The first rays of dawn were already appearing on the horizon, piercing the gray skies, and casting streams of soft rosy light everywhere. So gentle was the silence, it was almost as if peace reigned in this land.
Leaning over a basin of dirty water, Sebastianovitch carelessly splashed drops of water over his face, waking from the night he hadn't slept. He caught sight of the General, who had just emerged from his tent, his features drowsy but calm, his eyes ringed with dark circles. The General turned his leather notebook mechanically in his hands, casting cold, observant glances. Nikolai wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and walked stiffly towards him.
“Pyotr Andreyevich has succumbed to his wounds.”
The General took a cigarette from his iron case and lit it casually.
“We've also 'evacuated' all of the wounded soldiers.”
He noticed the General's cold gaze on his bloody fingernails, cleared as best he could by the water in the basin. The General nodded.
“We'll cover the six versts today, not a day more.”
A few hours had passed, and the column was advancing at a fast, jerky pace. Occasionally they came across carts pulled by lumbering oxen or shaggy bearded peasant who glared at them defiantly. In the lead, the General, looking superb, had already forgotten about those he had left behind. Eyes fixed on the distance; he tolerated the occasional singing of soldiers in the deserted countryside. The voices of these men, clear and deep, echoed in the mountains of a land they knew was about to change forever. Amid these peaceful fields, it was hard to believe that the war was real. But the tension was as palpable as the fine rain that now fell on anxious brows. Lulled by the sad voices and the slow march of the horses, he forgot the many souls he was about to sacrifice...
“For my mother. For my Russia,” he repeated in chorus with the voices of his men.
And every time he silenced those voices with an order from his hand, he was moved to tears. To love so deeply, so morbidly. “To love as if your soul could burst.”
A light breeze swept through the trees in the valley where the column had stopped. Without speaking, the men allowed themselves to be lulled by the plenitude of the remote nature that surrounded them. The certainty of death was written on their foreheads. Yet their eyes were blank and steady, sharing their fate as they shared the pathetic end of a smoke. Tired of a monotonous life or convinced by the warmth of a speech, they accepted the cause. But if the cause eventually brought about a common destiny, how many of them had embraced it with the soul of a politician? How many of them remained crouched in the trenches, waiting for any outcome? In the secret of their hearts, they dreamed of their father's home. When the wind carried familiar whispers, they could almost smell their mothers' cream and bread. When there was nothing left to say, their minds wandered over to the horizon hidden by the wagons. What life could they have chosen? Home was away, holding no prospects for the young. To live like their fathers, dipping their bread in milk every day, mowing the fields in summertime, smoking at night? All the while knowing that a world of many possibilities existed out there. No, they never could. And who robbed them of their chances? Who had built their villages so far from modernity and wealth? “They” did. “O enemies of the outcasts, you kept us away, ignorant, and slothful. We have finally come for you, strong and new”. Invoking a God of wrath against the volunteers, they all hoped He would grant a truce at last.
No one knew if this temporary peace was the reason why they did not hear the shot. But a bullet flew very close to the General's ear. Then another, just like the sound of a stubborn fly. His breath stopped and he leapt violently to the ground. His horse reared and bucked; despite the bridle he was trying to hold on to. Other, more scattered sounds pierced the numbness of the first shock. Screams, commands, and the same sound of aggressive flies passing close to their ears, crashing into the spotless earth in raised clods.
The General could hear himself shouting orders, but he did not know what he was ordering his men to do. His ears were ringing. His movements were slow. He could see Tverskov taking cover behind a supply wagon, waving his hands in his direction. Dust, hooves, shadows lurking in the brush. Everything was blurred and nothing could be seen. Then, without understanding where this impulse came from, the General rushed out of the forest, weapon in hand, followed by the shouts of his soldiers.
The sun blinded him, bright and high, indifferent to what happened on the ground. No clouds obscured its mighty rays. How peaceful was the Earth at dawn! he thought before closing his eyes to soak in its exquisite warmth. But a tit chirped incessantly, in a high, frantic tone. He wanted to throw stones at it, but nothing moved. Something else was scratching at his belly, claws, or perhaps nails. He couldn't tell. With a slow, studied move, he turned his head. Kolya lay further away, his face bloodied and glowing in the celestial light. Everywhere, the dew of man dripped.
Whatever it was that had burrowed into his stomach was back at it, more and more intensely. He lifted his head to find a black raven tearing at his shirt. The bird saw the man awake and flew away with a loud cawing to another feast. A gentle breeze rose again. A soft wind that ruffled the leaves of the trees. "Is it possible to count them?" he asked himself, staring at the tree that sheltered him from the sun.
"Is it possible to count all the dying leaves?"
A searing pain pierced his stomach. His entire being was being drained into the wet grass, onto this earth he cherished. He was melting away, disappearing into the warm depths of Russia.
He turned his head away, groaning in pain. A few silent tears dampened his eyes as he repeated, "My Russia. My Russia" in a tone of nostalgic reproach before sinking into oblivion.
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