The Russian soldiers were young, younger than her sons, with barely any hair on their chins, but their commander’s words were chilling.
“My men have had some vodka,” he said. “Now they want some entertainment.”
Vika started trembling. She suddenly understood why, earlier that day, when the soldiers came to the house to confiscate their phones, they had asked her to tie white fabric on her front fence.
The one they called Oleg had already started touching her hips. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Hands off,” she admonished.
“Keep silent!” he barked, dragging her out to the street, addressing her in the familiar Russian form of you, even though, at 42, she was twice his age.
Christina Lamb, The Sunday Times, 080522, Full Article