Communist Chastity: The Paradox of Ivan Stanislav

It may seem contradictory to describe Ivan Stanislav as both prudent and chaste. He was known for his violent outbursts and unpredictable nature. However, at his core, Ivan Stanislav held strong to the ideals of communism.

Every action, thought, and decision was filtered through this ideology, shaping him into the man he was today.

But even with such self-governance and discipline, a man like Ivan Stanislav cannot resist temptation from time to time...

—

“Papa, is Mama going to be okay?”

Sergei walked down the sterile hospital hall with his sons, Ivan and Kliment, by his side. At eleven years old, Ivan was already as tall and nearly as heavy as his father, with his dark hair combed over to the side. Nine-year-old Kliment was much more regularly sized, and clutched his father’s hand tightly, worry etched in his young features.

As they approached a room, Sergei brushed a hand through Ivan’s hair and tried to reassure him with his warm smile. “Mama will be fine, Vanya. It was just a small accident.”

Inside the dimly lit room lay Fanya, Sergei’s graceful and elegant wife and the doting mother of their two young boys. Her once stunning dance career was temporarily put on hold due to a damaging hip injury caused by a random hit-and-run. Despite her pain, she still exuded a grace and beauty that captured everyone’s attention. Her long, dark hair spilled across the pillow in tousled waves, framing her pale face and bright smile. The sparse furnishings of the room seemed to fade away in the presence of her warm radiance.

The boys rushed to her side, Kliment unable to contain his excitement and climbing onto the bed to hug his mother. Ivan stood behind him and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder while Sergei joined them on the other side of the bed and held her hand. All of the males gravitated to the bedrock of their family.

“Are you okay, Mama?” Ivan asked with concern.

Fanya waved it off with a smile, stubborn as always. “Yes, my Ivashechka, just a bump on my hip.”

With their mother resting, Sergei suggested that the boys play in the corner while he spoke to Fanya privately. They didn’t want to leave their mother’s side, but like the good boys they were, they obeyed their father.

Ivan guided Kliment off of his mother, and together they walked across the room. The corner was filled with coloring books of all shapes and sizes, and Kliment eagerly chose one and dove into its vibrant pages.

Quietly, young Ivan pretended to busy himself with his brother, but he covertly watched his mother and father and smiled.

His father whispered something in her ear, and she laughed playfully and blushed and together, Sergei and Fanya shared a tender kiss, pressing their foreheads together in a loving embrace.

Ivan smiled.

The Stanislav family was always overflowing with love. “Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav?” —

Ivan was snapped forward fifty years to the present and blinked his eyes as he looked up from his desk. Arina was standing in the doorway with her head cocked to one side, like a quizzical canine.

“Are you all right?”

As he dragged himself out of his momentary stupor, the massive soldier looked to the left, then to the right, and nodded. “Er, yes, Arina. Of course.” He glanced at his monitor and bit his lip. “Actually, Arina, I could use your help.”

Rare was it for her superior to ask for assistance, but she nodded and approached his desk.

“This new contract with PRIME. Something is wrong. Come, take a look.”

Arina’s heels clicked on the concrete floor as she noticed Ivan’s usual stoic demeanor was replaced with a furrowed brow and intense concentration. Curious, she dragged a chair from across the room to sit beside him, but waited for his silent approval before sitting down.

As she settled into the chair, she saw Ivan’s gaze flick to the electronic bank statement on his monitor. Without hesitation, Arina asked in a calm tone, “What seems to be the problem, Starshy Praporshchik?”

Ivan ran a hand through his short hair and shook his head. “I cannot possibly have that much money. Something is wrong.”

Arina leaned forward, pushing her sandy hair out of her face and adjusting her crisp uniform. “Hm,” she mused aloud before standing abruptly. “Let me find a copy of your new PRIME contract.” She strode over to the file cabinet (Stanislav insisted on hard copies for everything) and quickly retrieved it. Returning to Ivan’s side, she spread it out on his desk and began reading through it, making mental calculations as she went.

Meanwhile, Ivan produced his glasses and perched them on his large head for a closer look. After several minutes of intense review, Arina nodded in understanding as she saw the numbers adding up in Stanislav’s favor. She couldn’t help but smile at his success. Ivan sat back in his chair with confusion.

“Lindsay Troy gave me all of that?”

She nodded quietly and smiled. “Yes, Starshy Praporshchik.”

He had always been taken care of by the State, never having to worry about money. But he had been honest with Troy when he expressed his concerns: an old man with nothing to show for his labor, living in a small apartment ill suited for a man of his stature and needs. Not to mention being unable to care for those he loved. But, now as a free agent, he also realized how woefully unprepared he was to manage real finances.

Arina followed his furrowed brow and worried expression, she could tell something weighed heavily on his mind. She ached for him, seeing this strong and self-assured man appear vulnerable.

“Is something still bothering you?” she asked softly, raising her eyebrow in concern.

Stanislav let out a sheepish sigh, his demeanor faltering. It reminded Arina of the few times she had seen her friends’ grandparents struggle with their independence as they aged. She spared him the embarrassment.

“Let me assist you, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he gratefully accepted her offer. And as Arina patiently guided him through the rigors of money management, she felt a warm sense of fulfillment knowing she could ease the worries of The Russian Bear. Ivan had half a roster wanting to destroy him at War Games, and here he was worrying about money. It meant a lot that she could allay his fears.

Arina was proud.

And Ivan was grateful.

—

Eighty-two year old Fanya Stanislav slammed her cane against the tiled kitchen floor, her face twisted with frustration. “I will not allow it,” she declared.

Ivan stood in the adjoining living room, his arms outstretched in exasperation as he pleaded with her. “But Mama, I want to take care of you.”

Fanya’s dark hair was tightly pulled back in a bun, and she glared stubbornly at her son. “What are you doing with all that money? What kind of communist has so much in their account?”

There was a hint of accusation in her tone as she used her cane to push herself up from her chair. She hobbled towards Ivan, favoring her hip.

“I have a new contract, Mother,” Ivan explained. “I asked for more money so I could better take care of you.”

Despite her hunched posture and frail physicality, Fanya towered over her son as she looked up at him. “Russia provides for my needs just fine.”

“No, she does not,” Ivan countered. “I’ve tried to get them to pay for your surgery multiple times, but I am always denied.”

“Then I do not need the hip replaced.” Fanya said with a stern look. “It is unnecessary.”

But Ivan refused to accept her words. “You took care of us for so many years, Mama. Let me take care of you now.” He pleaded with her as she limped back towards her table.

Fanya shook her head and waved her cane at him in frustration. “You already take care of me, Ivashechka. You fixed my bathtub and installed that handrail. You even figured out the TV remote.”

“But I cannot fix your hip, Mama. Please. After all these years, I can finally help!”

“I’m an old woman, almost in the grave. Save your money for someone else.”

Her words sent a chill down his spine and he quickly approached her, gripping her free hand tightly. “Don’t ever talk like that, Mama. You’re going to live a long time still.”

She could see the fear in his eyes and softened her tone. “I’m sorry, Ivan. You’re right.” She allowed him to guide her back to her seat but looked up at him with a determined gaze. “But I won’t be getting that surgery.”

As Ivan rubbed his exhausted eyes, he chuckled to himself. Culture Shock would have some of the toughest competitors in PRIME history gunning for him, yet his biggest challenge was convincing his stubborn mother to get the medical treatment she needed.

Fanya looked up at him with obstinate conviction. “If you frivolously spend that money on me, Ivan, when you could spend it helping others, I will never forgive you.”

—

One would think it would be an easy choice, after all. His mother was suffering with an injury that worsened over time, and he had the means to fix it. But for communists like Ivan and Fanya, it wasn’t so simple.

The Lifetime Contract was a great boon to Ivan Stanislav, but he had his guilt all the same. After all, communism had retreated throughout most of the world, and most certainly his own country. He served as one of the last bastions of that ideal that he knew, deep in his heart, would never be realized.

After all, the State had deemed Fanya’s surgery to be superfluous. For a communist, that should have been the end of it. And yet the strong love of Ivan Stanislav tried, so hard, to co-opt the prudence that kept him on that straight and narrow red path of his.

Would giving in to this love and care for his mother, by using this great capitalist windfall of a contract, shatter these virtues?

In the end, Ivan was willing to suffer the great guilt that would come with it, so long as his mother did not suffer any longer. And so, despite her stubborn resistance and threat, Ivan insisted that his mother receive her long-awaited hip replacement…

—

All eyes in the bustling hospital café turned to the imposing figure dressed in a red uniform, his hat tucked under his arm. Ivan Stanislav, a walking legend, was waiting for his coffee. The barista's hand shook as she handed it to him, in awe and fear of his power and connections.

As Ivan thundered over to the nearby station and placed a lid on the comically small coffee cup, some onlookers made themselves scarce. But not everyone.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a soft voice said from behind him. Ivan recognized her perfume before he laid eyes on her.

“Olga,” he said softly.

The young reporter tilted her head back to look up at the towering figure in front of her. The emerald business suit clung to her curves, accentuating her figure and exuding confidence and energy. The fabric shimmered in the light and just enough skin showed at the neckline, adding a touch of sex appeal without being overtly provocative.

“It’s been a while, Ivan.”

He replied with a tinge of bitterness in his voice, “A man is not worth so much when he doesn’t have the Universal Title.” Memories of their past interactions flooded back to him as they stood there.

She looked confused for a moment before composing herself and pursing her painted lips. “I don’t think so.”

He wanted to believe her. To let go of his paranoia and doubts surrounding her motives, but as he stood there, the walls seemed to be closing in on him.

"Care to sit?" he asked politely, gesturing towards a nearby bench. She obliged and gracefully sat down beside him.

“It seems like more than coincidence that someone of your stature would randomly show up in an Arkhangelsk hospital, Olga,” he said with an undercurrent of accusation in his voice.

The Russian beauty exhaled and cleared her throat, “I would be lying if I said it was a coincidence. I knew you would be here. Your mother and her surgery… is she doing well?” There was evident concern on her words.

Ivan glanced up at a clock on the wall. “She should be done soon. She was not happy about it, but I convinced her.”

Karishnikov studied the wizened man sitting next to her. His wrinkled face held traces of worry and determination. A small smile tugged at her lips as she spoke. “I think it’s admirable that you take such good care of your mother.”

He shook his head, a frown evident on his lips. “Some bastard hit her when she was crossing the street. She healed physically, or so we thought, but it worsened over time.” He turned to look at Olga with sadness in his eyes. “We never found the culprit.” His gaze shifted to the ground, then back to her. “This is off the record, yes?”

“Of course, Ivan,” Olga reassured him.

“I petitioned the State multiple times to pay for her procedure, but they ignored me,” he continued, his voice filled with frustration. “Finally, I can afford to take care of her after all these years.” He looked at her with a hopeful glint in his eye. “I hope she can dance again.”

As Ivan spoke, Olga’s hand crept onto his forearm and squeezed it gently in support. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but he found comfort in her touch and a sense of gratitude for this beautiful woman sitting beside him.

“You’re going to Wales soon, hm? I saw the team you have assembled. Quite the group. But what about your mother?”

Ivan smiled. “Arina, my assistant, is going to help take care of her for the time being. I wish I could stay but I am a leader of men. They need me.”

She could see the worry in his eyes and the love that was hidden beneath those hardened features. An underlying concern for his mother was never far away, no doubt because of the dangers associated with the procedure at her old age. So, Olga tried to distract Ivan with conversation about the upcoming War Games match.

Stanislav was more than willing to distract himself.

As they discussed the eclectic mix of personalities on their team, Ivan couldn’t help but express some concerns. Kerry Kuroyama’s pride might hinder their teamwork, while Max Kael’s chaotic nature went against Ivan’s need for order. Rob Williams and Arthur Pleasant seemed to be on board since burying the hatchet, and Kenny Freeman was a dutiful soldier.

And Jonathan-Christopher Hall was a non-entity in Ivan’s mind. He had plans to make sure he suffered if he won the Universal Title the night before. But there was also the looming threat of half the PRIME roster, all eager to notch a win against The Russian Bear. Stanislav’s track record in multiple competitor matches was less than stellar.

Unease crept over Olga as she listened to Ivan’s words. Here was a good man, who tried hard to lead others to victory, do right by his country, and take care of his mother. A pang of guilt tugged at her heart, a reminder of something hidden deep within her. Without thinking, she squeezed his forearm and leaned in close. “Ivan, I need to tell you something,” she whispered urgently.

“Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav?” a doctor asked, interrupting their conversation.

Ivan stood up quickly, ignoring Olga.

The doctor smiled. “Your mother is resting. The surgery was a success. I will have a nurse escort you to her room in a few minutes. ”

As Ivan turned to Olga, she too was standing and smiled. “Go to her, Starshy Praporshchik.”

“What did you want to tell me?” He asked quizzically.

But the beautiful reporter shook her head and looked down at the floor. “Nothing. It’s unimportant.”

After exchanging polite goodbyes, Olga watched Ivan rush off to see his mother.

She couldn’t shake the chill that had settled over her.

—

After several days of rest and therapy, Ivan took Fanya back to their family home in Arkhangelsk, where Arina could take care of her. Despite Mrs. Stanislav’s initial anger towards her son, she eventually forgave him.

Ivan rested his head in his hands, the crushing weight of guilt threatening to suffocate him while he stared at the medical bill. He hadn't fully considered the dangers of the Lifetime Contract. As he sat in his cramped office in Arkhangelsk, surrounded by images of Lenin and Stalin, he couldn't help but wonder what they would think of him now. He had promised himself that he would never succumb to the dirty, destructive excesses of capitalism, yet here he was, considering spending so much on his mother. How could he betray his communist ideals and flaunt such wealth and privilege? How could he live with himself? The thought tore at his heart as he grappled with the decision, knowing it could destroy everything he had fought for in the name of equality and fairness.

His heart raced with guilt and shame as he prepared to commit this sinful act. Arina sat beside him, but her presence couldn’t ease the heavy burden of over a million rubles at the bottom of the bill. With a trembling hand, he clicked the final button, crossing the Rubicon into moral bankruptcy. He was prepared to be forever stained with the cardinal betrayal of his communist beliefs.

Yet Arina noticed something strange on the screen: the bill had already been paid in full.

“What do you mean it’s already been paid?” Ivan asked, his words thick with confusion.

Arina read the note aloud, “Paid, in full, by L. Troy.”

Ivan sat, dumbfounded. He held back his emotions yet unconsciously squeezed Arina’s arm with a steely, yet shaky, grip. Arina smiled back at her superior before leaving him alone to process the unexpected news.

—

It’s doubtful that Lindsay Troy would ever know how she helped not just Fanya, but her son. Her act of kindness for Ivan Stanislav, of all people, shielded him from an ideologically crippling quandary. Instead, the chaste, prudent communist could continue on his way, without carrying the guilt of sacrificing so much for his much deserving mother.

It was one of the most gracious gestures he had ever experienced.

A clear conscience, ironically, enabled Ivan to focus solely on Culture Shock and War Games, and in many ways that meant that every other competitor was now in far worse danger.

But those in War Games weren’t innocent dancers laid low by a hit and run driver. These were men and women who bravely put themselves in harm's way for the chance to stand atop the mountain of PRIME. And now, a clear-headed Russian Bear was poised to get the last laugh.

No good deed of this magnitude would go unrecognized. And so, Ivan Stanislav left a voicemail for someone half a world away…

—

“Dear Lindsay,

This is Ivan.

It is early morning in Russia, which is middle of night in United States. I am unsurprised that you do not answer. Or perhaps you are screening my calls? It matters not.

My mother just had her hip replaced and I came upon very interesting note when I went to pay the bill.

Your kindness, Lindsay, has not gone unnoticed.

Do you know, Lindsay, my mother thinks you are a would-be girlfriend? Or perhaps a great fan of The Russian Bear? I could barely conceal my laughter at the thought! And when I told her that no, L. Troy was neither of those things, she asked me an interesting question.

‘Well then, Ivashechka,’ she asked me, ‘who is she to you?’

I admit, Lindsay, I did not know how to answer.

So, I told her the only thing I could think of in a moment when someone would reach out to help my darling mother.

I told her, ‘Mother, Lindsay Troy is a friend.’

I know we do not see eye to eye, Lindsay. I understand that at times, we will be at each other’s throats. This is fine.

But I believe, in some way, that far deeper than that is some sort of bond that cannot be understood, nor can it be quantified.

And in that realm? We are friends.

My mother sends her love to you. She is eternally grateful.

As am I.

I will see you in Wales, Lindsay Troy. When I win War Games, why don’t you come down in person to congratulate me? I give you great big hug!

Thank you again. Someday, my mother would like to meet you. Think about it.

Vanya.”