Words to Live By - A Countryhumans SovAme Story

Act II, Chapter III - Things We Have In Common

September 1941

Outside of Kyiv, Ukraine, USSR

Content Warning: Violence

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The road is unforgiving. It always has been, it always will be. The brown dust rises behind you with every step, and chokes your lungs. The march is cruel, the hours long. The weight of the rifle feels like a ton, and even in summer your uniform is unable to stop the cold that seeps in when night falls. This has been the experience that is the road every time I have ever gone to war. The battle itself is terrifying, but the march to war is somehow worse.

In 1941, this became my situation once again.

We were hiding out in a tiny farm shed southeast of Kyiv, resting for the journey south. I thought back to the train station as I stared up at the stars through a hole in the roof.

"Where was the train going to take us?" I had asked.

She had been hesitant, as though she wasn't sure or didn't want to tell me. It turned out to be the latter.

"Sevastopol."

Had this news been announced to our entire platoon, and then she had told us we must walk there, it would have been anarchy, uproar. Sevastopol was miles south, and to walk there might take weeks. The platoon was lucky, though. The train would have them there in hours, but we would have to walk.

"Why must we follow them," I had asked, "surely there is a closer city? They will presume us dead, but didn't you say you wanted to spend your time fighting rather than running from the Germans?"

She'd shaken her head.

"I must stay with them. The high command needs to know where I am."

Ah. That's why.

She couldn't allow herself to defy the orders of her own command. This is where we see a strange divergence among countries and the way they treat their leaders. Some countries command their leader, their land, but other countries allow themselves to be commanded. I admit I was, and still am, extremely skeptical of the latter model, and the way my friend allowed herself to be commanded around irritated me greatly, although I am positive that this stems from my days as a colony, when I associated being commanded by a higher power with the lowest treatment.

Although it isn't really my choice this time, is it.

And what was I supposed to do, go off on my own while she followed her own orders? No.

We would walk to Sevastopol.

Now I counted the stars that could be seen through the small hole in the roof of the shed and kept my breaths as quiet as they could be so as to not interrupt my friend's sleep. We had hitched a ride on a farmer's hay cart as he returned from Kyiv to this small, nameless village. He allowed us some of his food, and a place to sleep in his barn for just one night. Then, he said, we had to be on our way.

"Lusya," Soviet muttered, and I thought of Kyiv, and the night before the bombing began. I remembered the way holding her hands had calmed me down more effectively than any whiskey, any tea.

Why do I want that again?

"Hm?" I alerted when she spoke the name I had taken on.

Her eyes were still closed, but even so her brows drew together.

Oh. She's talking in her sleep.

"Yeah, I'm here," I replied, scooting a little closer to her as she said my name again. I had been sitting up, leaning against the wall, but now I slid down to lay next to her. I curled up in her proximity, expecting to simply keep several inches between us, so I was not ready when she wrapped her arms around me. I stiffened, not sure what to do.