I was only nine years old.
I loved Zhukov so much, I had all the medals and orders.
I'd pray to Zhukov every night before I go to bed, thanking for the PPSh-41 I've been given.
"Zhukov is love", I would say, "Zhukov is life".
My dad hears me and calls me a bonapartist.
I knew he was just jealous for my devotion to the Deep Operation Doctrine.
I called him a Cavalry Army cliqueite.
He arrests me and sends me to go to the gulag.
I'm crying now, and my face hurts.
I lay in bed and it's really cold.
A warmth is moving towards me.
I feel something touch me.
It's Georgij Konstantinovitj Zjukov.
I'm so happy.
He whispers in my ear, "If we come to a minefield, our infantry attacks exactly as it were not there".
He grabs me with his powerful Soviet hands, and puts me on my hands and knees.
I spread my troops thin for Zhukov.
He penetrates my defensive lines.
It hurts so much, but I do it for Zhukov.
I can feel the encirclement close as my eyes start to water.
I push against his spearheads.
I want to please Zhukov.
He roars a mighty roar, as his spearheads meet up, closing the encirclement.
My dad walks in.
Zhukov looks him straight in the eye, and says, "And now German generals find it hard to explain away their retreat".
Zhukov leaves through my window.
Zhukov is love. Zhukov is life.