My War Memoirs: The Basement of the Soul (Chapter 6.)

 

The low-hanging light bulb in the basement cast a jaundiced, lonely glow, barely strong enough to illuminate the room's damp stone walls. I sat there on an overturned crate, the cold concrete floor beneath my sneakers a poor conductor of warmth. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, earth, and the metallic tang of fear. Each distant thud of an exploding shell reverberated through the ground and up through my bones, a rhythmic, violent drumbeat in this symphony of war.

“Why is this addiction so strong in me?” I whispered, the words swallowed by the oppressive silence. A frantic, almost maniacal energy coursed through my veins, a desperate need for the very chaos raging outside. It felt like an addict’s craving; the hollow, gnawing ache for a hit that would momentarily quiet the storm in my soul. I knew it was madness, this thirst for the adrenaline and dopamine pumping through me. The cortisol, the stress hormone, coursed through my body like fire, yet I embraced its burn. It was a chance, a twisted, desperate opportunity to prove my worth in a world that had so far seen none. To experience the ultimate test of life and death, an experience I’d only heard about in my grandfather’s hushed recollections of World War II.

He was a ghost of a man, haunted by memories I could only imagine. His stories were my only inheritance, my only connection to a lineage of resilience and survival. I thought of Jesus, a figure whose sacrifice I had only ever understood in abstract terms. He gave his life for a purpose—to redeem our sins. What was my purpose? Was my craving for this rush of adrenaline, this cocktail of elevated cortisol and serotonin, a noble desire to defend my homeland, or was it just a selfish, reckless gamble? My inner voice mocked me, calling me out for the masochistic pleasure I derived from the danger. It was a thrill, a grotesque game, a thirst for adventure that I feared was a sickness.

I was a “Wounded Warrior” in the making—or, at least, a part of me desperately wanted to believe it. It was the classic archetype from hero stories and comic books: the orphan, the boy with a traumatic past, the emotionally stunted soul-searching for a wise mentor to guide him. The tales always ended with the hero finding his way, becoming a noble warrior. But where was my sage, my teacher? He was gone. It was my grandmother, and she'd left us from her deathbed when I was fifteen. Until then, life had been meaningful and the future bright; she had been my guardian against the onslaught of impudence, carelessness, and evil. I had value back then. Now it had vanished like cigarette smoke. All I had was my own shadow on the wall, a distorted reflection of a boy wiping away silent tears, feeling utterly and hopelessly alone.

I was furious at all of them: my mother, my father, my grandfather, and my uncle. I needed them to say "no," to pull me back from the cliff of my own recklessness. Furthermore, I yearned to be seen, to be told I was enough, to be loved unconditionally. Likewise, I was screaming for someone to forbid me from becoming a soldier, from going to war. I had no business being there, not so young. And yet, I rushed into it, clumsy and desperate, because I wanted to escape everything that had happened to me. There, at least, I would have a purpose, and someone would value me. If I died, it would be a rescue from a life where the burden was simply too heavy to bear.

My uncle, with his dark history and volatile temper, was the closest thing I had to a father figure. He was a dangerous man, a product of the world he himself had helped to create. He was a man of rough edges and a sharp tongue who believed that love was a weakness. Likewise, he never offered a kind word, convinced that severity was the only way to harden me, to forge me into someone who could survive. His method was a form of cruel but well-intentioned love, a misguided belief that the more I hurt, the stronger I would become. I was fifteen, working as a bar-back to earn my own money, a small rebellion against my circumstances. I was too young, too clumsy, too fragile for the demands of the job. When I was fired, his words cut deeper than any physical wound.

“You’re just like your father,” he’d snarled, his eyes two dark pools of disappointment. “Lots of talk and in the end, nothing. You belong next to the trash can because you’re worth as much as he is. Nothing!”

The words were meant to be a jolt, a cold shock to snap me out of my childish vulnerabilities. But instead, they were a death blow to my self-worth. It was an act of conditional love, a love that could only be earned through strength and success, a love I was constantly failing to obtain. My grandfather and uncle, each in their own way, were constantly “searching for error” in me, looking for reasons to prove their belief that I was a disappointment. Their harshness didn't strengthen me; it amplified my anxiety and existential dread, the crushing weight of feeling that my very existence was a mistake.

And so I sat in the basement, my feet tapping a frantic rhythm on the cold floor, the cortisol in my veins screaming for action. The thought of waiting out the war felt like a betrayal of my own soul. It was a coward's choice, a final admission that I was a failure, just as my uncle had said. The words echoed in my mind, a burning bell clanging from the steeple of the parish church that was now a pyre of flame in the city center.

No. I would not be a coward. I would not belong next to a trash can. Even if my motives were a chaotic blend of selfish pleasure and desperate need, perhaps there was still a chance for something noble. Maybe I could help a wounded soldier, carry ammunition, or simply offer a bottle of water. I could do something, anything, to prove that I was more than just a boy with a traumatic past. The shells falling on my doorstep were a call to action. Wasn't it a man's purpose to defend his home, even a boy like me? The answer was a resounding yes, and in that moment, I knew I had to find a way to make it so.

The dim, sickly glow of the single light bulb did little to break the oppressive gloom of the basement. My grandfather, the old warrior, was a testament to a different kind of strength. He was a man who had faced true horror, yet here he was, dozing off amidst the chaos, a righteous man in a storm of fire and steel. His shallow, labored breaths were the only calm in a room filled with the panicked wails of our neighbors.

One woman was a conduit for the collective fear, her voice a shrill siren of despair. "Oh my God, mother, we're going to die! What will happen when the army takes to the streets?" Her panic was contagious, a virus spreading through the cramped space. People tried to hush her, but she was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the terror that gnawed at us all. It took her husband's firm, shaking grip to finally quiet her, his hands a desperate anchor in a sea of hysteria. She fell silent, her sobs muffled by the pillow she clutched. My grandfather, oblivious, continued to doze.

This was my chance. With everyone consumed by their own fear, my absence would go unnoticed. I slid the heavy door open, a sliver of fresh air pushing back against the musty air of the basement. The cacophony of explosions was deafening, a brutal symphony of destruction. But it was a sound that resonated with me, a call to a purpose I couldn't yet name. I stood there, mesmerized, watching the sky. Tracers cut across the night, and the ground trembled with each detonation.

A morbid curiosity seized me. A thought, cold and calculated, cut through the adrenaline-fueled haze. My grandfather's armory. The thought was a drug, a promise of the ultimate high. I sprinted back into the house, my school backpack now a symbol of a different kind of education. I emptied the books, the useless remnants of my old life, and took the key from my grandfather’s nightstand.

The small shed smelled of rust and gunpowder. I unlocked the heavy door, a small sense of power swelling within me. I grabbed the "Zastava 7.65" pistol and a hunting carbine with a sniper scope, their cold metal a shocking contrast to the warmth of the humid night air. I stuffed the fifty rounds into my bag and ran back to the house. I returned the key, a final, secret act of defiance. My bag, once a vessel for homework, now held a liter of water, some canned food, an apple, and the instruments of war.

With a shake of my hands, I loaded the pistol, the click of the magazine a metallic affirmation of my choice. I put it on my belt, a heavy weight that felt strangely right. I loaded the hunting rifle and locked the safety. A prayer, a desperate, clumsy appeal to a God I barely knew, formed on my lips. "God help me," I whispered. I took a deep breath, an anchor against the rising tide of fear. I thought of my uncle, his venomous words ringing in my ears. "You belong next to the trash can."

No. I wouldn't. This was my answer, my furious, reckless response. I may be a fool, a kid on the brink of disaster, but I was not human trash. With my heart a frantic drumbeat in my chest, I walked out into the night, toward the railroad tracks that led to the city cemetery. I had no plan, no knowledge of what lay ahead. I only knew that I had to see the war, not from a basement, but from the front lines.