My dismal upbringing, the death of my mother and his cruelty fostered some understanding, if not a sense of significance, about the meaning of suffering. These are tests to be overcome, and only once that is done can you improve and mature. As time passed, it gradually dawned on me that seen up close, human misery loses its import. It’s the same with soldiers in war. Many change from heroes into cruel deviants. The romance of heroism perishes under the pressure of daily worries. Love and dignity melt away amid the smell of urine and blood. The day of a person who has given up everything is not what I read about in my childhood books; no noble suffering, no knights in shining armour or soldiers saving their country. Our suffering, caring hero spends a third of his life sleeping, and another third eating, in the toilet, on the phone, swigging vodka, grumbling to his friends about the old witch who “just won’t die.” On goes the idle chatter: who drank how much with whom, pensions and salaries, “what do they pay for gold these days?,” food (“my daughter can’t cook, even worse than her mum, when she was still up to it”), trivial local gossip, the same old inanities, TV shows, the news, fires, elections, viruses on the other side of the world. These are the utterances and thoughts that keep our hero occupied. This day-to-day that sickens even me who grew up in this loutish city where there is not one family without a coal miner or a prison camp inmate.
After Mum died, I couldn’t go into the bathroom without bursting into tears. Cleaning my face in the morning, I washed away the sleep and tears. They called to tell me I’d been accepted to university. I packed and left without hesitation in under fifteen minutes, as if fleeing a crime scene. Leaving Dad with a vegetable. He begged me to come back, then said I was a selfish, filthy bitch who only cared about herself, but I ignored him. He would have said the same things if I’d stayed at home. It’s true, I was a little bitch. I just wanted a normal, happy life. And anybody who has a problem with that can just go to hell.
Chapter 7
The green UAZ van with Red Cross markings and flashing lights stopped at the entrance to Mendeleyev Hospital—a grey, five-story building. Lena opened the front passenger side door and stepped out. “Stay there, we’re leaving as soon as Kabul’s soldiers come to escort us.” she shouted, running toward the reception area.
Her stride was light and easy. A slouching soldier smoked at the entrance.
K. studied the van. It was old but well-equipped. Two spots for lying down, and room for a stretcher. A case held drugs, dressings, splints, IVs of saline, and a defibrillator. K. flicked a light on and off—it was bright. The van had been lovingly assembled.
A Niva off-roader with an escort sidled up to the ambulance. Rifles poked from the windows and the voices of fighters filtered out. The listless June twilight deepened. The rumble rolling over the city had died down. K. greedily and wearily inhaled the chill air.