"Soviet citizens!" came a voice over the crackling radio. "At four o'clock this morning, without any prior warning or declaration of war, German troops launched attacks along many points of the Soviet western border, bombing cities including Kyiv, Zhytomyr, and Brest itself with their planes. This treacherous assault is an unprecedented act of aggression against the Soviet Union…"
The room fell silent. Everyone listened intently as the broadcast ended with a few words of encouragement, then the static of the radio returned to its familiar hiss.
"It's Molotov," Major Gavrilov explained quietly. "People's Commissar for Foreign Affairs. Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars."
The instructor went silent, no words coming from him. Dmitri finally exhaled a long, tense breath.
Molotov's address did not mention anything about Soviet units retreating along the frontlines of course, it couldn't. The purpose of the broadcast was to unify morale for the civilian population and the army, not to expose strategic realities.
But one thing was now confirmed: the Germans were waging a full-scale war, not just limited border skirmishes.
Dmitri's eyes scanned the room. He caught the subtle difference between himself and the instructor, the broadcast had confirmed the scale of the attack.
Moreover, the radio mentioned German air raids on cities far beyond Brest. Minsk was 350 kilometers to the northeast, Kyiv over 500 kilometers away. The Luftwaffe had the range to strike deep into Soviet territory. Dmitri felt a grim vindication, his earlier fears were justified.
"Don't mistake this for a retreat!" the instructor snapped. "It's only the Luftwaffe's bombardment. Our forces are resisting heroically on land!"
"It's possible," Major Gavrilov said slowly, eyes narrowing. "But it's also likely we are isolated. We may be surrounded. If that's the case, we must consider breaking out."
"No!" the instructor retorted sharply. "That's cowardice. Fear of death. We hold this fortress, every inch of it, for the Motherland!"
The argument escalated, voices bouncing off the concrete walls. Meanwhile, Dmitri, fully armed again, kept his thoughts under tight control.
"Good Comrade!" Okunev said when he saw Dmitri with his rifle again. Relief washed over him as he pulled Dmitri into a brief embrace.
"I thought I'd never see you again, my friend," Okunev whispered.
"Indeed," Dmitri replied simply. Nothing more. He had been warned not to reveal anything about the scale of the German assault or the precarious state of the Soviet army.
Okunev understood perfectly and didn't press. He took a newspaper from his pocket, crumpled it, and used it to light a cigarette, handing it to Dmitri.
Dmitri's hands shook as he accepted it. The match trembled in Okunev's hand before finally igniting the cigarette. Dmitri drew in the acrid smoke and exhaled slowly, a small comfort amid the chaos.
The battlefield had been terrifying, yes but the danger here, within his own ranks, was just as sharp. He would never forget the cold gaze of the instructor, the crisp sound of a gun cocking and firing close to him, the calculated indifference in the guards' eyes. One wrong move and his life could end instantly.
He took another deep drag of the harsh tobacco, forcing his thoughts back to the matter at hand.
Dmitri did not want to return to the fortress's political squabbles, recent events had nearly cost him his life. But he knew he had to act again, or survival would be impossible.
Could Major Gavrilov convince the instructor? Dmitri doubted it.
Molotov's broadcast confirmed the large-scale war, yes but the radio still offered no contact with the higher command. Without explicit orders, any attempt to retreat would be considered desertion. Execution could follow.
Dmitri almost laughed bitterly at the irony. He had risked everything, only to gain… nothing.
At that moment, Okunev handed him an empty tin lunchbox. Dmitri frowned, but two soldiers approached carrying a pot of stew, distributing portions. It was dinner.
"Dinner time!" someone called as the ladle hit his box, dumping a lumpy mass of rations inside. Dmitri stared at it, disbelieving.
But hunger won. Seeing the others eat, he fumbled with the spoon and took a bite. Surprisingly, it was edible. With a bit of butter or bread, it might even be tolerable.
From beyond the fortress, the German loudspeakers blared once more.
"Soviet comrades! We are here to liberate you! Join us and throw off the oppression of your Soviet commanders!"
A soldier squatting nearby, chewing his meager meal, chuckled. "Some of us almost like hearing that, don't you think, Dmitri?"
The others laughed knowingly.
"Comrade Boris!" Okunev interjected. "The major returned his rifle. That proves his not a traitor!"
"I know," Boris said, shrugging. "But it doesn't prove his not a coward."
Laughter followed. Dmitri said nothing. Words were meaningless here. Most of them would die soon, one way or another.
His thoughts were focused on survival. In this war, being a hero or a dog was not determined by words, speeches, or political declarations. It was determined by whether you stayed alive… and how.