Ch 40 1945

Over the past four years, the public had grown into the habbit of listening to battle reports from radio or loudspeakers, if the situation allowed. In 1941, their faces were grim and sombre; after four years of struggle in tears, sweat and blood, in the spring of 1945, the grief and indignation were replaced with optimism and joy.

Victory wasn't out of reach. She was nearby. Almost here.

In the spring, Toris Lorinaitis was listening to the battle report from the military hospital. He was severely wounded in April and his right leg below the knee was amputated. The ambulance carried him to Moscow and they put prosthetic on him.

It was a warm evening of May, he stood up from the wheelchair and made the first step with his prosthetic. The setting sun looked over the hallway window of the hospital and cast dazzling purple and red glow upon him. Outside the window in the lilac bush, several skylarks were mumbling in their dopey conversations.

A burst of sorrow rose up in his heart. He suddenly lost his balance and fell on the floor. The prosthetic hit the ground, producing a dull sound.

"Comrade! Please be patient. You will eventually get used to it…"

"I will!" He supported himself with the elbows, one hand stubbornly (but still in a polite way) pushed away the nurse's hand who wanted to help him up. "It has been four years. We have gotten used to many difficult things…"

Toris struggled up. He put his abraded right hand on the handrail, moving forward in slow and difficult steps. When he reached the end of the hallway, he let go of the handrail, turned around and walked back toward the nurse in his unsteady steps, slowly but firmly.

"Sister, I would very much love to live on!" The young man who was always quiet and humble said loudly, "Even if losing both legs, without arms, eyes or being disfigured from gasoline bombs, I would still love to live on!"

He didn't know the name of this nurse who had short light blonde hair, so he just called her sister like many other wounded soldiers in the hospital. She wasn't even thirty yet, but on her modest and loving face there was a motherly expression—an expression on the faces of many women who lost families from the war but bravely undertook life's burden.

"Living is a brave and wonderful thing!" Melancholy swept across her blue eyes. "Your family will be very happy."

"I lost my family before the war." He replied peacefully with a smile on his face, "So from then on, I learned to be brave."

"I'm so sorry…But you must have a girl? How can a good boy like you not have a lover? She will be happy too…"

He turned his face toward the window. The setting sun reflecting in his eyes was burning quietly.

"Perhaps there was one…or it was just my wishful thinking…" Suddenly he turned around and said with a serious face, "Why bother thinking about these things? I have so much to do. I will go back to Moscow University and finish my study. I'll become an astronomist…"

"But why don't you go find her? She must be waiting for you…"

"Let her think that I'm dead. She's so beautiful. I hope she finds a healthy man, someone better than me…"

He didn't finish the sentence because to his surprise, an uncontrollable anger was flashing inside the nurse's tender-looking eyes.

"Coward! Coward…I thought you were a hero…but just another coward! She must be waiting for you but you are hiding from her…No matter what my Andrei looks like when he comes back, he's always my husband and my children's father…They sent me his death notice back in '42, but come to think of it now, maybe they collaborated to lie to me while he hid himself in a disability sanatorium somewhere…One day, I will go through all the sanatoriums in the country and catch him. I will look into his eyes and say, 'Ah, you coward. You were never afraid of the Fascists but afraid of your own wife…'"

Her voice was hoarse, but she didn't cry. Maybe, all her tears had dried up for long. She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her slender hand and her voice became apologetic,

"I'm sorry, comrade…Go rest, don't stay up too late…"

Toris couldn't fall asleep. In the vast sea of snorings, he lift up a corner of the window curtain by his bed. Moscow had removed the light control at night and the golden lights inside hundreds and thousands of windows appeared before his eyes.

A gallant figure far away remained recognizable. It was the bronze statue of Pushkin in the street park. In that harsh early winter's evening of 1941, he held the girl's hand for the first time in his life at the feet of the poet who sang for love and spring.

And now in this night of lovely May, an entire sky's brilliant stars above the poet's head could not match the one in the north sky—the bright and sublime beauty. She was like a lovely girl, radiating all her light and beauty upon the land. In those early years that was never to return, the first star he saw on Feliks' balcony with uncle Lukasiewicz's telescope was her.

He looked upon the distant night sky with all his tenderness from childhood to his adolescent years, and perhaps, fell into a dream. At the break of dawn, earth-shaking outcrys woke him up.

He missed the important announcement on the radio in his sleep, but in an instant he knew and threw himself into the sea of laughters and tears—

"Ura! Ura! U—ra—"

After one thousand four hundred and eighteen days and nights of gunfires, and after sacrificing twenty-seven million lives, what else could possibly make everyone laughing out loud and bursting into tears at the same time.

That day was May 9, 1945.

Toris dragged his prosthetic and jumped off the bed. Doctors, nurses, wounded soldiers, workers—all the moving, talking, breathing people inside the hospital were shouting, laughing, crying, hugging and kissing. He got out from one hug before falling into the next. The old doctor in charge called out a few young soldiers who had recovered to go fetch several barrels of precious home-made wine from his nearby home. The wine was made for welcoming his sons from the war, but none of them returned to the old father.

"Drink, drink, my dear…" The old doctor poured everyone a cup like a father, "We've been pretty harsh on you, but today is an exception…"

Toris drank up the first cup of wine, then dressed up and stumbled out of the hospital, rushing into the first day of peace. Everywhere on the streets were Moscow citizens running out from their homes. Hats in all shapes and sizes were thrown high into the air. Someone took down the wooden sign of "bombshelter" from the wall, slammed on the ground and danced on top of it.

He walked among the cheering crowd like a toddler just learned to walk. In the street park not far away, among the jolly violins, accordions and trumpets stood the immortal Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin. The poet stepped over the ninteenth century, over that early winter's evening of 1941 and over this mild spring night, rejoicing with everyone in the first day of peace.

By the poet stood a girl. She was singing. In Toris' memory, she was always in army coat and army boots, with hair bun tightly tide at the back. But today, May 9, 1945, for the first time he saw the girly appearance that should had always belonged to her. She was in a dress of blue and white and a pair of delicate leather shoes. The blonde hair was let down, gently waving in the fresh morning wind. She won this day with her four years youthful life in the war.

Tears blurred his vision. His entire heart could feel that her face was shining golden sunlight but stars were gleaming in her eyes. The stars swept across her face and silently fell onto her singing lips.

It was her, Natasha. She was as beautiful as the peaceful day itself.

"Natasha! My girl! My singing little star!"

Natasha pushed through the crowd and came to him. She didn't shake hand with him, nor hug or kiss. She knelt down solemnly and placed her lips on his prosthetic.

-TBC