(no subject)
Title: The Voice of America
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance, gen
Warning: Discussions of executions, technical government subversion, and Stalin, who deserves a warning all unto himself.
Notes: Dedicated to sakuratsukikage, for letting me bounce ideas off her, betaing and listening to my millions of questions, and for suggesting the prompt in the first place.
Summary: On February 17th, 1947, the Voice of America begins to broadcast to the Soviet Union.
He tries not to fidget, keeping his knee from bouncing, from his eyes from wandering. He scolds his fingers for tapping on the wooden table, schooling his face to stillness as the meeting continues on around him. Breathe in, breathe out. There are important plans that are being discussed - what to do about Germany and his atonement (but some things will never be forgiven, hollow eyes and hollow bones, fingers stretched towards the sky, and the ovens, the great ovens burning day and night as souls escape screaming into the sky) his brother (It has been decided that Prussia will be officially dissolved in a few weeks time. The Allies, the Allies, insist. A mock execution, and the grinning, grieving, false knight will live on.) What is to be done with former Allies, former friends, as the Great Patriotic War is done and gone and left to manipulators of words to describe not so heroic deeds (The greeting of old and dearest friends, of easy smiles scratched over radio frequencies - are you there? how far are you away? I can’t wait to see you).
He stands as everyone else stands, as the Great Bear gives his nod and ends the meeting. He waits until everyone has left, wishing for invisibility, but is inevitably left exposed before he who rules with an iron fist.
They speak together for a while, discussing, discussing, always discussing. He does not comment on the paranoia in his boss’s eyes. Was it not Koba himself that said that he trusted no one, not even himself? Does not Russia himself live every day with this same paranoia?
Sudden, sharp, quick, a hand snakes up to tug on a loose lock of hair. Russia forgets his mantra of breathing, choking on blind, sudden fear. But it appears, for once, that his boss is being playful.
I shall tell you a secret, he whispers, leaning in, bright, unnatural laughter in his voice. The Americans are going to restart their radio broadcasts. But instead of aiming at the filthy Germans and the coward Italians, it is to be aimed at us. A very good joke, yes? It is to start tonight.
Not a hitch in breath betrays him. There is no dilation of the eyes, no shudder up his spine. His boss watches closely, but the ice over his eyes does not change, so the Great Bear moves away, grumbling. His good humor is suddenly lost. A very good joke. They seek to undermine me. All who listen to it should be shot as traitors. He glances at Russia again, a hooked smile across his face. But perhaps we should see what happens first. Let them have their little jokes. One day they will fall into our grip, as everything must.
Russia smiles, frost curling across his mouth
He is released from the grip of the Great Bear, waved away as his boss turns to the window. He walks slowly, with careful, measured steps back home. He does not speed up as the Kremlin falls out of sight behind him. He ignores the black car half a block down, shadowing his moves. It is habit that even Mother Russia cannot move freely. So he moves as he should in the gaze of his ruler.
He learned long ago how to move out of sight, as all nations do. No ruler can completely chart the route of their nation, moving in centric circles passing from day to night as the years march on.
He arrives at home, their home, to what is now his family. Dinner is just being put on the table. (Meager, they are still suffering from the ravages of war. But now, slowly, there is more to eat). They sit and do not pray. Or rather, Russia does not pray, and ignores the Latin whispered down at the end of the table. Many of the occupants have learned to keep their prayers to themselves, but one is stubborn.
We discussed your execution today, Russia remarks mildly as silverware clinks against china around him.
Blood red eyes flicker up, and teeth bear in a snarling smile. You’re thirty years too late, fat ass,
Silence falls, but Russia only tilts his head to the side, listening to the caught breath filling the void. I do hope, he continues, as if the other had not spoken, that they let me hang you.
There is only sharp laughter.
After dinner he retires to his room with the strict command not to be disturbed. Obedience is certain - not even his younger sister will come to see him tonight. The door is locked (Why locks, when we are all comrades? Why a locked door when there are no secrets?) A chair is pushed against it, just in case. He takes off his boots, lines them up, and begins to unbutton his uniform. It is hung with care in his wardrobe, hems pressed neatly, no wrinkles allowed. His cap is placed on the bureau; he hesitates, changes direction, places it also in the wardrobe (Not away, never, but one does not need the uniform to remember where he belongs, what is etched across his heart and cannot be removed).
It is dark, but not yet time for sleep. He pulls on wool pants, a white kosovorotka, and a purple short jacket, fingers lingering over embroidered sleeves (For you, Vanya, sisters sweetly smiling. Whatever happened to them? He sometimes hears laughter around corners, of little feet running up and down stairs, but no one can hear them. And the little one, what happened-). He catches sight of the clock.
Dives for the floor, moves his bedside table, (careful, careful, don't make noise, lest someone thinks moving furniture is his new hobby, shifting left to right as wildly as his government changes position. Or perhaps thinks he is hiding something, which is even worse, because there are no secrets among comrades), pulls up the floorboard, the one that was never nailed down completely, and his hand darts forward.
The next few minutes are spent fumbling with the dials of the radio cobbled together from spare parts - where he got them it does not matter. Nor do the hours he spent locked away, putting it together piece by piece (No secrets between comrades). The make-shift antenna - really just a piece of wire - is already in place. No one questioned what he was doing up in the huge oak tree in the yard (Though Prussia looked at him sideways and smiled in that way that is not a smile, but a smirk, and said nothing. Russia is not bothered. He has at most only suspicion and not fact, and Prussia could care less about what his captor does) and so with a little luck and science, perhaps, just perhaps, this may work. He scrambles through static and picks up the local state-run radio station and two pirate ones, the frequencies of which he notes in the back of his mind.
It is as he is going across the bandwidths a second time that he catches a snatch of that American Big Band music, horns bright and brassy in the furious quiet of his room. The volume dial almost comes off in his haste, but his fear of being heard sinks beneath the sudden elation of finding it, that it was really true and real.
The program begins in Russian, welcoming the listener to the first broadcast of the Voice of America to the Soviet Union. He sits back on the bed, mattress creaking under his weight (the weight of Mother Russia, the weight of the Soviet Union, and soon, perhaps, the entire world), listening to news of the outside world. It is strange to hear, almost as if he is listening to a radio broadcast from another planet: they speak of current events in Europe beyond the reach of his influence, of free elections and the rebuilding of nations. It is like reading Pravda, only inversed and filtered through ideas like liberty and democracy.
The radio is placed on the nightstand and he sits and he listens, with his hands folded in his lap, and if he closes his eyes, he is in West Berlin, in Paris, in Vienna, in Rome, London, Tokyo. But it is not enough. There is only a vague outline of a picture he knows the shape of, but not the gradient and fill. There is only deepest black and starkest white and he is walking blind.
Tonight, in honor of the first broadcast of the Voice of America to the Soviet Union, we have a special guest, Colonel Alfred F. Jones of the United States Army.
And then, sudden color blooms across his mental landscape.
Hey, thanks for having me on! I'm Alfred F. Jones, and hope everyone listening in is doing okay. I know times are tough for everyone, even though the War is over.
I've been asked to come on and talk to everyone a little bit about what it's like in the United States. Well, I'm definitely the guy for the job!
He let's America's voice flow over him, wrapping him in a blanket of warmth. Now he is in New York, in that sprawling young city of millions. The Russian is smooth like river stones, like the tongues of immigrants as they speak to their children. It is halting words and phrases, and he mouths along the words, passing them from America's mouth to his own. A language lesson over thousands of miles and a hundred years.
It's winter now, and it's been a hard one for us here in America, just like it's been for all you folks over in the U.S.S.R. But spring's on the way and we're all looking forward to it, especially the kids. There's a sandlot, an open field, kind of, near my house, and when the weather gets warmer I know all the kids in the neighborhood are going to go out and play baseball. And the families might all get together and have a picnic, or a barbecue, with a grill and have great time together. It's like a party, you know? Have a great time, and let the kids play with each other.
Speaking of baseball, the season's going to start in about a month! It's practically the national pastime, going to a baseball game! American immigrants used to play it over in Russia, so I know there are people out there who know what I'm talking about.
Hidden under another floorboard is an old baseball, red seams faded to burgundy and unraveling, the leather peeling back to reveal the cork underneath.
I'm really looking forward to going to the Boston Red Sox opener… they are the best baseball team in the league. I've got a good feeling they are going to go all the way this year, and beat the Yankees. It's gonna be awesome.
Speaking of awesome, I'm also looking forward to summer. 'Cause that means blueberry picking! There's a blueberry field that all the kids and families go to, and it's a lot of fun! It's hard to just pick them and not eat them all at once, 'cause they're so good. It's like tasting a bit of sky with each berry! And it's fun to do with friends and family, so it becomes like another big ol' party.
Russia leans over to rest his weight on his side, to curl into his pillow and try to remember what it is like to taste the sky. He brings his knees up and in and breathes slowly.
And of course, what would summer be like without a trip to the beach? Or the mountains, depending on the year. This year's the beach, though.
America's drawl filters through, slow and lazy and open, like summer sunshine. His voices comes in gentle waves, breaking over Russia and drawing him back out into the ocean of his words.
-there is nothing quite like the feeling of the sand between your toes-
Mother Russia wiggles his toes and recalls the beaches of Virginia, Maryland, Latvia, Lithuania, visiting the white sand of Greece.
-grabbing a double scoop mint rocky road or an ice-cold lemonade to beat the heat-
His mouth puckers in response, remembrance of the taste bursting over his tongue. Salt and wind and water and warm laughter.
Then America's voice deepens, soft and firm and serious and Russia finds himself leaning forward to listen. He wants to hear what young America (beautiful America) has to say.
I know times are tough now. It's hard, 'cause Uncle Joe tells you one thing, and I'm telling you another. Uncle Joe tells you that America's gonna be buried, ripped apart from end to end by discontented workers and the poor. He says we're the evil ones, that we want to destroy everything good in this world. But the thing Uncle Joe doesn't realize is, while America isn't perfect, we've got a few things he ain't got. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That means not living in fear that someone's gonna walk up to your door in the middle of the night and take you and your loved ones away. That means being able to disagree with what the government has say.
There is conviction. There is truth. America believes every word of what he says. There was a time when Ivan believed him. (There was a time when he believed in Tsars and God, and shot his own children for speaking. Children should not be seen or heard at all). Now he is hollow, and believes in Pravda and the Manifesto, and there are no secrets among comrades. Everyone is equal (in pain, in suffering, in fear, in ignorance) and that is a truth that cannot be hidden. An ugly truth that lies open and rotten in the light, that in the end all that is mortal die the same way.
And it means you can choose for yourself what you want to be, where you want to go. You can drive from end to end in the United States of America with nothing' more than the clothes on your back. No papers, no permission. You can go from New York to Los Angeles and not have to tell a soul you're doing it. That's what it is like here. But I hope one day y'all can come to see for yourselves, and decide if this country is worth burying.
He tries to imagine America's corpse (like a good citizen, a good comrade), tries to imagine sliding it into a pit and scattering dirt over it, burying him in the earth, covering blonde hair and blue eyes. (The sun would go out in protest.) But that is a lie. The sun would rise over the earth and he would still exist. But not America, and the thought sticks in his throat.
America is exchanging good byes now with the host. Russia tenses, wondering, faintly, if maybe, just maybe…
But foolish to hope. Careful allies then, enemies now. No more hopes, no more smiles scratched over radio frequencies, no more secrets...
Thanks for having me on! First thing I'm going to do is get myself a burger.
(Take care of yourself).
Ivan blushes, roses against snow and the frost in the corners of his mouth melt.
There are no secrets among comrades. But nations move beyond the sight of their leaders, and between the hearts of nations lie more mysteries than can ever be brought to light.
Notes:
Voice of America - I was unable to get my hands on any broadcasts from the 1940s, but knowing America, he'd rather give an informal chat rather than propaganda. I hope the historical inaccuracy is not too grating.
There are several items in this story that are based on anecdotal evidence. When I find the sources, I will link them here.
Prussia was officially dissolved on February 25th, 1947. Gilbert has managed to stick around in-spite of this inconvenience
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance, gen
Warning: Discussions of executions, technical government subversion, and Stalin, who deserves a warning all unto himself.
Notes: Dedicated to sakuratsukikage, for letting me bounce ideas off her, betaing and listening to my millions of questions, and for suggesting the prompt in the first place.
Summary: On February 17th, 1947, the Voice of America begins to broadcast to the Soviet Union.
He tries not to fidget, keeping his knee from bouncing, from his eyes from wandering. He scolds his fingers for tapping on the wooden table, schooling his face to stillness as the meeting continues on around him. Breathe in, breathe out. There are important plans that are being discussed - what to do about Germany and his atonement (but some things will never be forgiven, hollow eyes and hollow bones, fingers stretched towards the sky, and the ovens, the great ovens burning day and night as souls escape screaming into the sky) his brother (It has been decided that Prussia will be officially dissolved in a few weeks time. The Allies, the Allies, insist. A mock execution, and the grinning, grieving, false knight will live on.) What is to be done with former Allies, former friends, as the Great Patriotic War is done and gone and left to manipulators of words to describe not so heroic deeds (The greeting of old and dearest friends, of easy smiles scratched over radio frequencies - are you there? how far are you away? I can’t wait to see you).
He stands as everyone else stands, as the Great Bear gives his nod and ends the meeting. He waits until everyone has left, wishing for invisibility, but is inevitably left exposed before he who rules with an iron fist.
They speak together for a while, discussing, discussing, always discussing. He does not comment on the paranoia in his boss’s eyes. Was it not Koba himself that said that he trusted no one, not even himself? Does not Russia himself live every day with this same paranoia?
Sudden, sharp, quick, a hand snakes up to tug on a loose lock of hair. Russia forgets his mantra of breathing, choking on blind, sudden fear. But it appears, for once, that his boss is being playful.
I shall tell you a secret, he whispers, leaning in, bright, unnatural laughter in his voice. The Americans are going to restart their radio broadcasts. But instead of aiming at the filthy Germans and the coward Italians, it is to be aimed at us. A very good joke, yes? It is to start tonight.
Not a hitch in breath betrays him. There is no dilation of the eyes, no shudder up his spine. His boss watches closely, but the ice over his eyes does not change, so the Great Bear moves away, grumbling. His good humor is suddenly lost. A very good joke. They seek to undermine me. All who listen to it should be shot as traitors. He glances at Russia again, a hooked smile across his face. But perhaps we should see what happens first. Let them have their little jokes. One day they will fall into our grip, as everything must.
Russia smiles, frost curling across his mouth
He is released from the grip of the Great Bear, waved away as his boss turns to the window. He walks slowly, with careful, measured steps back home. He does not speed up as the Kremlin falls out of sight behind him. He ignores the black car half a block down, shadowing his moves. It is habit that even Mother Russia cannot move freely. So he moves as he should in the gaze of his ruler.
He learned long ago how to move out of sight, as all nations do. No ruler can completely chart the route of their nation, moving in centric circles passing from day to night as the years march on.
He arrives at home, their home, to what is now his family. Dinner is just being put on the table. (Meager, they are still suffering from the ravages of war. But now, slowly, there is more to eat). They sit and do not pray. Or rather, Russia does not pray, and ignores the Latin whispered down at the end of the table. Many of the occupants have learned to keep their prayers to themselves, but one is stubborn.
We discussed your execution today, Russia remarks mildly as silverware clinks against china around him.
Blood red eyes flicker up, and teeth bear in a snarling smile. You’re thirty years too late, fat ass,
Silence falls, but Russia only tilts his head to the side, listening to the caught breath filling the void. I do hope, he continues, as if the other had not spoken, that they let me hang you.
There is only sharp laughter.
After dinner he retires to his room with the strict command not to be disturbed. Obedience is certain - not even his younger sister will come to see him tonight. The door is locked (Why locks, when we are all comrades? Why a locked door when there are no secrets?) A chair is pushed against it, just in case. He takes off his boots, lines them up, and begins to unbutton his uniform. It is hung with care in his wardrobe, hems pressed neatly, no wrinkles allowed. His cap is placed on the bureau; he hesitates, changes direction, places it also in the wardrobe (Not away, never, but one does not need the uniform to remember where he belongs, what is etched across his heart and cannot be removed).
It is dark, but not yet time for sleep. He pulls on wool pants, a white kosovorotka, and a purple short jacket, fingers lingering over embroidered sleeves (For you, Vanya, sisters sweetly smiling. Whatever happened to them? He sometimes hears laughter around corners, of little feet running up and down stairs, but no one can hear them. And the little one, what happened-). He catches sight of the clock.
Dives for the floor, moves his bedside table, (careful, careful, don't make noise, lest someone thinks moving furniture is his new hobby, shifting left to right as wildly as his government changes position. Or perhaps thinks he is hiding something, which is even worse, because there are no secrets among comrades), pulls up the floorboard, the one that was never nailed down completely, and his hand darts forward.
The next few minutes are spent fumbling with the dials of the radio cobbled together from spare parts - where he got them it does not matter. Nor do the hours he spent locked away, putting it together piece by piece (No secrets between comrades). The make-shift antenna - really just a piece of wire - is already in place. No one questioned what he was doing up in the huge oak tree in the yard (Though Prussia looked at him sideways and smiled in that way that is not a smile, but a smirk, and said nothing. Russia is not bothered. He has at most only suspicion and not fact, and Prussia could care less about what his captor does) and so with a little luck and science, perhaps, just perhaps, this may work. He scrambles through static and picks up the local state-run radio station and two pirate ones, the frequencies of which he notes in the back of his mind.
It is as he is going across the bandwidths a second time that he catches a snatch of that American Big Band music, horns bright and brassy in the furious quiet of his room. The volume dial almost comes off in his haste, but his fear of being heard sinks beneath the sudden elation of finding it, that it was really true and real.
The program begins in Russian, welcoming the listener to the first broadcast of the Voice of America to the Soviet Union. He sits back on the bed, mattress creaking under his weight (the weight of Mother Russia, the weight of the Soviet Union, and soon, perhaps, the entire world), listening to news of the outside world. It is strange to hear, almost as if he is listening to a radio broadcast from another planet: they speak of current events in Europe beyond the reach of his influence, of free elections and the rebuilding of nations. It is like reading Pravda, only inversed and filtered through ideas like liberty and democracy.
The radio is placed on the nightstand and he sits and he listens, with his hands folded in his lap, and if he closes his eyes, he is in West Berlin, in Paris, in Vienna, in Rome, London, Tokyo. But it is not enough. There is only a vague outline of a picture he knows the shape of, but not the gradient and fill. There is only deepest black and starkest white and he is walking blind.
Tonight, in honor of the first broadcast of the Voice of America to the Soviet Union, we have a special guest, Colonel Alfred F. Jones of the United States Army.
And then, sudden color blooms across his mental landscape.
Hey, thanks for having me on! I'm Alfred F. Jones, and hope everyone listening in is doing okay. I know times are tough for everyone, even though the War is over.
I've been asked to come on and talk to everyone a little bit about what it's like in the United States. Well, I'm definitely the guy for the job!
He let's America's voice flow over him, wrapping him in a blanket of warmth. Now he is in New York, in that sprawling young city of millions. The Russian is smooth like river stones, like the tongues of immigrants as they speak to their children. It is halting words and phrases, and he mouths along the words, passing them from America's mouth to his own. A language lesson over thousands of miles and a hundred years.
It's winter now, and it's been a hard one for us here in America, just like it's been for all you folks over in the U.S.S.R. But spring's on the way and we're all looking forward to it, especially the kids. There's a sandlot, an open field, kind of, near my house, and when the weather gets warmer I know all the kids in the neighborhood are going to go out and play baseball. And the families might all get together and have a picnic, or a barbecue, with a grill and have great time together. It's like a party, you know? Have a great time, and let the kids play with each other.
Speaking of baseball, the season's going to start in about a month! It's practically the national pastime, going to a baseball game! American immigrants used to play it over in Russia, so I know there are people out there who know what I'm talking about.
Hidden under another floorboard is an old baseball, red seams faded to burgundy and unraveling, the leather peeling back to reveal the cork underneath.
I'm really looking forward to going to the Boston Red Sox opener… they are the best baseball team in the league. I've got a good feeling they are going to go all the way this year, and beat the Yankees. It's gonna be awesome.
Speaking of awesome, I'm also looking forward to summer. 'Cause that means blueberry picking! There's a blueberry field that all the kids and families go to, and it's a lot of fun! It's hard to just pick them and not eat them all at once, 'cause they're so good. It's like tasting a bit of sky with each berry! And it's fun to do with friends and family, so it becomes like another big ol' party.
Russia leans over to rest his weight on his side, to curl into his pillow and try to remember what it is like to taste the sky. He brings his knees up and in and breathes slowly.
And of course, what would summer be like without a trip to the beach? Or the mountains, depending on the year. This year's the beach, though.
America's drawl filters through, slow and lazy and open, like summer sunshine. His voices comes in gentle waves, breaking over Russia and drawing him back out into the ocean of his words.
-there is nothing quite like the feeling of the sand between your toes-
Mother Russia wiggles his toes and recalls the beaches of Virginia, Maryland, Latvia, Lithuania, visiting the white sand of Greece.
-grabbing a double scoop mint rocky road or an ice-cold lemonade to beat the heat-
His mouth puckers in response, remembrance of the taste bursting over his tongue. Salt and wind and water and warm laughter.
Then America's voice deepens, soft and firm and serious and Russia finds himself leaning forward to listen. He wants to hear what young America (beautiful America) has to say.
I know times are tough now. It's hard, 'cause Uncle Joe tells you one thing, and I'm telling you another. Uncle Joe tells you that America's gonna be buried, ripped apart from end to end by discontented workers and the poor. He says we're the evil ones, that we want to destroy everything good in this world. But the thing Uncle Joe doesn't realize is, while America isn't perfect, we've got a few things he ain't got. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That means not living in fear that someone's gonna walk up to your door in the middle of the night and take you and your loved ones away. That means being able to disagree with what the government has say.
There is conviction. There is truth. America believes every word of what he says. There was a time when Ivan believed him. (There was a time when he believed in Tsars and God, and shot his own children for speaking. Children should not be seen or heard at all). Now he is hollow, and believes in Pravda and the Manifesto, and there are no secrets among comrades. Everyone is equal (in pain, in suffering, in fear, in ignorance) and that is a truth that cannot be hidden. An ugly truth that lies open and rotten in the light, that in the end all that is mortal die the same way.
And it means you can choose for yourself what you want to be, where you want to go. You can drive from end to end in the United States of America with nothing' more than the clothes on your back. No papers, no permission. You can go from New York to Los Angeles and not have to tell a soul you're doing it. That's what it is like here. But I hope one day y'all can come to see for yourselves, and decide if this country is worth burying.
He tries to imagine America's corpse (like a good citizen, a good comrade), tries to imagine sliding it into a pit and scattering dirt over it, burying him in the earth, covering blonde hair and blue eyes. (The sun would go out in protest.) But that is a lie. The sun would rise over the earth and he would still exist. But not America, and the thought sticks in his throat.
America is exchanging good byes now with the host. Russia tenses, wondering, faintly, if maybe, just maybe…
But foolish to hope. Careful allies then, enemies now. No more hopes, no more smiles scratched over radio frequencies, no more secrets...
Thanks for having me on! First thing I'm going to do is get myself a burger.
(Take care of yourself).
Ivan blushes, roses against snow and the frost in the corners of his mouth melt.
There are no secrets among comrades. But nations move beyond the sight of their leaders, and between the hearts of nations lie more mysteries than can ever be brought to light.
Notes:
Voice of America - I was unable to get my hands on any broadcasts from the 1940s, but knowing America, he'd rather give an informal chat rather than propaganda. I hope the historical inaccuracy is not too grating.
There are several items in this story that are based on anecdotal evidence. When I find the sources, I will link them here.
Prussia was officially dissolved on February 25th, 1947. Gilbert has managed to stick around in-spite of this inconvenience