Albert
Chapter 1
At some point, Albert must have realized he was dreaming. A thought must have crossed over into his subconscious that what he was experiencing could not be real. When he realized he was in a dream state, Albert did what anyone would do. He tried to wake up. However, caught in between two worlds, neither fully asleep nor awake, he was unable to force his eyes open. A momentary panic set in. Is he going to be stuck in this half conscious state like a vegetable? He felt his body unable to respond, as if he was in a state of paralysis. Under the fear of falling into a coma, Albert focused all his energy at opening his eyelids. Slowly but surely he started to regain control of his body and his eyes opened.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he lay now trying to remember his elusive dream. For a moment, while lying on his back, he felt like he was on the verge of remembering, but each time he felt he got within touching distance, it seemed to slip away. However, he remembered how he felt, the remnants of emotions still lingering. He still felt the feeling of frustration and failure.
Albert checked the time on his phone. His alarm was going to go off in a few minutes, so he turned it off. Suddenly, he felt a familiar burning sensation start to grow, as if he was standing too close to a fire. Albert now was wide awake and focusing all his attention on the direction the “sensation” as he termed it was originating from. It seemed to be resonating from next door. He quickly slipped his jeans and t-shirt, ran out of his studio into the hallway barefoot and followed the sensation. The burning grew stronger as he approached the door of Mrs. Abigail’s apartment down the call.
Unsure of what to say or do, he hesitated momentarily, standing in front of the door and listening for any sounds. Silence. Albert knocked on the door.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
No answer. He tried the door. It opened. Afraid of being an unwelcome intruder, Albert slowly walked in and looked around. No one in the living room. He slowly walked to the bedroom and looked inside. Mrs. Abigail, his elderly neighbor, was in bed looking straight at the ceiling with eyes wide open.
“Are you okay?”
No response.
He walked over to her. Her eyes were looking straight ahead, while the left side of her lip was drooping.
Albert took out his phone.
"911, what is your emergency?"
“I’d like to report a medical emergency in an apartment complex on Rivendale Road.”
Letters to Charlie (April 25th, 2021)
It’s interesting. I’ve long thought about writing this book, if you can call it that, but every time I start, I’ll go back and erase it. I guess that is not so interesting after all. Many writers destroy their manuscripts, not that I can honestly call myself a writer. I told myself I’d never destroy these entries though. Maybe one day you’ll read them and learn a bit more about your father, Charlie.
So where to start? I just learned something about my great grandparents, your great great grandparents. The second world war took a heavy toll on them. My great grandfather from my father’s side (Platon) lost his eye and injured his toe crossing the Dnieper during a Soviet offensive. Fortunately for him, he survived and that was the end of the war for him. Two of my great grandfathers from my mother’s side lost their lives, with one said to be buried in a communal grave in Poland (your Great Grandmother Masha’s father, Charlie), and the other no one has heard from since 1944 (her husband’s father). Wait, “her husband’s father?” Funny term for your great great grandfather, but the truth is he passed away before I was born, so I never got a chance to meet him. When my mother was a child, he had moved out, although she still loved him dearly from what I can tell and would visit him occasionally when she attended a university not too far from where he moved to.
The only great grandfather not to fight in the war was from my Grandmother’s Anna “Galya’s” side (the great grandmother after whom you got your middle name from). My understanding is that, before he could be drafted, the Germans had occupied his village in northern Ukraine in their lightning offensive. The story goes that during the occupation a partisan fighter visited him for food, but never made it back to his camp. As a result, after the war, he was accused of collaborating with the Nazis and served about a decade in Siberia while his two children, one a teenager and the other a bit younger, had to learn to survive on their own (their mother passed around the same time). Here is a photograph of the funeral, covered in snow:
Maybe the accusations were true and he had collaborated. To save his family. Or maybe because he hated the Soviets. But does it matter now?
At first, I was offended by the mere mention of a traitor in the family. But, nowadays, I find it difficult to judge someone whom I know almost nothing about. Someone who had a very difficult life and did what he could to survive.
There are other stories too. One of a relative rescued by a German woman behind enemy lines who hid him in a well while the Nazis searched for him. They say he spent days in the well while the German lady would feed him secretly by dropping down bread. Or, of your great grandmother Maria taking care of her mother for nearly a decade after a stroke paralyzed her from the neck down.
Why am I telling you this? Perhaps because knowing the suffering that our ancestors underwent gives us more strength to carry our own burdens.
You are only three, Charlie, but I don’t want you growing up not knowing or caring about your past. Say what you will about the pain our ancestors lived through, but one cannot say they did not live life. Nowadays, I wonder what constitutes living life. The constant distractions numb us to the emotions our ancestors must have felt. I fear all of that is only going to be exacerbated in the future until we are shells of our former selves. If humans are defined by their emotional capacity, then are we less human by desensitizing our ability to feel? Take the time to feel, Charlie.
Won’t You Heat Up the Bath for Me? (Gulag Song)
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics Won’t you heat up the bath for me, won’t you, miss? To the concept of warmth, I’ve grown cold I’ll unravel myself in the scalding hot mist And allow for my thoughts to unfold I’ll scrub off, till I’m sore, the past out of me Dip my head, close my eyes, drift away… From the camps, cloaked in snow and in secrecy And the ones left out there to decay How many years and tears swept away? How much heartache and hope swallowed whole? At the mines, we buried our hearts in the clay With our picks, we dislodged our tired souls Won’t you fire up the coals for me, won’t you miss? To the concept of warmth, I’ve grown cold I’ll unravel myself in the scalding hot mist And allow for my past to take hold I remember, in the night, when they came for me ”Don’t wait up” whispered I to my wife Two handsome officers from the ministry With three words, “come with us,” changed my life Then two months, in dark cells, barren prison yards Cattle cars, packed like mules, cold as graves To avoid getting shot by the convoy guards Stalin’s face, on our chests, we’d engrave Won’t you heat up the bath for me, won’t you, miss? To the concept of warmth, I’ve grown cold I’ll unravel myself in the scalding hot mist And allow for my thoughts to unfold
Chapter 2
Albert did not know exactly when he discovered “the sensation,” as he referred to it now. At first, he just assumed everyone had it too. After all, no one was there to tell him that he possessed a sense that no one had. It was as if he could see a color that no one could. Yet, over time he realized there was something different about the way he perceived the world around him.
He remembered the day that he began to make sense of the sensations. Growing up in suburbia as a single child, Albert’s childhood seemed pretty ordinary. His parents had immigrated to the U.S. when he was seven, and, while he never could quite shake his accent, he nevertheless felt that America was his home.
On that fateful day, Albert found himself walking to school with Ryan who lived across the street for as long as Albert could remember. Both in their last year of high school, the conversation revolved around their plans to sneak into the pool at night. As they walked under the Sycamore trees that stretched down the street, Albert suddenly started to feel an increasingly burning sensation around his body with each step he took. Not sure what to make of it, he tried walking a few more steps until the intensity of the sensation grew stronger and he was forced to slow down. Brian realized that Albert had fallen behind and turned around only to see Albert kneeling over and clutching his chest as if he was out of air. The burning sensation was not new to Albert, but the speed and intensity at which it came over him was.
After taking a few moments to collect himself, Albert took another couple of steps, but the sensation only grew stronger. It was as if he was getting closer to a fire with his eyes closed. He could sense the direction of it, even if he could not see the flames. After looking around, the sensation seemed to be emanating from the house up ahead.
Albert knew the house well. The owner was a middle aged man who drove an old Ford-150 pick up and occasionally solicited his carpet cleaning services. From what Albert could tell, he was divorced. His two adult kids visited him once in a blue moon and he had an old cocker spaniel by the name of Daisy. Sometimes he’d disappear for weeks on end, which seemed to be the case now as the familiar truck was nowhere to be seen.
Albert couldn’t help but feel that the source of this burning sensation was close by. Telling Ryan to give him a minute, Albert walked up to the chain linked fence and opened the rusted gate. As he took a step inside, the sensation was even more acute now, but it didn’t seem to be coming from inside the house, but from the doghouse a few feet away from the house to his right. Albert couldn’t hear anything coming from the doghouse, but with each step he took, the sensation he started feeling earlier got stronger until he was right in front of the doghouse. As he approached, his chest, arms and legs felt like he had a low electric current moving through them.
After slowly leaning in to see what was inside the dog house, it took Albert a few moments to realize what he was seeing: Daisy chained up and lying on the ground in the middle of the doghouse, slowly and laboriously panting with her tongue out, dry as sand. Only her eyes followed Albert.
Albert looked around the dog house and saw a big metal water bowl overturned. Daisy’s tongue was as dry as sand, but her eyes were fixated on the bowl that Albert held. Slowly taking off his backpack, Albert reached in to grab his water bottle. Without taking his eyes off Daisy, he slowly but carefully turned the bowl rightside up, placed it right in front of her nose, and gently poured a bit of water into the bowl to see how she’d react. The tip of Daisy’s tail started to move a bit, but she was evidently out of strength, so Albert poured some water on his hand and gently dripped it on her tongue. Feeling the soothing taste of water perforate her dry tongue, Daisy started to slowly slurp the water. Finally, she mustered her strength to lift her head and drink some before collapsing on the ground, but this time showing signs of alertness.
Ryan had followed Albert in and, looking around, slowly approached the doghouse. Albert motioned him to keep quiet and proceeded to pull out a sandwich from his lunch bag. Taking out the ham, he folded it a few times and carefully brought it to Daisy's dry nose. Unable to resist it, her tail started to wag a bit more. Delically, Albert broke off a piece and placed it on her still exposed, but now moist tongue. She slurped it up, along with a bit of water that now Ryan was kneeling down and gently dripping.
As sip by sip and bite by bite Daisy regained her strength, Albert felt the intensity of his sensation subside. He didn’t notice it right away, but as they were getting ready to leave, promising Daisy to check up on her that evening if her owner didn’t return, he noticed it was barely perceptible. As they continued their journey to school, Ryan asked:
“How’d you know?”
“I don’t know. I felt it.”
Letters to Charlie (November 15th, 2021)
I often wonder what your life will be like when you grow up. I want you to know that you’ll always have someone to talk to. I hope we’ll always stay close. As close as we are right now. I fear that you’ll grow up to be a stranger, but I guess that’s every parent’s fear.
Today I was thinking about death. I wonder how often we think about death? Yet, it is not dying that I am scared of, but of aging. Of laying on my deathbed and regretting not making the most of life as it slowly slips away. When people say, “you die alone,” is it because at that moment you are on the verge of experiencing what no other living person has ever experienced and therefore cannot possibly fathom? But let’s not be too gloomy. I guess as we grow older, we slowly learn to accept it.
Speaking of aging, as you grow older, you also notice the window of opportunity narrows to do the things you want to do. My window of opportunity is narrowing too. To become a writer. To grow the business. To run for office. To be so many things I want to be. But, you have to obsess over your dreams in order to achieve them and the price of obsession is high indeed! Vysotsky, the bard I am reworking the songs of, sacrificed his family and his health. He abused alcohol and drugs. And finally he burned out. I don’t know if I am willing to pay that high of a price for my dreams. How far I’ll go, I don’t yet know, but I know this: the point is to make the most out of life. To make it meaningful. For a long time I believed that life was suffering and the purpose of life was to alleviate unnecessary suffering, but all that seems, while true, only partly true now. If life is suffering, why am I bringing someone, you and soon your sister, into the world? Surely, not to just suffer.
I believe in Dune someone said that life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced. That seems true too, but also only partly satisfying. What of the North Korean workers who are slaving away in generational gulags? Seems a bit rich to tell them that life is meant to be experienced when the basis of their experience is suffering.
At the end of the day, I guess my biggest fear is that you won’t read these entries. Or, rather, that you’ll read them but won’t care for them or won’t understand them. Or that my descendants won’t. And so I write, hoping to reach someone at some point in the future, to connect with them on a deeper and more fundamental level.
Today, we spent the whole day together because you were sick. Mommy got the booster so she was out of it as well. You are a great kid. You are kind and understanding. Brave and so full of life. If I could freeze time, I’d freeze it now. Everything seems perfect. No major health issues in the family. No big financial difficulties. Everything is more or less fine. Nothing to complain about. Nothing that’s broken that can’t be fixed. Yet, I have this feeling that something bad is going to happen soon. Almost as if I’ve been too fortunate in life and that this can’t last. Not for long anyway.
Anxious Horses
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics On the edge, along the cliff side, on a path around the mountain I am driving my two horses, with a whip, at full speed But I'm having trouble breathing, the wind I swallow the fog I'm eating In my reckless joy I'm feeling, that I am fading, I am fading Just a little slower, horses, just a little slower I am begging you, there's no need, to go full speed But I got some anxious horses who can't wait to get there sooner And I haven't finished living, and I haven't finished singing I still got strength in my arms, I still got air in my lungs For just a moment or two, I'll stand on the edge and enjoy the view I'll be thrown off like a feather off God's palm in a hurricane And my horses will start to gallop without any hesitation All I am asking, my dear horses, slow your pace, there's no race For just a moment, lets prolong the time to our final destination Just a little slower, horses, just a little slower Please don't listen to my lash, there is no rush But I got some anxious horses who can't wait to get there sooner And I haven't finished living, and I haven't finished singing I still got strength in my arms, I still got air in my lungs For just a moment or two, I'll stand on the edge and enjoy the view We arrived to God's guest house, there is no need for reservations But then why are the angels singing in such angry voices? Or is that the horse bell ringing, overwhelmed with desperation. Or is that just me yelling "Please slow down, my dear horses" Just a little slower, horses, just a little slower I am begging you, there's no need, to go full speed But I got some anxious horses who can't wait to arrive sooner There isn't enough time to live, not enough time to sing I’ll quench my horses’ thirst, I’ll finish singing this verse For just a moment or two I'll stand on the edge and enjoy the view
Chapter 3
A few weeks after the incident with Daisy, Albert’s suspicions were confirmed.
Naomi and Albert were assigned to work together on a World History project. Naomi lived in the same neighborhood, a few houses down from where he lived. Naomi generally kept to herself. She had a small circle of friends who Albert occasionally saw her with during lunch. Always friendly, even if a bit shy, Albert would smile a neighborly smile when they saw each other. When the teacher started assigning partners for the upcoming WWII project and called on Albert and Naomi to present on the Tuskegee Airmen next Friday, Albert wasn’t disappointed. He approached her after class to ask how to tackle the assignment and they agreed to meet up after school.
After dropping off his books at home, Albert headed over to her house. As he approached the single family home situated on the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, he heard a loud baritone outburst coming from their house.
“I thought I told you to not leave your bags here. I am going to break my neck tripping over them!”
A voice that sounded like Naomi’s responded, but he couldn’t make out what she said, before she was interrupted by her father.
“Don’t talk back to me, ya hear? You need to clean your ears.”
Naomi said something about “mom,” before her father cut her off again.
“Go ahead and tell her. You think I care? You are just like her and soon you’ll have each other all to yourselves, but don’t come crying to me for help…”
Looking around, Albert did not see the usual police car in the driveway. Mr. Peterson had been a police officer for over two decades, and Albert wondered why he was home early without his squad car.
As he stood there waiting for the Naimi’s diatribe to subside, Albert noticed a familiar feeling start to grow in his chest and slowly spread through the rest of his body. His mind immediately traveled back to the feeling he felt near Daisy, but, at the moment, his memory was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking, a sharp scream, and footsteps running up stairs.
“I hate you. I hope you die.” Naomi’s voice trailed off.
“That’s it. Come over here and say it to my face, you stupid little…”
Albert’s mind started to race. Should he do something? Albert rang the doorbell once. As soon as he did, the yelling stopped.
An eerie, palpable silence followed as Albert could almost see her father, frozen halfway up the staircase, deliberating what to do next. After what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, he heard heavy footsteps descending down the stairs and approaching the door. After looking through the peephole, Naomi’s father bellowed, “It’s for you!” and walked away. A minute later or so, he heard the featherlight steps of Naomi running down and Naomi opening the door with swollen eyes and a forced smile.
Pretending not to notice and looking away, Albert started complaining about the project. As Albert walked through the kitchen hallway, he could see a broken plate next to the kitchen wall that Naomi was surely hoping he wouldn’t notice. As they sat down at the dining room table, Albert noticed that the sensation had subsided and when he left an hour and a half later it was almost gone.
Later that night, Albert overheard his parents talking about Naomi and her mother moving out. The father lost his job at the police department for using excessive force a couple of weeks ago on the two of them until Naomi’s mother had had enough. Barely bearable when he was sober and out on the beat every day, staying all day at home and taking his anger out on the rest of the family was apparently too much. The school was allowing Naomi to finish her senior year while living outside the district, but Albert soon stopped seeing her around and the house was put up for sale at the end of the year.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (January 27th, 2022)
I am writing this from the maternity ward of Shady Grove Hospital. In a couple of hours, if all goes well, Riley, you’ll be born. Riley Marie. Riley means courageous. I could not think of a better meaning for a name. You’ve decided to be born on a cold day. Google says it is 35 degrees right now outside. Tonight, it should drop back into the twenties. And tomorrow, it might snow.
Today is full of coincidences. As I am sitting by your mother who is slowly being induced and I am reading Midnight Children. Specifically, the part about a child being born at the stroke of midnight on the eve of India’s independence.
As I write this, I am also checking the news to see if Russia has started the invasion of Ukraine. War seems inevitable now. Ukraine is surrounded and the Russian military has pulled up to its borders from Belarus, Russia and Crimea. Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll ever be able to go back, if that happens. I hope our Ukrainian side of the family will be okay. All your cousins and uncles and aunts live there. They live close to the Russian border. I worry about reprisals and neighbors denouncing neighbors. It can get ugly very quickly. I tried telling them to get out while they can, but Ukrainians are stubborn people.
We are also in the midst of another Covid variant: Omicron. The news on it is mixed. Some say it spreads more easily and it is just as deadly, while others say it is a more mild form. With mommy’s asthma, we just can’t take any chances. So far, we’ve been fortunate, let’s hope that doesn’t change.
I wish you were born during better times. Disease. War. However, it could be worse. It can always be worse. But I don’t want that to be the circumstances of how you enter the world. Life is beautiful, despite everything that goes on in it. If you ever read this, I want you to know that your mother and I are super excited for you. We are anxiously waiting for you. Charlie is also very anxious to meet you (she’s spending a few nights at her grandparents’ while we are at the hospital). At the end of the day, I just want you to be healthy. And kind hearted when you get older. And to never give up. God willing, I’ll see you in a few hours.
What do you do?
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics What do you do, what do you do? When life decides to turn on you Cue the bagpipes, release the doves! A judgment’s been passed from up above A child in pain, terminally ill All hope in vain, but prayed for still They don’t sell caskets in that size For twice the price, they'll customize A would-be bride, now a widow Draped in Ol’ Glory, he died a hero She still wears his engagement ring Maybe one day he’ll walk right in What do you do, what do you do? When life decides to turn on you Though suicide is cheap and quick You won’t fool us with that old trick The devil’s drink helps you forget The bitter taste of life’s regret The cigarettes help take the edge Just enough to keep off the ledge At morning mass, you start to pray But God just seems so far away To rest, to sleep, to close your eyes But oh what dreams until sunrise What do you do, what do you do? When life decides to turn at you You wanted to burn to feel alive So down below, you took a dive The devil gave you one good look And realized he had been took Those who pass through the gates of hell Can still come back, unless they dwell He cut the deck, and delt you in And Judas played, he let you win! You almost stayed, you almost stayed! But took a step back and were saved What should you do, what do you do, what do you do…
Chapter 4
Fortunately, Albet was already admitted to a state school, by the time his grades started to slip at the end of senior year. After discovering his new found “ability,” he couldn’t stop thinking about how to use it.
Naturally, he wondered if he could make money off of it and yet, surprisingly, he couldn’t think of any easy ways. Apparently, the ability to feel other people’s suffering didn’t seem to be an in demand qualification and, in fact, posed in many fields a significant limitation. A doctor or surgeon at first glance seemed like the obvious choice, but Albert quickly realized that empathizing too much with the suffering of someone coming into the emergency room was going to complicate the quick decision process. Moreover, what the long term consequences of long term exposure to the sensation was and whether he could safely expose himself to it as a doctor in a hospital on a daily basis. Even his personal health aside, he wondered if it would become more dull or grated if he felt it for too long or too often?
The legal field posed a different set of obstacles. As the judge, Albert figured he would likely be able to discern the guilt of the defendant based on their emotional state, but would that lead to him disregarding the law or legal arguments being made by the jurists? Moreover, if he were to feel the suffering associated with remorse, Albert worried whether he was more prone to let defendants off more easily for better or for worse.
Albert considered a number of professions, but it seemed like humanity placed rather little value on the ability to empathize with the suffering of others. Secretly, though, he wanted to test his new found abilities and see if he could save someone. While his new found superpower did not allow him to fly or turn invisible, Albert hoped that if he could just find a use for it, he could become one of those superheroes he saw in movies, so he did what he thought all superheroes did and hit the streets looking for crime.
Yet, as he prowled the streets at night, he found himself lost in thought and unsure of where to look. Passing by houses and apartments, bars and restaurants, he’d feel mild pangs of someone's distress, but the intensity of the pain did not seem to warrant intervention. In fact, as he loitered around the sources of distress, a part of him was relieved when the feeling subsided, as he was still unsure of what he would do in the event of an emergency. After all, he had never been in a fight before and doubted that he would have been able to stop anyone, least of all someone like Naomi’s father or Daisy’s owner from hurting someone.
As he continued to walk the lonely alleys night after night, he fantasized about different scenarios he may come across and what he would do. Yet, upon further reflection, even the most cliche scenarios were more complicated than they first appeared. If he came across a robber mugging an old lady at gunpoint, unlike other superheroes, his “power” wasn’t going to help confront the bad guy. Carrying weapons on him was bound to get him into trouble with the police as he walked around at night, so he couldn’t risk that. He had already been stopped a few times but the police had nothing to detain him for and going on “midnight walks to clear his head” was against the law, but he was already on their radar.
There was philosophical implications to his newly discovered abilities as well. If he came across someone in great discomfort and all alone, should he even attempt to intervene? What if the cause of their suffering was themselves and they were looking to atone for their sins with their suffering in a Dostoevskian way. After all, did not criminals suffer too? Did they not feel overwhelming guilt and shame at times? Was he perhaps interjecting himself into a process that was between the sinner and God and, even worse, inhibiting the purging of evil in the soul? All these thoughts and more passed through Albert’s mind as his beat up sneakers hit the pavement.
Nonetheless, the chance to prove himself finally came one night as he found himself walking down a quiet suburban block he’d never been down before. This part of the neighborhood was old: a hodge podge of houses, the styles looked like they were constructed during different decades, maybe even centuries. Some had a neo-gothic look with gables and weathervanes and Albert would almost intentionally pause near them to check what evil lurked behind those windbeaten walls. Others were plain one-story brick houses with poor lighting and small windows, clearly built in haste and with economy as the overriding factor. All the houses in this neighborhood were situated a bit farther apart from each other, providing the occupants with a bit of privacy and seclusion, so it took Albert a bit more time than usual to walk by each one.
As he was walking down a “no outlet” avenue that ran headlong into a local park at the end and ready to give up hope of ever putting his newfound power to use, he started to feel the unmistakable burning feeling, but this time it did not stop growing as he walked on. As the feeling became more acute, he immediately started looking for the source, but the only thing he could ascertain was the direction it was coming from. Looking in that direction, he saw a decrepit house right by the entrance to the park at the end of the street.
Albert slowly approached the house and stopped, straining his sense to understand the burning sensation that was now enveloping his body. To avoid suspicion, he gently leaned forward on the chain linked fence to get a better look. The house looked ordinary with a light on in the upper bedroom facing the street and a dim one coming from the basement. The lawn was unmowed for a few weeks, but it was hardly the only one on the block with an overgrown lawn. There was an old crooked playground that seemed like it hadn't been used in ages, some discarded rusted sheets of metal slumped on the side of the one car garage, and a few windchimes hanging off the porch that occasionally chimed during the May breeze.
Still doubtful and unsure of what to do, Albert figured either his sensations were wrong and he had nothing to worry about or, if they were right and someone was in distress, this was the moment he was waiting for and he couldn’t just walk away. So, he quietly hopped the waist-high fence, careful not to get caught in it, and began to slowly approach the side of the home where he saw a basement light, but he froze when he was just a few feet away as another, much brighter, light came on in the basement and he now had a direct line of sight into the unfinished basement. The darkness outside hid Albert from anyone who was inside, but he had a good angle from which to observe.
A man in his 50s with an unkempt grizzle walked in carrying a dog bowl. He stopped as he entered the unfinished basement and then proceeded to say something inaudible. Wondering whether this was an another case of a man abusing a dog, Albert slowly moved a step to the right to get a better view of the opposite side of the basement and what he saw made his blood run cold: there was a girl dressed in a stained white nightgown sitting alone on a dirty tethered mattress with her ankle chained to a radiator. She seemed a teenager, pale, and anorexically skinny with long dark hair over her face. She sat so still that Albert for a moment thought she was a statute. The man proceeded to approach her, put the bowl by the mattress without taking his eyes off her and then turned around and walked away. As he left the room, he turned off the rest of the lights so that only a low voltage naked bulb continued to shed a bit of light.
Albert stood still for what seemed like an eternity trying to process what he just witnessed. Then, as slowly as he could, afraid of being seen by the owner, he slowly backed away from the house, hopped back over the fence, and walked across the street where he could see the house from a distance, while he tried to calm his nerves and think of a plan. He took out his phone again and was on the verge of dialing 911, but as he thought over what he’d say, he paused. No one would believe he discovered the girl chained up in a basement because he “felt” her suffering.
After a bit more thought, he decided to put in an anonymous phone call to 911 by dialing *67.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Ummm…I believe there is a girl who is in imminent danger in a house.”
“What kind of danger are they in? Is anyone hurt?”
“Um…well yes, but not right now, I mean she is chained up in a basement.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Did you say there was a girl chained up in a basement? Are you in the house right now?”
“No, no, but I thought I saw her in the window as I was passing by. Um, it is on Joshua Tree Ave. I think the number 213,” Albert responded as he try to read the letters on the mailbox across the street.
“Okay, I am getting officers to head over there right now. Can you stay on the line with me? Hello?”
Albert hung up and hoped that would be enough. He moved a bit farther away now, entered the local park, and climbed onto the wooden play deck of the playground where he had a good vantage point of both the front door and the dimly lit window. In a little while, a police cruiser with the sires off slowly pulled up. Two officers got out with heavy duty flashlights and started to look around the property. Albert could hear some radio chatter. They seemed to be scoping the place out first. Then, after saying a few words to each other, one approached the house and rang the doorbell, while the other shone his light into the front facing pitch black windows. As he did, Albert could see the dim bulb go off in the basement and the shutters close in the window he had seen the girl in.
After a bit of waiting, the officer rang the doorbell again and knocked, yelling, “Police!” He then stepped off to the side and away from the door while he waited and listened, his hand slowly reaching for his holster. His partner now started to round the house with his flashlight. The door finally opened, and the same man Albert saw earlier, barefooted and yawning, came out.
“We got a disturbance call at your house. Anyone else live here?”
“Nah, just me. Probably those kids again punking me.”
The officer interrupted him, “You got a wife or kids?”
“My wife and kid in Florida since about 5 years ago. Anything else I can help you with? It is 2 am.”
The officer tried to peek into the house, but the man stood his ground.
“Mind if we take a look? You know…to close out the call. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.”
“Yeah….no, I’d prefer you didn’t. It is late and I got my rights. Unless you got a warrant that is.”
At which point the man nodded to his partner who just finished rounding the house. The grizzled man saw the second police officer and said, “Sure, you can look around all you want on the outside. Just be careful with that metal. Some nails over there too.”
“You been drinking?”
“Had a beer before bed. How long this gonna to take anyway?”
“As long as it takes. You can make this go faster by letting us look inside.”
“I ain’t gonna do that, officer. You know that.”
“We’ll just come back with a warrant.”
“You do what you gotta do.”
The two officers looked at each other and one of them shrugged his shoulders. They got back into their cruiser and slowly drove off.
Albert was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe that nothing happened. Were they going to come back and get a warrant? Were they coming back at all? Or was that it?
As he puzzled over what to do next, he heard the garage door slowly open. A red Ford SUV pulled out slowly with the man in the driver’s seat. As he passed, they made eye contact and at that moment Albert knew the man knew he called the police. A feeling of sheer terror passed through Albert and he wondered if the man was going to stop his truck, but that fear soon vanished and a new, more powerful one quickly materialized, as he caught a glimpse of the girl in the passenger seat, before they sped off.
The next day he heard on the radio a girl who lived in that neighborhood was abducted and found dead a dozen miles from her house with authorities wanting to question her uncle as a person of interest.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (March 1st, 2022)
And thus passed one of the toughest months of my life. Riley, it sounds like you may have some kind of intolerance to milk. You were in so much discomfort the first couple of weeks we were home. Thankfully, there was a formula available that you tolerated better. You are still refusing to sleep in the crib, but at least you are not in constant discomfort and bloated. Mommy and I used to take turns holding you while you slept for 15 minutes at a time. I was worried of dropping you so I didn’t dare fall asleep holding you. Watched the entire Battlestar Galactica while trying to rock you to sleep. After a few hours, I’d switch with mommy.
I had to fire someone a couple of weeks ago. One of our first salaried employees. She’s worked with us for years, but I think she was starting to take advantage of us. Going behind my back and going back on the agreement we reached less than a year ago. I gave her a chance to walk it back, but I didn’t feel like she owned up enough to it. Still, it was a tough call and I am not going to lie…when I finally could get a bit of sleep, I couldn’t. And due to a lack of sleep, I’ve been making one mistake after another at work. Simple, easy scheduling errors and the like. It’s been rough.
Then, of course, Russia invaded Ukraine a week ago. On February 24th. Let that day live in infamy. Our extended family is now in occupied territory. Some, like my second cousin Andrei, are getting shelled in Kyiv. The Ukrainians are putting up a hell of a fight though. Never expected them to resist so fiercely against such overwhelming odds. However, it seems like it is just a matter of time before the Russian forces take over most of Ukraine, if not all of it. Never again will I be able to go to my ancestral homeland, to honor the graves of my grandparents, to visit the house my grandfather built with his own hands. I spend most of my days checking the news. Almost impossible to concentrate on work with everything going on. I’ve been short with people. I can tell. With you Charlie and Riley. I can do better and will do better. I need to find a way to function.
Apples of Paradise
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics One day I’ll die, we all die sooner or later I just hope, not alone and soundly asleep in my bed We pay our respects to the ones six feet under Can't speak of the living, but we take care of our dead I'll collapse on ground in an awkward position And my soul will rise up and, on a stolen horse, gallop away To the overgrown gardens where I’ll steal a handful of apples But the apples are guarded, and any trespassers…shot on the spot I arrive but can’t believe what my eyes are revealing Barbed wire walls and a huge, iron gate And in front, thousands of souls, quietly praying Lined up in a row, hands together, they patiently wait My horse is easily spooked so I calm him by whispering softly Run my hands through his mane, moisten the reigns, and untangle knots An old man with the keys, smoking his last cigarette But the lock has been changed, so he spits, curses and leaves The souls in front barely notice a difference They just drop to their knees, all at once, as if by command Stronger than chains is the promise of deliverance And stronger than that is the smell of hope from within But the old man came back, this time with a crowbar After heaving and puffing, we pried open heaven’s gate By the tear stains on his cheeks, I recognized him, St. Peter He’s an apostle, and I’m just a sinner trying to open the gate Once inside, I didn’t see no signs of milk and honey Only the faceless whipping the chained Someone in the distance struck the rails a little too loudly Everything came full circle, while the crucified one hung ahead In the end, was it really so much that I asked for? A few words from my friends and some flowers on my grave from my wife And for them, I shall steal a few heavenly apples But the apples are seedless, and I am shot right on the spot Can’t die twice, so I break out as if out of prison My horse needs a rest, so I take over, bite down on them reins Not living, not dead, we barely made it These apples are for you, I stole them from hell
Chapter 5
Albert swore from then on to take matters into his own hands. Blaming himself for what happened that night, Albert couldn’t help but think he could have done more to save the girl in the white night gown. He kept replaying the last moment he saw her. The thousand-yard-stare look she gave him from the passenger seat of the old Ford pick up. He wondered if she knew where she was being taken.
Over the next few days, he saw that image so many times that it became blurry as his mind started to morph the details and he couldn’t be sure what he saw and what he had imagined. He couldn’t concentrate on simple tasks and found himself just staring mindlessly at the mirror, dinner, or whatever it was he had set out to do. When his parent asked if he was okay, he’d force a smile and make up an excuse, but the images kept replaying in his mind on a nonstop loop and he realized he needed to get out of the house as much as possible.
He found himself wondering what he should have done differently. Of course, he fantasized about kicking in the door and dragging the man out, but when he thought it over, he wasn’t sure what he should have done. However, he knew he should have done something and swore to never allow for that to happen again.
The next opportunity came unexpectedly next fall once Albert was enrolled in a nearby state college. Albert had moved in with a few high school friends from college right outside of campus in a small one-story house. The nights were spent playing cards and watching shows. Waking up late and attending only a couple of hours of class was a good break from the 7 hour school days Albert was used to. His major, finances, wasn’t particularly demanding, at least compared to the science and technology majors that others were pursuing on the other side of campus, so Albert found himself with a bit more free time than he expected. Showing up for class, reviewing the powerpoint slides, and occasionally grinding out a group project the night before it was due seemed enough to pass his classes.
With the midterms approaching, Abert found himself in his Finance 101 course. While sitting on his laptop in the back row of his, he suddenly felt the familiar burning sensation, the intensity of which caught him off guard. Of course, he had felt minor pangs occasionally, but the nature of this sensation was more acute and, with so many people in the class, he couldn’t identify its source immediately. No one seemed to be visibly in discomfort. Albert tried to focus in on the sensation to see if he could determine the direction of its source. Subtly observing his classmates, Albert was able to hone in on one guy wearing glasses and a hoodie sweatshirt sitting a few seats to the right of him. Walter almost never spoke up in class and seemed very much to himself. He often arrived late and never stuck around after class to chat.
Slowly, with no one sitting between the two of them, Albert pretended to lean back in his chair to catch a glimpse of Walter’s screen to see what was causing him such discomfort. Albert was expecting Walter to be looking at a picture of someone who had just passed or to be in the midst of a breakup, but what he saw on his screen only confounded Albert more. He was furiously typing away on an essay or a book, but Albert couldn’t tell precisely what it was, so he slowly rolled back in his seat, got up and began walking past Walter’s seat toward the exit in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his work. Given the size of the lecture hall, the professor or Walter didn’t notice. As Albert began to near Walter’s seat and make out what words, what he read made him stop and forget for a moment where he was going. The beginning of the paragraph read:
By the time you read this, the world will know my name. Do not shed tears for the “victims” for I have relieved them of their pain.
At first, Albert wondered if Walter was writing a book, but the strong sense of suffering emanating from Walter made Albert wonder if it was something more. Albert caught himself just standing behind Walter right in time and quickly pivoted toward the door as Walter quickly turned around to see if anyone was looking. Thankfully, by that time, Albert was far away enough that Walter quickly turned his attention back to his writing and thought none the better.
When Albert returned to his seat the class was almost over. A few minutes later, the professor dismissed class and the class started packing up. Unwilling to make the same mistake again and confused by Walter’s suffering, Albert decided to follow Walter for a bit to see if the sensation would dissipate outside of the classroom. Perhaps he had wrongly attributed it to Walter or perhaps his senses were misfiring.
However, the feeling that Albert felt during class did not abate outside either and the closer Albert got to him, the more he felt it. Since they both parked in the same lot, Albert was able to follow Walter out of the parking lot. As Albert followed Walter in his old Toyota Corolla, during the entire ordeal, Walter seemed oblivious to everything around him. After a few minutes of driving, Walter pulled into a neighborhood right off campus. A few houses down, past the school and the police station, Walter pulled into the driveway of a small house.
Parking a couple of houses away and unsure of what to do next, Albert noticed that his “feeling” seemed to ebb and flow based on not just the proximity of Walter, but where they were. Inside the car, his sensation seemed significantly weaker than when they were walking outside. Unsure of how his body was able to sense the pain of others, Albert wondered if it worked in the same way as gravity: invisible, but attracted to the magnitude of suffering. Perhaps, Albert wondered as he watched Albert get out of his car and walk inside the house, his genetic molecular structure was able to somehow become a recipient of specific types of brain waves associated with stress. Or, the electric signals in other human brains fire off synapses that are somehow detected by him. Albert had thought about checking into a research facility, but the thought of being experimented on made him uncomfortable. Would they do tests on him? Restrict him from feeling the pain of others or, perhaps worse yet, amplify his sensations? Attempt to remove his “condition”? He was hesitant to find out.
As he was wondering about all this, Albert saw the front door open and Walter walk out, get back in his car and start backing out of his driveway. Surprised by how quickly Walter left the house, Albert quickly ducked into the passenger seat of his car, but there was no need: Walter seemed so selfabsorbed, Albert felt he could’ve walked right by him without Walter noticing him.
Albert waited until he saw Walter’s car turn the corner before looking around. Here was his chance. Even if Walter just went to grab some lunch, Albert reckoned he had at least 15 minutes before he’d be back. Maybe more.
Mustering up his courage, Albert casually reparked closer to the house to avoid suspicion and for a quicker getaway. If anyone asked, he’d just say he was visiting Walter. He figured needed to have a story ready in case anything went wrong, or if someone was inside the house. However, how would he get in? He was getting ready to start looking through the windows but decided to give the front door a chance in the off chance Walter forgot to lock it. Looking casually around to make sure no one was watching him, Albert tried the front door, and, with a mix of relief and despair, it opened.
“Walter, you home?”
Albert knew the answer, but wanted to check if anyone else was inside the house.
No response.
As he took a step in, Albert saw that the house was littered with dirty laundry and a motley of oil stained carry-out bags. Out of habit, Albert almost took his shoes off, but remembered that putting them on, in the event of a sudden escape, would only slow him down so he kept them on as he walked into the first bedroom he saw. At first, because of all the clutter, Albert wasn’t sure whether it was even a bedroom, but as he started to discern the particulars, his gaze froze on what was on his table: a black shotgun
Near them, on top of an Ikea table, was his laptop, still open and awake. Albert could see some of the applications still running: mostly gun forums, just like the one he saw in class. As Albert maneuvered around the room, careful not to step on anything to get a better look, Albert noticed an open laptop with the same writing. Albert started skimming. The world “elites” kept popping up. After a bit he honed in a sentence that caught his eye, “My last act is to start an uprising by relieving the souls of their earthly sufferings.”
The sound of a car engine starting nearby caused Albert to snap out. He quickly looked out the window into the driveway, but it was just the neighbor’s car. Making sure not to touch anything, Albert quickly but quietly walked out. As casually as he could while trying to contain his nerves, Albert got back into his car and, after looking around to make sure no one saw him, drove off.
He could go to the police, but did they have enough for a warrant to search his home? Walter could just say his manifesto was a stab at creative writing. The gun could be legal. Plus, how could he explain to the police why he followed him home and trespassed into his house? He needed more evidence.
Albert suspected that Walter’s target was likely college. Walter knew the layout and he wouldn’t cause suspicion. Still, he didn’t know what class he may target or when. Sure, they shared a couple of classes together, but Albert wasn’t sure about the rest of his schedule. Luckily, as both freshmen in college, Albert knew he was likely taking prerequisites just like him, so he was able to narrow down Walter’s schedule for the next few days.
Albert didn’t sleep that night as he kept imagining how all the different scenarios may play out. He worried that he had miscalculated either Walter’s plans or intentions. However, he could come up with no other reason for why someone might possess a gun and write a manifesto.
Once the sunlight peered through his blinds, Albert gave up on sleep. As he mindlessly made a bowl of cereal, he felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. After finishing, he grabbed his jacket and drove over to Walter’s, parking a block or two away. He figured he needed to track Walter closely for the time being.
Shortly after half past 9 am, Walter got into his car carrying a large duffel bag. He seemed more anxious and paranoid, constantly looking around, which forced Albert to duck a few times and keep his distance as he trailed him. Dressed rather ominously, as if he was reenacting the Matrix, Albert noticed Walter sporting black hiking boots and a leather trenchcoat, something Albert didn’t remember Walter wearing before.
After pulling into the college lot, Albert followed Walter as they made their way to their first class. At this point, Albert realized that if Walter was armed, he had no idea how to stop him. Trying to think ahead, Albert realized that Walter would likely wait until everyone was seated for maximum carnage. Was he planning on targeting someone specific, such as his professor, or someone random. For a moment, Albert wondered if Walter was planning on targeting him, but he couldn't remember them saying more than a few words to each other.
Casually plopping down his computer bag near Walter, Albert said “hello” to him in the nicest way possible hoping that this last act of kindness might dissuade him from going through with his plan. Walter seemed a bit taken back for a moment or two, but merely muttered something in return and took out his laptop. Albert couldn’t help but notice that Walter was visibly distracted, had trouble plugging his computer into the charger, and his hand was shaking. The distinct sensation that Albert had felt yesterday was now at fever pitch. Walter was in a state of great discomfort.
The professor had now come in and, standing at the lectern, waited for everyone to be seated while reviewing his notes. Albert was tense, but tried not to look at Walter in the event that would tip him off. Still, the anticipation was killing him.
As the professor started speaking, Albert saw Walter carefully and slowly unzipping the duffel bag in his peripheral vision. From the corner of his eye Albert could see Walter reach into his bag and start feeling around for something. Albert was ready to pounce. He just needed one last confirmation. In a split second, Walter pushed back his chair with the shotgun in his hands. The noise startled everyone but what was happening had not had time to register in his classmates' minds.
As Albert was lunging at him, a shot rang out. The gun shot was deafening and seemed to take Walter off guard as well, as did the recoil which threw him on the floor. Albert was on top of him. His ears were ringing as he tried to subdue Walter, who surprisingly wasn’t resisting.
“Help! Call the police!”
Soon one classmate and then another joined in restraining Walter and prying his gun away from his deathlike grip. As Walter seemed subdued, Albert had a moment to look around to see where everyone was. He noticed a crowd around a girl on the ground. There was blood on the floor and she wasn’t moving. One of the bullets hit a classmate, Gabriella, in the second row. As he learned later, she died instantly.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (June 26th, 2022)
So, I finally got Covid. Temperatures of 103.5 or so for a couple of nights. I wonder what it would have been like if I never got vaccinated or boosted. In any case, you are both with your mom and I’ve been recovering on my own. Somehow, you managed to not get sick…
We are now looking for a house. One with a deck (for Gracie and Jesse) and near a sidewalk (for you). I guess that middle class lifestyle is starting to creep in. I am sure we’ll find something in due time. Your mom is very excited. I worry about being able to afford it, but I guess we should be able to. Can’t take that away from her now….
My other efforts are stalling. I am simply not spending enough time on them. It is not like I am wasting time, but I guess life is about priorities and I can’t make them enough of a priority. For example, to win an election, you have to go door knocking and spend a lot of time kissing up to special interest groups to get their endorsement. After my failed run for BOE, I realized I am not cut out for it. I don’t have the time or the inclination to knock on thousands of doors, and I don’t want to kiss up to the teacher’s unions or other special interest groups just to get their votes.
And, of course, there is the war. Like a dark cloud that hangs over everything I do. I wake up thinking about it. I go to sleep thinking about it. It is always in the back of your mind. If you hear a joke and laugh too hard, you feel guilty. If you find yourself relaxing and dare I say enjoying life, the war is right there. Still, that is nothing compared to what those on the frontlines are going through…
I created a website to help fight Russian propaganda and gathered a team of Ukrainians to make calls to Russia using numbers that we "found" online. We don’t intend to persuade. Instead, we aim to inform about what is happening and find out what they know about what’s going. Some people are willing to talk. Most aren’t. I am not sure if they are apathetic or scared. Still, many seem to be aware that the casualties are much higher than officially reported.
I am afraid to admit that I’ve grown somewhat numb to the war now. The first couple of months were dark. Very dark. Now, it is more bearable. Perhaps because the fighting has moved away from S____. Perhaps because we grow numb to the pain over time. The truth is I don’t know my cousins too well. I was born in Belarus and only visited Ukraine during the summers until I was about 7, and then only occasionally afterwards. I tried to reach out to them when the war started, but our correspondences have faltered.
The human toll of the war is, of course, tragic. Yet, there are things in life worth fighting over.. In the beginning of the war, I said, “Let them take Ukraine. Anything is better than war.” But, the Ukrainian people fought back. And they had every right to. For some, justice and defending your homeland is more important than life and I plan on supporting the Ukrainian people as long as they want to keep going. It is their call. That said, I am glad I was not born in Ukraine. If I was born in Ukraine, maybe I’d feel more of an urge to go down there and I don’t think I’d survive…
Business? Not doing as well as before to be honest. My mind is elsewhere these days, so not surprising if that happens, but we have to keep going through the motions.
Why am I telling you all this? I guess because I don’t want you to be the kind of person who just binge watches silly TV shows or doom scrolls through social media nonstop. I want you to care about where you came from. I want you to have empathy for those who are hurting. I also want you to remember, in moments of darkness, that there is light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. If I am fortunate, you’ll look back on your mother’s and my life and say, “Well, I wish I could accomplish as much as they accomplished.” Know that you can. You know how I know? Because I had the same worries about not making something out of my life, and, while things might look easy from the outside, nothing comes easily. You’ll struggle and, at times, things might seem hopeless. You’ll have to change course a million times. But, never give up on trying. Real effort should be stressful. If you are truly giving it your all, it should be exhausting. When things don’t work out, it should be devastating. (As I write this, I am realizing that I am talking now as much to you as to myself). Allow yourself to take risks that expose your weaknesses. Risk humiliation in front of others. That’s the price of true progress. Anything less than that, we are just mailing it in. But, again, that’s when you are working. Make sure you also leave time for the important things in life: family, friends, and health. And remember, you can ALWAYS talk to me. I know that I can be a bit difficult to talk to. Have standards that are too high that I often don’t meet myself. But, I promise to always try to listen.
Broken Man
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics A feeling of numbness is coursing through my veins The days are passing but I feel frozen I don’t lose my breath when driving at high speeds My blood doesn’t turn cold when I look down high rise balconies No shivers down my back when I hear my wedding song No butterflies in my stomach when I am with her all alone My are nerves are like a clothing line on a windy day You can pull them all you want, and I don’t care who gets their way I am on the edge, give me a push, I am off the ledge Only “no,” only “not now” are inside me I don’t hurry people or events In conversations I don’t offer my two cents My bow and arrow are rotting somewhere in the corner All the arrows are broken, I use them for fire during winter I am tired of fighting with gravity I lay, that way the noose is farther away from me I am as see through as an open window And as unnoticeable as a midnight shadow I am on the edge, give me a push, I am off the ledge Only “no,” only “nevermind” are inside me Old wounds and scars no longer bother me Heroic acts don’t instill faith in humanity My clock is stuck on the same hour Every hour is the same so it doesn’t really matter No dreams, no ambitions, nothing interests me The thought “what if?” no longer inspires me My heart is beating as if it is not inside of me It is time for me to where no one will find me It is time for me to where no one will find me
Chapter 6
When Albert saw Gabriella on the floor, something broke inside him. Over and over again, he replayed the incident in his head. He replayed it so often he wasn’t sure of the details anymore. The entire series of events now seemed hazy with gaps. He would often find himself losing his train of thought and staring out into space. He stayed inside of his room most of the time. He lost his appetite. For months, he couldn’t bear to watch any shows or movies with guns or death.
Fortunately, the university gave everyone in the class a passing grade in all of their classes for the rest of the semester as well as access to university therapists. He saw one once a week now, but how could he share his inner guilt? How could he explain that he could have stopped Gabriella’s killing if he just acted a second sooner? His roommates made an effort to entertain him and occasionally he would acquiesce to go out, but mostly Albert just wanted to be alone.
The days seemed to drag on, but once the semester ended, Albert decided to get away. His room seemed oppressive and everything on campus reminded him of that fateful day. He didn’t care where he’d go, but he just needed to go. With only a few thousand in his bank account, mostly in the form of what was left over from his student loans, Albert needed to go somewhere cheap since he didn’t know how long he’d be staying for.
He heard about a program that accepts volunteers at east African orphanages from a high school classmate who was planning on going with a few of his pre-med friends. After agreeing on the date of departure and getting all the recommended vaccines, they were connected to an orphanage in rural Kenya. For the first time since the school shooting, Albert had something to look forward to.
After a short layover in Istanbul, the group flew to Nairobi. They landed late at night in a surprisingly small airport and after clearing customs walked out of the terminal looking for their ride. The night was cool, yet what struck Albert the most was the air. Dusty. Dry. The smell of construction. A smell he would forever associate with Kenya.
After a bit of looking around, a tall gentleman walked up to them and introduced himself as Allan, their driver. Talkative and jolly, he led them to a rather compact Chinese minivan and was surprised that Allan was able to fit in. Most of the bags did not fit in the back so they had to hold some of them on the way. With the windows down, the group were able to see and hear the Nairobi night. Half finished buildings, litter, and brick walls lined the highway as they drove to their destination. Tired from the flight and content to just watch the city go by as they drove, Albert barely said a word for the duration of the drive while the others conversed with the driver about life in Kenya. Arriving past midnight, they were greeted by a watchman who carried a big flashlight and even bigger smile. Saying something in Swahili, he showed them their volunteer rooms that consisted of a bed with a mosquito net hanging from the top, a small bookshelf with books that prior volunteers left behind, and a small wooden table.
Once in his room, Albert unpacked a few things from his suitcase, and slipped into bed. However, he found it difficult to sleep the first night and he lay awake listening to the wildlife around him.
* * *
At the break of dawn, Albert was woken up to the sound of children’s laughter. Still tired, but now fully awake, Albert lay in bed listening to the voices grow louder, wondering what time he was expected to get up. Unsure of where to go or what to do, Albert decided to search for the other volunteers.
As soon as he stepped out of his room and into the courtyard, a few of the children wearing school uniforms ran up to him speaking a local dialect and shyly giggling. After studying him for a few minutes, their shyness overcame their curiosity and they ran off to play. A woman dressed in a formal dress saw him and walked over.
“Jumbo.”
“Hello,” Albert replied.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
Albert thanked the woman and walked over to the large room with a half dozen long picnic tables in the center. On the side, he saw a table with slices of white bread and black tea with milk. The other volunteers evidently were still in their rooms, so he grabbed a plate with a couple of slices of bread, smothered some butter on them and ate while watching the kids dressed in their school uniforms running around outside in the courtyard, occasionally looking in his direction, giggling and running away. New volunteers were apparently a source of great excitement.
Shortly after Albert finished his breakfast and tea, he saw the children grab their bookbags and start heading out of the compound in a scattered procession. The security guard Frank was leading the way as they started on their long trek to school. Unsure of what to do, Albert asked if he could tag along. As he walked the red clay road he saw farmers on their maize farms stopping their plowing and looking up at him. He would politely wave and they would wave back. As he was admiring the greenery on the side of the road, a few of the younger children ran up to him and grabbed his hands. Albert tried to ask them their names, but they just giggled in response.
The school turned out to be much further than he anticipated. They seemed to have walked at least a couple of miles on dirt paths that snaked through the farms. When they finally arrived, the girls let go of his hand and ran through the school gate. After making sure all the children were inside, Albert and Frank began the long walk back to the compound.
Albert tried to ask Frank a few questions about Kenya, but quickly gave up after realizing the language barrier was too great to overcome, so they walked home in silence, smiling occasionally to each other. When they arrived, the other volunteers had just had breakfast and were finishing their tea.
“Hey where did you go?” Steve asked after taking a sip of his tea.
Before Alber could respond, a woman who introduced herself as Paula, came up and offered a few volunteering options for the day. Albert chose “field work” and was soon back on the red clay dirt road, but this time with Paula on the way to visit a family.
As they walked up the gently sloping green hills, young children would laugh and cry “mzungu.”
“Mzungu?” Albert asked.
“It means…” Paula said, laughing a bit, “white person.”
As they neared their destination, Albert saw rows of mud clay huts in the distance. It was around this time that the familiar sensation of suffering started to return. Albert saw a barefooted boy standing a few feet away in tattered clothes curiously looking at him. He seemed to have a protruding stomach, which he later learned was a telltale sign of malnutrition.
The hut they stopped at had no windows and no door. The only opening served as an entrance and was covered by a worn out bed sheet. Paula stopped a few feet away and said something into the opening. A few moments later, an older woman stepped out barefoot carrying a crying infant on her hip.
The mother and Paula exchanged a few words in Kikuyu while Albert and the infant curiously observed each other. The infant likely had never seen a “mzungu” before and couldn’t take his eyes off Albert. Albert, on the other hand, couldn’t help but notice that the woman had no toenails. Peering into the home, Albert saw a mattress in a small room, some clothes hanging up on some of the clothing lines, and some pots and pans, the sum of which appeared to be the entirety of this woman’s possessions.
After a few minutes of conversation, Paula handed over a plastic bag full of maize and cooking oil to the woman. The woman expressed her gratitude and smiled a toothless smile at Albert. After they had left the neighborhood, that familiar sensation Albert felt dissipated. On the long way back, Paula explained that the mother was a single mother who had five children. The father was an alcoholic who would disappear for weeks on end. She was forced to offer herself to truck drivers who passed by on a nearby highway or steal firewood from a nearby British owned plantation. The children rarely went to school.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (November 17th, 2022)
A few days ago I learned Natalia’s, the four year girl from Kenya, cochlear operation was canceled. We still don't understand the rationale. Devastating.
The last few days I’ve been having a hard time concentrating as I reached out to anyone and everyone who I thought might be able to help. I am absolutely beside myself. It is too early to tell, but my goal is to place as much pressure on MP Shah Hospital to reverse their decision. They had her scheduled! Then, a postponement and now a cancellation? We worked so hard to raise the funds. She did all the tests required. She was so close, only days away from getting the gift to hear...
I got a nonstop knot in my stomach that I feel like can’t be healthy and I need to be careful with my health. I tend to get “obsessed” with certain things. I understand full well that my motivations are less than pure when it comes to Natalia. At the end of the day, am I doing it for myself? So I can look back and say, “I gave a girl her hearing?” Who knows what the reasons are, but I figure if a girl gets hearing out of it, then maybe the reasoning is not so important.
There is also a concern what all my pressure will lead to. So far, I’ve been careful to try to not say or do anything I'd regret while I insist the hospital puts her back on the schedule. Do I have a choice though? Am I supposed to just let this go?
Song without Meaning
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics From the cold, to come home Laugh and sing full-throated! Or to die all alone From heart attack or Covid In silence, to suffer… Or maybe with my six strings Better yet, the nearest bar And drown myself in whiskey Out of place, in this maze To never hold an ace of spades To miss the start of every race Or to fall flat on your face In disgrace… Always to nowhere Endless ambitions On the ropes, without air Or losing split decisions Maybe this song’s without an end Or maybe with no meaning But I’m plowing barren fields Or at the windmills tilting How many more sleepless nights? All I see are red lights Unadministered last rites Uncontrolled aborted flights In the night… If I could just steal a star Hide it in my knapsack No champagne, not cigars Just the shirt on my back Keep the hounds from tracking me Hide out in the swamp lands Just the star, it and me My guitar in my hands Without it, I’ll admit My fire’s barely lit And my fate is tied to it And I can’t get no respite Without it!
Chapter 7
The days passed slowly in Makuyu. In fact, the very concept of time seemed warped. Everything took longer in rural Kenya, and so Albert found his internal rhythm also adapting. His thoughts now roamed leisurely from one subject to another, as he walked the trails or worked the farm, and he found himself lost in deep introspection that he had seldom experienced before. Despite the pain and suffering he occasionally saw and sensed, Albert also had discovered a sense of inner peace in the day to day. The simplicity of the routine in Kenya allowed him to appreciate the smaller things in life, and he felt like he had traveled back in time to a pre-industrial era. Most activities, whether it was washing the clothes by hand or walking into town about half a mile away
That all changed with the director’s arrival a few days later. In the morning after the children had gone off to school, a black four-door sedan slowly approached the gate of the compound, carefully maneuvering around the ditches on the unpaved dirt road. The driver then stopped in front of the gate, got out and proceeded to open the gate. After both doors were open, he got back in and the car with tinted windows rolled into the compound.
The director was all smiles when he stepped out of the back seat. Wearing a gray suit, he excitedly welcomed the volunteers who had stopped their work to check out who had arrived. After greeting the volunteers and asking where they came from, Jeffrey proceeded to his office while saying something Kikiyu to Paula, the manager, in a curt, business-like fashion while she almost had to run to keep up with his long stride.
From a couple of volunteers who had arrived before Albert’s group, Albert learned that Jeffrey actually lived in Nairobi and only visited occasionally, with his visits usually coinciding with new volunteers arriving.
The rest of the day passed by uneventfully with the director nowhere in sight. Albert continued working on the farm. He was given a hoe and tasked with cultivating a few rows with a pair of field hands. Albert jumped head first into the task, but try as he might, he could not keep up with the workers who found him amusing. Despite the small amount of progress he made, the farmwork took a calloused toll on his hands and he was exhausted from working all day under the scorching Kenyan sun.
During the evening, after the children and volunteers ate chapati, said their prayers, and went to bed, the volunteers were allowed to stay up. Sometimes there was an old Nigerian telenovella in the dining area that some of the workers watched. However, the volunteers usually retired to one of the volunteer rooms and played cards and exchanged stories about some of the crazy things they saw or experienced that day. The stories would often end with TIA, or “This is Africa,” from the Blood Diamond movie with Leonardo DiCaprio. However, exhausted from a day of field work, Albert decided to go to bed early that night. Now that jet lag had worn off, he knew he’d fall asleep, which he did as soon as he put his mosquito net over him .
In the middle of the night, Alert woke up to the sense of the familiar burning sensation growing in his abdomen. After a short internal debate, Albert quietly slipped on his jeans and walked out of his room into the cool Kenyan air. Unsure of where the source was, Albert wondered if he could identify the source by feeling the direction it was originating from. He regulated his breathing, closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and focused on the sensation consuming his body. He could feel a tingling oscillate around his body and he focused on that. It felt like the tingling was more acute toward the front of his body, so, after a couple of minutes he opened his eyes and slowly walked forward. As he did, the sensation grew stronger, which reinforced his suspicion that the suffering was straight ahead. In fact, it seemed to be coming from the main office.
After quietly approaching the office, Albert stopped a few feet away. He saw a pair of small slippers by the closed shut metal door. Wondering whether a child got locked out, Albert slowly walked up and peaked inside. The room was dimly lit and it was hard to see, but, as the picture slowly came into focus, Albert froze. The director Jeffrey was standing with his trousers down to his knees and there was a little boy standing half naked in front of him crying. Unsure of what to do, Albert slowly started to back away from the window and a feeling of panic started to set in. Should he call the authorities? Jeffrey probably knew the local police. Corruption was rampant in Kenya. Raise an alarm? Who would believe him, a new volunteer over the director? And what would happen to the orphan?
Suddenly, a picture of the girl in the truck with her uncle driving past him flashed before his eyes. Then, his classmate Gabriella lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. He had to do something. Every moment he waited was another moment of suffering for the boy. So, after taking a few steps back until he was in the middle of the courtyard, he started loudly yelling, “Help! Help! There is something in my room! Help! Help!”
Soon, Albert could see the lights turning on around the compound and Paula, half asleep, was quickly approaching from the other direction.
“I think there is something moving in my room!” Alert said loudly while glancing at Jeffrey’s office to see if he’d come out, but the light in there stayed off.
“Did you see something?” Pauline was now in front of him with a look of worry and confusion.
“Yes, I think something flew in.”
As Paula examined the room, some of other volunteers had joined to see what the commotion was about. After a thorough search, everyone concluded that whatever it was had gone. As Albert thanked everyone for their help and apologized for waking everyone up, he made it a point to walk by the office and casually peek inside, but Jeffery and the kid were gone.
***
The next day Albert had trouble concentrating. He saw the same little boy eating breakfast. The boy’s name was Humphrey. He was no more than 7 or 8, Albert guessed. He wore old khaki shorts and a torn Spiderman t-shirt most of the time, and did not speak English. He did not know that Albert had seen him that night, but Albert remembered the same torn beige croc slippers that were left outside the office. He was wearing them now.
Time passed slowly that day as Albert wondered what he should do. On numerous occasions, Alber found himself staring off into space with his mind wondering over all the different scenarios. As the day started to wind down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing there was a chance of a repeat of the previous night. During dinner and prayer, he couldn’t help but casually glance at Humphrey wondering what was in store for him that night and whether there was anything he could do to help him. Humphrey seemed to be acting normally, but Albert noticed he seemed to make it a point to avoid the director. From talking to other volunteers, Albert learned Humphrey was not an orphan in the true sense of the word. His father, as was the case in many families in Makuyu, had left and his mother now had too many children to feed, so he ended up here.
As the children headed off to bed, Albert decided to go for a stroll around the makeshift soccer field that was situated right between the boy’s dormitory and the maize field that the farm hands worked on during the day while the children were at school. As he strolled, he suddenly came across a volunteer taking a picture of something the security guard Frank was picking at with a stick. Upon closer inspection, it was a gigantic spider.
“A tarantula,” Wade said as he took another picture.
“Aren’t they poisonous?” Albert asked skeptically from afar.
“No, no, no,” said Frank as he picked it up in his hand as Wade took another picture.
And suddenly Albert had an idea. Bidding them goodnight, Albert headed to his dorm.
At night, he started deliberately listening for any muffled sounds coming from the office and being on the lookout for any sensations emanating from that direction. At first, he heard nothing and started to wonder if maybe he had scared off the director, but soon the same feeling started to creep into his body.
Albert quietly got out of bed and slowly started walking toward the main office. He knew the Makuyu pitch black night hid him well. From the courtyard, he could see a dim light in the office. As he approached the window, Albert recognized the same tattered crocs outside the door and he could make out the silhouette of the director rubbing a small boy’s shoulder while standing behind him and whispering something inaudible. Albert stood still as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Humphrey seemed frozen in place.
Albert slowly pulled out his camera, making sure the flash was off, and started recording. There was just enough light inside the office for the phone to capture the scene. He wasn’t yet sure exactly what he would do with the recording. Use it for blackmail and tell the director to never come again? Send it to journalists or the police?
However, he soon realized a fatal flaw in his plan when the director came around to the boy and started undoing the buckle of his pants. He couldn’t let it get any farther. Albert started to panic. What now? Did he have enough?
Albert waited for the moment when the director’s trousers dropped and the evidence was incontrovertible. He then proceeded to turn off his phone and start looking around for something that could help him stop the assault. As he did, he knocked over a tin cup that one of the children evidently left behind and it rolled away making a clunking sound. Albert quickly spun around to see if the director heard. The light in the office suddenly went off and then dead silence. Albert realized if the director came out, his only plausible excuse for being near the water jug was that he was thirsty so he decided to grab the tin cup and proceed to pour some water into his cup. Then, deliberately making as much noise as he could, he walked back to his room. As soon as he was inside he looked out of his only window into the courtyard to see if the light in the office would come back on. However, it never did. A few moments later, the door slowly creaked open and Humphrey walked out of the director’s office, put on his crocs, and proceeded to the boy’s dormitory. Then, a few minutes later, the director walked out adjusting his suit. Albert looked at the camera near his bed and wondered what he would do with it.
The next day, Albert left the compound, saying he needed to go to Nairobi to meet a friend. He decided to leave most of his stuff in his room to avoid suspicion. Grabbing just his backpack with the essentials, Albert stopped by a cyber cafe in a nearby town called Kenol and, after looking up the contact info of a few local journalists and nonprofits, he sent them the video. He then proceeded to stick around for a few more days to see if the news organizations would pick up his story. Each morning he would walk down to the nearest kiosk and ask for a paper. On the third day, while scanning the news, he came across a little blurb in the Muranga Chronicle about Jeffrey’s arrest.
Unsure of where to go next, Albert sat down at a nearby cafe and ordered Tusker while skimming the front of the paper for other news. As he did, he came across an article about Russia launching yet another missile barrage on Ukraine. Buoyed by having his power to finally make a difference, Albert decided to go to Ukraine, which was now entering its 3rd year of war.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (March 26th, 2023)
We put in an offer for a house. This house seems “right.” The previous owners are…you wouldn't believe it….our teachers in high school. The husband ran the “homework club” and your mommy and I would go there to ostensibly pick up “community service hours” but, in reality, to see each other. The wife was my chemistry teacher in high school. Small world, I guess, but somehow this house seems like one where we could spend the rest of our lives in. It has a good “vibe.” Kind of like it was meant to be.
At the same time, I am worried. If we win it, we’ll need to find money for down payment. Our parents might help us out with a bridge loan. After we sell our current townhouse, we’ll be able to pay them back. So, I guess we should be fine. Of course, with both your mother and me working at the same company and this year us apparently not having enough profit to be able to give ourselves a raise, our employment situation is riskier than most.
Truth be told, I also spent a lot of our savings after the war started, particularly on creating that team in Ukraine to call people in Russia to break through the propaganda. I wonder how effective that has been, but, at least, I can look myself in the mirror knowing that when my ancestral homeland was invaded, where much of my extended family still lives, where my grandparents are buried, I didn’t do nothing. Now, what I am doing is a bit more sustainable with my sending “life saving supplies” to my cousin’s brigade that is fighting on the frontlines. This year, we also needed a lot of funds to build a nursery in Makuyu. We built two classrooms for the children and for volunteers. I worry that I am risking the financial situation of my family with all this stuff.
Truth be told, I’ll miss the memories we built in our current townhome. Yes, it is a bit messy. And yes, we are a bit cramped with two kids and two dogs now. But, our family, at least as far as I can see, is happy. I worry that by moving into a bigger home, we’ll lose what we have right now, the happiness, we’ll start to worry more about finances, or I’ll “sell out” and start to live like every other suburban husband.
This week, I’ll be going to Kenya. I know I need to go, but I also dread going to Kenya. It is never an easy trip. But it is always eye opening and worth it. Makes you look at life differently. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone, so it is time to go.
I Do Not Like
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics I do not like premature hard exits Even in despair, I never tire of life I do not like silver-tongued false prophets Or when they sharpen, behind my back, sharpen their knife I don’t believe in being too cynical Hope dies last or shouldn't die at all I am not fan of always playing it safely I’d rather have my brakes give out than stall I do not like to hear empty promises I’d rather hear no promises at all Or when someone reads my messages Without me knowing, or listens in on calls I do not like myself when I am scared When insecurities, like acid, eat me through When someone preys on someone else’s fears Or when the I’m blamed for something I didn't do When I see broken wings, I do not worry One day, you'll lose our albatross I hate self-pity or feeling sorry Except for him, who suffered on the cross It saddens me that honor is forgotten That loyalty is a remnant of the past Let the future bring a million changes But, I’ll never learn to like all that
Chapter 8
Albert didn't know the first thing about shooting or being in the military. He had no medical expertise and wasn’t technologically savvy enough to operate drones, which dominated the battlefield. Still, with his family hailing from Ukraine, he felt guilty for not contributing enough and he wondered if he could use his power to somehow impact the war effort.
After messaging his Kenyan volunteer group goodbye, he booked a flight to Warsaw and then took a train to golden domed Kyiv. From there, he hired a cab to a small Soviet-styled village where much of his family was from.
As the cab made its way on a freeway surrounded by birch trees and concrete electrical poles with white stork nests, Albert felt an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. Growing up, Albert would often spend the summers with his grandparents in Ukraine. His grandfather and he would traverse the forests picking mushrooms and memories of walking a few feet behind him while holding his little basket, intent on spotting little round heads popping out of the pine needles and moss. He could never collect as many as his grandfather, try as he might. Despite the poorer eye sight and slower pace, his grandfather knew where to look and would sometimes help Albert find them so Albert wouldn’t come home empty handed. Then, they would hop on the bike, his grandfather peddling and Albert on the back seat, and ride home with a basket or two of white and honey mushrooms. Of course, the grandmother, after confirming the mushrooms were edible, would then cook them and they’d have either mushroom soup or eat them with mashed potatoes for dinner.
A sharp turn snapped Albert out of his daydream. The town, named after a revolutionary hero during Soviet times, had fallen on hard times since the breakup of the Soviet Union. Some of the factories continued to exist for a few years after the break up simply due to the forces of inertia, but their products slowly lost out to new Western imports. As time went on, they closed, the younger generation left in search of more opportunities, and the town slowly started to wither away, losing almost half of its population within a decade.
Now, as Albert looked out the window of the Chinese sedan as it drove down the main Partisan Street, named after the partisan fighters who harassed the Nazi German columns during WWII, Albert saw crumbling asphalt and sidewalks, derelict buildings, and old men sitting on the benches outside their homes playing cards, eating sunflower seeds, and smoking tobacco from rolled up newspapers clippings.
As they made a sharp left on a dirt road onto the road where his grandfather’s house was, a thought crossed his mind of how fortunate it was that his grandparents were no longer alive to witness the war. He saw signs of war the moment he crossed into Ukraine, from men in uniform to recruitment signs on billboards, but he had so far managed to avoid any of the missile and drone barrages that so often pelted Ukraine during the nights. There was an eerie sense of calm as people went about their daily lives while the country was in the midst of a struggle for survival. “People can get used to anything,” Albert thought.
As the car pulled into the neighborhood, Albert could now see the one story old wooden house his grandfather built. Next to it, was a line of interconnecting sheds and stalls that had long ceased to be used to keep animals. There was also a kitchen house, which had overtime become a storage room, after his grandparents slowly but surely transitioned to modern electric appliances. Behind it was a dilapidated outhouse that had also long served its purpose and a small garden that during Soviet times his grandparents used to grow tobacco and strawberries.
As Albert looked at the neighbor’s house, he had a momentary flashback. He must have been 5 or 6 visiting a friend next door who, like him, also came to stay for the summers. He remembered going into the house one day to see if his friend Petya wanted to play, but there was no one in the yard so he proceeded to try the front door. When he entered, he saw an empty liquor bottle and Petya's father lying on the couch in the next room. Not wanting to disturb him, Albert quietly walked out. The next day he learned there was a death in the house. Petya’s father started drinking heavily the day before so Petya and his mother left the house and his father drank himself to death. Albert never saw Petya again. Albert wondered about the nature of incidents that impact people. He had never thought that that incident affected him in any particular way. After all, he was too young to understand the meaning of death. But he remembered all the commotion that followed and his grandparents standing protectively over him as a police officer wrote down his statement. Certainly, Albert thought, the incident must have left an imprint on him, even if he wasn’t fully aware of it. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had thought about that incident, and his subconscious must have been tugging on it for a reason. Of course, in retrospect, perhaps it is not so surprising, Albert thought, that that incident left an impression. It was, after all, Albert pondered, his first real contact with death. And, come to think of it, the other recurring flashbacks also had something to them. Earlier that summer he had peaked through the fence and saw his friend’s mother naked taking a bath in an old metal wash basin outside. It was the first time he had seen a naked female, so while at the time the occurrence didn’t register and he didn’t think twice about it, something in his subconscious must have been affected if the memory had stuck with him for so long. Other flashbacks, he wondered, whether they would have stuck around if it wasn’t for grownups making a big deal out of them. When his uncle took him on a motorcycle ride, it wasn't the ride that stuck with him all these years (he could barely remember it now, although at the time it was exhilarating), but how worried his grandparents were when he left without anyone saying anything to them and the argument that ensued with his uncle and his grandparents after he dropped him off.
There was an old lady now living rent-free in his grandfather’s house in return for keeping the house clean. She was visiting her children in Chernihiv and wouldn’t be back for a few days, so, after paying the driver, Albert per instructions found the key hidden behind a window shutter and welcomed himself in. He had arranged with her to stay in a small, cobweb guestroom with oversized mattresses and pillows. As he wandered around the house, the entire place now seemed so much smaller than when he remembered it. Albert put his bags down in his guestroom and lied down.
After messaging his cousin that he arrived safely and making plans to see him tomorrow, Albered wondered why so many people stayed after the war started. He remembered begging his relatives to evacuate, as the town was only a couple dozen kilometers from the Russian border. However, they insisted on staying.
When the Russians first came at the start of the war, they initially bypassed the town in their Blitzkrieg offensive. When they finally entered the town a few weeks later, a mayor and prominent businessman were kidnapped and questioned. Both were said to have been released a few days later after presumably paying their kidnappers off.
However, after failing to surround Chernihiv and Kyiv, the Russian army changed tactics and retreated from northern Ukraine a few months later, but not without leaving a trail of death and suffering in its wake.
Albert wondered what it was that made people so reluctant to leave their homes, even in the face of great uncertainty and danger. He had heard horror stories, especially once the war entered the phase of attrition, of civilians being tortured, women being raped, men being forcibly enlisted to fight in the Russian army, and children being deported for adoption and indoctrination. And yet, many civilians stayed, reluctant to abandon their homes.
The human condition is such that people often become accustomed to difficult circumstances, Albert reflected. Perhaps merely waiting for something bad to happen is not as emotionally taxing as deliberately confronting the unknown elsewhere. After all, who knows…maybe the storm will not arrive. Or perhaps there is some pride in knowing that you can weather the storm. More likely, Albert thought as he dozed off to sleep, maybe it is just people simply living their lives day to day, hour by hour, while trying to avoid thinking about what tomorrow will bring. Afterall, isn’t that all of our survival strategy…
Letters to Charlie and Riley (April 1st 2023)
How much the human condition can withstand!? The beggar surviving on sheer scraps for years on end. The old man hanging to dear life despite numerous health conditions. The injuries the human body can sustain (missing limbs, brain injury, etc.) and still continue on functioning, perhaps even prospering. But, at the end of the day, isn’t it a simple calculation? If the amount of energy we can harness on keeping our critical functions running exceeds that of entropy and decay, we live, at least for the time being. The moment the weights on the scale shift to the other side and the equation becomes unbalanced, we die. From this perspective, aren’t we all just the harnessing of energy? Millions of years ago, through a complete accident, there was created a cell that, on its most fundamental level, could sustain itself, for however briefly, and recreate by harnessing just enough energy around it to stave off entropy. As it was able to accumulate more energy, it evolved into the multicellular organisms we are today, but aren’t all of our actions, from the cellular to the intellectual, just mere attempts at staving off the entropy that is threatening to envelope us at any moment lest we breath a sigh of relief or pause of a momentary rest? The constant battle against the void, that we are destined to lose, can only lose, but like Sisyphus destined to struggle until our last breath. But, there is nobility in that as well. To stave off the oppressive and utter indifference of the universe, if only for a moment. Everything around us is coaxing us to give in to the emptiness the void. The viruses in the air droplets all around us. The radiation that the earth and sun are emanating. We are constantly battling the the force of gravity. Our heart is beating, lub dub, lub dub, nonstop. And, of course, age…slowly is chipping away at all that we are. Weakening the heart, weakening our bones, weakening us. Yes, we can harness the energy around us to stave off this ultimate reckoning. We fight a million battles every day, and must come out on top every single time. That’s what makes us noble. The battle against the impossible that we wage.
Aerial Duel
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics They are eight, we are two, the deck’s stacked against us But we’ll play with the cards dealt by God Hey Johnny, hang on, let’s take it right to them It’s time that we even the odds I won’t leave this aerial grid, there’s no time to fall back The numbers today matter not Today my buddy’s covering my back ‘ And that means we have a shot On my tail, 6 o’clock, a German ace fighter But he missed and paid the ultimate price They don’t need crosses put up on their grave sites The ones on their wings will suffice Hey, Mayday, Mayday! They are right behind you I’m coming back round, hang on! Johnny, break right, then into the clouds, out of view This battle is far from forgone Johnny, your burning, it’s time to punch out All hope rests on the parachute chords No, they followed you down, it’s too late to bail out I won’t be long, please tell the Lord And I know that our boys from the 61st squad Will pay them back in straight spades We flew under heaven, you flew up too close and stayed there While I got briefly delayed St. Peter will tell us, “it’s getting crowded up here” But we’ll make it just in time We’ll ask to enlist in some angelic brigade To reinforce heaven’s front line And I’ll ask God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost too To grant me this one last request That my Johnny and I, forever, fly together Just like in this last aerial duel Just like in this last aerial duel
Chapter 9
Albert did not stay long in his ancestral hometown. A distant cousin of Albert’s worked as a clerk on the frontlines. He only learned of him when the full scale invasion began and Albert reconnected with that side of the family. Albert helped raise funds for his unit occasionally when they were short on gear, such as tactical gloves, laptops for drones, charging stations, etc. They stayed in touch and, when Albert messaged him to let him know he was in Ukraine to join up, his cousin, after a bit of persuading, recommended the medevac unit and put in a good word for him.
The training at the “polygon” itself lasted only a couple of weeks. Most of the time was spent loafing around. There was hardly enough ammunition to practice shooting, especially for someone in the medevac unit. He picked up a few phrases in Ukrainian and then went off to join his new unit on the frontlines near Kupiansk, a town that had now changed hands a couple of times in the war. Now the Russians were slowly advancing again on it.
Albert arrived at the medical camp site, which was situated a few dozen kilometers from the front line. He was shown his sleeping quarters, which consisted of a bunk bed inside of a medevac tent. His job was to wait for a call to come in, then drive with a medevac driver to pick up the wounded and bring them to the field hospital so the doctors could do what they could.
The anticipation of his first call was almost more than Albert could bear. He imagined how he’d react under fire. Sometimes he would imagine himself running to a wounded comrade, yelling for help, while artillery shells were falling around him and enemy drones were buzzing him. He would just barely make it back alive with his comrade on his back and then humbly accept the medals from his superiors during a ceremony. But, more often than that, he imagined himself paralyzed under pressure, unable to undertake the smallest of decisions. In any case, it was too late to back out now. The shame of resigning before going on his first run was more than he could bear, but he was starting to deeply regret coming and wondered if this was how he was going to die.
His partner, a 20 year old by the name of Andrii, was drafted about 6 months ago. He smoked a lot and played Ukrainian rap, but due to language barrier, didn’t say much to Albert, although he always seemed in good spirits and loved the car that they were assigned, a donated Ford SUV by some Western volunteer organization.
When the call finally came in, Andrii and Albert both looked at each other, with Andrii saying something in Ukrainian, before urgently walking to the van and getting in. Albert ran behind him and hopped in the passenger seat. Andrii knew the lay of the land well by now and headed toward the location that was given over the barely audible radio. Once on the road, in broken English, Andrii said a wounded soldier who stepped on a mine and needed to be evacuated.
As Albert got closer to the front line, the adrenaline kicked in. They were winding through over unpaved roads littered with burnt out military vehicles and shell craters. Andrii kept his eyes on the road, while Albert kept his on the sky. Scanning the misty grey morning for drones. “Not everything out of the sky is from God,” Albert said to himself, remembering a famous Soviet line, while wondering what they’d even do if he saw one. In the distance, they could hear the constant din of artillery barrages.
As they approached the coordinates, they spotted someone laying on the ground with the trademark blue armband. Not daring to drive any closer by van since they knew there was a minefield nearby, they hopped off, not bothering to take the keys out of the ignition, and proceed on foot.
Andrii stepped carefully and Albert followed in his footsteps, now more concerned about stepping on a mine then getting hit with an FPV drone, although Andrii would occasionally remind him to look up by pointing upwards. As they neared the soldier, Albert knew their run was in vain. There was no sensation of suffering which could only mean one thing…the soldier had bled out before they could evacuate him.
However, with no way of vocalizing his thoughts, Albert followed in the footsteps until Andrii and him arrived at the corpse and confirmed what Albert already knew. Andrii checked the pulse and then proceeded to say something in Ukrainian while motioning for Albert to grab the legs. They needed to evacuate the body regardless, so they grabbed the body and laid it on a makeshift stretcher. As they lowered the comrade in arms with the glazed over eyes, Albert wondered why bodies in repose were so much heavier. Without so much as taking a break, they proceeded to retrace their steps on the way back to the van.
As they neared the van, a metallic reflection caught the periphery of Albert’s vision. Almost dropping the corpse, Albert suddenly froze as he saw an unmistakable quadcopter drone hovering in the distance. He quickly said, “Hey!” and pointed at it. Andrii motioned him to continue and Albert continued walking, keeping his eyes on the drone more so than on the trail. The drone stood still, facing its camera at them - a silent menace. “Must be a reconnaissance drone - no payload,” Albert thought. More might be coming though. Once at the truck, they threw the body into the trunk and wheeled away. As they drove away, the drone remained in the same place as before. Albert wondered who the operator was and if he had called for a strike. As they got farther away, the thunder of the artillery started to die down and Albert could breathe a sigh of relief.
The rest of the day and the next few days were uneventful. Albert slowly got used to the din of explosions during the night and was even able to get some sleep. War is sheer boredom punctuated by brief moments of utter terror, Albert remembered someone saying, and he felt like he finally understood the meaning of it. To help with the boredom, Albert had picked up smoking. He also learned how to play Durak, a simple, addictive game that was an equal mix of strategy and luck. Occasionally, there were air raid alerts of incoming Shahed drones, but they mostly flew overhead on their way to hit targets in the rear, so over time Albert learned to ignore them.
One early morning, as Albert was laying in bed half asleep, a call came in that there were confirmed “300s” that needed to be evacuated. Albert and Andrii hopped into the Ford and drove to an abandoned farm on the outskirts of a small village. As they approached it, they could see the farm was targeted by artillery with parts of the roof blown off and sections of the wall collapsed.
Andrii got out of the Ford and yelled something in Ukrainian. He heard a response from inside the premises that satisfied him and motioned Albert to follow him. Inside the barely standing walls, a few Ukrainian soldiers had managed to capture three Russian saboteurs who were now lying prostrate on the ground, blindfolded with blue duct tape, and with their hands on their head. The Russians had recently started deploying a new tactic: sending a few men with a flag to infiltrate Ukrainian held territory. Their drones would record the flag raising and the officers could claim to their higher ups that they took yet another village while the infiltration team would wait for reinforcements. Most of the Russians sent on these missions died, but enough go through to make the strategy worthwhile, at least to the officers and higher ups.
Up ahead, a bandaged Ukrainian was swearing loudly while lying on the ground and applying pressure to the tourniquet around his thigh. He must be the “300” they were to pick up, Alber thought, and he stayed a few feet behind Andrii who had asked for a cigarette from the commanding officer Ruslan while discussing the situation.
Not taking his eyes off the Russian prisoners, Ruslan said a few words to Andrii without bothering to take his cigarette out of his mouth. In response, Andrii glanced at the wounded Ukrainian and nodded. All the while, the other soldiers were constantly scanning the sky for drones and keeping an eye on the POWs. Not wanting to spend any more time than they needed to out in the open, Andrii and Albert lifted the wounded soldier and placed him on the stretched
As they were leaving, Albert couldn’t help but feel a sense of suffering emanating around him. At first, Albert had thought it was the wounded soldier they were carrying, but as they passed a pig stall the source of the sense seemed to shift and he suddenly saw a wounded Russian soldier creep out from underneath a few discarded metal sheets and slowly raise his rifle in their direction. Albert yelled, “look!” and pointed to the assailant. The commanding officer Ruslan instinctively turned around and sprayed a round in the direction that Albert was pointing at, but not before the Russian fired a salvo in Albert’s direction.
In the meantime, one of the blind folded Russian POWS mistook the firing for an execution, got up, and started running towards the commander in panic. A Ukrainian soldier who had his rifle trained on the prisoners sprayed a volley into him killing him instantly. The other prisoners, unsure of what was happening, started to plead for their life. The Ukrainian soldier, unsure of if they were under attack, shifted his rifle to the prisoners and was about to fire, when the Ruslan grabbed hold of his rifle and pointed it upwards.
All this had happened so quickly that Albert had to comprehend what was happening, let alone to react. All of a sudden Albert felt a sharp pang in his shoulder. He looked down and saw red and, as the adrenaline started to wear off, he felt an agonizing pain. He touched it and examined the blood, as if in disbelief that it was his own blood, but the realization that he had been hit started to quickly sink in. As the pain started to overwhelm Albert, he slowly saw blackness creep into his vision.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (May 22nd, 2024)
And just like that, the world changed. ChatGPT. When it first came out, it was revolutionary. Something that could create a poem out of nothing. But, what was released just a few days ago is something else entirely. The voice feature where you can communicate with it is mind blowing. The tone... the ability to understand humor and even sarcasm... you can hold a real conversation with it. I let you Charlie try it and you really enjoyed it. Of course, I told you it was a robot, but I now wonder, if I didn’t, whether you’d be able to tell.
Of course the scary part is that it is too good. I can see a lot of lonely people growing dependent on it. It never gets angry. Never loses interest. To some, it may seem like the perfect friend. The perfect partner.
Oh, brave new world, where will you take us? How many jobs will be transformed by this? Politically and socially, will you not overrun us by manipulating us and what we believe?
Whatever the effects, as with most new tech, they will be unpredictable. I think the impact of this is something that we will grapple with for a long time? I am reminded of the Bedouin who first came into contact with the Americans in the early 1900s when the latter were invited to drill for oil on the Arabian peninsula in Cities of Salt. How shocked and in awe they were of the Americans. Are we not the Bedouin? Oh, how will our societies change with the advent of AI. How blessed and cursed we are.
Never Came Back from Battle
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics Why does everything feel wrong? Everything seems the same The same sky is the same blue color The same air, the same trees, and the same clear water Except he never came back from battle I can’t seem to remember, who was right who was wrong Our endless bets and quarrels I started missing him now, now that he’s gone Now that he never came back from battle He always ruined jokes, and he sang out of tune Talked too much, never knew when to stop He never let me sleep, always woke with the sun And yesterday he never came back from battle I woke up one morning, with a hangover And accidentally called out to him “Hey, can you lend me a smoke?” in response… silence Yesterday, he never came back from battle All of our dreams are gone like the wind It’s as if in a firefight, I ran out of ammo Everything is for me now, but I am starting to think It was me who never came back from battle Everything is for me now, but I am starting to think It was me who never came back from battle
Chapter 10
Albert woke up staring at the milkish white tent ceiling. Based on the din of artillery he heard in the background, he knew he was a few dozen kilometers from the front lines. When he tried to move his hand, he almost yanked out his IV, but stopped just in time. As he looked around, he saw a few other soldiers looking curiously at him. Albert asked, “Where am I?” but quickly remembered they don’t speak English. One soldier looking at him smiled and said something in Ukrainian to another and they both chuckled. With no nurse in sight, Albert laid back down and tried to recollect how he ended up here.
A nurse soon came by. She moved quickly around the large tent, barely noticing him. She seemed both tired yet in constant motion, as if on autopilot. When she finally came over to his bed, she muttered something in Ukrainian with a quick, sympathetic smile. Albert smiled back and asked, “English?” It took a few moments for the words to hit her, but once they did she stopped and, in a heavy Eastern European accent said, “little English.”
“What day is it?” Albert asked, trying to enunciate slowly.
“Day? Ummm…Toos-day. Two four.”
Albert wondered how long he was asleep for, but he couldn’t remember the day of his injury. Before he had a chance to even ask for her name or where he was, she was already attending to another patient. Soon afterwards, he was transformed to a hospital and, while there, Albert had time to think. He thought about home and the war, but, most of all, he thought about what he could do now that he was unlikely to return to the front any time soon. Leaving the war after such a short stint didn’t feel right, but how could he help? As he lay in the field hospital bed looking up the tent ceiling, a plan started to materialize.
Albert was discharged a few days later. With the more wounded arriving on a daily basis, the medical unit needed the beds. With his shoulder injury, he was granted indefinite leave, so Albert decided to use it to travel to Minsk, the city of his birth. He took a train to Warsaw and then headed to the Belarusian border by bus. Of course, his crossing the border could raise questions, but he was still a Belarusian citizen, which was a bureaucratic nightmare to renounce, and they would be hard pressed not to let him in.
The border crossing took hours and he was interrogated, but he hadn’t served in the Ukrainian military long enough for there to be a record of him and he kept his social media accounts clean (mostly to avoid his family from worrying about him, or knowing where he is), so he was released after a few hours after explaining to the border patrol official that he was visiting to sell an apartment his parents owned (Albert figured telling as much of the truth as possible was his best bet).
Once in Minsk, he arrived at the apartment complex he spent the first few years of his life in. A young couple had lived there for years paying a nominal fee in return for maintaining the place.
As he walked into the lobby, he was surprised to see how much the condition of the apartment complex deteriorated. The buttons of the elevator were burnt to the point of unrecognition. Still, he was able to count up to what seemed like the 13th floor and take the elevator up. At the apartment, Albert knocked out of habit, but, remembering no one lived there any more, found the key under a wooden storage bin decorated with a popular Soviet cartoon wolf and bunny next to the door and fidgeted with the lock until the heavy leather covered door gave in.
As he walked into the small one room apartment, a feeling of nostalgia suddenly overwhelmed him. Everything that he remembered from his childhood was still there, but seemed so much smaller. The piano, now used as a decoration, was still there. He opened it and played a chord, but it was badly out of tune from years of disuse. The Soviet wallpaper was still covering the walls, as was the Caucasian carpet that hung right above the fold out sofa that he remembered sleeping on as a kid while his parents slept in the one over. As he looked at the windows across the room, Albert remembered the parrot they kept, though he struggled to remember where or how they got it, and the memory of the night it disappeared into the cold Belarusian night while they were airing out the house flashed through his mind. Backing out of the hallway, he made his way into the kitchen, which had barely enough room for a fridge, a table and a stove, and with a hard pull yanked open the door to the concrete slab balcony where his parents grew plants. His mother had worked as an accountant at the local kindergarten that he could see below to his left. The kindergarten with its numerous sandlots was supposed to be difficult to get into, but with his mother working there, they were able to make an exception for him.
As he looked at the chain linked fence surrounding the kindergarten, he remembered the fight he got into with a few older kids that started from him and his neighbor telling them to stop climbing the fence, which ironically they ended up climbing themselves to escape from them. The supermarket to the right was still operating, although probably under an English name, the rage for all things Western that never fully stopped since the break up of the Soviet Union. As he stared at the entrance to the super market, he remembered his grandmother Masha standing at the entrance with other grandmothers and selling Winston cigarettes. She’d hide it on the bottom of a suitcase in the hopes in case the police started harassing them, but it was a bit of an open secret.
Albert clocked the balcony and collapsed on the sofa. As he lay overwhelmed by the feeling of nostalgia and flashes of his childhood popped into his mind, he felt a familiar pang and thought he heard a toddler crying. Raising his head and focusing in the direction of the sensation and noise, Albert wondered if the toddler was in distress, but the exhaustion of the day overwhelmed him and he passed out in his clothes and shoes on the sofa he had spent the first few years of his life sleeping on
***.
Albert tried to keep a low profile while staying in his old apartment. Still, he couldn’t help but run into some of his neighbors. To the right lived a pensioner. She lived alone and regarded him suspiciously when she saw him walking out of his apartment, but explained that he was only renting it for a few weeks while on a business trip, which she seemed to accept and proceed to regale him with stories about where to go for the best herring and honey.
To the left of his apartment lived a single mother with the 3 year old who Albert heard on the first night. The boy seemed to cry a lot and the crying panged him frequently, but he forced himself to ignore it for the sake of the greater good.
Within a couple of weeks, Albert found a job at a construction company. People often asked about his accent, but his excuse of having lived in Norway seemed to satisfy their curiosity and explained his proficiency in English. He ultimately joined the metro maintenance crew, which gave him access to the equipment he needed, including construction cones, a maintenance vest, and access to potholes.
Then came the hardest part of all: acquiring remote detonated explosives. Luckily, his crew was assigned to tunnel construction so access and procurement wasn’t a problem. After bribing the guards with some Armenian brandy, he was able to access the explosives. By the time they would discover the shortage, he would be long gone, thought Albert as he carefully loaded the dynamite into the trunk of his rental Lada. After filling the trunk, Albert slowly drove out, as in the rear view he could see the guards already enjoying the liquor.
With the date quickly approaching and little time to use, after waiting for the right opportunity, Albert walked up to a set of potholes down Victory Prospect, the main street leading to the Presidential Palace, and, under the guise of inspecting them, rigged them with the packages of explosives by securing them under the manhole covers. With a meeting due between Lukashenko and Putin, Albert knew it was just a matter of time before a presidential motorcade would speed down Victory Prospect and he would have the perfect view of the procession from his 13th floor apartment.
As he looked down on The Prospect, he couldn’t help but wonder about the boy next door who was crying again. He knew the mother drank heavily and the father was out of the picture. Far too often, he heard her heavy slow footsteps making their way past his apartment, the dropping of the keys as she struggled to open the lock, and the yelling that quickly ensued when the boy started to cry. It was during this time that he felt the sensation of suffering at its height. As time went, he noticed that she seemed to go out more often, sometimes not coming home until the early morning or later. The pangs of suffering Albert felt no longer coincided with the angry diatribes that accompanied her coming home, but with Albert began to associate with hunger or loneliness. Unable to stand it any longer, one day Albert decided to carefully lean over the balcony railing and see if he could spot the boy who was left alone since last night. As he did, he noticed the top window was cracked open, so he threw in some bread and some other easily consumable food, which seemed to have soon quieted the boy down for some time.
Albert thought about calling protective services. However, not only was it likely to start a feud with the mother for going to the police, a taboo in post-Soviet Russia, but he would risk the mission. The mother would assume a neighbor called and the police would check in with her neighbors about any reports of child abuse.
On the other hand, if his mission was successful and Putin was discarded, Albert figured Russia would tear itself apart in the ensuing chaos. Ukraine would then have a golden opportunity to stop the invasion and perhaps even reclaim the occupied territory.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (September 27th, 2024)
About two weeks ago, I passed out. I injured my shoulder at a soccer game and about 6 hours later I blacked out in the bathroom. When I woke up, your mom was on the phone with 9-1-1. I spent the next two days at the hospital while they ran a battery of tests on me to make sure I am okay. Everything came back clean except the troponin levels, which was what worried them the most. Apparently elevated troponin levels means some kind of heart trauma or distress. I am sitting here writing this with a ZIO patch that I am supposed to wear for two weeks to monitor my heart. The cardiologist suspects myocarditis, so I have an MRI scheduled in a few weeks to check. The troponin levels are thankfully back down now.
In any case, I took about two weeks off from writing and playing guitar, and tried to take it easy while all the testing was being done. Now, I am trying to get back into the swing of things, but it is harder than I imagined. I don’t know how hard to push myself anymore. A part of me feels like all this happened because I overestimated my limits. At the same time, a part of me feels like I am not pushing myself hard enough.
Oh, and I am working on a surprise birthday present for your mom. A found the life of her grandfather written in Chinese, so I spent some time trying to get ChatGPT to translate it. I think I almost got the translation right, but I just need someone to look it over who speaks Chinese. He has a very powerful story. I hope you will one day get to read it too. He rose from poverty in rural China to be quite an accomplished hospital administrator in Shanghai. I guess in some ways, I hope that my descendants will find these diary entries too.
My Fate
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics I lived sweetly in my young years Lived my twenties without a fear, I lived recklessly Lived without too many worries Drifted where the wind would blow me, I floated aimlessly Even when my boat start creaking Unconcerned about the leaking, I steered faithfully Once I threw my paddle over I don’t need it any longer, I thought wastefully... Yet at times, I'd see some waving Some poor soul in need of saving, yelling helplessly But his shouts, to no avail With my drinking uncurtailed, I lay senselessly So I drifted without sinking And continued with my drinking, I was carefree After taking one too many, A dark cloaked man I start to see, in the boat with me As I was busy being baffled It got darker as we traveled, I could hardly see On the river, nowhere to run I try to scream, comes out no sound, he starts telling me "Stop your crossing and your prayer" "Virgin Mary doesn't care, you belong to me" "Those that throw their oars away" "I insist that they should stay, come along with me..." Off the boat now and on a trail way I’m still drinking, but in a slow way, where’s he taking me But he isn't slowing down And when I try to look around, a haunted place I see... I can barely catch my breath But he still won't stop to rest, my hope I am losing So I offer him a strong one Hoping that he'll pause to take one, and start whispering "This will fix your crooked to smile" "You'll forget yourself a while", "Have another one..." Wait until he’s falling backwards And starts slurring all his words, stumbling round and round When he finally passes out But before he comes about, I start to slip away At the banks, I didn't fiddle With two strokes I reached the middle, of the riverway Used my hands to keep on paddling Against the current without resting until I saw the sun Let him perish with his drinking He’s my fate, I kept on thinking, "Oh, you dark cloaked one..."
Chapter 11
The situation next door continued to deteriorate. As he patiently waited for the presidential motorcade to pass, Albert started to notice things he had never noticed before. To be sure, he felt the mother’s suffering too. Alber was now able to discern the different types of suffering that others felt, and the suffering she felt was different. Her suffering seemed guilt laden, but it was often dulled by the vodka that she seemed to ingest on an almost daily basis. He often thought about offering to help her with the child, but he knew that would not only blow his cover, but based on her attitude the few times he ran into her, it was a long shot. She was clearly adamant about hiding both her son and her alcoholism.
Unfortunately, no one came to visit her. He wondered where her family was and what happened to the father. Once, he had run into his neighbor to the right, the old woman who had lived at the apartment for decades. While they spoke about how the neighborhood was changing, he decided to casually ask her if she knew everyone on her floor. The old woman knew all her neighbors, but when it came to the mother, she just crossed herself.
Finally, the day of the long awaited meeting between Putin and Lukashenko arrived. He knew the meeting was scheduled for the evening, but he was uncertain of when the motorcade would be arriving. Putin was notorious for making others wait for him, but he was coming to exact concessions from his counterpart this time around, including getting more involved in the invasion of Ukraine.
The faint din of sirens started to emerge and Albert sat on the balcony straining to see down Victory Prospect. At first, it took Albert a moment to process that this may be the moment he had been waiting for. He looked at the potholes he had rigged with explosives conveniently right across from his apartment. As he saw the flashing lights, there was no mistaking this was a president motorcade surrounded by multiple police motorcycles. As the limousine approached the potholes, Albert slowly raised the burner phone that was programmed to detonate the landmines he had packed under the potholes covers. Albert estimated that in less than 30 seconds, the limousine would be in the target area. He held his breath as he watched the motorcade barreling down.
As he waited, he heard a cry and a sharp pang in his chest. The sirens had evidently woken Sasha up who was having trouble sleeping on an empty stomach. In her drunken stupor, the mother was yelling and he heard the sound of plates breaking. The sensation of suffering swelled in him, but the black motorcade was almost on top of the potholes.
He dialed 3 digits on the burden phone.
“Hello, may I speak to the police?”
“Yes, this is the police.”
“I’d like to report a case of child abuse.”
By tomorrow, he was on a plane back to Washington D.C. from Warsaw.
***
As he sat in economy, Albert wondered. Did he do it for Sasha? Did he do it because he was afraid of completing the mission? Did he do it because, as Dostoevsky’s Roskolnikov said, he wasn’t one of the great men destined to change the history of humanity with decisive action?
Doubt creeped in all around him. But, now, he knew his limits: he would not kill. When the moment to activate the mines came, he had an inward revulsion to his mission.
Perhaps he feared the responsibility of changing the future? It was true that, if he had succeeded, an ultra-nationalist could have come to power and exacerbated the situation. It was also true that if his mission failed and Putin survived, he was likely to retaliate against Ukraine. There may also be an unintended swell of national support in Russia, which would allow him to prolong his stay in power and quite possibly the war.
All of these thoughts and more raised through Albert's mind as he stared at the flight map. If Putin found out who orchestrated the attacks, with Albert’s American citizenship and Ukrainian heritage, the conclusion in the Kremlin might be that he was working for either the Americans or Ukrainians, or both, which could ignite an even greater war. Suffice it to say, the future course of events was far from predictable. Was he ready to take on the responsibility of whatever atrocities were committed as a result of him?
But, Albert also felt that he would have proceeded with the mission, if it wasn’t for little Sasha, the boy next door. But why the fate of Sasha outweighed the fate of humanity he could not understand. Yes, he knew the guilt of not helping Sasha would stay with him. He had spent many hours on the balcony wondering about Sasha’s future. Who he would grow up to be. Of course, the odds were against Sasha, but maybe he’d survive and grow up to be a teacher or a good father. Maybe he would help others escape suffering.
On a more fundamental level, Albert started to realize that Putin is emblematic of a deeper rot in society, a cancer that was spreading around the world and metastasizing. Albert felt a moral ambiguity about his operation through the entire time he was in the process of planning and executing, but, when he made the call to help Sasha, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. An almost spiritual atonement.
Somewhere, on a deep level, Albert knew that others were going to get hurt by the landmines, whether it was the driver, or Putin’s personal assistants, or policemen on motorcycles. He had justified the collateral damage to himself by saying they were part of the system, enablers of a 21st century Hitler. Yet, the citizenry of Nazi Germany had an appetite for Hitler in the 1930s that would have been satiated by another demagogue, if not for Hitler. Who is to make a call that the lives of millions depend on?
Perhaps Albert was being naive in thinking that saving one child was more important than assassinating a genocidal dictator. He knew that, unless the child grew up to cure cancer, the cost benefit analysis favored stopping Putin. Still, fighting fire with fire seemed morally dubious. Philosophically, he seemed on surer footing by helping the child instead of killing a villain.
All these questions swirled inside Albert’s head as his plane slowly stated its descend.
The next day Putin bombed a kindergarten.
Letters to Charlie and Riley (November 9th, 2024)
A few days ago Trump won a second term. It came as a bit of a shock. In general, I hesitate to write about politics because it is difficult to predict how posterity will look at us. However, Trump’s victory is bewildering and I’ve never been more worried about the future of our nation than perhaps today.
It is not so much that I am worried about what will happen during Trump’s presidency, although there is much to worry about. Ultimately, I believe the US will survive Trump’s presidency. Instead, I am worried about the fact that a majority of American voters looked at Trump and said, “Yes, we’d like more of that.”
Populism isn’t new, but the extent it seems to have infected America is. At first glance, Trump’s victory is puzzling. Even his strongest supporters will admit that he is a vile man. He regularly denigrates and mocks people. There is credible evidence that he ran fraudulent charities and started phony universities. Almost everyone who has worked with him closely says he is a narcissist with an authoritarian streak. Yet, the most damning thing about him was that he refused to commit to a peaceful transfer of power and, in the 2020 election, quite literally tried to steal the election.
Why someone like that appeals to more than half the country is something that is difficult to understand. However, one of the appeals of populists is their ability to offer seemingly quick and easy solutions to complex problems, an almost palpable hatred for the so-called “elites,” a “strongman” image that is especially appealing during quickly changing and uncertain times, and an anti-immigrant and anti-globalization stance.
That's Just The Way It Is
DEVELOPED BY DUMASTAR
Lyrics That’s just the way it is As they say, come what may If you hoped for more In dismay, in dismay… If you lied and stole Top the top, very top But if you played it straight, Then full stop, then full stop Into faces I peer Downcast eyes, downcast eyes Why are we shaking with fear? In the night, ‘til sunrise Feel the draft from the door If they knock, no one’s home And if you’re on death’s door All alone, all alone That’s just the way it is As they say, come what may If you hoped for more In dismay, in dismay… If you lied and stole Top the top, very top But if you played it straight, Then full stop, then full stop What are these words I hear... Are they fire or are they ice? Who is that in the mirror... With that hate in their eyes? Neighbors like strangers Suspicion fouls the air Where is the home that I love? Is it gone, or still there?