Note: I wrote this piece late last week, and thought it appropriate to post here for the Christmas Season.At a time shortly after WW1 in the city of Moscow a middle-aged man, appearing close to death, is in dire need of warm clothing, food and shelter. Because of the winter months in Moscow, the temperature can drop as far as 100 degrees below zero; it is not so much the temperature of the air but the scathing winds that blow through the streets that can turn an unprotected body into a brittle object of ice. Uri, walking aimlessly through the streets, found a small alleyway, curling against a brick wall to escape the wind.
Since deserting the Red Army a month ago, he wore only a thin sheepskin coat, a cotton shirt and worn leather boots that barely protected his feet from the small pebbles along the road, let alone the cold. As the wind continued to whip through the streets like a swipe of the hand from the devil, Uri prayed to God for a small respite for his misfortune.
Freezing to death is a long, painful experience; as time travels forward, as consciousness weakens, one’s awareness moves dangerously close to that irrevocable slumber; death was stalking the streets, seeking out Uri.
Uri peered upward and in a whisper, uttered a prayer:
'Lord, I know I do not deserve to live, but please spare me, and with all my soul, the rest of my life will be devoted to you!'
Uri believed the Revolution and the fall of the Czar would change Russia for the better. The two-year drought, however, seemed to never end. Many good families died from starvation. Then the unexpected Civil War broke-out between those loyal to the Czar, the “White Loyalists” and those revolutionaries’, intent on change for all “workers”, joined Lenin and Trotsky, calling themselves the Red Army. The Russian people were dying by the millions, and for Uri it was a confusing time, not only for him, but the entire Russian people.
Uri’s life changed forever, when Trotsky’s Death Squads raided his home one early morning. The memory was chaotic, flashes of moving disjointed images, only echoes of shouts, gunfire and pleas for mercy. He does remember his beautiful wife, Ivana and his son, Vadim ruthlessly shot in the back of their heads. Confused, the rest of the memory is only a haze. He could not recall his youngest, Svetlana, a mere four years of age, receiving a bullet before he was handcuffed and dragged away from his home.
Uri thought: ‘Can my darling daughter be alive? No, it is not possible. She would have been sleeping with her mother…. Svetlana must be with the Lord.’
Uri was taken to a camp, an area of tents and small fires that in their sheer numbers resembled the sparkle of the night sky. He then was fitted with an odd uniform, though very warm, and given an old, rusted rifle used in the 18th century. Along with the antiquated firearm, he was handed only three bullets.
“Make these bullets last and make them count! Because supplies are low, you must show the generals’ that you are a true patriot of the revolution. Otherwise, (he sniffed, spat in his hand and wiped the snot on his trousers)…you will be shot like a dog.”
2.
The Supply Officer appeared to Uri like an over-sized bulldog; a frosted beard, and his left ear stuck-out like an odd branch of a tree. He spoke in a gravely voice like a demon or a heavy drinker that smokes too many cigars.
Lost in the pangs of hunger and post-trauma-induced haze, Uri was brought back to reality to the shouts of the General in charge addressing a haggard, limp group of peasants with rusted rifles and only three bullets each, and were expected to perform like trained soldiers – a pseudo-battalion of misfits and starving men.
In an unusually loud voice with the accent of a Ukrainian, he began:
“Comrades, you are all very fortunate men. Now that the Evil Regime of the Czar and his family has been, well, eradicated, we now face new enemies. Listen carefully; these men are the manifestation of the devil himself! The workers’ of the world will unite because of the greatness of Comrades' Lenin and General Trotsky. Tomorrow you will fight our enemy’s with true vengeance and, will most likely die in the attempt. At the least comrades’, you will die for the Cause and be remembered with honour!”
“Dismissed!”
The General turned with his hands clasped behind his back; his face turned downward, his lips moving as if praying. He entered his tent, and all could hear his booming voice echo throughout the camp:
“VODKA!”
*
The dawn cracked revealing a thick fog, an eerie mist, that hovered over the battlefield like a rising damp from Hell.
General Demedov shouted orders out into the semi-darkness to his troops to fall into formation: those “loyal to the Cause”, formed a line in the back, their guns loaded and ready. Those men like Uri, farmers, peasants, poor shop owners, factory workers, who’d been forcefully conscripted, who could not be trusted, were ordered to form along the front line, facing the White Army, eye to eye…
Sitting on a magnificent white horse, General Demedov galloped back and forth at the head of the front lines, the mist from Hell clearing, stopping directly in line with Uri and the other starving misfits.
“Because the enemy is all around us, perhaps even the man beside you, could well be a traitor. General Trotsky’s orders are clear: if you hear anything, one word of treason against our Cause, you must kill them without hesitation.”
3.
The General then ordered something to his second in command. A man was dragged out in front of Uri in chains, his face unrecognisable from the beatings the night before. It was obvious to Uri that this man was an aristocrat, royalty because, despite his horrible wounds, his demeanour reflected a quietness, a man educated and privileged – a loyalist from a long line of family that ruled over Russia for over half a millennium.
The general yelled at the prisoner: “Who are you loyal to? The revolution and the people of Russia or the pigs that have treated the people with disregard and contempt?”
General Demedov then pulled out his pistol, pointed the gun to the man’s head, but did not pull the trigger. “I’ve changed my mind, bring me a sabre!”
In a few moments, Demedov was handed a sword and, after forcing the aristocrat to his knees, took aim and be-headed the loyalist; the mouth of the head began to move as if he was trying to speak, rolling to Uri’s feet.
“Our enemy’s are legion, and General Trotsky has ordered to kill all those that oppose us; kill them without a second thought. Do you understand?”
There was no response from the battalion, only a silence.
Demedov continued: “If you choose to run and not fight the enemy, our trusted one’s will be behind you, ready to shoot any coward in the back!”
Uri followed those who’d been ordered to the front lines. He felt nothing except the terrible thought, ‘We are merely human shield’s against the enemy.’
He crossed himself and said the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
As the stench from Hell lifted, in the distance, Uri could see the out-line of thousand’s of troops, marching in unison, all singing a familiar song of loyalist patriotism to the Czar.
The battle would soon begin.
*
Minutes passed, the mist had disappeared, and the White Army stood in perfect formation no more than one hundreds yards away. The eerie tone of a thousand men singing their praises to the Czar only added to Uri’s empty terror…that feeling which most soldier’s feel before a battle is about to commence.
Across the short expanse, Uri saw a solider on a white horse raise his gleaming sword into the air; the solider dropped his sabre and screamed, “Attack!”
4.
The Cossacks, once the Czar’s personal body guards, galloped on their white horses at full pelt, their sabre’s drawn, screaming an old Russian war cry…
The Red Army’s captain, Demedov, rather than send his own Calvary, ordered the front line to meet the well-experienced Cossacks on foot – a suicide command, like lambs sent to slaughter.
Despite Demedov’s order to attack, not a single man moved, but fell to their knees, making the sign of the cross, their heads lowered to the ground.
As the Cossack’s approached, the man kneeling next to Uri fell forward on his face: half of his head gone from a Red Army bullet from behind.
The Red Army began shooting their own men rather than the Cossacks. This, of course, made the killing much more simple. Interestingly, however, the Cossack’s ignored the front line as if they did not exist, to then begin slaughtering those men on the back lines, those loyal to Trotsky.
Uri could see nothing but blood and carnage…so much blood! He observed a man screaming at the top of the hill, staggering through the dead bodies, his right arm missing, spurting a flow of blood from the large gape when, mercifully, a Cossack on horseback, walked his horse by the man and cut off his head in a single swoop, ending his misery.
Once the Cossacks were satisfied with their task, the entire Red Battalion dead or severely wounded, made one last round, putting those wounded to death.
Uri crawled next to a man who’d been shot from behind by Trotsky’s men though he was alive and groaning loudly. Uri covered his mouth, whispering, “Be quiet if you want to live!”
It felt like hours before the Cossack’s finally retreated. The sun sat on the horizon; Uri then dragged the wounded man into the dense forest next to the battlefield to safety.
*
The wounded man’s name was Vadim, the same name as Uri’s dead son. The bullet had entered his back only centimetres below his left shoulder blade, missing his left lung. Feeling through Vadim’s coat, he felt an exit wound and knew the only way to save his life was to some how stop the bleeding. Night began to descend along with the godless cold. If something wasn’t done soon to stop Vadim’s bleeding, he would be dead within the hour and Uri would be alone.
In an act of mindless desperation and mercy, Uri removed his uniform jacket, instantly feeling the bite of the cold. He wanted Vadim to live so much, from a place of strength within his
soul; he tore his jacket sleeves off, and the coat in long think strands, creating bandages for the wounded man. He wrapped the ‘bandages’ around Vadim using his own bootlaces to then prop Vadim’s body against a tree, applying pressure to the wound.
The devil’s wind began to blow through the trees, and without a coat, Uri would soon be dead from the low temperature.
When the moon was at its brightest, as the night had a cloudless sky, Vadim awoke and smiled at Uri, whispering, “Thank you. The angel’s of God will be with you.”
Vadim’s eye’s closed as he fell into an eternal slumber.
Soon the wind flew into a rage, determined to kill Uri or any living thing. Then he heard his name called out from the distance.
“Uri, wake up child and follow me.”
Uri opened his eyes and saw a man dressed as a Roman Centurion, holding a long spear, his helmet glistening from the light of the moon.
“Who are you stranger?”
“My mission is not to tell you my Name but to take you home.”
The Centurion lifted Uri to his feet and covered him with his thick crimson cape. At last Uri felt warm again, but an unusual warmth coming from within as well as all around him.
Together they walked through the White Army’s camp, yet strangely no one noticed them.
Soon the Centurion and Uri reached the city of Moscow…Uri’s home. When the Centurion removed his cloak from around Uri he could fell the freezing cold once again.
The Centurion spoke:
“Uri, as a spirit of God, you sacrificed your own life for a stranger. This is Love. Go forth into the city and you will find that Love you seek!”
The Centurion walked through the crowd of the city streets and soon disappeared.
*
5.
Uri’s eyes opened again as he remained against the brick wall of the alley. The snow had stopped falling, and the devil’s wind was now sleeping. He closed his eyes and felt death to be his only option, when two people grabbed him and carried the man away.
Uri opened his eyes to a warm fireplace, the flames rising high and the wood spitting and cracking – a familiar and beautiful sound. He looked to his right and their standing above him was Svetlana, his little girl.
“Papa, you wake!” She smothered her father with kisses.
“Is that you my little mouse?”
“Yes Papa, it’s Svetlana!”
“But my little mouse, I thought I’d lost you to those terrible men.”
Out from the back of the kitchen, a voice resounded:
“You are lucky my brother, Uri! We knew the Red Army had killed your family and we lost hope for you. By the grace of God we found Svetlana walking the streets…a true miracle!” He made the sign of the cross. “Then we find you! My brother you should be dead.” Tear's fell from his eyes.
“What happed to you?”
“I will tell everything my brother, but please let me hold my little mouse by the warmth of the fire. I cannot let her go…I love her too much!”
At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door. All in the room jumped to their feet expecting Trotsky’s men to raid their home and murder the women and children.
Mishka, Uri’s brother, reluctantly answered the door.
No one was there, except for a long spear leaning against the frame of the door. Mishka lifted the spear, feeling its heavy weight, and noticing the bright shimmering metal point.
Turning the spear on its side, written in the wood; etched in clear Latin, was the word:
LOVE.
Ends
