Notes:
Thanks to hetainfo on tumblr for the quote.
This fic incorporates a real-life anecdote I heard in a lecture about 1930s under Stalin—see notes at the end.
I.
It took about a third of the lesson for Galina Zhukova to realise she did not need to be afraid of their visitor. At first glance, Ivan Braginsky was big and tall and sort of imposing-looking. No one had been quite clear what his actual role within the Party was, or why he should be observing her class in particular. Was she in trouble? She was still quite a new teacher.
He seemed to be something in the military. He certainly wore a lot of medals.
But in addition to all this, he had a nice smile. One underestimates how important this is. And he just stood at the back of the classroom beaming encouragement at her as she went through her carefully prepared lesson plan.
Belatedly, she asked him if he wished to address the boys.
He thanked her graciously and walked—shambled, almost, she thought, and thought it rather charming—to the front of the room.
"When I was a young boy," he began, "my people worked the land. It was hard, and we had very little…"
Galina reflected that while she had never doubted stories such as this from other people, she had never been able to believe anyone as fully as she did this man. His sincerity was unmistakable. He had really lived it. Galina felt newly inspired about her vocation, about the freedom an education would give to her pupils.
After a short time of questions, the bell rang and the class packed up their things and stood to be dismissed.
Ivan Braginsky waited with her as the boys left for their next lesson.
"Someone has forgotten his book-bag," he said, once everyone had gone. "The little blond boy," he added helpfully, "the one who asked about my medals."
"His bag?" She looked where he was pointing. "That's strange—oh, don't worry, let me—"
But the large man had jogged over and picked up the bag himself. "You have a class to teach! I'll return it to him."
"Thank you very much. You're very kind." She paused then smiled at him and added, rather unwisely: "And to think I was so worried about this visit—or perhaps I should be?" Her composure wavered. "But, if you're failing me, you've been very pleasant about it." She laughed nervously.
Braginsky smiled. "No passing or failing—just visiting! But if I was to judge, you and your pupils pass with distinction."
"Thank you very much!" she said again. "I'm sure we'll all be inspired by your words to keep up the good—"
They were interrupted by the sounds of screams.
Russia ran out of the classroom with the teacher right behind him.
"What happened?!" He grabbed the shoulder of a boy running past. It was all a chaos.
"He jumped!" The boy's face with all eyes, huge, horrified, delighted. "He just, he just climbed over the railing and jumped over the edge!"
They were on the fifth floor up.
Russia's height and the efforts of the teachers to gain control of the panicked students meant he easily passed through the throng to the railing.
He looked down to the bottom of the stairwell.
The boy, the blond boy who had left his bag in the classroom, lay fractured and twisted up on the tiles, with a red puddle spreading out around by where his head—
Russia couldn't see clearly; it was a long way down. He only saw: bright hair, dark stain. Body twisted up.
It was a very long way down.
He spun around again and caught a few of the students before their teachers ushered them away.
"Did you know that boy? Why did he do this?"
A small girl just shook her head. Next to her, another girl was crying. They held hands.
"I don't know!" she said between sobs. "We saw him yesterday—at Pioneers—he was… just like normal…"
"Was he sick, was his head not right?" Russia pressed, but the crying girl just sobbed into her friend's shoulder.
A small crowd was gathering around him now, the teachers evidently not sure if they could countermand his authority.
"Someone said they took away his parents."
A moment of absolute stillness.
Then a sharp voice: "You don't know that! What are you talking about?" It was another girl: tall, long braids, glaring at the red-faced boy who'd just spoken. The crowd parted to let her through and she looked up at Russia, steady, sombre, her grown-up voice hardly shaking at all. "We didn't know him."
"But he was your age."
"He was new. We didn't talk to him."
The others in the group nodded. Even the crying girl was quiet.
The young woman teacher (the teacher of the dead boy) was hovering, half urgent, half apologetic. The pupils gratefully gravitated towards her and away.
Russia was not sure what to do.
He walked back to the railing.
"Excuse me?"
Russia started and turned.
The little boy in front of him looked scared, squeezing his own book-bag in both hands.
"I just wanted to say: it's true, though. Anyway it's what I heard. They took his parents away, but… it was because. Because he told on them."
"But why?" Russia repeated. "Then why did he do it?"
The boy stared, suddenly frozen. "I don't know what his parents did," he said then in an odd, flat tone. "I don't know them at all, I never saw them."
And he was gone.
Russia's minders finally caught up with him, pushing through the lines of children being herded back into their classrooms. Below, a stretcher had arrived, but there was obviously nothing to be done.
"We're leaving," Alexandrov said. "There's nothing else we can do here today, after that… unfortunate…" He shook his head. "The car's outside."
"That boy said he denounced his parents."
Alexandrov looked at him, carefully neutral.
"But why did he do it?" Russia asked again.
The expression on the man's face frosted over, just as young boy's had a minute earlier. "It would take… strength of character. Admirable courage in one so young, a love for his country truly out of the ordinary."
When Russia didn't reply, he repeated: "The car's outside," and strode off ahead of him.
But Russia had not meant, Why would he denounce his parents? He knew there were circumstances in which one might do such a thing.
What he had been asking was: Why did he jump?
Why?
Am I not family and love enough for them?
He was still holding the dead boy's book-bag.
II.
Latvia cringed when he was beaten, curled up and tried to cover his head with his hands.
"Get up!" Russia roared. "Get up! How can you be so feeble? You little coward!" – kick – "Can't you do anything except cry?" – kick – "Like you're the only one who's ever felt pain!" – kick – "It's pathetic! When we hurt, we don't give up, we fight back, GET UP!"
But he only blubbered, couldn't even try to crawl away.
"Mr. Russia, please—please."
"You could be quiet at least," Russia said. "You don't understand suffering. I do. But you can't even die for me."
"Russia!"
Lithuania stood in the doorway, holding a mixing bowl tight in front of him like a shield.
"Russia stop it! That's enough! L-leave him alone, for God's sake he's only a child!"
Russia stared at him. Then he swept down on Latvia and caught him up by the hair. Latvia had stopped his wailing and crying now, just breathing fast, squeaking, almost silent, eyes glazed and wide. For a furious instant, Russia scrutinized his face. It was a mess. A thin trickle of blood ran down from his hairline. Bright hair, dark stain—Russia couldn't stand to look at him.
"No, he isn't," he spat. "He is not."
He threw Latvia to the floor where he crumpled and whimpered.
Then he turned to Lithuania.
"Are you telling me what to do? Under my own roof? You?"
Latvia took the chance to crawl under the table. Russia ignored him. Lithuania didn't move.
"You do not raise your voice to me," he hissed, striding to the door and backing Lithuania against the frame. "You do not scold me. I own you."
"You don't.—nngh."
Lithuania's head hit the painted wood of the door-frame hard as Russia slammed him back and held him there by the throat. The empty metal mixing bowl rolled and clattered a few yards down the hall.
"I own you," he repeated.
Lithuania couldn't speak or breathe. He twitched and made little clicking noises. Eventually he calmed, his shoulders slumping and his eyes rolling up, lids fluttering–the way Poland had sometimes looked when he started praying, Russia thought.
Russia gave him one more hard shove and let him go.
Lithuania gasped for air and staggered on shaking legs.
"Why do you say and do these things to upset me?" Russia asked sadly, but it was only rhetorical by this time, and left.
Lithuania wobbled into the room and massaged his throat.
"—Latvia," he gasped, and sprinted across to him. "Oh, Latvia…" he sighed as he bent down, "what was it this time…?"
Latvia crawled out from under the table, feeling his mouth with a shaking hand, gingerly wobbling a tooth. One eye was already nearly swollen shut.
"Let's have a look at you…" Lithuania murmured.
Latvia convulsed out of reach.
"NO! Don't touch me!"
"I just need to—"
"Fuck off, Lithuania!" Latvia rubbed his eyes viciously and cringed at the pain. "Why do you have to be so patronizing?!"
"Latvia!" Lithuania cried, "I was only trying to—"
"Leave me alone!" Latvia scrambled across the floor and away from him. "I hate you!"
"Latvia!"
He used a chair to pull himself to his feet. "I hate everything about this place! I wish I was dead!"
"Latvia…"
"Don't follow me!"
He limped from the room.
Lithuania sat on the floor a moment and assessed the damage: the chair that would have to be mended, the dark spots on the rug that never really washed out.
Notes: The story about the boy is from the lecture on Stalinism by John Merriman, part of his series European Civilisation 1648-1945 which is available as podcast from Yale university. (I really recommend the series! you should be able to find it by searching that info.) The person who told this story was also a pupil at the time and basically never knew the reason for what happened.
That was in the 1930s – this fic is set around the very end of that decade/later, hence why the Baltics are once again in Russia's house. (Even if they haven't actually been incorporated into the USSR yet, Russia leaning on them heavily pre-war.)