Stille Nacht

[Cerise]

Stille Nacht

 

It is already night when we hide in the bunker. I hold a cigarette in my hands but do not dare to light it. Cherry embers make good targets in the darkness. Vassili and I have followed the long line of the front as it makes its way into East Prussia, in order that I might gain inspiration for my next ode to the Motherland. The warm glow from the city square beckons to us, but we are waiting until dawn to enter. By then Berlin will be taken completely.

 

I crouch in the snow, my back propped up against the slope of the ditch, and think of bread and potatoes, boots with tight laces, and Katya. I think of Katya more then the other things. She had sent a little yellow package two months ago, filled with praise for the song I had sent off to Leningrad. It was printed so nicely, she said, right on the front page. This next piece will be even better. I have only to write about our triumphant march into the capital. I look down at my notebook.

 

We bravely into battle go

For Holy Russia

 

Rhythmic and patriotic, it sings in my ears. It will be the perfect way to end a war. And the war will end soon. The army is entering East Prussia. The Germans are starving and cold. It will not be much longer. I look down at the cigarette and twirl it between my fingers. I consider reaching for my matches but Vassili scowls at me so I put the cigarette in my pocket.

 

The night is quiet. There are only a few spatters of rifle fire in the distance, muffled by the steady hum of the tanks moving over frozen ground. And then I hear a sound, a sound like a cat would make if it were being slowly stripped of its skin.

 

‘Vassili,’ I whisper, ‘what is it?’

 

‘It is from the village, Comrade Sarkov,’ he replies. His voice is so calm. ‘They are starting in on the women.’

 

Then there is gunfire, and a short silence, before the howls began again. It is impossible not to listen. I try to write but no words come to me save those spoken by my comrade. They are starting in on the women. I take a cigarette out of my pocket and light it, ignoring Vassili’s glares and growls. I puff furiously in time with the chorus of screams, the smoke tasting of gunpowder in my mouth. My ballad stares up at me, mocking me. If I press the pages just so with the end of my cigarette…

 

Vassili stamps out the flames.

 

‘Damn, damn,’ he mutters and then ‘damn’ again. Like a muted drum beat. Like the sound of boots on snow. ‘Are you mad?’

 

The howls gather above me, merging into a single voice, a single question.

 

‘For Holy Russia,’ someone is singing quite badly. Snow falls into my open mouth. ‘For Holy Russia.’ And Vassili’s big hand comes down hard against my cheek again and again. Pink fingers like sausages are pushed against my lips. The singing stops. Are you mad? Are you?

 

End.

[imageownershipproblem]

Fabulous. I love epistolary fiction.

 

If you wanted to, you could get .jpegs of the actual postcards he would write on off of eBay. It wouldn't cost anything but time as long as you didn't buy the postcards themselves, and the text would fit perfectly.

 

Don't ask me how I know, I just do. I like that attention to detail almost as much as I like the story itself.

[chefranden]

Dang Cerise -- so real -- I might dream that tonight.

[Guest AscendoTuumDeus]

And the title is... Satisfies Night.