For Father's Day, the present I gave my awesome, guitar-playing, X-Men-obsessed Daddy was a story I wrote about the Bolshevik (Russian) Revolution of 1917.
The prologue of the story, which I am sharing with you, spins the tale of Konstantin, a seventeen year-old peasant revolutionary in Moscow. In this section, Konstantin and his friend, Ermolai, are witnessing a rally led by Lenin. Please excuse my poor Russian, as I used a translator.
Enjoy, and comment, if necessary. :3
"Comrades! Gather!" The man's voice was loud, menacing. He stood on a makeshift soapbox podium, his black felt overcoat stained at the bottom with dirt and salt. He had a weathered face, pockmarked at the chin, though covered with a wispy black goatee, being the only hair he had. He wore a pair of black trousers that were much too large for him and beaten up brown boots. His shirt was torn at the bottom and hastily tucked into his belt–the tie around his neck knotted improperly. A queer sight, he wore a brand new Ushanka atop his bald head. He went by the name Lenin, and led the Bolsheviks, as they called themselves. As menacing as Comrade Lenin was, he was a short little man, hardly threatening at all had he not been standing above the Serfs of Moscow.
Konstantin shoved his way through the buzzing crowd, tripping over his own dragging trousers through the blackened slush along the alley, his friend Ermolai close on his heels. Melting ice seeped through Konstantin's worn boots, numbing his already cold and blistered feet. "Damn it all," Konstantin mumbled, kicking slush off his boots and accidentally knocking an old man in the rear. "Oi, watch it!" The elderly man grumbled, cursing in Russkii.
"Konstantin, podozhdite!" Ermolai called, sidling against his friend as they huddled for warmth to hear their leader speak. Konstantin coughed and sniffled, catching the horrid stink of the people around him. None had bathed in God knows how long. The closest Konstantin himself had come to a warm bath in the last several months was when he was caught in a rain storm.
"Yebut the Czar, eh, Konstantin?" Ermolai grunted, shivering. "Making us live in this filth for years..." Konstantin shivered, too. His thin coat and tattered Ushanka no longer kept him warm; On the contrary, it made him even colder. Ermolai had the blessing of pure luck. He had a paying job, and could easily afford to buy his family food for the winter when he worked.
Konstantin was the polar opposite. He supported himself and his ailing mother on a measly salary and could barely make ends meet. He could afford rations for he and his mother, and could always take the ax and go chop the trees for firewood, but Konstantin's life was a poor one. Never changing.
"Yebut the Czar..." Konsatantin murmured, rubbing his numb hands together. Ermolai kicked the slush at his feet and hacked, spitting at his feet. Konstantin could have cared less about Lenin's speech tonight; Any other night, he would have been rioting and cheering with his fellow Bolsheviks, but tonight was just too cold. His hands were numb, his nose too painful to breathe through; His teeth chattered endlessly. All he wanted was to return home to try and light a fire to keep warm for the night.
Snow fell lightly upon the heads of the Serfs, and Lenin finally began to speak. Ermolai raised his fists and cheered as the bearded Revolutionary called out his plans for the Mother Land.
"Comrades, listen!" Lenin bellowed. "The Czar has ruled Mother Russia for centuries under an iron fist! The land is ours! We, the poor–the hungry–the cold–the sick–the dead!" He pointed out towards the crowd with each word. "We have lived in poverty for far too long, my friends!" The crowd roared. Ermolai cried out, "Yebut Czar Nicholas and his swine of a wife!" Everyone around Konstantin and his eccentric counterpart exploded in cheers and battle cries for the Mother Land. Lenin himself turned to Ermolai and nodded.
Konstantin had never before seen Ermolai grin as wide as he did that night. For the next week, Ermolai talked about his deep, intellectual conversation with Comrade Lenin, though everyone knew as well as he that Ermolai was illiterate, just like every other Serf in Moscow.
As the duo trudged home in the brutal cold, Konstantin and Ermolai passed by a recently abandoned liquor store. Estranged, frozen bottles of vodka and wine littered the windowless building. Konstantin eyed the liquor nervously. He could just take it and sell it to a nobleman, given the chance. Ermolai saw his friend ogling the bottle and stopped. "You want it?" he said. Konstantin shrugged. "Of course I do. I could sell it." he said, rubbing his already raw nose with his old wool mittens. Ermolai cocked a thick black eyebrow. "Then take it. Nobody cares anymore, moĭ drug." he said, nudging Konstantin.
Konstantin was always the more sensible of the two. Ermolai was always so incredibly impulsive, almost to the point where Konstantin wanted to vomit. Anything Ermolai wanted, he managed to get; Clothes, alcohol, women. He had this bizarre way of fooling people into thinking that giving him whatever he wanted would make their lives better. He once managed to haggle a pair of obuvʹ off of an old blind man during one of the earlier Bolshevik rallies. 'He didn't need them,' Ermolai had told Konstantin. 'He's blind, never leaves that spot on the wall. What the hell does he need them for?'
Konstantin shivered and shook his head. "Net, Ermolai. Just leave it. Like you said, nobody cares for alcohol anymore." he said. Ermolai rolled his eyes and sneered. "You may not want it, but I do." he said, stepping through the broken windowpanes and emerging with three unmarked bottles of wine and vodka. He quickly stuffed them into his jacket lapels and the two kept walking.
Konstantin looked at his friend. Ermolai was still shorter then he was, at least by 5 inches, though that would never change. His thick black brow stretched all the way across the bridge of his nose, making it look like someone had painted a black line over his face. Stormy grey eyes rested underneath, always sarcastic and sinful. His long, crooked nose always had made him look like a bird. A falcon, perhaps. He wore a size 13 shoe, which made his feet look remarkably disproportionate from the rest of his body.
Ermolai's eyes eventually wandered over and found Konstantin's. "What are you staring at?" he asked. Konstantin coughed uncomfortably. "N-nothing." he said, looking away.
They reached Konstantin's home after a few more minutes of walking. Ermolai handed over one of the bottles of wine. "Give it your mat." he said. "She might want it." Konstantin clapped Ermolai on the shoulder and nodded in thanks. "Spasibo," he said. Ermolai nodded and popped and cigarette between his chapped lips. "Do you have a match?" he asked. Konstantin dug into his coat packet and fished out his matchbox. He handed one over and watched as Ermolai lit his cigarette and let a thick cloud of smoke leave his lungs. "Come out tomorrow, Konstantin." he said as he handed Konstantin back his matchbox. "I hear Comrade Lenin has something vazhnyĭ planned." Konstantin nodded and coughed again, this time violently. "I'll try, moĭ drug." he said, wheezing. Ermolai gave Konstantin a strange look, almost that of concern, if that were possible. "Get inside," he ordered. "Light a fire. I can't have you die before we take out the Czar!" Konstantin smiled and bid his farewells to his friend.
He watched intently as Ermolai walked back down the road, unscrewing the cap of one of his vodka bottles and taking a swig every now and again. When he could see Ermolai no more, Konstantin entered the shack that he called home.
His mother Nadya lay in her bed, head resting against a hay-stuffed pillow. "Privet, Mat." he said, removing his ushanka and hanging his coat on the chair by the fireplace, where a fire slowly died, the flames licking the sides of the charred bricks, clinging to life in the cold. Konstantin knelt in front of the fire and added some tinder, stoking the flames with a wrought iron poker. The flames began to dance freely among the small fireplace, lighting up the tiny two-roomed house. Konstantin rose and greeted his sickly mother with a kiss on the forehead and pulled her blanket up to her chin. Nadya smiled, her bony, yet still beautiful face glowing. Konstantin silently chuckled. "Hungry, Mat?" he said, grabbing the loaf of bread from the morning and breaking it in half. "Net, Konstantin." she said, coughing. "You go ahead and eat, you're a growing boy." Konstantin frowned. His mother certainly needed the strength more than he did. His mother sensed his frustration and waved her hand. "Don't you worry about me, dorogoĭ, eat up." Konstantin stuck his ration of bread onto the fire poker and held it amongst the flames, melting the ice and toasting the middle. He watched, entranced as the flames grabbed at his supper. He missed the warmth of a spring day in Moscow. He missed the sun, the warmth beating down upon his skin, the greenery surrounding the grand city, the roses and tulips sprouting out of the window boxes along the broken windowsills of Konstantin's neighborhood.
A vicious gust of icy wind blasted through the cracks of the door, making Konstantin shiver. His mother shuddered and pulled another blanket over herself, then drifted off to sleep. Konstantin pulled his supper out of the fire and topped it with the last of the margarine. What he missed the most was the taste of meat. In the spring, Konstantin was able to sell more goods, work more because of the pleasant weather. He was able to buy meat for he and his mother. His prayed to God every winter that he would be able to buy decent food for his family, though he knew it was all in vain.
Konstantin slowly savoured his bread and margarine before going to bed. Ever since his mother had taken ill, he had shared the bed with her, just in case. He sat on the edge of the mattress and removed his wet boots, setting them by the fireplace to dry. He tucked himself in next to his mother and held her close, feeling her heartbeat in sync with his.
