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Corporal Dmitry Mikhailovich Morozov opened his eyes. He was alive. After a few minutes, the sound of gunfire petered out, and was replaced by angry voices. Voices all around him. He dare not move. Instead, he waited. Corporal Morozov realized all his comrades must now be dead. He himself, was the only survivor of the ambush by the Mujahideen. He had survived by jumping into a deep and muddy bomb crater at the start of the shooting. The year was 1989 and the twenty year-old Soviet soldier was on a secret mission in an area held by the Afghan fighters. After a while, the group of enemy fighters moved away and he breathed a sigh of relief. The only sound was the cold dry wind blowing in his ears on the snowy hillside. He had survived. However, he now had another problem: How could he return to his base across the mountains, some 60km away?
Night came and the temperature dropped. Corporal Morozov crawled slowly up to the edge of the bomb crater in which he was hiding, and peered over the top. There was nothing but darkness and the bodies of his fallen comrades scattered about. Their weapons had been taken and some of them had been mutilated after being shot. The sight of his dead friends made him feel sick. Perhaps it would have been better if I had died alongside them, he thought to himself. He checked all the bodies, but the platoon's radio had been taken and there was no way for him to contact the base in Bagram. He said his farewells to his friends and started walking east towards safety. At a small stream, he knelt down and drank the icy fresh water, then he washed his face and hands. He could wash off the dust and dirt, but he couldn't wash away the feeling of guilt that he had hid in the bomb crater and not tried to help his comrades. He felt ashamed of himself. He was alive but he was a coward.
Morozov walked for hours in the dark, often checking his compass to make sure he was heading in the right direction. Just before daybreak, he found a small animal shelter and decided to hide in there during daylight. Even though he had naturally dark hair, it was very short and it would be too easy for the local Afghans to spot a blue-eyed soldier in a Soviet uniform walking across the open hillsides. Within minutes he was asleep, but through the night he kept waking. Night in the mountains was cold. In his fitful sleep he dreamt about life back in Novosil, his hometown to the south of Moscow. He dreamt about his young sister. He dreamt they were down by the river on a warm summer's day. He dreamt she was calling out to him. She was saying something to him but he couldn't understand what she was saying. Why couldn't he understand? Then he realized he was awake and he opened his eyes.
The girl standing in front of
him was about six or seven
years old. 'Stërri
ma sëi,' she said.
Morozov had no
idea what she was saying. 'Stërri
ma
sëi,' she
repeated.
Morozov tried to repeat the words back, 'Sterry.. mar.. zay!'.
The girl smiled.
She looked scared, but she also looked pleased to see him. 'Las
minëtta,'
she said
and suddenly turned and ran out of
the
shelter. Morozov panicked. 'What if
she brings her
mother or father? If she does, I am in serious trouble,' he
thought. But he had nowhere to go, though. He had no choice but to wait
and
see what happened.
Ten minutes later the girl returned alone. Morozov felt
relieved. She held out a folded piece of cloth. Wrapped in the
piece of
cloth was some goat's cheese. She also had an old glass bottle with
some milk. Morozov smiled. As he ate and drank, the pretty young Afghan
girl kept staring at him. He pointed to himself and said, 'Dmitry.' She
smiled and said, 'Num
me
Zakia dai.'
'Num.. me.. Za.. ki.. a.. dai,' repeated Morozov very slowly.
She laughed and pointed at herself again, 'Zakia... Zakia'. He
understood.
'Las minëtta,' she said again, and ran off. Morozov waited again. Maybe he was safe for now. Ten minutes later she was back. This time she was not alone. Standing in the entrance to the shelter was a young boy, aged around four. He had a dirty face and one finger stuck up his nose. His big brown eyes looked lost; his face showed no emotion. The girl ushered him forwards towards Morozov. 'Salar,' she said, pointing at her little brother. Morozov smiled at him. The boy's face remained expressionless. Zakia gestured for the Russian to follow them and he took the girl's hand. She held his hand very tightly as they walked the few hundred metres to her house. Even from a distance, he could see that the house had been hit in an airstrike. the roof was mostly missing and there was wood and debis all around. There was no sign of any adults anywhere - the children's parents were gone. It didn't take long for Morozov to discover where they were. Behind the house were two piles of rocks. The young girl must have buried them herself. Morozov checked the house and found there was little food left. Winter was fast approaching and he had a decision to make. Should he take the children with him, or leave them here to fend for themselves? It only took him a minute to decide.
'Father! Come quickly, there
are men coming,' the pretty woman shouted to the middle-aged man with a
long grey beard and blue eyes. Morozov stopped
chopping firewood and went to the front of the house. In the distance
was a US army Hummer,
and it was heading up the valley towards them.
'Get inside the house, Zakia,' he said in Russian,' and tell Salar to
wait inside with
you. I will speak to the Americans.'
'Please be careful father,' Zakia pleaded.
After a few minutes the army vehicle was fifty metres away. It stopped,
and out stepped one
man in uniform and an Afghan interpreter. They walked
up the steep path to the house. 'Të
Inglisi waaye?' said the
Interpreter in
Pashto,
the language of the area.
'Yes, I speak English,' answered Morozov. 'What do you want?'
'You are not Afghani. Identify yourself,' the American sergeant said
sternly.
'He's my father!' shouted Zakia, running out of the house towards the
group of men, 'Leave him alone! He has done nothing wrong.'
'Is that correct? Are you this girl's father?'
'Yes, now I am her father. Many years ago, I was Corporal
Dmitry Mikhailovich
Morozov of the Soviet army. But now I am known as Farzad Azizi'
'I see. And what are you doing here Corporal Morozov?'
'In 1989, just before the end of the war, my platoon was ambushed in
the area. I was the only survivor.
These children's parents were killed too. They needed my help. I
stayed. Please leave us alone, we are no threat to the United States
army.'
Zakia and Salar stood by their
father's side in a show of support. Surprisingly, the American soldier
smiled at them all.
'Please relax Corporal. I am here with news.'
'What news?' asked the confused Russian.
Just then, there was movement inside the
Hummer, and from the back seat stepped a tall woman in civilian
clothes. She
looked familiar to Morozov, a face from long ago. As she walked towards
them her long blonde hair blew wildly in the wind and her large
blue eyes filled with tears. 'Brother, it has been a long time,' she
said, hugging Morozov and kissing him on his cheeks three
times.
'Tania! I... I... I don't believe you are here! How? How did you find
me?'
'We had to wait until the NATO forces took control of this area. A few
years ago we heard a rumour from a journalist who was travelling in
this area that an ex-soldier was living here. We could only hope it was
you. You are every popular here, the people in the valley respect you
very much.'
'I don't know what to say... This is such a surprise.'
'Dmitry, I am here to take you back to Russia. Since we lost you, our
family has done well and is now wealthy. I now have my own IT company.
Come home and you can live a comfortable life in the bossom of
your
family. Mother and father
really want to see their son return
before they die.'
Morozov looked unhappy. 'Why the sad face, brother?'
'I have been here in Afghanistan
for twenty years. This is my home now. I have even
converted to Islam and I
have a family and many goats. I don't know Russia anymore. I love you,
sister, but I cannot return home with you. I belong here.'
'Dmitry, please think about it. I know seeing me is a shock, but
imagine the good life you can give your children.'
'Sister, please let me think about it. I need time to think.'
Morozov turned and walked into his house, looking very weak. His sister
shouted, 'Dmitry, Please think about what I have said. I will come back
tomorrow.'
Dmitry Morozov opened his eyes.
it was a cold morning and snow was falling outside. A voice came from
the kitchen, 'Father, I have made some coffee, but I'm leaving now. I
have an early lecture.'
He rubbed his eyes. He had woken from the same dream that he had been
having for
over twenty years. In his dream, he is sitting in a comfortable chair
in a white room, drinking milk. One by one, his old soldier friends
walk upto him. Each of them says 'Comrade Morozov, your milk looks
delicious, may I share it with you?'. But he picks up his gun and
shoots them dead. One by one he shoots all the members of his platoon.
The
white room is covered with their red blood. Then he wakes up. He
couldn't count the number of times he had exactly the same dream.
'Okay, my darling. Have a great day and don't forget to call into the
office on your way home.'
'Sure! You have a great day too Papa.' Zakia said, opening the door and
smiling at her father.
Dmitry smiled to himself. Zakia was doing
well at university. She was
fully bilingual, speaking both Russian and Pashto, and had almost
finished
her degree in
'Central Asian
Studies'. Salar was also doing well, working in the family company. He
had a
lot to learn but he was very clever. His written Russian was perhaps a
little weak, but, over the previous three years, through hard work, he
had gained the admiration
of
the workers in his role
as junior manager. Dmitry knew he had made the right decision bringing
them to Moscow. And yet, life here was not easy. He had many problems
adjusting to life as a wealthy man. He hated spending money; it seemed
like such a waste to buy things he didn't need. In Afghanistan, the
family had made
do with very little, but here
they had too many things.
The simple life seemed so long ago, but sometimes he longed to hear the
bleating
of his goats, or feel the cold mountain wind on his face.
Sure, Russia was beautiful too, but something was missing for him. And
of course, his bad dreams never stopped.
The room was large and elegant,
with three tall windows and heavy curtains. The furniture was heavy too
and the atmosphere was
also gloomy. Assembled
in the room were three army officers sat at a
long
oak table, a government official taking notes, and members of eleven
families on wooden chairs facing the table. They were there for an
announcement, an explanation of past events. They were there to say a
final goodbye to their sons after over twenty years of not knowing if
they were dead or alive.
Corporal Dmitry Mikhailovich Morozov entered the room with Zakia and
Salar following closely behind him, and took a seat next to the army
officers. The two Afghans sat at the back of the room. In front of
Morozov
were the families of the soldiers of his platoon. Some were quietly
crying,
some looked angry, some looked confused, some had no expressions, no
visible emotions, but all were staring at Morozov. He stood
up, cleared
his throat, and prepared to
speak.
'Ladies and gentlemen, I have come here today to tell you how your sons
died. They were my comrades, my friends and I was there when they fell.
I was the only survivor. But I also have to tell you that I did nothing
to save them. I hid in a bomb crater like a coward while they fought a
battle with Afghan fighters. I have come here today to tell you how
sorry I am. In my life since that day I have tried to make amends for
my cowardice by leading a good and honest life and by looking after two
children I found there - children who were orphaned by the Soviet army.
But since I returned to Russia I have been so troubled by... by a
truth. A truth I can't ignore. I was a coward and I need to
make amends with you too. I have come to apologise. Please don't
misunderstand me, I am not looking for your forgiveness, but instead, I
want to help you to find some peace.'
After Morozov finished
speaking, he sat down and one of the officers invited the families to
make any comments or ask questions. An old lady rose to her feet.
'Corporal Morozov. My son's name was Lev. Do you remember him?'
Morozov stood up. 'Yes I remember Lev well. He was always talking about
how he missed your cooking.'
The old lady stood in silence for a few moments, then sat down, lost in
the memory of her lost son. Then a large man stood. He had a thick grey
moustache and cheap suit. Pinned
to
the chest of his suit were many medals.
'Corporal Morozov... I was a soldier too. I persuaded my son Fedor to
follow me into the army. He didn't want to go. He wanted to become an
artist. I pushed
him and pushed him until he agreed to go. Corporal,
you are not responsible for Fedor's death, I am, I am. I
cannot forgive myself, but I can forgive you. I know how war is. In my
time I saw many acts of bravery, but also many times when
soldiers cried like babies, paralysed
with fear.
Corporal, do not blame yourself.
None of you
should have been there in Afghanistan. It is not your fault.'
Around the room the other family members nodded in agreement.
Morozov opened his eyes. For
the first night in over twenty years, the dream had not come to him.
Finally, there was peace in his heart. In the kitchen, Zakia was
preparing breakfast. 'Zakia, may I ask you a favour?'
'Of course, Papa! Anything.'
'This morning, all I want for breakfast is a piece of goats cheese, and
milk straight from the bottle.'
Adjectives
fitful:
Happening for short periods of time.
civilian:
Connected with someone who is not in the army.
Adverbs
sternly:
Strictly, seriously, and in a very unfriendly way.
Verbs
peter
out:
When something 'peters out', it happens gradually less often
until it finally finishes.
peer:
To look very carefully, especially at something that is difficult to
see.
mutilate:
To violently damage someone's body by cutting and stabbing it.
usher:
To physically help someone move to another place.
make
do with sth.:
To manage with something that is not the best thing. For example, If
you didn't have an umbrella, so you made do with a plastic bag on your
head.
assemble:
Here meaning 'to gather together in one place'.
clear
your throat:
When you make a noise in your throat before you speak.
make
amends for sth.:
To say you are sorry for something bad you did, and try to do something
good.
be
pinned to sth.:
Here meaning 'attached using a pin or clip'.
be
paralysed
with fear:
To be unable to move because you are very scared.
Nouns
a
comrade:
A friend, especially someone who shares a job, danger, politiacal views.
an
ambush:
When someone is attacked by surprise by people who are hiding.
Mujahideen:
A group of Muslim fighters with very strong views and beliefs.
a
bomb crater:
A hole in the ground made when a bomb explodes.
an
Afghan fighter:
An Afghan person who is fighting in a war, but is not a real soldier.
a
platoon:
A small group of soldiers (often 12) who always fight together.
a
farewell:
= ' goodbye'.
a
coward:
Someone who is not brave and will not fight or do someone dangerous.
an
airstrike:
When military planes attack a target by dropping bombs or firing guns.
debris:
Broken pieces of something that has been destroyed.
Hummer:
A type of military vehicle used by the US army.
Pashto:
Another name for the Afghani language.
a
lecture:
Here meaning 'a long talk given by a university teacher'.
admiration:
A very positive opinion of someone for something they did, or for a
quality they have.
bleating:
The sound that sheep or goats make.
Expressions
'the
bossom of your family':
A situation of being safe because your family protect and love
you.
Pashto vocabulary
Stërri
ma sëi:
'Hello'
Las
minëtta:
'Ten minutes'
Num
me Zakia dai:
'My name is Zakia'
Të
Inglisi waaye:
'Can you speak English?'