"Hitherto, the rights and wrongs had seemed so beautifully simple."
~ George Orwell,
Homage to Catalonia
The parade grounds were a mass of activity, and to the uninitiated one could suspect that the entire city had been built around the purpose of trumphialist shows of force.
Moscow tends to be cold in November, but even the regular attendees of the annual Great October Socialist Revolution Parade seemed to be feeling an extra bite to the air. Eric held his old British Battalion overcoat tightly around himself, feeling his insides protest the weather even as he looked into the clear blue sky, and the assorted leaders positioned not far below it.
Poised above the marching grounds of Red Square, Adolf Hitler didn't appear to be suffering from the cold. As the massed ranks of the Red Army marched past the Volksfuhrer resolute in his typical grey suit and red armband, as if he were oblivious to the Russian weather in the name of his mission. Next to him, Joseph Stalin exuded satisfaction in his own myopic way. This was his party and the German leader still had to give credence to that fact, even if he was placed second only to Stalin amongst those viewing endless procession of soldiers, sailors, and workers. The two most powerful men in the world, watching over their great show of strength, all the while looking like an architect and a foreman observing a building project.
Belaja armija, čjornyj baron,
Snova gotovjat nam carskij tron,
No ot tajgi do britanskih morej
Krasnaja Armija vseh siljnej!
The choir sang deeply, threatening to drown out the brass band behind it. Even as Eric yeared to be inside on the cold day he couldn't help but feel a certain rousing sensation that emanated from the parade. He was there to report on it for his column in one of the new journals for the fledging British enclave in Europe, those who their mother country had forsaken. It was important to keep one's spirits up in such a situation, and the impression the massed ranks of Soviet, German, and other Comintern forces gave seemed to indicate that the war would be over soon and with it his exile.
For a foreign contingent in what was technically another nation's celebration, the number of German troops was particularly notable. Some of the German journalists amongst him whooped as the Rote Armee marched by, their goose stepping increased the martial flare of the ceremony whilst at the same time their expressionless faces matched the bitter cold of the Moscow afternoon.
Amongst the minimalism of their sharp uniforms, Eric tried to look for signs that any of those now on parade had served in Spain. Even if he wouldn't be able to put names to any faces, a shared experience was sometimes all the warmth a person could need. Before Eric could recognise anyone, the sideways profile of their stern faces snapped towards the two men on the balcony, obscuring them as they marched past and drawing attention once more to the two great revolutionary leaders. Eric pulled his coat closer and began to take notes.
Left to right: Maxim Litvinov, Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, Gerda Muller
Jessica winced slightly in seeing the forced way that her lover sat down. The way he exhaled with relief as he rested on the bench, with a feint wheeze in his breath, caused her to feel an awkward albeit less physical pain. She didn't mind being infactuated with an older man, but Eric's increasing physical frailty at an age where he should have been in his prime wasn't an aspect she liked to be reminded of too often.
Where will be in ten years? Will I still be with him to see him deteriorate? These questions stabbed at her mentally every time Eric's physical pain revealed, even if his smile could win her back as lifted his manuscript aloft.
"It's a good piece of work this one Jess, if I don't say so myself."
Jessica could only roll her eyes. Eric's writing had become more concise ever since she had half jokingly complained that his account of the October Revolution celebrations in Moscow was a novella longer than the journal that he was writing it for. His need to rely on what the Germans informed them of had undoubtedly helped as well.
"Please say you've cut out some of the rambling this time. We're meant to be alerting people to the truth about what's going on out there, not reading them a bedtime story."
Eric feigned dismay but laughed off her complaints quickly.
"You'd manage to make my shopping list sound interesting Jess, I'm sure the worker's don't mind."
The pair had become something of a media Kombinat ever since their meeting in Valencia several years prior. Jess was volunteering in the hospital where her husband had breathed his last. Esmond's I-16 had crash landed in the aerial battles over the provisional capital, and she felt keen to do her bit to repay those doctors and nurses who had tried to make his last days peaceful. Then Eric had arrived from the frontline, not much more alive than Esmond had been, she had done the best she could to make sure he would get through, pressuring the commissars to bring him and his fellow wounded International Brigadiers more than promises of victory in battles they weren't able to take part in. In the menatime Eric had began writing his own pieces of the battles he had taken part in, and she had read them aloud to spare him his recovering throat injury.
She had read first to his bunkmates, then to the ward, and eventually over a loudspeaker positioned outside the hospital. This led to Eric's writings being broadcast over the Republican radio stations. She had scoffed at the notion of being some sort of English Dolores Ibarruri but when Eric's condition worsened she had accepted the German offer to take the pair to Berlin where there state of the art medical facilities were matched only by the German Workers Republic's broadcasting abilties.
Eric recovered but it was decided that he didn't have the voice for radio after all, "unattraktiv" as Herr Goebbels had apparently opined. Jessica liked Eric's voice but she didn't put up too much protest whenever her lover dwelled on his own lack of talent for public speaking. She found Goebbels to be distasteful in person but he often knew what he was doing and Eric's talents lay elsewhere. The two worked together on their
Voice of Wigan programme that broadcast from Radio Free Britain every day, the title more a nod to Eric's previous writings than her distinctly un-Wigan accent. She couldn't help being born a Mitford of course, but Eric was a minor celebrity in his own right, and with her husband dead and his wife beyond the Channel, there weren't many others left for either of them to take solace in.
"I'm sure it's better than a shopping list, or longer at any rate." Eric laughed at her scorn, causing him to wheeze slightly.
"It's not all that long Jess, trust me. Quick enough for you practice before we broadcast.", he remarked with a wink. They weren't scheduled to begin for another five hours. With a sigh she began to read the script aloud. The script in her hands, Eric leaned in to focus on her. Knowing that his humble, slightly sad, eyes were hanging on her every word, she began to rehearse once again.
"Germany calling..."
---
This original work of art was made by the artist RAJ, please check out their work
here.
