Aspoús

I'm overlooking the bay from which according to mythology Achilles left to join the Trojan War. I read about another war, about the battle for Berlin in 1945. The advancing Russians were shelling the enemy just as much as themselves, it seems. I think of private Pereverzev, who died of his wounds on the day of victory. It wouldn't have worried Stalin a bit. Stalin, the pockmarked creep who is three handshakes distant from me. Russian propaganda turned Berlin into the most important achievement ever of the Red Army, like Homer turned the Trojan War into mythical magnitude.

It is unknown whether private Pereverzev was wounded by friendly fire. Neither do we know if he added lustre to his march on Berlin by indiscriminately raping German women and girls, like so many of his colleagues. We know how Achilles met his end. At least those who are believers.

The sun casts evening shadows on the gardens. There's not a breath of wind. It would be almost tranquil but for the occasional motorbike with its faulty exhaust. I am in a country which still has a communist party believing in Stalin, but the bay murmurs, like in the days of Achilles.

©C.A. Klok

Skyros, October 2012