Escaping Kherson, a novella - 7. Day Seven

In writings and dramatizations of war, and of the people who must endure them firsthand, many are the eyewitnesses with a literary bent able to illuminate the inner turmoil of the victims. One famous author was a young soldier trapped in the ruthless invaders’ stranglehold bombardment of Sevastopol’. What he wrote is enough to make the flesh crawl, for man’s inhumanity to man gets reborn – or, reasserted – in those springtimes when young men die in fields of ‘honor’ at the orders of disgraceful old men sitting on cushions in the lap of capital-city luxury, far from any plain strewn with the death they wielded as lightly as a teacup.

But those in the fray who are commanded directly to inflict the scythe-cuts of starvation, slaughter, mayhem and chaos – and those in and out of uniform who are designated to receive them for arbitrary attributes like nationality or race or language or prayer or whom they love – know the old maxim holds true. As deadly as wars are, it's the start and end of them that prove the most dangerous to survive.

Oftentimes, an innocent to the combat simply cannot move out of the way quick enough.

For Denys and Theo, midmorning of the seventh day after the reporter encountered the teenboy rooting through a ransacked convenience store, shone in the splendor of liberation all around the military truck rumbling on the road for Mykolayiv.

In the back, the pair sit on the floor, side by side, letting slow degrees of relief wash over them.

However, there was work to do first. Denys holds his phone out as far as he can with his left hand. His right is hugging Theo close to him as he begins his update.

“Greetings, all, from the road to freedom. It’s – I don’t even know what day of the war . . . but, Theo and I are liberated.

“We made it across the frontlines and are headed to safer, Ukrainian, territory.”

He glances at the boy.

“We can’t properly express how it feels, because it’s like starting a new day, or week, or even a new year in a time you never imagined you’d live long enough to see. At least, for me that’s the case.

“However, for Theo here, he saw things more pragmatically. He also envisioned a future for Kherson I’ve ignored – in my shit blindness – and there’s nothing I would like better than reading some of the young man’s words for you.”

Theo nods and hands over the pre-selected passage, which has been flipped to the top on its notepad.

Denys holds it and reads:

“Today, as I wandered alone on this beautiful summer’s afternoon, seeing the image of Rudi on all that is colorful and free, I thought a startling thing. What if Kherson is all right?

“What if the park I was walking through is someday filled with families once more? What if the carousels start their roundabout motions again? What if children’s laughter floats as high as warm currents of air, up to the clouds and beyond, to buoy the spirits of their martyred parents?

“What if Kherson is all right? Liberated with the Russians forced to pull back to a position from which they cannot harm the city’s population anymore?

“Yes. Then imagine – people will flood the streets with blue and gold banners. Grandmothers will weep to see their uniformed grandsons in Ukrainian colors stride up to their gates. Crowds will throng the first vehicles rolling into the public squares, and in the best of national traditions, they will bring the flowers of joy to bestow upon their brows; they will bring loaves of bread to sustain their bodies in wholesome, homegrown nutrition; and they will bring salt to enliven each heart and give it relish in the simple joy of having life.

“Yes, I thought to myself, what if Kherson is all right?

“So from this day forward, with Rudi’s blessings from above, I will live like this vision is to be reality. Freedom will return.”

Denys, quite emotional now, hands the writing back to its author.

He focuses on the livestream.

“What do you think, dear viewers? Are you like me and hope Theo’s vision comes to pass? As always, I invite you to leave your thoughts and comments down below.

“Theo and Zhdan signing off . . . until, tomorrow.”

The man draws his phone back to him and ends the stream. Holding his boy’s beautifully clear baby-blues, Denys tells him, “We did it, rabbit. We made it out alive.”

At last the full weight of relief settles on them both, slumping their shoulders as they slide farther along the floor, the boy’s head cradled on the man’s arm.

Yes, they had made it out indeed. Although it was with nothing but the clothes on their backs, Theo’s notebooks, and their cellphones, they wanted for nothing more. Theirs was to be a day of rest.

Pulling out his phone once more, Denys nearly apologizes as he says, “I have to make one more call, little star.”

The boy nods, and Denys holds the device up again to capture both of them. His videocall is ringing.

Picture and sound arrive. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Mom, Denys. I’m out of Kherson, and on the safe side—”

He has to wait. The screen image goes to a blur while happy, inarticulate squealing erupts from the other end.

“Listen, Mom,” Denys says gently, “I’m coming home. And, I’m bringing a friend.”

~

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