CDJMM – Volume 4 -Chapter 47 Filming in the Interstellar Era (47)

“The Dawns Here Are Quiet” is a Soviet novel. It tells the story of five female soldiers during the 1942 Great Patriotic War, who engage in a fierce and brutal pursuit battle against German troops in the forest.

The girls die one after another. In the end, the squad leader, Rita, gravely wounded, raises her gun and kills herself so she won’t drag down her comrade, Vaskov.

To avenge his comrades, the grief-stricken Vaskov destroys the Germans’ forest camp and captures the enemy soldiers.

At the end of the story, an elderly, white-haired Vaskov takes Rita’s son to the forest where the women died and erects for them a marble tombstone.

Young people born in peacetime pass by joking and laughing; yet when they see the monument, they all fall silent and stand in mourning, expressing their respect.

This novel was adapted into films and stage plays, and later even had a song of the same name. For decades since its birth, it has moved countless people.

Le Jing’s new film title is a tribute to this great classic. As for the film’s content, however, it tells a completely different story.

Le Jing’s version of “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” is a massive memoir—belonging to rust-stained rifles and cannons, to a bygone era of burning passion, to faith, to blood, to love and life without tombstones, and to the iron giants that vanished thunderously at the end of the 20th century.

The story begins with the recollections of a disabled veteran, and ends with those same recollections.

The whole story is nothing more than the thin echoes of an era, the brilliance of yesterday.

Which is why it carries such a suffocatingly heavy sense of fate—soaked with an era’s weight—that it becomes even more gripping, almost epic in its tragedy.

No matter the era, no matter the place, as long as humans are still creatures of emotion, this story of a bygone age will forever strike a chord.

…

The day “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” wrapped filming was at dusk. The sunset at the horizon was magnificent and blazing, red to the point of heartbreak—like the blood-soaked Soviet land of that year.

Le Jing shut off the camera. Looking at the joyous, cheering crew, he revealed a relieved smile.

It’s finally done.

From late March to mid-August—more than four months—this film was finally completed, just in time to make the National Day release.

Without the strong support of the state, the filming would never have gone so smoothly.

Most of the actors were veteran performers from Europe. Le Jing himself did not have the influence to invite them. It was only after a senior official read his script and issued a directive to relevant departments to support the production that he managed to assemble the cast.

Because the story draws from Soviet history, most of the main and supporting roles naturally required European faces.

The crew came from all over the world, speaking all sorts of languages. The four months of filming had been difficult, but the result was gratifying—without question, this was a masterpiece.

“I’m very happy.” The young man spoke softly, yet the lively set gradually quieted as countless friendly gazes turned toward him. He smiled, eyebrows gently raised, like a calm wind passing through a canyon, smoothing troubled waves.

“You all gave your very best performances. I’m proud of you.”

“I won’t claim this film will make your names go down in history, but there is one thing I can say for certain…” His gaze was firm, as though stating a universal truth. “This is a good film.”

After a brief silence, the crew and actors all broke into beaming smiles and warm applause.

Several actors of Russian descent raised their arms and shouted, imitating the film: “Ura!” “Ura!”

Le Jing froze for a moment, feeling disoriented—as if he had returned to Earth.

In that instant, he felt homesick.

He had been traveling alone for far, far too long. His memories of Earth felt like a dream.

Beneath the youthful skin lived an old soul.

If Guinness World Records still existed, perhaps only after several hundred years could someone with a cracked longevity-gene code surpass his survival record.

He didn’t know how long this sudden journey through time would last, nor did he know where the end of this road lay.

But one thing was certain—he had gained a brilliant, breathtaking life.

Even if the next moment marked the end of his journey, he already had no regrets.

…

On September 20th, Xie Xun was already on edge.

Tomorrow was the premiere of “The Dawns Here Are Quiet.”

He received the premiere ticket half a month ago and had been eagerly waiting since.

“The Dawns Here Are Quiet” was invested and distributed by the Central Propaganda Department, featuring countless domestic and international stars and veteran actors. As this year’s National Day tribute film, it had long drawn huge attention, even attracting considerable interest overseas.

Because of the special background of the production company and the special release date, this film naturally had countless political interpretations projected onto it. As a result, the young director Shi Jing became the topic of conversation for people both at home and abroad.

Although works like Republic-Era Literary Masters Chronicles, The Empress’s Imperial Hound, The Young Marquis Who Sealed the Wolves at Juhu, Little People in Ancient Earth History, and The Mystery of Empress Wu Zetian had long since proven Le Jing’s talent, a 25-year-old single-handedly directing a National Day tribute film still made people uneasy.

Could he really handle a subject this grand?

Was choosing such a young kid to direct the film too reckless?

Before watching the film, Xie Xun specifically researched a great deal of information about the Soviet Union. He gained a preliminary understanding of this once-great nation that had died young.

But time had passed too long; information online was limited. The Soviet Union left him with countless mysteries.

So Xie Xun was very eager to see how Le Jing would film this story, and from what angle he would interpret and portray the Soviet Union.

He had no concrete reason, but he had a strong feeling: Shi Jing would deliver an outstanding answer sheet—one that would silence all doubts.

At 8 p.m. on September 21st—

The Imperial Capital Grand Theater was brightly lit; stars filled the room. All the invited guests were industry giants. Among them, Xie Xun spotted figures like Xu Donghan, Cao Desheng, and An Yun.

To be honest, the only reason Xie Xun even had a ticket was because of his long-standing support for Shi Jing’s films. Aside from him, only their magazine’s editor-in-chief received an invitation.

When he first held that ticket, the envious looks he drew were countless.

So this time, he had to write an excellent review. He had full confidence in the film’s quality—after all, it was a state-released production. Quality was guaranteed.

After the press interviews concluded, at 8:30, the film began.

Xie Xun put on the holographic headset and immersed himself in the story.

【Spring sunlight was bright, the sky blue and spotless. A few scattered pigeons fluttered up as noisy factory sirens echoed in the air. Children laughed as they ran across the square. Under the shade of the green trees nearby, young men and women sang and danced.

It was a peaceful morning.

From a house by the street, music drifted out.

A gramophone spun. Stirring and passionate music filled the small room:

“This marching song stirs the soul. Remember the year when invaders pressed our borders,
the soldiers left their homes and boarded the train—this song accompanied them to war.

In ’17, we sang it as we took the Winter Palace.

In ’45, we sang it as we entered Berlin.

Russia stood up—united as one—weathering storms through the years.

If one day the motherland calls, we will rise for her and hurl ourselves into the sacred war.

If one day the motherland calls, we will rise for her and hurl ourselves into the sacred war— the sacred war…”】①

An elderly man stood before the mirror, slowly putting on his old military uniform. His hands—dry and skeletal like dead branches—trembled as he pinned medal after medal to his chest. Some medals were new, shining brightly; the oldest dozen were dim with age.

With the solemn music as backdrop, he straightened the brim of his cap, hunched his body, took up his cane, and limped out the door.

The camera slowly pulled down—his pant leg hung empty. At the cuff, the faint edge of a mechanical limb could be seen. What supported him was a prosthetic.

He slowly crossed the bustling, lively square, walking quietly past the laughing youths.

The crowd gradually quieted. Smiles faded from the young people’s faces as they looked reverently at the old man’s bent back.

Someone shouted: “Ura!” “Ura!”

The old man slowly turned, forced himself to straighten, raised his right arm, and shouted: “Ura!”

That single “Ura” ignited all the young people.

“You are a true hero!”

“Long live the hero!”

“Can you tell us your name?”

“Please tell us your story!”

The old man squinted slightly, as though immersed in distant memories. “Where should I begin…” he said slowly. “Let me tell you my name first.”

“Because I was the youngest son of my family, my mother named me Menshak. I was also the only child who survived.” His voice was calm, even carrying traces of a faint smile. “I’m not a real hero. The real heroes died on the battlefield—like my father, and my older brothers and sisters.”

The young people’s expressions instantly shifted to a confused, sorrowful helplessness. “I’m so sorry… I’m very sorry…”

“No, no need to be sorry.” The old man waved his hand. His clouded eyes shimmered. “They’ve gone to the Soviet now. All our comrades are there.”

He tapped his waist lightly, eyes drifting unconsciously toward the pigeons hopping in the square—but in his mind were images of collapsing walls, flames, and shells exploding, where young men and beautiful women charged into war roaring, using their flesh and blood to block the gunfire.

“When I die, how am I supposed to face them?” the old man muttered unconsciously. “The Soviet is gone. Our country has perished. How am I supposed to tell them? How can I tell them that?”

The young people looked at one another, overwhelmed and speechless, not knowing what they could say to comfort this grieving hero.

“Today is Victory Day. I’m going to meet some of my old friends. Would you like to come with me?” The old man smiled wistfully. “I can tell you their stories.”

“Yes, we’ll go with you.”

The old man limped forward on his cane. His body was not tall, but the young people looked up at his silhouette.

Finally, he stopped before the Martyrs’ Cemetery. Flowers filled the front; endless rows of green trees surrounded the densely packed tombstones.

“There are many who don’t even have a tombstone,” the veteran said.】