Alexi Batrakov, Soviet "Counter-Revolutionary"

To my sons, daughter, and grandchildren, many of you had wondered what I have thought of my life, and to be honest, I have found the majority to be uninteresting. But for the sake of some sort of legacy, I've decided to write down the things I've deemed important:

If it was up to me to decide on my fate, then I would've escaped to another country during the Civil War alongside my family.

But I was just a baby at the time and those of us that were not political simply wanted to keep their head low, while many of my relatives who were political, took up arms and fought for their beliefs. I lost many of them in the war alone, including my father and an uncle or two.

And as I grew up, I too would've decided to run Westward to Ukraine, Poland, Germany, or anywhere else but here. But alas, fate had other plans for me as I found myself in a Siberian Work Camp to be beaten for "Counter-Revolutionary" opinions and disowned by my own family afterward as they grew more and more political, both finding my opinion on The Winter War as too disagreeable.

But I did not curse the fates nor God, even for the punishments that I received or the hard labor that I had to endure, for when I was eventually transferred to the warmer climate of Western Russia near the Ukrainian border. Just as the Germans had attacked.

Part of a Shtrafbat, there were little chances of me surviving, but little chances of me finally seeing my family again, as I came across a few of my brothers, once again fighting with them, and fewer sisters, either being sent to the front with us or as truck drivers.

Though with our cheers at the news about Berlin, my pardoning after the war, and the survival of the family (though we were less of us now), nothing could prepare me on the sight of our home.

Our ancient ancestral home was nothing but soot and rubble.

I dropped to my knees at the front of the former structure as I stared at the environment with disbelief. The whole neighborhood was destroyed and much of the farmland was filled with holes. I couldn't care less if whether or not we burned our home or if it's the Germans that were at fault.

No home, no one to turn to, and no one wanting a former prisoner working for them, I bought a ticket to Siberia with what little money that I had, and hopped on-board one of the coaches with a suitcase, the gun issued to me, a few bullets, a bottle of vodka that I found, and a wallet.

In my head, I was hoping that the old Gulag would accept me back as a respectable citizen. And if that didn't work, the bottle of vodka may comfort any of my thoughts for when I would eventually decide to end it all.

In one booth, I met a woman. Blonde, still in her uniform, and seemingly carried the same kind of luggage as me. The only difference between us (other than hair color) was our mood, as she was happy and I simply tired.

She welcomed me to sit with her, referring to me as a comrade, and asked for some stories from my time at the front. I shan't bore you with both of our details, all except that her name was Irina.

And though I was supposed to save the vodka as a celebratory toast, I thought that drinking with a new friend would help in my mood. After emptying the bottle, the two of us were too drunk to properly formulate a conscious decision.

And so, when Irina stood up, held on to something to use for balance, she took a glance back at me before leaving.

"Do you have a room to sleep at, Comrade?" And the moment I shook my head, she smiled, gestured for me to come with her, and disappeared soon after.