OPERATION BARBAROSSA 

Felicia Quijano-Beck

His daughter is alive.

She’s alive when he thought she was lost,

She found her way back to him and the other survivors,

As though risen from the grave,

Grimy and dehydrated and terrified,

But breathing,

And that’s all that matters.

Because there’s an opportunity for evacuation,

An opening to get her out of the battleground.

He smiles at her as she walks to safety without him.

He cries when she’s out of view.

Because she’s alive,

She’s safe.

Just a loss of pride,

The dejection of surrendering her morals,

Just like the rest of the women and children,

But what a small price compared to the brutal murder 

Which would have otherwise been her fate.

The enemy won’t treat her well,

But it’s better than a swift execution.

Better than becoming another casualty

Of the war no one expected.

He knows that some don’t agree.

He’s seen the hopelessness lingering in their unresponsive eyes,

Seen their unwillingness to be captured alive,

Seen their brains scattered in gruesome chunks on the bloody floor,

And understands that it wasn’t the enemy’s hands

That pulled the trigger.

And he wishes that he were as loyal to his country,

As willing to sacrifice himself and his loved ones,

As insistent to not betray the motherland

For something as foolish as a ceasefire.

But despite his position as general,

He’s a coward,

He’s selfish,

And even when he dies, 

(Because he knows he will),

He needs to know his family won’t,

At any cost.

He staggers to his feet,

Blinks back his emotions.

He’s so tired,

He’s so thirsty,

There’s so much to do.

The enemy is everywhere,

Hovering in the sky,

Lurking around every corner,

Hiding in a stolen uniform,

Smirking in plain sight.

To survive,

That is the goal.

To prove himself a hero,

To make his country proud.

To win this battle and then the war.

There’s no time for rest.

He glances around shiftily,

Hears distant gunfire,

Bolts out into the open.

He’s gained a sort of instinct about these things,

A jolt of adrenaline that commands him 

To flatten on the ground,

Behind a mound of dirt,

And he presses himself next to one of the many corpses

Sprawled on the floor.

The man’s chest is stained red,

And his striking blue eyes stare, 

Unseeing, 

At the cloudy sky.

Must not have dropped to cover in time.

Unlucky.

He dimly recognizes the man—

One of the young, hopeful ones at the base,

More interested in giggling with his fiancé 

Than in preparing for the war nobody thought was coming.

Innocent. Loving.

Dead. Rotting.

War is not merciful.

He slides the corpse’s eyes shut,

And that’s the only gesture he can give

Before he’s back on his feet,

Sprinting into the central building,

Acutely aware of the sound of gunfire at his back.

Finally there.

Among his men once more,

Among the ones who are still alive.

Safe, protected, for now,

Until the barrage intensifies

And they lose the perimeter.

Not as safe as his daughter,

She’s no longer being hunted like he is.

She surrendered just in time.

But it’s alright. He’s ready.

Ready to die for his country,

A sacrifice she’ll never have to make.

(Will she?)

Ready to meet his end,

Knowing that for her,

The war will soon be nothing but a distant memory.

(Will it?)

He’ll be a corpse among many, 

Never given a proper burial,

Left to be pecked apart by birds,

But she’ll live a long, happy life.

(Liar.)

He can die,

He will die.

When they round him up,

He will proclaim himself 

A Commissar,

A Communist,

A Jew,

And they will stand him against the wall

And mow him down,

But at least he knows that

She will survive.

(Except he’s forgotten, or chosen to forget, or just not thinking clearly, but war isn’t merciful, and it’s not fair, and there are no happy endings, and she and the other prisoners of war are going to be murdered by the enemy, while under their control, in less than a year. 

Shot and killed, despite surrendering. Despite everything. Shot dead. Dead behind enemy lines. Dead at such a young age. Dead like her mother, and her friends, and all the men who tried to fight to protect them. Dead like her father. Dead.)

It’s a heartbreaking, unavoidable tragedy.

But for those in power,

It’s wonderful propaganda.