Red Moth

That morning

That morning, Stefanov had woken up beside the body of his friend‚ whose skin had turned the colour of an old cedar shingle left out too long in the sun. Slowly, as if he were rising from the fog of anaesthetic, Stefanov’s consciousness returned to the place where the pain becomes real. Morning sun shone brassy on the dew-slick cobblestones. It was cold and the food wagon had gone. Struggling to his feet, Stefanov drank the rain which had collected in his mess tin.

A man appeared in the doorway, wearing a greatcoat against the morning chill. It was the doctor Stefanov had seen the night before. ‘We are pulling out,’ said the doctor. ‘There isn’t enough transport to move the wounded. They will be left behind.’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case with a hammer and sickle engraved on the front. ‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Comrade Doctor.’

‘Then I suggest you come with me.’ He touched a small green stone set into the side of the case and opened it, revealing a neat row of cigarettes. The doctor did not offer one to Stefanov. ‘A squad of Frontier Police arrived in Chertova two hours ago. Now that they have no frontier left to guard, they are being used as blocking units, rounding up stragglers and deserters. You know what they’ll do if they find you.’ The doctor placed a cigarette in his mouth but did not light it.

‘I am not a straggler‚’ protested Stefanov. ‘I am the only one left!’

‘They will not care about your reasons.’ The cigarette wagged between his lips. ‘Leave your companion here. He will only slow you down.’ With that, he set off walking towards the cemetery. A moment later, a white puff of smoke rose from the man’s head and his arm swung down to his side, the lit cigarette pinched between his fingers.

Stefanov stared down at Barkat. The rain had pooled in his eye sockets. All they had been through together in the past months flickered through Stefanov’s mind, as if a pack of playing cards were being shuffled before his eyes. The pictures vanished as abruptly as they had appeared and suddenly he was back in the town of Chertova, surprised to feel his heart still beating in his chest.

As Stefanov ran to catch up with the doctor, he was already carrying the memory of Barkat, like a body on a stretcher, down a long dark corridor towards the ossuary in his mind where others lay whose paths had crossed his own, their lifeless faces shimmering like opals.