#aphbelarusweek2017

If he had asked something else; what do you think of Stalin, was communism truly a good idea, what do you truly think of your boss, what are your feelings towards your brother, your sister, and that green-eyed nation next door, she might of refused. Belarus after all had many secrets, some were even secret to herself.

Those were the things lying burred in the most secret chambers of her heart and soul. They were things burred deep and dark by her long ago, or present but unnoticed and ignored. Some of those questions however were in the poet’s mind and weighing very heavily on them, but now was not the time to ask. There was something feral about her, like a wild animal even with all her beauty, and so he felt he had to play his cards carefully with such a wary being.

“It is how it is,” she said simply. “I know no other life so I don’t have a damn thing to compare it to. However, I have seen hundreds of years and ages pass. I have seen men come and go, death and life, joy and sorrow, and yet the world keeps turning as it always has. I’ve seen humans commit numerous stupidities and make the same countless mistakes over and over and over. What I want most now is peace, security, and stability, nothing else.”

The poet was disappointed in her resignation but unsurprised. He did his best not to let that show. “Would you rather live a human life then? Do you want to be a mother or a wife or have a normal family.” She arched one eyebrow, but otherwise her expression was impenetrable. Belarus loved children yes, but only her own Belarusian children because they were a part of her and her very being. She had few other maternal instincts, though perhaps her affection towards animals might count. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” she said. “I have a family, we’re tied together by bonds stronger than blood, and my people are my children. I desire nothing else as long as they’re good and can live peaceful lives with enough to eat and safety. Speaking of that-” she paused and picked up the poet’s  fork, putting his blini in his mouth and surprising the poor man. “Eat! You mustn’t forget, it’s important and good for you.”

He stared at her and began to chew, nodding hesitantly. In that very odd moment this young looking thing had reminded him of his little old grandmother. He swallowed, took a sip of his tea, and then asked. “I do have a few more things I wish to find out from you Miss Belarus. “You’re a human, call me Miss Arlovskya, we’re not familiar enough for anything else yet, but ask away.” She reached over once more and wiped away some food from his mouth and he awkwardly permitted it. “Ah, yes well…you look so young, just how old are you? And how long will you even live?” She scoffed and said, “I’m a young girl in looks but my heart, soul, and existence are far far older. Don’t let you fucking eyes trick you. I’m older than your mother…more than a thousand years old actually and as for how long I’ll live I don’t fucking know. All I know is that one day I’ll die, like all things. I suppose in that case I’m not truly immortal, perhaps one day I’ll die soon as well. A devil or a kikimora pop up in my  dreams every so often telling me so. In that case however, and even if the devil is being a liar, I go to the same place as everyone else, death. I’m neither sad nor happy about it, death is merely a natrual part of life. Though…I should like my people to prosper.”

The poet was glad at these words at least, and heard, or at least he hoped he heard, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “I’m not one of those assholes who complain about their long life over and over and actively wants to die. If it comes, it comes, but as miserable as living is it is also quite p precocious, because it’s fleeting. All fleeting things are precious, like the dew that fades in the morning sun, or flowers that only grow in spring time. I treasure each moment of my life because once lived ,it is past and never to be seen again. There’s no point looking backwards,” she said, staring off into the distance.

Belarus tried to deny it to herself but in her last words there was sadness, in them and in her heart. Sadness for things lost, sadness for things pushed away, sadness for things she denied herself, and denied to her. She refused to muse on it though, that lead to a dangerous path and she would not be weak or pliant to her  feelings. The poet meanwhile wanted to ask of many other things, he wished to talk more to this strange being that was his nation. However another part of him was not so sure, some of the things he wanted to ask were rather controversial.

He wanted to know her feelings towards Stalin, Lukashenko, what she thought of the opposition, and of Russia and Ukraine, but he was unsure if it would be wise to even mention such things. He decided to test the theory out with one long dead and if things went badly he would quickly change the subject.  “What about Stalin? What did you think of-” There was a loud sneeze from Belarus and she stuffed more blini into the poet’s mouth. “You’re still not eating enough! If you don’t I’ll be pissed off, what a waste of money and food. You can’t be like that, it must be because you’re a writer. We get so caught up in our own heads, don’t we?”

This time, the poet was distracted, “You’re a writer?” She nodded, “I write poems and short stories at times. I’ve been doing so for years.” Stalin was lost in the wind, but that was what she wanted. She didn’t want to answer that question and moreover she felt like she would be unable to. She knew if she tried the words would get stuck in her throat and nothing would come out. It was if there was a block from some force or even herself  prohibiting her from saying much of anything. She didn’t think about it much though, it was useless to.

 She never knew what to really compare snow to despite all her years being around it. The woods were silent, not even the birds sung today and the sky was almost as white as the ground beneath. Despite some calling her such things as a snow queen or an ice princess Belarus had honestly never considered herself such things, not to mention she still had a distaste for royalty and aristocracy. Old habits die hard, and for Belarus sometimes such things were never cast aside at all.

Snow was a part of her yes, but not the only part of her. Despite her skin being as white as the snow itself, and her own demeanor being sometimes cold and icy, she thought of herself more as a being of the forest and bogs, a bog witch if you will. She didn’t know how she felt about snow either. She didn’t know if she liked it or disliked it, it was probably a mix of both.

 The coming of snow and darkening days signaled the death of the year, a pensive time for her as well as the holidays she loved and her own name day. Snow was beautiful too, and lovely to walk though. It was even more fun to play in as she still loved building snow figurines and  throwing snowballs at her brother and sometimes even an unsuspecting Lithuania, though she would never admit the latter part aloud. She also still had fond memories of being a child and playing in it as well, accompanied by some of her folkloric creatures or local children, She still had the creatures as well as a few nations, but no longer the children. 

Snow was also deadly and frightful however. She could feel cold, despite what most people thought and in her life the snow had chilled her bones horribly. She remembered fighting in it during the Great Patriotic war, ignoring her freezing  fingertips and nose as she hid in it and carefully aimed her rifle at a German solider. She remembered the red of his blood against the stark white and feeling the satisfaction of protecting her people. She  felt and saw the red of the blood of her very same people, even children and civilians, against the same stark white snow and feeling sick and nauseous with pain and rage and grief. She remembered crawling on cold wet dirty snow on her hands and knees and she bleed inside and out and her heart and soul cried for divergence against the Nazis who had slaughtered her people. With snow sometimes famine came too, the painful scrape of hunger and starvation against the stomach and soul, the awful feeling of emptiness and desperation. She knew and saw the horrible things it made people do, the horrible things it made her do. Snow was a companion who was all too willing to stab you in the front.

 Just then as she passed a few lone abandoned graves the sky fulfilled it’s promise and the snow began to fall. She held out a gloved hand and watched the thick flakes fall into it. Then she stuck out her tongue and was lucky enough to catch a few. She smiled softly, if only for a moment.

She snorted but didn’t get up, and so it continued for about a few more seconds awakening her with a bolt out of bed. It was still dark out, but the sun was coming soon and she heard something scamper away from her room. She knew who and what it was. She rubbed her eyes and got out of bed, shuffling along the cold floor in bare feet to the kitchen in her nightgown. It was empty, but she heard a chuckling from under the stove. “Old trickster,” she said affectionately. “I never forget grandfather, you know that. I’m not an fucking idiot.”

As she spoke she got out some flour and began making fresh rye bread for herself and for the damavik as well. He had been with her all these centuries though out the ages, her companion and friend. It would be stupid and ungrateful not to give him his daily reward for taking care of her home and therefore angering him. “Tell grandmother not to give me shit again today, and she can have all the domain of the basement to herself for another day.” There was a horse whispering in response, but the damavik remained unseen. 

Grandmother was the kikimora, who sometimes gave her grief by stealing her things and sitting on her chest but sometimes didn’t. Mostly she listened to the damavik. Once she was done, she put the bread in the oven and as it cooked the smell of fresh bread filled the room, making both being hungry. There was no time to rest however as Belarus soon set out making porridge for the damavik while she waited for the bread. “Share this with grandmother, it’s for her too. Did she spin last night? I found a flax thread near the basement door. Either you forgot or she needs to be more neat and not a goddamn slob.” There was more whispering in response. “I see, she can do as she wills and as she’s always done for hundreds of years.” 

They both fell silent for a moment, but as Belarus continued to stir the porridge she began to hum. Then to her great pleasure the damavik hummed with her as well, his raspy hollow voice mingling with her sweet yet cold one as delicious smells contained to fill the air and the porridge began to bubble and grow thick. 

Eventually all was done, and Belarus set everything on the table, heaping porridge into three bowls,  breaking the bread in half, and sprinkling the damavik’s half with salt, meanwhile she put strawberry preserves on her own. Finally she poured out a glass of milk and set it, the two porridge bowls, and the sated bread on a small stool near the stove. The damavik whispered once more, acknowledging her offering. “You’re welcome grandfather. Now eat your shit.”  Then she left the kitchen with her food in order to give him and the kikmora some privacy as they ate. 

The day continued uneventfully and due to errands she had to be away from the house for most of the day. However on her way home sunset was falling, and she remembered a promise she had made a week beforehand in the woods. It was time to enter them, as foolish as some considered it during that specific time of the year. However Belarus had done so many times before, she had no fear but instead simply respect. Before going into the woods however, she made sure to take off her shoes and hid them behind a tree. She also checked to see if the berries, honey, and bread she had brought with her were still in the knapsack she carried, thankfully they were. 

The woods were silent as the sun continued to set, not even the animals living in it could be heard on that night. Even so Belarus continued to walk. Suddenly she heard a laugh above her head, and looking up Belarus found what she was looking for; a rusalka with long pale blonde hair filled with weeds and a sheer white dress clinging to her pallid clammy skin. “You showed up,” the rusalka said, with a voice that was as light as the twinkling of silver bells and as hard as steel. “I did, you should know me better by now and that I’m not a fucking idiot with how many years you’ve been as you are. I never break my promises to the beings in my land.” 

The rusalka climbed down from the tree like a cat. When she reached the ground she leaned close to the nation and sniffed her, a playful smile on her face. “I smell gifts!” Belarus didn’t budge, “Tch! Yes, gifts for you but also for the other rusalka, don’t be fucking greedy. It’s for everyone so you get your share when we reach the shallows where I presume the others are. Lead me there.” The rusalka pouted, her long blonde hair falling into her face. “You’re too fair, but alright. That I guess, is part of the challenge this year too. You haven’t forgotten the others.” 

She took Belarus’s hand in her own and the two continued walking silently in the woods.  It was a charming and beautiful, yet eerie image. Two pale maidens, neither of them human, walking in the woods together, their thin frames gliding though the trees and their long pale blond hair trailing behind them. The only visible difference was that one looked more bedraggled then the other, and was less clothed. Belarus was unsure how long they walked, but the moon gradually changed positions as they did and she knew it must of been hours. Still, she didn’t mind since she always had time for those who were a part of her, the beings that helped give her some life. 

Slowly the ground became soft and marshy and their bare feet left marks in the soft loamy dirt. Then they stopped in front of a body of water, it was unclear how deep it was but it was lying hidden in the heart of the woods. No mortal could come by it easily unless allowed to for some reason or the other, and not necessarily a benevolent one. A river flowed away from it, but that was not where their journey lay, for they were already here. Belarus looked around, none of the rusalka were in the lake. Instead some were up in the trees, speaking amidst one another. Several others were sitting in the ground, combing their long hair and weaving flower crowns for one another as they sang or hummed. Finally, a small group was dancing in a circle, also singing softy and beautifully. Some of them  looked at Belarus but then quickly went back to what they were doing before, seemingly undisturbed. 

The rusalka standing next to Belarus looked around sighed and said, “It looks like you passed the dare. You dared come out here during the time when we can walk the land and drag all mortals down to join us. You’re still not so much like those humans that you’re separated from us.” The rusalka pouted, clearly not feeling sure if she should be pleased or not. On the one hand she loved mischief and causing trouble, on the other hand it pleased her Belarus was still in a way, one of them too.

Belarus rubbed the ribbon on top of her head as it interested her more and felt nice and soft. “You’ve done this shit time and time again and it’s always the same. I’ve been alive for thousands of years so why the hell should I of all people fear this time of year? The humans may be unable to tread these grounds and waters at this time, but I go wherever the fuck I will as long as I pay my respects,” she said calmly. “Remember, I’m not human however much I may be connected to them. I never was human and I never will be human, and that’s that. I watch them as something separate yet belonging, I feel them inside me and they’re part of my soul, but I will never truly understand them. I will never live their short and foolish lives, this I know too fucking well.”

 She stopped rubbing the ribbon and  took out the bread and berries, along with a jar of honey. The rusalka licked her lips, “Are you sad?” Belarus shook her head, “Why the hell would I be? There’s not a damn thing to be sad about. This is my fate, I accept it. I’m the spirit of Belarus incarnate, sharing my soul with the people and the woods and all of you here. I don’t know anything else. Besides, all of our stupid lives are filled with sorrow and tragedy. A human’s in it’s own way, and mine in my own. Now all of you sluts get to eat, and me too.” The rusalka snorted, “Are you a slut?” She was used to Belarus’s harsh language and knew she meant no harm, she used it herself too sometimes. “No, I’m a bitch,” Belarus said dully and passed the food to all of them. 

Then they all resumed their previous activities as they began to eat. Belarus for her part sat down and so did the rusalka next to her. She slathered some of the golden honey on the hunk of rough dry rye bread and shoved it into her mouth. “I’m going to brush your hair,” said the rusalka, fingers an inch away from Belarus’s waist in an unspoken threat to tickle her if she refused. Belarus merely nodded and allowed her to do so, and as she began the rusalka started humming which Belarus joined a few minutes afterwards. 

Belarus, when she preformed, usually performed for Bolshoi Ballet of Belarus, but occasionally her brother would pull some strings and get her invited to some performances for some of the Russian companies. What part she got didn’t matter to Belarus, simply being there and doing her best was enough. 

This time she got lucky though, as she was selected to preform both Odette and Odilie in Swan Lake. She didn’t always get the big roles which was fine with her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love getting them though. Swan Lake however brought up complicated feelings and memories. It was true, it was a beautiful ballet with beautiful music and costuming, but performing it and seeing it never was simple.

She didn’t remember the first time she had preformed it, those memories were muddled, though she remembered the first time she saw it and heard the music. Here she was again years later, dancing on stage amidst the mists of the lake in front of Prince Siegfried, who would later betray her, though her Odette was not supposed to know this yet. 

As she danced, graceful and fae-like in front of her prince, surrounded by her beautiful swan maiden subjects Belarus tried to immerse herself in Odette’s soul and plight. Her long lost mother, her slavery to Rothbart and feelings of hopelessness and despair, her  distrust of the prince which was now becoming affection, trust, hope, and yes genuine love. However it was not quite so easy, she remembered all too well back when she was in the Soviet Union, how Swan Lake would play during certain periods of time when something tremendous had occurred. 

Sometimes it was a death as in the cases of  Brezhnev, Andropov and Chernenko, when for a time all the television would play was Swan Lake. Or perhaps an upheaval like in the August 1991 coup attempt. Swan Lake always left a feeling of dread, excitement, and expectation in her soul. There was no union now though, only Odette and her feelings towards Siegfried. Still she remembered the past, she didn’t want to think about it. She spotted Russia in the audience and her heart beat and cheeks flushed, it was impossible not to.

Later on during the ballet, as she was dressed in black tutu as Odilie, Belarus thought about what a good role some might consider it for her. Most nations in the west thought of her as harsh and awful, judged her without truly knowing or understanding her, and attempted to use her, like with Odilie. However all she wanted was love, peace, and stability like Odette. However in ways she was more like Odilie too, she thought to herself. Odilie was a witch like her, was ruthless, hard,  and cunning like her as well. Meanwhile Odette was foolish for believing in hope and love, for believing in someone else. In addition to all this Odilie’s desires didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was a witch and the larger  scheme of her father, and she did what was best and then  faded away from the narrative. 

In the end she was Odette once more, and in contrast to Odilie’s sharp, seductive, and harsh yet graceful movements Odette was soft, graceful, waif-like, and sorrowful. As she danced with all the heartbreak her heart could muster and as she pushed her feet and legs to their steely limit Belarus wondered why Odette even forgave Siegfried. . These women forgave far too quickly, they were silly things, she concluded. She failed to ask that of herself in regards to many other things, but Belarus was skilled at avoiding difficult questions to herself.

 Still, Belarus let Odette’s love win out against her anger and her sorrow as she danced for him perhaps for one final time. At least that’s what Odette thought, Belarus however knew that things would be different. In the end Siegfried would kill Rothbart, save Odette, and both would live happily ever after. It was so after the Soviet Union. Good had to win, because communism had to win. 

 Belarus however always preferred the original ending, the one where both lovers committed suicide. It felt more true to life, more true to reality, and oddly enough more truth to what really happened in the Union by it’s end. However like Odilie she had no say in the matter, she simply danced as instructed. Her slender legs  were moving here and there and her small feet dancing and clad in satin white shoes moved deftly as her effervescent white tutu floated around her, her flaxen hair done up in braids. She watched her prince save her and she danced with him, happy and in love. Belarus felt in her heart however such a fate would not be hers, it was only a fantasy, a wish, and not the true story of things or of her life.