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He doesn’t regret anything that was done to the fascists. The looting, the violence, the massacres — all was permissible; if anything, it was just. A deserved penance.
Zhukov remembers the first time he was handed a report from GHQ about platoons of Red Army soldiers under his command going into civilians’ houses and plundering, robbing, and taking all they could. He remembers turning a neglectful eye to the assault onto civilians. He remembers reading page upon page of soldiers who had raped so-called innocent German civilians, often with reports of the victims being left for dead.
He remembers when, so suddenly, German invaders had turned villages barren, razed, and destroyed. He remembers the thin, pale, malnourished flesh of his comrades. He remembers when devils, proudly wearing shades of red and brown, slaughtered a poor, elderly man, having implored them to please stop, help me. All I ask of you is to not burn my house, please. All to be met with a derided scorn, the rain of bullets on his chest. The words of Hitler’s Mein Kampf stuck out, as bayonets stuck out of infants, surrounded by their guts, flesh, and crimson-stained snow. The fascists want to subject all Slavic people to a life of servitude. He remembers everything.
This display of brutality teaches Zhukov one thing; that these people are not to be saved. All humanity, belief, and reverence must be discarded. Violence is a jealous mistress; her wrath encapsulates all that is good, and evil. And her claws dig deep, distorting the concept of humanity itself. Those people are animals. They are not people. They shall rot in hell.
He knows that he should be subject to that same fate.
That is what weighs down his boots — a concoction of blood, sweat, and tears permeate the ground that Zhukov trudges on. And he doesn’t know whose blood is spilt; but he’s thankful that whatever madness that runs the world has spared him. He is not fortunate, however. Those who die are the true victors; those who live are tormented with the memory. Many don’t survive even after the storm.
It’s a rainy day in Moscow today. And the air is miasmic with cheers.
He remembers that he has to take the salute at the Victory Parade. Stalin has a certain quality, that Zhukov is certain that only he has — his trust is never given to those who can serve him loyally. Never display perfection to him, or his suspicions will treat you as it does a traitor. From years of serving alongside him, he learns this quirk of his, just as he learns how to speak to him in a manner that is in accordance with his smoke pipe. That’s why he isn’t surprised when the same man that he begrudgingly serves entrusts this parade onto him.
He is levied with praise. His name, his face and his accolades are plastered onto the front page of newspapers all around the world. People tell tales about his victory, his battles, and his soldiers. Indeed, what a victory! He chuckles sardonically to himself. A wide smile envelops his face, graced with emotion.
He is jubilant. He is distraught. It’s a tragedy that he is here to see everyone cheering on his brutality. And who is he to judge, as he voluntarily dons such a malignant sobriquet of a ‘Marshal of Victory’, staying alive to tell the tale?
He stares at the banners and tapestries that drape over the Kremlin. Stolen Nazi honours that he finds sickening to even lay his eyes upon. Thank goodness they are here to serve their intended purpose, to be trampled over.
Unfortunate that the stallion he is fated to ride is an ‘Idol’ — embodying an ideal that Zhukov is simply not able to embody himself.
He deserves no idolatry. He is a sinner. He sticks his tongue out, savouring the bloody taste that the rain holds. He is victorious.