Chapter 956: Chapter 12 “Rising from the Ruins

November 23rd, early morning, Skana Village, 49 kilometers from the center of Plowsonia.

Filippov got up early. After washing up, he sat at the desk to have breakfast.

At this moment, he suddenly noticed the landlord’s daughter peeking through the door crack.

Filippov picked up a pickle and waved it at the little girl: “Want some?”

The girl immediately nodded like a pecking chicken.

Filippov tore a page from his notebook, wrapped a few pickles and a piece of black rye bread, and handed it to the little girl.

The little girl devoured the food ravenously.

Filippov asked, “How long has it been since you last had bread?”

The little girl replied, “Several days.”

At that moment, the little girl’s grandmother pushed the door open. Speaking in Prosenese, she scolded the child a few times, pulled her behind, and then, trembling, apologized to Filippov: “She’s just a child… doesn’t know better…”

Filippov said, “The Church hasn’t arrived yet. When they do, they’ll distribute bread, sausage, and–I don’t know–maybe even canned fish.”

“Will they?” The old woman looked skeptical.

“Of course they will.”

“Aren’t we enemies?” the old woman asked again.

Filippov responded, “Yes, but I heard that three years ago, the Secular faction among the prisoners of war established the Prosen National Church. They are now responsible for managing the occupied areas and will eventually build a secular Prosen nation.”

As soon as he finished speaking, a guard from the regiment came upstairs, saluted Filippov, and said, “Comrade Davarish, the people from the Church have arrived.”

Filippov set down the bread in his hand: “Already? Ma’am, keep all this for yourselves. Let your granddaughter eat as much as she likes.”

With that, he left the room with his men.

While descending the stairs, the guard who delivered the message said, “It’s pitiful. Everywhere, only the elderly and children remain. I thought the child soldiers stationed here were locals, but none of them returned home. Their own children and husbands are guarding other places.”

“Outrageous. Even in our most dire moments, we never did this!”

Filippov looked back and said, “You see, this is what the priests often talk about–the simple, sincere bond among comrades of the same class. Got it?”

The guard asked, “Are you acting like a priest now?”

Filippov replied, “Didn’t I learn this from the Marshal? The Marshal often takes charge of ideological mobilization too.”

As they spoke, he left the house and arrived at the village square. He saw a large group of people dressed in clerical robes, though half of them wore a different style from the ones Filippov was used to seeing.

Two individuals wearing the insignia of bishops saw Filippov and walked over together.

The bishop in a regular clerical robe introduced, “This is Bishop Franz from the Prosen Church.”

Filippov glanced at the insignia on the nearly black clerical robe of the other bishop and read aloud the Prosenese text on it: “Stass?”

The Prosen said, “It’s an abbreviation. The full name is the Prosen People’s Saint Andrew Secular Branch. It’s too long, so we shortened it.

“We have a bad habit of naming things this way. Look at those half-tracks. Their full designations are terrifyingly long, so from researchers to soldiers, everyone just calls them sdkfz.”

Filippov asked, “You… were once a Prosen officer?”

“Yes, but I accepted the truth of Saint Andrew. To be honest, we strongly advocated arming ourselves to join the fight to liberate our capital, but your Marshal said that if we ever fired upon our own people, it would be hard to gain their trust in the future. He refused to let us participate.”

The bishop sounded somewhat regretful.

“We could have personally wiped out those who ruined Prosen!”

Filippov remarked, “You seem a bit like a zealous convert.”

The bishop replied, “Do I? Perhaps it seems that way, but it’s actually because my devotion to the truth of Saint Andrew is so sincere.”

Filippov was about to respond when he heard someone shout from behind: “Papa!”

He turned around and saw the little girl who had just taken his bread and pickles running toward a cleric in black, shouting loudly.

The cleric looked shocked: “Marian! What are you doing here? Where’s your mother?”

The little girl replied, “Mama hid me in the wagon that came here, and then she was taken by the conscriptors! Grandma Flona took me in! I’ve been hungry for days, but that kind soldier over there gave me bread!”

The cleric, holding back his tears, took a piece of chocolate out of his pocket: “Here, have some chocolate.”

“Papa, are you a traitor?” the girl asked.

The cleric said, “No, I’ve returned to save our lost homeland.”

The girl ate the chocolate as she asked, “Will you save Mama too?”

The cleric remained silent.

Filippov said, “As long as your mother lays down her weapons, we won’t shoot at women and children. At least, the Marshal’s Imperial Guard never will.”

The nearby Imperial Guard soldiers, unable to understand Prosenese, looked puzzled.

The cleric carefully picked up the little girl as if holding the whole world in his arms.

Just then, the flashbulb went off.

The magnesium flare startled the girl, who tugged hard at her father’s collar in fear.

Robert Capa spoke in Angsan, “Don’t be afraid, child. When you grow up, you’ll understand the value of this photo.”

Mike, the reporter, stood next to his partner and smiled, “I’ve already thought of a name for this photo–‘Rising from the Ruins,’ the same as the song composed by His Excellency, the Marshal, for the Prosen Church!”

The Stass cleric in front of Filippov, apparently understanding Angsan, said in surprise, “You already know the title of the song? It hasn’t even been officially released yet. We plan to debut it at the central square of Plowsonia after it’s liberated!”

Mike the reporter laughed, “I’m an old friend of the Marshal. I was there when he was composing it.”