I'll Meet You in Stalliongrad

In the very beginning, the requisitions were moderate. In fact, they started solely with grains – barely, oats, and wheat. And when the collection troops made their rounds to the farms in the countryside, they took forty percent of the yields. Of course, there were never any objections. After all, it was one’s civic duty to work for the benefit of his fellow pony, and for the greater good of all. And those who objected were dealt with in a variety of ways by the commissars and the soldiers of the collection teams.

But as the war raged on and supplies were needed in larger quantities, they began to take more than just the grains. Soon, the soldiers came for the potatoes and cabbage. Then they began to take a cut of the turnips. Then the meats. By the lakes and streams (when enough ice had melted to permit fishing), they eventually began to include demands for fish. The forty percent seizures grew to sixty percent seizures. And then seventy. And still they grew, leaving the ponies of the collective farms with less and less over the course of the war, as time moved along at a monotonous pace. The farmers had a name for the months of appropriations – ekvestrazvyorstka, “the time of the quotas.”  What was taken from the farms was either brought to the cities for distribution to the urban population or sent directly to the warzone, where the brave frontliners clashed with the armies of the Crystal Empire and the allied kingdoms. And as the Party never ceased to remind its people, these sacrifices all had to be made for the greater good of the Equestria Soviet Socialist Republic.

In Stalliongrad, Foalgograd, or any of the larger cities, there was ubiquitous respect for the ponies living out in the countryside. It was an extremely difficult life. In some cases, ponies lived miles and miles from their neighboring collective farm or village. The formal schooling and intellectual academies that were extolled in the great cities were just a fantasy to the collective farmers. When something critical happened in the cities, it would takes months, sometimes, for the news to reach the farthest corners of Soviet Equestria. In some areas, the citizens didn’t know of Saphirov’s abdication until a month after it occurred. The ponies of the farms and villages lived lives without. But most of them were happy that way. It was a peculiarity of Equusia's rural culture.

The countryside was depressing, but at the same time, it was mysteriously beautiful. One could look about him and see nothing, but if he trained himself to concentrate, to look deeper into the vastness of the SSR, he could find strange, rustic beauty in the tiny streams, wooden fences, lone-standing trees and, given the proper time of year, the drifting snow. The dirt roads seemed to stretch on endlessly, without a single traveler in sight. Occasionally, the jingling of bells could be heard in the distance, growing louder and more festive as the troikas drew nearer. But then as the ponies galloped on, the ringing of troika bells would begin to fade, and soon they would disappear altogether, swallowed by the mysterious tundra air. And it would again be silent, save for the wind and the occasional chirping of a songbird.

But on the day on which our story begins, there were no troikas to be seen. Rather, there were two fillies racing down the long, unpaved road to Collective 23, each one laughing and panting as they raced to be the first to rush past the gate of the farm. Their names were Vika and Ella, and they were the youngest fillies on the collective farm. An inseparable pair of identical twins since birth, they turned everything into a competition – who could race home first, who could bring more water from the stream to the farm, or who could harvest more grain. And that autumn afternoon was no different. The two fillies ran along the familiar road home, each girl’s golden sarafan flapping in the breeze behind the glow of their bright red manes. When they could see the gate in the distance, they picked up speed. Vika had won last time, and now Ella intended not to lose again. The gate drew closer and closer, and the girls made the final push, jumping through the open doors and then collapsing at the feet of a large blue pony that jumped back in surprise.

“Who won, Vasya? Who crossed the gate first?” Vika asked, looking up at the startled pony.

“It doesn’t matter who crossed the gate first,” Ella protested, wrestling on the ground with her sister, “All that matters is who touched the ground first, and that was me!”

“Who was it, Vasya?”

“I already said it was me!”

“Oh, would you both calm down?” Vasya snorted, adjusting his shapka. “I wasn’t paying attention to who got here first. You girls should have been back an hour ago to help us move the grain up front. Who knows when the commissar will show up today?”

“The commissar is already almost here, Vasya,” Vika informed, shoving her sister aside. “We saw him when we were talking to comrade Sherstablev!”

“You were with Sherstablev?” Vasya asked, trotting through the gate and looking down the road. “They’re already this far out? We need to get moving; we’re only halfway done.” He stepped back through the gate. “Alright girls, head out to the fields. Start bringing out the rest of the grain and the cabbage.”

In the blink of an eye, Vika an Ella were off again, dodging the workers as they went, running past the old barns, the granary, and the houses by the central yard. They cut through the yard, darting around the rickety tables at the center.

“Hello, comrade Trotova!” the girls called together as they raced off to the fields.

They had addressed the mare with the violet coat seated alone at one of the tables. She waved back to the girls and watched them run out into the fields. But then her gaze drifted back to the barn on the far side of the yard as she again looked at the red banner that was draped across its facade. “Foalgograd relies on your labour!” read the lettering on the banner that stared back at Nastenka Trotova. At both ends of the banner was a refulgent emblem that shone in the midday sun: the hammer crossed with the sickle, the iconic symbol of Soviet Euqestria. There were a number of such banners hanging about the farm. They were a staple of every collective farm in the new Republic. But they too were in the cities and along the country roads. Everywhere anypony looked, they were reminded of their comrades in Foalgograd – reminded of the ever-present threat of the Crystalline Menace.

Nastenka Trotova sighed and shifted her gaze again, this time letting her eyes rest on the planks of the tabletop, crooked and weathered. Though, of course, that was what everything looked like on Collective 23, save for the new silos and a few of the houses. Nastenka always did the very same thing when she sat down at the old tables – she tried to trace the grain and the cracks in the wood from one end of the table to another, but they would always come to dead ends or veer off to the sides. And every time, she thought that in a way she was tracing life itself. A pony starts at one side. The desired end is on the other side. But she can never travel in a straight line, and she might inevitably stray from that desired end, or find herself at a premature conclusion. But did she already trace her path? Was hers one of the ones that never made it to the other side? Or had she not discovered her lifeline yet? Perhaps another of the many paths on the tabletop was destined to be hers.

“They never separate, those two. Not even for five minutes.”

The voice startled Nastenka, who turned around in surprise. There, behind her, was a white unicorn in large, felt valenki and a kosovorotka of the same color as his coat. He was watching the two fillies drag the sacks of grain in the field. Floating by his side were two small bowls of soup.

“Are you feeling any better, comrade?” he inquired, turning to Nastenka. She laughed and looked out to the fields.

“Was I feeling any better ten minutes ago?” she asked, returning his question with one of her own.  She did not talk in a condescending manner, but she was stern. Of course, that was simply her way.

The white unicorn sat on the opposite end of the table and slowly brought the bowls down to the tabletop.

“There was a little salyanka left over from before. I figured you might like to have some. Especially since you missed lunch altogether.”

“Thank you, Sergei.” There was silence for a few minutes as they ate from the bowls.

“You finished everything from this morning, Nastenka? You know, they just said the commissar is coming along for the collection.”

“Of course I finished everything,” she said, staring into the grain and grooves of the table again. “Would I be sitting here if I didn’t finish everything?” She lifted her violet eyes to meet his.

Sergei shivered as Nastenka’s stabbing gaze tore through him. Her words always seemed so harsh, though at the same time they came out almost helplessly. The two ponies looked at each other in silence. Sergei studied her delicate features – the tiny nose, her flowing mane that blew in the light wind, and her eyes, those piercing violet eyes. Nastenka Trotova was beautiful. But such beauty was a double-edged sword. On one hand, her splendor could captivate onlookers and ensnare them, making the act of looking away so uncomfortably difficult. But at the same time, she could instill such jealousy in others that they could not stand to look at her, for the very sight enraged them as they saw before themselves the beauty that they did not possess.

“Excuse me, comrade. I was only curious.” He took another sip from the bowl and then looked out into the fields, where Vika and Ella were dragging in the grain sacks. “You wonder how much we’ll get to keep.” He paused and looked at Nastenka again. “How much do you suppose they’ll want this time? It’s been a long while since the last telegram with the new stipulations. And fortunately for us, Stirrupskiy always takes less than he’s supposed to take. Imagine if he wanted the full quota! I still can’t figure out how he gets away with it. Must pay someone off.” He waved his horn and let the bowl rest on the table. “Sometimes, you know, you wonder whether or not they’ll eventually start taking everything,” Sergei mumbled, looking out at the fillies in the field again. It was supposed to be a joke. But given the times, the air of uncertainty, the nature of the whole situation, it at the same time was an unspoken, legitimate concern.

“Did you get any sleep last night, Nastenka? Any at all?” Sergei asked.

“Maybe an hour. Which is more than usual.”

“Have the dreams started again?”

“Do you think for one second that they ever stopped?”

“Mmh.”

“They never relent, Sergei. I’m afraid to sleep anymore. I see him every night.”

It was a kind heart alone that prompted Sergei to ask Nastenka about the dreams. But at the same time, he was acting like a fool. To speak of the dreams made Nastenka feel worse. She didn’t tell anypony else about them initially. But after a few months, she told Sergei, though she didn’t know why. Sergei knew why; such a matter could only be turned over in the mind for so long, after all. At some point, one feels that she must talk to another. To make sense of the matter. To know that someone else understood. And Sergei did understand. But he could do nothing to help.

The whole situation – the dreams that plagued her night after night – had slowly reduced Nastenka to a stolid shell of her former self. These dreams grew from seeds that were sowed over a year ago, on a sunny day just before the onset of spring, It was the day when every Kalmuk in the region was to report to a designated blockhouse after being called upon for service in the defense of Foalgograd. In the bright sunshine of winter’s end, the seasoned veterans found themselves standing side-by-side with ponies newly conscripted to the Kalmuk corps at the Saddel’naya railway station, a small one-platform complex that served the barren, sparsely populated region southeast of Stalliongrad. On that same day, under that same sunshine, stood Nastenka, just before the platform, beside her husband Leonid Trotov, whom she had married just fourteen months prior. A lieutenant among the Kalmuks, Leonid was of course called into Foalgograd with the others as the threat of invasion loomed ever nearer. But there was a particular fervor on the platform that day. There was excitement, especially among the new recruits, over the fact that the Kalmuks were to defend Foalgograd. They were following in the steps of the revolutionaries, they said. They were the defenders of the SSR itself, ready to set out to the front and return as heroes. Leonid was somewhat guilty of this enthusiasm himself.

But Nastenka had nothing to do with the revelry. She kept thinking that when she bid her Leonid farewell on the platform, it would be the last she ever saw of him. And when she heard the train chugging along toward the railway station, tears began to form in her eyes as she nuzzled with him. She tried to bid him farewell, but every time Nastenka spoke, she choked on her words. And when she finally burst into tears, she told Leonid that she didn’t know what she’d do if he never came back.

So Leonid pulled her aside, away from the rest of the crowd on the platform, and she cried into his uniform, soaking the red-striped collar with her tears. He laughed a little, and told her that she won’t need to worry about any of it, because he would come back. He said that he’d come back home to the farm, and life would march on. He said they’d have the foal about which Nastenka always dreamed, and that she’d finally know the joy of being a mother. But Nastenka told him that there was no conceivable way he knew for sure that he’d ever come home. She said he was living on the dreams of the Party – in the midst of a high from which he needed to come back down.

“Nastenka,” he whispered into her ear, “What I’m going to tell you right now… Don’t ever forget it. I might not know what will happen when we get to Foalgograd, and I might not know what the Crystal Dogs are going to throw our way. But the one thing I do know is that someday, whenever that is, I’ll come back. And right now, I’m going to make a promise to you. I promise that we’ll see each other again. And when that day comes, the first thing we’ll do is dance, like we did on all those summer evenings on the farm.” She picked her head up from his shoulder and stared at the dark spots her tears had made on his uniform’s collar, gasping and heaving as her eyes watered.

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” she asked him. He thought for a moment, and smiled.

“Well. When you wake up in the morning and look through the windows as the sun rises… Remember that, though I’m far away in Foalgograd, I’ll be watching the very same sun. And if you concentrate long and hard, you’ll see me in your sunrise.”

Nastenka laughed through her tears. Leonid had twisted around the words of an old folk tune, “I’ll See You in My Sunrise,” that was old as the tundra itself.

“You expect that to work, Leonid? You trust the words of an old song?”

“My mother always told me that there was magic behind the old songs,” Leonid said, brushing a few strands of violet mane out of Nastenka’s eyes. “She said that generation after generation of ponies wouldn’t have kept the old songs alive if they weren’t true.”

The train rolled past and slowed to a halt at the platform, the doors were pulled open and the Kalmuks said their farewells and garrisoned inside. Nastenka kissed her husband goodbye and watched him walk off to the train, but stopped and turned to her at the door. And for the moment, time froze for Nastenka as she saw him for what she feared would be the last time. There he was, the love of her life, the red stallion by the train door, wearing those refulgent leather boots and that long, crimson-trimmed brown uniform, wet with tears at the top. His saber hung at his side, below the knapsack on his back. He was just so striking… It could have been a portrait fit for any museum’s wall, that scene on the platform.

“Don’t forget what I said about the sunrise!” he called to her over the chatter and excitement of the other Kalmuks and their relatives.

“Don’t forget that you have a promise to keep!” she shouted back.

Leonid blew her a kiss, and she returned it. Then he disappeared through the train door, followed by a line of other Kalmuks in identical uniforms with fewer decorations, and finally the commissar. After ten minutes, the train departed. Nastenka had been there waiting, and she continued to wait, watching the train as it gradually picked up speed, chugging off into the distance, leaving a trail of black smoke behind it. And only when it finally disappeared on the horizon did Nastenka step off the now nearly empty Saddel’naya platform.

Nastenka pulled the purple platok that was hanging around her neck back over her head as she walked from the train station, passing the telegraph exchange and the small store at the crossroads, to the troika that had been waiting for her since they arrived at Saddel’naya. Shivering from the last remnants of the winter cold, she climbed in, and the three ponies in front took off, bringing Nastenka along the bleak dirt road back to Collective 23, where she would begin the long wait for Leonid’s return.

A month later, the Crystal Empire attacked, and Soviet Euqestria saw the beginning of its struggle to solidify independence. In the evenings, Nastenka would gather with the other residents of the farm and sit by the one radio on the property and listen for news from the front. They were lucky – most of the collective farms were not privileged enough to own their own radio and relied on delayed messages from the commissars or the telegraph exchange (if one was close enough). Nastenka would listen as the news came in, and at first all seemed well. During the initial week, the message barely varied from day to day – that the young stalwarts of the SSR valorously defended the two great cities, Maremansk and Foalgograd. But after that first week, the announcer said nothing about Foalgograd, other than that the Yakutian ponies were coming in to aid the Kalmuks in the defense. Then, after the third week, the announcer only talked about the glorious victories outside of Maremansk and never said anything about Foalgograd. It was not until well into the second month of the war that the news of the fall of Foalgograd was finally publicized. It was never explicitly stated, but when the ponies of the SSR were informed of the movements to free their comrades in an occupied Foalgograd, they all pieced together what had happened.

That was when the dreams began – when Nastenka learned of the occupation of Foalgograd. Every night, she would see in her nightmares the scene at the Saddel’naya railway station as it happened the day Leonid left. She would leave the troika, walk to the platform, receive Leonid’s promise, and bid him farewell as he boarded the train. But rather than walk back to the troika after the train was out of sight, she would watch the train leave and turn around to find herself in the middle of Foalgograd as it burned in a sea of fire and smoke. And all around her, she stared helplessly as the Kalmuks were skewered and stabbed with crystal spears.

She would wake up crying every time. In one dream, she swore she saw Leonid among the dead and screamed so loud when she woke that half of the other residents on the farm jumped out of bed and ran over to see what was wrong. And after she woke up, she usually could not sleep again for the remainder of the night. So she would wait for the sunrise and peer out the window into the golden rays of the morning light, looking for Leonid in the sunshine as he said she could. But Nastenka never saw him.

Eventually, the radio broke, and then the farm was without the news reports. To Nastenka, it didn’t matter. After all, the ponies of the SSR never really knew the truth. The Party controlled the broadcasting stations, and everypony heard only what the Party saw fit for them to hear. So she didn’t need that. She knew that life would not be the same until her beloved Leonid came back to Collective 23.

And on the day that saw the beginning of our story, that was all that Nastenka could do. Wait, as she had for so many days, for Leonid to return. And her old friend Sergei Reinov could do little to nothing to help her, no matter how sincerely he tried.

“The most important thing is to remain hopeful,” Sergei stated, breaking the long silence. “So long as a pony doesn’t lose hope… You know, it’s the one thing that can’t be taken away. That’s something you don’t understand, devushka.” He pointed right at Nastenka with the tip of his hoof. “As long as you have hope, you still have something for which to live. If you have hope, there is a reason to wake in the morning and a reason to dream of a better tomorrow when you sleep at night.”

“I had hope when I could still receive his letters and telegrams,” Nastenka sighed, resting her head in her hooves on the table’s rough surface. “But of course that went by the wayside once they found the spies in Maremansk, and then communication with the military was completely forbidden. I haven’t heard anything from him in six months.”

“You know the way things are. Everyone needs to be sure that information doesn’t leak out, and that nothing falls in the wrong hands.”

“Fine. But then you can’t also expect me to have hope,” Nastenka spat. She opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by Vika and Ella, who popped their heads up on either side of the table.

“Comrade Trotova! Comrade Reinov! The commissar is here!” shouted Ella with a grin. Nastenka and Sergei laughed and stood up.

“Alright, girls,” Nastenka said, “Let’s go to the gates. We’ll help them load the grains and the vegetables.”

“We don’t need to do that today!” Vika chirped. “Commissar Stirrupskiy said that he doesn’t need to take anything. But he wanted us to help bring everyone to the gates because he has really important news!”

“I wanted to tell them that part!” Ella shrieked, jumping on her sister and tugging at her sarafan.

Sergei and Nastenka were beside themselves. They stared at Vika and Ella as they tussled on the ground, and then at one another.

“Stirrupskiy doesn’t want anything?” Sergei stuttered, turning and looking toward the farm gates, where the ponies of Collective 23 were starting to gather. “That could mean…”

Nastenka and Sergei bolted for the front of the farm with the two young fillies in close pursuit. They knew that there could be only one good reason why the commissar and his team did not come to fill the quotas, unless it was some kind of joke. They charged past the barns and the little houses, their hearts pounding in their chests. Other ponies were coming in behind them, all bound for the group that had amassed at the humble gates of Collective 23. Unsurprisingly, the farmers were not loading the wagons and troikas with the sacks and crates of grain and vegetables, as would have normally happened. And when Sergei, Nastenka, and the two fillies got close enough, they saw the familiar face that appeared at the gates every couple of weeks.

There was the commissar, Andrei Stirrupskiy, sporting his signature grey overcoat, matching visor, and those tall black boots that reflected the afternoon sunlight. Two young soldiers - pegasi dressed in green Yakutian parade coats - stood at his sides as he waited for the farmers to gather around him, surveying the crowd with his ever-vigilant stare. Everyone in the region knew him. He was everypony’s friend, but at the same time he was someone everypony feared. Though anypony on Collective 23 could tell you that Stirrpuskiy was better than the others.

“My comrades,” Stirrupskiy announced as Nastenka and Sergei joined the crowd, which grew silent before the voice of authority, “Today I come to you not with empty wagons, but with a momentous report that will not soon be forgotten.” Stirrupskiy paused and looked about him, at each and every pony at the farm gates, at the barns, the banners, and the serene country scenes of field and plains in the distance. He was beaming; he lived for these moments where he held the very emotions of the people in his hooves. He could fill them with joy, or he could reduce them to tears, and in the infant SSR, such an ability was power. It was unnervingly quiet. It seemed that even the birds and the wind were holding their breath so as not to miss the commissar’s message.

“As I’ve said,” he continued, “nothing will be taken from the farm today. Instead, for you, I bear glorious news. The maps are being redrawn as we speak. Every cartographer from the cities of our motherland to the halls of Canterlot castle has been put to work, for every map in Equestria has been rendered inaccurate.” The farmers began to whisper amongst themselves. Stirrupskiy began to pace, adjusting his visor as he went. “And why, comrades? There are new lines to be drawn. There is a new republic of which to speak, one that struggled for so long under tyranny to manifest itself on the face of Equestria. Comrades – our combined work and sacrifice have finally reaped their reward. We’ve won. The war is over, and the Motherland has broken free of the Crystalline Menace!”

The ponies reared and exploded in cheers and whinnies. This was the news for which everypony had waited for over a year. This was the end that the Party promised, the happy ending that everypony thought nearly impossible. But finally, the ends had justified the means, the threat from the crystal dogs seemed to have vanished into thin air, and the time of the quotas had finally passed.

Nastenka’s eyes grew wide as she stood there, barely breathing as the ponies around her cavorted and laughed. Sergei had just finished his jaded discourse on hope as he had done on so many countless occasions, and Nastenka had again discounted everything. But today it seemed like he had been right all along. Stirrupskiy, through his words alone, had taken her misery and beat it into submission.

The commissar went on to tell the ponies of Collective 23 that they were learning the news rather late. The victory had actually been declared nearly a week earlier. But the rounds had finally brought him to Collective 23, where he was able to spread the news, announce that the soldiers would soon be coming back home, and deliver the official documentation from the komitet that ended the wartime quotas and re-instituted production regulation from the previous year. Everyone was ecstatic. It seemed that in a mere instant, from the breath of a single messenger, the fear and doubt that had plagued the collective farmers suddenly became blissful celebration. The ponies of the farm were already beginning to talk of the festivities that were to be planned to celebrate the war’s end. Nopony could believe that the day had come, but there it was – they were living it.

Once the documentation was delivered, the excited farmers all gathered together to read the new stipulations. It was the first time that all the ponies on the farm were enthusiastic about receiving mandates from the city. Stirrupskiy got their attention one last time and bid them farewell, again commending them for their labour over the course of the year. Adjusting the red lapels of his coat, Stirrupsky turned and walked to the supply wagon and troika that had dropped him off, the two soldiers at his flanks. The commissar had one hoof on the step of the troika when he heard from behind,

“Excuse me. Comrade Stirrupskiy.” The commissar turned to find a violet mare with an animated gaze looking back at him.

“Let me think for a moment here.” Stirrupskiy looked thoughtfully at Nastenka and closed his eyes. The two soldiers at his sides stood and watch her. “Trotova. You’re Nastenka Trotova, yes?”

“That’s right.” She smiled.

“See there, I didn’t forget. People tell me I’m rather good at remembering faces. But it comes with this line of work. Do you need something, comrade?” Stirrupskiy said.

Nastenka thought for a few seconds, staring at the troika, and then at the ground by her hooves. “Do you have a few minutes? To talk? You said the soldiers from the region would be coming home soon. I have a few questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Stirrupskiy closed his eyes and thought for a moment, looked at the two soldiers, shrugged, and said, “We’ve got time. I’ll spend a few moments with comrade Trotova.” The two pegasi nodded and climbed into the troika. The commissar motioned for Nastenka to follow as he began walking down the unpaved road. She joined him.

“It is an amazing time in which we live, comrade Trotova,” Stirrupskiy commented as they moved onward. “We’re lucky to have lived to see such momentous days. We’ve brought a new society to the face of Equestria. We’ve squashed the Crystalline Menace. We can return to our lives as we knew them. But all the same, we’re for the very first time arriving to new lives that come from the new society.” Stirrupskiy stopped in the road, staring off into the distance where the few trees in the distance clawed into the blue sky above. Nastenka stopped a few steps in front. “But you know this already, comrade. It is an axiomatic truth. What are your questions?”

“My husband had been fighting in Foalgograd, Comrade Stirrupskiy,” Nastenka began. She turned to face the commissar.

“And the Motherland is eternally indebted to him and his compatriots who liberated the great city,” Stirrupskiy stated.

“So today we learned that the war has ended. But it ended days ago. Do you know when the soldiers will come back?” Nastenka asked. Stirrupskiy was silent for a moment. He was still staring intently at the trees in the distance as his lips twisted into a small half-smile.

“I might. It depends. With what district was he fighting?”

“The Kalmuk Military District. 2nd Brigade.” Stirrpuskiy’s brown eyes went wide as he slowly turned to Nastenka.

“The 2nd? With the Kalmuks? They were the ones defending from the very beginning. Right behind the 3rd and 4th when the Imperials struck Foalgograd. From what I heard, the defense was ferocious. You know, comrade, the Council of Ministers has already named the first five battalions heroes of our republic. You should be extremely proud.” For a moment, the commissar was lost in thought. He said nothing more.

“When are they coming back?” Nastenka asked again. Stirrupskiy turned back to the horizon.

“All soldiers will first be making their way to Stalliongrad. There, they will receive their decorations at the victory celebration.”

“And after that?”

“They will be stationed in Stalliongrad, either at the barracks or the Academy. They’ll remain there until preparations and schedules have been completed and approved for their return home.”

“And how long will that take?” Stirrupskiy dropped his head, brought his right front hoof up, and planted it again.

“I don’t know.”

Nastenka wasn’t sure if that was the honest truth or if Stirrupskiy simply wouldn’t release the information. Either way, it didn’t answer the question. She scraped at the dirt road with her hoof as she wondered how long she might still have to wait. Just when it seemed that all the uncertainty had ended, it showed itself again from the mouth of the pony that had just made it disappear minutes ago.

It couldn’t be more than a couple of weeks, Nastenka thought. It can’t be any lengthy amount of time. If the war ended days ago, then they’re probably already on their way to Stalliongrad.

Her ears perked up as a new idea popped into her head.

“If the war ended days ago, then they’re probably already on their way to Stalliongrad!” she gasped and turned to Stirrpuskiy. “Right? Am I right? Have they already set off for Stalliongrad?”

“They have,” Stirrupskiy answered. “In fact, I’d wager that those soldiers coming from Maremansk have already arrived. They were so much closer than their comrades up north in Foalgograd, and the railroad system in Maremansk was also in far better condition.”

“Then my Leonid must already be with the rest of the Kalmuks on one of their trains!” Nastenka chirped, getting steadily more excited.

“They must certainly be on board the trains now, because the victory celebrations are being held the day after tomorrow,” Stirrupskiy continued. “The schedules were coordinated such that the soldiers wouldn’t miss the speech in the square and the ensuing ceremony and festivities. After all, they deserve such a welcome more than anyone else.” Stirrupskiy’s half-smile returned as Nastenka’s face beamed with delight.

“Do you know that for a fact? That sometime between tomorrow and the morning after, they’ll all arrive in Stalliongrad?” Nastenka asked.

“Of course I do. I’ve seen the timetables. Our group will be heading to Saddel’naya once these rounds are finished. We’ll be taking a train to Stalliongrad as well. As you can guess, we have business to tend to before the formalities begin.”

Stirrupskiy could tell that although Nastenka had fallen quiet, she was struggling to say something. Something was there, on the tip of her tongue, and she was bursting at the seams, but at the same time she just couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.

“You have another question, comrade?” he asked, his eyes locked with her own. Stirrupskiy’s stare was intimidating. It was the same stare he gave to the accused spies, the deserters, and the dissidents. He didn’t purposefully subject her to the stare, most probably; he was unaware of how intimidating he sometimes could be. Nastenka took a few deep breaths. She swallowed, and she asked,

“Could you take me to Saddel’naya? Can I come with you to Stalliongrad?”

Stirrupskiy hadn’t expected that question. He blinked once, then twice, and then turned to the troika and the wagon of supplies away from which they had walked.

“You… want to ride along with us?” Stirrupskiy questioned.

“Please. I need to see my Leonid and I can’t wait any longer. And right now I don’t have any other way to get to Saddel’naya quickly enough to catch whatever train you’re going to take,” Nastenka begged, pacing back and forth before the commissar. “Comrade. You don’t understand how miserable the past year has been. I see him in my dreams every night. And please, do not accuse me of being blind to the misfortune of other ponies, because I know that there are others that have been waiting as I have. And there are others that are worse off, like the ponies in Foalgograd that were starved and tormented for over a year. I understand that. But comrade, I don’t know how much longer I can continue to wait. I want to see him with my own eyes to know that he’s alive and well. I can’t just live on hope and wishes.”

Stirrupskiy stared intently at the troika, pawing at the ground with his front right.

“I don’t know what the regional commission would do if they found out that we took someone along with us. We’re never to stray from expected protocol,” Stirrupskiy mumbled with a grave expression. Nastenka’s ears drooped and the sparkle in her eye began to fade.

“Then again,” Stirrupskiy continued with a smile, causing Nastenka’s ears to perk back up, “if we manage to keep a little secret, we won’t run into any problems.” The commissar turned to face the violet pony again, whose eyes had grown wide and bright. “Here’s what I can do, comrade. After we finish our rounds, we’ll make a very short stop back here to pick you up. You can ride with us in the troika until we’re within range of Saddel’naya, and then you’ll have to get out and walk so you’re not seen riding with our cavalcade, just in case any of the higher-ups are watching. You’ll not be able to ride in our cars, but this train won’t be crowded, so you’ll more than likely be able to purchase a spot among the regular cars or the sleeper cars.”

Nastenka was just inches away from shedding tears of unbridled joy. She threw her forelimbs around Stirrupskiy’s neck, thanking him again and again.

“Think nothing of it, comrade,” Stirrupskiy laughed as Nastenka dropped back to all fours. “I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine. Unfortunately, we’ve got to go and finish the rounds. There are a few other farms in the region that still haven’t learned that wartime is over.”

“Then don’t let me delay their news further. I feel like I’ve already been talking for too long,” Nastenka told the commissar as they turned and walked toward the troika. “But when should I meet you at the gates?”

“By the time we’re finished, I’ll say… in two hours. In two hours we’ll be back at your farm.”

“Two hours. Right. And I won’t be a minute late.” Nastenka started to trot off, then stopped and turned in the middle of the road. “And thank you again. For your leniency since the beginning of the war, for today… for everything.”  Then she ran across the road and through the gates of Collective 23.

“So what happened?” one of the Yakutian ponies asked the commissar when he climbed into the troika. Stirrupskiy turned and watched Nastenka as she disappeared behind the front barns.

“Well, comrades, it looks like we’ll have an extra passenger for the ride to Saddel’naya.” The Yakut eyed Stirrupskiy suspiciously.

“We’re… taking her to ‘court,’ you mean?”

“Ahah, of course not!” Stirrupskiy laughed, “She just wants to catch our train to Stalliongrad.”

“For what?” asked the other Yakut.

“Well, let’s just say that she’s going to Stalliongrad in search of something very dear to her.” He paused, leaning back in his seat. Under his breath, he added, “And I sincerely hope she finds what she’s looking for.” The two Yakuts looked at one another in silence.

“Alright, comrades,” Stirrupskiy called to the three ponies at the front of the troika. “Let’s get going. But when we’re done, we need to stop back here before we leave for Saddel’naya. And remember… she was never with us in this troika. Understood?” With that, the troika was pulled down the long, empty road as the supply wagon rolled along behind them.

Meanwhile, the farmers had already started preparing for the night’s festivities. Smoke rose from the chimneys of each little house by the barns as food was prepared plentifully for the first time in over a year. The tables in the center yard were already covered by the old, stained tablecloths that had been dragged out of the drawers and cupboards. The samovars, some polished brilliantly, the others brown with age, were being brought out into the yard as Nastenka raced past the ponies that were carrying them. It was as if the whole farm had been brought back to life, and the crimson banners that blew in the afternoon breeze acted as the blood that flowed through its very veins.

Nastenka approached the small, wooden building that she had called home for so many years of her life. She bolted through the door to her humble house and with her teeth pulled open the drawer to the cabinet in her sitting room. From this drawer she took an old rucksack that hadn’t seen the light of day in a very long time.

“I’ll be on my way soon, Leonid,” Nastenka said to the empty room.

She then charged into her bedroom, the second of the three rooms in her tiny home, and threw the rucksack on the ottoman by the door. The floorboards creaked beneath her as she walked about, taking her passport, some money, two changes of clothes, and a few spare platoki. Nastenka then threw these provisions in the bag. She grabbed a fourth platok and draped it over her head. Then she took the rucksack in her teeth and charged into the kitchen.

She dropped the sack on her small table. “Perhaps Sergei was right,” she mumbled, grabbing the two apples she had hidden under a floorboard, “Perhaps if I’d have just been more hopeful, this day would have come much faster. But it doesn’t matter now, Leonid. I’m coming to Stalliongrad.” She threw the apples into the bag and threw it over her back as she pulled the drawstring with her teeth. She hurried out into the sitting room again and threw the rucksack on the old blue divan, and then turned to face the front door to find that she had left it wide open. But on the other side of the frame she saw a white unicorn in his kosovorotka of the same color.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Since I saw you running through the yard.” Sergei stated. “Can I come in?” Nastenka nodded and the unicorn stepped through the weathered door frame. “You were out there talking to Stirrupskiy for a long while, devushka. Is everything alright?”

“For once, Sergei, everything is alright.” Nastenka said with satisfaction. The white unicorn was eying the rucksack on the divan.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“I’m going to Stalliongrad,” Nastenka said with a smile. “The commissar agreed to take me to the train station. I’m going to see my Leonid.” Sergei wasn’t sure how he felt when he heard that. He raised an eyebrow and didn’t know whether to stare at the violet earth pony before him or at the rucksack. From the doorway, festive discussion from the central yard began leaking into Nastenka’s home.

“You’re just going to make the trip to Stalliongrad?” Sergei questioned. “But why? Stirrupskiy said that everyone would be back home soon enough.”

“Because soon enough isn’t soon enough for me.” Nastenka said with a scowl. “I don’t care what you think, Sergei. Whether you think I’m wasting stipend money on a train ticket or wasting my time... I don't care what you think I’m doing.” Nastenka plopped on the divan next to the rucksack. She looked at the faded, stained rug on the floor, the glass lamps on the small tables, and the boards that made up the walls and ceiling, some crooked, some rough, some smooth. “You’ll never understand how I feel.”

“And why is that?” Sergei inquired, taking the last empty space on the cushion of the old divan.

“Look at this house, Sergei.” She gestured to the rug and the lamps and the ceiling boards. “What do I have other than my Leonid? This house is tiny, but without Leonid… It is too large for one pony.”

The commotion outside was louder now. More ponies had gathered in the central yard. Sergei and Nastenka could hear all the fillies and colts laughing now, and somewhere in the midst of all the noise was the distinct plucking of balalaika strings.

“You’ve seen the great cities,” she told Sergei, getting up off the divan and leaving Sergei sitting by himself. “You chose to come out here of your own accord in the midst of the Crystallization. A trip to Stalliongrad is like a chore for you. But I’ve lived a different life, comrade. Collective 23 has been my home since the day I was born.” Nastenka was at the window now, looking at the crowd in the yard through the dirty, weathered glass. It was starting to get dark now. “My father took me to Stalliongrad once, when I was just a filly.” She put a hoof up to the glass and turned to Sergei, who was watching her with a downtrodden expression. “It was so beautiful. I didn’t ever want to leave. You know why. When you’re there, in the squares and the gardens, in the courtyards, and before the old monuments, you feel as if you're at the very center of everything.”

“It’s true,” Sergei mumbled, looking at the patterns in the old rug.

“But now my everything is there, Sergei. Because Leonid is on a train bound for Stalliongrad as we speak, and soon he’ll be there. And Leonid is my everything.”

Sergei lifted his head to find Nastenka’s bright eyes right before him. The violet mare in the red platok seemed so happy, but at the same time she seemed as miserable as she had been over the course of the last five or six months.

“If ever I had a reason to return to the city, this is that reason, even if I’ll only be there for a day or two,” Nastenka said. “Perhaps if you had married, Sergei, you’d understand how I feel.” The white unicorn stared at her and smirked.

“Perhaps I would,” he laughed, rising from the divan. “I’m not going to say anything one way or the other, devushka. What authority do I have here?” Music began to float in from the yard, and Sergei turned and looked out through the open door. “When are they coming to get you?”

“When I left Stirrupskiy at the gates, he said he’d be back in two hours.”

“You’ve still got some time, Nastenka,” Sergei said. “You should join everyone outside for a little while before you leave.” He looked back at Nastenka. “After all, comrade, it is a day of celebration.”

“I’ll meet you in the yard in five minutes,” Nastenka said after a brief pause. The unicorn nodded and stepped through the door frame. “But Sergei,” she called, making him stop and turn. “Just know that, had you not taken the time to sit and talk with me over these last few months… I’m not sure I’d have made it until now.” Sergei Reinov smiled. “Thank you.”

“A pony does what he can, comrade,” he responded, then adding with a snicker, “Shame that I’ll be useless once Leonid comes back.”

So Sergei trotted off toward the voices and music as Nastenka sat back down on the divan, watching the revelry through the old windows that blurred the view of the other side. There it was, the air of gaiety that filled every inch of the farm, a hallmark of the day that marked the war’s end – a day that seemed to never draw any closer. But Nastenka, Sergei, Vika, Ella, Vasya, and each and every other pony on Collective 23 were living it, along with their comrades on the other farms, in the tiny villages, and in the great cities of Equusia, the new republic that emerged from the ashes of an oppressed territory.

And though she was alone in her tiny home, far away from the trains bound for the city that saw the revolution, and though Leonid had no conceivable way of hearing her, Nastenka took a long, deep breath, and said to her husband,

“It won’t be much longer now. I’ll meet you in Stalliongrad.”