Don't Be a Hero

I was borne to my Mama, Papa, and sister Manya on February thirteenth of the year nineteen twenty-five, the third anniversary of brother Valerii’s birth. During my childhood, I spent every free moment doing odd jobs for money for the family, while Mama and Papa worked for a factory downtown. Once sister and brother were old enough, they worked in the same factory as Mama and Papa, but I stayed home to clean, cook, and mend both the house and any worn clothes. I spent my days as the care-taker, though I was the youngest, and when I had fallen in love with a Jewish refugee, Lyuba, Mama and Papa let me house her only because they knew it would make me – and them – happy. It was a normal day, when the six of us were celebrating Manya’s birthday. We were feasting on many of sister’s favourite dishes – many with too much lard as she liked – when I went down to the cellar to acquire another jug of milk, my world shattered. Everything, everywhere, exploded. The ceiling crashed in above me, but I was lucky – oh, goodness, too lucky – and only a few boards fell upon me. As I crawled out of the rubble, I realised I had bruises everywhere and a broken arm. Nothing, nothing, is worse than making it alive when you know the one’s you love had no chance.

I found warmth and food at a shelter out of town; they tended my arm and let me rest. It was the Germans they said, another attack towards civilians. It is easy to forget the war when all you love has remained untouched by evil forces, when life seems too simple for anything to touch it – like a flower, who could think to harm it? But nonetheless, I had known the truth all along and had no excuse for my willing ignorance. A sudden shame came upon me my third day there and I ran from the safest place for miles, running away from the kindness and pity I did not deserve – I could not stand to do nothing, and even if I could not be a hero, I could be a help. Immediately, I asked anyone who would listen where I could go to join the Russian army. By the time I found my way to the sniper’s training grounds, it was nearly light out, which was rather late for this far north in December. I was hungry and my arm only barely mended, but they gladly took me in. My shame of ignorance and pride of willing made me train harder and more quickly than if I were unmotivated.

Soon enough, I was sent to the battlefield; I was perched high so I could see my targets, and gladly away from the bloodshed. The key was to shoot at other snipers before they could find you, all while neutralising generals and other high-ups and threatening soldiers. I can’t recall where my team was originally stationed, but over the course of about a month, we had only moved farther east and south, always moving back. I was loosing my morale, but plastered on a calm composure so as to not discourage others; always being pushed back was weakening my arguments for not allowing myself to run away, but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? February second, nineteen forty-three – the day no-one of this era could forget, the day the tables turned and spirits rose, the day grand ol’ Russia defeated the Germans and four other countries at Stalingrad. But there were still battles to be won and a war to end. Many were injured and the smell of death was commonplace, but we had all the hope and pride we needed. A few days later, I was hit by a rival sniper in the shoulder. It tore down my arm, grasping for as much flesh as possible, but I shot the villain in the head once his position was compromised, and promptly passed out.

I woke to a questioning nurse -- old, but kind. I told her I was Anja Alexis Volkova, from a town north of Kostroma, one bombed in December, and to find a purple flower such as one of the ones that had grown in the sidewalk cracks – pretty little weeds they were – before they buried me. She only told me the war was over, and that there is hope that I live; I told her to discontinue her optimism, but she only told me to shush and dabbed my sweaty brow. After I healed, I no longer could shoot at enemy forces, so became a medic instead. It left me with much time to think, time I had not before. Time to think about Manya and how the word “rebel” really did fit her, almost as well as “love” fit for Lyuba, her eyes containing enough love to end the war, though she never had the chance. How Mama and Papa would be proud I had seen harshness and not taken the easy route and lived a coward, I could almost feel brother’s strong pat on the back. Yes, the hardest part is being left behind, but the best you can do is not try to become a hero for a country. Become one for yourself.