Читати книгу - "Навіщо. What For"

old. He used to come and ask me for vitamins, he liked the sweet ones… A doctor takes my hand, and says, ‘tell me more.’ That reminds me of when I was trying to find The Poet’s pulse. Dovbush’s mother came, and said I’d now be her daughter. The doctor keeps telling me that I’m young, everything will pass, and it’ll just remain in your dreams. And suggests that I might want to become a psychologist. Because philosophy is too ephemeral. And after the war there will be a need for psychologists to deal with all the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have the full range of its symptoms. Nightmares. It’s like can’t make it out of that military encirclement. Sometimes I feel like I see the enemy everywhere… I went to buy some chocolates and scared a poor saleswoman. Suddenly I just dropped to the floor and tried to hide behind the counter… One day I was wearing a cute green dress… And I bumped into some of the guys… We went for a drink and I started to cry… But they’re not the same anymore. They used to say, ‘we’re not here for the money.’ And now all they talk about is who owes them, what sort of perks they should be getting, where they can get a piece of land, some cheap loans… They’re not all like that. Or maybe they’re right, that they should be demanding what the state owes them. Maybe I’m too young to understand…

Slon

The jerk who shot me in the legs later visited me in the hospital. Every day. He brought me food, and tried to take care of me. So I forgave him for shooting me, and called him ‘brother.’ As soon as they released me from the hospital I went back to the States. But I was a cripple. The doctors back home took a look at me, broke my legs again, and put in some kind of prosthetics, some kind of artificial bones or something. I can’t run, but I’m no longer limping. I got married. It just happened out of the blue. She’s one of us. She’s a psychiatrist working on the Vietnam syndrome. It’s become the Africa syndrome. And now it’s the Donbass syndrome. I’m material for her dissertation since I’m more than happy to talk about it. None of her other patients have flashbacks as good as mine. Imagine this dream. We’re in a trench, under attack. Lavr, the Poet, and Martynov are with me. We’re all wounded. I can only try and save one of them, so I grab the Poet. I’m pulling and pulling, finally dragged him out, saved him. Then I look, and it’s not the Poet but Martynov. And he’s dead. My wife is racking her brains to try and figure out what the dream means. She came up with this theory that I miss that Russian guy, that we were meant to live through something together, and now we never will. God forbid! Whatever I still need to live through I’ll do with my fellow Americans, thank you very much. No more chipmunks will be trapped in swimming pools. Wonder what happened to them in the forest. I voted Republican for the first time this election. They at least tried to convince Congress to send military equipment to Ukraine. The Americans are such a bunch of cowards. If they only knew how Ukrainians used to look up to them. Until they realized…

Veles

I was held prisoner for a hundred days. Then the big prisoner exchange happened and ‘everyone’ was supposed to be released. I was. Until then they forced me to work repairing buildings that had been bombed. They treated us like slaves, slave labour. They gave us porridge once a day. When they made us work in the fields they put something in the food, some kind of mild sleeping pills that made us drowsy, so that we wouldn’t escape. It made me feel like a zombie. One day some guy just started pounding me. His son had been captured and killed. Finally someone dragged him off me. I ended up in hospital with my head practically smashed in. Now I can barely see out of my left eye, and can hardly hear out of my left ear. But I volunteered to fight again, this time with another battalion. They take guys like me even if we’re half blind and half deaf, because we know this war better than anyone. I have no other choice right now. Whatever I do, I’m drawn to the front. That’s where my home is, it’s controlled by the enemy. That’s where my fallen comrades are. Some never got a proper burial. Friends keep trying to set me up with women, they want me to get married. But I can’t. Maybe I just haven’t met my soul mate? I’m not going to get married just to get married. That would be dishonest. I’ve already spent too much time being dishonest with myself. I wanted to be a pilot but became a policeman. I loved Tanya but married Valentyna. I was honest with the state, and for my efforts ended up with no apartment. Oh well, any way you slice it, I’m alive. And that means I might still be useful for something. I want a son. ‘Samolot’ used to say that volunteers should collect and freeze their sperm before going to the front. That way, even if they get killed, their wives or sweethearts could still have their children. Or any women who wanted to have brave and handsome children. They’ll be needed once the war ends…

Laurel

I’m the only one who made it out in one piece. Or, actually, picked up by a guy driving by who took me to safety. He saw me on the river bank.