Zinky Boys by Svetlana Alexievich Page A

finally hung up to air for one month. All ready! The dembels go home and the next lot of vets take their place.
    The farewell address from the political education officer to the departing dembels was a list of what we could and could not talk about back home. No mention to be made of fatalities, nor of any ‘unofficial activities’, because we are a ‘great, powerful and morally health/ army. All photographs and films to be destroyed. We did not shoot, bombard, use poisons or lay mines here. We are a great, powerful and morally healthy army.
    Customs stole all the gifts we had with us, even the perfumes, scarves and watches with built-in calculators. ‘Sorry, boys, not allowed!’ they said, but we never got a receipt for anything. Our presents were their perks.
    Still, the smell of the green spring leaves, and the girls walking around in short dresses, made up for all that. I’ve just remembered a girl called Svetka Afoshka. We never knew her real surname, but apparently when she arrived in Kabul she’d sleep with a soldier for 100 Afganis — or afoshki as we called them — until she realised she was selling herself cheap. Within a couple of weeks she’d upped her price to 3,000 afoshki, which an ordinary soldier couldn’t afford.
    A friend of mine called Andrei Korchagin *** (we called him Pashka, of course, because of his surname) had a girlfriend back home, but one day she sent him a photo of her wedding. We kept an eye on him for nights after that, in case he did something stupid. One morning he stuck the photo to a rock and riddled it with his Kalashnikov. Long after that we still heard him crying at night. Hey, Pashka! Look at all these girls, now! Take your pick!
    In the train home I dreamt we’re getting ready for battle. ‘Whyhave you got 350 rounds instead of 400?’ my friend Sasha Krivtsov asks me.
    â€˜Because I’m carrying medication.’
    A little later he asks: ‘Could you kill that Afghan girl?’
    â€˜What girl?’
    â€˜The one who led us into that ambush. You know, the one where we lost four of our lads.’
    â€˜I don’t know. Probably not. At school I was called “lover-boy” because I always defended the girls. Would you?’
    â€˜I’m ashamed … ’ he starts to say, but I woke up and never discovered what it was he was ashamed of. When I got home I found a telegram from Sasha’s mother waiting for me: ‘Please come. Sasha killed.’
    â€˜Sasha,’ I say to him at the cemetery, ‘I’m ashamed that in my finals I got an “A” in Scientific Communism ††† for my critique of bourgeois pluralism. I’m ashamed that after the Congress of People’s Deputies pronounced this war a disgrace we were given ‘Internationalist Fighters’ badges and a Certificate from the Supreme Soviet of the USSR.
    â€˜Sasha, you’re there and I’m here … ’
    A Mother
    He was always small. He was as small as a girl when he was born, just a couple of kilos, and he grew up small. I’d cuddle him and call him my little sunshine.
    The only thing he was afraid of was spiders. Once he went out to play. We’d bought him a new coat and when he returned I hung it up in the cupboard and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later I heard this strange noise, shlep-shlep, shlep-shlep. The entrance-hall was full of frogs. They were jumping out of his pockets. He picked them all up. ‘Don’t be frightened, Mum,’ he said, stuffing them back in the pockets, ‘they’re nice little creatures.’ My little sunshine …
    He loved toys to do with war, tanks, machine-guns, pistols. He’d strap guns round himself and march round the house. Tm a soldier, I’m a soldier.’
    When he went to school we couldn’t find a uniform to fit him and he was lost in the smallest one they had. My little sunshine …
    Then they took