by Sándor Jászberényi
The apartment building had shattered windows. In the darkness at the entrance, a BTR stood with its door ajar. A fifty-year-old man, barefoot, sat in the armored vehicle, smoking.
Maros heard music echoing in the building. Warmth and dust hung in the air as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“This is where we’ll sleep,” said Boyko, unstrapping his bulletproof vest and spitting on the ground. “You can take yours off too.”
Maros obeyed, feeling his back sticky with sweat, salt soaking through his shirt.
The building was uninhabited except for the soldiers who were housed on the sixth floor. It took them two trips to carry all their equipment upstairs. In their room, a bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling. They tossed their backpacks onto the cots and propped their bulletproof vests against the wall.
“Let’s eat something,” said Boyko, much taller than Maros, having to duck as he exited the room.
The kitchen, a floor below and converted from a living room with an unboarded window, offered a view to the Russian positions. Boyko sat at the central table, opening plastic boxes and placing them before Maros. He found black bread, handing half to Maros
“There’s chicken, bacon, cucumber,” he said with his mouth full. They ate.
“You know, the worst part of this war is the crappy food.”
“What are you talking about? There’s everything.”
“The same thing every day. Chicken, bacon, potatoes. I’d kill for a soup.”
“Why don’t you cook?”
“When? I’m out in the trench all day. Besides, I can’t cook.”
Two young soldiers, dressed in underwear, T-shirts, and slippers, entered the room, greeted Boyko in Ukrainian, and sat down at the table. One turned to Maros.
“I told Boyko you guys stink like pigs,” he said in English, laughing.
“I think he’s allergic to water. “Were you with the volunteer medics?”
“Yeah, for three days.”
“No showers there, huh?”
“Nope.”
„Kinda sounds like you think you can actually shower here, huh?” Boyko protested.
“Yeah, you actually can shower here.”
“Really? When did that happen?”
“Ever since we hooked up the electric boiler. We’ve got not just water, but hot water too.”
“Check this out, Hungarian, see where I’ve brought you?” Boyko slapped the table. “Welcome to the Avdiivka Hilton!”
After finishing their meal, Boyko insisted that Maros should shower first. The bathroom was in the neighboring apartment. Debris covered the floor, and drafts sliced through the broken windows, but there really was hot water.
By the time Maros returned to the kitchen, the soldiers had cleared away the food. A bottle of cognac was on the table with four shot glasses and a deck of cards.
“If you used up all the hot water, I’ll shoot you,” Boyko joked.
The boy who spoke good English filled the glasses. They drank.
Maros immediately felt the alcohol hit him. His muscles ached from the past days of walking with twenty kilos of gear. He excused himself and retreated to the room, stripped down to his underwear, and lay on the cot. As soon as he closed his eyes, he fell asleep.
He woke up to a loud bang. The building shook.
Maros jumped up. Another bang.
“They’re shelling the building!” he thought, blood rushing to his head. He grabbed his bulletproof vest from the wall, put it on, and donned his helmet. Another bang. The light bulb above swayed, and fine dust drifted from the ceiling.
“Boyko!” he yelled. Barefoot, he rushed down the stairs. The three soldiers stood at the window, smoking. The kitchen light was off.
Seeing him rush in, in just his underwear and bulletproof vest, they all burst into laughter.
“You must really love this stuff if you even sleep in it,” Boyko said.
“Damn it, they’re shelling the building.”
“They’re using 82-millimeter mortars.”
“And?” Maros asked, feeling his face flush. He gasped for air, trying to calm down.
“If they don’t hit the window, it’s fine.”
“And if they do? Isn’t it better to have the vest on?”
“If they hit, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.” Another explosion shook the building.
“Want to see where they’re shooting from?” Boyko asked.
Maros stepped next to him at the window. In the distance, white flashes popped in the dark.
“Is it like this every night?” he asked.
“Every night.”
“I don’t get how you can stay so calm.”
“God’s already decided everything, no reason to worry,” Boyko replied.
“Go try to sleep a bit.”
Maros returned upstairs, hesitating over his cot before choosing to keep his bulletproof vest on. He lay listening to the distant thuds of mortar shells and the pulsing of his own blood in the darkness. Eventually, as dawn approached, he fell asleep.
He woke up to Boyko shaking his shoulder.
“Good morning.”
“Morning. Are we heading out to the trenches today?” Maros asked, avoiding talking about the night’s events. He felt ashamed.
“Not today.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s Sunday.”
“So?”
“We’re going to mass. Get dressed, we’re leaving in half an hour. I brought you some coffee.”
“Do I need the vest?” Maros asked.
“Yes,” Boyko replied, setting down a metal mug and leaving the room.
Maros quickly dressed, tightened the straps of his vest around his chest, gulped down the coffee, and headed out.
Outside the building, four SUVs were parked. Boyko waved from one of them.
“After mass, we can actually check out the trench,” Boyko said as Maros climbed into the back seat.
They traveled along a bullet-scarred asphalt road, following the BTR from last night’s post outside their building. The sun was bright, casting a green glow on the forest lining the road. After twenty minutes weaving through trees, they arrived at a deserted town, passing dilapidated mud houses and ruins. The sound of crunching glass echoed under their tires on the main street, where windows lay shattered by air pressure.
“Did anyone stay?” Maros asked.
“No.”
At the village’s edge, they stopped by a low farmhouse on a hillside. The yard was littered with ammunition boxes and Kalashnikovs and RPGs propped against the wall. Ukrainian soldiers lounged in the shade or chatted nearby.
Near the pigsty, a white-clothed table displayed a gilded cross and chalice. Silence fell as a priest in a grey cassock entered, knelt before the cross, stood, donned a yellow stole, and started speaking.
The soldiers gathered around and listened.
Speaking extensively in Ukrainian, which Maros couldn’t grasp, he began photographing the scene. He captured the soldiers, including tattooed men he never imagined in church, and everyone partaking in communion. This included Boyko, receiving the host and wine from the priest at the altar.
Laughter and jokes resumed among the men as the mass concluded and the priest, along with the two accompanying officers, went inside.
“Got a cigarette?” Boyko asked Maros.
“Yeah.”
They lit up.
Maros stared at the tattoos on Boyko’s large hands, shaking his head, perplexed.
“Well, let’s head out to the trench. It’s not far,” Boyko finally said.
They climbed into an SUV with four other soldiers, driving along a dirt road and then cutting across a field. The SUV swayed through the tall wheat, like a boat on the waves.
“When we get there, we’ll need to run about ten meters to reach cover, okay? Stay close to me.”
“Okay.”
“You’re very quiet.”
“I just don’t understand something.”
“What’s that?”
“Yesterday you said God has already decided everything.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you pray?”
“To get Him to change His mind,” said Boyko, locking and loading his assault rifle.
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Sándor Jászberényi (pronounced Shahn-dor Yahs-ber-ay-nee) is a Hungarian war correspondent. Over the past twenty years, he has reported on events such as the Arab Spring in Egypt and Libya, various Israeli operations in the Gaza Strip, and the rise and fall of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. Since 2014, he has been actively covering the Ukrainian struggle against the Russian invasion. Notably, he remained in Kyiv during the Russian siege in 2022, among the few journalists who did so. He is the author of the critically acclaimed short story collection The Devil Is a Black Dog: Stories from the Middle East and Beyond (first English edition published by New Europe Books in 2014; UK/Commonwealth edition published by Scribe in 2015). His writing has been featured in publications such as the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times Magazine, AGNI, and the Brooklyn Rail. He divides his time between Budapest and Cairo.
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