L’Internationale — a narrative

Disclaimer: This narrative is not intended to express the author's espousal of or disdain to any political ideologies. Though inspired by some certain historical events, it should not be regarded as an accurate portrayal of historical truth.

2 a.m., Khrushchevgrad.

It was there, lying on the desktop. He could see it — a hundred thousand fresh, ready American dollars, hailing aggressively at him.

“Division 14, Division 68, Tank division 7. I repeat, Division 14, Division —”

Click. Pause. Yeah yeah, we’re dead. Encircled. Slaughtered. Doomed. Exhausted by the endless bombardment of reports, Ivan, commander of Red Army’s 7th Tank Division, was in comparison more concerned in that 100,000-USD cheque. An adhesively sealed letter arrived on his desktop just this afternoon. It was an offer, a tempting one from the Americans — the Imperialists —, who demanded in return that he lead his army to surrender to the “free world” side.

“14th — Ukrainian Front— we are at — encircled by —”

He looked outside the windows, almost emotionlessly. In spite of the late winter night on the Ukrainian Front, the skyline was just as illuminated as it would be in the daylight, covered densely by an ivory-white curtain of countless bullets, bombs and perhaps even missiles. Lives seemed to be utterly meaningless here, as the meat-grinder converted all able-bodied human beings, white or black, men or women, intellectual or illiterate, into fanatic, cold-blooded killing machines — or into a mound of ash.

He knew perfectly what his betrayal would mean for the Southwestern front. The Soviet army group was losing both strategically and tactically, facing threats of multiple enemy breakthroughs. He was struggling to contain enemy assaults over the past few days, albeit at the cost of significant casualties. Surely the entire defence would collapse like a row of dominoes should his army’s position fall.

Just like what has happened in Kyiv, 1941, barely nine years ago, he thought, amused by the fact of how history was repeating itself. Again.

“Heavy artillery — air strike — losing air superiority — organisation —”

“Comrade Vlad, how’s the breach-head?” he sighed, turning to the man beside him who was smoking a cigarette, a pistol gripped in his hand.

“Not good.” Vladimir, the deputy commander muttered, almost in despair, “Three of my battalions have been assigned to Zhitomiz, and another two to Bila Tserkva… we can only hope that the imperialists are stupid enough not to exploit the gaps.”

“We can only hope…”

But it was safe here, in this pathetically small bunker. Though the shouts and groans of the dying could still be heard, explicitly and appallingly. Pounded on its surface by American air-drop bombs time and again, the bunker was crammed with ugly, sunken scars reflecting an irritating shade of red. As if it wasn’t enough, the tiny building was constantly under the brutal suppression of a steady layer of snow, fallen from the December sky onto all corners of Russian motherland. In feculent trenches, the snow blended seamlessly into soldiers’ wounds, coupling chill with the unbearable pains from injuries. On the streets of enemy occupation zones, the gloomy whiteness reminded people well of how desperate their prospects would be. Yet as the snow scuds against the bunker’s surface, they must have been utterly disappointed, for their clamouring was reduced to almost nothing against the backdrop of an artillery barrage.

“So, Comrade Vlad…”

“Yes, sir?”

“What do you plan to do when the war is over? Have your wife or kids —”

“— Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

He paused for a while, stillness in the air, “In Vinnytsia. Just yesterday. Killed by fucking Imperialists.”

Saddened, Ivan wanted to tell him that he was sorry, his voice however little more than a murmur. He knew that he shouldn’t feel so, though. Suchlike tragedies were happening everywhere, on everyone. This soul-wrenching war was burning for a decade — first by invading Nazis who they managed to push back after four years of bloodshed, then again by the American imperialists. For all the soldiers he knew that had survived till this day, they barely had anybody to live for, and not anything to fight for either. All they could offer was blood toil, sweat, and silence.

Ivan understood what it would feel like — neither pain nor stress, but the unbearable lightness of being.

How Ivan wished that he was confronted with a choice simple as such! But he was different; he still had a family. He knew well what 100,000 USD would mean to his family and his fiancée Eliza in shelters of Kabul. Yes. Eliza, especially, the girl he was in love with since 17 when they first chanted in unison the rhythm of L’internationale in warm, autumnal breeze on a greenish-azure Ruthenian mellowland. They pleaded allegiance to the party, red scarves flapping against their chests. He liked Eliza. It was not romance, he told himself, but purely revolutionary comradeship.

Debout, les damnés de la terre,

Debout, les forçats de la faim —

Did he not forget his oath to the Hammer and Sickle? How he vowed to defend the communist faith and the Soviet until his last blood?

La raison tonne en son cratère.

C'est l'éruption de la fin —

What would Eliza... and what would Vlad think — what about the hundred thousands of soldiers that had fought and died for him!? They should not die in vain! He was going to make sure that they would not die in vain!

C'est la lutte finale.

Groupons-nous, et demain —

For some reason Ivan felt relieved suddenly; sublimed gratitude flowed rapidly from the very bottom of his heart through his bones and veins, filling up every inch of his numbed body with brotherly warmth. He shall carry on the struggle, to struggle for his loved ones, for his country and for proletarians of the world. He shall never surrender!

L'Internationale,

Sera le genre humain!

… until the day, when people of all nations are emancipated from oppressions of all sorts!

“Pzzz… zip!”

Paper torn into shreds.

*

“Bang!... pah!”

Flesh penetrated by a bullet.

Ivan lacked the strength to turn back. “I’m sorry, comrade, but if you don’t want to live on, I do.” he was pretty sure it was Vlad’s voice. “Even if it means siding with the b*tches who killed Yelena.”

He could see no longer; beneath his ears where blood was dripping from, he heard only papers rustling, door banging against the wall, and snow howling through lonely scrubs of birches.