Soviet Girl 1 (fiction)

Back in the days when I was a little girl in Soviet Russia, I used to live just outside the village of Kimjeco. It was a pleasant ramble of shacks and huts nestled in the cliffs of the East, just above the jungle. Each day I'd climb down the sides of the rocks and boulders to play on the edge of the dense foliage, and in the swamps. I climbed up trees, swung on vines, and talked with the Indian Gavials that would lazily meander by. It was a delightful area of a war torn country, with no exposure to the hardships that plagued Moscow and other cities. That is… until that one day...

One day while clinging to a thin tree, I heard a bazaar sound. Something familiar, like footsteps in the mud. I turned around to see a man, an American, standing in front of me, clad entirely in camouflage right down to the paint on his face. My tiny lungs filled with air as I prepared to scream, but at the last minute, he clasped a firm hand over my mouth.

"Don't be afraid." he said in flawless Russian. "I'm a CIA operative, only hear to learn; not hurt anyone. I know this might seem scary to someone as small as you, but you need to keep the fact that we met a secret, okay?"

I looked up at him contemplatively, and for a second I almost agreed.

"Wait." I told him. "I won't tell anyone, but I want to come with you. I want you to take me to the other side of the iron curtain."

"That's impossible!" he said.

"Maybe. But the very fact that you're here is a violation of international law. If you were exposed, your government would deny knowledge to prevent Khrushchev from becoming belligerent. Really, who wouldn't be angry that they were having spies invading their country? And you, Mr. CIA would be left to the mercy of either the jungle, or the KGB, who would eventually come to pick you up."

I have to say that I was a smart little kid.

The agent looked at me aghast. He knew it was all true, and that he had no choice in the matter at this point. He'd been painted into a corner by an eight year old. His continence shifted to desperation. His brow furrowed. It was clear he was trying frantically to think of a response. We stood there, ankle deep in warm mud for several seconds, never breaking eye contact.

Finally, he sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was looking to the left, over my shoulder. He stared into the distance for several long moments. My vision stayed locked him. That is, until he squinted his eyes and a look of shock and surprise crossed his face. I whirled around to see what he’d spotted.

Nothing.

I glared, and turned around to meet him again, but I wasn't met with an American. I was met with nothing. Not a man. Not an American. Nothing left behind. Not even footprints in the muck. He was gone without a trace.

And there I stood. I felt like I stood there forever - betrayed, and ignored. Left with only the feeling that my stomach had been cut open, and my guts had fallen out; hearing only the chitter of swamp frogs.