The smell of smoke from the salutes still lingered in the wind of Red Square when we arrived in Moscow. The granite tiles were strewn with fragments of faded ribbons, like crushed old medals, each step echoing history. The aftermath of the Victory Day parade is still fresh - the dust from the guard of honour's withdrawal is still suspended under the onion roof of St Vasiliy's Cathedral, and in the shadows of the Kremlin's wall roots, a few children stand on tiptoe to mimic a soldier's march, the rhythm of their leather boots clattering on the ground overlapping with the bells ringing from the metro station in the distance.
As we lugged our suitcases along, the aluminium drawbars shuddered on the bumpy gravel road like armament-laden trucks rolling through a trench. The aroma of charred black lebas and roasted meats wafted from a roadside coffee stall, mingling with the sweet fishy smell of carnations in an old woman's hand.
A veteran in a boat-shaped hat leaned on a bench, pinning medals back into his dark green uniform, and with a rustle of metal against fabric, he suddenly looked up and said ‘Ulla’ to us.
A flock of pigeons swept across the clear sky overhead, their wings cutting through the trails of the clouds. My colleague wiped the sweat from the corner of his forehead, and the moment the wheels of his suitcase got stuck in the cracks of the floor tiles, the clock in Red Square was striking twelve noon.
We bent down to pull out our suitcases, like those who laid flowers in front of the Victory Day monument. As the slanting sun pinned our shadows to the last stretch of cobblestone road leading to the pavilion, I suddenly thought about how many slices of soil that had never been ploughed by shrapnel would be needed to grow a full spring plant.
