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Bagram Airbase, Afghanistan
April, 1981
Lieutenant Mikhail Khalatsyn strapped himself into the straight-back, fold-down, unpadded seat attached to the bulkhead. Two seats over sat his platoon sergeant and best friend — Mikhail had few friends — Vladislov Karmalov. They were big men and did not need to be cramped especially since, other than the air crew, they were the only two passengers on this transport who still breathed.
They were in the belly of the beast, the cavernous cargo hold of a giant Antonov An-22. After eighteen months of combat in Afghanistan, they had completed their tours and were going home. Others were, too, a precious cargo secured to the deck in row after row: coffins that contained the remains of young conscripts, each one draped in the flag of the Soviet Union. The fallen were returning to grieving families and eternal rest, buried in the sacred ground that had bore them, Mother Russia.
Mikhail grinded his teeth, staring straight ahead; these coffins were reminders of Kremlin lies to the Russian people.
He heard Vlad sigh. “Poor bastards.” Then the sergeant snickered, “How many schools, hospitals, and roads to you think they built, Comrade Lieutenant?”
Mikhail’s tongue absently slipped onto the slang of his African-American father: “Suppos’in notta one.” Then he remembered Vlad did not speak English; so he added in Russian: “No schools or hospitals but we did fill their cemeteries, Comrade Sergeant. How many goat-fuckers do you think we sent to Paradise, Vlad?”
Another snicker, then, “Not nearly enough.”
Mikhail closed his eyes and tried to get as comfortable as he could in such an uncomfortable seat. Maybe a short nap would flush the bitterness he felt towards the Nomenclatura out of his head.
The thirty-two-year-old Black Russian stood six foot three inches tall. Sergeant Karmalov, seven years older, was even bigger. He towered six feet six inches. The two friends often joked between them about how difficult it was for a helicopter to liftoff carrying both of them at the same time. Although lighter-skinned than his African-American father, Mikhail had the same features that fellow Russians thought typical of American Negroes: curly black hair cut tight to his head, military style, a flat nose with large nostrils, and full lips. By any ethnic standards, Mikhail knew he was a handsome man. He had to be to have married such a beautiful Russian wife.
The flight’s destination was the Kubinka Airbase northwest of Moscow, a five hour, 2,094 mile journey. The wide-bodied An-22 was (and still is) the largest turbo-powered military aircraft in the world. This giant weighed 251,300 pounds, had a wingspan of 211 feet, and a range of 6,804 miles. It cut through the clouds at 460 miles-per-hour.
As the monster lugged itself into the sky, a surge of pride also lifted Lieutenant Khalatsyn’s spirit. Soviet technology had designed and built this behemoth. The plane proved that his nation and its people were every bit as technologically advanced as the Americans.
Better! We are better than them in every way.
Including soldiering; Mikhail and his men had survived a year and one half of grueling combat in the Panjshir Valley. As if slashed into solid rock by a saber, the Valley and its river, also named Panjshir, was a deep cut that ran north to south along the Hindu Kush mountain range. It was also called the Valley of the Five Lions, and true to its namesake, it was a fierce place where the blood of brave young Russians mingled with, and was fouled by, the blood of Mujahedeen goat-fuckers.
When Mikhail boarded the An-22 at Bagram, he thought all memories of war would be left behind on the tarmac. But as the big turbo-prop leveled off, Mikhail realized he had an unwanted carry-on, a memory that would be forever stored in a subbasement of conscience. As the plane continued on its northwest heading, that memory began to climb his back stairs:
The pregnant Afghan woman.
When he’d been ordered to kill her or leave her behind, he remembered an old Negro saying his Baptist father had taught him: God don’t do ugly.
What could he possibly tell his father about the woman?
“Sorry, Papa, but I’m not Him.”
Perhaps it would be best not to say anything.
Yes, he had followed orders but those orders came from the same people whose lies had filled those coffins. Mikhail loved the men under his command, loved the Red Army, and loved Russia. But he hated the Nomenclatura, the Soviet Union’s ruling elite.
An hour or so later, when the An-22 hit turbulence, Mikhail opened his eyes, rubbed his temples, and let out a long sigh.
Damn you, woman! What happened to you was not my fault! I followed orders!
“Are you all right, Mishe?” asked Vlad.
Mikhail looked up and gave his friend a small smile. “Just tired, that’s all.”
He wondered if Vlad was also haunted by the same memory.
Mikhail reminded himself that the past was the past and could not be changed. It was his future that now shined bright. He was about to begin a new phase of his army career: promotion to captain which meant an increase in salary, and, even better, he’d been “chosen” by the GRU for training as an intelligence officer at their Military-Diplomatic Academy. The GRU (military intelligence) did not accept applications. Candidates were selected. Hopefully, after graduation, his next assignment would be a cushy overseas posting at a Western embassy. He’d never have to set foot in a shit hole like Afghanistan again. He was also glad that Vlad was being mustered out of the army. The man he loved like a brother would never see war again.
For Lieutenant Khalatsyn and his team of Spetsnaz, the Red Army’s elite Special Forces, their combat tour had begun early, in October, 1979, two months before the main Soviet “incursion” on December 24th of that year. For the new Spetsnaz lieutenant, the unit was his first command. He had gone to that wild and primitive country peopled by ignorant and superstitious peasants a true believer in the mission. Afghanistan lay on the Soviet Union’s doorstep. If it became an Islamic state, then he feared what might happen in the U.S.S.R’s other southern republics with their large Muslim populations. Would this mark the beginning of the end of the Soviet Union? Although he didn’t care for the government in Kabul, whom the Mujahedeen called go khors, at least it was a socialist republic. Better to have a friend nestled comfortably at your feet than an enemy gnawing on your ankle bone.
But at what cost? A quick glance to his right provided the answer: young Russian soldiers, mostly nineteen and twenty-year-old conscripts, had faced the brunt of this war.
When the An-22 finally landed at Kubinka, Mikhail and Vlad stood on the tarmac, impressive in their freshly pressed Spetsnaz uniforms. They watched solemnly as the big beast disgorged an assembly line of grief: one coffin after another slid down the ramp that hung out the rear of the plane. At the bottom of the ramp military personnel loaded each coffin into a large army truck, filling one truck after another. Out of respect for the grim task being performed right in front of them, the two Spetsnaz spoke in hushed tones. They would not leave the scene until the last coffin had been loaded into the last truck. As each truck passed, Mikhail and Vlad snapped to attention and saluted.
When the last truck rolled away, the two comrades-in-arms shouldered their duffel bags and began a long walk off the tarmac. Then Mikhail’s bleeding mind let that certain memory slip passed its built-in suppressors and make its way onto his tongue:
“The pregnant woman, perhaps it would have been kinder to kill her instead of leaving her behind to freeze to death.”
“That was a year ago, Mishe?”
“She still haunts me, Vlad.”
“Our orders were no prisoners. We’re Spetsnaz, Mishe. We follow orders.”
“God don’t do ugly,” Mikhail mumbled in English tinged with a Southern drawl.
“You know I don’t speak English, Comrade Lieutenant. Russian, please.”
“It’s an old Negro saying my father taught me. It means God hates injustice.”
A dead pan, “We’re communists, Mishe, we’re not allowed to believe in God.”
“Thanks for reminding me, Comrade Sergeant.” Mikhail cracked a grin. “So, Vlad, will you miss the army?”
“Of course; especially the food... I enlisted right out of high school. I was nineteen. It was either the army or the farm.” Sarcastically, “I chose to see the world.”
Mikhail chuckled. “Then you should have chosen the navy, comrade.”
“I thought nothing could be as bad as the farm. I was so wrong... So tell me, why did an educated chap like you, whose father is a respected doctor, join the army?”
“My father wanted me to serve the Soviet people. He wanted me to become a doctor like him, but—”
“But you hate the sight of blood, so you joined Spetsnaz.”
Mikhail chuckled. “I joined the army and studied petroleum engineering at a military college. My father was surprised, but proud nonetheless.”
Mikhail’s African-American father had left the cruelty of the Jim Crow South and emigrated to the U.S.S.R in 1933. A loyal citizen and true believer in socialism, Malkol’m Khalatsyn, his American slave name had been Malcolm Robeson, still held fast to his Baptist faith; a faith the old man had tried to instill in Mikhail and Mikhail’s younger sister Dzhoan.
Vlad appeared to struggle to find words that would not offend. Finally, “I mean no disrespect to your father, Mishe, but why did he do that? Most Russians would sell their daughters into prostitution to move to America.”
“Because no black man has ever been lynched in Russia.”
“But of course. I should know better. In school we studied the awful oppression Negroes suffered in the American South.”
“My father told me many stories about growing up in Mississippi. Oppression does not even begin to describe what his people went through.”
They continued to walk in silence, their destination a squat brick building where Vlad would begin his muster out of the army. When they got there, Sergeant Karmalov offered his hand. “We’ve been through a lot together, dear friend.”
Mikhail grabbed the other soldier’s hand firmly; then he drew Vlad to him and hugged the big man tight.
“The men loved and respected you, you know that, right, Mishe?” said Vlad.
To the lieutenant’s men, he was the Black Russian. They admired, respected and loved their leader. The unit had killed many Mujahedeen borzois, but had suffered only one casualty, a sprained ankle while on a forced march.
“I’m sure that wasn’t always the case. In the beginning, they looked at me like I was a witch doctor from the jungle. I suspect that included you, Comrade Karmalov.”
Vlad gave one of his big laughs. “Well you certainly worked your magic, Mishe.”
Barely able to suppress a grin: “Black magic.”
“That was bad, even for you. You tell the worst jokes, Comrade Lieutenant. But however you want to call it, we did not lose a single man.”
“That’s because we worked as a team, one for all and all for one. That’s what it means to be Spetsnaz.”
“Modesty, modesty, modesty; you built us into a team, Mishe. You trained us. We were one because of you, Comrade Lieutenant.”
Accepting praise for doing his duty made Mikhail uncomfortable. He changed the subject: “What will an old soldier like you do as a civilian?”
“Get married of course. I have a pension,” grinning, “so I’m quite a catch. I’ll find a good Russian girl and—”
“A farm girl?”
“Of course! They make the best wives and mothers. But she also has to be a good cook.”
“Not to worry, Vlad. After twenty years of army food you will not be hard to please.”
They embraced, stepped back, and then exchanged salutes. Vlad entered the brick building about to begin a new life.
For eighteen months, through it all, a beacon had shined bright, cutting through the fog of war: home and the three people who lived there. Mikhail shouldered his duffle again. He was coming home.
***
RUSH-HOUR COMMUTERS returning back to their flats after work were crowded into a Moscow Metro subway car. Mikhail stood leaning up against the double doors with his hands resting on top of his duffle bag. Memories of his beautiful wife Valeria, and his son and daughter put a smile on his face. It had been such a long time; he wondered if Malli and little Albina would remember their papa.
The metro car was as clean and the trains as sleek as he remembered, even though the stations still smelled of ozone. His lazy gaze drifted, finally landing on a young woman who sat in a row of seats across from him. She held a baby girl on her lap wrapped in a pink blanket. The young mother, in her late teens and obviously from one of the U.S.S.R.’s Asian republics, caused Mikhail’s memory to jump into a haunting image:
An Afghan woman kneeling in the snow clutching her dead child; all the blood in her body, plus all internal organs, has frozen solid. Her face, once a healthy brown and with the light of life in her eyes, is now an eternal death mask of pale blue.
Cold is such a cruel death.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, hard. Then he heard a high pitched voice, more girl than woman, say to him, “Welcome home, Comrade Soldier.” The young mother holding the baby must have felt his stare. But instead of the hatred he remembered on the Afghan woman’s face, this girl sent him a gentle smile.
He tipped his cap. “Thank you, ma’am. You have a beautiful baby.”
“My husband is also in the army. He is in Afghanistan. He helps the Afghan people build a socialist republic.” The hint of pride in her voice was tempered by eyes that beseeched him. She wanted confirmation that everything was going as well as the Kremlin’s mouthpiece Pravda (Truth) reported in its pages.
He thought of his own wife and the worry she must have endured while he was at war. What to tell the young woman to help ease her mind?
It sickened him to parrot the Party’s lie: “Not to worry. Most likely your husband is far away from the fighting. He is building roads, hospitals, and schools.”
How could a lie meant for good feel so bad? Especially given that most conscripts from the Soviet Union’s Asian Republics were not even issued arms; to be defenseless in war was another criminal act by the Nomenclatura.
A heartfelt, but heart sick, he added, “I wish him a safe and speedy return, ma’am.”
Relieved, she smiled. “We are Muslims from Tartastan. God’s blessing on you and your family, Comrade Soldier.”
Obviously, she’d believed his lie.
Being a black man in an army uniform had already been drawing stares, attention he did not welcome. No doubt this small exchange of human feelings with a young mother drew ears as well. He ground his teeth, attempting to kick his rising anger back down into its subbasement.
I am as Russian as any of you! I have served my country, and I have served you! All of you!
He felt a tap on his arm. An old man looked up at him with admiration and respect. He offered the Black Russian his seat. Mikhail looked at the other passengers. They were smiling at him; some showed their approval by whistling. Mikhail felt the fool for underestimating his fellow citizens. He had seen their white faces and wrongly assumed prejudice, but the real prejudice came from him.
To the old man, “No thank you, comrade,” Mikhail said.
The man insisted Mikhail take his seat. “I am a veteran of the war against the Germans. As one soldier to another, please allow me the honor of giving you my seat, comrade.”
“Thank you, friend, and thank you for your service to our beloved Fatherland.” As Mikhail sat down, the commuters clapped. He felt a red flush ripple beneath the brown skin on his face. The young woman, her baby, the old man, the commuters, these were his people. It was an honor to serve, protect, and, if necessary, lay down his life for them.
***
MIKHAIL EXITED THE metro underground amid blocks of drab Soviet-styled apartment buildings. The structures were plain and utilitarian, and one of them housed his family in a tiny two bedroom flat. These multi-storied gray boxes loomed on both sides of the street. They cast their shadows in the evening’s blue twilight. The only signs that people actually lived in them were lights being turned on one after another behind windows. When he turned the corner, he heard a young boy call out:
“Papa is coming! Papa is coming!”
He immediately recognized the voice; it belonged to his six-year-old son, Malli. Mikhail stopped dead in his tracks and let his duffle bag slip from his left shoulder onto the ground. He looked up to a third floor window and saw the three people he loved most in this world: his wife Valeria (Lera), Malkol’m (Malli) named for his father, and his four-year-old daughter, Albina, named for his mother. The family waved, cheered, and blew him many kisses. Mikhail gave his biggest, brightest smile and waved both arms vigorously. Then he shouldered his duffle and double-timed it into the building.
Mikhail zoomed up the three flights of stairs and burst into the flat. Valeria was even more beautiful than he remembered. She stood five foot ten inches tall, had a slim, athletic build, long blonde hair, and blue eyes. She was twenty-eight-years-old. Being three-quarters white Russian, his children were even more light-skinned than he was. Both had blue eyes like their mother and light brown, wavy hair. Given their parents’ genetics, the kids were tall for their ages. He felt proud to be the father of two such beautiful and, undoubtedly, brilliant children.
Not the smallest girl in gym class, when his wife flew into his arms she nearly bowled him over. As a soldier’s family, Mikhail’s branch of the Khalatsyn tree did not have access to decadent Western luxuries. But his father, a respected surgeon, did. Lera’s scent was how he remembered: like fresh cut flowers. She must have shampooed, and then bathed in French body wash his father gave her every Christmas. Holding her close, he breathed in her gentle fragrance. It washed away memories of the accumulated stinks of Afghanistan, the army, and unwashed men. They just stood there in each other’s arms, eyes closed, gently rocking from side-to-side. To hold this woman again after such a long time, the woman with whom he had created these two beautiful children, Mikhail had to fight back a strong urge to weep.
She whispered in his ear, “Oh, Mishe, it’s been such a long time. Not a day has gone by that I have not prayed for your safe return.”
Still clutching her tight in his arms, he chuckled and whispered, “We’re communists, Lera. We’re not allowed to pray.”
She pulled back, tapped his chest, and smiled. “Oh, pooh the Party. If I want to pray in church for my husband, I will pray in church.”
Little Albina, who could barely walk last time he’d seen her, ran and jumped into his arms. He held her tight; again tears filled his eyes when he remembered how much he missed this little bundle of joy. Malli, acting the proud little man, sauntered over to his father and offered his hand in greeting. But Mikhail was quick. He scooped the boy up in his other arm and smothered the side of his son’s head with kisses.
Malli tried to pull away. “Papa, men don’t kiss!”
“Yes we do; we’re Russians! We kiss on both cheeks!”
Malli giggled as his father lowered him back to the floor.
At dinner that night, the Khalatsyns ate on a small table in their small kitchen. Or rather, Valeria and the kids ate; Mikhail devoured.
“You eat like you miss my cooking more than me,” Lera said, pretending to pout.
“You won’t say that after the children are asleep.” He winked at her.
“What did you do in the war, Papa?” asked Malli.
“We built schools, hospitals, and roads, son. We helped the Afghan people continue their revolution.”
Lera immediately turned away to stare out the window. She must have preferred to face the wall of the next building rather than her husband’s well intentioned lie.
Mikhail reached across the table and covered her hand with his: “No, Lera. I was far from the fighting.”
When the children were in bed and fast asleep, Mikhail kept his promise and made love to Valeria. With this woman he had created life. For the past eighteen months with his weapon, he had dealt death. Perhaps a new life would come forth from this union?
And that brought him back. The pregnant Afghan woman had climbed the stairs again. She would squat there in his mind for the rest of the night. He did not sleep well.