Reichskommissariat Moskowien
It was a cold, dreary day, and the wind blew the rain against the window. The sound was like a thousand tiny pellets, each one a reminder of the harsh reality outside. In the basement of the building, the room was dimly lit and cramped, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear. A new recruit walked in with a backpack on his back, his boots clacking on the cement floor. His uniform was crisp and his posture rigid. The veteran prisoners' eyes followed his every move, their faces a mixture of fear and hope.
"Welcome to the front line, soldier," the sergeant said, his voice booming. He walked up to the recruit holding a brick. "I think it's worth five marks."
The new recruit looked at the brick, his brow furrowed. "Five marks?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's a rare commodity here," the sergeant said. Several other veterans came over and surrounded him. "Buy it."
The recruit looked at the sergeant, then back at the brick. "I'll pass," he said, his voice steady.
The sergeant's expression darkened. "That's not a good idea, kid," he said. "I don't care if you're a new recruit."
"I can't pay, and I won't buy," the recruit said.
"Then we'll have to do things the hard way," the sergeant said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Hold him down!"
The veteran prisoners grabbed the new recruit, holding him still. The sergeant stepped forward and slapped the recruit across the face, the sound echoing in the small room. "Tear off his pants! You can't find girls in winter."
"Stop!" the recruit cried out. The veteran prisoners tore off his pants, revealing his pale skin. "I'll talk. I'll do what you want!"
"Too late," the sergeant said. "You had your chance."
The sergeant grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured it on the recruit's exposed skin. The cold liquid stung, and the recruit cried out in pain.
"We're going to teach you a lesson, kid," the sergeant said. "Maybe next time you'll know better than to fuck with us."
The sergeant raised the brick and brought it down on the recruit's bare skin. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and the pain was excruciating.
——
Karl Hofer stepped into the dimly lit room, the air thick with the acrid scent of alcohol and sweat. The girl lay on a narrow wooden plank, her disheveled clothes barely concealing her vulnerability. Her eyes, once bright, now held only resignation.
This makeshift brothel had been carved out of an old Soviet toilet. Each chamber was a cramped cubicle, separated by flimsy walls just a meter high—convenient for soldiers to steal glances. Karl's gaze shifted to the neighboring room, where Wilhelm Schultz stood, a familiar face from past encounters. Wilhelm was a towering man, muscles straining against his uniform, his voice a deep rumble.
"Why are you here, Wilhelm?" Karl asked, his curiosity piqued.
Wilhelm smirked. "Just enjoying the show," he replied, eyes fixed on the girl.
Karl gestured toward the girl. "This is Kasia," he said, lifting the tattered curtain. "Where's your companion?"
Wilhelm's grin widened. "Expensive taste," he quipped. His own girl, with dark Slavic features, lay on the adjacent plank.
Karl couldn't help but mutter, "She's beautiful."
Wilhelm agreed, his gaze never leaving his chosen companion. "Yours is Polish, mine East Slavic," he said.
"Yeah," Karl replied. "I'm going to enjoy this."
"Me too," Wilhelm said, his eyes never leaving the girl. "Where are the others?"
"I don't know, probably in the bar. Did you hear that the Soviet Union broke through the German Mountains again?"
"I heard, but I don't think it's possible," Wilhelm replied. "The German mountains are too difficult to pass. They must have exaggerated."
"Well, maybe." Karl's gaze returned to the girl. "You think these girls know who they are?"
"One day," Wilhelm said, "they'll find out. And when they do, the world will change forever."
Karl shuddered. "I hope not," he whispered. "Our head of state restricts their education to fourth-grade basics—no reading, no writing."
"Yeah, they're not even allowed to go to school," Wilhelm said. "They're just used for breeding, like animals. Hold! Have you ever been to a red light district in Germany? These girls are prettier than the Britannias in the shop windows."
"I think so too. In short, they can't marry Germans, and the children can't become German citizens. They are just like the Jews. It's a disgrace!"
"Yeah, it's a shame," Wilhelm said. "I'll wait until the war is over to find a Moscow girl to live with."
"Moscow? Did you mean Mossburg or Moskowien?" Karl laughed. "It's good that the Reich has a large population. I hope we can win the war soon."
"Me too. Let's go to the bar for a drink. We'll come back later."
"Good idea."
The two men left the toilet and walked to the bar. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and alcohol, and the sounds of laughter and conversation filled the room.
When Karl walks onto the streets of Mossburg, he always has the illusion that he is in Germany itself. Apart from the red-colored street lights, there are the same street lamps as the ones in the Germany he was familiar with, and even the style of the houses is the same. But he knows that it is not.
The Slavic ghettos in the distance were crowded with former Muscovites (the Nazis insisted not to use the term Russian), Ukrainians, Poles, etc. The men on the streets were either gendarmes, policemen or soldiers.
He walks towards the barracks of the 53rd Infantry Division of the German Army. The sky was overcast, and a chill wind blew through the streets. The city was quiet, the sounds of footsteps and conversations echoing in the empty streets. Long-term military martial law and enslaved education allowed you to spot Germans and Slavs on the streets.
There is a sense of isolation and fear, a feeling that the walls are closing in. Mossburg is a city under siege, a place where hope has faded. Originally, according to Hitler's plan, the city was to be flooded or destroyed like many Slavic cities, but Goering was not interested in doing stupid things that were not profitable.
Apart from the occasional bombing raids, Mossburg has been relatively peaceful. It is a city of death, a place where dreams die and nightmares are born. Karl walked down the cobblestone streets, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Several transport trucks carrying iron coffins drove over, and the sound of metal striking metal pierced the silence. The people watched the trucks drive by, their faces grim.
"Another batch of dead people. Wilhelm Schultz, do you think they died in the German Mountains or were killed by guerrillas?"
"Who knows," Wilhelm said, his voice grim. "Either way, they're dead."
"What is the news from the front? It's so depressing here."
"The Russians have broken through the German Mountains, and our troops are retreating. As for the rural areas, you also know how troublesome the guerrillas armed with CIA weapons and following the NKVD or political commissars are. The Air Force has been bombing for fifteen years. Incendiary bombs, poison gas, and Agent Orange just can't kill these rats."
"So, the Germans will lose this war?"
"Don't say that," Wilhelm said. "Our troops are still fighting bravely, and the Reich can't afford to lose. Don't give up hope."
"I hope so."
The two men walked through the streets of Mossburg, their steps heavy. The weight of the war was on their shoulders, and the burden was almost too much to bear. In the city of death, dreams withered, and nightmares thrived.
When Karl walks onto the streets of Mossburg, he always has the illusion that he is in Germany itself. Apart from the red-colored street lights, there are the same street lamps as the ones in the Germany he was familiar with, and even the style of the houses is the same. But he knows that it is not.
The Slavic ghettos in the distance were crowded with former Muscovites (the Nazis insisted not to use the term Russian), Ukrainians, Poles, etc. The men on the streets were either gendarmes, policemen or soldiers.
He walks towards the barracks of the 53rd Infantry Division of the German Army. The sky was overcast, and a chill wind blew through the streets. The city was quiet, the sounds of footsteps and conversations echoing in the empty streets. Long-term military martial law and enslaved education allowed you to spot Germans and Slavs on the streets.
There is a sense of isolation and fear, a feeling that the walls are closing in. Mossburg is a city under siege, a place where hope has faded. Originally, according to Hitler's plan, the city was to be flooded or destroyed like many Slavic cities, but Goering was not interested in doing stupid things that were not profitable.
Apart from the occasional bombing raids, Mossburg has been relatively peaceful. It is a city of death, a place where dreams die and nightmares are born. Karl walked down the cobblestone streets, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Several transport trucks carrying iron coffins drove over, and the sound of metal striking metal pierced the silence. The people watched the trucks drive by, their faces grim.
"Another batch of dead people. Wilhelm Schultz, do you think they died in the German Mountains or were killed by guerrillas?"
"Who knows," Wilhelm said, his voice grim. "Either way, they're dead."
"What is the news from the front? It's so depressing here."
"The Russians have broken through the German Mountains, and our troops are retreating. As for the rural areas, you also know how troublesome the guerrillas armed with CIA weapons and following the NKVD or political commissars are. The Air Force has been bombing for fifteen years. Incendiary bombs, poison gas, and Agent Orange just can't kill these rats."
"So, the Germans will lose this war?"
"Don't say that," Wilhelm said. "Our troops are still fighting bravely, and the Reich can't afford to lose. Don't give up hope."
"I hope so."
The two men walked through the streets of Mossburg, their steps heavy. The weight of the war was on their shoulders, and the burden was almost too much to bear. In the city of death, dreams withered, and nightmares thrived.
"Karl, I have a plan," Wilhelm said. "Let's escape and join the Red Army."
"Are you crazy?" Karl said, his voice low and urgent. "We'll be executed!"
"If we stay here, we'll die anyway," Wilhelm reasoned. "At least if we join the Red Army, we have a chance of surviving. We can't go back to Germany. They'll shoot us on sight."
"I can't believe you're saying this," Karl said, shaking his head. "The martial law imposed in the three Eastern Viceroyalties was only temporary, and didn't the radio announce the news of victory?"
"Do you really believe that? The propaganda department only reported the false victories, not the true losses. We can't go back, and the only way out is to join the Red Army."
"You're crazy. Even if the battle report is false, how can we join the Red Army? And how many people have we killed here?" Karl pointed to the street light in the distance, the color a faint shade of red. "You should have known the truth before joining the Wehrmacht. The Slavic population has been reduced to less than 30%."
"It's too late for regrets," Wilhelm said, his voice weary. "All we can do now is try to survive. If we don't join the Red Army, we'll die anyway. Look at the new recruits coming to the East now, who are either poor people or political prisoners, or even just a bunch of teenagers wearing jeans and doing drugs."
"Yes, I have seen the new recruits."
"Let's go. Let's join the Red Army. I'm sure there's a place for us there."
"You're insane." Karl touched his cold nose. "Wait until the Soviet Union passes the A-A line. I want to go to the bar and drink vodka now."
"Okay," Wilhelm said. He knew it was a lost cause. Karl wasn't ready to leave, and neither was he.
Karl walked towards the bar, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't stay. His mind raced, trying to figure out a way to get out of this mess. The bar was packed with soldiers, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and alcohol. The laughter and conversations filled the room, a stark contrast to the bleak city outside.
"Hey, Karl!" a familiar voice called out.
Karl looked up and saw a group of soldiers gathered around a table. "Hey! Guys, why didn't you go to the brothel to warm up."
"Because we are not rich like you, Karl," one of the soldiers replied.
"That's not true," Karl said. "I have to pay a lot of money for the girls." Karl Hofer and Wilhelm Schultz found seats and sat down. The bar was obviously divided into three groups, the German Wehrmacht, Russians, and Ukrainians.
"Karl, the girls you bought are the best. Do you think they can be German women?"
"Don't be stupid. If my daughter becomes a prostitute, I will shoot myself," Karl said. "Who are those two groups? Vlasov and Bandera?"
"Yeah, those guys." The soldier's gaze followed Karl's finger. "Vlasov's men are the ones in the blue shirts, and Bandera's are the ones in the green. They are all our dogs anyway, and they will go to the front line to stop the Soviets before us. They are not human beings. They are our bitches."
"Yes, they are," Karl agreed. "But they are loyal to us, and they have been fighting with us for a long time. Don't these two groups start fighting again. Last time, their leaders almost killed each other."
"It's not easy. I'll go and get some drinks." The soldier got up and went to the counter.
"Karl, the Soviets have broken through the German Mountains," a soldier said.
"I heard. How can the Red Army have such good equipment and still lose so badly? The Red Army's weapons are much worse than ours."
"The Red Army has the Americans behind them, and they have more advanced technology. You lost the bet, 5 marks. Drink vodka."
"Damn!" Karl said, reaching into his pocket. "Here you go."
"Thank you." The soldier took the money and grinned. "Is that girl in the brothel good?"
"The girl is fine, but her room is small."
"Small? Is it smaller than our bunk beds?"
"No, but she can't talk German, and I can't speak Russian, so it's a little awkward." Carl watched them play cards. "The name is Kasia, you can still find it earlier."
"Really? That's good. We'll have to check it out later."
"I'm leaving. Goodbye." Karl got up and left the bar. The streets were dark and cold, the buildings looming shadows in the night. Wilhelm Schultz sat in a corner, sipping his drink. He felt the weight of the war bearing down on him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his life was spiraling out of control.
All the streets in Mossburg are bilingual in German and Russian, and the road signs are written in both languages. But the shops are only written in Russian, and the names of the streets are all Russian, but the names have been changed.
Karl's footsteps echoed on the pavement, and he pulled his jacket tighter, trying to ward off the chill. Before he was reported by his politically fanatical sisters, before he came to the Eastern Front, he was also a normal human being.
Karl was born in a small town near the city of Lübeck. When Karl was 12 years old, his father died in the Battle of France, and his mother, who had a chronic disease, was disabled. In order to earn money to support her family, she went to work in a factory. When she was 15 years old, Karl joined the Hitler Youth.
Karl was a good student, and his dream was to become an architect. But the dream was shattered when the war broke out. After graduating from high school, Karl was conscripted into the German Army. He fought on the Western Front for a while, then on the Eastern Front.
Now, Karl is a prisoner, and he is powerless to stop the wheels of history. He has no choice but to watch as his life, and the lives of millions of others, is torn apart by war.