Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROShILOVGRAD

to turn here, otherwise we could bump into the farmers farther down. We’re at war with them.” “What are you fighting for?” I asked. “Isn’t it obvious?” Tolik asked, surprised. “To expand our sphere of influence. Sure, in all honesty, sometimes we do cross over into their territory now and again. But, you know, we have to hide our shit somewhere,” he explained. “We leave everything out in their fields. That’s capitalism for you. Anyway… they’re waiting for us out there,” Tolik said, looking off into the distance. Only now did I notice that his right eye was glass. Maybe that’s why he’d looked so mysterious to me. Now he was laughing heartily again— he was an easygoing guy, it seemed, despite everything; living in a warzone wasn’t

“Herman?” the soccer star asked. “Yura’s brother?” “Yep.” Tolik broke out into amiable laughter. Then he remembered his fellow travelers and started introducing me to them. “That’s Gosha,” he said, pointing at the pot-bellied man. “He showed us the shortcut. We were like plantation owners,” Tolik said, pointing at the machete, “cutting our way toward you. Yeah, and that’s Siryozha, Gosha’s son. He’s studying at the local community college. He’s going to be an engineer— well, maybe.” Siryozha, continuing to listen to his music, waved at us. Gosha gave the presbyter a long and heartfelt handshake. “We went straight through the fields on purpose,” Tolik explained to the presbyter, “to cut you off. It’d be best

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