Work Text:
A forbidden book goes around the headquarters. Printed in Creta, anonymously, smuggled into the country, bound in pulp-fiction cover, but on the first page title stands with certain pride.
‘Band of Brothers’ it is, phrase so old nobody remembers where it came from. A mocking title, and incorrect one — band of sisters, too, of all of them.
They pass it to their friends: only those they know personally and trust with their past, only seeing it could end in a sentence, and reading and discussing it are more serious crimes.
The war, of course, is not named. Neither are the fighting sides, nor the names, but everybody who was there knows immediately what the book is about: it’s them. Archetypes, not persons, so every soldier can find themselves.
A sniper. Almost always it’s a beautiful woman, one of many beauties, killing kids she could give birth to. Author marks their fates, he knows how these women will end — some empty-eyes mothers, some secretaries, some will become pretty corpses on a metal table. Some of them already did.
An officer. Following orders, never openly questioning them, but asking all these questions now, after so many years, caught in the net of peaceful life. Some are parents. Some will never be.
A soldier. Even more blind, but happy enough to stay alive, carrying the guilt of not saving those they could not save, never answering to their families’ questions. They hide in their ignorance, how could they know? They could not, of course, but they still are guilty — they feel guilty, at least.
An alchemist. They ended this unnamed war, it’s true, but by the law of equivalent exchange they paid for this peace with their own. Restless, sleepless, unable to reach out for help, they brought it on themselves, it is their fault, and if they do not feel it, then they aren’t worth your time. Never trust an alchemist without a tragedy; all decent ones have horrible past.
A deserter. In a situation of order leaving them no choice they made one — they didn’t follow their order. It was cowardice, of course, but wasn’t it the bravest of all choices? Not to participate. To at least try not to kill, although all the saved ones will be killed today. It’s a shame no one can see their bravery, even they themselves can not, but the time is yet to come.
A doctor. They made no difference between the sides, they had it coming, they will be remembered forever for this, they are ones worthy of medals, but nobody cared to visit their graves to give them one.
Every reader guesses who was the prototype. Some are easy to crack, some are so common nobody can name a single name for it; some readers try to guess the author, but never share their guesses. Imposing death sentence on one of them is something their 'brotherhood’ does not allow, and the author is certainly somebody they should know — how else would the songs they sang be quoted?
The book passes author more than one time on its way; when one of bookkeepers is transferred, it goes around the country, and it’s read so many times it almost falls apart. Readers who cry while reading are not uncommon; readers who throw it to the wall in anger are not a rarity too.
Somebody of alchemists described repairs it; somebody barely manages not to set it on fire; gun oil, tears, jelly, tea, the Book, how it is named now, is claimed to be a book of generation — the voice of the voiceless, those who need to scream out but are not allowed to even whisper. Copies are made, and the titles on the covers are all different now.
It never truly ends its journey. Those who were children and now are all grown-ups read it, trying to guess there is their father. Some find their mother there, some find their teacher, their neighbor. The author’s child doesn’t dare to ask, and the secret vanishes, but the Book does not.
And finally the day comes, when the last ones who were in this war are dead, and nobody is there to guess the names. The generation is lost, but the memory of what shaped it is not; the Book is printed legally, the books about the Book are too. Secrets about that war are revealed, names are guessed correctly, and new generation of alchemists, of snipers, of deserters devours the Book just as hungrily as their predecessors did, but they cannot be perfect, and one day a new Book will be written about them too.
Life goes on; Book goes on; lesson is never learned. But was that the point?