Winter Road

Some days, opening his eyes was the hardest thing about life. Dmitry Kaprovitch knew that he was in the winter of his life. Though his body was weak, his mind was thriving and sharp. Lately, he had a hard time reflecting back on his life. His soul had become clouded with remorse. Every time he shut his eyes, he would instantly see his son’s face. As soon as these images popped into his mind, it felt like his heart had been stabbed.

That morning, it happened again. Dmitry sighed deeply and looked outside his window. Through that half-broken and partially frozen window, he could see the silhouette of the forest. It was like a vast sea of white, burdened heavily by the weight of the snow. That day it looked rather sinister and bleak. The weather made the world seem hostile as the cold wind crept between all the loose holes and cracks of his home. Huddled in a little wooden chair, Dmitry sat, smoking and re-smoking the cigarettes in his ashtray. Like most days, he sat alone with his thoughts.

In order to make things a little clearer, this house was not even his. Dmitry was homeless. In circumstances outside his control, he somehow survived a nasty relapse of tuberculosis. Defying death with life, he decided to not spend his remaining days quarantined, where he would be locked away in some decaying soviet sanatorium. Early one summer morning, he fled, traveled north, and moved into a home that was abandoned by its owners. If this home were a living entity, it would be gasping and clawing for its final breath. Like most homes in this village, it was painted rust.

Dmitry still could not shake off the image of his son looking at him in his face. Oh, how disturbed his heart was now. He looked over at his bottle of vodka. Dmitry thought, “Let me just drown this image out of my mind… Let me just bury this feeling. Why has his face come back to me now? I am lost to who I am, broken; I will just drink myself into the bliss of forgetfulness!”

As Dmitry was reaching angrily for the bottle of vodka, something unusual happened. He heard someone knock on his door. Jolted from his inner musings, a hasty thought emerged, “Visitors do not come to abandoned places.” Dmitry panicked. Nightmares of his past days spent in the confines of a sanatorium were beginning to surface. His heart leaped in his chest as he pondered the question, "Did someone find me?"

The rusty doorknob began to move, and the old wooden door began to rattle and shake. Thump, thump, bang bang. The house seemed to shake at the persistence of this guest. Slowly the door creaked open, and Dmitry could see the outline of a large man standing beneath the door frame. A cold winter gust blew through the room, and it felt just as welcoming as this man’s presence. With a deep, commanding voice, the man asked, “Am I speaking with Dmitry Kaprovitch?”

Dmitry tried to muster up a commanding voice in retaliation for this intrusion but responded with a cracked tone, “I am he.”

The man then walked forcefully towards Dmitry, and thundered the statement, “You are a hard man to find!” With that he slapped on the table signed and sealed documents. The man turned and walked out, slamming the door. Dmitry’s hands were shaking. The first letter was a summons. Indeed, he had been found. Despair began to take root until he recognized the handwriting of the second letter, it was concerning his son, Misha. His hands trembled as he read this letter from a friend;

“I hope this letter finds you. Your son Misha is a good man. He will be flogged and humiliated in front of his children. In two days, they will tie him upside down on a tree. They will make sure to make him an example. I know your history is complicated and painful. Nothing I could ever say will help you, and I can hardly find one useful word. The village loves him. Your friend, from Cheryden, Vladim.”

Dmitry’s mind raced; his body was shaking. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and with his mind’s eye, he traveled to that place he had always avoided. This was that despicable place, that memory which no amount of dust could cover, nor any amount of alcohol remove the scar seared into his conscience. Oh, how he never wanted to go back to this place. Dmitry pushed this memory door wide open, and there he could see his son playing by the hearth. Little Misha looked so content. His mother was sick and dying just a few meters away. Her youthfulness had faded, her body emaciated from the ravages of fever. It was at that moment that Dmitry stopped looking through the window, turned his back and walked away. All that could be seen were the snowy footprints that wandered off to the unknown.

A flood of emotions overwhelmed Dmitry. He wept and at the same time loathed his very existence. He glanced once again at the bottle of vodka. At that moment, a tidal wave of inner cravings emerged. An impulse that consumed both his mind and body had awakened and flooded his veins with a wild passion. Dmitry, as if possessed by something beyond his will, reached out with a shaky hand, and grasped the bottle. All he could think was the word, “Oblivion.” Yet this time, Dmitry had another impulse run through his consciousness. Perhaps it was the coolness of the glass that shifted his mind, but an unsolicited image branded itself like a burning, hot coal; and it was little Misha looking into his eyes. This gaze pierced him through. This time, would he walk away? Rage filled his heart. Surprisingly, it was not directed towards himself. Dmitry quickly gathered his wits, left the bottle on the table, and started walking down that long winter's road.

It was early morning when Dmitry made it to Cheryden. Mustering all the strength left in his body, he limped his way to the door of the magistrate. His toes were numbed till the point frostbite must have taken over. His hand grasped the freezing doorknob, and he whispered to himself, “When I open this door, it can never be undone.” He then pushed it open. Immediately he fell under the harsh glare of a man sitting behind a desk. “Shut the door!” screamed the magistrate. Dmitry peacefully shut the door.

The next day, the village magistrates gathered the entire village. The judge cried out in a loud voice: “Dear Comrades, the law has been broken and justice is demanded. Misha stands convicted for his unregistered potato garden. He was providing for his family outside the jurisdiction of the Soviet communal farms. As you know, this is a crime against the collective.” As the judge thundered these words, snow was falling, and evening was fast approaching. He continued, “This man will be flogged, stripped of all his clothes and tied to a tree!”

Misha was lying in the snow chained to a tree stump. His children and wife were nearby sobbing. One man whispered to his oldest son, “It’s not a crime to feed a starving family.”

At this time, Misha began shivering uncontrollably on the ground. He had learned hunger, but the cold was much more invasive. The judge, with a callous smirk, pointed to him and, with a stern voice, said, “I have the authority of life and death in my hands. In this case, punishment indeed will be executed. However, an unusual offer was presented to me. It seems like a great vanity, but I have accepted the offer. Justice will still be satisfied. Bring the idiot out!”

Misha was confused. He could hear the faint rattle of chains approaching him. To his surprise, he vaguely recognized the old man limping his way towards him. As Dmitry drew near, his heart became overwhelmed at the sight of his son. At that moment, Dmitry had forgotten his chains. Each step was excruciating. The pain from his frostbitten feet seemed a way of penance for his past, but what cured his emptiness was the sight of his son. As he leaned down, he looked directly into Misha’s eyes and said, “Forgive me. Let me have this one last memory, son.”

Misha was unable to process what had just taken place. He was shivering uncontrollably, on the verge of collapse, beyond even hoping he would be able to keep some of his fingers and toes. Life in the remote areas had always been harsh. Yet, somehow, he was given the unexpected gift to live. In one great exchange, he was provided with a chance to stay with his wife and kids. Misha’s memory of his father was complicated.

Years later, Misha’s children asked their father, “Was your dad a good man?” With a long pause, Misha looked at his children and said, “Yes…”