***

A huge jeep speeds down the road. The serviceman is driving, a golden cross glowing on his uniform. A young woman sits right beside him in the front seat, her face turned toward the window. She’s dressed in black, with red eyes and bruises underneath that match her clothes. A small cross with a picture of Jesus hangs around her neck, which contrasts with her appearance.

The man breaks the silence:

— Your father worked the guys hard at the training ground. Once, he checked their first aid kits. There was everything: condoms and… Fucking nothing was labeled, of course. He threw everything out and taught them how to assemble their kits. And he yelled at them: “Don’t you understand that this kit can save your lives?!” But he also felt sorry for them… Young, no wives, no kids yet, throwing themselves into the war. He didn’t understand them: Whom are they defending?

The young woman stops looking at the window and listens carefully to him, then turns her eyes away. Tears well up in her eyes. She silently cries, trying to hold back her pain.

Rows of small houses follow landscapes with trees. A cross decorated with ribbons welcomes travellers at the entrance of the village.

The car stops near one of these houses.

— I have some errands to do. See you, girl.

The young woman opens the door and falls out of the car.

“Thank you,” her glance softens for a moment. She slams the door, not giving him a chance to say a word. She wants no words. What sense do they have anyway?

She stands in front of the fence. Dead silence reigns in the backyard. It feels as if the backyard is pressing against her, and she doesn’t resist but instead chooses a different direction.

The village is dead silent. No voices of people or sounds of cattle. It’s God’s Sunday. Everyone is at the church. Out of habit or clouded by the pain in her head, Maria goes to that church.

She takes a black scarf from her belt and places it on her head before entering the church. An urban fashion becomes part of a rite. She crosses herself mechanically and enters God’s house, which used to be her second home.

The Sunday service continues. That’s where all the people gathered. Maria gazes at the stunning icons all around the church. She stops near the icon of Jesus, rubs her eyes, trying to pull herself together. When she finally regains her focus, she hears the sounds. Disgust fills her ears. The priest and parishioners skillfully sing the anthem dedicated to God in the russian language. Time seems to stand still in the village as people adhere to traditions.

Maria steps back and nearly stumbles upon a woman who is on her knees, crossing herself every five seconds without stopping. Her eyes, as if obsessed, are fixed ahead, and all of this is accompanied by a wide smile that you could only find in a madhouse. Church rituals as they are.

Maria’s stomach is seemingly tied up, and her legs carry her out of the church without even her head’s command. The world begins to spin, and her stomach keeps sending sharp, painful signals. She takes the scarf off her head and leans on the fence.

Maria’s grandmother dashes from the church.

— God, my dear, what happened? Are you feeling unwell?

Maria remains silent; an answer is boiling in her mind.

— Maybe you’re exhausted after the road. Good that you’re finally here. It’s a pity that such circumstances forced you, but at last, you arrived.

— Are you serious or kidding now? What is happening here?

— Good Lord, this mommy’s bile-like attitude is spilling out of you again. What's wrong?

— Do you want to hold a funeral service for father here? Really? And pray together for Ukraine and its hero in russian?

— Yes, where else? Do you see any other church in the neighborhood? We baptized him here, he visited this church. And he finishes his path here. At home.

— He didn’t visit this church. He fought for your right to live without worries. And you can’t even respect his wish — to cancel everything russian.

— Darling, God is one. We don’t pray for russia here. Church is church.

— We won’t hold his funeral here. If he had heard this, he would have turned in his coffin. I won’t let this happen.

— Then what, we will just throw him into the ground?

— Better to throw him into the ground!

The young woman ends the conversation and paces away from the church. Her eyes are filled with tears, and she doesn't see anything; her legs carry her to the field. What started as a quick walk turns into a run, and then she slips and falls. Her pain is no longer hidden. It cuts through the air with a loud cry. Her body seems to pull itself into the ground.

Pain drains all her strength, leaving her exhausted and helpless. Her legs carry her to a former home. Grandmother talks with grandfather in the kitchen. But once grandma hears someone approaching, she quiets down and cuts off her sentence.

"When will he arrive here?" Maria asks. Her voice has no power to argue.

Grandpa looks at grandma, and the moment he opens his mouth to say something, she interrupts:

“The day after tomorrow.”

“They are running late. We need to talk and resolve this calmly,” Maria continues, “We can hold his funeral in our church, but let his chaplain do it. Vasyl. You know him. He drove me here. Father would want it.”

“Let’s sleep on it, dear. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

The young woman exhales and walks to her room. Grandfather shakes his head, sadly lowering his eyes to the floor. Grandmother crosses herself and prays.

Morning. Sunlight streams through the curtains. The young woman slowly opens her eyes and stretches. She sits on the bed for a moment, shedding the remnants of her dream, then gets up on her feet. She walks out of the room into the hallway, and her eyes fall on the mirror covered in black fabric. She moves into another room where she sees similar pieces of cloth covering other mirrors.

“Grandma, grandpa!” she screams. She shouts louder, but no one answers. Dead silence in the house.

The feeling of horror and disgust consumes her. She rushes out of the house in her white nightgown. The streets are as deserted as yesterday. But the locals have another reason today. Her legs carry the young woman to the church, where she finds the funeral service for her father underway. Breathless from anger and running, she draws attention to herself. Because of her appearance, people stare at her as if she’s a resident of a madhouse.

Maria approaches the church doors, spreads her arms wide, and blocks the entrance. She interrupts the next stage of the service.

Despair. Fear. Fear. Despair. Despair. Despair. I don’t understand. Why. Why. Why. Why.

Maria doesn’t hear anything. She runs towards the crowd from the door.

“Hands off! Hands off him, you have no right!” her screams turn into tears. The pain fuels her. She strikes at the arms, pulls the coffin, tries to save and claim what is hers. This battle becomes a tug-of-war.

Boom. It’s a disaster. The tomb falls down, hitting a couple of legs. The body lifts up. His arms spread out as if he were crucified. Maybe he was.

Shock. Judgmental glances. Some cover their mouths with their hands. Maria drops to her knees. She hears nothing, only keeps crying out. The screams shatter the silence. Does anyone care about the hero? Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame now? Who’s right? Who bears the sin, and who sins?

A young chaplain makes the sign of the cross over the hero and gently places his hand on the young woman's shoulder.