The Shame of The Red Army

In the poem, Prussian Nights, Alexander Solzhenitsyn described what he saw in the east Prussian town of Neidenburg in 1945:


" Twenty-two Hoeringstrasse. It's not been burned, just looted, rifled. A moaning by the walls, half muffled: the mother's wounded, half alive. The little daughter's on the mattress, dead. How many have been on it? A platoon, a company perhaps? A girl's been turned into a woman, a woman turned into a corpse...

The mother begs, ‘Soldier, kill me!’ ".



This is a poem I wrote about this scene ;


Liberation Day


Here comes our liberation, laughs an old lady,
for she has seen it all before,
The dark shadows in her eyes, are the flickers of a memory,
looping like old film on a silver screen,
Replaying the howl of gilded lies,
loping from the crimson East, slow and cruel,
tanks beneath a burning sky,
Troops with rusted cocks and oiled rifles,
'Women are Mens prey', they say,
She curses them as they swagger past,
until one points a finger, pulls a trigger,
then she falls, stifling his shame
with a silent denunciation,
that is crushed beneath his passing wheels.



Here the hallowed agents of heroic slaughter,
Hunt down the carnal booty of flesh,
That were once human beings, wives and mothers,
foraging for the fruits of war, widows and orphans
Who fester in dark and filthy cellars,
Hiding from the beatings and kisses,
Of Soviet freedom that seeks to plant its seed,
In their nations tortured earth,
and pollute the future with their deeds.




They raise the flags above the grave,
slavering from house to house,
from room to room, from womb to womb,
A pack of Red Star wolves, savages
unleashed from the frozen steppes,
skirring the streets for prey,
gather like crows upon the corpse,
of a famished child, her body broken,
by the sheer weight of their desires,
she lays crucified upon a sodden mattress,
soiled by a dozen wilting nails,
a muffling rag still in her mouth,
ravaged then abandoned upon a madmans street.




Upon this rutted ground, rocket torn,
which old men call the past, medal poised
And bomb scarred, that fools define
As the brutal midwife of victory,
Hope lays cheated, her heart broken,
By all the horrors she has seen, sitting amidst,
The ecstacy of spent bullet cases,
and naked weeping women.