Escaping Kherson, a novella - 2. Day Two

Unbeknownst to him, the roughness of the sofa cushion has irritated Denys’ sleep. Blinking eyes tell him a few of the more belligerent rays of sunshine have managed to break through his iron curtain of drapes.

With consciousness only slowly fighting its way forward, the man puzzles why he’d be chilled, out here on the couch alone, instead of being snuggled in their bed of warmth and safety.

In the tender blending of a shut-out present with the all-inclusive comfort of the past, Denys wonders if Fedir exiled him to the sofa again for one of his chuckle-headed, sophomoric pranks. His man’s always chastening him to grow up just that little bit faster than Denys evidences to the world.

Such thoughts – cozier than any blanket of cloth – prompt the reporter to smile, for Fedir’s gentle firmness and guiding discipline ever seek to make Denys a better person; a more considerate human being.

All at once, he remembers the war. He’s forced to recall how his present reality tastes like the sour iron of blood in a tortured mouth. He thinks of his confident, open-handed partner in his makeshift grave, and Nadiya – sweet, ever-reassuring Nadiya – is in it with him. And then Denys remembers he’s on the sofa because a stranger now sleeps in their formerly happy, communal bed.

“Shit,” he says softly.

The man gradually rises to a sitting position. As excuse to will his tears away, Denys stretches his arms up. He then rubs his eyes, reminding himself the new day will be one more to live in the service of others. This lends reassurance, cold comfort as it is, to his shattered sense of worth.

‘Coffee,’ he thinks next as he stands and goes to open the curtains. Peering out, he indulges in the momentary sight of a stifled late-October morning beginning to gild a hostaged Kherson.

A few minutes later he’s pottering about in the kitchen, trying to noiselessly fill and set the electric kettle to heat, ruminating on what an unusual intrusion to his humdrum routine the encountering of Theo has meant.

Randomly, as his eyes drift over the untidy pile in which the teenboy had left his clothes last night, Denys wonders how many more days his building will have power. While he can, he considers, he should make the most of the present situation, for the Orcs could take it away in a snap.

Coffee set to brew in its glass carafe, he plugs in all his spare powerpacks to charge – his phone too – and goes to open the door of the empty washer.

Time to do laundry.

He walks up to and lifts the boy’s Levi’s from the top of the kid’s stack of clothes. Denys tries to ignore just how dirty the knees and cuffs are as he pulls out the belt.

Funny thing about belts, they record lean times as well as fat, and he can see the kid’s weight has dropped a couple of notches, presumably in the last eight months of occupation.

Gathering his thoughts, he rolls up the belt and places it on the coffee table. Right next to it he sets the loose items Denys extracts from the boy’s pockets.

Next, he scoops up the rest of the clothes to carry back to the kitchen. Jeans, socks, drawers go flinging into the machine, but Denys pauses as he picks up Theo’s brown Dickies sweatshirt. It’s the type usually worn by men in the construction field, but it’s not the item’s lack of fashion value that grabs Denys’ attention. It's how the thing is pendulously weighted at the bottom.

It's all centered in the front pockets, and a hand-thrust later, Denys knows why. He extracts five pens of various design and color, followed closely by eight compact notepads.

Curious, Denys flips the cover of the one evincing the most extensive use. The man reads:

“Day 162 of the war. The weather holds from yesterday, but the smell of human rot is all around. I pray for Rudi every day.

“I plan on going to my former elementary school and seeing if I can find any mementoes of my old life. The building was among the first the occupiers shelled, although why, no one knows—”

Denys checks several of the other notebooks. Each page he glances over is filled to the brim with the boy’s meticulous, minute handwriting, no doubt done in an effort to use every millimeter of space available to Theo. What Denys realizes he’s looking at is a remarkable diary of what the youth’s seen and experienced from the first day of the war until the present.

Eyeing the closed bedroom door, he places the pens and notepads neatly on the table next to the young man’s belt, wallet and pocket possessions.

Then Denys starts the laundry.

He’s about halfway through his first cup of coffee when that particular portal swings wide. Behind it treads a sleepy Theo, and Denys fills a second mug, walking it over to his houseguest. He places it in the teenboy’s hand with an over-the-top “Good morning, sunshine!”

Theo nods, like the little cloud of adolescent gloom he feels.

But, paying no heed to it, Denys maneuvers around the kid to get into his room with a grin. “Go sit down,” he calls back. “I’ll have kasha for us before you know it.”

The boy does as bid, sitting on a stool at the bar-height counter which separates the living space from the food-prep area.

When Denys comes out, he’s dressed for the day and totes a small stack of clothes.

“There,” he says, plopping them down on the seat next to the drowsy teenboy. “Those should fit you fine.”

Suddenly alert, Theo shoots a WTF! look to the man. He signs something hurriedly.

Denys gets the drift of the question and points to the now-sudsy door of the undercounter washer.

The kid stands, panic in his darkening eyes.

“Don’t worry,” says Denys. “They’re over there.”

Following the man’s pointing, Theo is relieved to see his notebooks high and dry on the coffee table.

“Now”—Denys claps his hands together in eagerness—“I’ll make breakfast, and you better eat up. We have a busy day ahead of us!”

v v v v

Some ninety minutes later, the pair find themselves involved in a very different task.

Dressed all in black clothes, with equally dark but empty backpacks slung over shoulders, the two haul up before the door of an indoor storage unit.

Theo holds both knapsacks as Denys crouches to unlock the rollup door at the floor. To Theo’s perplexed expression when the reporter stands again, Denys explains, “A contact of mine in the Occupation Administration gave keys to me and a few others for storage lockers around town where food is stashed.”

Denys kicks the door up with his palm, and Theo looks in on shelves of boxed MREs – military ready to eat meals – all with the trident logo of the Ukrainian Armed Forces emblazoned on them.

Astounded, Theo pulls out his phone and taps a quick message, which he holds up for Denys to read. “Won’t one of you steal everything for themselves?”

Denys indulges in an easy-going snicker. “My friend gave keys to Ukrainians; not to Russians! Not to the Orcs, krolyk.”

Theo bristles at this new pet name, the second of the day from Denys. As if this morning’s sunshine wasn’t bad enough, now the man calls him rabbit. But, what started as a sour reaction quickly transforms; no one had ever referred to him – even in jest – with such a cute and cuddly nickname before, and the crusty-feeling youth slowly, perhaps unaccountably, cottons to it all of a sudden.

Chuckling himself, the teenboy taps out another message: “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Amazed, Denys replies, “No. How did you know?”

“You don’t talk like people from this area. You’re too chipper.”

Now Denys laughs openly. “Well, if jaded city folks feel that way, it must be true. But I’m originally from the Dnipro region.”

Theo writes: “Farm boy!”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. My folks own a few hundred acres and employ professionals to manage planting and harvesting. I went to university here in Kherson, met my future partners and stayed.”

“Your parents must miss you.”

An emotional crack rupturing his voice, Denys tells the kid, “They do. When I was home for Christmas in January this year, none of us knew how our lives were about to be . . . overturned. So, now all they tell me is, come home; come home.”

By Denys’ truncated silence following this, Theo knows not to press for any more information. The teenboy can respect a person’s privacy. He hopes others can respect his own with patience and the forbearance of a sympathetic heart.

v v v v

Their backpacks filled, former newspaper man and high school student had spent hours using narrow streets and alleyways to deliver MREs to shut-ins too afraid to venture out of their apartments to even look for food.

Theo liked how many knew Melnyk’s name – the older ones always using the reporter’s full styling of given, patronymic, and family designation when addressing him. A few of these senior folks had invited man and boy in for tea, which they as guests could not refuse. Sitting with them, the young man had realized just how alone these people really are; some widowed, all with family fled at the start of the war, and provided with nothing but Occupation TV and radio to listen to. Some seem more than physically able of making the trip to safety, but turn out to be too stubborn or resigned to meeting the city’s fate to try and get out while they can.

Walking as they are now, on the shadowy side of the thoroughfare – all their deliveries made, and the flavor of afternoon growing long in the mouth – Theo thinks about the noble determination to serve others he’s seen from Denys. The journalist also appears ready to call out bullshit wherever he finds it; to hate force and love kindness. Regarding the man as he strides by his side, Theo finds much to admire – perhaps emulate – in Denys Zhdanovich Melnyk. At least he’s an honorable guy, that’s for sure.

Sensing the young man’s inspection of him, but failing to properly read the boy’s thoughts, Denys lets slip with a question he knows he shouldn’t ask. “Why is it you’re mute?”

He regrets it the moment it’s out, for Theo’s formerly bright blues switch to an instantaneous pissed-off depth.

The teenboy extracts his phone, testily tapping out: “Pan Melnyk, look here – if you please.” A finger swipe later, the screen displays a website.

The man takes the phone to read as they continue walking.

ANARTHRIA

Rare in terms of being a single-cause condition, pure anarthria is clinically defined as the more-or-less total inability to articulate speech. This is in respect to there being no auditory comprehension issues, or cognitive impairments related to language use or the learning of language.

“I see.” Embarrassed by his previous ignorance, Denys nods, returning the kid’s phone to him. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I imagine it gets to be a drag, having to answer everybody’s ignorant questions.”

The young man nods, typing: “And say non-verbal communicator. Don’t say ‘mute’.”

“Got it. I’ll do better, I promise.

Theo blinks, not prepared to fully believe in a stranger’s oath, and yet, somehow, wanting to take Denys at his word.

Almost by way of changing subjects, the man tells Theo, “And, by the way, I suppose I’m somewhat flattered you think of me like one of your high school teachers, but you should save the Pan stuff for others.”

The boy’s moodiness departed, Denys dares to add, “Your High Exalted Lordship Denys is good enough for me.”

The kid laughs in a nearly silent way, and Denys greets it like sunshine through parting clouds.

Nevertheless, they’re approaching a blind turn, and the reporter slows them up, parentally holding Theo back out of view with an outstretched arm. Denys peeks around the building corner first in an abundance of caution.

With no Orcs or their collaborators in sight, the pair enter a public square with a view of the Dnipro River off in the distance. They jog up to the base of a statue recognizable to anyone familiar with the city.

Here, Denys pulls out his own phone and tells Theo, “I’m going to film myself. I do it to document Kherson’s fall for future times. I upload it to my Telegram channel for all my subscribers to see, and I try to do it daily; if I can.” He pauses to chortle. “It’s what I was doing yesterday when I first saw you.”

The teenboy smiles, a little.

“How do I look?”

Theo gives two thumbs up.

But as Denys assumes his usual selfie pose – with phone at the end of his elongated left arm – Theo gestures with ‘gimme’ fingers and takes over as cameraman.

Rolling, Denys starts.

“Greetings, all, from Kherson. It’s day 244 of Russia’s warring on the Ukrainian people.

“You should know, in this city, people are still locking themselves inside. Afraid a knock on the door will mean goons are there to force them to leave for camps in Russia. Or, they are there to take their young men to be enslaved as cannon fodder in the Orcs’ army, and told to kill Ukrainian heroes or be killed themselves.

“For we who have decided to stay until the final moments, the topic of conversations always comes around to speculation on just how the occupiers will decide to do it.

“Will the Kremlin order Kherson’s destruction come from Russian shells and rockets? Will it arrive in the form of radioactive contamination – from their dirty bombs detonated 1.5 kilometers in the air – meant to sicken thousands at once?

“Will they trigger the detonation wires on the explosives they’ve already planted on the Nova Kakhovs’ka Dam? Blow it up and flood everything downstream?

“And if they do destroy the dam, the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant will turn into a disaster six times worse than Chernobyl. Why? Because the dam reservoir feeds the cooling ponds. Drop the water level behind the dam, the ponds dry up, the six reactors have no way to cool themselves and melt down. It’s A, B, C.”

Denys inhales deeply, snapping out of his dire predictions like a chill had just gripped his spine.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but knowledge is power, and the more who know, the more there are who can possibly avert this disaster.

“But, in any event, I pledge once more to you that I’ll stick it out here, come hell or high water, until it’s all over for Kherson.”

He breathes in deep once again, this time producing a more thought-clearing result.

“So, as always, dear viewers, I ask you to leave your thoughts and comments below. Which way do you think the Russians will do it?

“Zhdan signing off until tomorrow, if there is to be a tomorrow.”

Theo clicks the recorder button off. He has trouble keeping his grip still though; most of the horrors Denys just listed are news to him. And what of the journalist’s dogged determination to be here when it all unfolds?

Theo is suddenly not so sure the attribute of flinty resolve he’d admired in Denys only a short time before is such a healthy thing after all. Perhaps it’s merely the place from within the man causing these sentiments to burn so adamantly that’s unwholesome. Theo wonders if he can help.

v v v v

Purgatorial hearts ever walk in limbo. Surely the work of Milton and Dante say no more than this. And yet the very notion of a purgatory belies belief in a temporary state of suffering; a plain of existence to pass out of, onto ever more sublime fields of felicity.

However, did not Dante as well as Milton simply suggest each person carries their own personal capacities for heaven and hell within them? If true, then each suffering state is a transitory one, and like the shade of Virgil to a daydreaming Dante, the guide we seek to lead us to release is a relatable form; a form perhaps come to us unbidden, but undeniably beautiful nonetheless.

Hours later, much of the day’s cares washed away by hot showers and a chilled bottle of white wine, Denys and Theo linger over the ‘dessert’ course of their evening repast. With only lit wicks in canning jars to bulwark the four corners of the kitchen table against the general darkness of the outside world, neither man nor boy hurry in their task of eating, and neither cares much that they still share their space with the dinner’s dirty dishes.

Their priority consists in passing the big packet of apricot jam between them. The particular ready-made meal they’d cracked into included the conserves, and this bright hit of summer sun tastes good on the hardtack biscuits from the same package, soaked for a while in the wine first to plump them up.

Denys chats while he munches. “These Ukrainian rations provide around 6,000 calories. That’s about what a soldier needs for their daily intake. But one is enough to last a civilian for three days, if they’re not very active. Or, it’s enough for two people for a single day.”

As the boy’s phone is charging, he’s reverted to one of his new notepads. He jots free and easy: “The jam is so good, I could eat this every day.”

“Watch what you wish for, sunshine.” Denys chuckles. “It’s luck of the draw with these things – apricot may be the only sweets in the next ten days of MREs we brought home.”

Feeling a bit jokey himself, Theo writes: “Yes, Pan Zhdanovich. I stand admonished.”

Denys likes this kid; he’s funny. “Drop the Pan, and I’ll try to ‘admonish’ you less.”

Theo grins, leaning back on his chair like he’s won.

The quiet gradually overtakes them once more, with the only noise coming from the delicate hiss of the flames consuming their fuel to make light, and man and boy polishing off the last of the biscuits.

Pressing at the back of Theo’s mind is a nagging need to know why someone as smart and well-connected as Denys has this apparent death wish to witness Kherson suffer at Russian hands when the Ukrainian Armed Forces push to liberate the city. But then again, glancing back to his notepads in the living room, he thinks he recognizes the familiar signs of survivor’s mourning in his host.

Very deliberately, so Denys will understand he asks in all seriousness, Theo enters on the paper: “Fedir and Nadiya, how is it you three first met?”

“Nadiya was two years ahead of me at university, but we hit it off right away. She was already with Fedir, but explained to me they were poly and open to . . . well, to expanding their home.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“At first?”

Theo nods.

“At first, it was an unknown concept to me. It seemed, somehow, foreign to my nature, growing up in a happy, mom and pop home myself. But – but”—he beams—“Nadiya intrigued me so much, and she told me their relationship was open, so the girl and I found out we were compatible, on so many levels.”

“And Fedir?”

Denys guffaws. “With him, we started out as buddies; laughing, joking, having beers and spending the afternoons watching soccer together on TV. I’d always known a part of me was into guys as well, and had played around a little – But, with Fedir, the ‘fit’ was different.”

Denys holds the teenboy’s eyes to see if the reporter is making any sense.

The kid purses his lips; shakes his head.

Denys grins, embarrassed. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just, growing up we never get exposed to seeing truly contented, settled Gay couples in the media: not on TV; not in the movies; maybe in some stories, I don’t know. So, as Fedir and I gradually built up feelings of more than simple friendship, it felt so right. It was – in a word – uncomplicated. Or, maybe it’s better to call it completely natural. He’d open his arms, and I’d walk into them.”

Back to his studiously composed manner, Theo spells out his next question very carefully. “And Fedir and Nadiya together with you, what were they like?”

“Well . . . . ” Denys stumbles at first, but then he lets their energy come and over-wash him in happy memories. “Nadiya was springtime. All fresh and optimistic. She loved music. Would always keep this place cheerful with cut flowers. But she could be tough when she felt we weren’t listening to her. And yet, she forgave us our wrongs as easily as a child; as quickly as she could turn her cheek, she gave us a smile.”

“Wow,” Theo writes in a flowing cursive, “that’s beautiful.”

“Yes. In a word – Nadiya was beautiful. So beautiful.”

“And—” the boy starts to pen.

“Fedir,” Denys says with swelling admiration, “was nothing short of amazing. The man did everything well”—he gestures around the apartment—“like his photography. Fedir was generous with everyone, and hard only on those he felt were holding back on their own potential. But his arms were always open; his heart free of any judgment, as long as others were sincere with him. He loved truth. He loved goodness, both in himself and those around him.”

A bit misty-eyed now, Denys doesn’t notice the young man compose his next question. The boy has to slide it across the table and under the man’s gaze.

In an immaculate hand appears: “Did you love Fedir as much as Nadiya? Your man as much as your girlfriend?”

Denys glances up, a smile illuminating his features; he’s relieved to get ‘an easy one.’

“Yes,” he affirms steadily, “I loved them both the same. I loved them for who they were, and who I was when I was with them.”

Although Denys had no problem addressing the boy’s query head on, he’s taken aback by the signs of what his answer means to Theo. Unsure of the exact emotions, the complex response the kid evidences gives the man pause. Helpless to dispel the notion, Denys again suspects homophobia is at work inside the teenboy’s mind.

Theo retrieves his pad and writes: “How much older was Fedir than you?”

“He’s seven years my senior.”

Theo giggles soundlessly as his pen asks: “So, you were his ‘boy’? His little rabbit?”

The shit-eating nature of the teasing of which the kid is indulging in is not lost on the journalist, but he chooses to ignore the ‘extra’ and reply earnestly to the fundamental question.

Spreading his palms and fingers flat on the tabletop, Denys responds, “Yes. Yes, I was. He taught me much about the art of being a man – an honest, take things in stride, open-handed adult. And I will love him forever for that.”

Once more, his words produce a noticeable impression on Theo. But other than the intense cast appearing in his eyes, Denys cannot read what exactly the young man’s thoughts may be.

v v v v

By bedtime, the pair had accomplished a lot. Dinner dishes had been washed, dried and put away, and laundry sorted and folded.

Such domestic chores, shared equally among willing hands, was oddly normal and comforting to them. It conjured without words the warm nostalgia of being amongst family once more.

And like good family, they left each other to their respective tasks: journal-keeping and the uploading of the day’s new video.

But now, at the end of it, and as Denys again readies his sofa cot for the night ahead, Theo comes up to him. He has typed on his phone: “I’ll grab the couch tonight. You go sleep in your bed.”

“Really? A host should—”

Theo nods in an adorably condescending way. ‘Yes, Dad’ it seems to say. With this half-grin in place, he takes the man to the bedroom door.

He pauses there, tapping out: “I had a great day.”

Now Denys grins too, but a shadow passes over the kid’s face, and he types slower, as if debating the exact wording he should use next.

Eventually, Denys reads: “Thank you. Thank you for . . . sharing. Sharing everything with me.”

Before the man can say anything, Theo holds his eyes and mouths through a warm expression, “Good night, Denys.”

Swallowing a bit, Denys replies, “Good night, Theo. And, you’re welcome.”

_