Author's Note:
Welcome to a collaborative fic between me (Julianne) and my lovely fantastic friend AdamantiumDragonfly (Flora). We wanted to work together to bring a new take on the Girl Joins Easy trope in the fandom, and this is what we've got for you. You can find this fic on Ao3 under my account, on Wattpad under Flora's, and on Tumblr under both.
Disclaimers & Warnings
Along with the usual assertion that this is based on the actor portrayals, not the vets, we felt the need to add an additional one because of the subject matter we are dealing with in this fic.
At the beginning of this first prologue chapter Stalin, the NKVD, and the Stalinist regime are portrayed favorably, as you'll find out Sveta comes from this part of the Russian culture. This favorable portrayal is not a belief held by me (Sveta's author) or Flora (Zhanna's author) and throughout the rest of the story, we try to do justice to the horrors of Stalinist Russia, while still preserving the beauty of Russia's resilience.
This fic is rated M for a reason. Please proceed understanding that we are dealing with sensitive subjects like the Great Purge, Beria's sexual predation, the NKVD, suicide, and PTSD in addition to the horrors of Nazi Germany. It also includes depictions of drug and alcohol abuse, period-typical use of slurs, and period-typical xenophobia. Proceed with caution.
UNDER THE BANNER
a collaboration by
Silmarilz1701 and AdamantiumDragonfly
Update Schedule:
Resuming December 2021
PROLOGUE
Svetlana | Silmarilz1701
16 April 1935 | Rostov-on-Don, Soviet Union
Everything hurt. The sharp pangs in her stomach sent ripples of agony through her entire body. All Sveta wanted to do was curl up into a ball and make the aching cramps stop. They'd not fed her more than a few slices of bread in two days. The men had been more generous with water. They didn't want her dead.
She could smell the mold. The wood beneath her bare feet had faded to grey long ago. Cobwebs filled the dark corners of the attic they had pushed her into. Sveta spent her day just praying that whatever had made the webs would stay the hell away from her.
Her wrists ached. The ropes that held them together were tight, the fibers biting into her skin. Based on the circular window at the far end of the attic, they'd taken her ten days ago. Ten days of rotting away with the floorboards. Ten days of shivering in her dirtied slip and taking twice-daily trips into the house to use the bathroom. Bruises littered her arms from the harsh treatment.
Sveta's matted, dark hair fell in her face each time she moved. She missed her mom. All she wanted was to hug her, feel her warm cheek against her own, and her soft, gentle voice. She just wanted her mom.
The men who took her would face her father's wrath. That much she knew. No one could touch her and not suffer. Premier Stalin would see to that. Her father would get her out.
Sveta shifted. Her muscles screamed as she straightened out her legs. A few cuts on the skin had finally scabbed. Anger surged through her. How dare they! Sveta wanted to scream. And then she wanted to sob. She ached for her mother.
The key turned in the door to her right. Sveta pulled her legs back in and put the angriest expression on her face she could muster. After a few moments of metal jiggling, the door opened. The man who came through was unfamiliar.
He had a large dark mustache and a small beard. Dark eyes glared down at her from a face she could only say looked murderous. His shoulders were wide, and he stood tall. Sveta spent all her energy trying not to sob.
"Sveta, correct?" he asked. His voice was softer than she anticipated, but to her ears it stung. The man walked over to her. "Sveta-"
"I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, and you will let me go," she snipped. "My dad will see you hanged, or shot, or, or sent to the gulag! If you let me go, I might speak to him on your behalf so you only suffer one of those!" Even as she spoke, she shook. Sveta knew her threats were hollow.
The man knew it too. "Ah, Sveta. Child. All we want is your father."
"He'll come. He'll come and he'll see you dead. The Premier will send him troops, and he'll come and kill all of you! You, you traitors. You'll burn for touching me."
His fist slammed into her face. Sveta screamed, whimpering as her mind spun. Her bound hands flew to her face. But the next strike never came. Instead, she felt something dripping from her burning cheek. Removing her hands, her eyes widened as her blood reddened her pale fingers. Her breathing faltered.
"Your father hasn't taught you respect," the man snapped. He shook his head. "A child should keep her mouth shut."
Sveta didn't respond. It took all her strength to keep back tears. Instead, she just stared into the man's dark eyes. The anger, she'd never seen anything like it. He held a hatred in him. Sveta shivered. She looked away.
The echo of his boots against the floor and the slamming of the door gave Sveta enough permission to let go. A sob escaped her. She didn't understand! What had she done? Tears streamed down her face. When they reached the cut, Sveta hissed in pain.
She heard a crash. Screams followed shouts. Then came a popping sound that deafened her ears as it drew closer. More screams and more shouts, and crashes beneath her feet echoed through to the attic. Sveta felt her chest tighten. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. This was it. She would die alone in an attic, hands bound like a slave. She shook, sobbing.
Footsteps slammed against the wooden stairs. Three times, something heavy slammed into the door. At a forth, it crashed to the ground. Sveta screamed, sobbing, begging to be spared. Cold hands grabbed her. They dragged her to her feet. Sveta screamed again.
"Quiet, Samsonova!"'
She looked at him closer. Standing at his shoulders, she found herself mere inches from his wool brown coat. His hat, a brilliant blue with a red band, sat fixed on his head, unbothered by the harsh movements. She knew that hat.
The man pushed her forward towards the door. With her hands still bound, she nearly fell on her face. At the stairs, another young man in the same uniform stood with his pistol ready. She heard no more screams or shouts.
"Come on, Svetlana," the man said. "Your father sent us."
Her heart still pounded. But she knew they were telling the truth. She'd seen the men in the blue caps around her father's estate. Her mom had always told her to smile around them, just like she had to smile around Premier Stalin's men. So she forced a smile on her face through the tears and terror.
She went down the stairs as gracefully as she could. With each step, she felt weaker, her energy fading from the adrenaline. The man at the bottom, with blue eyes and blonde hair beneath the cap, grabbed her arm. He took out a knife and sawed through the rough ropes.
When they fell to the ground, she took a deep breath. Pain shot through her again as she tried to move her wrists. But the man urged her forward. Sveta looked to the right down the hall. The derelict building had blood on the walls. The man who had punched her lay bleeding, dead, eyes glazed over. Her smile grew. She'd told him what would happen. She'd told him her father would come!
"Come on," the man ordered. He grabbed her arm, squeezing one of the bruises. At her whimper, he only loosened his grip a bit. "Now, Svetlana."
She looked away from the dead man. Before long, they reached the stairs down. Her eyes widened as she hit the middle floor of the house, her bare feet slamming against the wood. Bodies lay everywhere. They were all the men she'd seen over the past ten days. But more than that, she saw women too. They had blonde hair stained with blood, a few clutching at each other. They lay in a heap on the wood.
They pushed her to the next stairs. Picking her way around the pale faces of the dead women, she tried to remind herself they were traitors to the Motherland. Her father would only punish traitors. Good and loyal Russians would never face such a fate.
She began to descend the last of the stairs. A group of the blue-capped men stood at the bottom, guns ready and trained on the outside. Night had fallen, the lights in the house flooding out through the open door. She started shivering. The man holding her arm noticed.
"Petrov, find her a coat and shoes."
Sveta watched as one man, smaller than the others, went to a room on the right. Her stomach dropped. Her heart stopped. Sveta couldn't believe her eyes. Three bodies lay on the floor, smaller than the others, with a woman behind them. They were children.
Traitor children. But her practiced smile fell. They were children. Like her. One even looked like Svetlana Stalina, with her red hair. The small man with the blue cap stopped in the heap of the children's bleeding bodies. He bent down. Soon, he'd stripped off the boots of the oldest girl. Next he took a coat she clutched in her arms.
"Here, put these on Samsonova." He held out the coat and placed the boots at her feet. "Now."
She tore her gaze away from the pile of children on the floor. Her eyes met his. The softness she'd seen early turned hard. Smile, Sveta. She forced herself to do so. The coat went around her body. Forcing down the bile she felt clawing its way up her throat, she slipped her feet into the boots. They fit perfectly.
Hours in the back of a black car passed. No one spoke, not the two men in the front with blue caps, nor the man to her left. She noticed the man to her left had his pistol in his lap. Bloodstains littered his wool uniform. When he caught her staring, she whipped her head to look out the car at the passing, barren countryside.
By the time they approached Stalingrad, Sveta struggled to stay awake. Exhaustion threatened to consume her, and if she had got the sight of the murdered kids from her mind, she probably would've slept with ease. But as the street lamps lining the road to the estate reared up in front, she shook herself awake. The overwhelming desire to find her mom filled her entire body.
When the car stopped before it, the man in the passenger seat got out first and opened her door. She stepped out into the cold. For a moment, she felt thankful for the boots and the coat. Only when she remembered where they'd come from did she stumble. This time, she couldn't hold back the retching. Despite having nothing in her body to expel, she fell to the ground and heaved.
After she had regained control, the man hoisted her to her feet. She stumbled. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her firmly towards the main doors. As she came closer, they swung open and light flooded the compound. Her hands flew to her face. But the sound of a woman's sob echoed around her, and Sveta removed her arms.
"Sveta!" Her mom shrieked. She ran forward, grabbing her young daughter firmly. "Oh my god, Sveta. Oh my god." Pulling her into a hug, she couldn't stop her tears. "Sveta."
She melted into her mother's embrace in a way she hadn't since she was little. But as much as she liked to think at thirteen, she was grown, the ten days in captivity had told her otherwise. With a sob, she buried her face in her mother's neck.
"Veronika, get her inside."
At the sound of her father's voice, Sveta opened her eyes. Laying against her mother's shoulder, she could see him. The great Alexander Alexeyevich Samsonov, friend of Premier Stalin, Comrade of all Russia. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Come on, Sveta." Her mother finally pulled herself away. "Get inside. We'll clean you up, get you some food, alright?"
Sveta nodded, pulling herself together. No words formed, though. She followed her mom's gaze to where her father had moved to speak to the blue-capped men. She shivered, but not from the cold. Beside her, her mother tensed.
"Come on," she finally repeated. "Go inside."
Sveta did as asked. It didn't take long for the workers of the estate to sweep in and help. They took away the coat and shoes. Her mother took her hand, careful not to hurt the blue and black bruises where the ropes had held them fast. She guided her gently up the stairs to the second level.
Her mother drew a bath. As she waited, Sveta chewed on some bread and butter. It felt good to eat. Stripped down, she eased herself into the clawfoot tub and closed her eyes. Usually she would've refused her mother's presence, but as she went to leave, Sveta asked her to stay.
"Who are they, mom?" she asked.
"Who, Sveta?"
Sveta turned to her. "The soldiers with the blue caps."
Her mother stiffened. With a sigh, she sat down on the ground, back against the wall. "They're police. They serve the Motherland."
"The kids they killed, were they traitors to Russia, then?" Sveta didn't know what answer she wanted. All she really knew, was that if her mom said they were traitors, that was that. And traitors to Russia could not be permitted. That's what her father said.
"Sveta, please. Don't ask," she whispered.
Sveta looked at her, confused. "They work for Father, right? So they punish traitors. Anyone not loyal to Russia."
"Sveta!" Veronika sighed. She scooted closer to the tub, wiping a bit of dirt from her daughter's cheek. "The more you know, the more dangerous it is. The police, they do things that you and I would never think of doing." Her voice fell even further. "They are not our friends, Sveta."
"But they work for father?"
She nodded. "Yes. He's one of them in every way."
Every way. Sveta's eyes widened. She understood. The looks her mother always cast his way made sense. Fear gripped her. Her father would kill children. He did what was necessary- but was it necessary? How could it be necessary to kill children?
"Clean yourself up. You need to rest." Veronika forced herself to smile. "We are loyal Russians, Sveta. You will smile, and you will do what your father asks. If Premier Stalin comes, you will do what he asks as well. Do you understand? We do what is necessary."
"Yes." But as her mother got up to leave, she continued, "Are we different from them, then? If we do everything as asked."
Veronika froze. Her blue eyes glistened with tears. And yet she smiled. "Someday, maybe, we won't do as asked. But until then, you will act the part. You will smile, and you will kiss his cheek, and you will do what he says."
With nothing to say, Sveta just nodded. She could sense her mother's fear. She'd seen it day in and day out, but she'd never understood it. Now she did. The blue-caps weren't friends. She'd never had friends, but she knew now, they were not it.
As the door closed behind her mother, she looked at the metal spout. Her distorted reflection stared back. The cut from her cheek to below her lip gleamed red and puffy. With a deep breath, she nodded, and then she smiled.