The Phantom’s Song

In his own grief Dmitriy thought about Dasha, the woman he had loved from childhood. How would he tell her that her only child was dead? How could he stand her pain? If only he could bear it for her, but he knew he could not. He could hardly bear his own pain. The shock was setting in; he could feel the numbness enveloping him. He could feel his mind slipping back into the past, unwilling to admit the present or face the future without his son. Desperately he tried to force his mind to concentrate on the present. Could it have been a mistake? Perhaps Nikolai will call to correct this unthinkable report. Perhaps he had parachuted into the jungle and would be rescued later. No! No. His discipline took over, and control was momentarily regained. The young soldier had been specific. There was no parachute. There was no beeper. The plane exploded—shot down by an American pilot. Those damned Americans! How could Dmitriy live knowing some smug American pilot was celebrating the death of his dear Nikolai? Dmitriy slammed his fist on his desk; it was an old, large, brown desk, and like Dmitriy it was not without scars. He rose but then sat back down before he could move away. The discipline faded and crashed—like his career, like his son, like his life. Somewhere from the faded pages of his memory he heard the excited voice of a young boy calling him. It was a voice he had loved, and like the small boy in his memories, it invited him to a happier time in his life. Dmitriy’s mind responded and escaped the raw pain of reality; he smiled and whispered his dead son’s name.