Czars and dictators

Petri Golovin looked on from the top of the hill, just outside of his village. He noticed German trucks surrounding the area. He remembered what his mother had taught him, when you see Germans, do not go anywhere near them. So, he stayed where he was, watching on. There was a fire, the barn. 'Why was the barn on fire?' Petri asked himself. He had to wait for three hours, but eventually, they left.

He approached his village after waiting a further two hours, just to be safe. He already had an idea of what he was about to see, but he still held onto a string of faith within himself. There wasn't a single Jew, or gypsy, or homosexual or disabled person that he knew of in the village. But there were rumours of their brutality. 'Could they just be mere rumours?' Petri thought to himself, hoping it to just be mere state propaganda.

He walked through his village, where it seemed that not a single soul was present. He saw a couple bullet casings on the ground and feared the worse. But he didn't come across a single body. But there was a smell, a smell of burning meat, as if someone had forgotten about a chicken they were cooking. But it was as if all the chickens in every village in all of Belarus were being cooked at once. The smell was coming from the barn.

Petri felt a cold sweat, the same cold sweat he had been feeling every time he woke up. He looked across to find his sweet Liza, but she wasn't there. It had been three years, yet he still hoped to wake up next to her. He sometimes dreamt of her, a sweet relief away from the dreams of his youth. Yet when he did dream of Liza, it hurt him more. She would always comfort him when he had nightmares like this, but Petri never shared a single one with her.

Petri forces himself out of bed, making his way towards the window. The same miserable city of Minsk was all he had to view. A statue of Lukashenko looking at everyone within the plaza below. Petri still remembered when a statue of Stalin stood in that plaza. At least Lukashenko didn't murder Liza's brother, he thought to himself.

Petri decided to leave his flat and make his way toward the nearest internet café. It was a strange new thing, this internet, but very convenient. He liked emails, as it was a better way to stay in touch with people. Especially his grand-daughter, Katherine. The only thing he struggled with was Katherine's email address being in the roman alphabet, as opposed to the acrylic he is familiar with. He had heard that the Polish switched to Roman as a way of distancing themselves from Russia. Perhaps one day his people would do the same, despite being Whites.

He arrived at the internet café. It was mostly empty, with only a few people seated, mostly old people. Government censors blocked most websites, but emails were allowed. Petri went to the counter and booked a PC for an hour along with a cup of black caravan tea. He had always liked black caravan tea ever since his days of fighting. It was cheap and to make. It was made for soldiers in the first world war, but it had stuck around ever since. Even to this day it's the most popular tea in both white Russia and Russia itself.

He opens the website for emails. Hotmail, that company that is run by Microsoft. Incredible that American companies are allowed, petri still sometimes gets taken aback by their mere presence. He types in his email then his password, but it doesn't recognise his password. So, he tries again and the same result. Petri could have sworn his password was Liza123. Perhaps it was because of the keyboard, Petri cursed to himself. He asked the receptionist for some assistance.

"Yes, you could try to reset your password" The receptionist said unenthusiastically, as if this wasn't the first time she had resolved this issue today. "How do I do this?" Petri asked, "You click here, then here." She responded, once again with zero enthusiasm. "Yes, thank you" Petri replied.

Petri now saw the option to input a new password. He chose to make it Katherine123 this time. With that, he was able to access his emails at last. He saw that he had 2 unread emails. One from Alexandr and one from Katherine. He read Alexandr's first -

Hello my favourite white. How have you been my friend? To answer you, I am doing ok. My grandson had to help me with understanding this new technology. But it is pretty good to be honest. It is much more reliable than the postman. I got invited to Red square this April, to march as one of the heroes of the great patriotic war. They say I could meet President Medvedev and prime minister Putin! I do wish you could join me, but they haven't invited any whites to march. Strange because I heard talk that the choir will sing God save the Queen, the star-spangled banner and la marseillaise before the grand entrance of the State Anthem of the Russian Federation. Something about bringing a better relationship with former enemies and once great allies. Perhaps one day they will invite Whites and Ukrainians like they did before the collapse. Hopefully. Your friend, Ivan.

Petri looked over the email with both a glee of excitement for his friend and disappointment within himself. The celebration in Minsk had never asked him. All the more White Russia (Belarus) had so much more to celebrate than the Russian ever could have. Half the population died during the war, Petri still remembered the day it was all over. He was in Minsk, recovering from a wound when the news broke. Everyone ran through the streets. Strangers were hugging each other. Minsk itself ran out of vodka, so the people started drinking wine, which also ran out. The celebration lasted a few days. 'They tried to erase us from history, and they failed. The bastards failed' Petri thought to himself, noticing a lone tear run down his cheek.

He decided to respond later as he would have had to respond in Russian and Ivan couldn't understand Belarusian very well. They were similar languages but there wasn't as much of a need to speak Belarussian in Volgograd as it was to speak Russian in Minsk. Petri was glad that the city no longer bearded the name of that Georgian bastard. Yet when that bastard did die, he remembered being sad. He hated the man, yet he was still sad at the news of his death, something he had never understood.

He then looked at his granddaughter's email -

Hello grandfather, I am so glad you managed to work out how email works! I have always cherished your letters and will cherish your emails. I will print all of your emails out so they can be physical memories of you and of my roots. It's strange to think I haven't seen you since I was a little girl. Perhaps you still think of me that way, which is why I have also sent you a photo of me and my fiancée. He's a typical American guy, he has British and Italian ancestry although he swears he's also part Cherokee but I personally don't see it.

The only reason I still speak and write in Belorussian is because of you, and I will maintain it for you, as I love being able to speak to you. When I have more money, I would love to buy you a plane ticket so you can visit me here in Albany. I would love for you to be here at my wedding. I want you to walk me down the aisle. It's in 6 months, a nice summer wedding. I can send you the money soon.

Now grandfather, I do not want to reject this money. Mother told me you and grandmother gave almost all of your money so she could take me to America. I will never forget that. There are no direct flights from Minsk to New York, but you can get a connection via either Moscow or Paris. My fiancée is especially very excited to see you. His lost his grandfather a few years ago, but he fought in Italy. He loved his grandfather and has a great respect for you as a fellow veteran.

Yours lovingly

Katherine

Petri read through the email a couple time, cherishing every word. He decided he would go to the bank later, to check how much money he did have so Katherine wouldn't have to go through such a great expense to bring him to New York.

He looked at the photo of Katherine and, fighting back tears, he saw his daughter once more. She looked so much like her. It had been two years since she passed on. Breast cancer had taken her so young. Petri still wished he could trade his life for hers.

He decided then to send his reply -

Hello Katherine. Thank you very much for your email. You look so very beautiful. This fiancée of yours is a very lucky man. Although, you never did tell me his name. But it's no problem.

I am so very proud of you. I never expected you to remember me, but it warms my heart that you do. I would love to come to your wedding, it has been so long since I have attended a wedding. I think the last time would have been your mother's. She looked beautiful that day. Your father was a good man, I miss him like I would miss a son. It's a shame he never saw America with you and your mother.

There was another wedding I once attended.

Petri hesitated for a moment, as a whole swash of memories flooded back to him. This would happen sometimes when he used to write letters, where the pen would start to take over.

Not just my own wedding, but that of my friend's, Nikita. I remember him very well; he was one of my closest friends. We fought together in Minsk, fighting the Germans. I still remember the words he told me. How God chose certain people to lead into light, how all types of Russians, Ukrainians, Georgians, Armenians, Azerbaijanis, Kazaks and Baltics were a people who God didn't love. He said it was because Ivan, the first Czar, only chose Christianity because Islam prohibits Alcohol, and ever since God put a curse on all of us to be chained by what we put above God.

You see, God was mad because we chose our religion not based on faith or love but based on what would allow us to worship our one true God, alcohol. He told of how the Czars would use cheap vodka to keep the people from rebelling, and how Stalin wanted us all to forget Lenin's great anti-alcohol stance. Lenin actually banned alcohol. I never knew that. Stalin brought it back to keep the people from rebelling. My friend from Russia, Ivan, has seen many of his friends die of too much vodka. Vodka sold by rich oligarchs.

It's shocking to think, but me and Nikita were having this conversation whilst we both drank a litre bottle each. Back then, the top couldn't be twisted back on, as it was assumed that we would drink the entire bottle, which we always did.

It was a cold winter night in the city. We were both drinking to quench our nerves. We were both filled with relentless hatred. It seems strange that a city boy who dreamed of studying at university and a farm hand would forge an alliance, but here we were. We had just completed our mission, to cause as much destruction to the German forces as possible. We wanted to act like heroes for each other, to cleanse away the crimes we committed. We didn't know it then, but we became savages.

I cornered this German who was just taking a shit, and drowned his face in the toilet, pulling him up every now and then to extend his painful death. Nikita had seen a soldier with a picture of his wife. He took the picture, looked him in the eyes, and promised to rape her when they reached Berlin. He then killed him with a vodka bottle. This is something mild we did, we did so much worse. We were filled with so much hate.

I saw my mother's burnt corpse, along with my entire village. They came, put them all in the barn and set it on fire. I never understood why they did this, so I assumed that whoever did this couldn't be human, and anyone associated with them weren't human either. So, I took no remorse in becoming the devil. It seemed that Nikita was right, God does lack any love for us.

The truth was, we drank every night to drown our sins. I sometimes believe that God took away your mother, your grandmother and your father as a sacrifice for my sins. But I don't think God will forgive me.

Nikita died after the war. He was thrown into a gulag and died building a road in Siberia. Why? Because he spoke too much. He did say that Czars and dictators kept the people drunk in their own misery, so they'd occasionally speak what they believed.

It took me decades to realise that I had become nothing more than the monsters who burnt my village to ash.

Petri stopped writing, suddenly realising what he was writing. His tea had gone cold. He only had ten minutes left to rent the PC, so he wouldn't have time to respond to Ivan. He decided to delete the words of his past. He used to burn letters, no all he needed to do was hit a button.

Petri went to the local shop to buy some food and a pack of cigarettes. He had quit drinking but not smoking. He went through his usual routine, wondering why he would always do this. Whether is be through the pen or the keyboard, why did he always feel this need to write his truth? Perhaps he would never understand. There was, after all, so much he never did find out.