TIMUR

Grozny, Chechnya, Soviet Union. February 23, 1944

Mama always tells me I’m a dreamer. I probably am, but I think I’m hardworking and smart. I’m not bragging or anything, it’s the truth. Papa knows better. He tells me I’m special. He disagrees with Mama when he talks to me but with Mama around he seems to let her control his opinions. In Chechnya a man is the head of the house, but in our home I'm not so sure. Papa says that the two years I was alive before I came to live with Papa and Mama made me special. He tells me I’m smart and fast. Papa used to teach me how to live. He used to teach me how to handle weapons, how to fight, and how to fight with my mind. Not lately.
Chechnya and Russia are having another conflict and this one scares even Papa. He’s never home anymore. Whenever he leaves I beg to go with him but he shakes me off. Mama is even more impatient and I have more bruises from her slaps than ever.
Sometimes when I walk to school people spit on my shoes calling me angry names for Russian, but I know I can’t do anything, if I did it would only end badly. It’s not the first conflict. I’m set apart from all Chechens every time people fight. When there is peace, suddenly I have friends, although never as many as the good, dark haired, Chechen children.
I hate being Russian. I don’t call myself Russian, I call myself Chechen but to other people I will always look like just another enemy. Papa says to be proud of my light skin and hair but how can I be when it changes everything? It changes how people look at me, how they speak to me, and even sometimes when Chechnya and Russia’s relationship is especially bad, how Mama looks at me.
Now Papa looks scared, very scared. It makes me want to hide. I can tell he’s been running and his cheeks look frostbit from the February chill. Mama looks up and, seeing Papa’s face, drops the tin pot she has been scrubbing.
“It’s them. Get in the cellar. Timur,” he looks straight into my eyes, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen it “get your kinzhal. We will need it.” I think of everything Papa has taught me. I’ve gotten good with my kinzhal, even Mama says so. Adrenaline begins to pump through my veins and I race to my room. Papa hurries Mama and the girls into the back yard, to the cellar. I rummage through all of my belongings. My kinzhal is not under my mattress where I put it last. It has always been there, why is it not there now? My heart beats faster. Shouts come in from the street. Breaking glass, splintering wood, and gunshots shatter my frantic silence. I look out the window at the Russian soldiers yelling at my neighbors and dragging them into the street. An glisten of sharp steel on the windowsill catches my attention. My kinzhal! I don’t remember putting it there but I grab it and scramble to join my family.
I struggle to open the heavy door to the cellar but it’s locked. I bang on the door for all I’m worth but no one opens it. I hear our front door open with a bang. It hits me that they must not find me here. It would give away Papa. I swallow hard and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I creep into the house, kinzhal at the ready. Two soldiers crash about the kitchen, destroying everything. Pots and pans, plates and bowls, are destroyed. The soldiers look barely older than me; in fact one of them looks exactly like me. The gasp that escapes me, as an idea comes to mind, quiets the soldiers. They turn, pointing their kalashnikovs in my direction. I slowly rise, my hands in the air.
“Good evening, soldiers.” my voice is shaky but it grows stronger with every word. “How are my lovely neighbors treating you tonight?” The soldier on my right, the older I reckon, squints at me. He walks toward me, slightly lowering his weapon. I try to look calm and composed despite the intense fear building in my chest. I feel my kinzhal in my belt and I look at the soldiers.
Papa taught me how to look around me and to sense what in my surroundings could be used as a weapon. Pots and pans are perfect for the job. On my right is Mama’s giant skillet. I used to not be able to lift it which was a bother since Mama made me carry it out to the back yard everyday, full to the brim with grease to throw to the dogs. I know how harmful it can be. I eye their kalashnikovs warily, however; I don’t know how fast these boys are but I decide it’s worth the risk. It is between this and arrest.
The boys look at each other giving me one moment to grab the skillet and, with all my strength, take a giant swing at the elder soldier’s head. He barely looks up before falling heavily on the wood floor. The younger soldier lets out a yelp seeing his friend take such a heavy blow and he aims his gun at me. He shoots madly, bullets riddling the skillet, the noise is deafening, and I leap aside. Suddenly all my fear floods out of my body and I’m completely in control...of everything. I plunge away from the bullets and turn towards the young man. I send my kinzhal whistling through the air. As I knew it would, my deadly little dagger pierces the neck of the second soldier. His frightened eyes stare into mine for a moment before he crumples. The silence of the house remains for a moment as the adrenaline in my body quickens my breathing. I’m in shock. I knock my head against the counter a few times to break the tense and bitter silence. Now it’s all business.
I glance out the window at the street. Chaos. Good. I drag the blond soldier boy into the middle of the room and take his gun. It’s not much of weapon, the accuracy is mediocre at best and it jams every few continuous rounds, but it will do. I hesitate before taking the uniform off the boy. I’ve never seen death like this. I’ve seen death, but from a distance. I had someone to blame before. Not now, this is all me. And the enemy now looks exactly like me: scared and unprepared for any of this. Hearing the noise from outside the house brings me back and I forget my guilt for now. Within seconds I’m dressed like a Russian soldier. I walk back to the cellar and lightly tap on the heavy door. “It’s safe now.” I whisper. I remember the locked door, the reason for these violent last few minutes. How could they not here me banging on the door and screaming? I think of Mama and the occasional contempt that stares at me out of those angry eyes. And Papa. Papa who had taught me everything I know, Papa who was the first person to love me and care whether I lived or died. Was that just nonsense? Was he just pretending? It makes no sense. But now’s not the time to wait around for deep, father to son conversations. I say another prayer over the cellar and pick a flower from the snowy grass, leaving it just below the door of the cellar. I don’t look back as I walk towards the chaos.
I have no clue what I’m going to do as I step out onto the street. All around me is a blur of confusion and screams. So much blood. This can’t be right. Even Stalin, evil Stalin, wouldn’t do this. This would ruin his reputation. Then I remember what Papa told me when all this mess started.
“Listen to me, Timur. Some people grow insane from all their misfortune. These people are weak but they pretend to be strong. They become less human the weaker they get. They will do things no sane person would ever imagine doing because they are weak. Beware of Stalin. He’s perhaps the weakest of the weak.”
Everything makes sense now. Papa knew what he was doing. What I thought had been carelessness or betrayal actually was his way of saving my life. I didn’t need my kinzhal when he told me to get it, Papa had one. He moved my kinzhal to the window to slow me down. He locked that door on purpose, and he knows that I am his only hope. I must save Papa, Mama, Liana, and Tamara. Without me they will all die or be deported.

Gripping my Kalashnikov, I look for the nearest soldier. A tall, light-haired man is dragging a woman into the middle of the street. I didn’t notice before a line of closed wagons, trailing down the street. People are being thrown into the wagons, kicking and screaming. Some Chechens are silent and still, afraid of the intimidating kalashnikovs. The looks of terror on their faces scare me more than the violence. The Russians aren’t here to fight, but to take them away. I can’t possibly do that. What kind of Russian soldier am I?
“Vasiliev! What the hell are you doing? Get back to the tank!” My head snaps up. A huge bear of a man shouts at me from across the street. There was no name on my uniform when I checked so I hope that is my name.
“Sir, yes, sir!” I march to the tank with a wagon attached. I thank Allah for not having to burst into neighbor’s houses, maybe killing some. Horror fills me at the possibility.
“Where are your prisoners, Vasiliev? The ones you begged to take?”
“No one in there, sir!”
“Never call me sir, soldier! Call me Captain!” I salute him and turn towards the tank.
“Soldier!” I halt.
“Burn the house.” He’s smiling.
“Which house, Sergeant?”
“Which house do you think?” I know better than to question him. Maybe I can hang around, pretending to search for matches and wait out the storm. But the Sergeant is watching expectantly and besides, a few houses are already burning giving me an easy flame.
My chest hurts and a tear rolls down my cheek. Come on Timur, you must. This is the only way you can save Papa. Robotically I grab a piece of debris and walk over to the flaming house. The wood takes a little while to light and I say yet another prayer for my family and myself.
The only home I’ve ever known goes up in flames, letting off intense heat. It melts the snow on the street. “Inshallah.” I whisper. It is God’s will. I’m scared again. The confidence I had before is gone. What will I do? Who am I to think I can save them? Someday very soon my family will be found. What then? No, no, I can’t think about that. Not now. I must focus and push my burdens away for now. I turn back to the Russians. I’m one of them now. I have to be.
After hours of hiding in the tank, trying to be invisible but nevertheless witnessing atrocities I cannot begin to describe, we pack up and leave. No one is left out there. Not even my family. Someone has found Papa and the others. They didn’t fight, but they looked so scared, it hurts watching them, helpless. At least I will know where they are now. If I can help it they will be safe. I move into the passenger seat as a soldier climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Who are you?” he asks, starting the tank. I feel lucky again for not being expected to drive. I would crash the bulking thing as soon as I pressed the accelerator.
“I’m Vasiliev. I’m from another Battalion asked to come with you guys last minute by the Sergeant. God knows why.” I try to act relaxed but with not much success. The soldier takes it for nerves, which are true, but for very different reasons.
“Don’t worry, Vasiliev. Sergeant Ivanov is scary only at first. I saw him yelling at you.” He smirks. I try to act humiliated or something, but my nerves change into numbness. I’m relieved when the bumps and the noise of the slow progress of the tank drowns out any conversation. My stomach churns when I think about what the bumps our tanks are driving over actually are. There are so many of them.

During the long drive I try to think of a plan but nothing comes. I’ll have to play it by ear, I guess. In the middle of a small forest we stop, along with the whole line of closed wagons and tanks. All the soldiers get out and stand in a straight line. I follow, attentive to every detail, trying vigilantly to not give me and my civilian ways away.
Papa taught me how to speak Russian from the time I could barely speak Chechen. I speak it without any accent or anything. Sometimes I wonder if Papa knew what was going to happen. How could he, though? Nothing made sense with him now.
“Listen up!” Sergeant Ivanov shouts his instructions to us. I wonder if he ever speaks in a normal voice at all or if he just walks around yelling at everyone. He can’t have very many friends if he does. Then again, neither do I.
“The prisoners will be let out for five minutes! They are not allowed further than three meters from their wagon! Shoot them if they leave the boundaries! You know what to do. Dismissed!” We all run to different wagons and the doors open. Nobody tells the prisoners of the boundaries and in the first five minutes ten people are shot and the screams of their loved ones fill the night air. Amazingly enough, my family is in the wagon behind us. Close enough for me to watch over them, though not to feed them scraps. I hope they do not recognize me right away. My partner soldier, Titov, and I guard our wagon’s prisoners. I don’t recognize any of them.
Titov says he grew up in Moscow and when his parents died, his only option was to join the Russian army. That was a long time ago, he says. He’s young but he looks ancient. He looks tired.
“How about you, Vasiliev? Where are you from?” I think fast, something random.
“St. Petersburg. My dad was in the army. It was my only career option. I’m too dumb to do anything else.” He nods in understanding.
“Here, have a cigarette.” He holds out a crumpled box. Gingerly I take one, thanking him. I’ve never smoked before. He holds out a light and I inhale the smoke. I cough maniacally. Titov laughs. The sound of my hacking cough is suddenly mixed with a scream. A young girls scream.
“Timur!” I freeze and slowly turn to the wagon behind ours. Tamara, the six-year-old is running towards me. I start to yell at her. Get back! Please don’t, dear Tamara. I’m too late. Two perfectly aimed bullets enter into her tiny chest. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, pulling myself back to stand still. Sergeant Ivanov stares back at me. His kalashnikov still aimed at her still body.
“Nice shot, Sergeant.” I can’t hide the shock from my voice this time. It’s as obvious as daylight.
“Thanks, soldier. You can get back to your wagon now.” I salute and walk slowly back to Titov.
“What was that, Vasiliev? The Sergeant got it covered, man. Don’t worry about any wagon but ours.” I nod. All the soldiers get back in their tanks at five minutes and the trail of wagons begins to move. The prisoners scramble back into the wagons. Some slow children are left behind. I don’t dare to look back at Tamara. Instead I mutter under my breath “Inshallah.” It is God’s will.
We stop for the night in a small village. We’re just outside of Chechnya now. Titov lies back in his seat and closes his eyes. Any thought of sleep is useless. I shiver and look up at the stars. The cold seeps into my clothing, we are unprotected from the night. I try not to think about Tamara or the rest of them. Instead I whisper a poem Mama taught me once. It’s Pushkin. A forbidden poem in Chechnya now.




The land of Chechnya -- the land that is my native,



Where in the dawn of my best years,



I spared the hours of carelessness, attractive,



Free of unhappiness and fears.



And you had seen the foes of my great nation,


And you were burned and covered with blood!



And I did not give up my life in immolation,


My wrathful spirit just was wild!...


I smile thinking of days past. Tamara used to love that song. I don’t why, it’s not exactly a child’s lullaby, but Tamara always liked hearing the part where Mama switched Moscow to Chechnya. Why couldn’t dear Tamara have shown how mature she was today, when it was most needed? I gaze up into the heavens, I hope she’s up there, watching over me, guiding me. Little Tamara: dying before my very eyes. What has this world come to? I need to mourn her death, I need to weep, but I don’t. I can’t anymore. Not even if I wanted to.
“Who are you, Vasiliev?” I jump. Titov is looking at me. He doesn’t look accusing but my heart beat speeds up. “You seemed to know that girl who was shot. She said a name, what was it...ah yes; Timur. That’s not a Russian name.” I avoid his eyes looking back at the stars. This is my only shot. I take a deep breath.
“Do you hate the Chechens? Why?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I need your help. I don’t care if we’re friends or not. I know there’s more in that brain of yours than a Chechen hater, Titov.” Now I look at him. I look at him imploringly, desperately. This better work. “That was my sister. Her name is Tamara. A Russian name.” Titov doesn’t raise an eyebrow. Both of us know there’s no more pretending. He nods.
“You’re Chechen and you want to rescue your family.” I nod. I hold my kinzhal on my side, at the ready. I watch him carefully.
“You know, Vasiliev,” He now is the one to avoid my eyes. “I’m done with the army. I’m done with killing, I’m done with Stalin. His propaganda doesn’t affect me anymore. I’ve seen too much. I need to get out. We could work something out, you and I.” I can’t believe my luck. I don’t buy it quite yet, however.
“What do you want?” He shrugs.
“Money. I’m going to leave Russia. Maybe go the Middle East. That’s where all these guys are going, you know.” He nods toward the wagon attached to the tank.
“Where?”
“Kazakhstan.” I’ve heard that’s a place of death and disease. No one comes out alive.
“Fine. I don’t have money with me but if you come with us and don’t turn on us I can give you as much as you need.” He smiles slightly at my weariness and sticks out his hand.
“It’s a deal.” I shake his hand.
“We must do it tonight and we will have to kill Ivanov. I swear he knows there’s something not right with me.” Titov nods, his face now completely serious.
“Do you have a plan?” Not even the beginning of one.
“Yes. We have to kill Ivanov silently. If the other soldiers hear us fight, or a gun shot, they’ll come and kill us fast.” Titov nods and points at my hand, still holding the kinzhal at my side. I’m only a little ashamed.
“Uh yeah, I trust you now, though. Don’t worry.” Titov laughs.
“Okay, I guess you’ll kill him, I’ll kill Aleksandrov.” Titov is serious now.
“Wait, who?”
“Ivanov’s partner.”
“Oh yeah. What will you kill him with?” There’s a half smile on his face.
“Let me handle that.”
“Okay, then we’ll open the wagon and tell them to stay quiet and stuff, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I take another deep breath. “Ready?” Titov salutes me.
“Oh and Titov, what’s your first name?” He’s already climbing out of the tank.
“Ackmed.” What? A slight smile creeps into my face. That’s the least Russian name out there, even less than Timur. I climb down after Ackmed Titov, gripping my kalashnikov and kinzhal.
All is silent in the night. It must be late for the whole village to be sleeping. Good. I step onto Ivanov’s tank and a creaking noise echoes off the snow. I hear a rustling from inside the tank. This will have to be fast so they don’t have any time to respond. I look at Titov and count to three on my fingers. One, two, three, go. In unison we crawl as fast as we can up the green metal. Creak, creak creak. I peak over the ledge of the tank into the drivers seat. A kalashnikov stares back at me pointed right at my forehead. Ivanov is awake. His partner is fast asleep still. Thank Allah. My eyes are wide. Ivanov smiles slightly and cocks his gun. I feel a slight tug at my kinzhal. Titov grabs my dagger silently from my tight grip. Ivanov’s finger moves toward the trigger. But Titov is ready and he springs lithely over the ledge and before I know it the dagger is in Ivanov’s chest. I lunge at Ivanov’s hand before he can pull the trigger. A shot would ruin everything. Titov hands me back my kinzhal. Titov turns to Aleksandrov and right there, Titov strangles him with his bare hands.
“You killed my son, you bastard!” Titov whispers into the fading soldier’s ear. His eyes bulge and close. He’s gone. I don’t have time to be shocked before we move on.
Titov doesn’t look at me. He climbs out of the tank and beckons me to follow. The wagon is quiet except for a few rustles of bodies. The smell is terrible and makes me gag. I poke the nearest body. Papa looks up at me. Shock fills his eyes. He stays silent. He knows that he should. He shakes Liana and soon the whole wagon is awake. We will have to free everyone, I suppose. They all silently file out of the cabin and we head for the forest.
Then I remember my wagon. We could free them at least. I tap Titov who is walking beside me. I beckon for him to wait here with the others. I quietly walk through the snow back to my wagon. I open the doors and repeat what I did in the last wagon. This time not all are silent. A man cries out. A bad dream, perhaps. Before I can stop myself I drive my kinzhal into the man. Now he is silent. Everyone is silent with shock as they see what I have done. I see more anger in their eyes than ever before. I know they could easily jump on me and kill me, despite my multiple weapons. Before anyone makes a move, though, I hush them. I whisper in Chechen.
“Come. You are being rescued. Not a sound or you die. Come on!” I think, as we hurry to the other wagon, that this will be one of many things I have done in the last eight hours that will haunt me forever, I just know it.
The other prisoners are waiting for us and we continue to walk. I look back at the line of wagons. It stretches farther than I can see. I wonder how many Chechens will die before they reach Kazakhstan. I say a prayer for them. Shaking my head in disgust I turn back to prisoners that I helped free and mutter under my breath.
“Inshallah.” It is God’s will.