The journey east felt endless — snow stretching to the horizon, villages swallowed in silence, the train’s brass pistons hammering like a war drum. And then, suddenly, it was there before us: Moscow, the greatest prize of the East.
It is no longer a Russian city. It is ours — the Reich’s eastern capital. The Kremlin has been remade into a fortress of iron and light, its onion domes crowned with copper conduits that pulse like veins in a living machine. From its towers rise zeppelin masts, proud and unyielding, where our airships drift above the city like sentinels of victory. Their floodlights sweep across Red Square, reminding all who enter: Germany rules here.
The square itself is magnificent. Once a place of Bolshevik parades, it is now enclosed beneath an iron-and-glass canopy that magnifies the banners of the Reich. I watched as columns of soldiers marched in perfect cadence, automaton patrols beside them, pistons venting steam into the cold air. Boots struck the cobblestones in flawless rhythm, and the sound echoed like destiny fulfilled.
The Lenin Mausoleum has been transformed into something greater: no longer the shrine of a failed ideology, but a chamber of order. A colossal calculating engine now stands there, its gears clicking ceaselessly, tallying the quotas of ore and oil that flow from the Urals into our Reich. It is a monument not to myth, but to progress.
Everywhere I walked, victory resonated. Electric filaments glow along the streets, making the snow shine blue-white, brighter than the weak Russian lamps of old. The Metro, once decadent and wasted, now serves us — its marble halls echo with the hiss of pneumatic carriages carrying officers and messages at speeds the Bolsheviks could only dream of.
The Russians remain, but they are shadows in their own city. They bow, they serve, they obey. Their silence is the proof of our triumph. In cafés, it is Germans who fill the tables, Germans who raise glasses, Germans who command. The people of Moscow look on, subdued, their eyes lowered as they pass beneath our banners.
Tonight, I stand at the Red Square canopy and look up at the Reich’s eagle illuminated above the Kremlin. The snow falls gently, glistening under our lights, and the air hums with the music of engines, the breath of zeppelins, the clatter of gears.
This is what victory feels like. Not chaos, not fleeting triumph, but permanence. The Reich has taken Moscow, and in its iron heart beats the promise of eternity.
