CDJMM – Volume 4 -Chapter 48 Filming in the Interstellar Era (48)

Under the pure azure sky stood rows of white tombstones rising and falling with the land. Sunlight rested gently upon them, like a tender farewell kiss from long ago.

Back then, in an age of war and chaos, mountains of corpses and seas of blood were the price paid for the peaceful square where white doves now flew freely.

An Yun’s eyes turned slightly wet.

This tranquil scene made his heart tighten with a sour, aching bitterness. Even though he had never lived through that era, at this moment he still shed tears for how hard-won peace truly was.

Throughout the Dark Three Hundred Years, endless tombstones lay in eternal sleep.

【The young people stared in shock at the densely packed rows of tombstones. For a moment they were speechless, unsure of what to say.

An old veteran limped through the martyrs’ cemetery. Looking at the tombstones stretching across the hills, he stood tall with the help of his cane. The heavy medals on his chest gleamed as he slowly raised his hand in a military salute.

“Comrades, I’ve come to see you.”

The young people watched quietly, solemn-faced. Their bright, youthful eyes shimmered with moisture.

The veteran turned around. His voice was hoarse with age, but carried an undeniable weight. “Come with me,” he said, unable to hide the pride in his tone. “Let me introduce you to my comrades.”

He lowered his hand and limped to a particular tombstone, where he stopped.

On the pristine tombstone, inscriptions in both Chinese and Russian were engraved.

Wang Qingchen (1890–1918): Here lies a Chinese man. He was a soldier and a Marxist. For the realization of communism, he fought until his final moment, and now rests forever at Vyarya Station.

“Chinese?” The young people exclaimed in surprise. “Why is there a Chinese person here?”

The veteran replied, “I never met him, but I know of him. He was a hero.

He was a Chinese laborer who later joined the October Revolution…”

Old Menshak’s gaze became unfocused, sinking into distant, long-buried memories.】**

Chinese? Xie Xun could hardly believe his ears. He never expected the first martyr to appear in the film would be a Chinese man.

Why would a Chinese person be buried in a Soviet martyrs’ cemetery? What had happened to him? What did he die for?

Questions surged endlessly in Xie Xun’s heart. Only the upcoming scenes could give him the answers.

【October 1917.

“Power belongs to the people!”

“Down with the capitalists!”

“Oppose the war!”

“We want bread!”

The marching procession swept through streets and alleys. Workers from every trade raised their arms and shouted with passion and fury.

Six-year-old Menshak leaned on the windowsill, watching the roaring waves of demonstrators with wide curiosity. Among the tall, sharp-featured Russians, several East Asians stood out.

As they passed beneath his window, Menshak couldn’t help asking, “Sir, where do you come from?”

The East Asians paused. One of them answered in halting Russian, “We are from China. We used to work in the Kama mining area upstream on the Volga.”

“China? This is the first time I’ve seen Chinese people.” Menshak asked in confusion, “Why did you come to Moscow?”

The Chinese men exchanged smiles. “We came to join the revolution.”

Menshak looked even more puzzled. “What is a revolution?”

“You’ll understand when you grow up.”

They waved goodbye and continued forward with the crowd.

“Menshak! How many times have I told you? Stop looking! The police will arrest you!” His mother slammed the window shut with a sharp bang, hands on her hips as she glared furiously.

Menshak shrank back. “Mama, I just saw some Chinese people. Where is China?”

His mother curled her lips, a flicker of disgust flashing in her eyes. “Chinese people are all villains and swindlers,” she lectured him sternly. “Stay away from them. They practice terrible witchcraft.”

Menshak nodded, half understanding.

Outside, sudden gunshots pierced the air. Screams and panicked footsteps filled the street.

“Someone’s been killed!”

“The police— the police are killing people!”

“Help! Help us!”

Screams, cries for help, frantic trampling, and gunfire mixed outside the house, while inside all was deathly silent.

Menshak’s face turned pale. Tears filled his frightened eyes. His voice trembled. “Mama? What’s happening? Will they die?”

His mother’s face froze. She blinked rapidly, her voice stretched tight like a string about to snap. “It has nothing to do with you—nothing to do with you!” she hissed. “You are not allowed to join them!”

November 7th. The great cruiser Aurora fired toward the Winter Palace. Fully armed soldiers surrounded it.

Two hours later, a red flag rose over the Winter Palace—the bright yellow hammer and sickle announcing the might of the proletariat to the world.

…】

“But the war didn’t end—civil war broke out. The Western capitalist countries did not want to see our socialist nation born, so they joined forces with domestic rebel factions and launched a war against our young Soviet government. From 1918 until 1922, many of our comrades died, but even more people joined us.” The elderly Menshak gently stroked the name engraved on the tombstone, his voice soft, as though afraid of disturbing the heroes’ slumber. “This comrade from China, from the Red Eagle Regiment—they helped us win the Battle of the Volga.”

With the old man’s narration, one scene after another came to life.

In the spring of 1918, newsboys ran through the streets of Moscow, waving newspapers and shouting loudly: “The Chinese Red Eagle Regiment defeated the White Army and held the Volga River!”

People on the street buzzed with excitement:

“Give me a newspaper!”

“The Chinese—they’re amazing!”

“Ura! Ura! Long live the Red Eagle Regiment!”

Little Menshak watched his father, who was sitting at the dining table reading the newspaper, muttering excitedly over and over: “The Red Eagle Regiment is incredible!”

“Grivan, Grivan!” (Russian: true friend)

Menshak asked curiously, “Dad, are all the Red Eagle Regiment Chinese?”

His father nodded. “Yes.”

Menshak frowned. “But Mom said Chinese people are all evil sorcerers and liars.”

His father retorted loudly, “Your mother is wrong! The Chinese are our true friends!”

Menshak asked again, “Dad, why are the Chinese helping us?”

His father’s expression became solemn. He replied word by word: “Because belief has no borders. They are great communist warriors.”

Menshak nodded, half-understanding, then smiled with innocent delight. “The Chinese help us fight the bad guys—I like the Chinese.”

……

The young people stared at the tombstone in shock, stunned. “I—I’ve never heard of this.”

“They’re heroes!”

“What happened later?”

“Later…” The aged Menshak came back from his memories, looking at the tombstone with a numb calm. “Later, they all died.”

“In the Battle of Vilja Station, the Red Eagle Regiment fought side by side with our Red Army for seven days and seven nights against the White Army. In the end, out of ammunition and food, none survived.”

A few young women suddenly let out sharp sobs.

Cao Desheng’s eyes grew wet.

The older he grew, and the more he had seen the warmth and coldness of human nature, the more easily he was moved by sincere passion and devotion.

Whether during the Dark Three Hundred Years or in ancient Earth’s history, there were always people who carried great love in their hearts, who devoted themselves wholeheartedly to the fate of all humanity—shouting slogans, raising flags, running tirelessly, fighting bravely.

【The elderly Menshak stopped in front of another tombstone.

Nina Ivanovna Rogova (1915–1942): Mother, daughter, soldier. She bid farewell to her father, brother, and husband. She was an excellent sniper and nurse, defending the honor of her motherland with her blood.

A sheen of moisture surfaced in the old man’s eyes.

“This is my aunt’s daughter—my little sister,” he said softly. “After the civil war, we had peace for more than ten years. Then World War II broke out.”

“The fascist Axis powers led by Germany set the world aflame. Except for the Arctic and Antarctic, the world was covered in crimson.”

“In 1941, Nazi Germany tore up the German–Soviet Non-Aggression Pact and, together with its puppet states Hungary, Romania, and Finland, launched a sudden attack on us.”

“That year, I was forty—right within conscription age. I answered the nation’s call and enlisted to protect our Soviet homeland.”

“Among the boys in my school class, only one other boy and I survived.”

……

The war had dragged on for a long time.

Under the brutal assault of the Nazi forces, Soviet troops suffered defeat after defeat. Vast swaths of land were occupied; millions of soldiers and civilians perished.

The commissar said, “Russia is vast, but we have nowhere left to retreat. Behind us is Moscow!” They eventually won the Battle of Moscow—but the commissar died in action.

Of the three Menshak brothers, he alone survived.

Later, trains arrived one after another, bringing men over sixty and boys in the tenth grade.

Then, trains began bringing women.

Nina—his little sister—holding her four-year-old daughter’s hand, picked up her sniper rifle and went to the front lines.

This was nothing unusual at the time.

Their fathers, husbands, and brothers had all died in battle. Their hometowns had already fallen. So the women had no choice but to take their children and go to war.

“At that time, one million women fought in the war.

They were snipers, artillery soldiers, tank operators, signalers, machine gunners, pilots, guerrilla fighters—and of course, doctors and nurses.” The elderly Menshak sighed softly, both sorrowful and proud. “We Russian women—they are iron-blooded and fearless.”

A blonde girl asked, voice trembling, “…How did Nina die?”

Menshak’s gaze wavered at the sight of her blond hair, and after a few seconds he answered, “I heard she was killed by a bomb. She and her four-year-old daughter—killed together, nothing left.”

After a brief silence, the old man tenderly brushed the name on the tombstone, his voice hoarse: “Later, a woman’s name became famous across the battlefield—Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko. Like Nina, she was a sniper. She killed 309 German soldiers and became a true heroine of the war, a national icon.”

“But no one knows Nina.”

“Nina died too early.”

“She never had the chance to achieve military merit.”

Menshak tilted his head to look at the blonde girl, though his eyes seemed to look past her at another blonde girl.

The war had not remembered that girl’s face.

“But I remember,” he whispered. 】