May 8, 1945

Weiss twisted the knob on the radio. It was their only comfort—a luxury at this point—that they looked forward to at the end of the day; a treasure they bartered off their neighbors in the bombed-out apartment bloc they were assigned to live in by the Soviets. She glanced to her siblings. Neither Winter nor Whitley expected anything else; it was already a given.

The announcement was repeated once more. The radioman read out the declaration of what had transpired that day: Nazi Germany had formally surrendered to the Western Allies and the Soviet Union.

The war in Europe was over.

There was cheering in the streets but not as excessively joyous as the debauchery that possessed the Red Army troops days ago when General Helmuth Wiedling and his aides rode around the streets in protected vehicles preaching the news of the Führer's death and Berlin's capitulation. Even though she had shed all allegiances to the Nazi regime, it still stung hearing the Soviet anthem being played over the siren horns in the streets, the music further augmented by the voices of hundreds of patriotic Bolshevik troops singing and dancing and shooting their guns in the air.

Winter reached over and turned off the radio.

Silence.

The three remaining members of the once wealthy, glamorous, and influential Schnee family sat in stony silence around the only table in their small communal home in central Berlin. Save for the clothes on their backs, the rations they accumulated in the ice box, and the various bits of junk they salvaged sitting atop the cracked furniture here, they had nothing else left to their name.

Father was gone, most likely dead. Mother was missing, also probably dead. Their relatives and friends—or more realistically platonic acquaintances—were either dead, in hiding, imprisoned, or relocated somewhere else. Everyone else understandably did what they had to do in the interests of self-preservation and cut their losses while they could still breathe.

Eventually, Whitley cleared his throat. "What now?"

"We move forward," Winter replied. "We make do with what we have."

"We could find work," Weiss raised.

The other two regarded her uncertainly before nodding unevenly. There were not that many options available. But work was still work. And, of course, they could not hide in their apartment forever. As much as the fighting had ceased, the return of order tasted bittersweet—new leaders, new systems, new regulations, new society based on the statehood concepts of Marx and Engels as interpreted by Lenin.

But one thing was for certain: it was dangerous for people like them to so much as cross the street. It was no secret what countless vengeful Soviet soldiers would often do to countless German citizens. What had transpired in Russia was repaid in full here in Germany.

"Very well. We go out together," Winter reiterated.

And the two nodded back.

The Schnee family—or what was left of it—was going to start over. And maybe make up for the sins of their father along the way; goodness knows they were not as popular as they were rich even back then.

Dmitri did not laugh as much as his comrades when the fifteenth joke of the day was thrown around for the third time in the last hour. Then again, neither was Reznov who remained aloof albeit mildly interested in the banter. Both men did not want to spoil the fun of their squadron with their melancholy.

After all, they had just buried Chernov yesterday.

Sharing ridiculous anecdotes and jeering at whatever stupidity they could come up with was their only solace from the doldrums. And in light of the disappointing news that they were not going to be sent home on the date they were told, there was no other alternative other than drink. It was clear that most everyone was eager to depart the battlefield now that the war was over.

At least, over here in Europe.

There had been talk among the rank-and-file that Stalin was planning to strike at the Japanese soon and for that, he needed the experienced veterans hardened by Germany's guns. Dmitri tried his best to ignore the gossip and continuously hoped that the next train he boarded would be straight back home to Stalingrad Oblast. Then again, the last few months had been somewhat unpredictable with confusing orders and sometimes officers suddenly changing their minds at the last minute.

"Hey, Dima, you look like you could use a drink!" barked one of his comrades, an old friend from his training days named Vorona Baranov. Why someone would name their son after a crow was beyond him. "A toast to the next time Moscow runs out of vodka!"

Dmitri gave him a small smile before accepting the tin cup that had his portion of the bottle that the squad had procured. He did not feel like drinking though and instead let his poison slosh around.

Someone told another joke. The others laughed raucously, downing their cups. Then all of a sudden...silence.

The Hero of Stalingrad noticed the sudden change in atmosphere and the first thing he noticed when he looked up was that the men—including Reznov—were looking down the street. Habit had him nearly slinging the Shpagin off his back. Sound reasoning convinced him to follow their gaze...

...to the three white-haired siblings that many Berliners, and eventually the occupying Red Army, recognized as the Schnees.

And Winter, Weiss, and Whitley Schnee, after a day of working as paid helpers for the local district administrator, stared back at the eight Soviet soldiers idling on the stoop of their broken-down apartment.

Weiss stood rooted to the asphalt, her hands hidden in her greatcoat, clenching their meager pay. No doubt, Whitley was doing the same, hiding his money in his pockets. Only Winter remained the most unintimidated, her hands hovering tightly by her sides as she met the contemptuous looks of the Red Army unit blocking the only way into their home.

Weiss steeled herself as best she could but her resolve faltered the moment she met the gaze of that soldier...

… Private Dmitri Petrenko, she learned his name was. A supposed 'hero' who survived the bloodshed at Stalingrad, butchered her countrymen at Seelow, and slaughtered his fair share of Berlin's defenders not too long ago.

"Weiss," Whitley whispered. "Stay close."

Winter stepped forward, meeting their leers with a stone-faced facade. She was stopped in her tracks when one of the privates refused to move his leg, blocking the steps.

"Excuse me, comrade soldier," the eldest Schnee politely requested in Russian. "May you please remove your leg so we may pass?"

The other soldiers began to laugh, either because they were amused by a German woman ordering them to get out of the way or impressed by the fact that she could speak their language fluently. After a while, the unshaven private stood up but he did not step aside. Instead, he approached her and patted her on the cheek as he spoke to her with a crooked grin. From where Weiss was standing, she could smell the alcohol from him.

The rest of the exchange was largely indiscernible to the other two siblings but it was clear that this unit was not keen on letting them go for the time being.

That was until Private Petrenko raised his voice.

Towards his comrades.

The mirth died down as the rest of the squadron eyed the supposed 'Hero of Stalingrad' with their brows raised. Private Petrenko spoke again and this time he was answered by another face that Weiss recognized: Sergeant Viktor Reznov, a terrifying man with venom in his voice and hands that did the work of the devil in the name of Lenin.

Weiss could barely keep up with the dialogue but was immediately drawn into the fray when the gruff, bearded man reached over and cupped her cheek, pulling her into their circle as the other soldiers stepped between her and her siblings.

This man, Sergeant Reznov... He scared her. He scared her so much that she could not help whimpering as her tears began to flow down her cheeks.

She watched helplessly as the two Red Army soldiers argued. She saw Private Petrenko falter for a bare moment. Before he argued back, more fiercely. It was a brief back-and-forth that ended when Sergeant Reznov looked into her eyes with an almost faltering fury—was that guilt?—before letting her go and walking off.

The other soldiers followed suit, with the unshaven one throwing a barb at Winter as he took a swig from his bottle of vodka. Among them, Weiss caught Private Petrenko looking over his shoulder.

Towards her.

Apologetic.

Pitiful.

Remorseful.

Weiss would only understand later that evening, after she finished crying, that Private Petrenko was trying to convince his comrades to spare the Schnee siblings their wrath. That as 'heroes,' they 'had the responsibility to question their actions.'

At least, that was what Winter heard. Then again, Weiss had heard countless times how the Volkssturm were 'Germany's unsung heroes.' If that were the case, then she was right in questioning what they had done—what she had done—in the name of the Fatherland.

And while she liked to believe that Private Dmitri Petrenko was human enough to question his deeds, he had a long way to go for former Volkssturm private Weiss Schnee to forgive him for what he had done on the day they first met.

-~oOo~-

It was raining in Okinawa when the group of American marines huddled around the radio in their raincoats. The tarp they had set up only protected the equipment, leaving them to get drenched in their cloaks and uniforms while they listened to news that was supposed to boost morale.

Well, as far as Private Anthony Miller was concerned, it did boost morale. Just not here.

After all, the victory won in the west had yet to be won in the east.

No one made a sound as news of Germany's formal surrender echoed throughout their meager camp followed by cheers of audiences around the world. All they ever heard was the pitter patter of the rain on the mud and the occasional artillery thundering over the hills or gunfire volleys echoing through the trees.

Private Miller turned to the only two people in their outfit he knew the most. Private Lewis Polonsky was staring at a wooden munitions crate with haunted fascination while Sergeant Joseph Roebuck absently chewed on tobacco leaves. Rainwater trickled down their temples from their helmets, dripping down to their raincoats, seeping into the fabric of their shirts, and eventually running off their hands.

Eventually, Polonsky broke the silence. "So...we won, huh."

Heads turned to the New Yorker.

"Yeah," grunted Roebuck. "We won over there."

"But not here."

The sergeant spat out his cud. "Not yet, Polonsky. Not yet."

Miller nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning over the knee-high grass that was sharp enough to cut skin. He followed where the meadow ended and where the dense Okinawan jungle began. Perhaps it was the water, or the numbing cold, or the exhaustion...but he glimpsed two lanky shapes moving behind the tree line.

Or he was just tired. So very tired.

If only the Japanese would just take the hint and give up already like the Germans did. But, after all they had seen and experienced, that was wishful thinking. The sardonic private just hoped that taking this godforsaken rock would be the last time he or his brothers would put their lives on the line against an enemy that was devoted to fighting to the death...and taking their foes with them.

-~oOo~-

May 9, 1945

Imperial Japanese Army Private Lie Ren looked up from his notebook in his dark corner of the tunnel to see his companion Private Sun Wukong sauntering over with an unopened bottle of sake. No doubt, such a luxury was generously provided by their superiors as a form of maintaining their spirits during these dark times. Or rather, according to Sun, the liquor was a reward for successfully scouting the American positions not too far from here. After all, what else is there to drink to other than their impending 'glorious' deaths or the fact that the Americans were going to bury them alive with their bombs.

"Can't say it's the best but it's better than the last one we had," Sun remarked as he plopped down onto the ground and laid out the pair of cups on the crate they used as a table.

Ren only grunted, taking his share and quickly downing his portion, before turning back to his notebook. If there was anything to take away his ruminating on the Americans, it was writing them down. There was something...haunting about what he and Sun saw yesterday when they scouted the frontline. The looks on their pale faces, the hollow stares into nothingness, the way they carried themselves, letting the rain bathe them as they huddled around their radios.

What were they listening to?

Sun, being the intrusive one that he was, leaned over. "Another entry?"

"Don't you have your own?" the older private said, moving his notes away.

Shrug. "Yeah but mine is boring. Yours is more interesting, anyway."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, come on. At least let me figure out how you think, right?"

"You already know how I think."

"Come on, man," Sun prodded. "I've known you for years and it seems like I hardly know what your favorite food is."

Ren shrugged. "I am satisfied with our rations."

His comrade opened his mouth to argue before clamming up and nodding. "Better than eating scraps, I guess."

The next moment passed in silence with Sun helping himself to a few more cups of sake.

Ren paused in his writing to glance at his companion. To this day, he wondered why exactly his fellow Chinese conscript decided to adopt the name of the legendary hero from the fabled tales of the Journeys To The West. How the cheeky young man from Peking managed to get away with the name Sun Wukong in his draft papers eluded Lie Ren. But that was a mystery that was worth solving for another day.

If they were able to live another day.

After all, as 'devoted warriors' of the Emperor, it was expected of them to give their lives in their noble duty to expel the barbarians from their home.

Home.

Ren mentally snorted.

As far as he or Sun would remember, Japan was not their home. It was the home of the people who executed Ren's parents in Shanghai. It was the home of the people who dragged him out of the orphanage—who took him away from her—to serve in the ranks of the Imperial Japanese Army. No matter what the Japanese or their proxies would say, Shanghai was Ren's home and Sun would say the same of his hovel outside Peking.

Breathe in, breathe out. She would not like it if he was mad. She would have wanted him to be happy because she believed in him.

Ren relaxed his hands and tried not to remember her face, her bubbly personality, her warm hands locked around his waist, her heartwarming yet strained voice begging him not to leave, pleading with the recruiters to spare him even as he was forced to board the truck bound for the training camp...

"Hey," echoed Private Wukong. "Hey, man..."

Private Lie blinked back into reality. "What?"

"I was wondering... Do you really think we can defeat the Americans?"

Ren nearly pounced on his drunken friend to cover his mouth. "Don't speak so loud about that."

Snort. "It's just us here."

"Sound carries through these caves."

"Not like anyone's listening."

"Don't be so reckless."

"I'm only being drunk."

Ren shook his head, having given up on focusing back on his notebook. Well, the light on the their shared lamp was flickering anyway and he was not going to fill up the canister with their last drops of oil. Better to shift the discussion away from such defeatist talk...mainly because their superiors would not take too kindly to it.

"What time is it?" asked Private Lie.

"I don't know," slurred Private Wukong. "Night?"

"Was it dark outside?"

"It was cloudy, I think...then it started raining. It was muddy back there."

The older conscript stretched his legs as he lay down on his beddings, the edges damp from the groundwater seeping through the soil. "Go to sleep then."

Sun laughed an intoxicated laugh. Before slipping into soft chuckles. Then whimpers. And a choked sob. Ren already had his eyes closed, waiting for sleep. Then again, it was hard to sleep with American bombardment occasionally thundering through the underground, interspersed with the drunken mourning of the only real friend he had left in their Imperial Japanese Army unit.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 27, 2020

LAST EDITED: November 30, 2020

INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 30, 2020

NOTE: Yes, I've dropped references to and borrowed scenes from the movies Der Untergang (2004) and A Woman In Berlin (2009). And I'm glad folks appreciate the liberties I took with expanding the characterisation of the cast.

Also, if you've noticed from the summary/synopsis, there is still the story in the east waiting to be told.