Fire in the Snow by Daryna Yakovenko

Countless people have walked through the alleys of Lychakiv Cemetery

every day for many decades now. Over the years, he has witnessed countless stories - mostly tragic, of course. Myriads of souls rest here: from haughty Polish lords to young Sich Riflemen. For a time, even NKVD officers and party officials lay here. Yes, the cemetery did not turn away a single body, even if the soul had rotted away while the person was still alive. That is what a cemetery is for.

But one story moved even the granite - the one that happened in February 1942. Back then, when the Soviet authorities were completely enraged, they ordered the demolition of monuments and the digging up of graves to make room for mass burials.

That day, the blizzard swirled among the crosses like a mother who had just buried her child - indescribably sorrowful and tender at the same time. Snow covered the headstones like a shroud for the dead. And suddenly - footsteps. A young woman bursts into the cemetery. Out of breath, exhausted, pale as one of the deceased. She stops to clear her throat and spits blood into a silk handkerchief, once snow-white. Her eyes are like broken glass: blue, with countless burst capillaries. They dart about confused, searching for shelter. At the last moment, she spots a half-ruined chapel—the Soviets had recently smashed the windows and doors there. She runs inside, losing her scarf in the snow mixed with mud.

A few minutes passed. Soldiers entered the cemetery in greatcoats, their caps adorned with blood-red stars.

“Damn it, where is she?!” one of them yelled and, enraged, began kicking the tombstones with his boot.

That was the day they knocked off angel`s head and wings. The “Guardians of Order” left nothing but utter destruction in their wake.

Meanwhile, the woman sat in the shadow of the chapel, praying quietly. She wore only a light nun’s habit and worn-out shoes. She did not tremble - only swayed slightly from time to time, as if her body, under the pressure of the cold, refused to obey.

A small package wrapped in linen was clutched between her fingers. She was supposed to deliver it—the last letter from the underground, the last proof that the resistance was still alive.

Soon, a young man of about twenty, thin, with a bandaged shoulder. He coughed softly so as not to startle the woman. She silently handed the man the package, tenderly resting her hand on his for a second. He nodded and took a small bottle of horilka and two shot glasses out of his pocket. They drank without a toast.

For a moment, it seemed that they were about to kiss, but then the young woman burst into coughing, and it became clear that it wouldn`t happen.

There was a sense in the air that they were saying goodbye forever.

The man wanted to hug her, but the girl subtly gestured with her eyes toward the bloodstained handkerchief.

Then he left.

The girl approached the headless angel statue. She carefully picked up the fragment and put it back in place, as if she wanted to restore at least a semblance of wholeness.

“You’re the only one who saw it now,” she whispered hoarsely, almost soundlessly.

Soon, from a distance, came a piercing scream and gunshots. She knew - they had caught him. And then she took matches out of her pocket. She lit the first one. The flame licked the edge of the wooden door. The second. The third.

When the soldiers ran up, the chapel was already ablaze. They shouted, tried to put it out, but the fire wouldn’t listen to anyone. The girl stood in the midst of the fire - steady, calm, as if already set free. They did not take her alive.

Fearing punishment, they dug a pit near the chapel and threw two bodies into it - hers and the young man’s.

The marble of the monuments standing nearby preserved their spirit for a long time - her cold calm, his wild scream, and a weightless hint of ephemeral love. Their souls wandered here until the world remembered what freedom meant. In 1991, when the red star fell, the stone angel felt warmth for the first time in half a century.