Fiction:

Hopelessly Missing

Scribes  |  Aleksandr Katso, Dec-Feb 2010

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Although HELO Magazine specializes in nonfiction, we offer here our very first fiction story. This tale by Aleksandr Katso fits the issue because it takes a very realist look back at the Chechen Wars, perhaps getting as close to the emotional truth as one can get.

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The visitors’ room, where parents looking for their sons congregated, was around sixteen square meters with a lone window facing the courtyard. In the middle was a big metal table with chairs of all shapes and sizes and a plastic tablecloth. Five metal bunk beds stood against dilapidated walls so at full capacity the room offered shelter to ten people. The residents were a constant mix: men and women from an ever-changing collection of visitors, with the exception of three permanently based retirees. Most took vacation time or personal days from work and spent their last savings in hopes of a miracle.

Miracles were a rarity but on those occasions became the lore that gave future visitors faith and hope that their children will eventually be found. The unofficial room monitor was Vera Petrovna, a grey-haired lean woman who looked like she was approaching sixty years of age. In her prior life she was an accountant at a local municipal office, but was now retired and spending her second year in Chechnya with no end to her stay in sight. Her daughter was a schoolteacher, while her son, an army lieutenant, was wounded in combat and listed as MIA.

Vera Petrovna went through hell and was now a full-time resident of the “purgatory” as she herself called her quarters. The news of her son’s disappearance turned her life upside down. Things that were previously clear and obvious took on vague, almost mythical dimensions. The army prosecutors filed a case in relation to her son’s status, but things completely stalled after that. The case itself consisted of a single sheet of paper - the field report filed by the unit’s commander. Other than that the military could add nothing of value. Time flew, the case was at a stand-still, and Vera Petrovna with her husband began to realize that they had become a case for a popular Russian aphorism – a drowning victim is his own best chance.

They were received at the Ministry of Defense, where they were handed down from office to office, finally hinting that the government is not all that concerned in recovering rank-and-file MIAs. They would be better off working with non-profit groups who have better resources and connections to deal with these cases. NPGs offered more practicality and compassion, especially the Mothers of Soldiers Committee, but even there they were offered little help. Each case was individual, their resources were slim and wealthy benefactors prefer to invest their money into pop starlets and publicity events rather than presumed corpses. They did come upon some good fortune:

The MSC secretary told them that the Committee was expected to meet with the president and Vera Petrovna and her husband were welcome to attend. The meeting actually took place, but was as expected entirely scripted by the President’s administrative office. Based on the scenario drawn up in advance, the secretary was to approach the President as he was exiting from church service during a major Orthodox holiday and personally give a list of MIA cases in front of the cameras. The rest of the women were to provide backup vocals in the crowd along the lines of “Help us Boris Nikolayevich, nobody cares about us anymore…”

As previously scripted, the presidents’ security detail allowed the secretary to step up to the president with the cameras ready to capture every moment.

“Boris Nikolayevich,” started the secretary. “I would like to hand you this petition from the Mothers of Soldiers Committee.”

“I am at your service,” replied the president.

“Boris Nikolayevich, help us find our missing kids. We are beating our heads against the wall and the results are the same. The military won’t let us enter areas of combat. We don’t have nearly enough money for ransom. We bear children for the Motherland, send them off young and healthy into the army, which as it turns out has no use or regard for them as soon as they are captured or wounded.”

“That’s shameful,” stated the president. “Let me have your list. I will make sure that each case is dealt with individually. The government must be responsible for the wellbeing of its soldiers. Tell all mothers throughout our great country that the president will take this matter under his personal control.”

Shortly after, the initial euphoria was replaced by common sense and understanding of the mechanism of the bureaucracy. The president scored points with voters at the polls, while the military officials that inherited these cases simply let them gather dust.

“War is a terrible thing madam. Who even knows where these bandits are hiding these boys, not to mention if they are even alive…”

Vera Petrovna’s husband was not made for such emotional stress and succumbed to a heart attack shortly after. The women turned out to be tougher, and for several years in a row she was going through the familiar motions, collecting bits of information, becoming a familiar, almost welcomed figure at the military base. She was able to get access to captured Chechen fighters before they were sent off to military interrogations. Who would ever volunteer information after being left alone in a room with an MP?

On top of that, she managed to create a semblance of a union between Russian and Chechen mothers. The women trade photos and info, which led to the safe return of seven Chechens and three Russians to their families. It may not seem like much, but the benefits were beyond the numbers. It was important to show everyone that there was something to gain when people cooperate with noble intentions, irrespective of their side behind the barbed wire.

Every new arrival to the “purgatory” was met like a good acquaintance and was immediately surrounded by the residents’ compassion and concern. Those who returned for the second or third time found themselves right at home. Common grief united everybody. Every successful reunification sparked massive celebrations and numerous invitations from the happy parents to visit them on the “mainland,” even stay with them permanently.

One couple found each other, a lonely man and an ecstatic woman lingering on for several days amidst celebrations after locating her son. Both were divorced, but came together here among mutual joy and dread, as well as religion. One is never left alone here with his or her misery. They were immediately absorbed into the daily flow of life. First priority, of course, is the information collection about the missing offspring, culminating in daily trips to the bulletin board, a wall of a collapsed building near the base.

Based on a mutual agreement between Chechen and Russian women, all new leads were posted there. All negotiations were conducted and meeting scheduled there as well. Somebody from the room always kept watch by the board a few hours a day. Others cleaned and cooked based on a set schedule. Some even volunteer at the hospital to tend to the wounded. There was enough work to keep everybody involved. Alas, war was war, and the routine was frequently interrupted by its constant reminders. A soldiers’ body was brought in for identification. A load of wounded without medical personnel to receive them.

Journalists and high-ranking generals caused commotion, too. Before, the generals were always reminded of the President’s promise, but that ceased as time went by. The president’s term and the people’s faith ran out pretty much simultaneously. Now conversations with the higher ranks were more direct, with the tone and nature of each request corresponding to the rank and ability to pull the strings of each officer.

The Chechens are willing to barter lives, but refuse to do one-for-one exchanges. There are far fewer of them and as such the price of each Russian in captivity should be higher. On the other hand, Russian politicians and generals seek to avoid negotiations and exchanges at all costs. Last year, several men of the higher rank from the MOD Special Forces were captured, - colonel, major, lieutenant, - and the Chechens were willing to trade each for ten civilians detained by the military. Ultimatums were made, dates scheduled and rescheduled, but the military stood firm. No amount of pleading by wives and parents, even publicly on “Radio Liberty,” evoked any reaction. All the soldiers perished and to what benefit?

Evening in the “purgatory” led to long discussions late into the night. Some staked out behind the dinner table. Some listened intently from their bunks. When a bottle was opened, everybody gathered around. Drinking was never done for the sake of drinking, but there were always causes to pop the lid: birthdays, holidays, new arrival greetings and farewell sendoffs. In the end, all conversation centered on the same topic: The missing kids. With slight variations every now and then, the same words were recycled over and over:

“Shevchuk’s songs are right on: Motherland – Don’t Bother Land.”

“Doesn’t matter who is in charge, Communists or these current jokers. Everybody makes loads of promises when elections roll around, but go try to find any official to live up to them after the polls close and everybody points you to the office next to theirs.”

“These human rights representatives are a sight to look at also. It’s painfully obvious how they are there to showcase to the West that we are all civil and democratic, while in reality they are the same low-level clerks with even less say.”

“They could have created an office for prisoner exchanges a long time ago if anybody had the slightest desire. With money and authority…”

“There is a stretch if I ever saw one, - all they can do is make money land in their pockets fresh from our backs."

“We could put Petrovna in charge. She is always fair and square.”

“Yes, that will happen. I’d like to see them let an outsider, an honest one at that, get authority and control over federal funds. With our free press and media and all. Berezovsky and Gusinsky might have been Jews, but spoke the truth after all.”

“And where are they now? Their noses aren’t clean either. They should’ve stayed in their place like Abramovich. Maybe they would have lived here now. Khodorkovsky also stole a pretty penny, but question our dear government and that’s what you get.”

“So why did he go to jail instead of leaving? He wanted justice, so now he is stuck with it.”

“As if Russians didn’t steal anything? Chernomyrdin, Vyakhirev, Yeltsin, that whole clique… It’s just that Jews want fame on top of the money, while ours prefer to fatten up away from prying eyes. I read about Putin too. He isn’t as clean as he comes across."

“Obviously! Who’d let him anywhere near the Kremlin any other way? The tree, it starts rotting from the roots. The bottoms look to the top for example. Even at our base the main headache is hot to score some cash, sell some gas, some weapons and uniforms, some peddle rations…Meanwhile, the soldiers’ salaries are unpaid for months. How does that work? That money is spinning through some banks probably.”

Eventually somebody will whip the old guitar and an old moody folk song will gather everybody together, tired after the same unending dialogue and ready to help out in the chorus.

“It’s a shame that Nina took Semyon home,” added Vera Petrovna, disappointed. “The guitar had a soul in the boys’ hands.”

“It’s okay. God willing they’ll come back over on their next week off. Their kid is still somewhere out here.”

Life in the “purgatory” is truly communal, frequently supplemented by additional supplies brought from home by returning residents. There simply could not be any other way. Solitude and self-reliance would not stand a chance. It had always been more productive to think up of solutions and ideas as a group.

When left on their own, people were usually overcome with tears and thoughts of their missing loved ones. The group wrote several letters to various politicians, ministers, journalists and businessmen. That sort of effort never ceased. Society’s door will forever be closed until you knock on it. Besides the routine attempts for publicity, some ideas generated have been out of the realm of fantasy. One person suggested a nationwide work stoppage or a hunger strike by women all across Russia. (How to publicize such an event was never really explained.)

“They’ll start a case on you as soon as you speak up. If not, they’ll throw you behind bars from the start, or better yet into a mental institution. We can all be brave and loud behind these walls amongst ourselves. Try to go up against a suit or a uniform and they’ll twist your neck off in a split second.”

“What do we have to lose? Is this any way to live, stuck here like moles without ever seeing daylight or any real prospects? Whoever finds luck has no time for others like us. As long we keep thinking only about our own skins, they’ll keep treating us like cattle. This little group is a blessing. Every time I come here it feels like a holiday.”

“It is true; grief brought us together, but happiness moves us apart. How can that be?”

“That’s because we don’t have faith in anything or anybody any more, neither our rulers nor the country that they steer.”

“So why do we vote for them? It’s our own fault.”

“As if anybody is voting for them. Now scoring votes is a form of art as it is. Even with all the falsifications, 60% of the population turned out to vote, and of those they took 60% of the votes. Multiply that and it turns out 36% of the population seemingly voted for them, while in reality it is probably closer to 25%. So whom exactly do they represent like that? Americans helped the Georgians to organize fair elections and Shevardnadze didn’t even get 5% of the votes after always posting 70% in prior years.”

“I doubt anybody would help us. Russia is not Georgia. I think we are stuck in this mess for a while. It’s a shame there is no such thing as reincarnation.”

“I heard there is a new Messiah proclaiming his arrival somewhere in Siberia.”

“Is he some nut with too much time on his hands!?”

“Don’t know for sure, but people I know say it’s the second coming of Christ and all believers find shelter under his wings regardless of wealth, age of nationality. If you are a true believer – come one, come all and stay as long as you want.”

“I’ve seen too many of these prophets in my time, except life is still the same as it ever was.”

“One of my neighbors found out about this and decided to take a trip and check that place out. Came back, sold her apartment and is about to move out there for good.”

“Is that right? What kind of sweet life are they preaching there?”

“The sweet life of people living and working together as one, almost like us here but in bigger numbers. People come even from different countries. The same woman that one Jewish dame went to visit her kids in the States, even getting help from the government every month. Couldn’t stomach it, came back, sold her place and bolted to that very same place in Siberia. She also said that things are kept clean and civil. They grow their own food, clean air, clean water, love and peace all around.”

“Almost like a fairy tale.”

“Practically is one. As if we can wait on anybody up the ladder to arrange something of this sort.”

“Maybe the middle from a bagel or an MIA notices at best.”

“Maybe we should go out there after all? What do we have to lose? I just want to live like a normal person for a few moments. Do me a favor and send me the address of that place.”

“You all can do what you want, my heart will be here until I find my son - dead or alive.”

Another “purgatory”-bred idea was to organize an anti-war march together with Chechen women across Chechnya and then across Russia. The idea was given a lot of thought and discussion, but a consensus was never reached. There were too many ifs and buts to deal with.

First, enough people were needed to prevent the march from being covered up or forbidden, but there is way too much work involved in getting masses together, especially hidden from the authorities until all was ready. They find out and the organizers will have to watch their back for the rest of their lives. Every single person needs to be talked with individually. Can’t go to a public official or a journalist. Even the Mothers of Soldiers Committee had somebody from the police in its ranks. They are more afraid of there own people than of the terrorists.

Second, where would the money come from? Can’t reach out to anybody wealthy. Businessmen won’t go against the government they raised and fed. Third, nobody had the energy or the emotional capacity to go through with a project of this scale after all they went through and have seen here. The idea just hung in the air and evaporated, even though everybody considered it worthwhile.

At the end of March there was a noticeable spike in activity at the base. Supposedly some high ranking official, perhaps even the President, was scheduled to arrive for a visit. Nobody knew anything precise, not even the base commander or possibly even the regional commander. Everything was repainted, cleaned and secured. Vera Petrovna was officially told that she would be getting an award from the government and to get a speech ready, but one no longer than three minutes.

“They can stick their award where the sun don’t shine,” was her initial decline to the invitation for the spectacle.

“Come on Vera. You have to go. Screw them all, but at least we can open more doors with a medal,” People were reassuring her.

“I don’t know why most of you are here, but I am here because I feel I am needed. I doubt I’ll ever find my boy, but at least I can help others in my shoes. I’ll find a way to leave this life as soon as I feel that I am not making a difference, or maybe visit the newly baked Jesus in Siberia. I just won’t take part in their shows for the cameras.”

She never went, even though it was the Minister of Defense that showed up at the base. She picked up the medal at the headquarters later on. Nobody scolded her and a clerk simply said:

“Take your medal and leave.”

Thanks for that at least.

HELO

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