Just Wither Away

Yet Zvyad's ruthless trampling of Soviet sovereignty ignited a fierce backlash among genuine patriots. Though the Red Army veterans who had fought bravely in the Great Patriotic War were aged and worn, they could not stomach the sight of Lenin's bronze statue being toppled on live television. Moved by deep loyalty and pain, they took to the streets to denounce the shameless separatist forces. Among them was Corporal Ivauri, a battle-hardened veteran who had lost an arm at Stalingrad—unafraid even in the face of aggressive youth.

The gray-haired Ivauri stood resolute before the jeering crowd of students, his weathered military uniform hanging proudly despite his injuries. His expression was grave, the sun catching the Red Star pinned on his chest as if to remind all of sacrifices made decades before. He raised his voice, steady and commanding: "Stop, children. Look at what you are doing!"

Stepping forward, his empty sleeve fluttered in the cold wind, a silent testament to comrades lost and wounds endured. In his mind's eye, he was once again on the frozen battlefields of '42, clutching his PPSh submachine gun against the Nazi onslaught, the bitter cold biting his face and the smoke of war thick in his lungs.

But the students, fueled by youthful arrogance, paid him no heed. The lead agitator sneered, "Get lost, old man. What could you possibly threaten us with?" He raised a middle finger in blatant disrespect. "You know nothing. We're saving this country from Soviet beasts. Stand against us and you're a traitor."

The word "traitor" struck like a blow. Ivauri's veins bulged as rage surged through him. Clenching his right hand around his empty sleeve, he approached the taller youth with fiery eyes. "When you were not even born, I bled for this land! I lost my arm fighting in 1942. Our generation shed blood so you could live in peace, yet you ignorant children want to tear down all we fought for!"

"You can call me an old man, a cripple, even a loser—but never a traitor. I love this country with all my heart."

His voice cracked, eyes moist with memory. The smoke and roar of long-past battlefields flooded back—he remembered the political commissar beside him during a brief ceasefire, whose hopeful eyes gleamed beneath wire-rimmed glasses. "My greatest wish," the commissar had said softly, "is that our children never know war. That they grow up in peace, contributing to society. For that future, I'd give everything."

Ivauri recalled the commissar's final moments, struck down leading a charge, his lips curling into a serene smile before closing forever. The words echoed still, far from communist slogans, simple and pure.

"Political Commissar, you said it was for the children's future. But see what these children are doing. They're destroying everything we built."

He wiped his tears with a grimy hand, the corners of his mouth twitching in sorrow.

The student leader's eyes flickered with a new idea upon seeing the Red Star. "A former Red Army soldier," he mused silently. Just as he moved to bypass Ivauri, he halted, then whispered a command. The noisy crowd quieted.

Turning back, he pointed sharply at the veteran. "Comrades! This man is a slave of the brutal Soviet dictatorship! A lackey who's licked the Communist Party's boots for decades! Such people block our path to Georgian democracy and progress. We cannot let them stand in our way."

"Down with the Soviet running dogs!" the students roared in unison, unleashing insults on the frail old man, ignoring his age and sacrifices.

"Yes! Down with the running dogs! Long live the Georgian Democratic Front!" the leader bellowed again. Nearby, a student grabbed a bottle of milk and advanced toward Ivauri.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ivauri snarled, yearning to strike but restrained by years of military discipline.

Without a word, the student poured the milk over Ivauri's head. The white liquid ran down his hat, soaking the proud Red Star, seeping through his uniform, and trailing down his tear-filled eyes—washing over a heart heavy with betrayal.

The student made a victorious gesture to the crowd—but then a sudden blow struck his face. Ivauri, fueled by raw anger, lunged forward like a wounded lion. The startled youths pushed him back, overpowering the weakened veteran.

Ivauri fell hard, a medal sliding from his chest into the muddy street, its gleam dulled by dirt and dust. The leader wiped blood from his nose, stepped on Ivauri's chest, and spat venomously, "Get lost, old man. You're no match for us. What right do you have to speak here, you running dog?"

Defiant, Ivauri's eyes locked with his tormentor's. Feeling for the missing medal, he staggered to his feet, searching for the fading honor of his youth.

But the merciless student kicked the Red Star medal into a grimy roadside ditch, where it sank beneath puddles and filth.

"Lackeys like you should know your place," he sneered, motioning to move on without another glance.

As the crowd surged forward, some passerby shook their heads in sorrow, others sneered or spat on the fallen hero.

All had forgotten the years of war. Ivauri's company had perished defending their country, their blood and banners sacrificed for peace—only to be met with destruction and disgrace.

"Captain, Commissar... forgive us," Ivauri whispered, wiping tears with dirty hands, his face streaked like the dust-covered youth he once was.

On that day, the street bore witness to a solitary figure in a faded military uniform, slumped and weeping—an old soldier's final surrender to a world that had forgotten the price of freedom.