Kovij was born in 1918, in Stalingrad, to a pair of staunch reds. He had an average childhood, the civil war was just about over and by the time he grew old enough to notice the apparatus of the old state had mostly been stripped away already. He played on the street with the rest of the boys, did well in classes until one summer in the early 30s, Kovij can’t remember when exactly. It was a warm afternoon, he remembers that, he had taken a fall, grazed his knee and had been told to stay indoors. Finding four weighty books of poetry under the floorboards was probably the defining moment of his life. From then on he didn’t play outside anymore, he took little interest at the school house
He knew enough too keep the dusty tomes to himself, not even telling his parents, learning how to live under the Communist party, developing a cool outer exterior while ferreting his hobby under the floorboards. His two years in the army in the army were uneventful, he managed to avoid military service in Poland and returned to his live next door to his parents, coming back to a job at a munitions factory, cataloguing raw materials and finished products, dull desk job. He spent his free time with his anthologies under the floorboards and not very much time meeting people on the block, though he probably vaguely remembers people from before he left. With the looming invasion he’s been called up and given a rifle, while his parents have been evacuated to the east bank.
He was made Sergeant during the battle for Stalingrad, and was killed shortly afterwards while recovering from injuries in a makeshift hospital in the apartments near the Red October factory.
