"Black raven, black raven,
Why do you fly above me?
Black raven, oh black raven,
Leave me alone. I am not your prey."
Sitting on the long wooden table facing the stove, the General hummed gravely. He took a cigarette from his case and held the flame close to the match without touching the tip. The air in the main room was hot and humid. The smoke from the cooked beef filled the room with a soft, soothing scent. By the time they got home, he had chopped up some meat for dinner. Without the white light of the moon, nothing outside was visible.
— "Black raven, black raven."
He glanced at the young woman, who was concentrating more on her thoughts than on her task. Wrapped in a blue shawl, she was sitting on a small stool, a bucket between her thighs. She had the proud, detached look of all Russian women. That one look that says, "I love you" and "You are my enemy". Her attention was not distracted by the general's humming, nor did she betray what was going through her mind. She went about her duties with languid, precise gestures of habit.
— "The barn doors need to be closed for the night," she said as she tossed a potato into the water.
He obeyed with a strange docility. When he returned, he breathed in the fresh, fragrant farm air. The smell of cattle, damp earth and cooked beef stirred up that strange sense of fulfilment that was slowly building in his heart. The fog was forming small droplets on the window, and through the smoke he could see. She would soon get up and throw the potatoes into the pot.
She was bathed in the yellow light of the old stove. She looked like the apparition of a benevolent mother. She looked like Russia to him. Tears came to his eyes at the strange feeling that pierced his soul. Russia was finally offering her wonder. He who had fought for her salvation.
He walked, almost timidly, into the main room where she had set the table. She broke the bread and placed the General's portion next to his spoon with the usual gesture of a woman who understands her part. She placed three large potatoes on his plate and turned around for his silent approval. He nodded solemnly, almost shyly. She hadn't noticed his discomfort, still going through the motions of everyday life. But as she sat down, her eyes met the General's.
“You look frightened. It doesn’t suit the eyes of a man, to be afraid."
Of this happiness, he thought instinctively. He was Red. Red in the head. Red with blood. He was fighting for his land. But here, sitting with this impassive woman, he couldn't help but wonder. Could there be a greater cause than fighting for a home? For land to cultivate, for sheep to graze? For a wife? What would become of his fervor after his death? Perhaps what Russia needed was not his death, but his life. A life devoted to tilling her land and ensuring that his love for her would live on in his descendants. He had never felt a stronger desire to live for the sake of Russia than he did today, sitting in front of this young woman.
“Tell me about this life, he commanded."
“The one where we get up at dawn and by evening our shoulders are sore? she replied nonchalantly."
With a lazy move, she slipped off the bench. She picked up the empty plates and cleared the table. She unhooked her shawl and sat down on the floor by the stove. Her eyes riveted on the flames; she chewed on some sunflower seeds.
“I'd say we get up every morning with a clear head, full of good intentions for the holy day. We know we only have today to prepare for tomorrow. We speak the same language with people and goats. Our hands work for us not against us. We belong to God. There is no evil in our hearts. And our hearts, you know, are still young. I love this muddy land, these yellow plains. I love strangers who cross our land sometimes. I love everything and there’s no room in my heart for hatred."
— "Neither the Tsar nor the Reds?"
— "Neither the Tsar nor the Reds. Just Russia."
Later that evening, he was awakened by the sound of her sobs. Knees down, she was facing the icon in her father’s room.
— "I am desperate, little mother. My soul is torn between love and horror. At the reality of our separation, I cannot breathe. Someday he will take the road and leave the farm. What would I have left then? I'm the raven over his head. At night he sings for me. I want to be his wife, his mother. I want to be his soul. Will he ever love me as much as he loves you? How many of them would you take from us? How many have you sacrificed in the name of your glory? What are we left with in the end? I’ve spent my whole life praying for you. Ah, if I'd known he existed in this world, I would have hated you from the day I was born. I would have set fire to your gentle meadows. I would have cursed all the rivers that run through you. I would have been ashamed to call you “mother”. Had I known that we were to become rivals, I would have lost all affection for you. But I beg you, leave him to me! Have your way with all the men on earth. But let me have him. Don’t take his soul away from mine."
In the darkness of the night, she repeated her litany. Finally, she wiped the tears from her face and stood proudly in front of the icon. Her voice was no longer sorrowful.
— "You will take him away from me. That I am sure of, but I swear he’s mine. Remember my sacrifice, for it will be the last."
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