Candle in the Attic Window(88)
Simonov accepted the gift and flipped through the pages, smeared with mud and some bloodstains.
As usual, the news was generally good. In the various articles, bad news was everywhere restrained, nay, rejected. Under orders of the genius Comrade Stalin, the glorious Red Army would begin the counteroffensive, which would permit them to continue until Berlin, in order to kick dear Adolph Hitler’s ass.
Of course, all this was only propaganda. Aided by experience, Simonov knew how to read between the lines. Even if the situation was no more catastrophic than at the beginning of the hostilities, the war was far from won. Because the Germans were still occupying Soviet soil and committing atrocities there. Simonov recalled a young Muscovite student of the name of “Zoya Kosmodemianskaia”. The young partisan had been arrested, tortured and executed in the province of Tambov. Before the Fascists had hanged her in the main square of the village, she cried, “You can never hang all of us! My comrades will avenge me!” The officer remembered a photo of the young woman, of her dead body, half-naked, lying in the snow. This shot had made her an icon of the regime that had received the posthumous medal of Hero of the Soviet Union.
The slamming of the door drew Simonov out of his thoughts. Immediately, he recognized his old friend, Yuri.
– Piotr! What a surprise! What are you doing here? cried the doctor.
– My company has been sent into this sector and I knew that you worked around here. I took advantage of my day off to come see you ... And you? How are you?
– Each day, I must butcher these poor devils, said he, referring to the patients, who were lying on the floor. And as you can see, the conditions are more than precarious. We work without stop, in urgency, with few means. But follow me; we’ll go into my office. We’ll be more comfortable there.
When they finally arrived in his office, Iliev removed his shirt soiled with blood. Then he washed his hands, sat facing his friend and invited him to do the same.
– Here, at least, one can talk undisturbed.
– You have something to hide?
– Not particularly, but I prefer to keep the commissars of the NKVD[1] at a good distance. Here, one can easily fall afoul of them. Those shits track down any they call “deserters by injury”. Once they have a doubt, when they suspect self-injury, they execute the man in question under the pretext that he has betrayed the nation. They are always on our backs, digging ... No counting the number that can always swing should they be considered deviants ... So, that’s the routine! And you? How goes it with you?
– Nothing original. The war.
As the conversation prepared to turn to another subject, the door to the office opened abruptly. A man with Asiatic features entered the place.
– Hello, Ruslan! exclaimed Iliev. Let me introduce to you my old friend, Piotr Alexeievitch Simonov. We were born in the same village. Our families were very close and we went to school, together … Peter, this is Ruslan Solotin.
– Hello, and welcome to our field hospital, responded the latter. I share the office with Yuri. But I don’t want to disturb your reunion. I have two or three things to do and then I’ll leave you alone.
– No, of course not, Ruslan! You’re not disturbing us. Do what you have to do, no worries! insisted Iliev. Can I get you a little vodka? In the name of friendship!
– You musn’t refuse, said Simonov, smiling.
– Ruslan?
– Maybe later, thanks!
And the man went into the back of the room to let them go about their business. Iliev revised the conversation.
– And since the Battle of Moscow, where have you fought?
– I was assigned to a new artillery unit on the central front. We pounded Fritz relentlessly, hoping soon to be sent home. But, as you know, the situation is far from well-regulated. The Fascists are still besieging Leningrad, and it is murmured that they’re preparing a vast offensive to the South come spring, and ... and ....
– And what? asked Iliev, who was listening.
– And ... but what is your colleague doing? asked Simonov in a deep voice.
Iliev turned toward his colleague and called:
– Hey, Ruslan, can you explain to my friend what you’re in the process of f*cking up?
– I’m lighting a variety of candles. And here is a small altar dedicated to our gods, Ruslan explained, showing them the object.
– Though he had received a perfectly good Soviet education, Ruslan continues his shamanistic practices, Iliev explained. Like all Buryats.[2]
– Exactly. Where we live, in far-off Siberia, there is a sort of communion between the spirits of the taiga and men.
– You are a shaman? asked Simonov.
– Yes, for seven generations. For my people, shamans are, at the same time, priest, doctor and mage … We have the power to communication with the spirits and the divinities, to whom we make offerings: food or vodka, for example … This drink is very prized by Those who live Beyond our World ….
Simonov was taken aback by what he had just heard. For him, Siberia represented the hell of the camps.[3] Many people of his acquaintance still languished there. Yet, in this vast country, lived mysterious peoples who fascinated him. He wanted to ask for more details, but suddenly, someone knocked on the door.
– Yes, enter! ordered Iliev.
A tall, strapping man, wheat-blonde, saluted his superior and presented his request without losing a second.