They’d come during the night. Yes, I could see it now: the way they had encircled the well-worn but sturdy building, a few laden with drums of kerosene. The soldiers had arrived with single mind and purpose. There had been no prior notice, no warning to speak of, to the townsfolk or the keeper. Though, it is made all too clear to me in hindsight that, regardless of any preparation, little could have been done to prevent what was destined to take place that night.
The soldiers, clad in the distinctive drab olive green of their profession, proudly bore the insignia of hypocrisy, the crimson star emblazoned in a golden array, which, having at one time represented the blossoming of so much hope, the fulfillment of so many a promise, the end of a despotic tyranny, had now become the undeniable symbol of terror itself. The hammer and sickle, drawing upon the pent up unrest of the people, had boisterously replaced the czar's era of oppression with merely another, but many times greater in its atrocities than the downtrodden Slavic people could remember of as having taken place during even the worst days of the empire.
Even as the young soldiers hurriedly dismounted from the flatbeds of the of the pair of Red Army transport trucks, their officers had already begun to marshal them together into platoons on the fresh-fallen snow in preparation for their march into town. At their leader’s brisk instruction, the column of troops trudged with rhythmic percussion through the town gates, past the ragged townsfolk scurrying to the safety of their homes, and finally, to the structure which occupied the center of the village’s physical and spiritual lives. The old, grimy church, in ill-repair, reflected the hard times which had befallen the generations of congregations which it so dutifully served.
At their commander’s direction, the soldiers fanned out through the narrow alleyways and ruddy streets. The troops moved with irregular, careless step, contrasting sharply with the rigid organization of before. They occasionally brought down doors rusting on their hinges, and searched haphazardly through what few belongings they found within, and took what they needed. No one objected. Then the men gathered the necessary materials at the church.
Already raggedy from years of disrepair, the primeval structure had now become the dilapidated image of ruin, as the soldiers broke down the ancient oak doors and shattered the arched windows. Afterwards, it had been a simple matter to set the remnants ablaze, the people’s flammable possessions used as additional fuel to the kerosene they had brought. The fire lasted the better part of a day.
Adding raging insult to tremulous injury, the contingent had left only one soldier to guard the smoking wreckage, knowing with cold certainty that any move made against the soldier would result in complete annihilation for the town. Realizing this as well, the men stayed home in their burning passion and smothering shame.
But I couldn’t. The people of this village regarded me as their unofficial leader, for, as a man of God, I was their spiritual leader in this small world, and deprived of any material pleasures afforded to fellow men, they followed his guidance with the fullness of a people devoted to their belief. They had watched my door from the moment the soldiers had arrived, waiting for any hint of opposition, any signal of defiance, but in vain, for I did not venture forth. At last, as the beginnings of a blizzard drifted from the pitch black sky, my boots crushed the feathery snow.
I tread slowly, my motions methodical, my mind focused in its intention. I approached the town center from the east, sweeping the cobbled hill with my searching eyes. At last, I saw his hazy outline, a lone figure in the blistering cold. He had drawn close to the last of the smoldering piles, facing his back to the flickering embers to absorb what warmth he could. I approached from behind, stopping numerous times, when, testing the placement of my next step, I inadvertently triggered a shallow squelch. He didn’t turn around as I neared him, mere feet separating us.
I could hear him breathing now, small, quiet, slow breathing. Before he could react, I flung my left arm around his neck, catching him in a choke hold. He struggled as I held him, unmoving, unfeeling, my resolve clear in the sheen of my eyes. His wool cap tumbled off. That was when I twisted him around, so I could see his face, his eyes, and he mine, as I avenged his wrongs. Then I saw his face, contorted in deathly pain and fear, the face of a boy, no older than fifteen winters, quaking. I saw clearly then, the senselessness of it all.
The Soviets had come to destroy the church, because they saw it as a threat to their dominance, their unquestionable power, the foundation of their authority. Now, they had charged a boy, his whiskers sparse with youth, to take the blame for their deeds, and in doing so, invited retribution, so that the boy, likely forced into their service from a town much like theirs, could then be subject to the vile extremity of their injustice, and the town destroyed for their mutiny. My grip loosened, the boy fell to the carpet of white, coughing fervently, crouching in tremulous panic, as I came to terms with the truth.
I waited until the coughing stopped, and knelt at his side. The boy tried to draw away, but I kept him in place with a firm, but gentle hand. Then, I spoke to him the word of God, and whispered him a prayer for the forgiveness of his sins, and witnessing at once the expression of utmost guilt and remorse, knew my purpose had been served. And so, I stood, and left the soldier there. I left him with God, and made prayer for the days ahead, my light rekindled, my withered hope, rising anew.
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