Night Soldiers

sighing once or twice in the aftermath and wiping his eyes.

Behind Veiko, the troop was very quiet. He could feel their silence. Slowly, he walked the few paces that separated him from the brothers, then stood close enough so that they could smell the mastica on his breath, a sharp odor of licorice and raw alcohol. They always drank before they marched.

“Christ and king,” he said. It was what they said.

It was what they believed in. It was, in this instance, a challenge.

“Christ and king,” Khristo answered promptly. He’d heard what was in the voice-something itching to get out, something inside Veiko that could, at any moment, be born, be alive and running free in the street.

“Christ and king.” Nikko echoed his brother, perhaps in a bit of a mumble. He was confused. He knew what a challenge was, on the boats, in the schoolyard, and he knew the appropriate response, which was anything but submission.

Anything.

But here the provocation was coming from an adult, a man of some standing in the community no matter what one thought of his damn feathers and banners. Between Nikko and the other kids his age it was just a snarly thing, cub feints, a quick flash, perhaps a few punches were thrown and then it was over. But this-this was domination for its own sake, a nasty reek of the adult world, unjust, mean-spirited, and it made Nikko angry.

Veiko saw it happen-the tightening of the mouth, the slight flush along the cheekbones-and it pleased him. And he let Nikko know it pleased him. Showed him a face that most of the world never saw: a victorious little smirk of a face that said, See how I got the best of you and all I did was say three words.

The troop re-formed itself. Veiko squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, thrust his lead marching leg into the air.

“Forward!”

From Nikko: “Yes sir, Colonel Dog Prick!”

Not too loud.

Just loud enough.

An audible mumble particularly native to fifteen-year-olds-you can choose to hear this or not hear it, that’s up to you. A harsh insult-khuy sobachiy-but by a great deal not the worst thing you could say in a language that provided its user with a vast range of oath and invective. It was a small dog, the phrase suggested, but an excited one-dancing on its hind legs in expectation of affection or table scraps.

Veiko chose to hear it. Stopped the troop. Backed up until he was even with Nikko and, in the same motion, swept his hand backward across Nikko’s face. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t meant to hurt. It was the blow of a tenor striking a waiter, and it was meant simply to demonstrate the proposition I am someone who can slap your face.

Veiko returned the hand halfway, to a point in line with Nikko’s nose, pointed with an index finger, and shook it firmly twice. Lifted his eyebrows, raised his chin. Meaning Naughty boy, see what happens when you curse your betters?

Nikko let him have it.

He could toss a hundred-pound sack of fish onto his shoulder. The shot was open-handed and loud and the force surprised even Nikko. The feathered cap flew off and Veiko staggered back a step. He stood absolutely still for a long moment, the red and white image of a hand blooming on his cheek.

Both brothers went down under the first rush.

There were no shouted commands or battle cries; it was an instinctive reaction, blind and furious, and it no longer had anything to do with military formations or political slogans. It had become entirely Vidin business, Bulgarian business, Balkan business.

There was an initial rain of blows, ineffective flailing punches that hit the Stoianevs, the ground, other troopers. Khristo’s mind cleared quickly; he tried to curl into a ball, tried to protect head and groin, but he could barely move. There were five or six of them on top of him, and it was a lot of weight. He could smell them. Licorice mastica, garlic, boiled cabbage, bad fish, bad teeth, uniforms sweated and dried and sweated again. He could hear them. Grunting, panting, soon enough gasping for breath. Khristo was a moderately experienced fighter-in Vidin it was inevitable-and knew that street fights burned themselves out quickly. He did not thrash or punch. Let them get it out of their system.

Nikko was fighting. He could hear it-his brother cursing, somebody’s cry of pain, somebody yelling, “Get his head!” Damn Nikko. His crazy boiling temper. Punching walls when he got mad. Damn his wise-guy face and his fast mouth. And damn, Khristo thought, turning his attention to his own plight, this fat, sweaty fool who was sitting on his chest, trying to bang his head against the cobblestones. In just about two seconds he was going to do something about it-dig an elbow into fat boy’s throat, drive it in, give him a taste.

Then Nikko screamed. Somebody had hurt him, the sound cut Khristo’s heart. The street froze, suddenly it was dead quiet. Then, Veiko’s voice, high and quivering with exertion, breath so blown that it was very nearly a whisper: “Put that one on his feet.”

For the first time, real fear touched him. What should have been over was not over. In Khristo’s world, brawls flared and ended, honor satisfied. Everybody went off and bragged. But in Veiko’s voice there was nothing of that.

They hauled him to his feet and they made him watch what they did next. It was very important to them that it be done that way. There were four or five of them clustered around Nikko, who lay curled around himself at their feet, and they were kicking him. They kicked as hard as they could and grunted with the strain. Khristo twisted and thrashed but they had him by the arms and legs and he couldn’t break free, though he ground his teeth with the effort. Then he ceased struggling and pleaded with them to stop. Really pleaded. But they didn’t stop. Not for a long time. At the last, he tried to turn his face away but they grabbed him under the chin and forced his head toward what was happening and then he could only shut his eyes. There was no way, however, that he could keep from hearing it.

The moon was well up by the time Khristo reached home. A shack by the river, garden vines climbing along a stake fence and up over the low roof. With Nikko on his shoulder, a long night of walking. He’d had to stop many times. It was cold, the wind had dried the tears on his face.

The uniformed men had left in a silent group. Khristo had stood over his brother’s body. He’d felt for a pulse, out of duty, but he knew he need not have done it. He’d seen death before and he knew what it meant when a body lay with all the angles bent wrong. He had knelt and, slowly and carefully, with the tail of his shirt, had cleaned his brother’s face. Then he took him home.

Where the dirt road turned into his house, the dogs started barking. The door opened, and he saw his father’s silhouette in the doorway.

The Russian, Antipin, came a few weeks later.

Like the odd little man from Germany in the mint-colored overcoat, he came on the river. But, the local wise men noted quietly, there were interesting differences in the manner of his coming. The German had arrived by river steamer, with a movie projector and a steel trunk full of film cans and pamphlets. The Russian rowed in, on a small fishing skiff, tying up to one of the sagging pole-built docks that lined the river. The German was an older man, balding, with skin like parchment and a long thin nose. The Russian was a young man, a Slav, square-faced and solid, with neatly combed brown hair. The German had to use German-speaking National Union members to translate for him. The Russian spoke idiomatic Bulgarian-at least he tried-and they could understand his Russian well enough. All along the river, the Slavs could speak to each other without great difficulty.

The German arrived as a German, and his arrival was honored. The postman’s chubby daughter waited at the dockside with a basket of fruit. There had been a banquet, with speeches and copious brandy. The Russian said, at first, that he was a Bulgarian. Nobody really believed him. Then a rumor went around that he was a Czech. Because it was a rumor, there were naturally some who believed it. Somehow there was confusion, and the Russian- Bulgarian-Czech, whatever the hell he was, wasn’t much seen around the town. To a few people, the Stoianevs among them, he admitted that he was a Russian and that his name was Antipin. Vassily Dmitrievich. The falsehoods were a gesture, he explained, not serious, necessitated by the current situation.

The German smoked a cigar every night after dinner. It looked peculiar, outsized, in his thin weasel’s face.