Work Text
The ruins of Plac Zamkowy, Warsaw. 1945.
Regrets collect like old friends
Here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way, I can see no way
The war had ended. Six long years of toil and torment, during which Feliks had gone through hell and back, had closed, and there was barely any spectator in the theater to see the curtain drop.Warsaw, his beating heart, was destroyed. This was not particularly unique, in the case of European cities, but the destruction of such a cultural and economic center was shocking nonetheless.In the city, whose population had dropped to a few scant thousand survivors, it was not busy per se, but many citizens were returning. Works were beginning to rebuild the city, despite Comrade Stalin’s desperate and frankly unrealistic hope that the city might stay a ruin. That would strike a dominating chord in post-war Polish politics, if the scene of Polish triumph over Russian and then Soviet domination was empty of the vibrancy it once boasted; but, it was not to be.Still, in what was once the Old Town, the breeze whistled through burnt-out windows and crumbling brick facades.It was in these ruins that Feliks currently sat, eyeing what had once been Sigismund’s Column and the Royal Castle with a calculated sorrow. It would not do, in his opinion, to sob over every little thing, over every single citizen, that he had lost in the war. If he were to do that, he would surely drown the continent in one day, and that would just be over the loss of Lwów to the Soviets.He sat solemnly, not proudly. The war had taught him many lessons that he might have learned earlier, had he listened to the winds of history when he was reborn. He matured in a most terrible fashion during the war, and it had left him wiser, if a little quieter.In his memory, he replayed what his heart had looked like, had felt like, before the war. And though he found himself wanting to scream and curse and cry, he merely sighed sadly and appreciated that he did not have to fear for his life all that much anymore.Of course, that did not mean he was happy.
And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues drawn
It’s always darkest before the dawn
As if on cue, Ivan appeared behind a ruined building. It appeared he had been looking for Feliks, for his eyes had been searching for something, and he brightened considerably when he found Feliks resting on the (former) street corner.“Feliks!” he shouted, perhaps good-naturedly. The Pole sighed again, this time in frustration, and did not turn to face Ivan until the Russian had jogged over to his side.“Hello, Ivan,” Feliks muttered tiredly.Ivan panted slightly, obviously having run across the entire city to find him. After a few seconds, he replied in Russian. “Feliks! I have been looking all over for you!”The Polish man rolled his eyes subtly, but gave a response in Russian as well. “I suppose, like, your boss wants to see me?”Ivan looked somewhat surprised, but his expression brightened and he chuckled. “Ah, yes; he threatened to hang me up by my balls if I did not find you by evening,”Feliks’s face twisted in a mixture of disgust and satisfaction, his lips pursed. “Well, you got lucky, I guess,” He gestured to the slowly setting sun.Ivan eyed the gleam of the sun on the Vistula and sighed. “You are not easy to find,” He chuckled again, smiling.Feliks glared. “You aren’t easy to hide from either, y’know,” he muttered under his breath in Polish.Ivan continued to stand over his former adversary with a bemused expression on his face, and as his shadow enveloped Feliks, the Pole was bitterly reminded of his current political situation.
And I’ve been a fool and I’ve been blind
I can never leave the past behind
I can see no way, I can see no way
Feliks had not listened to Toris when he had called countless times. He had believed in his ability to defend himself against Ivan just as he done in 1920, and he had prepared himself for battle against the Soviet threat. He did not listen to many of his counterparts that Ludwig was going to invade him, sooner or later. He did not care that Arthur and Francis doubted his talents, and he could not predict how cruelly fate would smile on him that damned autumn.He had not learned that he was not powerful enough to stand on his own against nations greater than he, and he pushed every opportunity to protect himself away.Feliks bitterly remembered the countless fights he’d had with his sister, Kateřina; how she had refused to give in to his wants and how, when he finally took what he wanted from her in her moment of weakness, the boomerang might fly back around. He cursed himself for cutting himself off from Lithuania over Vilnius, and how he failed to make deals with Erzsébet, or Vladimir, or Raivis, or any other nation.And now, he reaped what he had sown. All he had wanted was to be independent, but his greed took him too far. And though the war was in no way his fault, it did show him that actions have consequences.And they had caught up to him.Ivan smiled down at Feliks, but it was not quite as benevolent as before. “What was that, comrade?”Feliks bit his lips. “Nothing, Ivan,”“Wouldn’t it be much better if we addressed each other as equals, comrade?”Feliks said nothing.
I’m always dragging that horse around
All of his questions such a mournful sound
Tonight I’m gonna bury that horse in the ground
Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
But it’s always darkest before the dawn
Ivan suddenly grabbed Feliks by his collar and, with one hand, brought the Polish nation to his feet. A dangerous glare flashed in his violet eyes as he looked Feliks straight in his own green ones.“I asked you a question. You would do well to answer.”Feliks sputtered as he grabbed at Ivan’s fingers desperately. “Let me down! Seriously!”The Russian only smirked slightly. “Not until you answer,”Feliks coughed out an answer. “YES, fine, God, whatever Ivan! Just let me go!” Ivan set Feliks down slowly, and Feliks hunched over and promptly coughed his lungs out before glaring daggers at the Russian.“Bastard,” he whispered again in his own language.He was swiftly hit, hard, on the cheek by a gloved hand, and staggered away in pain.“Isn’t it better to address your superior with respect and in the common tongue?” Ivan asked matter-of-factly.“You aren’t my superior, no matter what you do,” Feliks spat out, and was kicked in the stomach even harder. Feliks collapsed onto the pavement, spitting out blood this time.Ivan looked down at the fallen nation coldly. “Are you aware that I control your government, comrade? It has been in the news lately, no?” he questioned.Feliks glared up at Ivan. He no longer seemed kind or benevolent, but then again Feliks knew he wasn’t really at heart.“If you haven’t learned by now that you have never owned me, never once stood even an inch above me, then you aren’t as smart as you seem,” Feliks responded, and began to laugh ruefully when Ivan stepped back in shock.Feliks doesn’t remember quite what happened next, but he awoke in great pain on the sidewalk. It was almost dark now, and Ivan sat next to him, sipping from a flask.Feliks groaned, hunching over to cough out more blood.This gathered Ivan’s attention. He put away the flask and stood up, looking at the ruined landscape.He smacked his lips. “I never did like Warsaw. Oh well,” he shrugged, eyeing Feliks carefully. “It is no big loss, yes?”Feliks said nothing, only shivering.“You will report tomorrow morning to al. Jerozolimskie 7 at 8 o’clock. Be prompt.” Ivan ordered, and then he walked down the street and out of sight.Feliks sat up, grimacing as his body protested. Getting up gingerly, he was greeted by an elderly woman and her grandchild, who offered to help him home. He thanked them kindly, and he joked to the pair that it was not he who lost that fight. The woman might have sensed who Feliks was, intuitively - some people knew of the legends and myths - and she offered Feliks a place for the night, though she never gave away whether she knew or not.Feliks spent the night recuperating in the ruins of what once was a grand house, and even though he had little to offer, the woman and child gave him food and one of their beds. He slept deeply and happily, for he knew that Ivan had not won their argument. It would be the first of many victories.
Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ooh-whoa
Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ooh-whoa
And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off, ooh-whoa
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Plac Adama Mickiewicza, Poznań. June 1956.
And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart
Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It’s always darkest before the dawn
Some time had passed. Stalin had finally choked, and Feliks was sad he couldn’t see the old asshole go. He had even organized a secret celebratory party and had drunk a sea’s worth of vodka alongside Gilbert and Erzsi, which was not appreciated by Ivan despite his usually cheerful demeanor.
De-Stalinization had followed, and with it, a fleeting hope that maybe Poland could be free again.
Realistically, though, just because communism might fall didn’t mean that people’s living conditions would get better. Living standards were below that of the west (a fact which Gilbert constantly whined about, because Ludwig would write him secret letters and send him contraband fairly often) and Feliks often subtly complained about the lack of basic necessities like food and medicine at world meetings, much to Ivan’s ire.
Most importantly, taxes were considerably too high, and micromanagement on part of the Party had left locals in Poznań worrying whether the situation could improve (or if it would, given the circumstances).
(Alfred had remarked snarkily about how he had rebelled from Arthur for just the same reasons. Neither Ivan nor Arthur found it entertaining.)
Feliks liked to spend time with his citizens as much as possible; contrary to many of his counterparts, he actively maintained small apartments in all of his major cities, and when news appeared that the factory workers in Poznan might be protesting, Feliks booked the first train out of Warsaw.
When he arrived, furious workers were marching from the factories into the city to demand their economic conditions be improved, and Feliks could not blame them.
He, too, was tired with how communism was failing to radically improve Poland’s situation, but he wasn't surprised. Mostly, he protested to piss Ivan off, and to make a statement. Gathering in the hundreds of thousands in front of the Zamek Cesarski on a fine June day, Feliks’ people quickly fought back against the government’s blasé response.
His own people surprised him when, in the span of a few hours, the crowds pushed into prisons and government offices, demanding the release of their negotiators.
Everything was moving too fast. Feliks was beginning to sense a creeping dread alongside a headache, when at 2 pm the tanks showed up.
That bastard Ivan had sent in his own generals to deal with the situation.
Despite his own knowledge, he hoped and prayed that maybe, somehow, this would end without bloodshed.
He knew he would be wrong. Still, he didn’t expect what was to come.
He didn’t expect cries to shout out as the militia fired into the crowd.
He didn’t expect to be detained by his own countrymen and taken to the airport, where he was tortured by his own government as punishment.
He didn’t know that all of this would happen as he stood in the square, chanting “
We want bread!”
and hoping that somehow, maybe, someone would notice and help him. The Soviets had taken everything from him; what wasn’t destroyed during the war was confiscated by the communists, and now they had the audacity to deny him healthy living wages.
He didn’t expect to overthrow the fucking government - why the hell are they firing? Have they gone insane? We only want what is promised to us!
Feliks felt every bullet tear through his citizens. As he collapsed on the street among the panicking crowd, spewing blood and yelling like a madman, he wondered what he had done to deserve this.
He spent considerable time recuperating. Ivan had decided to show up on a “personal vacation”, and he spent “quality time” with his “fellow comrade”.
As if anyone took leisurely personal vacations to besieged cities in puppet territories on a whim.
But when Feliks was sat down by Gomułka for his first talk as General Secretary a few months later, he could only sneer sarcastically. Forced with the possibility of a revolt on the scale of Hungary's, which had recently erupted, the Soviets decided Gomułka was the best alternative, and instated him as leader. Nevermind that he was more lenient and liberal than Bierut; what mattered to Feliks is that, despite the supremacy of the powerful and brotherly Soviet Union, Poland had forced their hand. Despite Ivan, and all that he had threatened Poland with, Feliks had not lost.
He may not have won the battle, but he was slowly and surely winning the war.
And when he went home that evening, exhausted and aching from the aftereffects of the protests, he pulled out his contraband Western records and his best vodka and danced late into the night.
Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ooh-whoa
Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ooh-whoa
And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off, ooh-whoa
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Pomnik Bohaterów Getta, Warsaw. December 7, 1970.
And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back
(shake him off)
But given half the chance, would I take any of it back
(shake him off)
It’s a fine romance, but it’s left me so undone
(shake him off)
It’s always darkest before the dawn
Ooh-whoa, ooh-whoa
Ask a Pole what he thinks of the Germans and you might be spit on or slapped, but frankly anytime Ludwig came over (which wasn’t often), the German would either be silent as a stone, or mutter endlessly about apologies and regrets about the war.
Feliks had grown tired of his ministrations after a while, but at least he could claim that he had tried to improve their relationship as well, what with the Pastoral Letter back in ‘65 and all. He thought it quite clever and very honest as well; but it went unnoticed or, even worse, criticized by Poles and Germans alike.
Still, Ludwig expressed gratitude and appreciation for the letter, so there was that.
It was winter of 1970, and Ludwig seemed to be in a happy mood, what with Willy Brandt visiting the capital of their former enemy and all. Feliks could not care less about Willy fucking Brandt, but Ludwig kept gushing about
Ostpolitik
and the Treaty of Warsaw which might finally end the issue of Poland’s western territories, or so Feliks hoped. He would sooner give up a thumb than hand over Wroclaw and Szczecin to Ludwig.
The pair had met that morning, or rather Feliks had barged into Ludwig’s room quite unannounced and had gotten a solid, extremely awkward look at Ludwig’s family jewels; Feliks had, of course, apologized quickly and left the room, and thankfully Ludwig did not mention it, instead continuing to go on and on about the potential for new partnerships and blah blah blah blah blah. Feliks came close to slapping the German back to reality when the two delegations had arrived on the former site of the Warsaw Ghetto.
Muranów was today a quiet residential area of the capital city. Once, however, it was the largest wartime ghetto in Europe, and 400,000 innocent Polish Jews were imprisoned right in Feliks’ heart.
It was the equivalent of laying a large stone on top of someone’s heart.
Feliks didn’t like coming here. It reminded him of numerous agonizing memories, and he could still remember each and every one of his children who had been sent here to die.
He glared, undeniably, as the German delegation surveyed the monument dedicated to the fighters and victims of the Ghetto uprising. His pale lips pursed in annoyance every time a diplomat whispered to one another, and he curled his small hands coldly at the thought of
them
being here.
Brandt was supposed to lay a wreath at the monument and that would be it.
Instead, however, the German chancellor, of entirely his own motives and to the great astonishment of the press, the governments, and the personifications present, kneeled in front of the monument and bowed his head in respect.
Feliks’ face twisted in shock and bewilderment; Ludwig’s was equally confused.
The delegates from both sides muttered among each other, clearly ruffled by the chancellor’s gesture, and Feliks knew he would receive a thorough talking-to by his government after they left.
The chancellor kneeled for a short while, but what he was saying was all to clear: the German nation confessed guilt for their crimes during the war. Soon after, and even though it was initially criticized in Germany, it would become known as the
Kniefall von Warschau.
Feliks passed the remainder of the day in a daze. He could not concentrate on anything, and his green eyes came into and out of focus often as he tried to decipher
why
, exactly, would Ludwig’s beloved leader disrupt the event so subtly and yet so controversially.
In the evening after the signing, Feliks and Ludwig were allowed a private conversation to discuss the day’s events. As soon as Feliks closed the door, he whirled on Ludwig.
“The hell was that?!” Feliks exclaimed, breaking the tense silence.
Ludwig was taken aback. “How should I have known?”
“He’s your chancellor! Aren’t you two besties or something?” Feliks asked.
Ludwig shook his head. “I didn’t expect him to do anything like that,”
Feliks huffed, and sat down dramatically on the other sofa in the small salon.
“It was very unusual,” admitted Ludwig, “But I hope it did not come off as offensive?”
Feliks sighed, looking around the room suspiciously. “I can’t say right now. Personally, I am confused as hell,”
Ludwig nodded, looking around the room as well. The pair sat quietly for a moment before Feliks procured a notepad and pencil.
Ludwig eyed him with surprise, but Feliks mouthed “They might hear us,”
But, in a moment of kindheartedness, Feliks wrote
“It was very nice of him”
lightly in pencil.
Ludwig’s eyebrows shot up, but he wrote in response,
“He meant it, as do I,”
Feliks chuckled slightly. Loudly, he suddenly said “How are you enjoying our welcome? We hope communism has not stricken you too desirably,” while writing further on the notepad.
Ludwig smirked. Receiving a note that said
“I really do forgive you for the war, y’know,”
he choked out, “It is very nice here. I am surprised at how well you have rebuilt the city,”
The pair wrote back and forth for quite some time. They joked around a bit and shared details of their own historical encounters and events. At some point Feliks apologized for the event that morning, and contrary to his normally stoic nature Ludwig wrote back
“Don't worry about it,”
after which Feliks devolved into a giggling fit which must have confused whoever was listening in immensely.
Before the German delegation was to return back to their hotel, Ludwig asked Feliks one final question. Feliks was surprised by what Ludwig wrote. He was expecting one last apology or something, but in the dimming light of the candles in the room, he read
“If you could do everything over again, would you?”
It was an oddly philosophical question. Feliks looked up at Ludwig in confusion, but Ludwig shrugged, looking back expectantly.
Little shit’s wiser than he seems,
though Feliks.
“Would you?”
he wrote back.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Stocznia Gdańska im. Lenina, Gdańsk. August 1980.
And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't
So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my rope
And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope
It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat
'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me (whoa)
Looking for heaven, found the devil in me (whoa)
Well, what the hell, I'm gonna let it happen to me
Yeah
In hindsight, Feliks shouldn’t have been so infuriated by the firing of Anna Walentynowicz. Many innocent workers were fired for reasons lesser than hers, but it was the fact that she was denied for retirement benefits, mere months before she was going to retire anyhow, that got under Feliks’ skin and itched at night.
Itches are hard to satisfy in certain situations, but this proved to be particularly irritating. Many dock workers in Gdansk had protested against the situation, and the government had grown nervous in time.
Feliks had spent long nights in his seaside apartment on the Hel peninsula fuming about the unfairness of the situation. He had been stifled and pushed around for thirty years by corrupt and undemocratic government officials who, in their infinite hypocrisy, fired innocent workers for "illegal activity". Secret phone calls from Germany and Romania and even Latvia could not calm him down, and the cigarettes didn’t help either.
And one day, he furiously packed his belongings, boarded a train for Gdansk, and joined the strikes taking place at the Shipyard.
Feliks was never a placid man. He did not give up easily once his mind was set to a goal. And he had spent the last three decades hating himself for falling into Ivan’s grip again. He was tired, so utterly tired, all the time. Neither alcohol nor western contraband could ease his frustration anymore.
And even though he still sported his own scars from Poznan and Budapest and Prague, because the Lord knew he secretly helped those rebellions in his own ways, he didn’t give a damn anymore.
The salty sea air swept through his hair as the short, green-eyed man marched sharply into the docks, where he joined the growing crowd of workers shouting about Walentynowicz’s firing. He screamed alongside his disgruntled citizens, his voice lending to the growing sea of workers, and he was sure he would lose his voice by the time the protests might end.
For Walentynowicz represented more than just a fired employee. She was more than an angry citizen. She represented all that was wrong about the government, about the so-called blessed communism that was supposed to fix the world’s injustices. It was not communism at all, and it never was; merely thinly-veiled dictatorships propped up by a now-faltering Soviet economy. Feliks was not the only one who suffered from bouts of fatigue and insanity.
Even Ivan, the untouchable, the almighty, was coming down with fever, and Feliks knew what it meant.
The protests paralyzed the northern ports - the government scrambled to fulfill the wishes of the trade union organizing the event, led by a fellow dock worker named Lech Wałęsa, named Solidarity.
Feliks knew that what he was doing was hurting him; for the three days that the initial strikes went on, he could hardly bare the splitting headaches and vodka was no longer an adequate medicine.
He didn’t mind. Because, at the end of the protests, the government caved - it agreed to the terms set by the union for the shipyard workers.
It was quite unprecedented. But Feliks knew that Solidarity would not last long if it was not legalized, and the Milicja would quickly snatch up people like Wałęsa and make away with them. And Feliks, his face scrunched up in defiance, would not have that.
After the protests had failed to cease following the makeshift agreement, Feliks marched into the Party headquarters in the city, demanded a national favor, and ordered the Party to legalize Solidarity.
It caught everyone by surprise. Angered generals and confused Party members muttered about Feliks’ arrogance. Officials argued about the repercussions from Moscow if Poland showed signs of leniency towards such treasonous activity. They spent hours debating whether or not the consequences of prolonged economic stagnation as a result from the protests would be worth potentially angering the Soviets. Feliks sat solemnly, silent and stubborn, and refused anything less than what was deserved to his own.
In the end, Feliks got his way. Finally, after so long, he had affected change out of sheer stubbornness.
It didn’t last long, mind you - Jaruzelski came in a year later, of course, and it all went downhill from there. But.
It would take nine long years, but Feliks would eventually stand opposite a prone Ivan, and he would have what was owed him.
Feliks had put up with just about everything, until when he had to bring the hammer down…
He brought the hammer down.