We heard of more disturbances, within the bands of our region; most uprisings of the people.
They clad us with bulletproof vests; boarded to our chests. They padded our arms and legs and uniformed us in proud dehumanising unity. We were all flying the same stripes; trousers, blazers and berets, embed with the colours of the Soviet flag, plastered with pins and patches of the hammer and sickles. The boots were heavy duty, made for marching; strapped up to beneath the knee. Our arms were loaded with hunting rifles and our utility belts crammed with rounds. The gear made my mind jump to conclusions about what kind of threat we were going to come eye to eye with.
They loaded us into rattling canisters they passed off as vehicles, claustrophobically compacted in like sardines in a tin. No one spoke a word. The firearms clutched in clammy palms chinked, bouncing around on the bumpy terrain made the vehicle clunk. I didn’t question the distance we rambled, but I knew it wasn’t near. In the cold, the tent like material that housed us in the back of the trucks flapped in the wind, revealing the world through the cracks. The engine chugged out billowing black clouds that fogged into the back, the stench staining our suits.
A noise picked up as we slowed, closing in on our destination. And through the pinprick holes where mice had eaten the canvas, I could see tanks. They sluggishly rolled forwards on their caterpillar tracks, arms of artillery protruding from the front, clattering as they negotiated the bumpy surface.
There was a cacophony up ahead; a dissonant chorus of voices. A mob of people had gathered and they rumbled furiously, their hollers full of vitriol. It got louder as we approached. Like a stormy sea, they frothed about, unpredictable and raging. The sound was non-stop.
We had to part the red sea of people to gain entry to the town. The vehicles were shown disdain: pelted with rotten tomatoes, juice spewing sludge through the material, stones denting the metalwork. A tin can hit the back of my head through the material; I flinched and emitted a small choked noise of pain. To most, it was uninteresting, but Yelena looked. And Yelena laughed. Patronisingly.
It was then, when we made our journey to the front lines in a fleet, that the car pulled to a halt and the flimsy fabric flaps were unbuttoned and the town came into view.
We were bellowed at to get out and we filed out precisely. It was a scramble of feet into the light, and I felt a flush blossom across my skin and perspiration break out along my hairline. The itchy blazer suddenly felt tight on my skin, like another skin. My toes, crammed into my boots were uncomfortably hot, and collected heat like hot coals. The air was too humid to breathe.
I was ushered in formation, hands slapping me on the back to make it to the front line.
A wall of tanks headed the depot of vehicles, a line drawn between us and the group of protesters. We were shoved forwards, made to form the front line behind the tanks; shoulder to shoulder with many other men. We were the only select group of women.
And our duty was to hold the line, to fire at anyone who tried to cross.
The sea was of protesters. They flapped their flags, waved their banners, raised their signs. The flags that were on the horizon; the red with the golden tools to build – they were burnt; fiery fabric flailing in the wind. Shreds of it floated away, still alight.
DOWN WITH BREZHNEV.
DISBAND THE USSR.
WHERE IS OUR FREEDOM?
They screamed, roared and shouted. The demonstration was loud and proud – but not violent. And our arrival, kitted out with artillery seemed to upset them further. People tried to weave through our ranks, and bullets popped from the nozzles of rifles; sending bodies scattering backwards, blasted raw by the bullets.
Livid hollers went up as protesters were harmed. One crazed man, yelling as he sprinted, ran at Yelena. Without hesitation, she shot him, and he collapsed at her feet in a puddle of blood. Family, friends, loved ones; grieved, they sprinted to his side, floods of tears drizzling from their eyes, pleads for mercy ripped from their throats. They sat in his life’s blood, cradling his body. A woman, the mother? She ran at Yelena, following suit, fidelity forever with her loved one – and she was bowled down the same; like a delicate playing card. And Yelena smiled. Her chin raised with pride.
More calls echoed that of the heartbroken family who had had their beloved stolen from the face of the Earth. Just more shouts amongst a deafening din. Hate was rained down on us, down on me; for joining forces with bad people, for supporting the bad people, for reinforcing the bad people. I wish I could’ve run to them; taken their hands in mine, hugged them close, bayed with them and sided with them. If I’d stepped so much as a foot out of line, it would’ve been a swift shotgun pellet to my spine – and out goes the lights. It took all of my self-restraint not to do so.
As whole squads of raging activists marched forwards in a mob, we fired in sync; even I playing my brainwashed role in the undignified massacre. It was like a firing squad carrying out the death penalty, and they fell just the same way. I had to do what I had to do. And so did they.
Then a young woman edged towards me, parting from the raging swarm of buzzing people. My eyes expanded in my skull. I urged her away, levelling the barrel of my gun with her forehead. She could see the confliction in my face, the way I blanched, the way my hands trembled with reluctance. Her hand slowly reached for her pocket, I shook the rifle at her; for fear she was to retrieve a firearm.
“Stay back!” I verbally commanded, pleading with my tearfilled eyes.
She was but a mirror image of me, approaching the end of her teenage years. But she was free. And I didn’t want to have to corrupt her with a messy death.
She didn’t say a word, and with a snatching movement, retrieved a delicate flower from her pocket. I lowered the gun a notch, the crossfire nib drooping to shoulder height. She murmured something, in a language I’d never heard before; that sounded like a garbled transmutation of my own.
What she did next was completely unexpected. She planted the stalk of the flower in the mouth of the gun, a peace lily, delicate and white; with a thick nobbly yellow spadix. A circlet of daises was wrapped around her wrist, doubled over to fit her. She uncurled it and neared closer, coming face to face with me. She stretched out the band of daises between two hands and crowned me with it, settling it over my uniformed beret.
And a curious thing was established as I met her eyes. Empathy. Her random act of kindness, showing me peace, when I did nothing but show hostility. She demonstrated another way of thinking, of acting.
She said something again, something unfathomable. And offered me a handshake. I didn’t react. I couldn’t react. It was almost as if I could feel Lukin with me, as my conscience, warning me not to do it.
Then from down the line, narrowly missing the cantankerous tank next to me, Yelena shot her down. The warmth of her blood stained my face, a new agony stained my heart. A shocked gasp was wrenched from my mouth. The lily propped in the gun was splattered with a backlash of the gunshot, even the daises deigning my hat, threaded into my auburn strands were dirtied by the brutality. If I was ever to explain Yelena Belova to someone; that would be the metaphor I’d use for her: death reigns where she is, she can brutalise any situation. When everyone else held their fire – except an inexperienced few – she would spray her bullets, calling it justice and self-defence. She gets a kick out of the murder, I’m sure. There’s something about the way she inhales, sticking out her chin with pride.
And after she’d slaughtered the innocent girl who had awarded me with her harvest, Yelena looked at me with disgust.
What disturbed me the most, was what they’d do for change, for generations to come, to better the world. I saw a man, raving and ranting and parting the crowd. Jan Palach, he announced himself as; waving around a can of petrol. I watched in horror as he screamed for what I assumed was change from the top of his lungs and doused himself with the flammable liquid, then dropped a cigarette lighter at his feet. He lit up like Time Square on Independence Day. Many rushed away, for fear of catching alight with him – unwilling to be dragged down with his demise. He only screamed in pain as he demonstrated the anguish of the oppressed people: chained to the same brutal government as I. One man pounced on him, trying to pat out the flames; knocking him to the floor. But he resisted, he burned to make a scene.
That image will be forever singed into my brain, branded onto the back of my eyelids and painted into my most vivid nightmares. This is what my people were driving the free people too. Communism is corrupt. Dare I even think the thought? Much less speak it. I watched this man make a statement in the most gruesome way. And I’ll never forget.
We held the line until dusk, when the sky was strewn with ribbons of colour, blotted only by some passing clouds; of which light still glared through. The heat faded as darkness crawled in. No order was given to retreat, just to barricade the square.
But the protesters stayed too.
They were diligent with their campaign. The signs were propped up when arms wearied, banners were strung up when those carrying them were shot down. And in place of the ruckus, came silence – when throats were sore and their weepy begging was ignored. Group prayers were said, beseeching the Lord for safe ascent to heaven for their less fortunate counterparts. Some would sing songs. But they never stopped. And god, did I envy them; with their freedom – their sweet harmonious song, their colourful clothes and the way they could tread so freely.
Then the order came. We were to leave, with all the colours of spring in Czechoslovakia with us; flowers still looped around my hat. I treasured the one from my gun; snuffling it away in my breast pocket where no one would search. The leaders of the protest had been caught and rounded up in red square. After being on my feet for endless hours, from the swell of the day to the diminishing, I traipsed back with sore soles and a sore soul.
That day was a bloodbath. Hundreds were euthanized like rabid dogs as they bounded up to the Soviet forces; severely wounded, and the most unlucky: killed. The gutters gushed red, streams of the thick liquid gushing between the cobblestones and into the drains. The air was filled with the thunder of gunshots, and the howl of ambulance sirens and the bleak screams of the congregation.
I deserted the string of bodies abandoned on the floor, marched through their puddles of blood, crushing flowers presented to the troops as a peace offering under foot as I was steered back to the camp.
I turned to James, having managed to wrangle a vehicle with him on the journey home.
“I don’t understand...” I stared blankly at the wall ahead of me.
“Don’t understand what?” He squeezed my hand reassuringly, raining a nurturing smile on me.
“Flowers... She gave me flowers... When I gave her the barrel of a gun.” I untucked the peace lily and lay it in the bed of my hand.
“Who?” James twiddled with the delicate flower, twirling it by the stalk.
“A protester... Yelena shot her dead. Just for the exchange. Just for her peace...” I confessed. “What we’re doing... It’s not right...” I met eyes with him. “Is it?”
“Best not to think about it.”
A/N - This book has reached 6K reads, so I thought I'd write a chapter as a little thank you to all of you for reading it so far! The multimedia is actually a picture of the Prague Spring, so enjoy!
Oh! And guess who drove a car today for the first time?! Yeah, there really is no one else it could possibly be... It was terrifying. And exhilarating! The author is in fact an adolescent thrill seeker! What the fuck is a clutch and why the fuck does it exist. I was told to slow down on corners - but I was at Brands Hatch, did they really expect me to drive not like a racing river? Life is too short not to pretend you're part of the British Formula 1 team.
Dedication goes to HiFiveKeaton! x