Minsk is not what I imagined. I'd expected a skyline, some kind of sign of a once-sprawling city; not this void. Maybe we aren’t anywhere near Minsk. Maybe we got lost, though I doubt it. I wish I had checked this city via satellite, but I’d never planned on travelling this way, so never bothered to look.
Ahead of us, at some distance, two people sit on a red cart with a horse as broad as a ship tied between the shafts. The animal's coat is thick, and light-brown around its belly while the rest is almost black. I can't see if it's men or women on the cart until they stand and wave in greeting. Two men. Two rifles. I keep my weapons at the ready.
Katvar turns his head and signals to me to remain calm. The dogs, meanwhile, are super excited to meet strangers. Or maybe they just want to eat the horse. They bark and tug at the lines, yearning to go faster.
Katvar produces a loud oohf and the animals stop and lie down. We jam in the snow anchors, get off the sleds and approach the cart. The horse whips its tail and puffs two clouds.
‘State your names!’ the older of the two calls from the driver's seat.
‘Mickaela Capra and Katvar... What's your family name?’ I’m ashamed I never asked.
‘No family name,’ Katvar signs.
‘Is it you?’ the man asks.
‘I don't know who you mean. We are on the way to Minsk. We thought we might have passed it already. Would you mind telling us which way we need to go?’
‘This is Minsk. I'm Oleg, this is Dima.’ He points to the younger man, who wears a scarf wrapped around his head and on top of that, a broad-rimmed hat that's tied down over his ears with another scarf. His felt boots are enormous and I wonder how he can walk in them.
The horse paws at the snow. Dima clicks his tongue and mutters something to soothe the animal. ‘Nice dogs you have there,’ he says.
Katvar signs, ‘Thank you,’ and I translate it for him, as well as his next words: ‘We are looking for a friend. Sari is her name. She and her dogs came through about a week ago.’
Oleg looks at Dima as if we have announced Christmas.
‘Might have. Or might not have. Take off your hood, so we can see you better. Want to know if you are honest folk,’ says Oleg.
Katvar scrapes off his hood and so do I.
Oleg grins and gets his knee slapped by the younger man. ‘We knew it!’ they say in unison and scramble off the cart. ‘Come. You need food and a warm bed. You’re tired. We can see that.’
Too much enthusiasm for me and too quick a change of mind. This reeks of lies. I plant my feet firmly in the snow and lift the muzzle of my rifle to point at the chest closest to us. ‘We have our own food and our own beds, thank you. Now move back, preferably all the way to where that horse is.’
Four mittens are raised up. The men retreat two steps and stop. Not far enough for me. ‘We've been waiting for you. Waiting and freezing. I, for my part, am thirsty and cold. What about you, Dima?’
Dima nods until his wool hat skids sideways.
‘Go home then,’ I say.
‘Your train is waiting. It needs to be fired up before you can leave, takes at least twelve hours. Be our guests. We need to talk. Can do that while we eat.’
I look at Katvar. ‘They know about the train,’ I sign. He nods at me and then at the men.
‘Okay,’ I say loud enough for them to hear. Behind my back, I sign a single word to Katvar: ‘Knife.’
‘Excellent.’ Oleg swings his behind back on the cart. ‘Are you coming, Dima, or are you staring at her?’
Dima blushes, if that's even possible with cheeks as burgundy as his, and clambers up onto the driver's seat. Oleg flicks the whip. The horse huffs and puffs and slowly, but steadily, pulls the cart northwards.
Before we jump back onto our sleds, Katvar signals to me that he’s keeping his knife ready. He makes it look as if he wants to protect me. Cute.
It’s a short ride. The two men stop in the middle of nowhere, although it’s probably still Minsk, or the nothing that's left of it.
Footprints lead to a hatch in the ground, just next to where the cart parks. Oleg opens the heavy metal lid, and waves us in. ‘You can leave the sleds here. No one will touch them.’
I grab my rifle and ammunition while Katvar pushes the snow anchors in and signals the dogs to be quiet. Dima leads the horse away.
Surprising warmth greets us as we climb down the metal ladder. The clonking of Oleg's boots reverberates in the circular ducts. I open my coat and see Katvar do the same. Our host pulls a squeeze light from one of his pockets and stomps ahead. I wonder where he got this thing and how he recharges it. I have yet to find a surface covered with solar paint. ‘Where does the heat come from?’ I ask.
‘Coal. Belarus has coal. Never mined it, though, until after the wars. During the wars, people hid in the sewers and cleaned them all out. Minsk is now an underground city.’ He turns around and points the light at my face. ‘We are two thousand people here. The BSA doesn't know. Our daughters are safe.’
I doubt that, but I nod anyway. ‘Good.’
He directs the beam of light to the ground at his feet. ‘You stop the BSA. Our train brings you there.’
‘Hm,’ I reply. Damn this stupid redhead propaganda! I'm like a parrot in the arctic. Katvar makes all of this even worse. Women with orange hair are rare, but not singular. A woman with orange hair in the company of a mute man, however, is. Another reason to send him away as soon as possible. Perhaps there’ll be an opportunity before I board the train.
We keep walking. Oleg chatters about the weather and the advantages of living underground. Ahead of us, the duct splits in three and he takes the left bend. After a few more metres, a small room opens up to us. It's even warmer than the duct. Threadbare rugs, straw, and brush are spread on the floor. A collection of tattered plastic bags and boxes pile up in a corner. Scrap wood has been banged and tied together to form a shelf for small treasures — books and broken, tiny statues of fat children with wings and pouting red lips, plates and mugs as fragile as ice and almost as transparent, cutlery with entwined roses on the handles.
‘My wife is a collector,' Oleg says. He’s beaming with pride as he wipes his moustache with the back of his hand. He shrugs off his coat and invites us to sit. ‘Tea?’
We nod.
Soon, the three of us are sitting on soft pillows, gingerly holding the fragile cups filled with a golden liquid that’s sticky with honey.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Working in the mines, hunting, at school,’ Oleg says and sips noisily at his tea.
I clear my throat. ‘I need to get my hands on ammo.’
His gaze flicks to the rifle on my lap. He bends forward. ‘Can I see it?'
I bristle. Seeing my forbidding expression, he leans back, raising his hands in surrender.
‘It's a suppressed .357 calibre highly accurized rifle with a range of one thousand five hundred metres,’ I tell him. ‘I need ammo for this one and my .40 calibre pistol.’ I tap at the weapon strapped to my thigh. ‘Katvar also needs ammo.’
Oleg pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Hm... Maybe in Moscow. I’ll find someone to take a message for you.’ He scratches his head and adds, ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘When can we leave?’
‘Dima is informing the driver and the crew. They’ll fire up the Matryoshka for you. You can leave at sunrise tomorrow morning. Do you need provisions?’
I look at Katvar. He shakes his head and signs, ‘Thank you for the tea.’ I translate for him. He rises to his feet, wary that he might hit his head on the low ceiling. ‘I’ll feed the dogs now.’
I nod. I hate being here, too. Oleg’s underground home reminds me too much of my first six months with the BSA.
Once Katvar is out of earshot, I say to Oleg, ‘I can’t wait until we reach Moscow. I can offer you our pots and longbows in return for the ammo. Plus, I need to get rid of my friend. He’ll get himself killed if he stays with me.’
Oleg frowns and shakes his head, playing the hard-to-get guy. By now, I’m boiling inside. He has been bullshitting us since the moment we met.
‘Okay, Oleg, name your price. You are obviously not interested in our cookware. What is it you want? Sex? You want me to suck you off?’
Maybe it’s my detached tone or my frigid expression. I really don’t care. My words knock him off his pillow, he stumbles backward, and cries, ‘Shame on you!’
‘Shame rolls right off me, man. I have no time for such crap. You want me to kill BSA men for you? I can only do it with sufficient ammo. Name your price and be quick about it. Katvar will return soon and my guess is that he’ll stick a knife into your back if he sees you touching me.’
‘Witch!’ he hisses and points his finger at me. ‘If it weren’t for the Good Tidings, I would kick you out of my home now.’
‘I’ll leave after I have my ammo. You and your friend Dima have rifles, so don’t tell me shit about not having ammo. We can barter with goods, services, or your life. Choose.’ My hands lie softly on my rifle. The bullet sits in the chamber. All I need to do is lift the muzzle a little higher and squeeze the trigger.
Oleg’s eyes are stuck to my weapon as he whispers, ‘I have two bullets. They are in my rifle. Take them.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s all I have. Dima has another two.’
I shift my weight. ‘You are guarding this city with two rifles and four bullets?’
He nods once.
Stunned, I scan his face. The once-proud Oleg has surrender carved into the lines around his mouth. Disappointment and anger shine in his eyes. The woman with hair the colour of flame sucks. Big time.
‘You imagined a noble heroine. Truth is, you need a witch to trap the devil. I will leave your home now. Tell me where I can find the train.’
Oleg insists on showing me to the train tracks. He doesn’t say farewell or good luck, simply leaves without a word. I hope he is pissed until tomorrow morning and refrains from joining us on our ride to Moscow.
When Katvar and I are settling down in our snow cave for the night, I heave a sigh of relief. He looks at me and asks what happened in Oleg’s tunnel while he was gone.
‘Nothing happened,’ I say, wishing a brilliant idea on how to leave Katvar behind would present itself.