Chapter 570: The Red Flag Falls

December 25, 1991, Moscow.

At 7:00 PM, in a small room for logistics staff in the Kremlin, the television had been on for quite a while.

Valeri Kuzmin sat by the table, the teacup in front of him still emitting a bit of heat.

He had done logistics work in the Kremlin for nearly twenty years, handling equipment maintenance, building repairs, and all sorts of odd jobs.

The others in the room also put down what they were doing and looked at the television screen.

On the screen, Mikhail Gorbachev was sitting in front of the camera.

Kuzmin recognized that face.

Over the past few years, he had seen this president from afar in the corridors many times and had heard countless speeches about reform on television.

Yet today, his expression seemed even more exhausted than usual.

"In view of the situation that has taken shape after the formation of the Commonwealth of Independent States, I am ceasing to perform the duties of President of the Soviet Union."

Kuzmin picked up his teacup, found that the water had already gone somewhat cold, and put it back down.

Ever since the news from Alma-Ata had arrived, he had known what was going to happen tonight.

But upon hearing that familiar country name in the speech, he still couldn’t help raising his head.

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

This name had existed before he was born.

His father had fought in the Patriotic War and always loved talking about things on the battlefield.

When Kuzmin was young, he found him naggy, but as he grew older, he himself grew to love telling those stories to his son.

Later, when he entered the Kremlin to work, his father was exceptionally proud of it.

The old man always said that working in the Kremlin was a decent thing, and whatever one did, one had to be earnest about it.

Thinking of this, Kuzmin glanced at the television again.

Gorbachev was still speaking, his expression very calm.

He explained why he made this decision and also talked about the reforms of the past few years and his hopes for the future.

As Kuzmin listened, he suddenly thought of 1985.

That year Gorbachev had just come to power, and he and his colleagues had discussed this young General Secretary in the cafeteria, everyone feeling that the country might really be able to revitalize itself.

Six years had passed...

The man on television was no longer young, and the content of his speech had turned into a farewell.

Vladimir Arkhipkin, sitting on the other side, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and asked:

"Is it over?"

"Almost."

Kuzmin looked toward the screen.

They listened quietly for a while longer until the president finished his final few words, and then the television broadcast switched away.

No one applauded, and no one expressed an opinion.

The room was dead silent, everyone staring blankly into empty air.

Just moments ago they had been waiting for the president to finish speaking, but once the speech truly ended, everyone suddenly seemed not to know what to do next.

After quite a while like this, a shout came from outside the corridor.

"Valeri! Vladimir! You two, it’s time to change the flag!"

The two of them finally snapped back to their senses.

Arkhipkin stood up by supporting himself against the edge of the table, and Kuzmin silently picked up the coat draped over the back of his chair.

That’s right.

It was time to change the flag.

Someone had to go and take it down.

...

The task was explained very simply.

The Soviet Union flag on the dome of the Senate Building was to be replaced with the Russian tricolor flag.

The new flag was being sent from the location of the Russian government, and they were responsible for replacing it.

Kuzmin had changed flags before.

Winter winds in Moscow were strong, and the flag fabric was prone to wear and tear; he was very familiar with the ropes and fasteners of the flagpole.

It was just that in the past, what was replaced were always red flags, but this time what was delivered was a different color.

After the new flag was delivered, they spread it out to check the size and fasteners.

Arkhipkin tested the connecting rings, confirmed there were no problems, and then stood up.

"Let’s go."

Kuzmin took his gloves.

From the duty room to the dome, they still had quite a long way to walk.

The two first walked up the stairs, passed through an attic piled with old lumber and repair tools, and finally arrived in front of a narrow iron ladder.

Above the iron ladder was a small door, and two Kremlin guards were already waiting there.

One of them held a register, had them sign their names respectively, raised his wrist to look at his watch, and recorded the time beside it.

The other pushed open the door for them.

A cold wind mixed with tiny snow grains instantly poured in.

Kuzmin shrank his neck, lowered his head, and walked out, with Arkhipkin following closely behind.

It was sleeting outside.

The sky in Moscow had long since darkened, but the floodlights around the dome were all brightly lit, casting glaring white light onto the damp iron railings and flagpole, making even the snow grains blown by the wind clearly visible.

Kuzmin instinctively narrowed his eyes.

He had worked here for so many years; previously when changing the flag, the external lighting below would usually be turned off for a few minutes in advance, and the staff would complete the operation relying only on portable lamps, making it difficult for people in the distance to see clearly what was happening above.

Yet today, it seemed no one remembered this matter.

Several floodlights remained brightly lit just like that, illuminating both of them and that tall flagpole with utmost clarity.

Kuzmin couldn’t help glancing downward.

Across the red walls of the Kremlin, Red Square looked empty, with only scattered pedestrians beneath the streetlights.

Instead, several groups of reporters were gathered near the city wall.

Those people had set up tripods, with all their cameras aimed in the direction where they were, and occasionally camera flashes could be seen lighting up.

Kuzmin suddenly felt that he and Arkhipkin were practically like two actors standing on a theater stage.

Except that what they wore on their bodies were still their usual work clothes, and what they held in their hands were still those most familiar tools.

"Valeri."

Arkhipkin had already walked over to the flagpole and reached out to check the ropes.

"Come give a hand."

"Coming."

Kuzmin withdrew his gaze, walked over, and grabbed the rope at the other end.

He looked up again.

That red flag was still fluttering loudly in the cold wind, its vibrant fabric illuminated by the lights around the dome.

"Ready?"

asked Arkhipkin.

"Yeah."

Kuzmin gripped the rope tightly.

7:35 PM.

The Soviet Union flag suspended above the Kremlin began to slowly descend.

The wind was very strong, and that red flag kept rolling and flipping in mid-air, the pattern of the sickle and hammer appearing and disappearing.

Controlling the ropes while watching the flag move downward, Kuzmin’s movements were no different from when he had changed the national flag many times in the past.

When the flag descended to a position where it could be caught, Arkhipkin reached out to support a corner to prevent it from being blown by the wind to the edge of the building.

Kuzmin followed over, unfastened the clips, and slowly gathered the flag fabric.

The cloth was huge, and the two of them had to readjust it several times before smoothing it out.

Kuzmin lowered his head to look at the red cloth in his hands.

One could still smell a slight damp odor from being exposed to the wind and snow for a long time, with a few obvious abrasions on the edges.

When looking up at it on ordinary days, it always felt like the red flag floating high above the dome would forever remain that way.

Now that it rested quietly on his arm, it turned out to be much heavier than imagined.

"Fold this side again," Arkhipkin reminded him.

Kuzmin snapped out of it, folded the flag fabric according to the position pointed out by the other person, and then the two of them secured the new tricolor flag onto the halyard.

A few minutes later, the white, blue, and red flag rose along the flagpole and unfurled in the wind of the winter night.

7:45 PM.

The work was done.

Arkhipkin checked the fasteners one last time and reached out to tug on the rope, confirming it was securely fastened.

Kuzmin stood to the side, looking up for a moment.

The dome was still the original dome, and the flagpole was still that same flagpole.

In the past, he worked here every day, and whenever he passed through the square, he would habitually glance upward.

Starting tomorrow, what he would see when looking up should be this tricolor flag.

Arkhipkin had already begun packing up his tools.

"Valeri, let’s go."

"Yeah."

Kuzmin glanced one more time, then picked up the folded red flag and followed his colleague back into the building.

While going downstairs, Arkhipkin mentioned a metal part on the flagpole that needed replacement.

After listening, Kuzmin promised to arrange an inspection and repair after spring arrived.

Back indoors, the two filled out the work record for changing the flag as required, checked the time, and handed the documents over to the person in charge present.

Kuzmin picked up the pen and signed his name.

Afterward, he put down the fountain pen, his gaze falling on the folded red flag beside him.

The red flag fabric lay quietly there; the sickle and hammer that once hung high above the Kremlin were now also folded together into the cloth.

Nearly seventy years ago, that country established by workers and peasants painted the sickle and hammer on its flag, proudly proclaiming its birth to the entire world.

And now, when this country finally reached the end of history, those who personally lowered the final red flag for it were still two ordinary workers.

Born from the hands of the laborers, it ultimately drew its final curtain in the hands of the laborers as well.

Born in greatness, dying in solitude.

This was the magnificent and turbulent life of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.