Ludmila was always a survivor. She was sixteen when the Battle of Stalingrad occurred. For her the term battle was an oxymoron. That battle lasted year, and destroyed most of the city. For a young girl, the city was hell. Finding food and water, and avoiding rampaging soldiers, German and Russian, was a day-to-day nightmare. However, leaving the city would be impossible with the Germans attacking the city, not that the countryside was any better.

Ludmila was doing her daily scavenging when she saw her. She almost fainted from the sight of her. Legends spoke of Baba Yaga, but like most girls her age she didn’t believe in them. Ludmila was more afraid of the crone than the Germans and Russians combined. She had barely stepped into a plaza when she saw Baba Yaga doing some scavenging herself. Sitting nearby was the oddest-looking hut, Ludmila had ever seen. She had heard about Baba Yaga’s dancing hut, but like the crone herself, Ludmila never believed in it. The crone was making herself a meal, a meal of dead soldiers. Nearby was a ruined German tank, and Baba Yaga was making a stew.

“No need hiding girl,” said Baba Yaga her back to Ludmila “come and join me in my bounty.”

Ludmila tried to run away, but a strange compulsion over came her. She was frightened when her feet led her over to the crone. Ludmila let out a gasp when she saw the table laid out before the crone. Savory dishes from potato pancakes with caviar to wedges of cheese. Ludmila let out a groan; she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Sit, sit,” chided Baba Yaga as she stirred her stew. “We don’t wait on manners here in Stalingrad.” Baba Yaga had to chuckle at her joke. To Ludmila it sounded like fingernails on a slate, however, she did sit.

Baba Yaga turned from the stew pot with a huge ladle in her hand. She smiled, a wicked smile at Ludmila, showing her iron teeth. The crone paused to taste her stew, before grunting and dropping the ladle back into the pot.

“Not quite done dearie,” said the witch. “Hard to find good victuals these days. These Germans are a certainly a salty bunch. Not like a nice plump Russian Kulak. Of course since the Bolsheviks came to power, yes harder to find indeed.”

“Come my dearie,” said Baba Yaga, “I didn’t make all this for myself. Especially now that the boy thinks that he’s full grown an all. Humph. Taught him too well did I, to leave an old babushka like me to fend for myself. Youth today.”

Baba Yaga sat herself down and looked at her makeshift feast, and poured her and Ludmila a glass of vodka. Looking around, the crone pulled an eyeball from a bowl and popped into her mouth. The ogress let out a sound of satisfaction by smacking her lips.

“Not hungry?” asked Baba Yaga.

“No babushka,” croaked Ludmila trying to hide her disgust. Baba Yaga just smiled at the girl, as she speared a piece of something indefinable. Chomping on a piece of sausage, Baba Yaga pointed to a loaf of black bread. “There, there,” said Baba Yaga, “Ye mortals have such weak constitutions. Well, nothing I can do about that. Eat the bread, it’ll do ye some good. Girl you’re all skin and bones. Not worth eating. Here have some of this cheese. I got it from those Germans boys over there.”

Encouraged, Ludmila ate what she could. Soon her hunger overcame her reluctance and she wolfed down the foot as fast as she could. Baba Yaga beamed at the girl. It seemed like ages since the crone ate with someone other than the boy. In a way, she missed him, and wondered if he missed her.

“Ye have a hearty appetite dearie,” said Baba Yaga. “Best to eat what you can now. For tomorrow brings more hunger.” Baba Yaga let out a sigh. “Yes, the future leaves much to be desired. Those Bolsheviks are such fools, not that the Czar were much better. Lean times ahead, dearie.”

“Keep out a weather eye dearie,” said Baba Yaga, “may do you some good in the years to come. Well, enough chitchat. Got places to go. No, my work is never done.”

Baba Yaga stood and waved a hand over the feast, which promptly faded like a dream or a nightmare. The crone turned one last time to look at Ludmila. Squinting one bloodshot eye she said, “Remember what I said girl. Do keep an eye open, before someone shuts for ye.” Baba Yaga then let out another horrendous chuckle before stooping to pick up a basket and head for her hut. Ludmila hadn’t seen the basket before, but it looked like there might have been an infant inside.

As soon as Baba Yaga entered her hut, it stood up on its tree sized chicken legs, and strode off into the distance.

Decades later, Ludmila pushed her mop bucket through the hall of the Yuri Gagarin Memorial Building, and she paused to look at Yurodvi as he walked confidently down the hall past her. She offered him a quick smile. He reminded the old woman of that long ago day when she had met Baba Yaga.

Ludmila has lived a long long time. Whether this has been a blessing or a curse, she hasn’t decided. Life has never been easy for her, but never during the days under the rulers of Russia has anyone ended it for her. Ludmila has seen a lot of her lifespan. No one has ever really paid much attention to a cleaning woman. Her mind is sharp and she remembers it all. Her knowledge should’ve gotten her eliminated long ago, but she’s still here. Ludmila hoards her knowledge like a miser hoards his gold, only sharing it in ways that doesn’t get back to her.

"Ludmila has seen it all."

Ludmila has no real powers to speak of. She’s an old woman, who has cleaned for the powerful in Russia for decades. No one pays her any mind. Her knowledge of the powerful is almost encyclopedic, but she rarely shares this knowledge. In the past it was too dangerous to even consider.

Ludmila is an old woman, well on her way into her eighties. She doesn’t stand out from the many other babushkas that survived the Great Patriotic War. Her face is lined with wrinkles, and a cigarette usually adorns her lips. Ludmila likes to keep her gray hair tied up in a severe bun, under a polka dot head clothe. She likes to wear a faded yellow dress with an equally faded green apron over her dress. A mop, or a broom usually completes the picture.