Absolute Zero Read online

  ABSOLUTE ZERO

  Artem Chekh

  Glagoslav Publication

  ABSOLUTE ZERO

  by Artem Chekh

  Translated from the Ukrainian by Olena Jennings and Oksana Lutsyshyna

  Proofreading by Michael Wharton

  Book cover and layout interior created by Max Mendor

  Publishers Maxim Hodak & Max Mendor

  © 2020, Artem Chekh

  © 2020, Olena Jennings and Oksana Lutsyshyna

  © 2020, Glagoslav Publications

  www.glagoslav.com

  ISBN: 9781912894697 (Ebook)

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  I. Absolute Zero

  New Dreams

  The Hour of Freedom Fighters

  One Day in the Life

  Passions over a Leave

  Dmytryk

  So Haysyn It Is

  Thirty

  Class Conflict

  Somebody Else

  Camp

  War Is Not Interesting

  Imitation

  A Green Chinese Tractor

  Keep Writing, Chekh

  Betrayal / Victory

  Camouflage Cockroaches

  Long T-shirts

  It’s All Good

  II. Fall, Winter, and Spring Again

  That Same Gas Station

  We Are Here

  Guiding Principles

  Norms

  Absolute Zero

  Our Friends

  Light Gray Zone

  The Sound of the Train Station

  Night Watch

  Neighbors

  Donbas’s Quiet Sun

  New Old Dream

  We Succeeded

  A Unique Fall

  Almost like in the Stories

  11120th Day of Life

  A Miracle Didn’t Happen

  New Year’s Eve

  Responsibility

  Below Zero

  Cerebral Palsy

  Boys

  Two Years Ago

  War Isn’t Fashionable

  They Don’t Like Those Kind in the Army

  A Unique Winter

  Silence

  Winter Crops

  Lethargy

  Inescapable Experience

  A Lifetime and a Little More

  Cotard’s Syndrome

  A Quasi-Religious Worldview

  Such People, Such Rocks

  Our Anniversary Somewhere in the Donbas

  Seventeen Bags of Paskas

  Watching Out for the Enemy

  A Unique Spring

  Prostitutes Are Always Following the Army

  Ode to New Balance

  The Abuse

  The End of the Fifth Tour

  The Apricots of Donbas

  The Last Night

  Thank you for purchasing this book

  Glagoslav Publications Catalogue

  Part 1

  Absolute Zero

  New Dreams

  The bus bearing the slogan sign “Everybody Dance!” painted across its side looked like it was ferrying passengers to a spa rather than a boot camp. There were forty-one drafted men and two accompanying officers. We were en route to the Rivne basic training camp.

  When the city high-rises ended and the forest began, I almost cried. I was sentimental, moved by the anticipation of a new life. I was puzzled by my new role, excited by the unknown. I was filled with something like a desire to put on my uniform as soon as possible, to walk around in camouflage, just like all those I watched during this last year with mixed feelings of admiration and guilt, though I knew I would be drafted. If not in January, then in April. You always have a gut feeling about such things. I even quit my job. Wanted to finish writing a book. Ran out of time.

  The bus stopped and men moved toward the door. Somebody elbowed me. Instead of an “excuse me,” he uttered an expletive.

  “The toilets are behind the gas station,” one of the officers politely informed us. “Just please no hooch, guys.”

  “No hooch,” we agreed.

  Some men had already purchased alcohol the day before, and it was now carefully packed away or poured into plastic lemonade bottles.

  We were standing around smoking. One short guy recounted, “For twenty years now I’ve been having a recurring dream that I was drafted into the army. I tell these people that I’ve already completed my draft time, and they say, ‘Hell no, you’re gonna serve.’ And in that dream I’m on the bus, at a train station, my boots too tight. Since the war in Donbas started, I dream about this every night. And sure thing, the draft card came, and now I’m on my way. Just like in my dream.”

  The others nodded, agreeing, sighing, and one after another shared stories and fables. They recalled Soviet mercenaries in Libya and Egypt in 1976, Afghanistan in 1989, and Yugoslavia in 1994. A volunteer who spent twenty-six years as an ambulance driver kept urging everyone to give up alcohol, repeating the officer’s words.

  We got back on the bus and started off again. Tired from excitement, everybody was whispering nervously, despondently watching the landscape through the windows. Everybody was drinking.

  I chowed down on some sandwiches: cheap white bread with processed cheese. I was thinking, should I offer some to anyone else? Do I look like a scrooge? Or is it too soon? Maybe later when we get to know each other better?

  I was looking at those who were drinking something resembling cognac from plastic bottles. They didn’t share either. They were just drinking their own stuff. So I relaxed. I thought about my wife, only yesterday standing with me in front of the Selective Service office. She was lost in thought, her life about to change, starting a new chapter without me, the cold nights, the anxious mornings. How long would it be before we saw each other again? A month? A year? Two? Forever?

  Standing there with her I thought, for the first time, that I was living somebody else’s life. And from then on, I would have somebody else’s dreams. And occupy somebody else’s place, to become a hero, or a coward. Or die.

  One way or another, each of us would have new dreams.

  The Hour of Freedom Fighters

  Having passed the admin building and arriving at the tent city, the first thing I see is sand and hair. Instead of dirt it is all sand, partly turned into dust. And hair. Long and short, black, red, gray strands cover the ground as if forming a shag rug. The evening breeze blows the hair, and it flies over the tents like pollen from a poplar tree. Near the generators the men sit on stools. Their skin is very tanned. Their heads are being shaved by other shaved men with soft stomachs and scars all over their bodies from old surgeries.

  I walk together with the dozen Kyivites who had been summoned with me to the Selective Service office, timidly between the tents, catching curious glances thrown at us by the locals.

  “Guys, where are you from?” we hear them ask. “Kyiv,” we answer. “Capital boys! Haha!” This reminds me slightly of classic scenes from movies where the hero ends up in prison and walks through the prison block to his own cell.

  Our uniforms are too new, our boots too shiny, our skin still retains the paleness of winter, we have too many expensive cigarettes in our pockets, and on our heads are the remnants of stylish haircuts.

  We immediately line up in formation. Along the ranks of the fourth platoon, a lieutenant with a pot belly slowly walks by. He is dressed in a new British uniform with a camouflage pattern. He insults the soldiers, chain smokes and openly mocks the troops. Approximately one hundred of the drafted men in my company look like inmates. Some immediately react to the lieutenant’s jokes and laugh, revealing their black, toothless mouths. The scent of sweat and alcohol emanates from their skin.

  Over the tents new and old ragged flags fly: yellow and blue, black and red, the colors of independence. Beyond the tent city, heaps of trash burn slowly. It reeks of latrines. Oh God, I think, how did I end up here? Who are all these people and where are all the brave and athletic young men from the ads? Where are all the lawyers, designers, journalists and salesmen? Where are those who sold their Rolls Royce for an opportunity at the front? What kind of a guerrilla unit is this, what kind of anarchy? How can I press Control Z and return to the clean streets of the capital, and my spotless office?

  I am standing in my new, not-yet-faded uniform, and near my feet is a Polish backpack distributed to us along with the uniform, and the red Deuter backpack. My palms are sweaty, and from this very moment I realize that there is no turning back. Together with the cavalry, on top of a machine gun cart, with a bayonet in one hand and an early twentieth-century semi-automatic rifle in the other, there is only drowning in blood, following orders, shooting, and somehow, along the lines, not going mad from the suffocating Hour of Freedom Fighters. This is how it is: initiation, hair-cutting ritual, baptism with dirt and shit.

  “Get used to it,” says Lyosha, who came here with me. But unlike me, he has experience in the army. He is an expert in local customs and habits.

  Twilight sets in. Mosquitos buzz over the tent city. The company leaders take us on an excursion to a local bathroom. It is long, thirty meters or so, covered wit
h boards that were removed, most likely, from some shed. Near the walls, there are two narrow trenches. They are filled with excrement, white chloride powder, and blood. It seems that hemorrhoids are the most common disease here.

  For a second, I imagine how tomorrow morning I’ll be doing my business sitting butt to butt with others. I try to banish this image by thinking about what will happen to me in a month or two – with a short haircut, suntanned, with flaky skin on my face and my hands dirty from cheap machine oil. I will be sitting on a stool near a tent, watching the new arrivals. I might even be spitting from time to time. My new uniform will fade into a light ochre color, my combat boots will be permanently gray from dust, my feet will become calloused. Ahead of me there will be new trials, my regiment called to active duty, probably to war. I may even be maimed or killed... but at this point I am so new, I smell of fresh sweat and Givenchy after-shave. I am wounded by these images and struck by a premonition of the inevitable.

  Ah yes, and my freedom-fighting commander stands over there, that fat asshole in the British uniform.

  One Day in the Life

  The most poignant dreams come right before sunrise. Usually it is something from civilian life – my wife, my son, the people from my past, college years, high school. These visions leave me uneasy and disturbed, because after you wake up you realize that you’ve already stopped belonging to yourself. “Where am I? Why me?” you ask for the umpteenth time, crawling out of your sleeping bag. “And what will this new day bring me?”

  These first thirty minutes of the new day are not kind to you, as the demons of doubt and fear unleash themselves upon you while you are still drowsy. But as soon as I have breakfast and endure the humiliating routine of morning formation, the fog in my head dissipates, and everything settles. Fears dissolve, dreams are forgotten, and I don’t feel the murky hatred toward my commander as I did in my dream. He is also less irritated with us.

  We go to the training fields. At 8:00 a.m. the sun already burns our necks and noses. Our boots kick up a thick wall of white dust. It’s hard to breathe. From time to time, we start running. But we keep talking anyway. What about? We talk about our previous jobs, past experiences, the tragedies we lived through, the boundaries crossed, and, of course, about weapons and their characteristics. Though truth be told, weapons, with abbreviations instead of names, hardly speak to me. And how could they, if I was one of those few at school who always skipped the chapters about war in Tolstoy’s War and Peace?

  They teach us to shoot. Some of the experienced men say that they teach us all wrong, that at the front nobody shoots this way. They teach us to crawl and to dig trenches. And they teach us to run, a lot, as if all we’ll be doing is running away from death, or chasing it. All this training is reinforced by extreme attitudes from the instructors: from maniacal rigor with paperwork, reports, and our signatures in each column to a laissez-faire attitude about safety. We either stand in lines for hours to receive thirty bullets and sign tens of documents or we are given wooden crates of RPGs and do not keep track of what we blow up.

  Running and crawling are, at least, simple. Here you have only your legs and feet, the wind at your back, and your heart. It is good if your heart is healthy. For some, running turns into a macabre exercise with the inevitable finish of falling to the ground and swallowing dry sand. Water is poured on them. They are transported to a field hospital, and heart meds are placed into their parched mouths. In such cases the instructor yells:

  “These are The Two Hundred! – this is military slang for dead. – They are the fuckin’ dead! To hell with them! Let’s run, boys!”

  And run we do. I am thinking about The Two Hundred. Well, at least judging from their faces and their ages, they have been Two Hundred for a while now. They just don’t know it yet.

  We return to the camp. We have lunch, we clean our weapons. At 4:00 P.M., there is formation and more training, till dark. Sometimes the instructors are too lazy to take us to the field, so we sit in tents. We melt from the heat, wait for supper, stand in line at the commissary where we can buy everything we need, except alcohol.

  I try to focus on reading. But from the very first week in this camp I realized that I’d have to forget about reading for the time being. I just can’t – the radio is too loud, the heat too strong, and the new experience and conditions are emotionally more gripping than any texts.

  At night I crawl into my sleeping bag. The nights here are cold, like on the prairie. I cover myself with a blanket. Somebody got a television from somewhere, and now it competes with the radio. Somebody starts frying potatoes at midnight. From outside I hear the angry dealings of scouts and artillery men. The fifty-watt bulb that hangs lonely from the ceiling blinds me as if we’re being interrogated in prison. I cover my head with my jacket.

  I fall asleep. Through the fog and sweet nightmare, I struggle to figure out what I’m doing here. Come on, man (I’m angry with myself). You wanted it so much! You really wanted to play this game – the comic Major Payne, or some other war hero! You wanted training and drills until you fell over, fighting till victory, and a return from war as a decorated veteran! You wanted to become one of them! You wanted to get a taste of real patriotism! So suck it up. Get used to it! Or let yourself go to hell.

  Passions over a Leave

  The newly drafted can be divided into those who would love to leave at least for a day and those who are overall satisfied with an uninterrupted stay at the training field. The first kind mostly consists of family men and drunks whom they call avatars. Beyond the training field is regular civilian life which they have already grown unaccustomed to like to an old lover, but memory makes them excited, and they smile nervously hearing the word “LEAVE.”

  For two days, one day, or a few hours. In my regiment, there is a man who spent four hours at home. The other ten he was on the road. But he did manage to see his wife and kids, as well as drink some milk and eat homemade kotlety.

  For some, even to go to Rivne, the closest town around here, is a luxury. The town has cafés, ATM machines, and supermarkets. Also, in the town one can have a drink. Not the local hooch, which can send you to the hospital, but decent, and, most importantly, safely manufactured vodka. And then it feels like a special kind of chic to ride in a marshrutka, a crowded minibus that is the only means of transportation in some areas of the city, while half-drunk, wearing a uniform, ignoring the disgusted looks that the passengers throw at you.

  Because of avatars, the commanders are not particularly willing to let the more responsible soldiers into town. Sometimes, though, the commanders have no good reason. – No. – Why? – Because I said so.

  But sometimes it is the other way around: the officer is in a good mood, so he lets half the platoon have a leave, some for a day, some for three days, and some for three hours.

  The city terrifies, fascinates, and excites the soldiers who are not used to it. Long-forgotten feelings surface, something nostalgic, foggy, from childhood. And there you are, a child, after spending three weeks at summer camp situated between a narrow river and newly planted pines, returning home, walking through the town, recognizing and recalling it, gazing at the buildings that were most significant to you… People wearing civilian clothes surprise you the most. “You exist? Thank you, I like looking at you.” In a coffee shop you go to the bathroom and see yourself in the mirror for pretty much the first time that week. “Hey man, is it really you? You’ve changed.” On the streets, you break the habit of spitting onto the ground or blowing your nose through one nostril. You step back gasping when bicycles go by and you watch out when crossing the street. It takes so little: a smiling waitress wearing plastic earrings, two Americanos, a pastry called “Tenderness,” fifteen minutes in a bookstore, half an hour in a park, two pounds of strawberries, the restless sounds of the city. All of this can be found in Rivne. This time around I was not allowed to spend my leave in my hometown.