Operation Buterbrod
Episode 1 - Raven to raven
The
memory was from so long ago. Muzhik had almost forgotten there was a
time where he had flesh and bone, a name and a mission that had not
become his entire life. The archives and the office had such a
pristine, ambitiously Soviet feel to them. It was not at all as sterile
as one would think. Sure, the floors were polished but they had the
character and unique spirit of a Slavic rug. The kind one’s
Babushka would have pinned to the apartment wall to keep the cold out
and the heat in.
The walls were often blank besides the decorative and commemorative portraits of Soviet heroes of past wars. Often juxtaposed next to the current staff and chain-of-command, as if they were equal parts of the same revolution. Was it possible to feel a yearning and nostalgia for a time that still technically existed? Wasn’t everyone already a significant part of this revolution? Honestly, this was the largest debate of today.
Whether or not the revolution was a spontaneous combustion of progress or if that was simply the benefit of industry, modernization. When one is so used to the chains of the old system, everything might as well float with complete weightlessness once they are gone. The old system, the Tsars, the serfs… the muzhik. Everything had changed in a single breath and yet, they were still a long road away from the true, ideal dream.
Dreams can be dangerous things, ‘Muzhik’ thought. But everyday, the past becamemore estranged and the dream of the future became more real as he marched through the halls. Each door was a rather ornately distinct tone of lacquered wood. Wood of that texture was always pleasant to the touch, a sort of ‘common-fool’s-gold’ if it ever existed. Surely, the woodloggers of Urals must think of themselves as carrying the same prestige as those who mined gold mindlessly in the west. And what of those Prussians across from Danzig, digging up all that amber? In the end, those resources are truly useless compared to the steel that today builds railroads and the skeletons of homes that will house millions.
Yes, this was not the most beautiful world, but what they all lacked in physical wealth, they would gain in reassurance. Future, peace, brotherhood, equality. A world without class. A world without gender titles or roles, a world where the worker is appreciated, never hungry and always warm, always fed, always housed. A future where women and men had careers to enrich their families and not line their own pockets. A future where children did not cry, a future where no one was an orphan. In this future, if parents failed, the State could be their father, the Motherland their mother. A future where no one was left behind, where peers reached even the stars.
And where was god, the saints and the boyfriends of the church? Of course, they were the ones with all the real riches in some nations. Just as the Tsars were dragons and desposts that hoarded wealth almost innocently, for their vicinity to the stench of inequality had been normalized to them since birth, like a horse raised to accept flies and the aroma of a barn… there were institutions that sincerely hoped that no common man would ever be more than a toothless peasant. Some institutions preferred the poor to get poorer, the rich to get richer and for that gap to widen until there was no longer the parasitic need for one to exist with dependence on the other.
The world was not fair and surely, the revolution was not an overnight change. And revolution, like industrialization, was ugly. In the end, truly, who has ever built a nation without skeletons in the foundation? Agent Muzhik knocked firmly on the door with a gloved hand, but the white of his knuckle beneath still radiated through the hall and the room on the other side. Silence. Muzhik knocked again, this time in a pattern of three and then stood aside with a position of attention. Boots clicked together and a posture and bearing that was sharp enough to carve the hardest of wood. A man with an officer’s cap opened the door, with him, a swirl of cigarette smoke. A prominently thick boot-brush of a mustache on his lip with even bushier eyebrows. Yet, a dignified shaved face otherwise with a jawline that could be considered sacred geometry.
“Name, rank?”
“Comrade M. Karabanov.”
“Rank?”
“What of it? We’re all brothers.”
“Fair enough, don’t give me too much lip thought, you aren’t my wife.”
The humour was present but neither men smiled. ‘Muzhik’ entered and the ill lit computer lab of the archive room, was entirely populated by men with decorated shoulder boards of ranks and prestige, as well as a few formal uniforms that held epaulets. Something that surely would not be a trend in future uniforms as they became more utilitarian and remarkably ‘Soviet’ in accordance to the tenancy of Cultural Marxism and the notions of Scientific Materialism. Etc. Etc.
Either way, every desk had various items that showed some aspects of these tenants. Name-plates were solid steel or wood, no pretentious gold, rank or anything beyond last names.
A few statuette head-busts of heroes of the revolution, because of course, what else would
there be?
No gods or saints adorned the one wall in the back that had an accidental, almost holy spotlight of veneration upon it - merely portraits of Marx, Lenin and Stalin. In that order. A studious man with some bulk to his hair, had his officer cap upside down on his desk and humorously enough, a glass ashtray resting within it. Disrespectful to himself more than anything, but one must never question why a man smoked when he had a wall of books on one side of his books in archival documents alone. It was a miracle he was not blissfully drunk at all times.
“Comrade Yagoda said you would be coming.”
“Comrade Yezhov, one day you will have his job with that attitude of his.”
“Ha, you jest Muzhik, we should start calling you Joker.” Yezhov looked over the man, fairly tall for even a man of Siberian territory and broad in the shoulder. Remarkably, he was a man of the mountains and it showed. Yet, his face was that of an intellectual and surely, the Party enjoyed a man that had that restrained stoicism to it. While remaining somewhat handsome enough to be pretty in a uniform. “Please sit.”
“I intended to do so anyways.” Muzhik sat, his posture still straight and his long jacket
folding naturally with his stature at the edge of his seat. His legs did not cross, but they did relax somewhat as he rested his hands on his knees. A confident and fairly non-restrained posture that showed he was willing to do business without hesitation. “Pulled me out all the way from the Far East academies to here… a stark change. I thought things have calmed down in the west.”
“The west is ever volatile and it's actually moving down south. Fascism is on the move in
Spain.” Yezhov said this with complete casualness.
“But they are not taking it lying down like
some other supposed nations of integrity… a small revolution of sorts has formed, you may have heard. And frankly, even though the Germans have squeezed everyone by their balls and they keep twisting, people fear revolution more than they fear fascism.”
“It is common for the westerners to ignore a familiar knock on their door, but they give
special courtesy to the stranger who knocks loudly.”
“Something like that, yes.”
There was something oddly off-putting about Yezhov. Muzhik had trouble playing it initially, as he often had a good gut feeling for men of this nature. As he adjusted his glasses, he considered it over a few times with some simple focus. Yezhov was like those rural boys who had no qualms about striking a rooster with their foot or those cruel boys who smiled at the sight of a dead stray. Yezhov’s next statement further reminded Muzhik of this fact.
“Sorry to bring you away from your single apartment in Vladivostok and that nasty black cat of yours. I know you just got used to the cold again, but we are organizing something in
Spain, effective immediately.”
“You’d do good with a cat, Yezhov.” The slight retort from Muzhik came with a twitch of his face, an easily subtle thing.
“Do you like Spanish girls?”
“Not in particular.”
“You should get a taste for them then, I imagine the war will be worse within months even…” That devious smile on Yezhov’s face showed that devilish nature in him again. Despite being so clean shaven, he was something of a mustache twirling-rogue in the aura he gave off. “Get yourself some medals eating some Spanish pussy and fuck some of those fascists while you are at it.”
“Ha. Remarkable attitude as always.” Muzhik leaned in his chair a little more casually now. “We’re not there to fight the fascists as much as we are… looking for dissident figures in their revolution, no?”
“Initially. But that is another division’s worry. Don’t you worry. It's bad enough we have to divert so many resources to anti-Soviet individuals in the first place, but what Stalin says…” He tapped his nose and pointed toward the ceiling above. “Is fucking law on Earth, as it is in secular Heaven over the Kremlin. Doesn’t matter if the man is at the dacha or not, we are going to play this by the book like its dogma.”
“I thought we were above dogma.”
“Yeah, well not all women are above fucking dogs and that is why we have those dog-headed pricks in Germany wanting to step in on Spain. See? Those Italian cunts are at it too.”
“A fascist roadside picnic.” With a sigh, his composure finally broke and Muzhik smiled.“What are the fascists doing in Spain of all places? Playing nice with the Catholics? Who knew they were all choir boys after all.”
“They can fellate the cross and shove rosaries up their ass all they want, but Germany and Italy have… frankly, worse naval supremacy than we do.” The statement was bold and hardly just a passing remark to cast some shade at a rival branch. “The fascists get Spain and suddenly, Italian and German ships have some place to sink their anchors and that is going to discourage intervention from nations like America.”
Muzhik cocked his head. “You think America cares much about fascism in Europe?”
“I know, I know, they are too busy hanging their own people from trees… but if something stinks in Europe, they’ll want to sniff the ass it is coming from.”
“Like a dog.”
“Like an American.” Yezhov corrected and tapped the table firmly. “Either way… A bunch of Catholic cocksuckers want to emulate Mussolini’s
corporation-pissing-festival in Iberia. And you know the common, the working people are going to suffer.”
“Revolution is bound to be angry. A few churches will face the brunt of it.” Deduced Muzhik rather correctly. “The world is not going to side with the revolution, no matter where it buds. Revolution is red for a reason…”
“You get precisely my point… we want to make sure it stays red for the right cause. Whatever. Either way, the Germans and Italians have their dicks hard over something in Spain and we are going to find out what it is.”
“I suppose there isn’t a choice in the matter, if you are telling me all of this.” Muzhik tightened his lips and cheeks. “Hmhmm… I see. When do I ship out?”
“Tomorrow and one more thing…” With a blink, Yezhov increased another shade of deviousness. “Tell me how the Spanish girls taste.”
“Dog.” Scoffed Muzhik.