Hetalia fic: Durch Blut und Eisen
Title: Durch Blut und Eisen: 1953
Author: jeva_chan
Character(s): East Germany (Prussia), Russia, Germany, Hungary
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Possible OOCness, some historical inaccuracy
Characters: East Germany (Prussia), Russia, West Germany (Germany), Hungary.
It had started in Berlin.
If anything, East was finding himself to hate the city more and more with every passing year. A large part of the reason could be because of how it was still divided between the Western Powers and the Eastern Bloc. The city that had become his second capital was torn apart, might as well have been torn to the ground like his Königsberg. Worse than this, it was here that people were finding their escape to West, despite the measures taken the year before.
A border lay between East and West. Something that he never bothered to hear how his western counterpart felt about it. He'd been too busy dealing with the cost of erecting the inner border. The economy buckling yet again left him scrambling to adjust. The border would hopefully keep the people from leaving, or at least not leaving as quickly as they had been. It has been a desperate idea that Russia and his boss had approved and overseen, especially when discussion with the Westerners failed.
East had struggled to keep from looking over the barbed wire fences to his brother's land the whole while.
With his own power, he'd put up that wall, maintained it, guarded it.
And still people left.
Just that year, twice the number crossed the border in the first half of the year. Even more still as Russia became more and more paranoid. East had often found himself, among the others, eyed with deep suspicion and spite. He'd also found himself, more often than not, be asked the same questions over and over. "Say, East. Do you want to visit your brother? Say, East. Do you like the west? Say, East. Why do your people keep leaving?"
And East didn't know why. Or he did but refused to acknowledge it. Russia had said he would look after him, had said he'd help him. And yet, East found himself and his people working themselves to the bone, scraping to get by, unable to complain as men in uniform stood watch and men not in uniform weeded out dissenters.
There were a number of them, and East couldn't feel more sorry for the poor bastards that were caught. He had more to worry about, however. Because that year, Russia's boss died. Assassinated, whispered those who dared to; stroke, said the more sensible people with a shrug and a knowing look. However it happened, the man was dead and they all felt that they could breathe a sigh of relief.
Except Russia had been quiet, too quiet. His bosses had quickly scrounged up someone to take the reins but how long it would last and if they would continue that man's system was unknown.
East buried his head in working out his own troubles, trying to ignore the failed attempts to cross the border.
It seemed that doing so only brought more problems.
Russia came by in the summer, seeming delighted with the shadows of suspicion falling away from his violet eyes as he spoke, "Big happenings, East! Big happenings. You will help us make it happen, yes?"
Tired, sore, and sick--he loathed just how weak he'd gotten, struggled to fix it but found himself leaning more and more against that large hand that always settled on his shoulder. So, using the Soviet's support, East had answered, "Of course, Russia," as was expected of him.
And then he was told of the budget.
His legs nearly buckled at the news.
Russia continued smiling down at him, babbling on about something or another but East couldn't hear. Words and their meaning escaped him as he stared vacantly at those violet orbs. Could he really be that cruel? There wasn't any chance that Russia was not aware of the impact this would make. Nor could he be unaware of the state East was in right then and there.
East felt like tearing his hair out, felt like grabbing the nearest heavy item and slamming against the monstrous country's skull again and again and again until this northern creature finally felt something. Then, he'd heard of the workers in Berlin, crying out in protest, demonstrating, hurling insults and some even scrambling even faster to get out of the Eastern Bloc. And East wanted to join them, wanted to leave the nightmare behind.
He stayed, watched and listened as what could probably considered a bloodbath took place in front of him. Soviet soldiers... his own soldiers... tanks bulldozing their way through the city, quelling the growing crowd in a show of force.
The whole while, Russia had simply watched him.
East shouldn't have ever taken his eyes from the Soviet, and yet, he'd done that and worse--he'd turned away from the scene, falling to his knees and found himself heaving, feeling himself torn in two. It must have been then that Russia had come up behind him.
All he could remember was the sharp pain lancing through his skull before he hit the ground. The silver gleam of that steel pipe glinting high above him as he struggled to get his bearings.
East didn't even feel the impact of the second blow, vision fading out as it descended.
Hot copper was in his mouth, and East came to consciousness, body convulsing as his forcibly tried to expel the taste until he was heaving and gagging dryly. Fingers dug into the ground--earthen and outdoors, he dizzily realized--as he struggled to pull himself up.
The wet movement of a rib rubbing near a lung had him gasping, trembling, vision threatening to go dim again.
A lilting song that whispered into his ear was the only thing that kept him conscious. Like a drowning man, he mentally clung to the song, trying to discern the words, their meanings, but they all escaped him. Only that language that left him cold with realization despite the effort it took to make the connection remained his sole companion just before he found himself staring at Russia's boots once more. This time, accompanied only by the spigot the Soviet had lovingly taken care of for decades.
On a particular note, Russia lifted that pipe before bringing it's bottom end savagely down on East's hand.
Bones cracked and split and broke free from their placements while the territory cried out in pain.
Not seeming satisfied with this, the Soviet did once more.
And once more, East felt more than saw his vision fade toward a darker edge, his opposite hand gripping white-knuckled to whatever clod of dirt he could get a hold of.
"Ah, East," said Russia, breaking his song in order to sigh tolerantly down at him. East struggled to keep himself breathing, to keep from crying out again as pressure was added to the pipe's end. "And you seemed to have been doing so well! Did you know, East? You're one of the more capable ones of mine. So why, East. Why would you and your people start to work against me? I only want what is best for you."
The German grit his teeth, a deliriousness that probably fell on him through the pain making him feel more like his old self as he started to laugh. "Best for me?" he found himself saying, red eyes turning upward to catch those distant violet ones that stared down at him as they always did. "You want to--fucking kill me. Nice and slow. Is that... right?"
A stillness came then just before Russia lifted his pipe once again.
East cringed, but no blow came.
Not until he began to relax.
Then the head of the spigot slammed down into his back.
An honest and true scream of pain tore from his throat, choking itself there as his ribs shifted, as that one poked and rubbed more and more against that lung. His head spun, and he pressed his face into the dirt, struggling to remember how to breathe again but almost not daring to.
The second blow kept him from curling in on himself, resulting in a choking sound that might've been a cry just before Russia calmly said, "You should not have said that, East. I honestly do not want to hurt you."
Bullshit, was the only word that managed to make it past the hazy fog that was East's thoughts after he was allowed a moment longer than before to recover. Allowed because Russia was still watching him, expecting him to say something, but even East wasn't stupid enough to give him more reason to damage him. Things were bad enough, his people being subdued by Russia's--by his own--God, what was happening and why did everything suddenly lose sense and meaning?
The rib digging into softer tissues as well as the throbbing pain along his back and his hand nearly had him pass out, but they also were the reason he was able to keep consciousness. Clenching his good hand into the dirt, he grabbed at the toe of Russia's boot, knuckles going white as he tried to breathe without having that rib puncture his lung.
Distantly, he realized that Russia was kneeling next to him, hands moving over his breaking body--not broken, never fully broken, he thought desperately to himself when he was able--pulling at him. Sounds of pain, maybe screams, East couldn't remember, tore from him as he was forced to his feet. No strength to keep him on his feet, Russia merely held him, hand petting his hair again while the other dug savagely into East's back. Whatever the satellite state did in response, he couldn't remember, just that he clung to the Soviet's suit, pressing himself against the other man even as his ribs and hand protested more.
Somehow or another, words managed to make it past the pain, drilling into his skull so he'd never forget them.
"Do you know why your back is like this?" questioned the Soviet, childlike voice entirely absent. It was just the cold fury of the monstrous nation who'd taken on the entire Eastern Front of the War nearly on his own. That hand dug its fingers more into East's back as he answered himself, "Because you turned and ran from me, Dead Prussia. You starved my people, raised my cities to the ground, killed millions... and then turned and ran. First to your city. Then to Berlin. To your brother.
"Do not try to run from me a second time, East."
The hand at his head pulled at his hair, pulling him back and biting savagely at his lips before the German could even begin to think of what he would be doing. The smell and taste of blood nearly had East sick. Blood and iron and earth and rot--the smells and tastes of war that he'd started to grow to hate.
The sound of protest he made came without thinking.
The Soviet responded by yanking his head further back and digging his large digits into the wound that East was beginning to think would never heal. Protests were thwarted just as done with his people in Berlin, in the outlaying cities and towns and villages. Ruthlessly, without debate. Worst yet, East found himself willing to just give up the fight, shaking and dazed with pain as Russia held him up, forced him to stay on his feet as he reminded the German just who was the one in charge.
As soon as Russia even slightly lightened up his hold, East found himself whispering hoarsely, "Stop. It hurts--it hurts."
He tried pushing against the monstrosity but found himself lacking the strength as the Soviet breathed into his ear, "Are you trying to run to your brother again, East?"
The reminder of his brother, just on the other side of that barbed wire fence--they were at the border, weren't they? Fuck Russia, fuck him and his torment, his taunting--was almost too much.
If East could feel whatever heart he had these days, it would have broken at the sound of the voice that carried itself past the border.
"Bruder!"
The cry was so close. So fucking close.
But the sight of his brother was blocked by the blood-splotted suit and scarf the Soviet wore. Still, he made an attempt to move, to look around the large nation for just a look--a glance, that was all. Or, at least, he thought of making an attempt. Either way, something gave away his thoughts and those arms tightened painfully around him, crushing him, keeping him immobile with pain.
God help him, he tried to keep silent.
A soft shushing noise came above him, followed by some of those lilting, foreign words which were becoming so much more common these days of red and blurred work and toil. Their meaning escaped him, however, as everything seemed to stop making sense finally, and he struggled. As much as he could, in spite of the injury he put on himself as his lungs burned for air, as that rib dug in more and more, choking him, he fought back.
It wouldn't make a difference. Not a damn bit of difference. His people would be subdued. They would run--leave him--and the system would crack down just as those arms seemed determined to have what solid bones he had crack.
And he, he would follow that system. To survive, to live, he'd do whatever it took, even if it meant this hell. This he knew, even as he found himself wanting to cry out for that brother he'd shoved ever further and further from himself. To keep him away, safe, away from this hell that was survival.
For now, he fought against that system. Cried out against the injustices. Struggled and defied the one who held him, as the Soviet had said he would from the beginning, just to remind himself and others that he fucking could.
That was, at least, until everything began to spin, darken, and finally, fade away from him altogether.
Germany didn't say anything while everyone around him muttered and whispered. Hands to his face, he tried to put the other western countries from his mind, caught in a mire of thoughts that seemed to focus in on the silence from the Eastern Bloc. There was no news of what had happened after the 17th. He'd heard nothing of what had happened after the scene he'd witnessed along with there rest of his country. Whenever he looked in the mirror, he could see the gray tone to his skin that had come upon him while he watched the scene of chaos and carnage.
East had fought. Fought hard against the Soviet and his forces, but it was futile. If anyone would know how futile it was, East would have.
And still he had fought, lost, and continued to lose more and more as people fled to West through Berlin.
The Eastern Bloc was so silent, and yet, Germany could swear he heard similar cries of futile fury coming from thin, silent forms. Injured ad hungered, painfully thin and horrible to look at, the same as his brother, those countries kept to themselves, not daring to do more than glance over at their western counterparts.
And the West--a least those not near the Iron Curtain--refused to meet their eyes, looking farther east instead. They were ore concerned about the countries who weren't already behind the red curtain.
Lost, Germany thought to himself nearly laughing at the idea. Even though their people continue to defect, to flee, those of the Communist Bloc were lost to them. Eaten by the hungry wolf.
But if Russia was the wolf of the East, what did that make his rival, his western counterpart America?
The door opening made Germany's heart jump. He lifted his head and quickly looked to see who would enter.
He nearly cried out in dismay when he saw Russia closely following behind the smaller German territory. On his feet, hand splinted and wrapped, East quietly made his way to his compatriots who seemed almost to wince if they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes. None of them met each other's eyes, however.
Still, Germany watched East closely, studying the way he held himself. Stiff, shoulders tense, and eyes hard--it was obvious that he was in pain. And not just that, but he breathed shallowly, quickly. Broken ribs, more than likely. Lines seemed to etch their way into the pale figure's face as he paused in front of his seat.
He looked old. Much older than he should.
And Germany bit back any and all protests much the same way East probably literally bit back a sound of pain as that heavy hand clamped down upon his shoulder. He silently watched as his brother obediently sat, chest struggling to get in more air but largely unable to as he closed his eyes, face going gray and a sickening greenish color.
East's neighbors tossed him glances, silent except for Poland's quiet, "You're not, like, gonna be sick, right?" which was surprisingly caring despite the two's turbulent history. Germany almost swore the grimace on his brother's face was colored with his old, cocky smirk as he muttered a German curse back at the Pole. The dirty look he got in return was almost like those of old.
Russia moved to seat himself, ignoring the small exchange as it did not seem to be very threatening despite what Germany knew of his dislike of his satellite states communicating too much.
The western countries focused in on the matter at hand, which of course meant Russia and Russia's ambitions and Russia's expansion. Which meant heated and icy cold voices arguing back and forth about how thing should be done.
Those western countries at the border, like Germany, could only sit and watch; and if they were lucky, exchange glances with those they knew before the world was split into two.
East never once looked over to the West during that time. Not for the next dozen years, as far as Germany knew.
A hand squeezed East's and he tiredly looked over to see Hungary watching him, hazel eyes hard and yet uncertain. He could understand why. Even after being allies for the past two wars, it was still hard to acknowledge worry and concern for the other. Or at least, openly. And touch was the easiest way to communicate when words--simple, easily manipulated words became a danger.
He squeezed her fingers as much as he could, determined to not let his weakness show too much.
The way her lips twitched downward and the corners of them struggled to keep from letting the expression become more of a frown showed that even his strongest was still pathetically weak. So East turned his hand in hers to get a better grip, telling her to stop fucking worrying, he'll make it through, damn the consequences!
Her lips struggled to keep neutral still as she turned her eyes toward the western nations.
East didn't look, couldn't. He knew exactly who she was looking for, and he knew exactly who he would look for if he followed her gaze.
Instead, he dug his fingers into her skin. No real message came to mind as he did this; an old hurt, an old rivalry maybe, but he wouldn't deny her the chance to look for whoever she felt the need to see. But there was a warning in it. He knew exactly what was going through Hungary's mind as she looked across the divide between east and west. Things were bad now, but maybe things would get better. Adapt, survive, keep your head down, and don't fuck up because the cost was nearly too much.
The way she slackened her own grip showed exactly what she thought of that iea. And the way her eyes turned to narrow at him spoke volumes.
You're not the country I knew you as, the looked said.
East took the blow as well as he did any other these days and just stared pointedly back at her, red eyes hard and determined.
I'm surviving one way or another and fuck whoever tries to say otherwise, he tried to say in the clench of his jaw.
Her glare and the pull of her hand showed exactly what she thought of that. Coward. Soviet Dog. Opportunist and backstabber as ever.
East felt his own temper burn out at that, gave one last squeeze of her fingers before letting go. Now, he refused to look over to her, refused to acknowledge her own indignation. Instead, East stared at the back of Russia's head, letting the tense English being hurled around the room wash over him as he tried not to think or to look at anyone else.
Despite himself, however, East began considering ways to make improvements without having the Soviet's wrath falling on him again. Stalin had been dead for months. It was entirely possible something would improve. And if it didn't, he'd make it.
Three years later, East would squeeze Hungary's hand as lightly as he could while she struggled not to cry in pain and suffering from injuries far more grievous than East's had been. There wouldn't be an I told you so.
Even years in this Bloc wouldn't make him that callous.
- The Inner German border ran from the Baltic Sea to Czechoslavakia, drawn out after the war to divide the Western Powers' spheres of influence from that of Soviet Russia's. Thousands of Germans who lived along this border were forced to relocate--often choosing to flee to the West. It is believed that over 1,000 Germans were killed in attempts to cross this heavily monitored and patrolled border from 1945 to 1989.
- At the end of the war, Soviets took about a third of the industrial production in East Germany, essentially crippling it economically from the start. Along with this, there was the economic bolstering of the military, which in addition with war reparations owed, cut into the budget about 20%. At the end of 1952 and continuing until May 1953, there were talks and eventually passing of regulations that would encourage a higher work out-put for the same amount of pay for workers. If production deadlines were not met, employers were then able to cut salaries. This is what triggers the strikes of construction workers leading to the uprising of 1953.
- As previously stated, after the war, Stalin went back to enforcing the Soviet regulations for the nation, keeping tighter control on nationalization and collectivization. In addition to this was the growing sense of antisematism (shown in Stalin's Doctors' Plot) and a fear of an on-coming Purge of political opposition.
- Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin died March 5th, 1953, after being bed-ridden from a cerebral hemorrhage for four to five days. There have been rumors that he had, in fact, been assassinated. Recent studies from both American and Russian scientists lean toward the theory of his being poisoned which induced the hemorrhage. Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov replaced Stalin as premier shortly after his death.
- The first of the protests during the uprising occurred June 16th when a group of factory workers went on strike when employers announced a pay cut due to not meeting the projected deadline. By June 17th, the protests had spread to over 500 villages in East Germany. According to the West German Ministry for Inter-German affairs in 1966, "513 people (including 116 "functionaries of the SED regime") were killed in the uprising, 106 people were executed under martial law or later condemned to death, 1,838 were injured, and 5,100 were arrested (1,200 of these were later sentenced to a total of 6,000 years in penal camps). It also was alleged that 17 or 18 Soviet soldiers were executed for refusing to shoot demonstrating workers, but these reports remain unconfirmed by post-1990 research."
- In memory of the rebellion, West Germany declared June 17th to be a national holiday called "Day of German Unity". After reunification in 1990, this holiday was then moved to October 3rd. The date June 17th, however, remains acknowledged in literature, poetry, arts, and even a street name--Straße des 17. Juni in Berlin.
- The East Germans were by no means the only ones to protest against the injustices of their working conditions. Following the shaky process of destalinization after Stalin's death, there came the Poznań 1956 uprising (June 28th, 1956 - Poland) and the Hungarian Revolution (October 23rd to November 10th, 1956). Both also were met with Soviet force--Poland's death count well over 50, including a 13-year-old boy, Romek Strzałkowski; Hungary's, over 2,500 with 200,000 fleeing as refugees. Later on, there was the Prague Spring (January 5th to August 21st, 1968) that was put to an end by the Warsaw Pact invasion, casualties numbering "72 Czechs and Slovaks killed (19 of those in Slovakia), 266 severely wounded and another 436 lightly injured."
Author: jeva_chan
Character(s): East Germany (Prussia), Russia, Germany, Hungary
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Possible OOCness, some historical inaccuracy
Characters: East Germany (Prussia), Russia, West Germany (Germany), Hungary.
It had started in Berlin.
If anything, East was finding himself to hate the city more and more with every passing year. A large part of the reason could be because of how it was still divided between the Western Powers and the Eastern Bloc. The city that had become his second capital was torn apart, might as well have been torn to the ground like his Königsberg. Worse than this, it was here that people were finding their escape to West, despite the measures taken the year before.
A border lay between East and West. Something that he never bothered to hear how his western counterpart felt about it. He'd been too busy dealing with the cost of erecting the inner border. The economy buckling yet again left him scrambling to adjust. The border would hopefully keep the people from leaving, or at least not leaving as quickly as they had been. It has been a desperate idea that Russia and his boss had approved and overseen, especially when discussion with the Westerners failed.
East had struggled to keep from looking over the barbed wire fences to his brother's land the whole while.
With his own power, he'd put up that wall, maintained it, guarded it.
And still people left.
Just that year, twice the number crossed the border in the first half of the year. Even more still as Russia became more and more paranoid. East had often found himself, among the others, eyed with deep suspicion and spite. He'd also found himself, more often than not, be asked the same questions over and over. "Say, East. Do you want to visit your brother? Say, East. Do you like the west? Say, East. Why do your people keep leaving?"
And East didn't know why. Or he did but refused to acknowledge it. Russia had said he would look after him, had said he'd help him. And yet, East found himself and his people working themselves to the bone, scraping to get by, unable to complain as men in uniform stood watch and men not in uniform weeded out dissenters.
There were a number of them, and East couldn't feel more sorry for the poor bastards that were caught. He had more to worry about, however. Because that year, Russia's boss died. Assassinated, whispered those who dared to; stroke, said the more sensible people with a shrug and a knowing look. However it happened, the man was dead and they all felt that they could breathe a sigh of relief.
Except Russia had been quiet, too quiet. His bosses had quickly scrounged up someone to take the reins but how long it would last and if they would continue that man's system was unknown.
East buried his head in working out his own troubles, trying to ignore the failed attempts to cross the border.
It seemed that doing so only brought more problems.
Russia came by in the summer, seeming delighted with the shadows of suspicion falling away from his violet eyes as he spoke, "Big happenings, East! Big happenings. You will help us make it happen, yes?"
Tired, sore, and sick--he loathed just how weak he'd gotten, struggled to fix it but found himself leaning more and more against that large hand that always settled on his shoulder. So, using the Soviet's support, East had answered, "Of course, Russia," as was expected of him.
And then he was told of the budget.
His legs nearly buckled at the news.
Russia continued smiling down at him, babbling on about something or another but East couldn't hear. Words and their meaning escaped him as he stared vacantly at those violet orbs. Could he really be that cruel? There wasn't any chance that Russia was not aware of the impact this would make. Nor could he be unaware of the state East was in right then and there.
East felt like tearing his hair out, felt like grabbing the nearest heavy item and slamming against the monstrous country's skull again and again and again until this northern creature finally felt something. Then, he'd heard of the workers in Berlin, crying out in protest, demonstrating, hurling insults and some even scrambling even faster to get out of the Eastern Bloc. And East wanted to join them, wanted to leave the nightmare behind.
He stayed, watched and listened as what could probably considered a bloodbath took place in front of him. Soviet soldiers... his own soldiers... tanks bulldozing their way through the city, quelling the growing crowd in a show of force.
The whole while, Russia had simply watched him.
East shouldn't have ever taken his eyes from the Soviet, and yet, he'd done that and worse--he'd turned away from the scene, falling to his knees and found himself heaving, feeling himself torn in two. It must have been then that Russia had come up behind him.
All he could remember was the sharp pain lancing through his skull before he hit the ground. The silver gleam of that steel pipe glinting high above him as he struggled to get his bearings.
East didn't even feel the impact of the second blow, vision fading out as it descended.
Hot copper was in his mouth, and East came to consciousness, body convulsing as his forcibly tried to expel the taste until he was heaving and gagging dryly. Fingers dug into the ground--earthen and outdoors, he dizzily realized--as he struggled to pull himself up.
The wet movement of a rib rubbing near a lung had him gasping, trembling, vision threatening to go dim again.
A lilting song that whispered into his ear was the only thing that kept him conscious. Like a drowning man, he mentally clung to the song, trying to discern the words, their meanings, but they all escaped him. Only that language that left him cold with realization despite the effort it took to make the connection remained his sole companion just before he found himself staring at Russia's boots once more. This time, accompanied only by the spigot the Soviet had lovingly taken care of for decades.
On a particular note, Russia lifted that pipe before bringing it's bottom end savagely down on East's hand.
Bones cracked and split and broke free from their placements while the territory cried out in pain.
Not seeming satisfied with this, the Soviet did once more.
And once more, East felt more than saw his vision fade toward a darker edge, his opposite hand gripping white-knuckled to whatever clod of dirt he could get a hold of.
"Ah, East," said Russia, breaking his song in order to sigh tolerantly down at him. East struggled to keep himself breathing, to keep from crying out again as pressure was added to the pipe's end. "And you seemed to have been doing so well! Did you know, East? You're one of the more capable ones of mine. So why, East. Why would you and your people start to work against me? I only want what is best for you."
The German grit his teeth, a deliriousness that probably fell on him through the pain making him feel more like his old self as he started to laugh. "Best for me?" he found himself saying, red eyes turning upward to catch those distant violet ones that stared down at him as they always did. "You want to--fucking kill me. Nice and slow. Is that... right?"
A stillness came then just before Russia lifted his pipe once again.
East cringed, but no blow came.
Not until he began to relax.
Then the head of the spigot slammed down into his back.
An honest and true scream of pain tore from his throat, choking itself there as his ribs shifted, as that one poked and rubbed more and more against that lung. His head spun, and he pressed his face into the dirt, struggling to remember how to breathe again but almost not daring to.
The second blow kept him from curling in on himself, resulting in a choking sound that might've been a cry just before Russia calmly said, "You should not have said that, East. I honestly do not want to hurt you."
Bullshit, was the only word that managed to make it past the hazy fog that was East's thoughts after he was allowed a moment longer than before to recover. Allowed because Russia was still watching him, expecting him to say something, but even East wasn't stupid enough to give him more reason to damage him. Things were bad enough, his people being subdued by Russia's--by his own--God, what was happening and why did everything suddenly lose sense and meaning?
The rib digging into softer tissues as well as the throbbing pain along his back and his hand nearly had him pass out, but they also were the reason he was able to keep consciousness. Clenching his good hand into the dirt, he grabbed at the toe of Russia's boot, knuckles going white as he tried to breathe without having that rib puncture his lung.
Distantly, he realized that Russia was kneeling next to him, hands moving over his breaking body--not broken, never fully broken, he thought desperately to himself when he was able--pulling at him. Sounds of pain, maybe screams, East couldn't remember, tore from him as he was forced to his feet. No strength to keep him on his feet, Russia merely held him, hand petting his hair again while the other dug savagely into East's back. Whatever the satellite state did in response, he couldn't remember, just that he clung to the Soviet's suit, pressing himself against the other man even as his ribs and hand protested more.
Somehow or another, words managed to make it past the pain, drilling into his skull so he'd never forget them.
"Do you know why your back is like this?" questioned the Soviet, childlike voice entirely absent. It was just the cold fury of the monstrous nation who'd taken on the entire Eastern Front of the War nearly on his own. That hand dug its fingers more into East's back as he answered himself, "Because you turned and ran from me, Dead Prussia. You starved my people, raised my cities to the ground, killed millions... and then turned and ran. First to your city. Then to Berlin. To your brother.
"Do not try to run from me a second time, East."
The hand at his head pulled at his hair, pulling him back and biting savagely at his lips before the German could even begin to think of what he would be doing. The smell and taste of blood nearly had East sick. Blood and iron and earth and rot--the smells and tastes of war that he'd started to grow to hate.
The sound of protest he made came without thinking.
The Soviet responded by yanking his head further back and digging his large digits into the wound that East was beginning to think would never heal. Protests were thwarted just as done with his people in Berlin, in the outlaying cities and towns and villages. Ruthlessly, without debate. Worst yet, East found himself willing to just give up the fight, shaking and dazed with pain as Russia held him up, forced him to stay on his feet as he reminded the German just who was the one in charge.
As soon as Russia even slightly lightened up his hold, East found himself whispering hoarsely, "Stop. It hurts--it hurts."
He tried pushing against the monstrosity but found himself lacking the strength as the Soviet breathed into his ear, "Are you trying to run to your brother again, East?"
The reminder of his brother, just on the other side of that barbed wire fence--they were at the border, weren't they? Fuck Russia, fuck him and his torment, his taunting--was almost too much.
If East could feel whatever heart he had these days, it would have broken at the sound of the voice that carried itself past the border.
"Bruder!"
The cry was so close. So fucking close.
But the sight of his brother was blocked by the blood-splotted suit and scarf the Soviet wore. Still, he made an attempt to move, to look around the large nation for just a look--a glance, that was all. Or, at least, he thought of making an attempt. Either way, something gave away his thoughts and those arms tightened painfully around him, crushing him, keeping him immobile with pain.
God help him, he tried to keep silent.
A soft shushing noise came above him, followed by some of those lilting, foreign words which were becoming so much more common these days of red and blurred work and toil. Their meaning escaped him, however, as everything seemed to stop making sense finally, and he struggled. As much as he could, in spite of the injury he put on himself as his lungs burned for air, as that rib dug in more and more, choking him, he fought back.
It wouldn't make a difference. Not a damn bit of difference. His people would be subdued. They would run--leave him--and the system would crack down just as those arms seemed determined to have what solid bones he had crack.
And he, he would follow that system. To survive, to live, he'd do whatever it took, even if it meant this hell. This he knew, even as he found himself wanting to cry out for that brother he'd shoved ever further and further from himself. To keep him away, safe, away from this hell that was survival.
For now, he fought against that system. Cried out against the injustices. Struggled and defied the one who held him, as the Soviet had said he would from the beginning, just to remind himself and others that he fucking could.
That was, at least, until everything began to spin, darken, and finally, fade away from him altogether.
Germany didn't say anything while everyone around him muttered and whispered. Hands to his face, he tried to put the other western countries from his mind, caught in a mire of thoughts that seemed to focus in on the silence from the Eastern Bloc. There was no news of what had happened after the 17th. He'd heard nothing of what had happened after the scene he'd witnessed along with there rest of his country. Whenever he looked in the mirror, he could see the gray tone to his skin that had come upon him while he watched the scene of chaos and carnage.
East had fought. Fought hard against the Soviet and his forces, but it was futile. If anyone would know how futile it was, East would have.
And still he had fought, lost, and continued to lose more and more as people fled to West through Berlin.
The Eastern Bloc was so silent, and yet, Germany could swear he heard similar cries of futile fury coming from thin, silent forms. Injured ad hungered, painfully thin and horrible to look at, the same as his brother, those countries kept to themselves, not daring to do more than glance over at their western counterparts.
And the West--a least those not near the Iron Curtain--refused to meet their eyes, looking farther east instead. They were ore concerned about the countries who weren't already behind the red curtain.
Lost, Germany thought to himself nearly laughing at the idea. Even though their people continue to defect, to flee, those of the Communist Bloc were lost to them. Eaten by the hungry wolf.
But if Russia was the wolf of the East, what did that make his rival, his western counterpart America?
The door opening made Germany's heart jump. He lifted his head and quickly looked to see who would enter.
He nearly cried out in dismay when he saw Russia closely following behind the smaller German territory. On his feet, hand splinted and wrapped, East quietly made his way to his compatriots who seemed almost to wince if they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes. None of them met each other's eyes, however.
Still, Germany watched East closely, studying the way he held himself. Stiff, shoulders tense, and eyes hard--it was obvious that he was in pain. And not just that, but he breathed shallowly, quickly. Broken ribs, more than likely. Lines seemed to etch their way into the pale figure's face as he paused in front of his seat.
He looked old. Much older than he should.
And Germany bit back any and all protests much the same way East probably literally bit back a sound of pain as that heavy hand clamped down upon his shoulder. He silently watched as his brother obediently sat, chest struggling to get in more air but largely unable to as he closed his eyes, face going gray and a sickening greenish color.
East's neighbors tossed him glances, silent except for Poland's quiet, "You're not, like, gonna be sick, right?" which was surprisingly caring despite the two's turbulent history. Germany almost swore the grimace on his brother's face was colored with his old, cocky smirk as he muttered a German curse back at the Pole. The dirty look he got in return was almost like those of old.
Russia moved to seat himself, ignoring the small exchange as it did not seem to be very threatening despite what Germany knew of his dislike of his satellite states communicating too much.
The western countries focused in on the matter at hand, which of course meant Russia and Russia's ambitions and Russia's expansion. Which meant heated and icy cold voices arguing back and forth about how thing should be done.
Those western countries at the border, like Germany, could only sit and watch; and if they were lucky, exchange glances with those they knew before the world was split into two.
East never once looked over to the West during that time. Not for the next dozen years, as far as Germany knew.
A hand squeezed East's and he tiredly looked over to see Hungary watching him, hazel eyes hard and yet uncertain. He could understand why. Even after being allies for the past two wars, it was still hard to acknowledge worry and concern for the other. Or at least, openly. And touch was the easiest way to communicate when words--simple, easily manipulated words became a danger.
He squeezed her fingers as much as he could, determined to not let his weakness show too much.
The way her lips twitched downward and the corners of them struggled to keep from letting the expression become more of a frown showed that even his strongest was still pathetically weak. So East turned his hand in hers to get a better grip, telling her to stop fucking worrying, he'll make it through, damn the consequences!
Her lips struggled to keep neutral still as she turned her eyes toward the western nations.
East didn't look, couldn't. He knew exactly who she was looking for, and he knew exactly who he would look for if he followed her gaze.
Instead, he dug his fingers into her skin. No real message came to mind as he did this; an old hurt, an old rivalry maybe, but he wouldn't deny her the chance to look for whoever she felt the need to see. But there was a warning in it. He knew exactly what was going through Hungary's mind as she looked across the divide between east and west. Things were bad now, but maybe things would get better. Adapt, survive, keep your head down, and don't fuck up because the cost was nearly too much.
The way she slackened her own grip showed exactly what she thought of that iea. And the way her eyes turned to narrow at him spoke volumes.
You're not the country I knew you as, the looked said.
East took the blow as well as he did any other these days and just stared pointedly back at her, red eyes hard and determined.
I'm surviving one way or another and fuck whoever tries to say otherwise, he tried to say in the clench of his jaw.
Her glare and the pull of her hand showed exactly what she thought of that. Coward. Soviet Dog. Opportunist and backstabber as ever.
East felt his own temper burn out at that, gave one last squeeze of her fingers before letting go. Now, he refused to look over to her, refused to acknowledge her own indignation. Instead, East stared at the back of Russia's head, letting the tense English being hurled around the room wash over him as he tried not to think or to look at anyone else.
Despite himself, however, East began considering ways to make improvements without having the Soviet's wrath falling on him again. Stalin had been dead for months. It was entirely possible something would improve. And if it didn't, he'd make it.
Three years later, East would squeeze Hungary's hand as lightly as he could while she struggled not to cry in pain and suffering from injuries far more grievous than East's had been. There wouldn't be an I told you so.
Even years in this Bloc wouldn't make him that callous.
- The Inner German border ran from the Baltic Sea to Czechoslavakia, drawn out after the war to divide the Western Powers' spheres of influence from that of Soviet Russia's. Thousands of Germans who lived along this border were forced to relocate--often choosing to flee to the West. It is believed that over 1,000 Germans were killed in attempts to cross this heavily monitored and patrolled border from 1945 to 1989.
- At the end of the war, Soviets took about a third of the industrial production in East Germany, essentially crippling it economically from the start. Along with this, there was the economic bolstering of the military, which in addition with war reparations owed, cut into the budget about 20%. At the end of 1952 and continuing until May 1953, there were talks and eventually passing of regulations that would encourage a higher work out-put for the same amount of pay for workers. If production deadlines were not met, employers were then able to cut salaries. This is what triggers the strikes of construction workers leading to the uprising of 1953.
- As previously stated, after the war, Stalin went back to enforcing the Soviet regulations for the nation, keeping tighter control on nationalization and collectivization. In addition to this was the growing sense of antisematism (shown in Stalin's Doctors' Plot) and a fear of an on-coming Purge of political opposition.
- Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin died March 5th, 1953, after being bed-ridden from a cerebral hemorrhage for four to five days. There have been rumors that he had, in fact, been assassinated. Recent studies from both American and Russian scientists lean toward the theory of his being poisoned which induced the hemorrhage. Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov replaced Stalin as premier shortly after his death.
- The first of the protests during the uprising occurred June 16th when a group of factory workers went on strike when employers announced a pay cut due to not meeting the projected deadline. By June 17th, the protests had spread to over 500 villages in East Germany. According to the West German Ministry for Inter-German affairs in 1966, "513 people (including 116 "functionaries of the SED regime") were killed in the uprising, 106 people were executed under martial law or later condemned to death, 1,838 were injured, and 5,100 were arrested (1,200 of these were later sentenced to a total of 6,000 years in penal camps). It also was alleged that 17 or 18 Soviet soldiers were executed for refusing to shoot demonstrating workers, but these reports remain unconfirmed by post-1990 research."
- In memory of the rebellion, West Germany declared June 17th to be a national holiday called "Day of German Unity". After reunification in 1990, this holiday was then moved to October 3rd. The date June 17th, however, remains acknowledged in literature, poetry, arts, and even a street name--Straße des 17. Juni in Berlin.
- The East Germans were by no means the only ones to protest against the injustices of their working conditions. Following the shaky process of destalinization after Stalin's death, there came the Poznań 1956 uprising (June 28th, 1956 - Poland) and the Hungarian Revolution (October 23rd to November 10th, 1956). Both also were met with Soviet force--Poland's death count well over 50, including a 13-year-old boy, Romek Strzałkowski; Hungary's, over 2,500 with 200,000 fleeing as refugees. Later on, there was the Prague Spring (January 5th to August 21st, 1968) that was put to an end by the Warsaw Pact invasion, casualties numbering "72 Czechs and Slovaks killed (19 of those in Slovakia), 266 severely wounded and another 436 lightly injured."