Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“Agreed,” glumly replied Kolya. “I want to make music in America.”

Vlad shrugged. “Good luck.”

On the way home Vlad regretted the additional stain on his already overburdened conscience. He’d held out a false hope to Nikolay and secretly recorded their conversation. He would come clean about the recording once Nikolay was safe and unlikely to do anything rash, but this thought did little to lighten the mounting burden of guilt. It seemed to flow through his veins like poison that would infect everyone he touched.

The street in front of his apartment building was blocked by emergency vehicles and a fire truck. The smell of smoke became stronger as he approached the entrance, and the premonition of last night’s dream hollowed his stomach.

Men in protective gear descended the stairs toward the landing below his apartment. The blue paint on the walls bore smudges of soot scored with rivulets of water. The smell became oppressive. Vlad rushed up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” One of the firemen restrained him.

“I live here!” he cried, shoving the fireman aside. “What happened?”

“A gas leak.” Was the laconic reply, as though such things were an everyday occurrence. It apparently led to the fire. Unfortunately, a woman died — the only casualty.” He attempted without much success to appear sympathetic. “Could you identify her? Who was she to you? Mother?”

Maybe the smell of smoke was too strong — he was suddenly faint, his will paralyzed to the point that he could no longer think. He stood there unable to move at the threshold staring into the scorched apartment that was now stained in the black and ash gray tones of death, like an old movie drained of color. In a breeze from a broken window brittle flakes of ash circled in a macabre ballet.

Marya Fedorovna Golovina intuited that something terrible had happened. The look on Vlad’s face expressed something inexplicably horrific — profound emptiness and despair infected his soul.

“My dear boy, what has happened?” She stepped aside to allow him to pass.

His voice was cold, mechanical. “Do you have the material I left with you yesterday?”

She detected the fevered light in his eyes and the barely perceptible shaking of his fingers. Her own tragic experience signaled that the young man was on the verge of collapse.

“Come in.” She spoke calmly, willing her strength to him. “I have it. What’s happened?”

“They were looking for them.” He sank heavily onto a chair at the table in the big room. “They tried to find them in my apartment. Then to conceal the search, they organized a small gas explosion.”

“My God!” Horrified, Golovina took his hand. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Mother is dead.”

Golovina saw the tears start in his eyes.

“We’ve got to go.”

She unexpectedly grabbed his arm, surprising him with her strength. She pulled him to the tiny office with the archived documents. Not a trace of her former worry remained. A remarkable inner strength showed through her wrinkles and frail frame.

“Forget everything I said to you before.” She spoke rapidly as she closed the door behind them. Forget about a visa. You’ll never get one. Any attempt to leave legally will be detected. But there is a way out. Before the war with Ukraine I managed to get some dissidents across the border, people with no other way out. We worked out a reliable route near Belgorod, not far from Kharkov.”

She opened a drawer and produced an old, torn map.

“We saved about ten people, but these days it’s more difficult to get into Ukraine. When the war began my friend Bogdan volunteered for the Donbas Battalion. As far as I know, he’s on rotation right now in his home town, Kharkov. So I propose that you travel to Belgorod on the electric train. This is safer than by car. I’ll write the name and address of the man you need to contact in Belgorod.”

She reached across the battered wooden table and took his hand. “You’ll stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning we’ll send you on your way. I’ll give you whatever money you’ll need for the trip.”

He started to object, but she shook her head vigorously. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got to get that information out of the country now. There’s no other way.”

He wanted to object, but in reality there was nothing left in Russia for him. To remain meant death. The uncompromising truth was that he could not stand up to an organized group of murderers. The gang of bandits in charge of his country would never permit the publication of the material if they had to kill half of Moscow.

Golovina’s voice penetrated his thoughts. “You can do so much for Russia,” she was saying, “but you won’t survive here. You must live even if only so that your parents’ deaths were not in vain. They were murdered, and so was Tretyakov and God alone knows how many more or where it will stop.”

Guilt again engulfed him. People were dead because they had agreed to help him or had even a single contact with him, just because they had been seen with him.

I’ve got to get out of the country. Not for myself, but for them. So that no one else suffers .

He suddenly thought about “Darth Vader.”

“I’ve got to make a phone call,” he said, surprising Golovina.

He dialed Nikolay’s number on his cell phone. He planned to arrange to meet him so they could escape together. After several rings, a female voice answered, and it sounded like she was in distress.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but may I speak with Nikolay? I’m a friend.”

“No.” There was a catch in the voice now. “You can’t.”

“But what’s happened?” His stomach plunged into a dark pit.

“He was in an automobile accident. He’s dead.” These last words sounded as though they were wrenched forcibly from her throat before she closed the connection.

Vlad slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, now more convinced than ever that he rather than Solntsev was an accomplice to murder. I can’t save anyone. I only destroy lives . This terrible thought saturated his mind, and it frightened him more than the possibility of his own death. Irresponsible, naïve boy! What have I done?

“I’ll go,” he covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a lost child.

Gorlovka, Ukraine

Alena Melnichenko dreamed she was in a parched field searching for her son. He must be nearby, but she couldn’t find him. There was a rumble in the air that grew louder and louder, until it was a roar of explosions and she awoke. From the edge of town came the sound of gunfire and the familiar echoes of artillery, though not as loud as in her dream.

Only half awake, she could almost imagine she was happy, but this lasted only a few seconds before she was brought back down by the realities of her existence. At such moments, she could barely gather the strength to get out of bed.

But she had to if only for the sake of going yet again to her mother-in-law’s to try to see her son. It was already mid-day, but she felt exhausted. After a night of unending dances at the strip club where she worked, a few hours’ rest in the morning just was not enough.

She stretched, wincing at the pain in her right shoulder, a reminder of Artem’s anger the night before. I must decide about Artem .

Sometimes it might be better not to wake up, at all.

Seized by self-pity, she sank deeper into the pillow and tried to wipe the painful thoughts from her mind. Her husband and his mother would not return her child, and Artem would do nothing. This was especially clear after last night. In fact, the man she was living with seemed pleased not to have a young child underfoot.