The Sun Sets Behind the High Hill - Epilogue, Part I
Starting from the end. A bit of a surprise, I know...
But why the heck not ?
Part II of the Epilogue will be posted in the coming days. Until then, consider this (Part I) as a teaser of sorts.
(Note that the future versions of the text might change, this is all non-canon for now.) Enjoy the read.
- - - -
Munich, 9th of August 1984
♫
Sitting on the mantlet of a dormant-for-weeks T-72, he picked the last cigarette from the packet. He brought it up to his lips and almost put it between them, but he paused, thinking about what he was just about to do.
The last. Last cig, last packet, last ephemeral souvenir from back home, he thought.
There will still be plenty of the more permanent souvenirs, but from now on, these use-once-throw-away ones will only be rarer and rarer. Until there are none. He’d long stopped entertaining the thought of going back home. Sure, he found the idea of a little farming town of no more than 5000 souls in the southern Russian SSR getting nuked to be laughable, but how could he be sure ? He took a long look at the cigarette, weighing it between his fingers as if it was some ancient relic, deserved to be cherished, put in a museum exhibit and spoilt with regular dusting off and restoration works. All news they could gather from abroad (i.e. not much) suggested there probably wasn’t much of an USSR to return to. He had decided. He pulled out the cheap lighter from his pocket, lighting it up.
For some odd reason, at that very moment, he had remembered a few chapters and scenes from one of the latest Strugatsky novels.
Beetle in the Anthill. He read it roughly two years ago, out of curiosity and boredom. The chapters he remembered the most were the retrospective ones, where the protagonist is reading the report from Lev Abalkin‘s and Schekn’s recon mission. Ah yes, the empty, dilapidated, destruction filled streets of the towns on Hope.
What an ironic name for a planet. Who the hell thought up that codename ?! As the war from several months prior had already passed into recent historical memory, he could now compare. Compare the gloomy descriptions of the desolate, almost haunted cities of Hope with the gloomy visions of desolate, ruined cities all around Germany. All around Europe. All around the world.
Maybe it wasn’t such an ironic codename for a planet after all... At least in the novel, the cities were still mostly standing, if decaying. Here ? Most cities on this continent are little more than huge piles of rubble, trash and irradiated dust. Nah, I guess that scary craphole called Hope was actually better ! Thinking about other tidbits of the novel, he came to a sudden realization.
The title itself. Abalkin’s real origins. It’s all too familiar. Sure, it isn’t literally the same, but... Munchen is an anthill. We’re the beetles here. We’re transplanted, we don’t belong here. The ants are – unsurprisingly – giving us the message. And despite beetles being big and strong, the sheer numbers and determination of ants can handle even the toughest of zhuki. If the bugs want to live alongside the ants, they’ll have to learn how to appease the ants. Otherwise the beetles will get stung and... eaten... Slowly lifting the lighter like an athlete would a torch at the opening ceremony of the Olympics (
damn, there weren’t any this year), he almost threatrically lit his last USSR-produced cigarette.
"Kostya Alexeyevich, you greedy little arsehole... Not enough that you stashed away those three packets bought at home for nearly half a year, now you won’t even share. And here I was hoping you’d offer me at least one opportunity to taste something nice and domestic before you run out of the stuff…" It wasn’t an angry outburst. More of a statement of disappointment and disapproval.
"Ya know, Dima, if we don’t get into fights with the Swiss over some
dermo misunderstanding and the higher ups broker some kind of peace agreement, I think we can hope for a rather nice retirement over here. Like… Sure, the defence guys back at home blew a chunk of this place to shit and the Anglos nearly tried to finish the job, but let’s be grateful: We
can still live here. People can still live here. The boys have sweeped the area regularly with the dozis and Geigers that we still had…"
"...or requisitioned from the ruins..." added Dima, with a cheeky, but tired-looking smile.
"That too," said Kostya, returning a mild grin that vanished as soon as it had come. "And, well, my point is that the rads are mostly down where we are, the winds aren’t that much of a threat as they were in March..."
"March !
Blyad. Ugly month.", exclaimed Dima.
"Sorry, I’m trying to forget as well."
"We all are, kid."
Dima wasn’t much older than Kostya, but his rank and ongoing service in what remained of the Soviet forces radar surveillance units gave him a certain dose of mildly self-important conversation maneurisms. Still, like all lowlier men of the Soviet survivors from around Munich, the duo had largely switched to adressing each other by their given names or nicknames. Again, with probably no Soviet Union and Soviet Army to return to… Highly informal interservice camaraderie between soldiers of vastly different army units that was unthinkable a mere few months ago was now the rule, not the exception. Dima and Kostya adhered to this new unwritten rule.
"Where was I ? Rads are lower, some places even in the vicinity of the city are still not all that safe, but it is improving. People can still live here, there’s enough surviving stuff to aid reconstruction and everyday life. We can defend the city for the time being and protect the locals from any managable outside threats. And we can keep trying to get along with them and helping them with the clean up. In ret…"
"But let’s not forget what happened in the spring and early summer. Especially Slesa…"
"Yeah, I know, after that doofuss Slesarev’s actions, we almost got the short end of the stick… I wouldn’t blame the locals. What that major did was unacceptable, particularly at the time when we were improving relations with the townsmen… Fuckin’
durak, don’t miss him one bit ! Earned his name on the bullet… We’re lucky they forgave us and that it didn’t break out into an all-out revolt. We could have been smellin’ violets from beneath the earth now, all thanks to him…", he finished his short rant, spitting aside with disgust. "So, in return..."
"In return, the people of Munich will allow us to stay here, live here and we’ll all eventually figure out a way to coexist. I hope so too, kid. That’s the plan. Our only viable long-term plan. We can’t keep most of the leftover crap running for too long…"
"Tell me about it...", a pensive nod from the mantlet throne.
"...there’s no point in isolation, the city needs supplies and trade partners…"
Slow but eager nods from atop the mantlet.
"...people need to find their purpose again and start cleaning up the mess. We’ve busted the world to pieces, and now… we might as well put it back together. Though the top brass are still kind of trying to follow army protocol here and there, let’s face it: Our job is done, our cause is… mostly gone… so is our homeland… our place is here, mostly as future civilians. An armistice is at the door step. The occupation is a whatchamacallit… transitional period. Sooner or later, it will end and we’ll have to stop pretending that playing soldiers can keep us alive forever. Maybe I could still work in a token Bavarian army that we’ll keep just in case – radar crews will be hard to come by in the following years – but I certainly can’t see the conscripts lying about for eternity. Could lead to problems and, besides, they’ll turn into lazy gits… A deal needs to be banged out with the local pre-war authorities, we need a normal government, etcetera. I get it, you get it, the boys get it, the Germans get it and want it the most. Our top brass seems to finally be getting it. So let’s hope these supposed talks will bring us closer to something resembling a viable future."
He sounded determined and surprisingly idealistic, nearly forgetting himself in his increasingly passionate speech to an audience of two – one of flesh and one of steel. He finally paused, took a few deep breaths and, much like Kostya, alternated between looking around and staring into empty space.
"Dammit, boy, I’d love to be back home in Omsk, but I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll get back there anytime soon. Hopefully, it still stands. At least a bit. Just one, tiny bit…"
Kostya thought of his hometown again, staring in front of himself and inhaling another dose from the precious last fag, the Holiest of Last Russian Cigarettes. And then...
What ? An end already ? Pity ! Pulling it from his lips, he stared at the smoked-out cigarette. A nonchalant Dima, hands folded on his chest, observed the young tankman’s sad little ritual.
"Are you gonna utter a prayer for it ?" he chuckled sarcastically.
Kostya shook his head slowly and instead of an answer, he waited until the fag cooled down, then put it with care back in the packet, and slipped the packet back into a trouser pocket.
"For safe keeping... Proof for the future that we had good tobacco in the Union."
They both burst out into a hearty laugh.
The ringing of a bicycle bell. They both gazed toward where the sound had come from. It was one of the common foot grunts - Volodya or some such - riding a civilian city bicycle, sloppily repainted with some military-evoking colours. Fuel supplies were running increasingly thin. Half the armoured vehicles were put on hold by now. And if you didn’t need too many people to send a message or if the message wasn’t too urgent, a bicycle courier was preferrable to that aboard a UAZ 469 or requisitioned civilian car. While Volodya was hardly a desk jockey, he liked his new job of messenger and part-time bureaucrat.
"Hey, Dima, they want to see you back at your post, ASAP ! Some talk of unidentified aircraft entering Bavarian airspace. A rather slow one, probably a chopper, but they aren’t taking any chances and..."
"Could be a bogey, ey ? All right, coming right over..." sighed Dima. "Nice little conversation we had, kid. Take care." he said to Kostya, turning his back on him while doing something between a careless salute and waving goodbye.
- - - -
"They seem to be probing the waters. Didn’t fly directly to the city, seem to have hesitated with open radio contact so far. All right, let’s keep an eye on them. Get the phone and alert Kuznetsov from the AA brigade, just in case. If they try to pull anything funny, maybe the old fart will have his fun for the first time since he shot down that British plane months ago…" finished Dima with a bit of sarcasm, some of his co-workers throwing a brief smile or two over the remark.
- - - -
Half an hour had passed and a change had already come.
"Keep your heads on your shoulders people, the helicopter is coming straight to Munich." said Tobias, from one of the Bundeswehr’s last surviving AA units in the whole of Bavaria. After he, his crew and their Gepard survived and somehow reached Munich, they were in for a nasty surprise in the form of the remaining Soviets. Still, in the post-war weeks and months, the 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' principle prevailed and the part-time Bundeswehr POWs were admitted into the ramshackle remains of the Soviet forces in and around Munich. The move pleased most of the citizens, though some booed it as a lazy Soviet attempt at winning back their trust and sympathies after the botched opening months of the occupation.
"Why the hell have they not attempted con..." started Dima.
As if in reply, the radio operator exclaimed, cutting off his colleaugue:
"Sir, getting a signal !"
"Receive and hail them. Also: I want a full report as soon as ground crews get a visual on the damned thing. To the phones, people ! Time is of the essence," ordered Dima’s superior.
"Maybe a late arrival to that peace conference that’s supposed to be tomorrow ?", surmised Dima.
"If so, they’re unannounced and must have been pretty secretive or in a bad situation until now...", replied the superior.
- - - -
5 minutes later...
"Sir, confirmation from ground crews ! An Mi-8, civilian livery and without any visible armaments. Answered us in three languages. Two sounded familiar, the third we heard more briefly, but it was definitely not Slavic and..."
"A multinational delegation ?!"
"...and the weird thing is... They have two roundels on that thing ! Though one, a circle with white, blue and red, looks freshly painted. The original roundel is next to it, same colours, but different shapes and red instead of blue..."
"Give them the coordinates of the airfield, navigate them if you have to. I think we have an unusual but welcomed visit coming. Rerout their radio calls to our headphones."
Soon afterward, Dima started hearing their voices. The radio operator next to him, an Ukrainian, conjured up an amused smile.
"Well I’ll be damned…" said Dima in disbelief, then followed the Ukrainian‘s example.
Before he could say anything more, the Ukrainian started commenting: "One of the pilots is definitely Hungarian. Still remember that funny language from when I bought those
lángos flatbreads with cream. Back when I once got a permit for a vacation at Balaton. Several voices with the same language too. Rest of the lot sound more familiar, like..."
"...let me guess... Czechs and Slovaks..." said Dima, evidently pleased.
Kuznetsov will be pissed off though... he thought with an inner chuckle.
