It proved to be the intoxicating odor emanating from the next store that drew Valenko inside.
Since his youth, the local bakery had been Valenko’s favorite store to visit. Tugged along by the patient hand of his mother, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sweet, fragrant scent of freshly risen bread and baked pastries. And he still found this perfume irresistible.
Many fond memories rose in his consciousness as he examined the simple shop. Rows of crusty breads were prominently displayed. Some of the loaves were of the darkest brown, while others were created from the purest white flour. Beside this rack was a platter of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.
With his mouth watering, he stationed himself in the inevitable line of anxious consumers.
The wait didn’t appear to be that bad, and Valenko spent this time watching the bakers as they skillfully plied their trade. Utilizing flat, wooden pallets, they slid the uncooked loaves into the ovens, careful to remove any items that were sufficiently cooked. With his thoughts lost in this simple process, he was conveyed back to reality only by a persistent tugging on his right sleeve.
“Excuse me, young man,” greeted the robust, whitehaired babushka who stood in line behind him.
“I couldn’t help noticing that you carry no sack to place your purchases in.”
Suddenly aware of this fact, Valenko smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“You are most correct. Comrade.
I’ve been at sea so long that I’ve forgotten what it takes to go shopping on land. I guess that means I can only take what I can presently eat.”
“Nonsense,” the old woman said firmly.
“You’re much too skinny already. Take this extra bag that I always carry in case a bargain comes my way.”
As she shoved a cotton-mesh string-bag into his hands, Valenko tried to protest. “I won’t hear of such a thing,” he pleaded.
To this, the babushka merely took a step back and shook her head wisely.
“Of course you will, brave sailor. You know, my husband was in the navy during the Great War. They say I lost my dearest to a German torpedo, somewhere in the North Atlantic.
Just a his sacrifice kept us free, so does your present service. Please do this tired old woman the honor of repaying her gratitude in this very small way.”
Touched by these words, Valenko relented. But his response was cut short as a brusque voice shouted out, “Next!”
Now with the means to transport it, the naval officer chose two loaves of black bread, two of rye and one white. He added to this three dozen oatmeal cookies. As the clerk began filling this last part of the order, the babushka’s voice once again screamed out.
“Not those cookies, young woman! Give him some from that fresh batch you just took out of the oven.
This man you serve is one of our honored heroes!”
Blushing with the compliment, Valenko looked on in amazement as the clerk emptied the cookies she had been loading and began replacing them with those from the upper tray. His astonishment was doubled when the clerk handed him his bag of treasures and then waved away his money.
Any protest on his part was deflected by a firm tug on his coat sleeve.
“You deserve only the best,” offered the proud babushka.
“Now, go enjoy the hospitality that awaits you in our humble city.”
Knowing nothing better to do but kiss the old lady on each cheek, Valenko grasped the mesh bag after thanking the bakery clerk once again. He left to a chorus of kind grins from those in the line behind.
Once out on the street, a feeling of great inner warmth possessed him.
So, his sacrifice was appreciated after all! Fumbling for one of the cherished oatmeal cookies, he became filled with renewed conviction.
When serving one’s country, a soldier too often forgets his true purpose. The gun between civilians and the military really wasn’t that great after all. Convinced of this fact, he proceeded with a light step, careful to meet the admiring stares of all those he passed.
He was well into his third cookie when a particularly frigid blast of wind sent him reeling. A cold, dark shadow permanently veiled the heavens, and Valenko realized that the short Siberian day was already drawing to a close. Conscious of the passing hour, he knew that there was still one more stop he would have to make before continuing on to Stefan Kuzmin’s apartment.
Though he had never shopped in this particular establishment before, he had admired its colorful display windows on several past visits. To reach this spot, he was forced to cross Leninsky Prospekt, one of the cities busiest thoroughfares. The tangle of traffic that he had encountered outside of the base seemed tame compared to the jam of vehicles he now faced.
This scene proved that even such isolated cities as Petropavlovsk had their version of the infamous rush hour.
Faced with a seemingly infinite line of trucks, buses and cars, Valenko took his place at the corner with a handful of other pedestrians. Only when the light finally changed in their favor did they dare try to cross. Protected by the two thick white lines of the crosswalk, they bravely moved forward across the eight traffic lanes.
Chilled and anxious to reach his final destination, Valenko led the way. The majority of those who followed were babushkas and children.
Taking it for granted that he had the proper right of way, the young naval officer hurried to the opposite curb. All seemed clear, when a large black van suddenly shot from the line of stopped traffic. So quick was its approach that Valenko only saw it at the last moment.
Spying the vehicle out of the corner of his eye, he could hardly believe it when the driver failed to hit his brakes. The fool was actually accelerating! Was the idiot blind?
For a fraction of a second, Valenko faltered. Standing in the middle of the roadway, with the van hurtling toward him, he could go either backward or forward. Standing where he was would only gain him death.
Just as the van’s bright lights hit him full in the eyes, he chose the direction in which he had been initially moving. Like a ponderous nightmare, he did all that he could to sprint to the safety of the beckoning curb Fighting his leaden, cold limbs, he summoned that reservoir of strength each of us holds for just such do-or-die emergencies. With long, fluid strides, Valenko leaped toward the safety of the sidewalk.
A chorus of blaring horns and shocked screams supported this superhuman effort.
Only when he was firmly behind the safety of the steel signal light did he turn his head and check the van’s progress. Just as he did so, the black vehicle whisked by him, only inches away. It appeared as if the madman had been intentionally trying to run him down! Unable to catch sight of the driver or the license number, Valenko felt fortunate just to be alive.
Sucking in his breath, he looked up as the van disappeared around the corner and the other pedestrians caught up with him.
“Do you believe that fool?” cried a shocked babushka.
“The total idiots they allow on the roads nowadays. Just the other day a limousine almost ran me down on this exact same corner.”
“Are you all right. Comrade?” offered a fragile, grayhaired old man, who held onto a packed mesh bag much like Valenko’s.
“Where is the militia when you really need them?”
Thanking the elder for his concern, Valenko offered an explanation.
“I guess I was in such a hurry to cross that I failed to see the van miss the light. I’ll have to be extra cautious next time.”
“That’s something each of us needs in abundance these days,” returned the old-timer.