Letting yourself die

“You can't do things like that,” Sister Smith said, panting, as she caught up. “This is just how things work here.”

V paced, fuming, on the packed snow and ice. She made angry, guttural sounds as she ground her teeth. “So what, we just, just take it?” She hissed through her teeth.

“If you fight it you'll be fighting your whole mission.”

They were standing a few streets away from their apartment building, in an accidental courtyard created by poor city planning. Rapid development. Those courtyards were everywhere in Gyumri. 20 years ago, the city had been devastated by an earthquake; it had never recovered. Half the people they visited lived in traincars. Domiks, they called them – each family that was left homeless was issued one by the Soviet government. They were supposed to be temporary.

Gyumri had once been beautuful – “more beautiful than Paris”, people would say. Streets lined with fruit trees, dripping with color. Beautiful apartments, with fresco ceilings and walls hung with persian rugs. A rich history oozing out of rich architecture; well planned streets with historic names, a majestic cathedral. In the summer, people would come from all over Armenia to walk the streets, filling their noses with the scents of prosperity, filling their bodies with the tastes of the north.

Sometimes V would walked the cracked streets and imagine what it was like. What it would be like to visit a city that was so different than anything she had ever seen, ever known. But in the end, her mind couldn't override the suppressing bleakness of what stretched out before her.

It's an exoskeleton of what it once was; hollow hauntings of past grandeur. Evidence of suffering is the only thing they eye can see; heaps of rubble, 2 stories high, where tall hotels used to be. Concrete and steel wrapped around each other, as lovers, frozen in the act of lovemaking. What was once beautiful, an expression of deep affection, has now become horrifying, as steely bones and concrete flesh jutt out at odd angles. Who knows how many bodies were crushed and buried in those mass graves, marked only by the rotting remains of what once was.

So as women wandered the streets, looking for fathers, children, mothers, and as men stumbled from body to body, hoping to find their loved ones alive, families stombled into domiks. Haphazardly placed shantytowns that created makeshift neighborhoods. Each with its own courtyard, where the families could come to the spicket to get water. It was in the center of one of these shared commons where they stood. Sister Smith was wearing her black coat, with the tan toggles. The one that had a broken zipper. Every evening, when they came home, it was a team effort to remove the heavy wool. Sister smith would push both sides together as V would grab the broken zipper with a pair of scissors and yank it downward. If they weren't so tired, they might have found it funny.

They had been walking home from church that day – just under a mile on Shirakatsi poghods. V would get excited as they got closer to their apartment – going inside meant a short respite from the cold. It meant food. It meant rest. As misionaries, they were allowed 2 precious hours during the day to eat, an hour each for lunch and dinner. But most took them together, to get some extra sleep in. Mission rules are rigorous, and even slight disobedience is frowned upon by all. Your adherence to these rules was representative of your love for God, your love for what you were doing. They were to wake up promply at 6:30am, retire at 10:30pm. Study from the hours of 8:00am-11:00am, work for the rest of the day.

Except those two hours.

So as they traipsed along, slipping along the packed ice, Sister Smith would try to talk to people – try to share the message they had volunteered to share. V would hurry along, trying to speed them up so they could get home. So she could warm her stomach with familiar food, warm her body near the heater. Talk of who they were, talk of what they believed. The things they missed, the things they loved. As they finally approached their cement building, rounding the back, V began trotting. Actually smiling. Two practices that rarely happened anymore.

Their apartment building was 3 stories tall, made of thick soviet cement, with stores along the front. A few small markets, where they would get their food a few times a week. Their apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs in a dark, poorly lit hallway. Razmik had drawn jewish stars all over the walls. There were a few seperate entrances, all of which were framed by a heavy steel door. Rusted.

As they approached their door, Sister Smith led the way. V barely noticed the teenage Armenian, dark haired and heavy browed, smoking a cigarette in their entrance. Being the naturally observant type, however, she did take note of his thick sweater, his tight jeans, and the pointy shoes he wore on his feet. Armenian men always wear pointy shoes. Sister Smith, friendly as always, muttered “hello” as she walked by. He nodded. V followed close behind. She only had one thing on her mind. Food. And as she passed, something unexpected happened.

At first she was so shocked that she didn't even know what was the correct emotion to feel. And then it came. Hot, fast, and overwhelming. Anger. Pulsing through her, starting at the point where his hand had made contact with her body and spreading rapidly outward. When it reached her fingertips, it would shoot back up her harms to her throat. She turned on her heel, and stared him straight in the face. I guess he had decided that spanking an attractive foreigner would be a good idea. Or maybe he just acted on impulse.

“vai!” he exclaimed as she came toward him with her arm raised in the air.

“How DARE you! You have no RIGHT!” She began to scream. Her Armenian got better when she was angry. He, suddenly terrified, not realizing that with American redheads, undesired spankings have very undersirable consequences, grabbed the steel door and slammed it shut, blocking his frail body from her strong one with the slab of corroded metal. Suddenly, he bacame aware of just how thin that door really was, seperating him from the squall of female anger just inches from him. It seemed to heat the steel. He leaned all his weight on this, his las protection, as she pushed, hard, from the other side. He didn't care that looked ridiculous as he took off running. His only thoughts were to get as much distance between him and the fury on the other side of that door. V lifted her right leg on her side. Kicked, hard. By the time the door swung violently open and smashed into the crumbling wall, he was halfway down the alley. Running as fast as he knew how. She ripped off her bag, dropping it in the snow, and ran after him. She was going to make him pay.

Sister Smith trotted behind. By this point, she had learned; Just let V have her way, and get angry. And then she gets over it.

But this time, it was different. As V paced in the snow, she felt furious. And she felt justified in feeling furious. That she would never just give in. Let things happen.

That was the first time.

Eventually V did give in. More like she just let part of her die. Her self- respect.

So lets fast forward, a few months down the road.

She and Sister Smith stood on one of the main circles, V organizing her money she had just received, seperating it into weeks and categories – week 1, taxis. Week 1, food. Week 2.... Smith was pulling out the money in increments, just as they had been taught to do. Armenian ATMs wouldn't let you take out more than 20,000 dram at a time, so it took 5 seperate transactions to take out the money for the whole month. They would stand as close as possible, one focusing on hiding the large bills as quickly as possible – no use showing off their “wealth” - the other standing guard. By this point, V had stopped making eye contact with men. Any men. She had dyed her hair dark. She had stopped wearing color, or makeup, or jewelry. And so as they walked by, she didn't really notice. She tried not to. One came closer than the others. Too close. And before she knew it, he had grabbed her with his gloved hand. Sister Smith barely noticed as she gasped, paralyzed as he gripped that surprised part of her. He held on for just a moment – just long enough. Long enough to cause her to close her eyes. She disn't fight it. She just muttered “its fine”.

“What's fine?” Sister Smith asked, not even allowing her eyes to flicker from the ATM screen.

“Everything. Everything's fine.”