Chapter 1115: Violent Aesthetics

Violence is just violence. Even when paired with white doves, a church, or candlelight and glossed over as “violent aesthetics,” it is still just violence. If bondage and whipping, after being “packaged,” can truly bring someone joy, that doesn’t mean the act can be described as beautiful. It only means the person who finds it beautiful is a psychopath. Unfortunately, in this world, it seems psychopaths are in the majority.

As a bullet flies, it holds no mercy or compassion. Even when facing the benevolent and almighty Lord, it will not have the slightest thought of avoidance. So, after being brutalized by the 20mm anti-aircraft cannon’s direct fire, and as the German soldiers rushed into the cathedral to open fire, even more bullets struck the ancient crucifix.

A 20mm anti-aircraft shell hit the thigh of the marble Jesus statue, successfully leaving a hole larger than a bowl. This hole nearly severed the statue’s entire right leg and took a large chunk of the cloth from its hip. Then, 7.92mm and 7.62mm caliber bullets studded Jesus’s entire body. When everyone opened fire, they didn’t have half a mind to spare God.

No matter how vast the cultural differences between the East and West, at least their gods are very similar in temperament. Whether it’s God or Allah, the Jade Emperor or Buddha, none of them would fly into a rage just because someone smashed their statue. If they had even slightly worse tempers, then all the Soviet defenders and German soldiers inside the Cathedral of the Archangel Michael would have been smitten by heavenly lightning.

A bullet, fired from an unknown side, struck Jesus’s hand. This round obviously hit a less solid place than the torso, and two of the statue’s fingers were sent flying. On this chaotic battlefield, no one wasted a single second lamenting that this century-old antique was being reduced to worthless rubble.

Before anyone could mourn the two flying fingers, Jesus’s ear was shot off. Some Soviet defenders in the rooms didn’t even stick their heads out; they just extended their guns and fired wildly. Their bullets had no accuracy, so the places they hit had a bizarre quality.

The furnishings in the cathedral had already been mostly destroyed by the fierce battle. The wooden banister of the staircase was now stained red with blood and, likewise, was covered in bullet holes from both sides. The walls were covered in the scars of battle—either blood or pits gouged out by bullets. Some of the places “baptized” by the anti-aircraft cannon even let in sunlight, making the light in the cathedral even more hazy.

Knowing he had only thirty-something rounds left in his drum, the Soviet veteran guarding the staircase had to contemplate his fate. There were not many soldiers left beside him. The Germans had just made several more sneak shots, and a few more Soviet soldiers, who had sworn to fight to the end, had fallen.

If they weren’t relying on the high ground—a feature that made it difficult for the Germans to toss grenades up—they wouldn’t have been able to hold on this long. After all, the combat quality of the German troops opposite them was no joke. Just from this brief exchange of fire, one could feel the Germans’ astonishing combat effectiveness.

“I will not abandon my motherland! Comrade Lenin gave me a new life! He is my family’s savior!” the old soldier shouted to a dying comrade next to him, who had been shot in the ribs. He then vaulted over the pile of corpses being used as cover. He rushed down the stairs, pointing his submachine gun at the enemies he hated.

“Long live Comrade Stalin!” he roared, pulling the trigger. Before the terrified eyes of the German soldiers, he fired bullet after bullet from his barrel. These bullets flew through the air, straight into the bodies of the German soldiers. One after another, the hit Germans fell. For a moment, everyone was stunned by this suicidal counter-charge.

So many experienced German soldiers were hit by bullets, losing their lives so easily; so many young German recruits were hit, falling to the ground as cold corpses. In a single instant, a dozen German soldiers were hit, falling down wailing.

So the Germans aren’t invincible! So they are just mortals who die when shot! So I can kill them this easily, so they aren’t that much stronger than us! Countless thoughts flashed through his mind. The Soviet veteran felt he could keep killing like this, kill every last one of these enemies before him!

“Click!” As he continued to pull the trigger, the PPSh submachine gun in his hands—world-renowned for its ammunition capacity—let out a crisp sound of an empty magazine at the most critical moment. On the noisy battlefield, such a tiny sound should have been inaudible, but the Soviet veteran heard it clearly—like a demonic sound from hell.

No bullets? At this exact moment of wanting to mow down the enemy, at this moment of cool and heroic bravery, he was out of bullets? Right, when I jumped out, I only had 30-some rounds… I came out to trade my life. That god-mode rhythm I had for a moment made me forget my situation.

Just one man and one gun, did I really think I could break through all these German soldiers? And after breaking through them, break through the German army behind them? And after breaking through all of them, kill my way to the German corps HQ with one man and one gun? Fight my way to the German Army Group HQ? Fight my way to the Wolf’s Lair? Fight my way to Berlin?

He didn’t know the joke about the “Three Great Illusions of Life,” but if he had, he would have definitely thought of that well-worn meme: “I can turn this around.” In the second that his muzzle stopped spitting flames, he saw the German soldiers raising their weapons at him. One by one, dark muzzled aimed at his torso. Wisely, he closed his eyes.

Gunshots rang out in his ears, but he could no longer feel the pain in his body. Death was just an instant. In a few short seconds, the German soldiers used a rain of bullets to turn this Soviet opponent, who had suddenly jumped out to counter-attack, into a sieve. In that fleeting moment, none of the “dog-blood” drama of reverence, admiration, or mutual respect occurred. For every soldier on the battlefield, killing a hero was no different from killing a deserter.

No one would be stupid enough to take off their hat for the body of an enemy who had just killed a dozen of their comrades. No one would give a speech expressing their respect for a hero. The instantaneous reaction determined the most direct and normal choice: shoot the enemy and kill him. This is the cruel gap between reality and works of art. Beautiful things are pitifully rare on the battlefield, so people are more willing to believe that beautiful moments exist, more willing to believe that the things they imagine demonstrate the greatness of humanity.

But greatness did not happen in this corner at this moment. The German soldiers didn’t even look at the Soviet veteran lying next to the corpse of a German soldier. They continued to attack the staircase. Their mission was to capture this cathedral, and there was no reason to abandon what was already within their grasp.

With one less soldier defending it, the staircase held out for just over a minute more before it fell. The Germans charged up to the landing, which was piled high with the bodies of Soviet defenders. On the second floor, the German soldiers met equally frantic resistance. In some rooms, they discovered swathes of dead civilians, most of whom had been hiding in the cathedral, only to be killed by the grenades the Germans had thrown in or the dense fire from the quad-barreled anti-aircraft gun.

Following a few thin gunshots, the German soldiers who rushed to the third floor found the “big shot” they were looking for. A corps commander, before committing suicide, had shot all of his attendants, including his chief of staff and several other Soviet officers and guards.

He had used the most extreme method available to him to end his own war. The corps’ banner and several documents were placed neatly beside his body. Even in the last moments of his life, he could not bear to destroy these things he had cherished most.

The German soldiers carried these items away and then set up machine gun positions at the windows facing the other direction. They skillfully used the high and low terrain to begin setting up a defensive position that could block a Soviet counter-attack. For them, time was precious. No one could say at which second the Soviets would sound the charge.

The work of moving the bodies was even postponed. The follow-up German troops had an exceptionally hard time fighting in the nearby streets. They were indeed getting closer and closer to the center of Moscow, but the Soviet resistance was also growing more and more stubborn. No one knew how long they would have to struggle in this hellish place. So, when the 82nd Corps HQ received the casualty figures, Karikov had not a trace of joy on his face. He just numbly grabbed the phone, reported to Kluge that his troops had captured the Cathedral of the Archangel Michael, and then hurriedly hung up, afraid to hear anyone’s congratulations.

In Moscow, in the specially built, deep underground bunker of the Kremlin, Stalin heard Vatutin’s voice through the telephone receiver. He listened without a word as the latest battle situation was reported, his mind filled with the one core sentence from the Moscow City Defense Commander, whom he had not seen in three days: The Cathedral of the Archangel Michael has fallen.

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