nyet, I’m not the biggest man you could meet out here in the wasteland I call home. I am of average size, almost two meters and about eighty, maybe ninety, kilos, though with my small beard you’d think I would be older. Truthfully, I am happy to have made it to twenty-eight. Almost as old as my great-great grandfather, older than my great grandfather was, I am. If I am lucky I will outlive grandfather, who died at the ripe age seventy-three. Da, I did serve. The mandatory service our country now has had me serving for one year. There was no glorious fight, no purpose. Just wasting of space, though that was worst twelve months of life. Subject to punishment by older members, which officers looked away from. I watched many boys who joined with me have bone broken, have faces smashed into the ground. I watched a few even die, some others kill themselves. Nyet, I did not escape the torments of my superiors; I had my fair share of beatings. Bloodied, beaten, but not broken. I barely survived, not against bullets of enemy, but fists of my comrades. I used to live in small city on the Volga River, with happier people and happier times. Attended what formal schooling I could, even had prospects of attending university, but when father was killed and mother dying a year or two after that. It was never the same. Then I returned from mandatory service, I was not the same. Needed to get away, moved to Siberia. I don’t regret it. Life is simple, very little people contact. Me and the wilderness, and she is not as bad as I once thought. She is kind to me though as I live off land, off of her animals. Making living off of animal furs. Simple living. Such is my life. Now living in cabin, a small but comfortable place, lucky enough to live by small number of trees that fuel fire that warm the cabin. The small two-room cabin with attic suits my needs. I don’t need anything more too fancy. A bed, fire, and cup of coffee seem to do just fine. Maybe nice steak, seared to perfection. It also helps. For now it is winter, like it is most of the year. Layers of snow blanket the land for kilometers, with a nice wind that freezes breath to faces. Otherwise it would be green everywhere, just green. Green or white. Not much of variety to scenery, but I live with it. I guess this is part where I tell you when things started to go wrong for me. A normal Monday, it started as. At least I think it was Monday... things do not click as they used to in head. For what day it was, nothing seemed to click right. I remember waking up and just had feeling of something. Feeling as though something wasn’t right in natural order of things. I shook feeling off and went about my normal routine of day, and it is quite difficult to find the strength to get out of warm bed while the world around is in the negatives. After warming up to surrounding world, breakfast is next. The steak did not taste right, nor did the eggs meet expectations. The coffee tasted good, though it usually has dirt texture, it did not have such texture this time. I should’ve started to worry then, if man’s coffee is off, one should barricade his home and hide until coffee returns to normal. I shrugged off the feeling again and finished my morning duties, like cleaning the small mess I made for breakfast. Not much of mess, just a cup, plate, knife, and fork. Saving the bones to make stock out of; I have heard that I make good soup, but I have not many people try it. From there I needed to get to town and some supplies. Small things: spices, butter, bread, ammunition, vodka. Things that help me function in winter. Grabbing my thick parka and putting on my boots, I prepared for my journey into the village. It is not a long walk, a seven, ten kilometers at most, but with snow it is quite the march. Throwing my pack full of furs onto my back, I grab my rifle from the corner and sling it over my shoulder. Then I get my revolver from the cabinet. Not something you would usually see in Siberia, a shiny Colt revolver. The one thing I can say the West did right is their revolver. Now, one might ask how a man like me acquired such a weapon like this. I think the better answer would be to ask the bear and the westerner who it had a disagreement with. It’s a prized possession. For now it finds home in holster. Opening door, I feel gust of freezing wind through my heavy parka. Taking deep breath, I enter the white world of winter. Something I do every day, but the world seemed brighter, the wind less cold, the snow less thick. Something was off about it. Maybe way snow crunched beneath boots, or frost stuck to beard. If I was smart man, I would’ve turned back around and stayed inside. I could have done without bread for another day or two, but I was not this smart man; I trudged off into the snowstorm of Siberia. The trek into nearby town wasn’t as tough as could be. It was time alone to be left in thought. Though, not about philosophical ideals, such as “what is beauty”, for I had no time to ponder such stupid notions. I had more practical problems to solve, such as how to survive next few days. In end, my mind was empty, no sounds save for the winds rushing by ears. For the next seven plus kilometers, only thoughts going through head were putting one foot in front of other, breathing in and out, and then blinking. Also, keeping eye on wildlife was subconscious priority. Luckily, that was not to be issue today, the wilderness is being kind to me today. Few kilometers along with snow made trek into maybe hour or two, I lost track of time. Though before I knew it, I was on outskirts of town. Small place, a few houses and a store that doubled as bar. Just enough people living here to call village a town, though not enough to have name. Upon entering the small store, I was greeted with a friendly face, Nestor Kozlov. He and his family have been running the small store for some time now. He was big burly man with thick gray beard, good Russian stock. He was most alive person in town. I don’t know where he got his motivation, or some of the products he sells (Rumor has it he is black-market dealer, no proof though) but he was happy. He bought furs and then sold them to town. I’ve helped him many times in life. To say least, he owes favors and money, but I have no use for those now, some day maybe. “Arkady!” Nestor announced to the few patrons of the bar/store. “I thought winter had devoured you and your cabin.” His smile grew as I approached. “Thought I had leave the warmth of store to get my furs.”     “It is too early to be thinking of my demise, Nestor.” I managed to crack smile as I set pack on bar. “Besides I have yet to see bear today, or anything for that matter.” “Yet, Arkady. One day you will find such a bear that is stubborn as you are and will not be fond of that antique you carry.” “When you find such a bear, Nestor, make sure you give him right address and stout bottle of finest vodka. Maybe sharper knife as well to get his tough hide off. It would fetch you quite good price.” “Da, it would. The bear that almost killed Arkady Sakharov.” Looking at wall where would be bear would hang. “I might even have westerners looking to buy.” He said, which bought a round of jeers from the people sitting around. “Oh shut up and finish your drinks.” Turning his attention back to me, asking “So Arkady, what brings hermit out of his hole?” “Just in need of usual supplies, Nestor.” I started to pull out furs out of pack, lining them on the bar. “Usual price, I hope.” “If you were not such good shot and didn’t bring such nice furs, I would say nyet. But seeing as do not like being shot, still same price, Da.” He went to the back room and fetched what I needed. Bread, assorted spices, some vegetables, a bit of sugar. I think he even tossed in a few strips of bacon for good measures. “Now, anything I can get for you, Arkady?” “Nyet, that will be all, Nestor. Though,” I began to announce to few patrons around, “I think round of the stoutest drink for everyman, on me will suffice.” The men answered with glorious cheer. Nestor smiled as he left to the back room and his smiled seemed to grow when he returned with large bottle. “Stoutest thing I have,” he began to pour me and the men glasses. “You know it is barely past two in afternoon.” “When I used to live along Volga, there was a western saying, one I am quite fond of,” I pulled glass up and gave Nestor a salute. “It is five o’clock somewhere, now let us drink.” * * *     Stumbling out of the store and into winter wonderland, old soviet song humming in head. It was late afternoon, snow had finally stopped falling, sun not yet shining, but it was beautiful day.  Beautiful day? I stopped walking to catch what a just thought. Beautiful day? Not possible. Not in winter. I shook my head, trying to dispel such strange thoughts. They wouldn’t leave though. Maybe it was the drink flowing through body that was causing such stupid notions? Nyet, that could not be, I did not drink too much. Maybe because it was Monday, Monday is never good for me. Readjusting pack and rifle on shoulders, I started to walk again with such thoughts of beauty plaguing my mind. Along my walk, such thoughts continued to creep in and I could not continue to ward off such silly notions. Why was Mother Wilderness continuing to act so strange? Today, the land was not as it should be, and my coffee. All was not well today. I could not place these feelings of doubt. Mondays, always Monday. Such a stupid day of week.  Slowly, thoughts left me, and all was left was putting foot in front of other, finally, peace. Eventually, snow drifted down from above, Mother Wilderness reassuring me all is well, at least for moment. Maybe midway into trek back to cabin, I heard voices coming off of the trail, deep in the forest. Two to three male voices and from sounds of it, at a disagreement and hitting something. Normally, I would pass on by, not my business, but something drew me toward it. Against better judgment, I took rifle off shoulder and moved toward voices. I found self prone in the snow, overlooking group from a ridge, maybe twenty or thirty meters distance. There was group of men, three men, surrounding woman. Group of men ranged from mid twenties to early thirties. Female was at most late twenties. She was dressed in a white parka and matching bottoms, much nicer than most women here, probably from Moscow or the west, I thought to self. Her dark blue hair seemed to confirm suspicions of latter. From looks of it, she had been hit a few times, now crying, on her knees in the snow. The men were laughing. I recognized voices of men, thugs from nearby town, and I wonder why they were so far out from their hunting grounds. Normally, they would never stray this far out, but it was Monday. This was not my fight, but something drew me towards it. Slowly, their voices began to enter my ears. “… catch Boris,” the larger of the men spoke, kneeling down to inspect their prey’s face. “Wish you did not do such things to her face, Yuri. That will affect price.” “I am sorry, Iosif.” Yuri spoke. “She was fighter, had to put her in place. She will make good price, I am sure of that.” “I take it this true Boris?” Iosif glanced at Boris’ bruised face, laughing a bit, "She fought and it is not Yuri’s hand slipping?” “There is no need to answer that, Iosif.” Boris’ ego clearly hurt. “You can clearly see your answer.” “Interesting,” Iosif turned his attention back to their catch. “And what is your name dear? You are quite far from Moscow.” The woman did not answer, turning face away from the man. Iosif responded with backhand, sending woman into the snow. “You will learn to answer me.” He turned to Yuri, “And now we discuss…” I brought rifle up to shoulder, I could not stand to watch this woman be sold. Strange, I would never do this, stand up for something like this, but here I am. Defending someone who I do not know from people I only recognize. Monday indeed. “Iosif!” I called out; still hidden on the ridge, “Let woman go.” The look on Iosif’s face was priceless.  Looking around to find source of my voice, but could not find me. He mumbled something to Yuri and Boris who both shrugged and were also surprised. “This is none of your business, Comrade. Leave while you still have chance.” Leveling rifle at Iosif’s chest, I thought of bluff quickly. “It is when that is my sister. So,” beginning to put tension on the trigger. “Let her go.” A smile grew on the big man’s face. “Sister?” He pulled pistol out his jacket, aiming it at the woman. “We can make a deal, comrade. Can we not?” He nodded to Boris and Yuri, who also unholstered pistols. “She is my sister, just hand her over.” I yelled out. I knew I was lying, but it was the first thing to come to mind. But by looks of things, there was to be no happy ending. He loaded the weapon, pointing weapon back at woman. “That is not how I do business, comr-.” His voice cut off by me releasing the tension on the trigger, sending bullet into his chest, spraying blood on his comrades and the woman.  He fell into the snow and the two men began to shoot wildly, but unable to pinpoint my location. I worked the bolt, taking aim at the second man. He too fell into the snow. The third man began to run, but meet bullet too. The exchange lasted less than minute. Waiting a few moments and after collecting my spent shells, I got up, going toward the woman. She was still laying in the snow, covered in blood, much of it not her own, clearly in shock by result of situation. She was in fetal position and still crying, but she would live. I checked the other bodies for useful materials and stored them in pack; both the men called Boris and Yuri were dead. There was gurgling cough from the man called Iosif, so I went to his side. He was alive, but barely. The round went his left lung, so it was slowly filling with blood. “Should’ve aimed a bit to the right, I am sorry comrade.” I commented more to self than to the man.     “I will k-kill you,” he managed to gargle out. “If not, I know people who will kill you.”     Pulling out my revolver, I placed the barrel on his chest, over his heart, “Nyet, comrade, you will not, nor will they,” before finally pulling the trigger. Silence once again filling the forest and without looking away from the body below me, I called out to woman, “You may come out now, it is safe.” She mumbled quietly, still in quite some shock, so I went to her. She was mumbling something in English. I laughed for some odd reason, only westerner would be stupid enough to travel Siberia alone. I searched through memory for my English skills. “Miss, you are safe. Are you ok?” She slowly nodded, clearly still shook up. “My name is Arkady Sakharov. What is your name?” “R-Rarity,” the woman managed to whisper out. "M-my name is Rarity." I laughed again, wiping some blood off her face. Rarity, sounds like western hippie name. “Come with me, Ms. Rarity,” Extending my hand for her to take. “You w-will not hurt me?” She quickly asked, herself still clearly shaking. Hypothermia starting to set in. She needed to get out of the snow and get warm. “Nyet, Ms. Rarity, I will not hurt. It will be night soon, I have house nearby, get warm and eat food.” I shook my head; I needed to brush up on English language. She took my hand and I pulled her to her feet. She was lighter than I thought; she stumbled when she stood up, but braced herself against me. She looked up at me and asked me one thing, “Why are you helping me?” “It is Monday,” I laughed.