Haseki Mihrişah Sultan

The End of the Happy Days

I don't remember for how many hours I ran. I don't remember why I began to run. I don't remember how I got here. But one thing I do remember: the pain my heart felt when I saw my family being murdered.
I am a young girl from a village in Ruthenia. I lived together with my parents and my two brothers. Life wasn't great, but it was good. We weren't rich, but we didn't complain. Sometimes, there would be unfortune in our lives, but we hoped for better days, brighter days.
I was taught by the priest of the village my native language, I was taught Italian, and I was taught philosophy. My father was a small farmer, but he had a lot of knowledge. I always wondered how he learned so many stories. He was a fair and just man. We would make mistakes, and I never saw him get angry at us. We would fight with each-other, but he always found a way to unite us.
My mother was different. She was hardworking and smart like my father, but she wasn't as soft as him. When we would make mistakes, she would yell at us. If one of my brothers wouldn't behave well she would leave him without lunch or dinner. Although at night when we were asleep, she'd come and kiss us in the forehead, apologising for her words and saying that she loved us more than anything in the world.
And we loved them more than anything in this world.
My older brother, one year older than me, is the funniest man I know and that I will always know. Even in times when we would cry or be serious, he would say one of his jokes, and everyone would burst into laughter. Wherever we were, in church, working in the fields, at the farm with the chickens and pigs, wherever, he would fade the grey clouds upon our heads and make the sun shine.
My younger brother, three years younger than me, is the sweetest boy I know and that I will always know. He was so innocent, so kind, that my aunt would say that he could make the devil change direction. I never heard him lie, never heard him contradict our parents, never heard him say a bad word, never seen him upset. He was always there, in times when each of us needed a good word, a shoulder to lay, something to make us stop crying, he was there.
We all were there for each-other.
Happy days. I will always think of those happy days.
But those happy days came to an end.
One day, the Russian army came and took all our lands. Our people, of course, rebelled. They weren't going to allow some strangers take everything they had and in exchange they would take nothing, but poverty. Our people rebelled once, rebelled twice together with people from a few other villages, but Russian weren't merciful. The third time, they killed everyone. Rebels, non-rebels, men, women, children, innocent, guilty, the priest of our village, teachers, the elders, everyone.
Only six people managed to escape. The priest's wife, an orphan thief, the seven years old son of a teacher, a half blind man, the mistress of our village's leader, and me.
I ran and I ran and I ran. I could've fainted, could've broken my foot, could've screamed for help, but I didn't.
God was with me. God gave me strength to continue. God gave me the chance to survive, to continue my life.
So, who am I to go against God?