Every morning, when I wake up, I ask myself the same question: should I go for a workout or not? Lately, though, I'm more likely to walk than run to the sports ground, which is about twelve minutes from my home. It's a beautifully equipped facility with excellent exercise equipment, surrounded by a fence, and guarded around the clock by four security personnel. (Otherwise, there'd be nothing left of it—everything would be stolen or broken. That’s the way people here are.)
I arrived at the ground and climbed onto the bench for back extensions and ab crunches. I grunted and sweated, reminiscing about my youth.
After about ten repetitions, I sat upright on the bench. I looked up and saw a little boy standing in front of me, pale and fair-haired. A short distance away, a man was strolling, presumably the boy's father.
"What's your name, little one?" I asked. "Alyosha," he replied. "And how old are you?" The boy said nothing. "He’s four,” said a man who had overheard my question.
I caught my breath, got off the bench, and walked over to the man. "Just the one?" I asked, nodding toward the boy.
"That's right. Just one."
"Too few. You should work on that."
"Nope, production's closed," the man said. "I'm almost fifty, and my wife isn't much younger. It's good we at least managed this one. I wanted a daughter, but a son came out."
"That's good too."
"Of course, it's good," my interlocutor agreed. "I have a friend and his wife, younger than me, who tried to have a child for six years. Nothing worked. In the end, they did IVF. Now they're raising a son. Do you have any children?"
"I have a son and a daughter. And even grandchildren."
The man looked at the clouds floating across the sky, then cast an affectionate gaze at the pale boy, pondered something, and suddenly said, "My little heir. I adore him."
"Understandable. Parental feelings are universal."
“His mother simply worships him. I can’t describe how much she loves him."
"I can imagine. My daughter's children were a long time coming, too."
"God forbid anything happens to him. I'd go crazy. And my wife wouldn't want to live."
"That’s true, of course, but it's better not to go there."
"How can I not?! How many sons have been brought back in coffins from Ukraine already?"
"As of September 2022, around six thousand. That's what the Minister of Defense officially stated."
"But that was three years ago! There have been a lot more since then."
"Of course."
"Train carloads of corpses! Who needs this?"
"If it's happening, it means someone needs it."
"I think politicians need it, and those who've latched onto power. They call themselves patriots, but they sit in comfort and buy property abroad. They settle their children there. But my Alyosha—into the meat grinder?"
"By the time he grows up, God willing, the war will be over."
"They'll just stir up a new one. No, guys, this arrangement doesn't work for me. I'll die trying, but I won't give up my son."
"And if something happens, who will defend the Motherland?"
"I'll go with my son myself. But everyone should pull their weight. In the Great Patriotic War, even Stalin's children went to the front. And what's happening now—is that fair?"
"I believe there's no such thing as justice in politics at all. It's always a tangle of someone's interests, disguised by pretty words," I said and stepped aside.
I decided it was pointless to further discuss the problems of justice in politics with a stranger. I sat back down on the bench and resumed my ab crunches.
Translated by James McVay
