My Third Reich

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“Attention!” a rough voice shouted from outside the door. The people waiting anxiously immediately stopped their conversations.

All the officers and soldiers sitting here stood up. They formed a line, their chins held high and their backs straight, puffing out their chests.

“Gentlemen! The Führer has arrived!” The colonel who entered first stood at attention, then raised his right hand. “Heil Führer!”

Everyone faced the door, raised their right hands, and shouted while giving the German salute, “Heil Führer!”

Akado strode in from the doorway and gently raised his forearm to signal for them to be at ease. They all dropped the salute, the sound of their arms falling in perfect unison.

“Gentlemen, there is no need to be so formal today!” Akado said with a smile. He walked to the center of the room, a kind smile on his face. “You are the protagonists of today. I am very happy to meet you, the heroes of the German people.”

A general behind Akado waved his hand to the side, and a major holding a tray walked solemnly to stand behind Akado.

The general walked to Akado’s side and, pointing to the first man in the line of officers and soldiers, a major, he introduced him. “Major Collins! Commander of the 2nd Battalion, 1st Panzer Regiment, 8th Panzer Division. He led his troops to fight bravely in the Siege of Salamanca, achieving the proud record of destroying a total of 23 enemy vehicles. With the approval of the Wehrmacht High Command, he is specially awarded the Iron Cross.”

“Click!” The young major stood ramrod straight, the heels of his leather boots clicking together sharply. He raised his right hand in a standard German salute. “To fight for you, my Führer!”

Akado nodded with a smile. “You are very brave, Major. I am very happy to serve this country alongside you.”

As he spoke, he took an Iron Cross from the tray behind him, pinned it to the major’s chest, and then patted his shoulder. “The spirit of Great Germany is with you!”

A flashbulb popped at just the right moment. A dozen news reporters recorded this historic moment from various angles. This was the first time since the First World War that the German Wehrmacht High Command had awarded the Iron Cross; it was also the first recorded instance of the newly redesigned and standardized Iron Cross being awarded; and, of course, it was the first time a military medal had been awarded by the Führer instead of a military official.

Amidst the young major’s grateful and worshipful gaze, Akado moved to the second soldier.

“This soldier, named Löw, belongs to the artillery unit of the 2nd SS Division. With an 88mm anti-aircraft gun assigned to his squad, he destroyed two Soviet T-26 tanks. He held the defensive line until friendly forces arrived, saving the lives of nearly a hundred soldiers in the entire artillery position! With the approval of the Wehrmacht High Command, he is specially awarded the Iron Cross.”

“Click!” The soldier also stood ramrod straight, the heels of his leather boots clicking together. He raised his right hand and gave a standard German salute. “Heil Führer!”

“The fatherland will remember your outstanding performance, soldier!” Akado pinned the medal to his chest. “The spirit of Great Germany will be with you!”

The cameras around them flashed again. Akado awarded the medals one by one, pinning the honors onto the chests of every officer and soldier in the first group of decorated veterans to return to Germany from Spain.

Music began to play in the warm hall. Akado, holding a glass of wine, toasted all the generals and officers who had returned from Spain on leave. Fanny, holding Akado’s arm, sweetly shared her recent little secrets.

Not far away, the German soldiers, having left the battlefield and once again experiencing the beauty of life, held the young dance partners who had been specially prepared for them and laughed joyfully on the spacious dance floor.

“Are they being a bit too indulgent?” Fanny asked Akado, who was beside her, looking at the soldiers spinning wildly to the music.

“They are my pride! They are the best soldiers in the world! Part of the reward for my painstaking efforts is right here,” Akado said with a smile, extending his hand to Fanny. “Would you be interested in having a dance with me, miss?”

“Of course!”

“Ready! Fire!” a Soviet officer commanded, standing on an execution ground with an expressionless face, addressing a line of soldiers holding rifles.

“Crack!” A single, unified gunshot echoed across the parade ground. The dozen or so prisoners against the execution wall in the distance seemed to have their souls snatched away. Their bodies trembled and then went limp, struggling on the ground for a few moments before their heads fell lifelessly.

Polovsky turned and walked step by step toward the row of posts. Following behind him was an adjutant holding a notebook. He was now a colonel in the Soviet Red Army, a position of considerable power, but he was still treading on thin ice. The reason was very simple: his direct superior, Comrade Khrushchev, was conducting a review of the entire Soviet Union under the orders of the supreme leader, Comrade Stalin.

“Colonel Polovsky, it seems there is someone you know among the next batch of extremist elements who have sabotaged communism to be executed,” the aide said, looking at the execution list on his open notebook. “Colonel Kazonev, your old superior. The commander of the 21st Division of the 7th Red Army, comrade.”

“How is that possible? Colonel Kazonev is a highly respected old communist! How could he be an extremist who sabotages communism? There’s something wrong here,” Polovsky said, frowning at his aide.

The aide had a helpless expression. He looked left and right to make sure no one was nearby before whispering, “Colonel, sir! You owe your current position to being part of Comrade Khrushchev’s faction! If I were you, I wouldn’t speak carelessly! Colonel Kazonev was one of Kirov’s men…”

After waiting a moment and seeing that Colonel Polovsky remained silent, the aide shouted to the firing squad behind him, “Bring up the next batch of traitors who have sabotaged the construction of our motherland!”

With the heavy sound of shackles dragging on the ground, a group of officers still in Red Army uniforms was escorted to the execution ground by soldiers with rifles. Their epaulets had all been torn off, but from the style of their uniforms, it was still clear they all held considerable rank.

Polovsky walked quickly over and stopped in front of a shackled officer with a thick beard. The procession of prisoners also halted. At the other end of the line, several soldiers were busy removing the prisoners’ shackles.

“Comrade Kazonev!” Polovsky said, supporting his old superior, who was battered and on the verge of collapse, tears welling in his eyes. “How could they do this to you! Listen to me, you must quickly request to write a confession. I will personally deliver it to Comrade Khrushchev. He will certainly be interested in your ability to command troops. He is in need of men like you to support him! You will be fine…”

Colonel Kazonev, with the thick beard, laughed, revealing teeth stained with blood in the gaps. “Good kid! Polov! A colonel already! I told you you’d amount to something!” Clearly, he had not received preferential treatment during his interrogation in prison; like the others, he had been brutally beaten by his former comrades.

Seeing that the soldiers removing the shackles had reached the middle of the line, Polovsky grew anxious. “Comrade Kazonev! I beg you! Don’t be stubborn anymore! This country is no different under Comrade Stalin’s rule than it would be under Comrade Kirov’s! Why must you be so obstinate?”

“I am a member of the Communist Party, Comrade Polovsky! From the time I began to study the party’s program until now, I have been required to be an upright and honest communist! I cannot deceive myself! I cannot regard the despicable Stalin as the great Comrade Kirov!” Colonel Kazonev said with regret. “So let me go and see Comrade Kirov!”

“Sir…” Polovsky wanted to say more.

But the bearded Kazonev waved his hand, cutting him off. “Do you have a cigarette? It’s been many days since I’ve had one. It’s very uncomfortable.”

Polovsky quickly fumbled in his pockets but couldn’t find a cigarette. His adjutant behind him offered two. The bearded man thanked him happily. Like a few smokers who had just gathered, the three of them each put a cigarette in their mouths, lit them for each other, and stood there in silence, watching the soldiers remove the prisoners’ shackles.

“Sir…” Polovsky called out again as he saw a soldier come over to remove his old superior’s handcuffs.

“Kid! Take good care of me! Tell those little bastards to aim straight in a minute!” Kazonev smiled, walked back to his place of execution, took a final, forceful drag of his cigarette, and reluctantly threw the butt away. “Come on.”

“According to the party’s resolution No. 1745, due to Kazonev and others threatening the construction of national communism, stealing secret documents of the Red Army, and secretly contacting hostile Western powers, the verdict is as follows: Kazonev and eleven others are to be executed by firing squad immediately,” the adjutant read the order aloud, then stood back in his place without another word.

“Ready!” Seeing that Polovsky had not moved for a long time, the adjutant shouted the command.

With a clatter, the soldiers raised their rifles, awaiting their officer’s command. To them, the men standing opposite were just prisoners; it had nothing to do with good or bad.

“Wait,” Polovsky called a halt to the execution.

“Polov! You’ll be shot along with them if you stop the execution,” his aide reminded him quietly.

Polovsky waved his hand, drew his own pistol, and joined the soldiers, aiming at his former superior, his old commander, the teacher who had once taught him how to shoot, how to kill, how to become a Red Army officer. “On my command! Ready!”

“Fire!”

“Crack!” The unified sound of gunfire once again echoed through the sky, followed by another shot, and then another, sounding so piercingly loud in the silence of that moment. A line of prisoners fell to the ground. Polovsky holstered his pistol and, without looking back, walked toward the gate of the execution ground. “Adjutant, get me some more bullets. You will carry out the remaining executions.”

A single tear fell on the snow of the execution ground on the outskirts of Moscow, snow that seemed as if it would never melt.