I don't know much about politics, and I don't really understand world affairs. I don't really know much about anything, and maybe that's why I've made so many mistakes in my life.
* * *
I certainly don't know why the United States invaded my country. What this forgotten little land in Eastern Europe could have to offer, I couldn't guess. My husband says it is because America is evil, but I don't think so. I don't know about such things, but I know my husband is not a good man. He drinks and he shouts, and he takes pleasure in my misery. Perhaps it was his hatred of anything western that led to my admiration of the same things.
I don't understand many things, but I recognize a fool, and my husband is such a man. Like me, Edgar knows nothing. Unlike me, he pretends to have a deeper understanding of the world than others, an understanding he has developed alone, supported not by facts, but by his own ego.
"If they invade us," he would say, "then the war will last for many years to come."
I kept silent of course, and soon the troops of the US landed. Within two weeks virtually all resistance had been subdued. It had been as easy as taking eggs from the chickens they said. US Marines soon appeared dotted around our streets, and my husband took heavily to the bottle. He would drink for hours and ramble, almost incoherently. On one such occasion I lost my senses.
"Perhaps life for us will improve, now that the Americans are here." I remarked optimistically. Almost as soon as I spoke, I regretted my words.
My husband gazed up at me, bleary-eyed, the first time he'd looked at me in days. Rage bubbled in his face.
"You ignorant bitch." He murmured sluggishly, and as he did so, he swung the bottle at my face. I ducked back, almost out of range, but the glass still caught the side of my head, knocking me from the chair to the floor.
I lay stunned, bringing up my legs into a foetal position as he stood over me.
"Stupid whore, you'll learn respect this time." He yelled.
I screamed as I heard the familiar sound of his belt being drawn out of his pants. I begged for mercy, listening to his angry yells, the belt gripped firmly in his hands.
My eyes closed, and body tensed, prepared for the first blow, but no blow came. Instead an unfamiliar voice, in an unfamiliar tongue.
"Back away, against the wall."
The words were meaningless to me, my English was very poor at that time, but the voice sounded like the movie stars I so cherished. I looked up nervously. My husband, hands raised, was backing into the corner. At the doorway stood a tall, broad-shouldered Marine, rifle loaded, directed at my husband.
His face was small and round, cropped blonde hair and deep-set blue eyes. He glared intently, composed, and for a few moments the image seemed too surreal, like a movie taking place in my kitchen.
Without removing his sight from my husband, he gestured for me to stay down. I sat and watched him edge toward Edgar, turn him and press him hard against the wall. I couldn't help but observe the contrast between the two men. My husband, pot-bellied, stained vest, greasy hair, and this new man. Tall, shapely, his uniform appearing to be almost painted onto him, such was the way it seemed to hug the contours of his figure.
After searching my husband, the Marine sat him in a chair, pulling his arms back behind him, fixing them tightly. He did the same to his feet, before gagging his mouth. Satisfied Edgar was unable to move, he fixed his stare on me for the first time.
He knelt at my side, putting his hand on my temple. I felt like I would pass out, not from the blow, and subsequent blood on my forehead, but from the sheer delight of having this man so close to me. His eyes seemed filled with a mix of sympathy and arousal. I glanced down, noticing Edgar's drink had spilt over my white dress, the wet areas becoming practically transparent. My cheeks flushed at the sight of myself. I had no bra, and my nipples had grown quite hard from the coldness of the alcohol. There was perhaps another reason, also.
