PIROSHKI ON THE ZERO LINE

 

Tom Hickerson

 

 

 

            The Mongol invaders took the priests, tied them to trees, and set them on fire. A few villagers escaped into the hills but one thin shivering girl lost her way in the dark forest.  She walked for hours, keeping her footsteps and  panicked breathing silent, straining to catch a sound of the others. Seeing a flicker of light through the trees, she stumbled towards it and found dark figures gathered around a campfire. They looked over their shoulders at the ragged girl.

            One, an old woman muttered, “Who is it this time?”

            “Mongols,” said an older woman.”We’ll survive them too.”

            “Little one,” a young woman asked, “what’s your name?”

            “M-maria,” the girl finally whispered.

            “You’re Ioan’s daughter.”        

            “Yes! Where is she?”

            “Ah girl, perhaps she’ll be here soon. Come, sit by me.  Have some soup.”

            The girl sat by the warm fire and ate quietly, tears falling into her soup.

            “Do you know what today is?” asked the woman.

            “N-no.”

            “It’s the feast day of Saint Leonidas.  Come, let’s pray, for your mother, for all who lose their way in difficult times, that they may find peace and safety.  Later, we can make some flour, and bake piroshki for them.  Would you like that?”

            The girl nodded quietly.

            The woman patted her head.  “What do you think, Maria Ioan-ovna, cabbage or apple?”

 

            Maria Ivanovna woke to sunlight streaming into her small house.  She lit a candle, said a prayer, and checked the red-and-white paper calendar tacked to her bedroom wall.  It was April 29th, the day of the Martyr Michael of Smyrna, and also the day of Holy Martyr Leonidas, who had been thrown into the sea, but the sea sent him safely back.  Saved through his faith, she’d been told.   Faith is salvation, they said.  Faith is strength.

            Well, Maria thought, I can bake something for the feast day of Leonidas.  At least a few batches.

            She drank her tea and fed her cat.  She searched out ingredients —  a fresh cabbage near the door where it was still cold at night, a few apples on the table.  Flour in the kitchen cupboard, as always.

            She mixed the dough, then pounded it into shape with rough, calloused hands.  Her skin was dark from a lifetime working in the gardens and kitchens, caring for others in her small village.  While the dough rose and rested, she said another prayer.  She chopped the apples and cabbage, and cooked them separately, on the black iron wood stove.  A mix of sweet and savory, she thought.  They always love a bit of both.

            The late morning light shone in as she prepared the basket.  She lined it with gauze, and wrapped each piroshki in thin paper, so the butter wouldn’t coat the fingers.  She gently covered the whole basket with gauze, to keep the dust of the road off them.

            There.  They’ll appreciate this.  She saw them in her mind’s eye, young ones losing their way.  But they’d find her instead.

            The sun was high when she stepped from her home, dressed warmly, hair tucked under her kerchief, and wicker basket in her arms.

 

            The volunteers finished their day collecting stray dogs from the war zone.  Every cage held dogs, shaking, panting, and very hungry.  Maksym, a junior lieutenant with a stubbly beard and dark, thick hair, had the commander’s car to accompany them and make sure they got out safely.  Once they reached the checkpoint at Konstantinyvka they honked, waved, and headed back to Kharkiv.

            Maksym had pulled an additional duty — picking up a new medic for his unit.  Her name was Juliya, a short, stern girl, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Her straight brown hair was braided up in a circlet and tucked inside her helmet. 

            The route back to Bakhmut was clear on the GPS, but the battalion was on the move, so they had to get going quickly.  It was midday when he picked her up and it was slow going, with the Russians monitoring or jamming communications.

            The GPS turned off as they got into the city, “Signals jammed,” Maksym said.  He checked a scribbled map to make sure he was on the right track.  They drove through the silent city, the grey, washed-out buildings blackened, broken, and abandoned.  Bakhmut had been home to seventy thousand people before the war, but now only two or three thousand remained.  Everyone else had been evacuated.

            Juliya studied a printed map.  “There’s still a Chaikovskogo Street?  And a Pushkin Lane?  We haven’t renamed those?”

            Maksym heard the nervousness in her voice.  Talking to calm down? Not a bad idea. 

            “At least they changed the town’s name,” he said.  “But street names take a while — the house documents, where the bills go.  Nobody can do that now, especially…” he paused, steering around a large hole in the street, “those who evacuated.”

            “True,” she said.  “Where is the battalion heading?”

            “South, to Sadova Street, and maybe east a few blocks, to Myru Street.”

            Juliya shook her head and grumbled, “Hah, Myru.  When Russians say Russky Mir they don’t mean Russian Peace.”

            “No, they mean Russian World, as in it’s all theirs.”

            They passed a ragged line of trenches and foxholes, the silence punctuated with distant artillery fire. Juliya looked over at Maksym’s call sign, stitched on the front of his vest. “Call sign Royale?  Did you work at a casino?”

            “Ha, no. Kharkiv Philharmonic.  I play piano.  A good gig.  They had just rebuilt the concert hall… And you?  Call sign Brick?”

             “A guy came onto me the first day of training and I threatened him with a brick.  The name stuck.”

            Maksym smiled.  “I know a guy call sign Concrete.  Brick, concrete — lets people know you’re solid.”

            She snorted. 

            The thunder of shells in the distance shook them out of their camaraderie.  “Contact,” muttered Maksym.  “You might have work to do when you get there.” He looked at her questioningly.

            Juliya shifted in her seat and nodded.  “I’ve been at the hospital long enough to know.  I volunteered for the front to be at the first stages of treatment.  Triage and initial care is vital, so small problems don’t turn into big ones.  Focus on small problems, and big ones work themselves out.”

            She looked up to see they were surrounded by collapsed buildings and abandoned houses. Her voice shook, “Are you sure we’re on the right track?”

            “I think so, but we should have seen a sign for Sadova.  Let me make a turn -“

            The blast was right in front of them.  The fireball rose up from the road as the force wave jolted the vehicle.  A shower of dirt, rocks, and asphalt rained down.  It was too late to break so Maksym veered around it at high speed, running over rubble and through heavy smoke, and kept accelerating.  Coughing, eyes burning and tear-filled, trying to focus, to speed away from the burning ruin of the blast site.  Their ears popped.

            Julia looked back into the smoke.  A large rock from the blast was hurtling down the street toward them. “Rock!” Juliya yelled.  “Stay right!”

            Maksym jerked the wheel and it passed them.

             “We’re okay,” Maksym said.  “The car didn’t get hit.”

            “Breathe,” Juliya said, and relaxed her grip on the door handle.

            Maksym exhaled.

            Juliya looked around. The smoke was lifting to reveal homes dimly oulined behind a thick haze. They showed no signs of life. The air felt flat with silence. “Where are we?”

            Maksym looked at the dashboard compass. “Heading southwest again. We’ll find a cross-street and get to the others.”

            “This doesn’t look like the street we were on!”

            Maksym blinked, then steered abruptly to avoid an old woman standing on the side of the road, a wicker basket in her arms.

            He braked hard and stopped. They got out of the car, its color now a mix of camouflage, rust and old blood.  Fresh dirt caked the hood and windshield. The windows were cracked, only one headlight was working.

            It was so quiet.  Perhaps the blast had damaged their ears. Uneasy, they stared at the old woman.

            “Granny,” Maksym stammered, his breathing ragged, “good afternoon. What… what are you doing here?”

            “Well,” the old woman said, “this is where I live! And I’m selling my piroshki. You can try one for free.”

            “Granny,” Julyia asked, “all your neighbors have gone, maybe we can evacuate you?”

            “Oh, there’s no bothering with that, dear.  And where would I go? I’ve spent my entire life here.  Now wouldn’t you like something to eat?”

            They looked at the basket, and back at her. She was calm, smiling.

            “Well…well, what have you got?”

            “Cabbage and apple.”

            “Umm.  But we can’t just take them from you.”  Maksym’s breathing was starting to calm down.  “How much do you want for them?”

            “About five rubles apiece I think.”

            She must means hrivnas, Maksym thought.  Maybe she’s being cautious too.  If a Russian caught her out here asking for hrivnas, they’d shoot her.

            “Ha ha, maybe you meant kupony, or chervontsi?”  he said, trying to make it a joke with currencies the city had used over the last century.  He was uneasy.  It was so quiet.

            The old woman chuckled. “You can come back and pay me later, dears.”

            “Can you tell me your name and address? We’ll come back with the evacuators to get you.”

            “Maria Ivanovna Bondarenko, 38 Soborna Street,” she said, “but you don’t need to evacuate me.  I’m fine here.”

            “So this is Soborna Street right here?” asked Juliya, looking at her map.

            “That’s correct.  Take as many piroshki as you like, I’ll be here.”

            “Maria Ivanovna, you didn’t see other soldiers in the area, did you?  We’re looking for our battalion.”

            “Why yes, dear,” she said, “I heard engines south of here.  At the very end of Myru Street.  Almost at the edge of Artemivsk.”  She looked Juliya over.  “A female soldier?”

            “A medic.”

            “Oh!” the old woman said, nodding. “I’ve been a nurse myself at times. Always caring for others.”  She smiled softly at Juliya. “Just remember to work on the big problems too, dear.”

            “How did you –” started Juliya.

            “We really need to get going,” Maksym said, “and catch up to the others.  But we’ll send someone for you, Maria Ivanovna.”

            “I understand, dear,” Maria said.  She turned back to Juliya, “And I’ll say a prayer for you.  Us znakhars, you know, we need to watch out for each other.”

 

            Maksym drove as Juliya inhaled the scent of the piroshki.

            “Do you think they’re safe?  She could have poisoned them.  Some of our partisans have done the same.”

            “I don’t think so,” said Maksym.  “But our sappers have dogs working with them.  We’ll let the dogs sniff them, just in case.”

            “How’d we wind up on Soborna?”

            “I don’t know. I was sure we weren’t that close to the river.”

            “This is insane, civilians this close to the contact line,” Juliya said. “And rubles?  Artemivsk?  She’s not aware it’s been Bakhmut since 2016?”

            “It’s probably what she’s known all her life,” said Maksym.  “Lots of my relatives are the same.  When was she born, 1939, 1940?  Her entire life has been bookended by wars.”

            “What is znakhar?”

            “It’s what they called village doctors, a century or two ago. It means shaman.  Or witch doctor.”

            “Her? And me?”

            “Did you feel something?  My ears popped again.”

            She shook her head.  “Being that close to the hit, I’m not surprised.  Look, here’s a turn. Myru should be coming up soon.”

 

            “38 Soborna Street?  That’s bombed flat.  No houses, not even a tree.  Are you sure that’s the address she gave?”

            The commander eyed them suspiciously, while he looked over his car.  They’d met several turns after Myru and moved to safety outside the edge of Bakhmut.  More thunder roared in the distance.  Contact was happening on the line, but no casualties had come in yet.

            “That’s the address. I heard it too,” Juliya said.

            “We’ll send a drone over, but it’s the Zero Line.  Nobody’s getting even remotely close without exposing themselves to orc artillery.  You didn’t drive through that area, right?”

            Maksym looked down, confused.  The street they’d ended up on had been peaceful.  He looked at Juliya and saw her confusion as well.

            “I guess not,” he finally said. “I guess she gave us a fake address, so we wouldn’t evacuate her.”

            The commander shook his head.  “Maybe, or maybe she’s too old to remember.”  He looked into the bag of piroshki again.  “Is there another apple one in there?” he asked.  “These are delicious.”

 

            Maria Ivanovna woke in her home to the sun streaming through the window.  She checked the red & white paper calendar tacked to her wall.  It was April 29^th, the day of the Martyr Michael of Smyrna and the Holy Martyr Leonidas, as it always would be, though the years shifted and so many wars crossed the land.  She found the cabbage where it was every morning, apples always managed to be in the kitchen, and the flour was right where she needed it.  She lit a candle, had her tea, fed her cat, and began to pray. 

            The women had taught her that faith, caring, helping, was strength. She prayed as she had learned from them, gathered around the fire, hiding in the forest and caves from Mongol invaders. She prayed to the Martyr Leonidas, who had been thrown into the ocean to drown, only to be washed back out. 

            She prayed for the boy and the girl, almost swallowed by the war but who’d found her instead.  She would pray for the next to find her, and the next, for all who lost their way in war, chaos, and strife, but found her instead. 

            Time ebbed around her home, her prayers were heard, and her oven baked.  The dough was rising and turning golden.  This next batch would be a good one.

 

 

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