April 30, 1945

When news reached their unit that the Red Army was only a few streets away from the Reichstag, Corporal Ebi immediately ordered that they move back with the rest of the Wehrmacht. No one questioned him; not the bleeding regulars retreating from the front, not even the wounded Gestapo officer they had rescued along the way—a chubby man in lederhosen who had been moving from house to house summarily hanging 'saboteurs' and 'collaborators.'

"Didn't you hear? They just flooded the metro," Private Zeki remarked as they took apart the machine gun mounted atop one of the barricades.

"Die kommunisten?" inquired a dumbfounded Private Ederne.

Private Bree shook her head. "Nein. Word is the Wehrmacht lured the Red Army into the metro and tried to drown them there."

"Looks like it didn't work. There's a hundred thousand of them still out there and we're barely scraping enough bodies to push them back. So much for a 'genius' plan," sniped Private Amin.

"Hey, keep your voice down, dummkopf!"

"Scheisse! Sorry! Pretend I didn't say that."

Weiss ignored the banter, instead focusing on hefting two heavy metal boxes of ammunition. She grit her teeth as she forced one foot in front of the other, tolerating the aching in her legs, running after her sister, her squad-mates, towards the fortified positions in front of the Reichstag itself. She nearly stumbled when the Flak cannons entrenched between the rubble boomed over their heads.

But she carried on through and was with her sister when they made it behind the frontlines, catching her breath while the bullets she carried were passed around by the ragged and exhausted Wehrmacht troops holding the line.

"Are you alright, Volkssturman Weiss?" asked Corporal Ebi.

Weiss nodded.

"We should get inside. It's safer there."

"Wh-what about...?"

He offered her another one of his optimistic smiles. "We've done our part. Best to get inside while we still can."

The younger Schnee followed after the corporal into the Reichstag parliament building itself. It had been awhile since she last had been inside and there was not much difference to the interior as it was over ten years ago when some fools lit a fire in here that destroyed much of the place. Even then, the damage and the rubble suited the defenders just fine. Small redoubts of sandbags lined the floors while short wooden towers were erected to hold sharpshooters and machine-gun nests.

"This way," someone directed.

Weiss walked with Winter and Corporal Ebi through a narrow corridor that led down into the basement. It was here where some hundred other people were sequestered. Many were uniformed troops, the rest were civilians and the wounded. Somewhere in here, there were those who were already dead. It was just a matter of finding the body and properly disposing of it.

How could she tell? She could smell them.

"Weiss?"

Weiss looked up to see none other than her own brother Whitley making his way over to them.

Skinnier and a mite taller, with his Volkssturm armband nearly falling off his sleeve and his Karabiner slung over his shoulder, he closed the gap and hugged her. "It's good to see you're alive and well."

"You too."

"And Winter? Where is she?"

"I'm fine, too, thank you for asking," Winter replied.

Together, the Schnee siblings held each other, savoring the comfort and warmth. Then Winter detached and pulled them by their wrists towards her Volkssturm unit halfway across the cavern. With the amount of people in here, the atmosphere was nearly suffocating. It reeked, it was humid, and there was no shortage of despondence with how many were writhing in agony while others summarily received their Iron Crosses for some deed of valor against the Red Army.

Whitley joined his sisters as they gathered together with Corporal Ebi and his unit.

"Heil, Volkssturmann Whitley," greeted the corporal. "Where is your unit?"

"Sie sind alle tot, Herr Gruppenführer."

Weiss and Winter regarded their brother with genuine surprise. The baby of the family, a youthful boy at fourteen years of age, had seen as much as the uniformed servicemen resting in here. His gaunt face and skinny physique only added to the imagination of what he had experienced.

Corporal Ebi nodded somberly. "I see. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Whitley," Winter breathed. "What happened?"

Whitley bore neither a smile nor a frown but his eyes were as glassy as Weiss when she retreated into the halftrack to release her emotions. "The Red Army happened, dear sister."

Privates Bree and Amin shared a look of nervous sympathy while Privates Zeki and Ederne appeared resigned, almost hopeless. No doubt, they had their fare share of encounters with the Russians but none so violent and bloody as the Schnee siblings.

Weiss reached out to squeeze Whitley's hand. He remained stone-faced for another moment before wheezing tearfully. He was smiling as he was crying and he continued to do so even after Weiss took him in her arms and wept with him.

Dmitri was awestruck upon setting his eyes on the Reichstag parliament building for the first time in his life.

Never had he imagined, much less even considered the thought, that he would see such a place with his own eyes. Yet here he stood along with the rest of the Third Shock Army as they consolidated their positions in the heart of Berlin. Having just survived being drowned in the metropolitan underground by the desperate Nazi defenders, he was once again given little respite before being ordered back into the fray.

His spare time sacrificed for the glory of the Motherland, of course.

Chernov straggled passed him, the red banner of their battalion graciously wrapped around its pole and snuggled over his shoulder.

"Yefrosin," Dmitri called. "Are you alright?"

Private Yefrosin Chernov glanced at him—a face full of conflicted emotions—before nodding. He was not in the mood for talking. Understandable. After being yelled at and denigrated in front of the others by Sergeant Reznov, and having his diary nearly ripped into pieces, he could not be faulted for keeping to himself for the time being. Best to focus on fighting, it seemed. Better than thinking about how 'no one would ever read' his memoirs.

Their tanks were forming up on makeshift redoubts while their artillery pieces were being entrenched on the bridge behind them. Infantrymen like him were grouping with their squadrons, distributing ammunition and supplies as their senior officers plotted how to penetrate the German defenses protecting their prize.

"Dima, your share," Sergeant Reznov said, handing him a satchel of drum magazines for his Shpagin.

"Spasibo, tovarishch serzhant."

"It is a beautiful building, is it not?"

Dmitri turned to his superior. Rarely did Viktor Reznov compliment the craftsmanship of their enemy. Then again, Berlin was a beautiful city. A beautiful, decadent, wretched city. "What do we do with it?"

"We seize it."

"But then what? We destroy it? We turn it into a museum?"

"That is yet to be determined, my friend. For now, our goal is to stamp out the black heart of this fascist Reich."

"I understand but... Viktor, I am curious as to what we will do with the building afterwards."

Reznov laughed. "You think several steps ahead, Dima. Perhaps when this war is over, you will make for a proper administrator."

Dmitri did not share his mentor's humor but chuckled nonetheless. "I do not think I am suited for administration."

"You do not, right now. But then again, you had thought you were not suited to be a fine marksman."

The private nodded, staring at the ground as visions of the past flashed in his mind. For some reason, the most prominent memory was neither the moment he assassinated General Heinrich Amsel in Stalingrad nor the many grizzly melee engagements at Seelow. Instead, he was taken aback by how vividly he remembered sparing that one girl—the porcelain girl with the sullied white hair and the rumpled Volkssturm armband.

Among the many people had killed, she stood out the most. For the first time in his career in the Red Army, he had encountered a combatant whom he felt overwhelmingly compelled to spare. He had to remind himself that she threw her rifle to the ground and ran away. What person would he have been if he still shot her after she did that?

Dmitri shook his head. "... I think we should regroup with the others."

"Konechno."

"Comrade sergeant!" bellowed Commissar Markhov atop an immobilized T-34. "Take the left flank and eradicate whatever scum remains in defense of each building!"

"Yes, comrade commissar. You heard him, comrades!" Sergeant Reznov echoed, running ahead into an alleyway as a pair of artillery pieces blasted away, covering their advance. "To the left!"

Private Petrenko breathed deep before his legs carried him along with the rest of his comrades. Already he could hear the sputtering of Schmeissers and the crackles of Karabiners. An MG began buzzing from an upstairs window. As he took cover behind some rubble, he noticed the bodies of uniformed German soldiers hanging from the few trees still standing, placards draped over their broken necks.

Sergeant Reznov screamed something about Nazi cowards. But Dmitri instead was drawn to the fact that, out of the Red Army soldiers engaged in the fight, Private Yefrosin Chernov was the most vigorous in emptying his Mosin at whoever Nazi scum dared to poke his head from behind cover.

Rumble, rumble. Flicker, flicker. Artillery thundered above ground, greatly muffled by layers of concrete.

Weiss, Winter, and Whitley stayed close together in their little culvert. They kept silent, in contrast to the many others in here who were reacting in some way to the shelling; cries of destitution, muffled curses, an order thrown around for someone to shut up about defeatist talk. On the other hand, nearly all of the fighting men in here—well, those who weren't too injured to fight—rushed upstairs to join the defense of the Reichstag. Doubtless, very few—if not all—of them would return.

"We're not going to be committed, are we?" whispered a very unnerved Private Bree.

Corporal Ebi shook his head. "As long as we're not too loud, they won't think we're worth throwing out there."

"These armbands," Private Amin remarked, clutching his own. "If they see us with these, they'll ask why we're not fighting."

"Look around you, Marrow. You're not the only volkssturmman pretending to be invalid."

"We should do the same," Private Zeki remarked. "Fake illness or injury."

The corporal shook his head. "Eventually, the wounded will have to fight as well."

"These uniforms. They'll single us out," Private Ederne said.

"If they do, then what about the others here who look more fit to fight?" he retorted.

"We're not going to—?"

Winter was cut off by an exasperated Whitley.

"I've had enough," he sneered before turning to the other privates. "If I were you, kameraden, I'd take off my uniform and use them as my blanket. Best to be incapacitated if only to buy a bit more time to live."

And after a hesitant moment, they did. Corporal Ebi, who had been more concerned about the lives of those under him than the lost cause of the Fatherland, slipped out of his military greatcoat and folded it neatly over his lap. It then became his pillow. The rest did not have to put in much effort in doing the same to their uniforms as the senior Wehrmacht and SS officers prowling around ignored them, instead checking to see if anyone needed medical treatment or was worthy of a commendation from whatever remnants of the Nazi leadership still remained.

Winter slipped out of her own jacket, effectively discarding the damning armband, and used it as a blanket. Whitley did the same with his. Weiss laid between them, trying to sleep despite the rattle of gunfire above ground that seemed to have gotten louder and louder as the minutes passed.

She did manage to drift to sleep.

Only to once again dream about that one Russian soldier mercilessly killing everyone in her unit...including her.

-~oOo~-

May 1, 1945

It was over.

The war, long since lost, was now winding down. With the surface of the Reichstag now crawling with Red Army troops, it was only a matter of time before they would find the many Germans—wounded Wehrmacht troops, unarmed auxiliaries, and defenseless Berliners—huddled in the basement.

The silence was palpable and suffocating.

Weiss didn't realize she was holding in her breathe until she opened her mouth to inhale. It had been deafeningly quiet for the past few hours. No more gunshots. No more artillery. Nothing but voices that spoke the Slavic languages of the Soviet republics.

Eventually, someone called down into the basement.

His voice rattled the few stubborn loyalists into drawing their pistols at the entrance. Being in the far back, concealed behind a mass of other holdouts, neither Weiss nor any of her companions could see what exactly was going on. But they dreaded the worst.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Shuffle.

An SS officer entered into the light with his hands up and a white kerchief hanging between his fingers. "Es ist vorbei, kameraden! Der Schlacht ist verloren."

Three loud bursts echoed in the cavernous hall followed by something heavy tumbling to the floor.

Weiss and many others jumped and squealed in surprise before following the attention of the crowd. A handful of devoted Nazis had taken their own lives, dark crimson flowing out of the fresh new holes in their heads. She had seen enough to have gotten used to the dead but seeing the faces on their corpses...

...the resignation, the defeat, the absolute loss of hope.

Former business heiress and Berlin socialite Weiss Schnee hugged her siblings and cried into their shoulders. Not because the Third Reich had been defeated. But because she had had enough of this madness.

Hours later, they were marshaled out of the Reichstag by the victorious Soviet forces.

Red Army soldiers, some of whom were drunk with victory—and many others literally drunk and dancing and singing—crowded the streets. Weiss tried not to maintain any eye-contact with them for fear of attracting unwanted attention. It was common knowledge at this point that many among them were eager to exact revenge for the crimes committed by the Wehrmacht in Russia. It was just only a matter of time.

"Stay together," whispered citizen Clover Ebi, having discarded his association with the Volkssturm.

The others in their now defunct unit, all donning civilian attire, huddled together as they walked down the steps of the parliament building with the many refugees being accounted for by the Soviets.

Weiss waited in one of the many lines formed as they were each profiled.

Some were released into the custody of the local Berliners who were being given momentary authority to govern the remnants of the city while the Red Army troops scoured the ruins for holdouts. Others more simply were taken aside to be summarily shot. And then there were those, particularly women, who were being led off by separate groups of soldiers.

For what reason, Weiss preferred not to imagine.

Up ahead, she saw Clover giving his name to the officer manning a makeshift desk. After answering a few questions, he was ushered into the building that served as temporary housing for the refugees. Citizens Harriet Bree, Marrow Amin, Elm Ederne, and Vine Zeki followed suit in the same way after going through the process.

Then it was Winter's turn.

Some of the Red Army troops began snickering loudly. They could not have ignored the white hair that was natural to the Schnee family. Winter, keeping as bravely as she could, was eventually led somewhere else.

And Weiss began to panic inside.

Whitley was the next after Winter. He, too, was led away in the same direction.

Weiss then shuffled over. Biting her tongue and rubbing her hands together, she calmly and carefully answered the officer's questions. A moment later, a Red Army soldier took her by the arm and led her away. Past the throngs of defeated Germans, past scores of leering Soviet troops. Past a heap of bricks, over a bullet-ridden barricade, then around the corner where her siblings disappeared to.

Her imagination must have gotten the best of her because instead of the worst that she dreaded, she was instead ushered into the burnt and shelled of the old library where she often used to study in.

Surrounded by splintered bookshelves and the ashes of old books, she found herself in the company of other Berliners. And among them were Winter and Whitley. She hurried towards them, staying with them, and huddling down as they were being surveyed by their Soviet guards led by an intense-looking bearded man in a brown leather overcoat. His eyes met hers and Weiss felt her heart stop.

"Tovarishch Serzhant Reznov!" called one of the soldiers hurrying over.

Weiss watched this Sergeant Reznov discuss something with his subordinate before a team of Red Army medics arrived to treat the wounded among them.

-~oOo~-

May 2, 1945

They were a most uncommon sight among the refugees evicted from the filthy caverns underneath the Reichstag.

Three apparent siblings—two girls and a boy—with natural white hair and a fair complexion that still shone from layers of dirt and grime. The nearby Red Army soldiers found it amusing, even treating them as exhibits at a zoo. Dmitri did not share the crude levity of his comrades; he still believed that these people—the civilians, at least—deserved some modicum of human decency afforded them.

They were, after all, non-combatants. Collateral.

Though the Hero of Stalingrad was sure that the younger girl once had a Volkssturm arm band on her sleeve not too long ago. He tried not to pay her too much attention, instead focusing on helping carry boxes of supplies intended to feed both the victorious Red Army as well as the disarmed Wehrmacht troops and the demoralized civilian population.

Because after the battle, after the announcement of Berlin's surrender and the celebratory debauchery that followed, the Red Army and their auxiliaries were left with the unenviable task of cleaning up the dead.

"Have you seen those three?" remarked one of his comrades. "White hair and they're not even as old as my mother."

"Eh, albinos?" guessed another. "Who knows? As long as they don't shoot at me, I'm fine with them begging in the streets."

"I heard they used to be rich."

"Not anymore. Now they will know what it is like to starve."

Dmitri tuned out the rest of their conversation. He began considering taking up some other duty after this, something that did not involve shooting someone. At least Sergeant Reznov respected his decision to stay out of any more fighting.

-~oOo~-

May 3, 1945

Weiss did not want to do this but the choice was either to starve in their bombed out hovel or endure more verbal abuse from the Soviets while she fell in line at the nearest soup kitchen to receive her daily ration. At least she was not going alone.

As a rule, not one member of their family was setting foot outside by their lonesome. When one needed to get supplies, everyone had to tag along. So Winter and Whitley both accompanied her and together they stepped out into the streets, under the watchful eyes of many indifferent Red Army soldiers.

The eatery for their district was around the corner and Weiss almost felt her stomach churn in yearning at the sight of the steam rising from the pots set on barrels filled with coal. As usual, there was the winding line of Berliners...shadowed by the Soviets 'monitoring' for 'stubborn spies.'

Weiss kept her head low as she fell in with her siblings. She picked up the smell of warm soup and nearly salivated at the thought of Russian cabbage stew. While not something she thought she would never have to live off of for a long time, it was not entirely bad. Rather, after enduring days of rationed meals occasionally topped with the scraps scavenged from the knapsacks of dead soldiers, Russian cabbage stew—'borscht,' they called it—seemed the best the world had to offer.

"Don't look at them," hissed Winter.

Weiss heard Whitley whisper an apology. In the corner of her eye, a handful of Red Army soldiers snickered behind their cigarettes.

"Nächster!"

At least the Russians strove to learn German. Or some of them. They did make an effort to restore essential services. Like water and electricity. And provide the basic necessities. Like food, clothing, and medicine. It was out of the question whether the Soviets were doing their best or they were only bothering because their commanders said so. Most people at this point chose to be grateful that they were still being cared for (somewhat) despite being deemed the 'enemy.'

Weiss remained in her thoughts, one foot dragging in front of the other, until she found herself standing in front of a table lined with bowls of steaming cabbage soup.

Her eyes traced some spillage on the gravel, then to the rubber boots, leading up to a ragged Red Army uniform, dotted with a Soviet war medal. She held out her hands and received a bowl...

...from the same Russian soldier who massacred her squadron four days ago.

Private Dmitri Petrenko was confused when the girl in front of him stopped moving. It was like he was suddenly serving food to a statue.

Then the bowl dropped onto the ground, spilling a whole serving on both the gravel and on her shoes. She squeaked and backed away, bumping into the person behind her—a shorter, skinnier boy who shared the same color of her hair. Now the eyes of dozens of other people were on them. Dmitri was annoyed by the attention and quickly waved them all off.

Besides, it was not his fault good food was wasted. Normally, he would have been right to reprimand the girl, being the generous Red Army soldier doing his best to serve his defeated nemesis. But Dmitri was not that belligerent. So, without much thought, he picked up a rag, rounded the table, stooped to a knee, and began wiping the soup off her shoes. Much to the astonishment of a lot of the people around them.

With that out of the way, might as well get her another bowl before someone would come over and mouth off at her for being a 'stupid, wasteful German.'

In the process, he got a closer look at her. And it hit him.

Now it was Dmitri who froze like a statue, staring back down at the glassy eyes and the puffy porcelain face. The white hair, the pale skin, the quivering lip. In his mind, he cursed his luck. In his heart, he felt an overwhelming shame.

Her voice snapped him out of his daze.

She was apologizing. Shakily. Nervously.

Private Petrenko gestured that there was nothing to worry about. He filled up another bowl, adding in an extra scoop from the pot, and handed it to her. This time, he left his post to his comrade so he could guide the girl to a vacant place to eat peacefully.

Weiss was terrified for her life when she blundered in front of both her fellow Berliners and the occupying Red Army troops surrounding them.

But what stunned her the most was the fact that the man who haunted her in her nightmares was doing the complete opposite of what her paranoid mind expected. She watched mouth agape as he bended down and cleaned the mess off her shoes before giving her another serving. Afterwards, he even walked her away from the line, making sure that she did not spill her cabbage soup this time.

It was still difficult to move though. Especially since this Russian had his hand on her back as he ushered her towards some wooden boxes pushed up against a wall of debris. She played along though, containing her anxiety as best she could.

He gestured at a pallet and she sat on it. Then he gestured at her bowl and she began taking slow sips. Then he walked away and Weiss was about to breathe a sigh of relief until he returned and...

...gave her a spoon.

She took it from his calloused hand. And this time, she got a better look at him.

Unshaven, mole on his cheek, dry eyes glistening with...guilt?

Weiss looked away as did he. Then she started taking small scoops and small sips, hearing him shuffle around. Then she heard him speak for the first time.

"Prostitye."

She knew very little of the Russian language. But the voice and the tone. And the body language that she caught when she glanced up at him trudging back to his post. Weiss was at a loss even as her siblings joined her, nudging her and asking her if she was okay. Instead, she shook her head and silently sipped at spoonfuls of her cabbage soup.

Dmitri continued serving food to the Berliners well after his shift.

Perhaps it was his innate altruism that kept him going. Or maybe, no matter how much a part of him denied it, it was the guilt that was beginning to pile on after three years of brutal war. He had lost count of how many he had killed and the many friends and comrades he had lost in turn. And the medals and commendations that were due him... They all felt so hollow. Almost meaningless.

He dug into his pockets to feel the thin strips of ribbon and the shiny bars of metal that were supposed to distinguish him among his comrades. He did not feel like putting any of them on. It made him quite uncomfortable. Such recognition singled him out as a hero among the Red Army...and a monster by everyone else in this ruined place.

Is that what that girl saw?

She did not see some Red Army soldier giving equal servings of borscht. Rather, she must have seen the monster that killed her friends. It must be. That was what he caught in her crystal blue eyes when he generously offered her another serving, topped with an extra scoop from the stew pot for good measure.

He kept his eye on her since then.

Her eating with her siblings—they were the siblings with the white-hair, he was sure.

Dmitri watched her from afar, even as she left with her brother and her sister.

Maybe his apology was sufficient. Maybe it was not. Maybe it was just meant to be like this. He sighed into his hands, shouldered his Shpagin, and headed back to the ruined apartment building that had served as a temporary barracks for his unit.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 27, 2020

LAST EDITED: October 12, 2020

INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 12, 2020

Translations:

Die kommunisten? = The communists? [German]

Nein. = No. [German]

Dummkopf = Idiot [German]

Scheisse! = German expletive.

Heil = German greeting

Sie sind alle tot, Herr Gruppenführer. = They're all dead, sir. [German]

Spasibo, tovarishch serzhant. = Thank you, comrade sergeant. [Russian]

Es ist vorbei, kameraden! Der Schlacht ist verloren. = It's over, comrades! The battle is lost. [German]

Zhopa = Ass/Rear end/Keister [Russian]

Nächster! = Next! [German]

Prostitye. = Sorry. [Russian]