Zhukov the Cadet

The foyer was filled with thick red carpet, emblazoned with intricate patterns of silver and black ribbons that caught the eye, and covered the cold stone floor completely. The furniture was carved from the wood of the surrounding forest. Stained such a deep brown that the pieces looked almost black. The space was cold, and the only sounds were of the ticking of an antique clock accompanied by the rhythmic typing of the Headmaster’s secretary. A woman who looked ancient, but refused to stop working. As if her presence at that desk was simply another constant of the universe.

We had been waiting for twenty minutes already, but my blood was still pumping. My ribs hurt and my trousers were torn, but otherwise I was fine. The upperclassmen sitting next to me on the bench was not. He was wheezing and trying to hide it. I pulled a piece of nicotine-dosed gum from my inner jacket pocket, contraband here at the Citadel, and slipped it into his palm. He took it immediately. Hiding slow chews as his breathing eased. Fresh blood was slowly seeping through what remained of his right sleeve and he was doing his best to keep it contained.

“Why do it?” I asked of the taller boy. I had to know. His eyes were closed as he kept pressure on the wound with his opposite hand, the secretary remained devoutly focused on her work. Apparently, the presence of wounded Cadets was not an uncommon occurrence here.

“Why?” he responded with a slight chuckle and pained wince, “For one I’ve never liked Gregor or his family. Two, he had a knife, and you did not. Three, I’ve never liked Gregor or his family.” I pulled my uniform’s kerchief and began to tie it around his arm, cinching the knot over the gash to keep pressure.

I kept prying, “And that was enough to spur you into diving off a table during dinner, stab him in the shoulder, and get cut for your efforts?” I checked the snugness of the dressing and glanced at the secretary. She kept typing, oblivious, or indifferent.

“That’s correct,” he coughed, and I stared at him in confusion. He finally opened his eyes, and upon seeing my face he laughed, immediately wincing hard again. He spoke softly, “My name is Kalchomich. I am one of your class supervisors in the Machine Shop. I have watched Gregor accost you and other members of your class since the start of school, but you always stood up to him. Even when it would end badly for you. At dinner, when he threatened you, I simply had enough. So, I put a stop to it.” Kalchomich leaned back and focused on chewing while I attempted to make sense of his logic.

A dull buzzer went off at the secretary’s desk and her constant typing ceased. She looked directly at us over half-moon glasses, “The Headmaster will see you now.” Then promptly went back to her keyboard and screen.

I made to stand, but Kalchomich grabbed my arm, his pained eyes looking right through me, “We stand up for the good ones, because if we don’t, then soon there will not be any left.” I heard his words then, but it would be years until I understood them. At the time I was more focused on helping him stand. The bottom of his right trouser leg was doing a poor job of hiding a very swollen, very broken, ankle. The landing after his initial attack had not been a good one. Taking his arm across my shoulders, I helped him up and we pushed our way into the Headmaster’s office together.

My name is Vladimir Zhukov, and that was the first dead hero I have met.