Full warning on the POV change.
Also quick note: Lithuania is living with Poland in this piece because by this time Lithuania had been an independent nation for over a year and I personally have it that Russia let him go in March of 1990. Because January 13th was when Russia tried to take him back.
Lithuania shifts in the bus seat, balancing a paper grocery sack on his knee.
They don't need the pickles in that sack. Or the bread, or the milk. The American chocolate bar that he bought for Poland. He was sent out after dinner because he was too restless to sit still, too uneasy to work.
He rolls his neck back and swallows a grimace of pain.
It's been two days.
They come from every village, every university, every office building. It's below freezing but there's enough Thermos tins and folk songs to keep everyone warm.
"Liet, what-"
Poland sets down the newspaper when Lithuania stumbles into the flat, dumping a grocery sack on the floor and throwing off his jacket.
"Toris, what's going on?"
Lithuania doesn't look at him. He shakes his head and grimaces in evident pain as he flings open the french doors leading to the balcony.
Poland follows him into the frigid January night.
The Supreme Council tells them to go home - so they lock arms and sing louder, impassioned and struck as they are with the fever of democracy. Thousands of unarmed civilians stand between the Soviet Union and Vilnius.
He's leaning against the elegant iron railing, fists pressed to his forehead.
"What the hell-"
"Vilnius."
"Vilnius?"
"It's Russia - the TV..."
He pauses to breathe, nostrils flaring as sweat beads at his temples.
"The TV tower."
Tower...
The Vilnius TV tower.
The Soviets are attacking the Vilnius TV tower.
Lithuania hisses through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut.
"I just need a smoke..."
"You need an ambulance."
"Feliks, please."
"You need an ambulance."
"They're dying."
And oh, Poland can tell - because he can see the blood staining Lithuania's teeth.
He draws his legs into himself, canvas sneakers refusing to find purchase on the slate floor.
Poland is unable to assuage him enough to consider his own health. So he gathers Lithuania up and half-carries him to the car, bundling him up in quilts before turning the ignition.
Vilnius it is.
Bare hands on metal, metal on flesh, there's the crushing of bone and the renting wails and no amount of force will stop that tank from flattening the people underneath it. They fall back and surround the national radio and television building, the TV tower, the publishing houses. Ramming rifle butts and enraged words. They sing to the chorus of mortars and gunshots now.
Lithuania is livid when Poland branches off the highway. Even though he's coughing up bloody spittle by now, he still has enough strength to ram his fists into the dashboard when Poland pulls into the emergency room entrance.
"No!"
The floodlights silhouette his thin body as he takes off his own jacket and bares himself before the Soviet Union in his shirtsleeves.
"Shoot me!" He screams, holding his arms up, and again in Russian.
"Strelyay v menya!" - vulnerable and furious.
The visage of freedom.