Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 10 Heart and Judgment

by Stanislav Dema
01/20/26
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Major Shevchenko's field office, from where he directed the inspection, was located in the building of the old lighthouse at the mouth of the Sukhyi Estuary. The lighthouse had long ceased to be used for its intended purpose, but it still towered over the shore as a memory of the old times of Ottoman rule.

Outside, a storm raged; drafts blew through cracks in the window frame. A map of the coast hung on the wall, marked with outposts and observation points. Although the war had ended five years ago, it was restless. The Coast Guard of the Odesa sector had plenty of work, ranging from combating saboteurs and pirates to counterintelligence measures conducted jointly with the SBG. For coastal control, local self-defense units were created from residents of coastal villages. Each such unit was led by a volunteer—a respected person in his community, usually with military experience. People willingly participated in this movement because they understood they were guarding the peace of their families. One of the positive side effects was the almost complete eradication of crime, which had become a threatening issue in the first post-war years. "No one protects themselves better than a well-armed citizen"—that was Major Shevchenko's motto.

Shevchenko was finishing his report. He put down his pen, rubbed his eyes, and wanted to pour himself some tea when the adjutant reported the arrival of a visitor. A familiar silhouette appeared on the threshold—sturdy, broad-shouldered, with a bearing that was not lost even in the civilian clothes of a German colonist.

"Fritz Steinmeier," said the visitor. "Lustdorf Self-Defense Unit. Ready to submit the regular report."

Shevchenko smiled welcomingly. "Who would doubt it? Come in, Fritz. Sit down. Always glad to see you."

Fritz took off his raincoat, shook off the raindrops, sat down, and placed a neat, hand-stitched folder on the table. "Everything is according to protocol," he said briefly. "No incidents this month. Only one strange boat on the horizon at dawn. Went south without coming close to shore."

"I'll note that." The Major made a mark, then paused with his pen over the line. Raised his eyes. Suddenly asked: "Fritz, you are a believer, aren't you?"

Fritz nodded calmly, unsurprised: "I try to be. And you?"

Shevchenko exhaled slowly. His gaze became heavy, with some old, unreleased pain. "I saw a boy standing over his mother's body, unable to cry; he had run out of tears after the death of his entire family. Just watching. With empty eyes. Or a medic trying to bandage the stomach of a man whose guts had fallen out. Or a woman burning in a basement with an infant in her arms. All this... God saw all this. And didn't stop it. Why?"

Fritz looked out the window for a long time. There, behind the glass, the wind picked up drops and threw them into the sea. "Because He gave people freedom." "Freedom to kill?" "Freedom to choose."

Fritz spoke calmly, without pressure, as if choosing words suitable not for an argument, but for a conversation between friends. "To do evil—or not to do. To forgive—or to avenge. To help—or to turn away. This is the highest form of love: to give freedom even to one who can betray. And not just line everyone up in a rank and say: 'Now be good.' That is not care—that is training."

Shevchenko shook his head. "So, He watches and just waits?"

"He doesn't wait. He sees. He offers. But doesn't force. The Bible says: 'I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life…'" Fritz paused, poured tea for himself and Shevchenko. "See? He offered. Didn't impose. You can drink this tea with me, or you can hurl the cup against the wall in anger. And that is your choice."

"And if a person chose evil? What then? Hell? Fire?"

Fritz lowered his eyes slightly. "A lot has been distorted here. Hell is not a roasting pan or torture in a boiling cauldron. It is, rather, darkness. Total darkness. Not because God created it, but because man himself walked away from Him. God is light. If you turned away from the light all your life, where will you end up in the end? In the darkness."

He fell silent, then added: "But it's not just darkness. It's a place where you start to see—truly. Everything. Everyone you hurt. Every pain you caused another person, every grief, every tear. And you can no longer turn away. Can't forget. You feel it. You don't watch from the side, but experience it yourself, in fullness. Just as they felt it."

"So hell is returned pain?" "It is justice. Not revenge. Not mockery. Simply the truth. A projection of others' feelings in which everything is visible."

"And will it be forever?" "I don't think so. There are words in Scripture about the 'second death.' It is written: 'And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire.' I believe evil will not be tormented forever. It will vanish. When everything is seen, felt, acknowledged, understood—the end will come. Not torture. But elimination."

Shevchenko turned away. Walked to the window. Looked down where the sea was raging. "I hated the Moksans all through the war. For everything they did. But there were people like us among them back then too. Someone saved prisoners from execution, someone hid civilians from liquidation squads. Someone suffered innocently for their beliefs."

Fritz nodded. "God has no nations. He has hearts."

He fell silent, then spoke slowly, as if weaving a thought into the fabric of silence. "Do you know, Grigory, what the heart is? Not in the poetic sense, not in the medical. But in the biblical. It's not just feelings. It's not 'something warm inside.' It is the organ of choice."

Shevchenko looked at him with slight disbelief. "Organ of choice?"

"Yes. The heart is not emotions. It is the center of will. The place where real decisions are made. Not calculated ones—but intuitive ones, coming from the deepest 'self.' You can be a brilliant analyst, calculate everything. And then at the last moment turn away—because the heart decided otherwise. That is why it is written: 'Keep thy heart with all diligence.' Because it is what determines the path."

Fritz looked straight ahead, with almost prayerful concentration. "The heart is like a navigation instrument, only not mechanical, but alive. It accepts every choice—right, left, to remain silent, to strike, to leave, to stay. And the further you go, the narrower the paths become. But even then, the heart continues to choose. And God respects this choice. Even if it leads to destruction."

He sighed. "But there is one great promise in Scripture. God says: 'A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you.' He doesn't patch the old one. He takes it out. By the root. And puts in a new one. One that is capable of choosing life. One that reaches for the light, not the darkness."

Shevchenko was silent for a long time. "And if the heart is already broken?"

Fritz smiled. "Then ask for a new one. He has it. He always has it."

The Major sat down. Looked out the window at the streams of rain. The surface of the estuary was agitated and foaming. "Thank you, Fritz," he said quietly. "I didn't understand everything. But it became somehow... Calmer."

"Sometimes silence is the answer." Fritz stood up, threw on his raincoat. The papers remained on the table, everything is according to protocol, as always. He left without looking back.

Shevchenko remained. Looked out the window. Then poured himself some tea, took out a clean sheet, and for the first time in many years wrote not a report, but a letter. Just a letter. To God.