Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

As the parade and the airshow eventually subsided the crowd milled about and welcomed the veteran soldiers into the crowd with handshakes and salutes. A color guard emerged from the Kremlin gates and marched through the crowd to the stage and risers where the government officials overseeing the festivities were gathering and shaking hands with the military colonels and generals that were there to issue the 50 YEARS medals to those who served and had survived. The loud speakers were switched on with a squelch and a deep man’s voice grumbling “test, test.” into a live microphone.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, behold our honored veterans! Glory to the Heroes of the Soviet Union!” came from the loud speakers.

The crowd answered “GLORY to our HEROES!”

“GLORY!” again from the speakers.

“GLORY!” the crowd answered back again and a loud cheer arose from the crowd as a division of the old generation who had won the war for their children and grandchildren climbed the stairs to the raised stage waving and smiling to their families.

A barrel-chested officer with his own left breast covered in his own heroism presented and pinned a 50 YEARs medal to the coat of each of the men who were well enough still to stand at attention. Each was saluted for his valor and returned the salute with his chest out and head high. The crowd applauded with appreciation for each in the unit. Bouquets of flowers were brought up from the crowd and given to each of the heroes. A few of the old men began weeping and wiping tears from their faces with their rough hands and wrinkled fingers. They all waved to the crowd one last time before stepping off the stage on the side opposite they ascended.

Raiya started to poke me in the ribs and pointed to the stage now where Babuska and her group of female heroes were now being signaled to come on stage for their presentation.

“Quick take some photos!” Raiya demanded of me.

The loud speakers boomed again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, behold your heroes of the Red Army!” and the crowd answered again as in a type of religious ceremony, the priest an officer, the sacrament the sacrifice of years given in service. “Glory!”

I struggled to pull my camera from my book bag and had to put it on the ground between my feet before I could pull it out from between my folders of papers. I was able to still to find Natasha in my view finder and snap a few photos of her standing at attention while the medals were presented in long dark boxes, opened for viewing and presentation. In good taste, the General had not been tasked with pinning the medals on the ladies’ chests, but handed them over ceremoniously with a formal hand shake. No salute.

Babushka beamed on stage with the other few ladies that had survived another fifty years. The applause and the pageantry were less than with the soldiers who had fought and bled, but the ladies looked just as proud as they received their medals and flowers for their service in the clothing and boot factories, that kept the boys warm and well healed on their march to Berlin. Then the ladies filed off after their soldiers with waves and blowing kisses.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, honored veterans and heroes! Today we make a special presentation to a local hero of the Red Army who we have not forgotten! It is my privilege to present the next medal of appreciation to a man who did not fight in the war against the Germans but who, from his laboratory here in Nizhniy Novgorod worked tirelessly to preserve the mother land from the western imperialists. For his work and accomplishments in the important field of military aviation, we present this posthumous medal to Ivan Sergeyevich S. Mr. S. died late last year while in the line of duty in Tajikistan doing his part to protect mother Russia from terrorists. Here to accept this medal on behalf of his father, is his son Igor Ivanovich S.” A polite applause came up from the crowd. My jaw dropped as I watched Mr. P. accept the highest honor the Russian army could give to a civilian, in the place of his father, for his work in advancing the supremacy of Soviet military aviation.

Taken completely off guard by the obscene spectacle of Mr. P. receiving his father’s award I didn’t notice until it was too late that somebody had snatched my bag from between my feet and was hurrying away behind me, pushing spectators violently out of his way. Without thinking, without considering who it was and why that bag was the target of the thief running away through the crowd, I gave chase.

Getting to the edge of the crowd I watched the bag snatcher sprint away from festivities and run up an alleyway just past the Pedagogical school and toward Sverdlov Park. As I chased him up the alleyway through the series of small parking lots behind the school buildings I watched him disappear around several different corners, and then turned that corner just in time to see him turn the next corner. As we reached the open areas of the city park in front of the Conservatory we both broke into a full sprint again. On that open ground running between the trees, my legs and lungs started to burn. I thought for a split moment to give up. Then, imagining who be reading the contents of that bag if I gave up, a shot of adrenaline went to my heart and muscles. I started gaining on the punk. When he was four yards ahead of me I could feel him coming back to me as he was also tiring. We crossed from the grass and uneven ground onto paving stones as we were nearing the Piskunova street entrance to the park. I could hear his heavy breathing in front of me. I was reaching my arm out to grab his collar or sleeve. As he turned the corner of the Conservatory and bounded up a small stairway of five steps I was just a step behind him. I saw the open street just in front of us. If I could just stretch! As I reached, his collar in my grasp, I was dropped to the pavement with a violent fall, skidding and rolling a good distance before coming to a stop. My legs were still churning I was doubled over on my side, eyes bulging with my lungs spasming without breath. I could not see or perceive what I had run into or what had hit me. I tried desperately to breathe, gasping without result for breath. I thought for those seconds that I was going to die. Then, as quickly as it left, air flowed back into my lungs with raspy gasps. I would live! Who was that standing over me?

Another sharp blow was landed on my lower back causing me to scream in pain. My back arched reflexively with that blow exposing my belly and chest to another blow by a foot to my gut. After what seemed fifteen minutes but was only fifteen seconds, my attacker crouched down and pressed the temple of my head with what felt like cold metal held in his left hand. A pistol. I could smell the gun metal. In his right hand a metal baton club, the kind the real riot police use was laid across his squatting lap. I could now see his bright white trainers.

“If you try to follow us again, I will kill you. Understand that, you stupid Yankee?!” he muttered to me in a put-on sophisticated meanness, as if he’d watched too many television shows of hitmen who kill for fun.

With that, he gave me another kick to the gut, but it landed on my arms and hands that were instinctively folded in for protection as I lay doubled over. I watched his white shoes step over me and yell to his brother in crime “Poshlee!” or “We’re out a’ here!” and I listened to their fleeing footsteps turn an unseen corner and then they were gone, vanishing in the back alleys of the old city.

I laid still there at the corner of the Conservatory building alone. Breathing normally but with some pain still, I pulled myself up into a sitting position against the wall and started to survey the damage. My palms and knuckles on both hands were skinned and bleeding, one pant leg ripped open at the knee, and the left sleeve of my jacket was ripped and stained with blood. My shoes were scuffed but intact. I took a deep breath and exhaled and looked around me to see if anybody had been witness to the assault and threats. The park was empty and the trees shielding any view from bedroom windows four and five stories high across the street. I was on my own. I got to my feet and walked out toward Piskunova Street and sat down on a bench and rubbed my knees aching from the impact with concrete. I held my left side where the initial blow from the baton had first knocked me down. Deep breaths made me wince. I worried my ribs on that side had been broken. I didn’t dare look under my shirt. I sat still and closed my eyes and took several slow deep breaths to see if the sharp pains would subside.