The Letter

(Author's Note: For those that do speak Russian, please note that the Russian phrases quoted here and their English "translations" don't match. At all. If you happen to know what an appropriate translation of the English to Russian quotes are, please feel free to tell me so I can correct it.)


THE LETTER


The harvest would be soon. The heads of the winter wheat were just reaching their peak. The old farmer passed his wizened eye over the field. It had been a poor season. The field was dotted with dark pockmarks where young grain had been struck down by an early frost. The heads were not as full as they could be, either. The farmer ran his hand over a crisp stalk, curling his fingers around the grain and carefully pulled the seeds away. He rolled them in his palm contemplatively.

It would not be enough to make this season’s payments, and those that usually bought his seed could not. The war had stricken them all, just like the field. The only one left to buy was the government. As soon as the harvest was in, he would receive his payment, or a promise of one, and the precious seeds would be processed and shipped out to feed their soldiers abroad. To feed his son on the battlefield.

The farmer breathed out a sigh and let the seeds fall to the ground as he turned and walked back toward the house. A sliver of smoke rose steadily from the chimney, blending effortlessly into the gray clouds. It was so cold…

The old man moved like the years, slowly, constantly, carefully. He had seen much in his time and knew that everything came to pass without his worrying. He walked steadily towards the house, the tool acting as a support as he allowed his mind to wander. It had been two years since the war began, two years since his son joined the Infantry to fight for his country. He was so proud of the lad, proud of what he was, proud of what he had become. But there was a pang in his heart that knew that his boy was proud to die for his country. The father’s step faltered a moment. He was proud and he knew…

There was a letter waiting for him on the table. His wife stood patiently by as the farmer eased himself down and with a steady hand opened the envelope. He knew his boy’s handwriting when he saw it.

Dear Father:          

The muffled whump of mortars ripping apart the earth beat a constant, chaotic tempo. Rifles crackled and popped from both sides of the abandoned town as bullets ricocheted off of clay walls and shattered windows. The ground below the soldiers’ feet buckled and writhed from the force of the explosions and the tanks as they punched through the narrow streets.

Lieutenant Tarasov crouched behind brick wall, rifle gripped in tightly in his hands. Fanned out around him were the remnants of his unit, the rest lay dead in the streets, or underneath rubble. They had been fighting in this wretched town for a day and a half now, with little ground being gained and more lives lost than it was worth.

As the German infantry prowled closer, Tarasov and his men continued shooting, hoping to take as many out before they were overrun. Behind him, in a voice that was barely a whisper, Starshina Nikitin repeated the last words of the Lieutenant’s letter that he had transcribed only hours before.

“A good citizen dies for his country. Ili grud' v krestakh, ili golova v kustakh.” He spoke with the earnest reverence of a prayer.

Tarasov ignored the man and waited for a German helmet to appear as the ground rippled from an exploding shell in the next street over. His mind was only on his family back home: his father working the fields, his mother tending the house, his brother, too lame to fight, and his sister too pregnant to carry a gun. He snapped back on the trigger, eyes darting away from the falling corpse to pick off another soldier.

They were counting on him; his country was counting on him to fight his best in the name of Russia, doing his all to defend her, and then to lay down his life for her. Another German fell to the ground. The tremors from an approaching tank shook the rubble of the house.

The Starshina’s mantra echoed louder. “Ili grud' v krestakh, ili golova v kustakh.”

The air grew still and hot as the shell fell in the midst of the crumbling brick house, and then the world seemed to disappear. Long minutes later, the rhythm of German boots tamped out the Russian soldier’s whisper.

“A good citizen dies for his country.”

The farmer closed his eyes, set the letter down and walked out the door. He limped down the dirt road, past the house, the dying fields, and the old grain silo that would not hold enough for his soldier.