What Was Lost
Poland found the journal under some old uniforms and, upon seeing the text inside, wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Ew, Cyrillic!" He held the aged volume away from his body toward Lithuania, who set aside his duster and took it. "You need to get rid of everything from that bossy russki," he said forcefully, as if throwing away history was an easy task. Lithuania frowned deeply.
That night he caught the last train from Vilnius to Moscow, arriving in the old city mid-afternoon when many men and women were still at work, though the traffic remained bad as always. Walking would have been faster, but taking a cab and sitting in the line of angry parked cars gave him the time he needed to collect his thoughts and his courage. The yellow sun set the city on fire and baked the occupant inside the back of the cab. The smell of exhaust fumes and hot metal and concrete made the already-stifling air unbearably dense. Outside, drivers slung insults at each other like bullets and car horns blared like sirens. All the streets and buildings they inched by were as familiar to him as his own, except they were different from before, changed through time like meeting someone you hadn't seen in many, many years.
"What brings you to Moscow?" the cab driver asked. "Business?" he guessed, looking at Lithuania's suit in the rear-view mirror.
Lithuania thought of the journal tucked securely in his suitcase and stared at the Russian flag on the cover of a tourist map a kind-looking woman had handed him in the metro. "Nyet. I am visiting a friend." Even though he hadn't spoken the language in years, it came naturally to him and he didn't hesitate to use it.
Finally, he reached the house that was once shared by all the Soviets. He passed through the iron gate and walked down the faded red brick pathway with trepidation, old feelings rising in his throat with a bad taste. It suddenly occurred to him how presumptuous he was to show up unannounced with a suitcase packed for several days. Alas, the thought came too late; he was there, and with a slightly shaking hand, he knocked.
Russia's eyes widened as he saw who was at his door even as his lips stretched into a smile to see the suitcase in Lithuania's hand and the pensive expression on his face. "Did you fight with Poland?" were the first words from his mouth, even before a 'hello'.
"Yes," Lithuania half-lied, and Russia's smile grew even more. He stepped aside and welcomed Lithuania into his home.
They had a light dinner followed by drinks, strong Russian vodka that boiled in Lithuania's brain and burnt away the initial awkwardness of being in the house again. Russia drank and laughed and joked, and Lithuania smiled with him for a long time until the clock struck the late hour and somewhere through the hazy atmosphere of uncertain feelings and alcohol he remembered the original purpose of his visit.
"I brought something for you," he explained before excusing himself. He fetched the journal from his room to place before Russia. Russia opened it curiously. The shot glass fell from his hand when he read the date- January 2, 1796- on the first page.
"This is…! Katya!" He touched the paper in disbelief, tracing a finger under the slanted writing. Lithuania looked on from where he stood. "How did you get this?"
"The night the delegates came to make the 'new Russia', I was upstairs straightening your study," he said, taking a bold step closer. "When I heard them, I realized what was going to happen. You had left the journal on your writing desk and without thinking I stuffed it under my shirt. I put on my coat and made to go buy firewood for the stove, intending to hide it in the lid of the wood box until things settled down, but then you asked me to make tea, so I had to go to the kitchen. One of the delegates followed me. Maybe he suspected something. You remember how paranoid we were in those days. The journal bulged through my shirt and I couldn't take my coat off in front of him, so I asked him to bring me the silver samovar you kept on top of the china cabinet. I waited until his back was turned and I stashed the journal in the only place I could reach in time: in the box of cabbages I had taken from the pantry to use for dinner."
For a painful moment, the silence dug its claws into his skin. Then Russia broke it with a short, cracked laugh.
"My little Lithuania is so quick-thinking," he said and looked up, eyes wet with standing tears. He laughed again, only this time it sounded more like crying.
To clear up any misconceptions, the idea behind this is that during the rise of Communist Russia, Russia's belongings which he'd collected throughout his history would have been 'donated' to the new regime, and Lithuania saved one of Catherine the Great's journals.
I'm trying this new (read: old but I just read about it for the first time and am really excited) thing called short-short stories. No resolution, no backstory, just a provocative scene in 2000 words or less. I like it. It's the one-night stand of writing! Who likes short-shorts? I like short-shorts!
As for my other projects... orz