Morning arrived once again and the food slit opened in the door, allowing some outside light. A guard slid Deni’s breakfast tray inside. Deni stood from his bed and walked do the door to get his food. He sat back on his bed and grumbled, “Fucking grits,” he said, but starving, he cleaned the bowl.
Sometime later, Deni couldn’t tell, the guard opened the door. “Your attorney’s here,” he said.
Within minutes, Deni was inside the interview room. He rested his right elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. The dark room surrounded by gray cement walls was cold and it gave him the chills. He imagined all the conversations that went on within these walls. Conversations of crimes committed, pleas for life, lies and even spouts of insanity.
The door opened and Marsha entered. She dug through her massive file and pulled out a picture of guns laid out on an aluminum table. “That’s the stock pile your brother collected. Police confiscated it from his house.”
“He was a collector,” Deni replied with a shrug. “They were all legally purchased. There is nothing illegal about owning guns in this country.”
“Unless they were used in a crime,” said Marsha.
“Were they?” questioned Deni.
“The only gun recovered that had shots fired was the gun your brother held in his hand,” said Marsha.
“The gun he had in his hand when he was giving himself up,” corrected Deni.
“Shots were freshly fired from that gun,” Marsha said.
“Are my finger prints on any of those guns?” questioned Deni.
“Yes, they have not been fired,” said Marsha.
Deni collapsed back in his seat with a smug grin.
“It doesn’t matter. You were there. Police claim there where two people firing from the house. So it was either you, your brother’s wife or a three-year-old toddler,” explained Marsha.
“That little Elena cannot be trusted with a firearm,” joked Deni. “Children learn early to handle weapons in America.”
“How about you Deni? You spent several years on a farm in Volgograd. Tell me your father or uncle didn’t place a gun in your hand?” asked Marsha.
It was a gusty September day in Volgograd. The leaves had just begun to change on the towering birch trees. Six-year-old Deni sat outside on his Uncle’s wooden bench with Bashir. He glanced up at Bashir, and then noticed his uncle and Mikail exiting the barn with a bunch of rifles which they lay on a rickety wooden table.
“It’s time you boys learn to shoot,” said Uncle Aslan. He lifted a rifle from the table. “See this one here. It’s a Gewehr 41, a Nazi assault weapon your great grandfather picked off a dead Nazi solider in the battle of Stalingrad. In fact your great grandfather was quite a collector of Nazi artifacts.”
Mikail picked up the rifle and gazed through the sight beyond the tree line. He fantasized about shooting Nazis. “Was he a soldier?”
“Everyone is a soldier,” replied Uncle Aslan. “Everyone did their part to defeat the Nazis, even your great grandmother. If you weren’t in the army, you were a Partisan. They would stop at nothing to defend Russia. The battle for Stalingrad was one of the greatest victories in the history of war and your family was a part. You should be proud.”
“If I were there at that time, I would have killed a hundred Nazis,” boasted Mikail.
“I have no doubt.” Uncle Aslan laughed.
Bashir placed the Gewehr 41 in Deni’s arms. “Now, you want to look through the sight here.”
Deni narrowed his large brown eyes and fixed his gaze on a tree trunk at the edge of the forest.
“You must be still and you must be silent—no shaking, no second guessing,” said Bashir.
Deni laid the rifle easily in his hand and rested his chin on the barrel like it was an extension of him. He stood perfectly still, focused on a singular target.
“Good. The thing with hunting,” Bashir whispered in Deni’s ear, “is you want your prey to see you, but not be afraid of you. You don’t want your prey to suspect that it is you who will be responsible for its last breath.” Bashir patted Deni’s back. “Do you understand?”
Deni nodded and pulled the trigger, hitting the tree trunk at the forest edge.
“Whoa!” Uncle Aslan said. “Save it for the birds, son.”
“Sorry,” Deni said handing the gun back to his uncle.
Uncle Aslan messed with Deni’s hair. “Not to worry. Now we know the little one is a good shot.” He glanced at Bashir and Mikail. “Tomorrow we hunt pheasants.”
Deni gazed at Marsha silently debating what to say. “It’s different. A certain amount of respect should come with a device that could take another’s life. There is fine craftsmanship of the tool, there is the learning to clean and properly care for the instrument, and even how to handle it.”
“Deni, what did I tell you about commentary?” scolded Marsha.
“I have a point to this if you let me finish. You told me I should be able to trust you, tell you anything. You said we should work as a team,” said Deni.
“You’re right,” conceded Marsha. “Go on.”
“Russia, and the rest of the world for that matter, do not have the gun violence that America has and the reason is respect and proper teaching of an instrument designed to kill. Here in America, there is no fine craftsmanship, just mass production like plastic pistols manufactured in China. The gun is treated like a toy to play with and there is no respect for the power that it contains.”
“Deni, trust me, American predilection for gun violence is something I agree with, but America’s passion for guns is not on trial here; you are,” said Marsha.
Deni shifted forward on his seat and looked Marsha in the eye. “It should be, especially in this case.”
Tracy Miller was an eager and rather bold freshman co-ed at Temple. She was friendly, flirtatious and big-chested and that’s all Deni really needed to know. He didn’t have to do too much to earn her affection. In college, the rules of dating were thrown out the window. Dating started with a hook up at a club or party, which eventually became a sexual habit, until either the passion runs out or someone better shows up. Upon Tracy’s insistence, Deni gave in to a visit with her family in Lancaster.
How bad could it actually be?
It was actually nice to get out of Philadelphia on a warm, October afternoon and head to the countryside of Lancaster County. “Maybe tomorrow night we can go look for pumpkins or go on a hayride,” Tracy said excitedly.
A hundred other things crossed Deni’s mind that sounded more exciting than looking for pumpkins.
Maybe this weekend could actually be that bad
, he thought. His mind drifted to Heather and how she was doing at William and Mary. He felt bad about not returning her call and vowed he would do that when he got back.
An hour later, Tracy drove up to a split level house on the side of a country road. The neighbors were sparse and there was a big open field behind their house. They collected their bags and Tracy excitedly urged Deni inside to meet her parents.
“Mom!” she yelled walking through the house. “Mom!”
“They’re at the market!” called out her brother from the living room. He came to greet Tracy and Deni. James, or Jimmy as his family and friends called him, sized Deni up. They were about the same height and build. Jimmy’s hair was slightly longer and shaggier than Deni’s. Jimmy determined on sight that Deni was acceptable for his sister. “Hi. I’m Jimmy. Tracy’s brother.”
Deni extended his hand. “Deni.”
“Is that like short for Dennis?” asked Jimmy.
“No. It’s Deni. That’s it.”
“That’s a funny name. Are your parents what, like hippies or artists?” questioned Jimmy. “Let me guess, you’re middle name is Moonbeam.”
“They’re Russian,” Deni replied flatly.
Jimmy stared at Deni not knowing how to respond. “Russian. I never knew a Russian. You don’t look or talk like a Russian.”
“If you never met a Russian, how would you know what they look and sound like?” questioned Deni.
Jimmy shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem like one of us. Don’t take it personally; it’s a compliment.”
“Jimmy, let him alone,” Tracy said and then guided Deni to the kitchen and offered him a seat at the kitchen table.
While Tracy poured glasses of ice tea, Jimmy leaned on the kitchen doorway and stared at Deni curiously. “Do you shoot?”
“Shoot what?” asked Deni.
“Guns, what else? Do you, or are you one of those passive liberal pussies?”
“Jimmy, leave him alone,” said Tracy.
“I’ve shot guns before,” Deni replied casually.
“Well okay then, let’s go out to our range. We gotta a whole set up in the backyard. You’re gonna love it,” said Jimmy.
Jimmy led Deni, with Tracy following behind. She grabbed onto Deni’s arm to get his attention. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to do this,” she whispered.
“It’s cool,” Deni said.
The field behind Tracy’s house was perfect for target shooting which the entire family enjoyed. They had built a wooden deck to stand on and several targets were set out at different distances—fifty yards, a hundred yards, up to three hundred yards which ended at a wooded tree line similar to Deni’s uncle’s in Volgograd.
Deni followed Tracy onto the deck where Jimmy had unloaded several guns, everything from pistols, hunting rifles and an assault rifle.
Americans really have a misguided obsession with guns
, Deni thought.
Guns in Russia had a purpose; they were either for hunting or for war, but in America guns are the fashion. In Russia, weaponry is a rite of passage to manhood and in America, guns are needed to prove manhood.
“Pick your poison,” said Jimmy. “We got all kinds of guns.”
“Where’d you get all this?” asked Deni.
“Schwab’s guns and ammo in downtown Lancaster. They got everything and what they don’t have, they can order for you. If you ever need something, I can totally set you up,” said Jimmy.
Deni glanced down at Jimmy’s arsenal and picked up one of the guns. “Ah Gewehr 41,” said Deni.
“You know it?” questioned Jimmy curiously.
Deni gazed through the sight and saw the targets in the distance. “My great grandfather lifted one off a dead Nazi. I learned to shoot with it.”
“Yeah, if you think that’s cool, check out these targets.” Jimmy pulled out a couple cardboard cutout targets; one was of President Obama and another was Osama Bin Laden.
“Jimmy, put those away. You’re embarrassing me,” said Tracy.
Jimmy ignored Tracy. “Which one you do you want? Which Muslim, do you want to shoot at, Obama or Osama?”
Deni glanced at the two cardboard cutouts. This weekend had just turned out to be worse than he could have anticipated. A part of Deni wanted to confess his faith to Jimmy, but there was a stockpile of weapons and he decided that it was better to go with life over principle. This jerk just wasn’t worth it. “Whatever you want,” he said.
“Okay, let’s go with Osama. Haven’t shot at him in a while,” said Jimmy. He ran out into the range and placed the cardboard paper target at two hundred yards. When he returned to the deck he said excitedly, “Okay Ruski, let’s see what you got.”
Deni raised the rifle and gazed through the sight and found the cartoon eyes of Osama Bin Laden. It was an easy mark for him, but in present company he wondered if he should take it.
Jimmy laughed. “Just what I thought—a liberal pussy.”
Glancing through the sight, Deni spied a large hawk high in the branches.
Six-year-old Deni lifted his gaze just above the grass in a Volgograd field and saw a pheasant a few yards in front of him. He sat back on his heels and silently picked up his rifle. Letting it rest easily in his small hand, he rested his chin on the barrel and saw the pheasant in the sight. The pheasant turned and looked in Deni’s direction and Deni shot. The bird stood still for a second as if shocked, and then fell over.
Deni stared at the hawk through the sight and pulled the trigger. The hawk fell through the leaves of the trees and landed in the woods with a loud thud. Both Jimmy and Tracy looked at Deni in disbelief, as he handed the rifle back to Jimmy. “Shit, looks like I missed your target, Jimmy.”
“You just killed an innocent bird,” said Tracy astonished.
“Man, that’s fucked up!” exclaimed Jimmy.
“Guns aren’t toys,” said Deni, “They are meant to kill. If you’re not prepared to kill, then you shouldn’t play with toys.”
“This is not playing,” said Jimmy offended. “This is practice.”
Deni leaned against the wooden rail of the porch. “For what?”
“Terrorists, the government,” said Jimmy. “You never know when someone is going to take away our freedoms.”
The irony of Americans and their fear of losing their freedoms, when they have no clue how the rest of world lives in fear because of American oppression
, he thought. He was just about to lecture Jimmy on freedom telling him about the atrocities of his homeland, but he realized he would be talking to empty space. “That’s right,” he conceded.
There is just too much empty space in America
and it is between the ears of most of them. What’s the point of explaining anything?