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Post by Jan Woytak on Jul 4, 2016 4:53:17 GMT
Located about 7km south of the city centre, this surprisingly well-kept military cemetery was established after the war for Red Army officers. Flanked by imposing twin T-34 tanks at all three entrance gates, the cemetery numbers some 2,000 graves (of an estimated 6,000 Soviet casualties), including several large monuments and the graves of six 'Heroes of the Soviet Union,' including an imposing mausoleum for the "Triple Hero" of the Soviet Air Force who was shot down near Wroclaw during the battle for the city, then called Festung Breslau. The graves are cared for by the Polish Boy Scouts.   |
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Post by Jan Woytak on Jul 4, 2016 5:07:59 GMT
New Scene
It is good, of course, to celebrate the Vaulderie with with one's pack. But the ritual always made Jan think of the unbroken, undying bonds he still had for the Cainites in his previous pack. Most of them, and the pack itself, had died a fiery death in an unheralded skirmish years ago, but Jan's bonds to them remained and at times like this, when he had reaffirmed his loyalty to his current pack, it left him feeling a little... disloyal. And so tonight Jan ventured out of Fabryczna without any packmates, riding his motorcycle into the South end of town. His packmates had been cremated, it was true, and there were no graves for them, but there was a place nearby which honored Russian heroes who had fallen fighting the fascists, and that seemed close enough to Jan.
He parked nearby and slipped over the gate, past the T-34 tanks which stand sentry over the honored dead. It was pitch black inside, and Jan had to use the power of the blood to see in the dark, his eyes glowing balefully in the night. He made his way through the cemetery to the mausoleum near its center, close enough, he thought. He pulled a fifth of cheap Polish vodka from a pocket and poured it as a libation onto the dry ground in front of the plaque. Then he stood for some time in the dark, thinking of fallen friends and comrades. Finally he pulled the twisted silver knife from his pocket, cut the flesh of his wrist, and stood dripping vitae onto the pool of vodka he had made, while he spoke for the first time. "Vanya. Sergei. Little Alex. Mikhail. You are gone, and I am still here. Please see that I remain loyal to you and to the battle. I will never forget." He let the wound close, turned, and walked back out of the cemetery to go home. If any ghosts came to feed on the blood and liquor, he never saw them. In the morning, all that was left for the caretaker to find was an empty vodka bottle.
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