Chapters 1991

Chapter 32     

The first day of the New Year passes peacefully, but on 2nd OMON is back, trashing offices and chasing journalist in Media House again. Radio reports that the same is happening in Lithuania.

The next day comes with even worse news - the fixed food prices are released. ‘That’s much worse than bunch of loonies with Kalashnikovs turning tables over! With these,’ I desperately screen the new price tags in kitchen, ‘our tables will be not worth turning over soon!’

‘Gorby has decided to send paratroopers in!’ John shouts from the room.

‘So it’s finally happening?’ I feel somehow relieved. The tension of few past weeks, the guessing about will they or will they not is over. Now we know. They will.

The first attempt is feeble - the crowd of hardcore communist supporters try to attack the government building in the centre of town.

‘A bit of a Humpty-Dumpty thing,’ Jines giggles when we watch the evening news. Nothing really happens. ‘They have no guts.’

‘It looks more like a poorly rehearsed play.’

But that is just an overture. The next morning radio is reporting in full – first blood in Lithuania. Soviet Army unit’s breaking in several buildings across the country, firing at people and throwing air-fuel mix around.

‘Yeah, and our local garrison is handing out Kalashnikovs to every Tom, Dick and Harry like hot buns, you know. Even to the cadets.’ John spits between two bites. Spotting my quizzical look, he quickly swallows the next bite. ‘Raul popped in. His dealer told.’

‘Is he a reliable source? Dealer, I mean.’

‘Who knows? Might be. Does it really matter?’

No, it doesn’t . Whatever will happen, will happen.

‘Mum, they will kill us all?’

‘Nope. Maybe some, but never all.’

Carl silently gaze at his porridge. ‘But mum, if you are dead, you do not need go to school? Or still?’

‘Honey, if you are dead, you are dead. No school, no porridge.’

‘That’s not so bad then.’ He dives back in the plate.

‘It’s getting a bit crowded here, don’t you think? Jane there and Joachim here,’ John reaches for the towel to rub the white stuff off Plop’s tummy. ‘Poor Plop, treading through guano all day long!’ With one finger John gently pats on Plop’s head. ‘And then that monkey’s bouncing around,’

‘Regina has left!’

‘I meant Carl.’ John giggles and reaches for the newspaper.

‘Carl! Give the newspaper back to dad! You can read it later! John, you will be at office?’

‘Of course. Maybe I will pop out for few moments but... Don’t you worry! We’ll be okay, all of us! Nothing will happen!’ John gives me a quick hug. ‘Ta-ra you lot! Behave!’

The day passes slowly. So slowly that I vacuum the bookshelves while radio bubbles about meeting in Moscow where Gorby has promised our deputies that no forces will be used; then I run to the shop, feed children, make dinner and finally, when I have reached the point to start ironing boys socks, John is back.

‘How it looks? In city?’

‘Calm. I heard that Front has decided for a meeting tomorrow. A big one.’

Indeed, radio confirms it later at night. Tomorrow at two. On Embankment, as usual. John packs even more film rolls in his bag. And with a big sight, takes out his dream Olympus and replaces with Kiev. ‘Two lenses will do.’

‘You know, this remains me the first demonstration... remember?’ I nervously clutch my fingers.

‘Common, relax, nothing will happen. Bed time.’

It feels like just hew minutes later when with a ‘Wake up!’ John shakes my shoulder. ‘Lithuania!’

‘It feels like it’s five or something!’ I try to wrap the blanket around my head. ‘Give me another half an hour.’

‘Listen!’ John pulls back the blanket and presses radio right at my ear. ‘Listen!’

The newsreader’s voice slowly cuts in my brain. In the early hours Army attacked. TV and radio. Parliament building. There are injured. ‘Oh, shit... SHIT!’

I stagger to the kitchen like a zombie to put the kettle on. I walk back. The voice on the radio still rattles. Where it was? Where? I dig through the bookshelves with trembling hands. Right! Here! I finally reach the little packet, wrapped in old newspaper, hidden behind the books on the top shelf.

I unwrap and there it is. A small glass jar with few handfuls of coffee beans. ‘My little pot of gold! My last pot of gold! Just wait a moment, John, I’ll be a human being again in no time.’

I grind the beans and the smell, drifting through the room, is enough to bring me back to senses. ‘Right! Right, John. Just wait.’

I pour the water in mugs and while coffee is brewing, quickly prepare some sandwiches. With canned sprats in tomato sauce. Actually it’s not as awful as it sounds. Never the less, it edible.

‘So.’ I put the mugs on the desk. ‘What’s our plan?’

‘I go, you stay.’ John is sharp.

‘Sounds simple. For you.’

‘Do we have options?’

I consider for a while. No, we haven’t. Rob is too heavy now for me to carry him around. In a huge crowd, if something happens, we’ll be stomped over. Yeah, no options. ‘That’s sorted out then. What if...?’

‘No ifs. At all. Agreed?’

We sit for a while in silence, only radio still rattling on the bed. Sound is quite muted as Keggy has had jumped back in bed and comfy presses his back against the radio now.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I mumble, keeping my eyes in mug. ‘Are you going to work then?’

‘Yeah. I have plenty of yesterday’s rolls to develop before meeting starts.’

‘Okay then, let’s go! I will take Keggy out for a walk with you while the buggers are still asleep.’

The morning is really chilly. The patches of hard, crisp snow scatter around on the black ice and wind bites hard through my jacket. I shiver watching John briskly footing away towards the tram stop. Thud...thud...thud... the sound of his steps reverberate through the empty street. City feels deserted and mute. Streets are dark and only an occasional car drives past on the main street few blocks away. I can hear a tram rattling at a distance. I sigh. ‘Common, Keggy! We are the ones who must go home.’

To be honest it’s hard. Hard. I make a breakfast. Wake up children. Switch on TV to see the footage from Lithuania. It was only yesterday when Gorby gave his promise. What a bullshit! I ring my father and we have a long discussion about pros and cons of civil disobedience. I throw a pile in the washing machine and watch it spinning.

The meeting is on TV. And on radio. There are speakers, freshly arrived from Lithuania with updates on latest development. Barricades. We must build barricades. Around TV and radio, around Parliament and government buildings. I watch the busses, endless rows of busses. People have arrived from all corners of the country. Nightly events in Lithuania had pushed even the laziest ones out of their cosy lives. The Soviet Army copter is flying low over the heads, scattering the flyers in the grey sky. Today is January the 13th. Russians will be celebrating the Old New Year tonight.

Phone rings. It’s John.

‘Actually, speaking of Russians, Yeltsin is in Tallinn. He promised Russian support against the Soviet crackdown. Can you believe it?’

‘That’s something! Interesting what’s really going on in Moscow?

‘Imagine Russia leaving the Soviet empire!’ John cracks up.

‘Well, if seriously, on radio he called Russian officers and soldiers not to obey, not to fire at unarmed civilians! And knowing Army, it’s something! Anyway, when you will be back for the dinner?’

‘Sorry, I’m not coming home tonight.’

‘Why?’

‘I will recharge accus for the flash and then I will be back out. People are starting right now. Take kids for a walk to the bridge; you will see what I mean.’

‘Food?’

‘Do not worry, I had an old ravioli pack in the lab freezer. All sorted out.’

‘Okay then! See you later.’

I wrap children and we take dog out for an evening walk. John is right. It’s some sight, indeed. Children in awe watch huge, heavy tractors, wood trucks loaded fully, an occasional bulldozer and oil tankers creeping past. Engines roaring they drive slowly towards the bridge and disappear in the dark on the other end.

‘They are starting to build barricades.’ I hug my children.

Back at home, to keep evening blues away, I clean Jane’s cage and wash the residence of Joachim under the table. After the dinner I voluntary offer a fairy tale. I lay on the floor in darkness, watching the street lamp flick outside in wind while Indiana Jones sneaks through his endless adventures. My mind is not very focused on the story line and soon I’m trapped. Indiana Jones has just climbed down the stairs to discover a submarine buried deep underground the mountain forests. How I can waggle myself out of this shit? ‘That’s it for tonight. I want you to be asleep in three minutes!’

I wonder back in living room and switch on TV. The dark, blurred shots flick fast over the screen. A front of the tank appear from darkness, the screams, somebody slips under the track, a hand waving Kalashnikov... What?

The tanks are back on streets in Lithuania, crushing Parliament, TV, radio... I probably have had screamed as children are out of the beds and gather around me, eyes glued at the screen. We silently watch, listening jerky, disconnected voices of reporters. Fourteen dead, over a hundred injured.

‘Go back to beds now, please. It’s very late. There will be no more news tonight, I promise.’ I switch off TV, hug them and push towards their beds. ‘Maybe we’ll know more in the morning.’

Indiana Jones jinxed submarine is forgotten. We have real tanks on streets just few hundred clicks away. What a bedtime story for my little people!

I throw some cold porridge for Keggy, pour fresh water in everybody’s bowl and switch off the lights. Will they attack us tonight as well?

I adjust radio volume down to a quiet murmur, put a tea mug down on the floor behind the bed and screen the shelves. It’s waste of time try sleeping tonight. I need something easy, even silly, to keep my mind away. Gone with the wind? The Thorn Birds? Finally I stretch out for some old volume of Dumas and wrap myself in blanket. Keggy lies besides and puts his head on my feet. It’s warm and comforting.

I flick pages through galloping horses and dueling cavaliers and can’t understand a word. John is out there; on the streets... I bite my lip hard. 

 
Chapter 33

‘I’m back in one piece as you can see!’ John smiles, rubbing his red, frozen palms against the stove. ’Is there anything for a snack before I crash out?’

‘How is there?’ I ask, cutting thin slices of cheese. A packet of instant chicken soup in the bowl... And a teapot to brew for afterwards.

‘Fantastic! People are coming like... a wave? Bridges are blocked already. Welders, crane mechanics, drivers from all over the place... you name it. All there. Ministries yesterday called out for a help, and now everybody wants participate. They use like anything to block the streets. Old Town looks like a busy fortress now. The first guards are taking shifts already. Fantastic!’ John happily bites in to a sandwich. ‘And foreign journalists are swarming around like flies.’

John finishes the last spoonful of soup and stretches. ‘Wake me up at ten, can you?‘ He crushes out in bed flat and in half a minute is snoring away.

I drag out dog for a quick walk not to miss the morning news. Indeed, the guard shifts had been started at most important buildings – TV centre, radio, parliament, government, phone exchange and telegraph as well as major bridges. On TV everybody looks determined, even happy. The little stage is built on Dom Square where different musicians start gathering to cheer people up. The nearest forestries are bringing in large logs for bonfires to keep the cold away. In a chaotic hurry, but step by step it all starts taking shape.

At ten I wake John, pack some sandwiches and then he is off again. I don’t feel frightened, I’m not even scared about John so much anymore, I feel... excited? It all feels like preparations for a big party.

In the afternoon around three the first not so positive news starts to come in. OMON had left the base. They are firing chaotic. Attacked group of guards on the nearest bridge. Made everybody lay down, kicked and beaten them with Kalashnikov butts. Raided the pockets. Radios, gas masks, even scarves... All burned. Firing at busses. Setting them on fire.

On the next bridge they use some fuel mixture setting row of cars ablaze.

Eyewitnesses report that they are very stressed, in rage, shouting and swearing. The overall record of the day – minus seventeen vehicles.

 ‘Mum, why they do that?’ Kate asks, head in radio.

‘I don’t know, child. Nobody knows. It’s all so... senseless?’

‘Because they are Soviets!’ Carl has the answer.

‘Even Soviets must have some logic.’

Later at night OMON attacks the police academy, beats up cadets, demolishing and robbing weapons. They also had been noticed driving around the city as well but no more incidents reported later during the night.

Next morning brings army copter circling menacingly low over the Old Town. Gorby announces that Army actions in Lithuania were, like, justified, but overall day passes calmly with barricades getting more and more advanced. There are checkpoints and narrow passages for pedestrians, welded walls and even an electric fence.

When John finally arrives back home, he takes me by surprise. ‘No food for me, please! I’m full.’ He takes bag off the shoulder and drops in armchair. ‘Dry socks and slippers only, please. My legs are gone.‘

Children giggling dive under the desk, looking for dad’s slippers while I start ransacking the sock drawer.

‘Sock’s in my bag.’ John smiles blissfully, peeling of his wet boots.

I open his bag and indeed – on the top of all his photo gear lays pair of new hand knitted woollen socks. He grabs and with a relieved grunt pulls them on.

‘Clear my pockets as well, hon.’

 ‘Jacket is damp,’ I say, ruthlessly going through the pockets. This jacket probably has few hundreds of them, full with ancient tram tickets and empty match boxes.

‘Oy, here they are, I thought I had dropped them,’ John quickly reaches for two rolls of films I fish out and throws them in the bag with others. ‘Let’s count. Today I snapped... exactly... Sixty two rolls. And I was short at the end.’

Finally on the dining room table among the usual pocket rubbish lays five bars of chocolate and seven packages of cigarettes. Seven! ‘Where did you get these?’ There are no chocolate in the shops now and there are no cigarettes without coupons. ‘Lucky bastard!’

‘It’s going wild there, you know.’

‘There were no reports on any incidents on radio today!’

‘Not wild that way. Quite contrary... People are just ... too nice, too generous... too good to be true, actually. I was given these, ‘John points to the long unseen goods. ‘Just because I was snapping and I was there. And... where are bonfires, there are sausages roasting...’John continues dreamily, half asleep. ‘It’s getting warmer now, there will be a thaw.’

The next day OMON attacks again. On the first bridge killing one and injuring two, on second bridge - one guard injured. Government decides build the fortification walls around the most important objects. Later at night there is a blast at one of the communist party buildings in the centre of the city. No damages and no injured.

‘One of these... Again.’ John winks. ‘Did you listen the world news?’

‘Yeah, now everybody will be too busy with Kuwait to notice the little Baltic! Gorby now will have hands completely free.’ Indeed, situation internationally had gone from bad to worse. US have started their Desert Storm and news is filled with roaring Tomahawks.

‘We need bread. And sugar. I’ll run to the shops.’ I switch off the radio.

‘No, I can bring these!’ Carl volunteers. Usually I let him do the shopping at the nearest corner shop but our bakery is across the street. The main street, which leads right to the nearest bridge.

‘Listen, you must be very, very careful. It’s calm right now, but you know that it can change quickly.’ Actually, the past few days had passed quietly. Maybe it’s all gone now.

‘Mum, you had repeated the thing for hundred times right now! If I spot the tanks or any armed vehicles before I cross the street, I run back home.’ Carl recites. Then, spotted my quizzical look, adds a feeble “instantly”.

‘And if there are tanks when you come out of the shop?’

‘I run away the opposite side, behind the Archive building, and stay hiding there until everything is calm again.’

‘Yes, and remember that! No heroic actions or running across the street under the tanks. Capish? Here is the money.’ I tuck few notes in his pocket.

I clench my teeth and let the child go. These are the longest forty seven minutes in my life but finally he is back. ‘Look what I got! There were sweets also and I took three kilos!’

‘That’s clever, you know! Well done!’

‘Aha. You can give them to dad and then he can give them to people there!’ he points at the TV.

Actually, if I’ll need to sit home with children for one more day, I will be at my wits end, and finally I crush on John on Sunday morning. ‘I must see!’ 

‘How about your parents then?’ John asks. “They can look after the monsters while you pop out to the city.’

‘Knowing verbal capacity of my father, that’s a safe thing, indeed. I will be stack there forever.’

Leaving children at Nana is out of question now. Had been for a while now. Her verbal capacity is none less, only the quality is different... Even children have started to avoid her monologues over the latest events due to the lack of any political sense. Or any sense at all if we want to be precise.

Dad is happy to see us.

‘Where is mum?’

‘Went to city. She was up all night, making pies.’

‘You two too? Great! Now you have an exclusive chance to do something very special.’

‘You will leave them here, right?’ Father winks. ‘Go! We will be okay here!’

Father’s voice suddenly cracks. We both know that father’s “okay here” means much more than just looking after them for a few hours. I can go with peace in my heart – if something happens, my children will be well looked after.

‘You got it, dad. You deserve some pleasantries of parenthood again.’

Children will be bored to death probably but that’s life. When I leave, they all are over the map of Soviet Union, trying to detect all the countries who have declared independence so far. Good, it will take some time.

It’s Sunday, but tram is full and buzzing. Women carry baskets, boxes, large bags and the smell of freshly baked goodies fill the air with festive feel. ‘But Moscow...’ ‘Yeah, they wanted to march to centre but freaked out... ‘ ‘But Washington...’ I smile. Full tram-load of grey perm politicians.

The day is dark – gray, dirty snow on streets and the same shade of gray over our heads in the sky. The whole Old Town is covered in friendly smoke. Large logs are stacked up and people are gathering around them, holding tight on steaming mugs to keep at least their hands warm.

The narrow streets are buzzing. People are rushing around, gesturing excitedly. Cafes in Old Town are open, working non-stop now, offering hot drinks and buns for free. I can see some people in one, slumped in chairs, resting with heads on their hands. Outside volunteers are producing stacks of sandwiches and pouring out tea in plastic cups. Tables are rustic, made out of simple boards, roughly nailed together. The huge bubbling pots on army kitchen stoves are filling air with aroma of mint and lime blossoms. I take a cup of some herbal tea at one of the tables and stand there savouring the moment.

Two men hurriedly bring in large wooden trays with fresh bread and pass them to volunteers. ‘Trays we want back! Don’t burn them!’ They laugh and hurry back, squeezing through the gaps in concrete blocks. Two foreign TV crews run past, almost giddy with all the newsworthiness around. An old lady stops by, opens her bag and sheepishly takes out two jars of instant coffee and puts them on the table, smiles and walks further, carefully placing her boots on icy cobbles. Her bag seems heavy.

‘Бери, бери!’ a buxom Russian lady pushes a basket, filled with little pies, under my nose. ‘Чуть-чуть было как испекла!’ Yes, they do look like just out of oven, indeed. The smell is divine. I take one and smile. ‘Спасибо!’

The doors of Dom Church are open and I slide in. Near the doors are group of volunteers, handing out food, but further down there are stacks of stretchers resting against the walls, bandages and medications laid out on church benches and dozens of doctors in their white overalls, peacefully sitting in small groups. They also are volunteers, rushing here after their shifts at hospitals. Over our heads somebody professional is quietly playing the powerful church organ, one of the biggest in Europe.

It’s getting dark outside - the time when women and children must leave. I walk through the square. On the little stage opposite the Radio building are singing some of rock stars with acoustic guitars. Crowd is singing along and many are dancing in a large circle, hand in hand.

When I return, mother is already back at home, putting a dinner together while father wants to hear every minute detail.

‘You can well imagine that’s all bullshit. If they will come, barricades will not stop them, dad...’

‘Yeah, with few metal bars and a heap of cobble stones... a bit outdated technologies, I know,’ father giggles, watching American missiles firing on TV.

I twist a strand of hair around the finger. It still carries smell of smoke. ‘But, dad, there is a point. To show ourselves, them and the whole world that we’ll be not running like sheep. That we are standing. Here.’

After the dinner I start packing up children. ‘It’s getting late, and with all this fuel shortage to find a taxi...’

The phone rings. Father takes it and then silently passes to me. It’s John. ‘Do not worry, Mo,’ he hurriedly shouts in the receiver, ‘I’m alive. I’m safe, back in at Tower Gate!’

What? What he is talking about?

‘John?’

‘Stay where you are! Switch on TV! Must go now! Ta-ra!’

‘What’s on news?’ I shout, slamming down the receiver.

‘Quick! Look!’ mother leans closer to TV, wrists clenched. In the dark little sparks are crossing the screen. ‘They look lake tracers!’

Since when my mum is such an expert on bullets? We can pick up shadows of trees and a building in a distance. The voice of reporter is overpowered by cracks of shooting and hissing noises of passing bullets. ‘Indeed, sounds like tracers.’ Mum repeats quietly. ‘That’s bad then.’

‘It’s OMON!! They are firing from there, from the hill... No, from Old Town... no, from the hotel there...’ Endless little sparkles are crisscrossing the screen while excited voices scream in the darkness towards the camera. ‘They are attacking Ministry of Interior. It’s crossfire started now!’

‘They shot him, bastards! They shot him!’ the voice, chocking with rage, shouts on the back. Shaking camera shows the wrist, clenching on the side of a stretcher...

’They are running him to Dom Church.’ We can hear bullets still hissing around in the background.

‘Another one!’ Somebody shouts and camera, which jumping up and down along with the feet of the runner, following the second stretcher in darkness. The injured two are TV cameramen. Few moments later another victim - a schoolboy in brown mittens.

Crossfire slowly dies down. Camera shows dark shadows running between the trees.

‘Seems it’s over for now.’ I stand up and walk to the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘Hope dad, you still have ample of coffee stashed away; this will be a long night.’

News are released instantly, as they come in. Two policemen, who were protecting Ministry, are dead. Some more are discovered seriously wounded. The first injured cameraman dies. Another one is still alive but only still... The deadly wounded boy passes away later. Damn! Damn! Damn!

Children, wide awake, are quietly discussing the just seen news between themselves, all piled up on the sofa.

TV continues as new footage comes in. A young man, probably a student, is standing at Freedom Monument, explaining in the camera where he was standing when he heard the first crack, and from where the next came... From a different angle camera follows the bullets, flying past behind the boy’s back. Then camera moves back, keeping focus on the young man. Shooting behind him goes in full force, and he energetically gestures around, quickly spitting words in mike.

The microphone is in somebody’s hand. Camera moves lower and there he is. The journalist is crouched behind the solid granite wall, surrounding the monument; only a hand up, holding microphone.

My mother chuckles disapprovingly, shaking her head in disdain.

‘He is not one of ours. I saw a logo of some Scandinavian TV company.’

‘Oh, that explains then. But still...’

 ‘Well, we’ll better go home while it has calmed down. Who knows for how long it will be like that. Keggy hasn’t had his evening walk and it’s way past midnight. I doubt that John had made back home.’

‘If you will manage to get a taxi at all.’

But all is silent again when we drive through the city. 

Chapter 34

‘No, John, no more. If you go, I go.’

John sighs. He knows when the battle is lost. ‘And they?’ He nods towards children.

 ‘Carl, please show dad the emergency list.’

Carl stands for a while, lifting his left hand up, then starts, theatrically bending fingers, one by one. ‘If you do not come back until morning, I must call grandma,’ he recites phone number. ‘And tell them. If they do not answer, I call Grump and Nana.’

‘And if there is no signal at all? If lines are down?’

‘Then I go and tell the lady next door. I know it all, mum. And ‘bout bending down and keeping away from windows if there is shooting and all that.’

They’ll be fine. I know, they will. I quickly zip my sack. It contains two swimming rings and two smaller sacks with a piece of muslin and a jar with boric acid solution in each.

‘Mum told me last night,’ I explain, spotted John’s quizzical look. ‘A man from Civil Defence told that if they use tear gas or something of that sort, the cloth wetted in boric acid might help breathe for few minutes.’

‘And swimming rings?’                                     

‘TV is on the island, remember, with only one bridge. River is still not frozen, you know. Actually, speaking about the river, can you please, please be so nice and pull on these woollen long-johns?’

‘Why on earth? It’s not SO cold outside, you know!’

‘Remember that first of Jacques Cousteau books? When they were just starting? All were wearing them to save at least some heat in the water. In this cold, John, we can survive something like five minutes only.’

John sighs.

‘Right, you lot, in beds now! Carl, you can keep radio with you.’ We hug them and tuck in blankets. ‘Right, light’s off, just in case, you know.’

‘I have a torch under the pillow anyway,’ Carl sounds very confident.

‘What else might be there,’ we giggle later, walking down the street towards the bridge. ‘Gas masks? Grump’s bazooka?’

It’s snowing. The streets are icy. The bridge is packed full with different vehicles, leaving only one line open. But there is not much cars on the streets anyway. I hold Keggy’s leash.

‘Another fuel tank,’ John pats on the side of the tank. ‘It sounds full.’

‘With every second being a fully loaded timber truck bridge will be a wall of blaze for a day!’

‘And the smoke... Maybe your cloths is not such a stupid idea,’ John shakes his head.

We slowly walk around the island, from bonfire to bonfire. ‘We can stop for a cup of tea later,’ John rushes snapping a group of students dancing around the bonfire.

The hall of TV building is full of people, resting in warmth. Suddenly everything is in turmoil. ‘Radio just reported, they are approaching the bridge!’ A cameraman crew dashes out, pulling on their jackets. The drivers jump into vehicles. In few seconds the roar of powerful engines rolls across the river. Dancing students abruptly stop and few moments later there is a strong human wall starting to build up at the entrance of the TV. ‘Which way?’

But everything stays calm and soon people are back around bonfires. False alarm.

‘The third one tonight,’ says an upset driver, walking past. ‘But we are ready!’

A farmer in his mid-fifties offers John a flask. ‘Here, mate, take one to warm up.’ The smell is repugnant. A homebrew. ‘Pure thing, potatoes and sugar,’ he lets us know proudly.

John shivers and lifts the flask up. Good job it’s dark. We settle in the gap on one of the large logs everybody uses for a seat. Keggy sniffs around for a moment then with a big sigh collapses at our legs in front of the fire.

‘Can we offer him this?’ A young boy, probably one of the students, shows us a freshly grilled sausage. The smell is gorgeous. ‘It’s homemade, no chemicals at all, and not too greasy!’

I smile and nod, watching one sausage after another disappearing in Keggy’s jaws. Who cares about grease right now! Lucky bastard!

‘Want some?’ boy is generous not only to animals. Sausages are fantastic, indeed.

‘See, I’m an old man. So better me than them, I thought,’ the old man points towards the students, who are dancing again. ‘That I said to my boss when we were coming here.’ He takes a gulp from his flask and gaze in flames for a while.

‘I was born during the War so all I knew are Soviets. All life totally fucked up, man. Totally. So I just thought if my life was so pointless maybe I can come here and if I’m killed then at least my death would have some meaning, you see.’ Man pokes the dying flames with a rod and reaches for another gulp from his flask.

‘You know, this flag is the right one,’ he suddenly announces showing us something in the dark. ‘Our Nina, old gal, gave it to us for the road. She had kept it all these years on the attic. Despite everything.’

My hand brushes the thin woollen cloth. In soft light from the fire the red looks almost black. This flag must be at least fifty years old, stashed away and cherished through all these restless years - the war and the mess ever since.

‘They can’t beat that!’ the farmer pats on his knee. ‘They can’t beat that!’

‘I have only ten rolls left,’ John gets up and offers me a hand. ‘Keggy, let’s move. Thanks, folks!’

We wave and move forwards. The night is getting closer to the end. Tired people huddle closer together around the bonfires. Occasional folksong drifts across along with the little sparkles, running right up in the overcast sky.

Finally the last roll is gone and we start our walk back home. The thin layer of fresh snow lies on top of vehicles, turning silent bridge into same winter wonderland. Frost crinkle under our feet. We stop and look back. The distant lights of fires glimmer in the darkness. The white mist seeps up from the black river. There is no wind tonight.

‘Well, here we are,’ John says. ’Another night’s done with.’

‘Here we are.’ I repeat, slowly. ‘It’s scary. And at the same so beautiful,’ I gaze into black waters, slowly running past. ‘The fires, the songs, the brotherhood... You know, it feels like a medieval city when plague approaches. It’s so inevitable and abstruse that you learn to completely ignore it. You enjoy the momentum in full, knowing that there, most likely, will be no tomorrow. Or there might be. You don’t know and can’t do anything to sway the future, one way or another. No more stress, no worries and all the trivia is left behind. So unrealistic... ‘

We stand for a while, leaning over the handrails of the bridge. ‘What do you think, will we have tomorrow?’

‘You never know. So far six dead and a dozen injured. It doesn’t look very good right now, but who knows...’ John pushes bag strip higher on shoulder and takes my hand. Keggy slowly follows us, sniffing around the fresh snow. We walk along slippery embankment in silence.

 ‘You think, Keggy really enjoyed the night?

‘I don’t know. But we needed him. He’s the best swimmer among us.’