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Crucifixion
Gerardo Dottori - Crucifixion (1928)
In a spooky dive in Kurylatska Ulitsa 154, Petrograd, surrounded by the rising smokestacks, which stood there like redwood trees, pouring dark clouds of ash into the grey sky of the city, sat in the midst of the rising smokestacks Aleksandre Samarinov and his friend, the sailor Martiniev Kurzan. In their hands, each of them held a cigarette, twined like a very steep cone, without any filter to protect their lungs from more ash and tar and already burned down to a half, and a glass of Zoladkowa Gorska a very fine and fumy wodka from the Kingdom of Poland.
The dim light could mislead anyone in the dive to think that it was already the darkest of the night outside, but there were some sunrays piercing through the dark clouds that had gathered in the sky over Petrograd. Heavy storms were expected and the streets were deserted. A rolling thunder exploded in the sky while lightning struck the arrester of a smokestack. Aleksandre Samarinov did not hear or notice any of these circumstances around Kurylatska Ulitsa 154, Petrograd. Too much was the anger and too spiced were the flaming words on his cherry red tongue.
Aleksandre Samarinov was a student of the Petrograd Law School. His parents could easily afford the money to sand him to this forge of cadres, where he would learn the law with the best professors in Russia, but more importantly, would get to know the best people in Russia. A necessarity if one would have the will and ambition of a career and most certainly his parents had the ambition to let Aleksandre Samarinov have only the steepest and best career.
Aleksandre Samarinov, who sat in a chair at the bar in Kurylatska Ulitsa 154, Petrograd, was neither absolutely brillant nor oafish. Aleksandre Samarinov had a beautiful mind, but on that day it was dark and clouded and one could see the roaring storm in it while looking into his hazelnut brown eyes. It had been a very disturbing month for Aleksandre Samarinov and that might have been the reason why he sat in Kurylatska Ulitsa 154, Petrograd, one of the worst dives in the whole city, together with the sailor Martiniev Kurzan, drinking Zoladkowa Gorska and smoking conical cigarettes without filters.
The sailor Martiniev Kurzan levelled his glass, but then decided not to take a sip when he realized that the bitter taste on the tongue came from the fact that he had been smoking the paper and only the paper of his conical cigarette for the last minute. He put the one quarter filled glass down on the wooden bar, turned around and spit, right at the very moment another lightning struck and set a tree in front of Kurylatska Ulitsa 155, Petrograd on fire. The sailor Martiniev Kurzan, a member of the sailors of Kronstadt, who had 1917 started the storm on the Winter Palais and thus started a new era for Russia, had participated in that very decisive incidence. They had fought alongside the Social Revolutionaries and the Bolsheviks, believing in the creation of a new world of democracy, equality and fraternity. As the treaty of Brest Litovsk was signed, the Bolshevik hydra showed its other ugly faces for the following years, when they ruled with an iron fist and iron bullets of iron weapons over Russia and unleashed a raging storm in a cruel and bloody civil war from Tiblisi to Murmansk. War Communism as Lenin had introduced to the already exsanguinous land was nothing more than sharing the food. But sharing it only to the members of the red army and not to those starving and dying who had put work and effort into it to have someday some bread in a cold winter night. When the sailors of Kronstadt had realized that the regime of the Bolsheviks was even worse than the cruel rule of the Tzars, they rebelled against the red army and successfully defended the core of Petrograd and the harbour for almost a year, until the Germans, who had decided to do an intervention in the Russian civil war, could land in Petrograd and reinforce the sailors. After Kerentsky had consolidated his powers, he had worked on demoting and disbanding the dangerous and threatening sailors of Kronstadt, but did not manage to end the special revolutionary spirit they had and they now carried to their new navy divisions, they were assigned to, even if it was only a cleaning division. The sailor Martiniev Kurzan had been assigned to the post of a tutor on army and navy law in the Petrograd Law School where he had met Aleksandre Samarinov.
„Marti, today I caught Madzia with another guy.“ began Aleksandre Samarinov. „I should have listened to you Marti, this woman is from the hell and to hell she should go, I told her.“ The sailor Martiniev Kurzan glanced at Aleksandre Samarinov, carefully observing his mood, then grabbed his glass again and levelled it. „Aleks, all women are devils. That is why we can never understand them. My wife left me after four years of marriage without any words. Just a plain letter listing the things she had taken with her and her new boyfriend. Mostly my money and my gun. Look around you, we are living in a world where we are meant to suffer. Only from suffering, we can become clean. I have seen it at Petrograd 1920. We were holding off the last attack of the Bolsheviks. They had surrounded us and we were running out of munition and out of time. The Germans were arriving any time soon and we had to secure the harbour before that. On that day I saw the cleansing. The suffering, the death and the peace it had. That is why Jesus Christus is a god for so many people. I was in the very frontal line of the barricade for the first time and was fiercily defending our Machine Gun nest, when the Bolsheviks started their human wave. Young unexperienced recruits were sent in the front, like puppets you could sacrifice. They ran directly into the barbed wire, where some tiered up their legs as they could not see or notice anything surrounding them but the terrifying hammering sounds of the guns in front of them. The tried to climb over the barricade but were immedeatly shot down. But more and more came, they climbed over the corpses of their fallen commerades which were building up in front of the barricade like towers. Shots flew passed my ears and one hit our machine gunner directly in the eye. He was instantly dead. I thumbled down, breathing in heavy panic. More went by and the snipers in the grey tall buildings surrounding the street were hunting them down like deer on a hunt. Then a Bolshevik jumped over the barricade where I kneeled and like a howling dervish opened fire on our already dead machine gunners and the other sailors in the nest. I drew my bajonette and stung it in his back. He turned and I could see his grim face. It was the moment he had always hoped for. The painful slaughter on a battlefield. The suffering and the death for a greater good. A righteous sacrifice. When he realized that these were his last moments and that he finally had found what he was looking for, his grim face tuned into a smile and a weak laughter. He fell and crashed down the barricade, but I will never forget the peaceful face. That is what life is for. Dying for the righteous cause!“
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I'm gonna have to raise two quibbles... >.<
1. Paragraphs, please use more!
2. KR history has the bolsheviks being put down in 1921 by a white united front with german backing - so some of this does not make sense. That said, you're AAR, write it as you will. Tbh, the Weltkrieg in the west was not won until 1921 so I don't understand why the 'canon' has it set so early. I'd expect it to be over in the 26-27's really, which means a Kronstadt probably still would not take place but meh.
3. Good read, more please!
1. Paragraphs, please use more!
2. KR history has the bolsheviks being put down in 1921 by a white united front with german backing - so some of this does not make sense. That said, you're AAR, write it as you will. Tbh, the Weltkrieg in the west was not won until 1921 so I don't understand why the 'canon' has it set so early. I'd expect it to be over in the 26-27's really, which means a Kronstadt probably still would not take place but meh.
3. Good read, more please!
I'm gonna have to raise two quibbles... >.<
1. Paragraphs, please use more!
2. KR history has the bolsheviks being put down in 1921 by a white united front with german backing - so some of this does not make sense. That said, you're AAR, write it as you will. Tbh, the Weltkrieg in the west was not won until 1921 so I don't understand why the 'canon' has it set so early. I'd expect it to be over in the 26-27's really, which means a Kronstadt probably still would not take place but meh.
3. Good read, more please!
1. very good idea
2. I know, but I assumed the Russian civil war still happened and there was a fighting until the German intervention, but there might be a logical flaw I have overlooked. The sailors of Kronstadt had in reality started the revolution but when the civil war was over, they wanted more democratic power to the soviets and none to the commisairs and the party and thus started a rebellion which they obviously couldn't win. I wanted to put it that they changed sides to the white front in the civil war.
The canon is the manifesto of futurism by Martinelli, printed in the French newspaper "Le Figaro". I havn't put it into the relation to the text yet but I want it to be the basis of the whole story. Also, I apologize of being very confusing and I hope that time will bring light into the darkness of my writing style
here is the manifesto
3. thanks
I, Aleksandre Samarinov, ...
Carlos Carrà, I funerali dell'anarchico Galli (1910-11), Museum of Modern Art, New York City, USA
Carlos Carrà, I funerali dell'anarchico Galli (1910-11), Museum of Modern Art, New York City, USA
Aleksandre Samarinov left the spooky dive, where he sat for another two hours and listened to the hateful and flaming words of Martiniev Kurzan in Kurylatska Ulitsa 154. Darkness had come upon Petrograd and big and heavy raindrops fell from the sky. They were black and tan from the ashes blown into the sky. Aleksandre Samarinov had no umbrella with him and only dim lights lightened Kurylatska Ulitsa. These days only few lights in the streets were running. After the defeat in the Great War, Russia had been in dark or even darker times than ever. The Tzar and the Romanov family had been shot by the Bolsheviks after the revolution, but that only meant that a handful of tyrants had been killed. Russia proved to offer a mere thousands. Aleksandre Samarinov doubted that there were Russians that could not automatically be cruel tyrants, if they could be. It didn't matter for now. Nothing mattered. Nothing matters, Mary, when you are young. What could in this hateful world. Wasn't he like the Bolshevik, the sailor Martiniev Kurzan had killed. The only thing that mattered, that really counted was the purpose of his existance. The purpose had to be a righteous one. And how could you not fulfill it better than sacrificing for it. To not let it be ever tarnished.
Aleksandre Samarinov was a lonely man. Not only in this dark, stormy night, was he alone in front of Kurylatska Ulitsa 154, but he was lonely in a general way. No girl had ever understand him. Those who he thought would had disappointed him. He was a good looking, intelligent man. But had the girls ever want more than a quickie? If they did not betray him after one week, they got scared about his dark attitude at the 8th day. Or he left them. Without a word, they wouldn't have understood it anyways. His family did not understand him as well. His father had achieved big things in life. He managed to get promoted into the ministry of security. He had fought for Kerensky in the Civil War. An agent of the White Forces who infiltrated the sailors of Kronstadt. The White Forces were always suspicious for the White Movement. They were Social Revolutionaries. Even worse and more radical. They were the best trained forces in Russia and did not obey any central command. Not from Denikin and surely not from Lenin or Kerentsky. Aleksandre Samarinov's father had managed to assassinate Petrishenko, leader of the sailor under the red army, and lead the insubordination of the sailors to fight the Red Army. He was awarded the highest order of Russia for that deed, although he was neither a noble nor a high general, which of course was only a synonym of the first. He was a quiet, stern man who had always wanted the best of his son, but had no love to give. He had lost it on his harsh and long way, his life was. Even Aleksandre Samarinov's mother had feared her husband. She had no self consciousness, and the wedding was arranged out of necessarity rather than of unperishable love. She had treated Aleksandre Samarinov as the outcome of that miserable situation, of that miserable whole life she had wasted. She had wasted on him. For Aleksandre Samarinov, she was a miserable hag.
Aleksandre Samarinov was lonely. But he thought of it as something special, something good. There were no bonds, no obligations. He could do righteous things when he wanted to do righteous things. He could live up to his purpose. He wasn't a radical like the sailor Martiniev Kurzan. He looked down on radicalists, being entangled in their opinion. But he believed that there was a purpose in his life. A greater good that would be the result of his existance. Obviously, Aleksandre Samarinov was a narcissist. That was automatically the case, since he was the only human he could possibly like. Not even like, but distantly and moderatly accept. He was the only person he didn't dislike or absolutely hate. Out of this loneliness, strange habbits had evolved. He was a drinker of course. But everyone poured down the Vodka at that time. It was a depressing time. He also smoked a lot, an outcome of his nervous non resting attitude. He also had the habbit to write. He would not publish his works, others would not understand the true soul of his works. He wrote about his dreams of steel, fire and blood. His dreams of the modern world. Martinelli's dreams. A world of concrete, of darkness, where everyone was like him, no emotions, no altruistic hypocriticalism. No betrayal or lies, not even hate or fear. It was a functional world he drew with his feather on the paper in poems and metaphors. In novels. He had once been in Germany, seen the aluminum cars rolling at highest speeds in arenas, in colosseums. These were the new champions, like the chariot racers in Circo Maximo, who were the heroes of Rome, together with the Gladiators. In his world, glory would be achieved like the Ancient Rome, but there was no byzantine system. No people who betrayed the nation for orgies and sex. There were no holy shrines to be built, no architectural masterpieces, as the buildings would only be functional. No religious conventions nor any cultural, bohemian references.
Aleksandre Samarinov had his jacket pulled over his head while he dreamt and walked. The streets were deserted. His feet were stomping in the mud and the dirt of Petrograd. Passing barack like grey houses, he understood that he did not only dream of those things, but that his dreams would become reality one day. That there could be such a pure world. A pure world cleaned by the steel and concrete, by the speed and gas, of the new inventions, of the new technique, which had overcome the cultural and religious humbug, that had always try to prevent such a world. Aleksandre Samarinov passed one broken light bulb after another. Some street lamps had been the target of the aggressions of all those poor people. His foot crushed the title of a newspaper. With his head down, he could read the front page title. "Denikin asks Kerensky to imply Martial Law - Duma Members refuse to accept the Duma Reform Act of 1936". It was from the day before yesterday. Aleksandre Samarinov spat on it. Useless Duma, he thought. He disliked the compromisal attitude of the Democrats. They might be brillant brains but they did not have the strong will to actually do things. They were acting like impotent Silverbacks, asking the second in the row to do the stuff they could not do. If you wanted change, you had to do it yourself. If you tell Wrangel to hunt down the Syndikalists, who guarantees that Wrangel doesn't hunt you down too?
Aleksandre Samarinov lived in a small one room flat in central Petrograd. It was dusty and messy, paper lying on the floor together with ink and books. Cigarette remains and empty vodka bottles covered the desk and he had no electric light, but used stinking petroleum. He had no kitchen and only a small bathroom with a sink, a toilet. His shower was a bucket of cold water from the sink and a hole in the floor he had made, which connected to the sink's pipes. There was no room for a real bed, just an old futon on the floor, which he could pack away. Sleep was overrated anyways. Aleksandre Samarinov closed the wooden door with the cracks from the cold Petrograd air behind him, sat on the chair. He opened a Vodka bottle and poured some clear liquor into the dirty metal cup. He took a cigarette from his cigarette shelf, then opened a book. It was a German book from an obviously mad guy, who had become mad in the Russian winter during the intervention. He also was an Austrian, fighting for the German army. In Russia. His style of writing was nothing more than words put into order, like school children learn, his thoughts too simple to be from a real human being that could also write. He put the book into his oven. At least some purpose he thought, then he got his jacket off as the sudden nuriture for the fire let the glowing pieces burst into flames. A very good purpose. The book served for a greater good, he ironically thought. Then, Aleksandre Samarinov grabbed his feather, dipped it into the almost empty ink bottle and wrote on an almost unwritten sheet of paper. "Kerensky's last fault and the future.
1. I, Aleksandre Samarinov, humble as I exist in my one room flat, will foretell what will happen in the next weeks. Kerensky, if you give Wrangel or Denikin a gun to kill the Anarchists. Why will they not use it to you. They will use it on you.
2. I will predict furthermore, that if you threaten to kill the Anarchists while passing laws through the Duma, which could take many month, why wouldn't the anarchists kill you first?
3. There is only one fate. Only one outcome. Only one destiny and only one purpose. Let it to be said that we shall all live up to that purpose. Kerensky's purpose will be his sacrifice, his holy assassination, his death on the cross, his sublimation. Our purpose shall be a victory. An ultimate victory. We shall strife for the only and true purpose, the
V I C T O R Y O V E R T H E S U N
4. If we do not achieve victory, the technique will finally achieve victory. Kerensky is only one step. one small victory in the battle. He will defeat himself and be victorious over himself."
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Fullfilling his Purpose
Palladium Protractor, Chase to Assassination, (Gothic Futurism)
The sailor Martiniev Kurzan had left the pub two vodkas later than Aleksandre Martiniev. He was quite pissed and thus his balance and orientation lacked the usual skill of a trained soldier. He did not even realize the heavy rain, and his clothes being immedeatly soaked up by water. He only realized that it was cold and that he was too drunk to be still awake. It was only a five minutes walk to the hostel, where he was staying, while doing some business for the admirality in Petrograd. The friendly owner, an old, round lady, Helya Espoos, a finnish immigrant in Petrograd was waiting every night for the return of the sailor Martiniev Kurzan. He was her only guest at that time of the year and, also, he was quite handsome, so she had started a little affair with him. It was nothing serious, just some fun, after all those lonesome years. Her husband had died in the massacre of Kursk, when Red Army Commissars had been rounded up, arrested and shot, by the Czechoslovakian Legion, who by then had attempted to capture the Transsiberian railroad from the Bolsheviks, their only route of escape from the nightmare this civil war was.
Helya Espoos waited and waited, but the sailor Martiniev Kurzan never showed up. She did not sleep that night, nor the night after. She even broke the holy laws of hospitality when she desperately broke his suitcase and searched his belongings for a sign or letter of explanation. On the third day she wanted to go to the police station, but then remembered that the sailor Martiniev Kurzan might have been a member of the Naval Intelligence. Maybe he was just on a mission and had to hide. On the fifth day, in the earliest hours of the morning, a loud banging noise awakened her. In panic she did not manage to lit the candle. She broke three quickmatches before the wick lit up in a orange flame, spending only few light. She heard several noises, men speaking, giving orders in loud and short sentences. Should she go downstairs? She thought in panic. If it were burglars, they would probably just leave. She decided not to go downstairs, but to hide behind the door with the pistol of her husband. She didn't need to. At the moment she sneaked to the door, it flew open with a loud burst, slamming it into her face. Unconsciousness fell onto her and she stumbled to the ground. Then she dizzily saw the mouth of a gun and heard a roaring sound.
While Helya Espoos' life ended, the sailor Martiniev Kurzan was on a trip to Moscow. He had missed the New Year's celebration, as he did not realize that he was on a trip. He could not see clear shapes, his head was raging. He could only remember men approaching him, asking his name. When he said, he was the sailor Martiniev Kurzan, they simply beat him in the face until he was unconscious. Then they injected Opium into his venes. It was a delirium. He could feel the needle. He could feel the Opium rushing up in his blood circulation. But he couldn't do a damn thing. Now he was in some closed box compartment of a train, rushing down south. Then he fell unconscious again. When he woke up for the last time, he had a clear sight once again. Still his head was hurting and he could barely move. It was a great bureau. Filled with art and expensive things. On the mahogany desk was the flag of Russia and the emblem of the eagle. A man lay down, his head rolling on the desk. Fluids were rushing out of the back of the head. The sailor Martiniev Kurzan, slowly creeped towards the mahogany desk to take a closer look on the man. He was obviously dead. Shot in the back of his head. Cold bloodedly, but painless. The sailor Martiniev Kurzan grabbed the hair and pulled the head up. In shock and panic at the sight in front of him, he rushed for the door. It was locked by the emergency lock. There was no way to escape from it. He ran through a window and jumped against it. He had to get out. Use the fire ladder, he knew he was framed. He knew he didn't do it. The glass broke in thousands of small shards and the sailor Martiniev Kurzan crashed into the fire escape ladder. But the balustrade broke and the sailor Martiniev Kurzan fell twenty meters to the ground, a burned Ikarus, in an endless flight. He went unconscious for the last time in his life.
The next day, the postman threw the newspaper against Aleksandre Samarinov's door and awoke him. In his usual habbit, he stood up, filled the sink with icecold water and drowned his head in it for some seconds, before using old and used paper to dry it. He opened the door to grab his newspaper...
Great to see you switch to HoI2, bofski! The AAR is very interesting.
...although, Izvestiya is spelled Известия in Russian.
...although, Izvestiya is spelled Известия in Russian.
One of the coolest and most original setups for an AAR I have seen thus far. Very, very interresting and artistic approach. I'm eagerly looking forward for more, especially the way you begin to implement your story to the game.
Chanting for the Anarcho-Syndicalists here, btw. Hope the brave sailors and whatever Makhnoists still exist become able to cleanse the rotten state. Perhaps with French help?
Chanting for the Anarcho-Syndicalists here, btw. Hope the brave sailors and whatever Makhnoists still exist become able to cleanse the rotten state. Perhaps with French help?
I would just recommend you a slower pace of updates because you are throwing in large amounts of text very quickly which can turn down many readers and that would be a shame because it's really a unique AAR.
Great to see you switch to HoI2, bofski! The AAR is very interesting.
...although, Izvestiya is spelled Известия in Russian.
You will see many more poor spellings of Russian names
. Hope you can oversee that.One of the coolest and most original setups for an AAR I have seen thus far. Very, very interresting and artistic approach. I'm eagerly looking forward for more, especially the way you begin to implement your story to the game.
Chanting for the Anarcho-Syndicalists here, btw. Hope the brave sailors and whatever Makhnoists still exist become able to cleanse the rotten state. Perhaps with French help?
Thanks. Let's see which fate the Anarcho-Syndicalists will see. I havn't decided yet, but they will play an important role, naturally. For the poor sailors, they had been weakened after the revolution, their corps disbanded and now someone obviously tries to frame them. Doesn't look too promising
Yes, that is probably a good idea. I'm still a beginner at writing aars and writing in general, so I'm happy for every advice.
loved the "fake" cyrillic scrypt
I love those fonts! Only reason I chose Russia as the stage of the story. Got more than 20 different fake cyrillic typearts.
The City Rises
Umberto Boccioni - The City Rises
Aleksandre Samarinov, the young student of the Petrograd Law School had no clue about the fate of Martiniev Kurzan. He only new that Kerensky's assassination was a catastrophe for the young Russian Republic and that not only the man who had designed and dominated it, had passed away, but also his design. There was no way the liberal coalition could continue defend the republic against the pressure from right and left. It did not matter much to Aleksandre Samarinov. Aleksandre Samarinov had always looked down on the democracy. Why should someone unintelligent have a vote on things concerning him? Why should he compromise with his enemies and never reach his true goals, always bound to negotiate and fail. Why would anyone defend the institutions of such a weak and corrupt state, of the new babylon.
Aleksandre Samarinov dropped the Iswestija on the table without even bodering to read the articles. He had to see what the ears and mouths of the streets of Petrograd had to say. Was Wrangel, the national populistic chief of the armed forces really surrounding Moscow? If he would, it would only be, because Kerensky had given him the sword. If you give a gun to a burglar and tell him to robb someone for you. Why wouldn't he robb you? Point the gun at you? What comes around, goes around. What you scream into the woods, will hall back. Maybe the army would lead Russia back to its glory, it had before the Tzars ruined the country and the Germans occupied it. Transamur. Don-Kuban Union. Alash Orda. Turkmenistan. Azerbaijan. United Baltic Duchy. Finland. Mongolia. Ukraine. White Ruthenia. Lithuania. Poland. They were all the products of the Tzarist failures. The great Russia trampled down by German boots. For now, Russia's fate was on the brink of destiny again. Aleksandre Samarinov knew it. Most likely, Denikin would take over. But what would happen if the Tzarists came back to power. Or the Orthodox Church. They would halt the future and bring Russia back to the 18th century with their senseless prayers. With their arrogance and ignorance, concerning the technological developments, that will finally free the humans.
Aleksandre Samarinov rushed down and open the cracked front door of his house. Masses of people were on the streets, they all looked overslept, confused, scared. Some also looked happy. Those who were obviously Bolsheviks had guns and rifles with them. One carried a red flag. They were running to the city centre. Aleksandre Samarinov could hear the cracking sound of roaring guns, shattering the cold morning air. Clouds of smoke and ashes rose over the city. "What is going on, Monsieur?" he frankly asked an old guy holding pamphlets. "Pray my son or become prey. This is finally the end of our world.. Pray son, pray or be prey" He looked confused. His hair was pointing wildly into countless directions and his eyes were hastily trying to fix things he could recognize. Aleksandre Samarinov went on, trying to get into the city centre. Hundrets of people came running in the different direction. Then he saw a pamphlet on the ground. Crumpled and carelessly thrown away. Issued by the Headquarter of the Armed Forces, it introduced a curfew to Russia.
In the meantime, Ilja Dortosky crouched at the barricade of the upper Moskva Bridge, Moscow. In his frozen and stiff fingers, he held his old hunting rifle, that had served him in so many terrible winters. Now it would even serve him more, when he would hunt down the damned Tzarists. "Vassily, Ilja, Gunther, reinforcements are coming, hold the line. We hear that the army has surrounded Moscow, they are even positioning heavy artillery." God damn Tzarists. How could they be so fast. They say that a sailor had killed Kerensky. So many of the Sailors had been arrested in the last hours. Arrested or instantly shot. They Secret Police had also arrested Duma Members. For now it was quiet. They had occupied parts of Moscow. Not the governmental district, which was heavily secured by armed forces, but the important lifelines and supply lines of Moscow. For now it was quiet. He put his hunting rifle, fabricate from Germany, Mauser I-21, build in 1912, carefully on the ground and reached for the vodka. Without vodka, he wouldn't survive his duty. Vodka, the portable Russian heating. It was a winter morning in Moscow and ice and snow had enclosed the city. It had -24 degree celcius. Drops of spittle froze instantly on his lips. A comerade approached him with fast steps. Hastily carrying a letter. Unfolding it, he rapidly read, swallowing words, "Ilja, there ... news. Tanks are approaching the Moskva. They got Tanks, Ilja. Tanks. They are faster than we thought. Cavalry units in the south of Moscow and our comerades are engaged in heavy fighting. Many wounded and dead fighters. If this continues, we don't stand a chance... Peter Wrangel probably ordered the assassination of Kerensky, not the sailors. Moscow is surrounded by the Russian army, and operational groups from the army assassinate opposition on the streets. If we don't secure Moscow soon, those squadrons will be able to move freely. It is believed that Denikin has backed down from his ambitions and that if Wrangel secures Moscow, he will be able to seize major control over the country.".
"Stand firm, don't loose any ground, comerade. We must protect the Soviets and our leaders at all costs. Надежда умирает последней"
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