“When they came to Cherry, someone had told them I was with the Auxiliary,” she said, raising the canteen of vinegar and shaking it gently to stir it, “and so the fascists took me to the police station and down into the cells to where they were keeping the Militia boys. They tied me down by my hands and legs, threw a filthy towel over my face, and drowned me slowly… I keep waking up at night thinking I’m dying. And after a few minutes of stopping and starting, I became a witness of the crimes of the Militia boys. But I had never met these men before! Not a one! And I sold them out!” The girl was looking at him distantly, frowning slightly, and struggled with the cap of the canteen. She grabbed a handful of her gingham shirt and attempted to loosen the screw-cap, but she couldn’t get it to budge. She looked at the canteen in her hands and her expression faltered. She began to cry. “They shot them and then let me go, and they said before I left, ‘Remember — there is no heaven for a Bolshevik.’ And… I, uh, and…” and she lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped into it. Suddenly she was a child again, flushed and crying weakly as tears traced the curve of her jaw and trickled into her collar. She fell silent, staring into nothing, and he knew he’d lost her. He reached out and took her hand, and pumped it gently, breathing heavily as it inflamed his wound. After a while, her eyes focused and she returned to him. It was upsetting for him to see this kitten with the same stare as the fighting men. “Sorry,” she said. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Her hands were covered in blood.
“Put the handkerchief back in your mouth,” she said. “This will sting a bit.” It was a blatant understatement and his muffled screams filled the room as she dribbled vinegar and salt over his wound. He banged the tabletop with his fist, and she put all her weight on his injured arm to keep it still. “Calm down,” she said, “I’m done. I can bandage it now, but you’ll need to disinfect it properly when you have the chance. I’m just a girl with kitchen supplies. Otherwise you’ll lose the arm.” “Stay in the Women’s Auxiliary.” He was pleading with her now. “There is no place in this war for a petticoat socialist. You’ll be shot in the face by a fascist or in the back by the Soviets. You’re pretty, and young. Stay on the sidelines, and flee if Cherry falls.” “Hardly,” she said, “There are no sidelines. Fascism is death for me. My name aside — I look like a Jew and talk like an anarchist. They’ll have their way with me and then shoot me. As long as Militia boys are dying for me, I don’t have to pick up a rifle. But we’re going to run out of boys soon enough.” He looked at her, and the vitality of his posture evaporated, and she thought he might protest, but he closed his mouth. She leaned into him and kissed his forehead gently. “Try and sleep,” she said. “I’ve got nothing for the pain. Let me know if you need food or water. It’s always good to talk, yes?” She packed her possessions and left the room, wiping her hands on her skirt, and then he was alone.
The cap came off the canteen.
Image: Joe Brady
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Creative
She took the canteen from the floor next to her and shook her head. He opened his mouth and the girl spoke up, interrupting him.