Obelisk (Competitive story of a digger!)

Outside the window, icy snow has already covered the trampled ground, tired from the rains. The cold autumn has long left no hope for the uncertain and wet summer that passed away in a hurry. Clumsily and slightly in a hurry, I anxiously assembled for the first time my bright orange, smelling of American-made workshops, my long-awaited new friend. I had no illusions about long-forgotten village treasures, the chests of greedy priests. I did not flatter myself with the hope of accidentally discovering lost things at the sites of old fairs, full of arrogance and fun. And I didn’t even look at the map.
Hurry up to the nearby forest, hurry up to find at least a traffic jam, because a dream does not require a dream from us. The path runs through the memorial. «Here, 2 thousand civilians were shot by the fascist occupiers during the….» — proclaims a huge obelisk, sadly playing in the rays of the fading sun. I pass by, looking around on the other side, where there lies an uneven field, carelessly plowed by farmers chasing tonnage statistics. Further, further from the obelisk, further from the archaeological site, where every cop can instantly separate Asya and me.
The forest creaked, and the wind shook the crowns of centuries-old trees drooping from scarves of gray snow. The first signal and something skipped a beat in my heart, as if for the first time I managed to ask a girl out on a date, or as a child I found another gift under the Christmas tree that I was not expecting at all. I had been digging for vodka and beer caps for several hours, and the ringing in my headphones was already starting to irritate me when I heard an uncharacteristic sound. The sod is thrown aside and in front of me is a fairly well-preserved cartridge case with Latin letters and quite readable numbers. The detector does not calm down and in half an hour another 11 perfectly preserved war monuments saw the light. Another signal, and the setting sun was observed by the az 38 fuse. Joy knew no bounds and then something crunched under my foot. It was a plastic bottle of cheap beer. The gaze fell further on a broken vodka bottle and a bunch of bulls, half of which were carelessly painted with bright red lipstick. Instant. At that moment, something turned upside down in me. Yes, yes, so quickly and casually; something that will never leave me the same. Millions of thoughts flashed through my head; I’m hastily assembling the metal detector. I’m going home. The centuries-old trees look at me with silent, heavy reproach. It’s getting dark.

Having long been fascinated by history, each historical summary of important and not so important battles seemed to me something akin to a chess game. Just moves of mythical figures, successful or not. Pawns that sacrifice themselves to take the king by surprise, knights that destroy a powerful opponent with their surprise. I clutch the rusty bullet I found in my hand. A picture immediately appears, as if in a neatly tidied factory, the light saw a small shiny, beautiful piece of metal. A piece of metal, produced and blessed by the church and government in order to take the life of a young boy who had not yet really seen love and happiness. Blessed to forever take away his youth, beauty and joy of family comfort. Take away the hope he never knew. To deprive him of a peaceful and wise old age, taking away the opportunity to give the very life that prompted him to put on a blood-stained uniform taken from a dead comrade… And what now?.. Victory?.. We stand on the bodies of our children, drinking beer and desecrating the places where our saviors laid down their arms only through death. Now once a year, at a bright parade in a drunken stupor, we shower the old people with flowers and love them so much! And tomorrow we turn away from the window, only yesterday’s veteran enters the tram. What we see in this window? Probably a great country and victory.
Night fell on the forest, and to my left stood an obelisk. Against the backdrop of the indifferent moon, he seemed like a giant guarding this weeping place. Why crying? I swear I heard crying. The crying of hundreds of children and women, the groans of old men, choking in their own blood and silently praying to God, who allowed all this. And I will say one thing: I have never been so scared.
Now history for me has ceased to be a chess game, simple letters on rough, pleasantly smelling paper. That day I became wiser. As much as we can be wiser, remembering and honoring what makes us live and our children smile at the sun.
The snow falls softly on the ground, the stars, covered in the black sky, occasionally peek out from their shelter. The night again penetrates my window, and somewhere there, in Gorodok, Vitebsk region, there stands a mute giant, guarding thousands of innocent victims who look at us with a reproachful gaze. Nameless obelisk.

Sent by comrade devdog