Flaws: Vedmykiv

[13] A Good Wank and a Love that Lasts

BRIBING OUR WAY into the capital with the van was too expensive to do as often as I would have liked. Though the hare trails were long, the people on the road were friendly and often entertaining. There was the occasional angry villager, pissed off at their government for shooting people at the Maidan. Also pissed off at the people getting shot at, by the way. Some were insulting, a bit racist, unsympathetic to outsiders, and skeptical of foreigners, as expected. Except when they learned a Russian guided me. Igor always knew what to say. I enjoyed the treks. Exploring, observing, and not getting caught was my time off. Coming home to eggs and cauliflower for dinner, my fortune.

We first encountered a battalion roaming the half-empty city on our fourth or fifth foray since they set up the checkpoints. This last one marked the third time we've seen them. They wore unmarked uniforms and carried Russian weapons they no longer pretended to conceal. We ran into them when they were carrying out a raid checking for papers. Some people on the floor were tied up. One man who was shouting his discontent made the mistake of getting up. He was returned to the ground when he was shot and killed. On the spot. No consideration, not even a glance at the stranger who, from an empty kiosk some fifty yards away, watched everything. It was unceremonious, as evil is. Now I knew. Now it was clear. I felt shame and regret. They didn't see us, and I didn't try to take pictures. I was busy trying not to shit my pants and avoiding kicking rocks that could fuck me up with an accidental sound. It looked like there were six or seven bodies. The abduction of journalists was not uncommon.

We kept moving only when they left. Kiosks gave good cover. Barricades and flags had spread rapidly through the city and were now marring the gardens. "Soon, they will be forcing people to dig trenches," commented Igor. Forced labor, sewage out of control, and the shelling that was to come. No heat. Igor could see the worst coming. The silence among the tires and bricks was like the quiet nights of Vedmykiv, but dicey, like the bodies we left behind. The vibrant social life of my first visit had disappeared in an instant, like my love problems, at least for the week.

Several weeks ago, I met a university professor at one of the anti-Maidan rallies who told me that the people I was photographing were called titushki. Poor, often uneducated people paid to instigate dissent. I sat on the bench next to him, and we watched the group of rioters scream and intimidate whatever police were left. "We are not separatists. We are just poor," he said. Then he asked me to take a picture of us with his iPhone. There was no unifying feeling beyond the obvious sense that something inside was wrong. Maybe it wasn't a matter of perspective. Maybe some things don't work, and that's all. But today, that didn't bother me.

Donetsk mind bending the knee. But did they want to split up? Did they want to break up? I guess I didn't know either. Power-hungry opportunists did, for sure. The rest was left to lose, to flee to the hinterland in anticipation of economic collapse. Those who stayed had to take care of others or were too poor to relocate. Those without options were forced to stay and shut up or were brainwashed by propaganda and demands. The alternative was to avail themselves of Russia's relocation program and move somewhere in Siberia or whatever. What other option was there with scarce jobs, expensive food, and irregular services? "We aren't defecting. We are too screwed to have a choice," said the professor. What about me? Did I still have a choice?

"The modern age should not be an age of war," Igor lamented as we entered the strip club. Another day waiting to see if the colonel would show his ugly soul. He had indeed disappointed us. I didn't mind it as much as I should have. I had used my time with prudent utilitarianism. The exotic dancer had become my friend. More than a friend, if I'm being honest. She was, after all, a psychologist. A trained therapist who banked with her spanks. Although coal mines and metallurgical plants surrounded the city, the white-collar workers had been crushing it before this started. Men and women my age earned twice what they could make in Kyiv before the crisis, and others, like the Ukrainian barbie, earned three or four times what I made. Maybe more now since all competition had evaporated. That reminded me, I didn't get paid last week. I had to ask my editor if I still had a job.