Di dekat puing-puing gedung opera sekitaran kota Königsberg, yang telah berganti nama menjadi Kaliningrad--aku menemukan dua botol minuman dan seorang pemabuk. Pemabuk itu nampak seperti orang keturunan semit-ortodoks. Ia mengenakan pakaian usang, sialnya botol-botol minuman yang ku damba itu telah kosong.


Sewaktu itu aku mengenakan jaket khas Slavia, lengkap dengan logo bintang merah di topiku. "Maaf, kamerad ... aku tak tahu menahu perihal Sambia, Polandia, Lituania apalagi Prusia" ujar si pemabuk sembari menunduk hingga hampir kehilangan keseimbangan. "Tapi adakah sesuatu untuk meredakan rasa sakit laknat akibat perang jahanam ini? Semua kebrutalan perang dunia ke-2, bersemayam di dalam kepalaku." tambahnya.


"Yang ku punya hanya botol Vodka tanpa Vodka dan senapan dengan satu peluru untukku bunuh diri." jawabku yang memasang muka kecewa lantaran botol-botol di dekat si pemabuk telah kosong. Tiba-tiba si pemabuk mengukur kaliber senapanku dengan jarinya.


"Tidak, ini terlalu kecil untuk melubangi kepalamu, bahkan tak cukup untuk menuntaskan selamat tinggal pada kegilaan di dalam kepalaku," ujarnya sambil menggeleng-gelengkan kepala. "Kukira, peluru itu hanya akan membuatmu serasa di Gulag, dan si mungil itu akan membuatku semakin kesakitan bukannya mati bahagia." pungkasnya.


Pemabuk itu menyandarkan punggung pada tiang lampu yang sudah berkarat dan tergelincir ke posisi duduk, lalu mencoba memandangi gedung opera yang sudah hancur tak berbentuk dengan tatapan nanar. "Jika aku tahu ... Akhirnya akan seperti ini, sungguh akan kubunuh si sinting Hitler sejak bayi," ceracaunya sendiri.


"Aku kehilangan semuanya, yang kudapatkan hanya kesakitan, kesakitan dan kesakitan." ucapnya lirih. Semasih aku mencengkeram botol kosongku di tangan kanan dan senapanku di tangan kiri.


"Aku tak peduli ... Pada Wehrmacht apalagi tentara merah! O carpe diem aku membutuhkanmu saat ini, untuk kembali utuh tak mungkin rasanya." sambungnya dengan nada berapi lalu dipeluk melankoli.


Merasa frustrasi, aku membanting botol Vodka di tangan kananku ke tanah, lalu menginjaknya hingga remuk. "Tak ada yang tersisa di kota mati ini!" teriakku seraya memandangi si pemabuk itu. "Aku juga kehilangan segalanya, bahkan aku kehilangan istri dan anak-anakku ... Kemenangan Soviet hanyalah kemenangan Soviet, bukan kemenanganku." tambahku.


"Maaf kamerad, kau sepertinya harus Amorfati ... Atau mungkin tepatnya kita, bukan kau saja" ujar pemabuk itu, yang terlihat seperti kesurupan Nietzsche.


"Maaf? Maksudmu melanjutkan hidup yang sudah tak ada artinya ini?" tanyaku sembari menatap matanya dengan lugas.


"Ya, lagipula bunuh diri takkan mengisi kekosongan makna dari hidup ini ... Ars longa vita bre ..." belum sempat ia melanjutkan, tiba-tiba ia meraih tangan kiriku dan merampas senapanku.


"DUARRRRrrrrrr!!!!" si pemabuk itu menembakkan satu-satunya peluruku, tepat di dahinya. Tak lama, tubuhnya yang ringkih itu rubuh. Ambruk. Si pemabuk telah tewas. Darahnya mengalir memenuhi pecahan botol Vodka-ku.


"Ah sialan, pada akhirnya, ternyata aku yang benar-benar mati." celotehku pada diriku sendiri, seraya memandangi kota Königsberg yang kini sudah benar-benar tak tersisa.


English Version


Near the ruins of an opera house around the city of Königsberg, which has been renamed Kaliningrad - I found two bottles of drink and a drunk. The drunk appeared to be of semi-orthodox descent. He wore old clothes, unfortunately the bottles of the drink I longed for were empty.

At that time I was wearing a typical Slavic jacket, complete with a red star logo on my hat. "Sorry, comrade ... I don't know anything about Sambia, Poland, Lithuania or even Prussia," said the drunk, looking down until he almost lost his balance. "But is there something to relieve the cursed pain of this bastard war? All the brutality of World War 2, resides in my head." he added.

"All I have is a bottle of vodka without vodka and a rifle with one bullet for me to kill myself." I answered, with a bit of disappointed because the bottles near the drunkard were empty. Suddenly the drunk measured the caliber of my gun with his finger.

"No, it's too small to get a hole in your head, not even enough to finish goodbye to the madness in my head," he said, shaking his head. "I thought that bullet would just make you feel like in a Gulag, and that little guy would make me feel even more pain instead of dying happy." he concluded.

The drunk leaned his back against the rusty lamppost and slid into a sitting position, then tried to stare at the disfigured opera house with a gaze. "If I had known ... It would end up like this, I really would have killed the goddamn Hitler from infancy," he insisted.

"I lost everything, all I got was pain, pain and pain." he said softly. While I was gripping my empty bottle in my right hand and my rifle in my left.

"I don't care ... on the Wehrmacht let alone the Red Army! O carpe diem I need you right now, to return whole is impossible." he continued in a fiery tone and then embraced melancholy.

Frustrated, I slammed the Vodka bottle in my right hand onto the ground, then crushed it. "There's nothing left in this dead city!" I shouted, looking at the drunkard. "I also lost everything, even I lost my wife and children ... The Soviet victory was only a Soviet victory, not mine." I added.

"Sorry comrade, you seem to have to Amorfati (love the fate) ... Or maybe we, not you," said the drunk, who looked like he was in a trance with Nietzsche.

"Excuse me? You mean to go on with this meaningless life?" I asked, looking straight in his eyes.

"Yes, after all, suicide will not fill the void of meaning in this life ... Ars longa vita bre ..." Before he could continue, he suddenly grabbed my left hand and grabbed my gun.

"DUARRRRrrrrrr !!!!" the drunkard fired my one and only bullet, right into his forehead. Before long, his frail body collapsed. Collapse. The drunkard is dead. Her blood filled the shards of my Vodka bottle.

"Ah shit, in the end, it turned out to be me who was really dead." I chatted to myself, staring at the city of Königsberg which is now completely gone.