East Bound - Russia x Germany

Bolsheviks and Rybkin

I knew I had a gut feeling that this was going to be one non stop thrill ride. I should listen to my intuition more often. As soon as Lësha left, Rybkin and his crew got into the lorries, stuffed me in the back along with their smelly uniforms, and wrenched the accelerator so hard that the whole truck careened to the side, almost tipping over. All I could do to keep from screaming was bite my lip. Around me, the men roared with laughter, finding that meeting certain fatal injuries was hilarious. This does not inspire calmness. Sitting next to what I assumed to be a pile of old clothing, I fell fast asleep. Nothing good would happen to me while conscious.

Apparently, nothing good ever comes to me! In barely seconds, a stout man with black hair was shaking me awake, asking if I was alright in about ten different languages.

"I'm fine." I growled. "I speak." The language should've been clear, but he promptly decided to speak in Spanish to me instead. I took that as an offense and stormed to the front. The lorry was now devoid of people, because all of them were smoking outside, telling each other ridiculous stories about travels in Europe. They all contradicted each other, making up ridiculous details.

"Vanka never was in Riga! It was another tiny city here with a weird name. He's just pretending." The black haired man yelled right next to me to the crowd down below. The ringing in my ears told me that his voice was just enough decibels to be deafening. The men down there all jeered and continued to poke fun at the story. The man next to me grinned, but I rewarded him with a sour face, traipsing down the steps into the snow packed ground. Obviously, the primary goal of these people was to treat me like their own. That meant, naturally, to give me the spotlight. I think I was going to bite Rybkin's hand when it made contact with my shoulder. Too bad the layer of fur from his gloves shielded it.

"Ah, Misguided Tourist! How nice of you to join us." He smiled, showing all his disgusting black rimmed teeth. I had the urge to go tell him to fall into some ice. Unfortunately, my tongue didn't work properly to articulate my thoughts. "It so happens we were taking of travelling. Care to tell us where you're headed?"

"Tiksi." I said through gritted teeth.

"Liski? Oooh, my friend, we are very very far from Liski. That's near the south west, next to Rostov on-,"

"Tiksi! Not Liski!" I shouted. Another round of laughter came from the men. They quiet enjoyed the show. Rybkin, although fazed from my reaction, put his big smile back on.

"Well speak louder then," he kept himself occupied with his cigarette. "Don't mumble."

I'm not mumbling, I thought darkly. The rest of the crowd was leaving and dispersing, all back to the convoy and onward. Some snuck funny looks at me, others slapped me on the back with a 'Molodetz!', or Good Man. I assumed the phrase stemmed from olden times where 'dobrui Mólotdetz' was a common word meaning 'Good Young Man', showing that young people are more desirable. I had time to think about that as Rybkin started up the lorry again and our caravan proceeded across the cold desert. That last stop was to fill the cars will diesel, so that we would be able to drive through the night. It was too bad that outside I had an absence of smell. Now in our warm vehicle, I could sense the intermingling scents of sweat, dirt, smoke, and fish. Not very pleasant. That night I slept like a rock, packed together with other rocks in an avalanche. In the morning, people trampled over me, every once someone would tread on my hand.

"Ow!" I hissed and rolled over.

"Sorry," one of the last men whispered. "You should be up anyway."

"I'm not part of your Army crew," my voice was slightly muffled by the fact that I was facing the other way. "So leave me be." By his receding footsteps, he had heeded to my comment. I figured mostly what I'll be doing on this wretched truck is sleeping, napping, and dozing off, generally not conscious. When I wasn't, things were usually worse; for me only, of course. I spent every waking hour thinking over my actions, regretting that I left my companions Russia and Germany, and dodging more than awkward conversations. One time, we had parked near another tiny outpost to refill the tank when another of the army men slides up to me. He sits right next to me on the narrow footstand to the lorry and with a wide grin asks,

"You're not from here, right?"

"No." I reply, eating my meager lunch. "Why?"

"Where are you from?" Before I could answer, somebody filled in for me.

"From za granizsi," that was a way to put it.

The man's eyebrows lifted a bit. "How is it, on the other side? Worse or better? The news says worse, people say better. I can't decide who to believe."

"About the same," I didn't want to be the one to set definite opinions. Too much responsibility."

"Candor of you," He smiled. "So honest."

"I try." I was about to say something else when Rybkin showed up to ruin the whole atmosphere.

"Hello!" He sang in a warbling voice that reminded me of a groaning seal waddling out of the water. I couldn't hold in the urge to curl my lip. It did not go unnoticed, either. "What? Don't like my company?"

"As a matter of fact, no." I said coldly.

"Careful now," he warned me, his grin wiped off his face. "Don't forget the rule of the North: We die alone unless we survive together." We were all silent for a moment, the wind whistling between us. "You don't want to be stuck here alone, Zarubezhnyi. You foreigners are afraid of Bolsheviks, no?"

I rubbed my gloved hands together. Even though I had finished my lunch and the fur warmed my fingers, I still felt an uncomfortable chill seep into me. "Er, no."

"Sure?" His eyes narrowed. "I would, if I were you." He never let me finish, but proceeded up the metal steps. The crew around me exchanged funny looks and muttered. I couldn't shake the rattle from my bones, and it still settled in me when we were on the road again. The places we past by were unremarkable and plain, all scraggly low mountains, mushy lowlands, frozen lakes. The outposts we visited were federal, cramped, and not tended to. Nobody in sight, not even natives of the Taimyuir. These northern lands are an inhospitable place of ice and winds. The stretches became longer, and the cottages farther apart. All the while, the people around me were not becoming less rowdy. The constant chatter was not helping me, and I yearned to step off and wander at every stop. So far, this 'like our own' business wasn't going well. Everyone called me Zarubezhnyi, Tourist, or just plain 'you'. I did not like any single tag more tag the other, but equally wasn't keen on giving my real name. They could do without. At least they were sensible and seldom made me the laughingstock of the day. With our leader, I beg to differ. 

Rybkin was just annoying. He kept on nagging me, playing with me like a marionette, but was dismayed when I tried to sever the strings. It was at night, when everyone was sleeping, he was still wide awake, humming to himself looking on the crowd of sleeping bodies, all rising and falling like a wave. I kept peeling my eyes open to finally be able to sleep peacefully, but he insisted on sitting and staring, like he was God or something. He must have an extrasense, because his brooding stare became a gleeful smirk.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" He demanded, standing up.

"What aren't you?" I challenged. Sometime, it will come down to me and him in a straight fight. Although I wasn't lithe or strong, anger made my blood boil and my hands turned to fists.

"Because I'm on watch," He thrusts his face in mine. "Everyone else should sleep."

"Protecting?" I hissed.

"Guarding your skin."

"From whom? A stray walrus?" His silence and stony face made me want to take my words back. But he eventually spoke. His breath was hot as was everything in the truck, but his last words were so chilling, that it felt like icicles replaced my skin. It didn't make any sense. That barely comforted me. 

"Are you really not afraid of Bolsheviks, Poland?"