Poland - "Endlessly" (Part IV)
IX
He was always cold.
The scars from the war hurt when it was too cold so he knew every time comrade Russia came to see him. He also knew when he suddenly felt chapped, cold lips kissing the back of his neck in a reassuring way. Of course, it was everything but reassuring. The feel of those large, invading hands coursing his body was the most horrible thing. It was even worse when they were inside him, like his tanks.
Every time, he spat at his boots and refused to listen to threats, denying this puppetry, his excuses and overused mantra dictating the senseless “defence of the revolution”. That was just pathetic and insulting. Russia himself spoke without thinking if he still believed in that old line. Maybe he was in a desperate need to believe in something. How contradictory.
Poland wanted to start kicking down dogmas, like East wanted to do with that wall. They all felt barely alive because of that pointless and utopic ideology. That seemingly transparent war was like quarantine after the plague. With only a single move from either Russia or America the glass could break and the monsters would crawl out, bearing their fangs and claws. The skeletons in the closet were starting to pile up and they already were too many for Russia to keep them hidden for too long. And not he, not Hungary, not Lithuania, not even stupid East would let him keep things covered up anymore.
He had been caught singing his national anthem -the real one- on the streets, while the cobblestone rattled because of the tanks brought by that stupid soviet parade. All it gained was resentful stares and hypocritical praises so why bother watching it? They kicked him until he was on his knees.
He was already tired of keeping silent, the continuous lies, the screened correspondence... Censorship was Russia’s cape, the very same curtain that divided East from West and that literally materialized with the Wall. Poland enjoyed with an ironic grin -the Sarcastic’s Mask- just how many abstract ideas gained a material body in this period. It was something he would certainly not see often. And it was a that time when an old memory materialized and became tangible, taking the form of a lucid dream where a young girl wore a lovely white wedding dress and a boy with hair the colour of wheat, living in a recently unified kingdom, inspected his body in the river.
Well, wasn’t that the time when everyone was defining themselves? To find a common path and a meaning to their lives everyone joined hands in silent protests, singing protests, violent protests, and spoke their mind, screamed and chanted “tear down this wall!”
It was all about making a statement, explaining their point of view and shoving it in the world’s face. What mattered was their message. If he was to be himself -the whole of Poland- then he would be every single one of his children, man and woman. So when he looked at himself in the mirror, Poland was not ashamed to grab the makeup and cover up the unworthy wounds.
“Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła…”
Poland shook hands with Gomulka. Humming “Mazurek Dąbrowskiego” was so tempting at that point and most of the times he spaced out thinking about Napoleon, laughing and singing folk songs with Dąbrowski, and long marches from Paris to sunlit Tuscan fields.
He dreamt with Kosciuszko and his speeches and promises, of the warmth of his palm on his shoulder when he called him by his name.
“Polska...”
He looked up at the sound of his name. Defiance was ready to take over in case there was need. He didn’t want understanding, not even Liet’s. He was determined to make things work out, and the clothes, the makeup, his actions were just something that made him complete, made him remember who he was always and continued to be. It was something that, with all the wars, the suffering, the victories, the blood on his hands, and the happy memories defined his identity and gave him that hope that others mistook for stubbornness. And that Russia was dumb enough to overlook.
Survival, that elusive spirit, remained in all of them. Soon it would wake up, leading to East’s rebellion in 1989 and the definite tearing of Russia’s fingers from their bodies; it marked the collapse of his revolution, the literal destruction of an idea as a wall was brought down. That was the only thing that Poland loved about that period: how literal it had been about everything. And he also loved Lithuania’s eyes when they met again and murmured awkward apologies.
But now it was 1956, and as Hungary bled he held her.
-
PART V - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9552.html
He was always cold.
The scars from the war hurt when it was too cold so he knew every time comrade Russia came to see him. He also knew when he suddenly felt chapped, cold lips kissing the back of his neck in a reassuring way. Of course, it was everything but reassuring. The feel of those large, invading hands coursing his body was the most horrible thing. It was even worse when they were inside him, like his tanks.
Every time, he spat at his boots and refused to listen to threats, denying this puppetry, his excuses and overused mantra dictating the senseless “defence of the revolution”. That was just pathetic and insulting. Russia himself spoke without thinking if he still believed in that old line. Maybe he was in a desperate need to believe in something. How contradictory.
Poland wanted to start kicking down dogmas, like East wanted to do with that wall. They all felt barely alive because of that pointless and utopic ideology. That seemingly transparent war was like quarantine after the plague. With only a single move from either Russia or America the glass could break and the monsters would crawl out, bearing their fangs and claws. The skeletons in the closet were starting to pile up and they already were too many for Russia to keep them hidden for too long. And not he, not Hungary, not Lithuania, not even stupid East would let him keep things covered up anymore.
He had been caught singing his national anthem -the real one- on the streets, while the cobblestone rattled because of the tanks brought by that stupid soviet parade. All it gained was resentful stares and hypocritical praises so why bother watching it? They kicked him until he was on his knees.
He was already tired of keeping silent, the continuous lies, the screened correspondence... Censorship was Russia’s cape, the very same curtain that divided East from West and that literally materialized with the Wall. Poland enjoyed with an ironic grin -the Sarcastic’s Mask- just how many abstract ideas gained a material body in this period. It was something he would certainly not see often. And it was a that time when an old memory materialized and became tangible, taking the form of a lucid dream where a young girl wore a lovely white wedding dress and a boy with hair the colour of wheat, living in a recently unified kingdom, inspected his body in the river.
Well, wasn’t that the time when everyone was defining themselves? To find a common path and a meaning to their lives everyone joined hands in silent protests, singing protests, violent protests, and spoke their mind, screamed and chanted “tear down this wall!”
It was all about making a statement, explaining their point of view and shoving it in the world’s face. What mattered was their message. If he was to be himself -the whole of Poland- then he would be every single one of his children, man and woman. So when he looked at himself in the mirror, Poland was not ashamed to grab the makeup and cover up the unworthy wounds.
“Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła…”
Poland shook hands with Gomulka. Humming “Mazurek Dąbrowskiego” was so tempting at that point and most of the times he spaced out thinking about Napoleon, laughing and singing folk songs with Dąbrowski, and long marches from Paris to sunlit Tuscan fields.
He dreamt with Kosciuszko and his speeches and promises, of the warmth of his palm on his shoulder when he called him by his name.
“Polska...”
He looked up at the sound of his name. Defiance was ready to take over in case there was need. He didn’t want understanding, not even Liet’s. He was determined to make things work out, and the clothes, the makeup, his actions were just something that made him complete, made him remember who he was always and continued to be. It was something that, with all the wars, the suffering, the victories, the blood on his hands, and the happy memories defined his identity and gave him that hope that others mistook for stubbornness. And that Russia was dumb enough to overlook.
Survival, that elusive spirit, remained in all of them. Soon it would wake up, leading to East’s rebellion in 1989 and the definite tearing of Russia’s fingers from their bodies; it marked the collapse of his revolution, the literal destruction of an idea as a wall was brought down. That was the only thing that Poland loved about that period: how literal it had been about everything. And he also loved Lithuania’s eyes when they met again and murmured awkward apologies.
But now it was 1956, and as Hungary bled he held her.
-
PART V - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9552.html