Ah, here we go. Paragraph two of my translation. A graphic description of a Ukrainian child being raped by a Russian soldier.
The novel was written before February 24. The author is a middle-aged, very educated Russian woman. And what does she choose to do in her free time? Fantasize about Russian soldiers raping Ukrainian children, of course. What makes the story particularly cute is that the word “Ukrainian” is never mentioned. It’s obvious from geographic names where the action takes place but the existence of Ukrainians is too traumatic for the Russian writer to mention even in passing.
I started this translation ten minutes ago, and there’s already all this. Putin, schmutin. This woman doesn’t live in Putin’s Russia. She lives in Montreal. There’s something badly wrong with these people completely independent of Putin.
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