So this is not dead, then?
Good.
This was never dead. I'm just having a lot of trouble with this particular post.
Prussia - A Kaliningrad Story (Post WWII USSR Timeline)
- Thread starter Remitonov
- Start date
- Status
This was never dead. I'm just having a lot of trouble with this particular post.
This was never dead. I'm just having a lot of trouble with this particular post.
It's good to see Psycho!Mugi back, too.
Bookmark1995
Banned
Glad for the update.
Now, we begin to see how Kaliningrad will build its own unique identity, for better or worst.
Now, we begin to see how Kaliningrad will build its own unique identity, for better or worst.
Chapter 5-2
Office for the Committee for Resettlement
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E.
Valeriy Tonchev
Margit Haraszti, Stalin's pianist. Some said she was an illegitimate daughter of the deposed Hungarian leader Mátyás Rákosi. Others claim that she was of noble blood, or the daughter of Admiral Horthy. With a position as high as hers at such a young age, it was hard not to think her current position within the state's domestic intelligence was just out of pure skill. If anything, her unknown parentage – raised by a single mother – only fuelled speculation, an heiress with enough personal connections to live a life of a party boss.
However, for all the speculation Valeriy had read of her, one thing was certain since the Hungarian episode. She was scary, a vixen wearing a sheep's mask. Her ginger smile proved more than enough to deceive the most paranoid of men, yet able to let slip a bolt of fear when needed.
“So...” blurted the cadet, following her and her assistant along, “what brings you to Kaliningrad, Miss Haraszti?”
Her eyes virtually closed in her veiled smile, Haraszti spoke, “yes, why am I here?... I suppose my handling of the insurrection had attracted some attention from the new administration. They felt I was too... blunt with my approach. So I arranged for a transfer here to prove to them otherwise. Besides... something about your senior seemed... interesting...”
“'Interesting'?...” Valeriy queried, “wait, I thought your bosses were the ones who reassign you, not the other way around.”
Giggling a bit, the girl simply kept mum, peering at the young man with dubious glee as she quietly shifted the topic. Opening Valeriy's file for a glance, she remarked, “you don't seem to know much about the world, do you, Mr Tonchev? Your brother is playing it too... the game of life. We all like to think that we are very different from the old age of kings and courts. But humanity is, if anything, forgetful... The more distant the memories of our past, the easier it becomes for us to repeat them. This is the game of life. The Kremlin is the palace and we are but the courtiers. And as of now, this is our little keep.”
“Ah...” uttered the dumbfounded lad, unable to absorb the words, “you're a very poetic woman, Miss Haraszti. Anyway, about the plan I'm showing you... what do you think?”
“What do I think...” mused the officer, her smile fading a bit, “it's quite... typical.”
“Typical,” blurted Valeriy, peering over at his documents, “in what way?”
Inside, a neatly segmented map of the oblast featured at the page, along with its major cities and towns. Neatly segmented, it was the plan he and Yevgeny agreed upon before the Hungarian Uprising, though much of it was done under his brother as an overseer. But part of him sensed Stolypin's reluctance throughout it all, even though the town plans were made simply to keep 'distrustful' groups away from each other and to allow for easier administration. He recalled a word he put in regarding the Tonchevs' proposals – 'segregation'.
“Segregating the districts and cities...” she commented, “it's nothing new, I can tell you. Colonial administrators have done that in the past, as do kings. While tried and tested, it feels rather... unoriginal. It works for a divide and conquer plan, but it's rather... dull.”
“Uhh... Well, we're not aiming for job satisfaction, Miss Haraszti,” Valeriy quipped nervously, growing confused at her words, “you know how slow bureaucracy can be. I just thought this would make things easier. Besides, it's not like we're not doing it at a national level. The SSRs, autonomous oblasts... all of them are meant to give a place to minorities within the Soviet Union.”
“'Voice to the minorities'...” the blonde chimed, “is that how you see it? Where do you live, Valeriy?”
“Odessa,” Valeriy answered, “my parents were from Aydemir, in Bulgaria. We moved to the Ukrainian SSR so my father can receive medical treatment. We have a villa in Vilkovo. It's an Old Believers village, so it's a lot like home.”[1]
“Old Believers, huh,” she mused, thumbing her chin in a quick thought, “you don't strike me as a god-fearing person..."
“Hm,” went Valeriy, raising an eyebrow at the comment. Waving him off, she assured him, “it's nothing,” dropping the matter again. As they reached the door to the conference room, the Hungarian returned his file as she proceeded inside first. A peek inside, Valeriy felt a bit unnerved meeting the eyes of so many drab-looking strangers. Despite their myriad appearances, they all looked virtually the same. Given the drab, similar-looking suits and uniforms, it seemed a bit hard to tell them apart. Even their expressions were dour and serious, though in context, it made perfect sense to be, in a meeting. The only noticeable smile in the crowd was a senior man in a shirt and tie, with cleanly combed hair and a pair of spectacles, likely in a well-respected profession.
“Uhh... Valeriy? Hello...” an awkward voice spoke behind him as he jumped. Looking back, he saw Yevgeny giving a small wave and smile, speaking, “no need to be so awed. You're making me nervous too, you know.”
“Ah, sorry...” Valeriy yelped, “you're here, Sir. Sorry.” Holding up the file in his hand to Yevgeny, he said, “oh ya, here. The town plans.”
“Town plans,” the senior blurted, pausing for a moment, “oh... Oh yea, those! Shit, I knew I forgot something... I wanted to contact you, but I kind of forgot amidst all the work... We won't be needing them, Valeriy. Sorry~.”
“'Won't be... needing them',” Tonchev questioned, a bit surprised by the statement, “what'd you mean? You have new arrangements?”
“Yea... I guess,” he replied coyly, raising his own documents on hand, “it's a surprise. You're going to love it. Just take a seat while I prepare.”
“A-Ah...” the hapless aide went, bewildered by his statement. Stepping back to let the senior in, Valeriy could only peer down at his own work. He had no idea how to react. While he trusted Yevgeny to have done better work on the settlement plans, he could not help but feel... dejected. He had spent a fair bit on time on them, and his superior simply brushed it aside without as much as a single look. But Valeriy knew better than to think more on them. As far as he felt, such things happen, not the least with his own brother.
Valeriy was to change his mind...
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia[2]
23 January, 2016
Staring at Valeriy's town plans in the exhibits, Vasilka was unsure at how to feel. On them, the handwriting and marker shading was still prominently featured, all with her granduncle's handiwork. It seemed very meticulous, true to her granduncle's nature and skill. He had, after all, spent a lifetime as the administrative heart of the republic. It, therefore, seemed a pity that they were ultimately abandoned.
But there was something more evident in the papers that she felt deeply of. The maps, they appear, were somewhat crumpled, even slightly torn. A raw anger had been etched on it, an impulse to destroy its work. She had no idea when this could have happened; whether it was right after their rejection or years after. Regardless, she could never hope to think that she could understand him then, how he felt.
“'On loan from Lyubomir Vladimirovich Tonchev',” she read the placard below, gleaning through her granduncle's personal effects. Spotting an Orthodox cross, Vasilka grimaced a bit at the sight of it. The Old Believers, like all religious groups, suffered greatly under Stalin's rule, and tightly controlled by subsequent Soviet governments. It made no sense that her grandfather and granduncle could make it that far up the hierarchy without publicly abandoning their faith. This was more true for Vladimir, the wartime ace. There appeared to be things about her family that she still did not even know of.
"...the Old Believers of the West Baltic was previously recognized under the Soviet census of 1959 as a separate ethnoreligious community," a commentary played beside her, as a little girl spied on the religious icons on display, “of the 14,000 members registered Old Believers then, only 40 were estimated to be adherents to the church, including the head of the southern Slavic resettlement plan, and future chairman of the SSR, Valeriy Tonchev. Remarkably, when the status was remove in the 1970 census, some 1,200 Old Believers remain, greatly multiplying the number of adherents. Today, some 22,000 Old Believers are registered with various communions, the largest of which...”
“We're going to need some books,” she mused, stepping away from the exhibit.
But Vasilka could not help but think she might need resort to interviews instead. No matter how she tried to look at it, her family was still at the centre of it all, a key witness and actor in the founding of Prussia. She could only pray she would not have to resort to interrogating an old man for this.
Part 2
OOC Notes:
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E.
Valeriy Tonchev
Margit Haraszti, Stalin's pianist. Some said she was an illegitimate daughter of the deposed Hungarian leader Mátyás Rákosi. Others claim that she was of noble blood, or the daughter of Admiral Horthy. With a position as high as hers at such a young age, it was hard not to think her current position within the state's domestic intelligence was just out of pure skill. If anything, her unknown parentage – raised by a single mother – only fuelled speculation, an heiress with enough personal connections to live a life of a party boss.
However, for all the speculation Valeriy had read of her, one thing was certain since the Hungarian episode. She was scary, a vixen wearing a sheep's mask. Her ginger smile proved more than enough to deceive the most paranoid of men, yet able to let slip a bolt of fear when needed.
“So...” blurted the cadet, following her and her assistant along, “what brings you to Kaliningrad, Miss Haraszti?”
Her eyes virtually closed in her veiled smile, Haraszti spoke, “yes, why am I here?... I suppose my handling of the insurrection had attracted some attention from the new administration. They felt I was too... blunt with my approach. So I arranged for a transfer here to prove to them otherwise. Besides... something about your senior seemed... interesting...”
“'Interesting'?...” Valeriy queried, “wait, I thought your bosses were the ones who reassign you, not the other way around.”
Giggling a bit, the girl simply kept mum, peering at the young man with dubious glee as she quietly shifted the topic. Opening Valeriy's file for a glance, she remarked, “you don't seem to know much about the world, do you, Mr Tonchev? Your brother is playing it too... the game of life. We all like to think that we are very different from the old age of kings and courts. But humanity is, if anything, forgetful... The more distant the memories of our past, the easier it becomes for us to repeat them. This is the game of life. The Kremlin is the palace and we are but the courtiers. And as of now, this is our little keep.”
“Ah...” uttered the dumbfounded lad, unable to absorb the words, “you're a very poetic woman, Miss Haraszti. Anyway, about the plan I'm showing you... what do you think?”
“What do I think...” mused the officer, her smile fading a bit, “it's quite... typical.”
“Typical,” blurted Valeriy, peering over at his documents, “in what way?”
Inside, a neatly segmented map of the oblast featured at the page, along with its major cities and towns. Neatly segmented, it was the plan he and Yevgeny agreed upon before the Hungarian Uprising, though much of it was done under his brother as an overseer. But part of him sensed Stolypin's reluctance throughout it all, even though the town plans were made simply to keep 'distrustful' groups away from each other and to allow for easier administration. He recalled a word he put in regarding the Tonchevs' proposals – 'segregation'.
“Segregating the districts and cities...” she commented, “it's nothing new, I can tell you. Colonial administrators have done that in the past, as do kings. While tried and tested, it feels rather... unoriginal. It works for a divide and conquer plan, but it's rather... dull.”
“Uhh... Well, we're not aiming for job satisfaction, Miss Haraszti,” Valeriy quipped nervously, growing confused at her words, “you know how slow bureaucracy can be. I just thought this would make things easier. Besides, it's not like we're not doing it at a national level. The SSRs, autonomous oblasts... all of them are meant to give a place to minorities within the Soviet Union.”
“'Voice to the minorities'...” the blonde chimed, “is that how you see it? Where do you live, Valeriy?”
“Odessa,” Valeriy answered, “my parents were from Aydemir, in Bulgaria. We moved to the Ukrainian SSR so my father can receive medical treatment. We have a villa in Vilkovo. It's an Old Believers village, so it's a lot like home.”[1]
“Old Believers, huh,” she mused, thumbing her chin in a quick thought, “you don't strike me as a god-fearing person..."
“Hm,” went Valeriy, raising an eyebrow at the comment. Waving him off, she assured him, “it's nothing,” dropping the matter again. As they reached the door to the conference room, the Hungarian returned his file as she proceeded inside first. A peek inside, Valeriy felt a bit unnerved meeting the eyes of so many drab-looking strangers. Despite their myriad appearances, they all looked virtually the same. Given the drab, similar-looking suits and uniforms, it seemed a bit hard to tell them apart. Even their expressions were dour and serious, though in context, it made perfect sense to be, in a meeting. The only noticeable smile in the crowd was a senior man in a shirt and tie, with cleanly combed hair and a pair of spectacles, likely in a well-respected profession.
“Uhh... Valeriy? Hello...” an awkward voice spoke behind him as he jumped. Looking back, he saw Yevgeny giving a small wave and smile, speaking, “no need to be so awed. You're making me nervous too, you know.”
“Ah, sorry...” Valeriy yelped, “you're here, Sir. Sorry.” Holding up the file in his hand to Yevgeny, he said, “oh ya, here. The town plans.”
“Town plans,” the senior blurted, pausing for a moment, “oh... Oh yea, those! Shit, I knew I forgot something... I wanted to contact you, but I kind of forgot amidst all the work... We won't be needing them, Valeriy. Sorry~.”
“'Won't be... needing them',” Tonchev questioned, a bit surprised by the statement, “what'd you mean? You have new arrangements?”
“Yea... I guess,” he replied coyly, raising his own documents on hand, “it's a surprise. You're going to love it. Just take a seat while I prepare.”
“A-Ah...” the hapless aide went, bewildered by his statement. Stepping back to let the senior in, Valeriy could only peer down at his own work. He had no idea how to react. While he trusted Yevgeny to have done better work on the settlement plans, he could not help but feel... dejected. He had spent a fair bit on time on them, and his superior simply brushed it aside without as much as a single look. But Valeriy knew better than to think more on them. As far as he felt, such things happen, not the least with his own brother.
Valeriy was to change his mind...
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia[2]
23 January, 2016
Staring at Valeriy's town plans in the exhibits, Vasilka was unsure at how to feel. On them, the handwriting and marker shading was still prominently featured, all with her granduncle's handiwork. It seemed very meticulous, true to her granduncle's nature and skill. He had, after all, spent a lifetime as the administrative heart of the republic. It, therefore, seemed a pity that they were ultimately abandoned.
But there was something more evident in the papers that she felt deeply of. The maps, they appear, were somewhat crumpled, even slightly torn. A raw anger had been etched on it, an impulse to destroy its work. She had no idea when this could have happened; whether it was right after their rejection or years after. Regardless, she could never hope to think that she could understand him then, how he felt.
“'On loan from Lyubomir Vladimirovich Tonchev',” she read the placard below, gleaning through her granduncle's personal effects. Spotting an Orthodox cross, Vasilka grimaced a bit at the sight of it. The Old Believers, like all religious groups, suffered greatly under Stalin's rule, and tightly controlled by subsequent Soviet governments. It made no sense that her grandfather and granduncle could make it that far up the hierarchy without publicly abandoning their faith. This was more true for Vladimir, the wartime ace. There appeared to be things about her family that she still did not even know of.
"...the Old Believers of the West Baltic was previously recognized under the Soviet census of 1959 as a separate ethnoreligious community," a commentary played beside her, as a little girl spied on the religious icons on display, “of the 14,000 members registered Old Believers then, only 40 were estimated to be adherents to the church, including the head of the southern Slavic resettlement plan, and future chairman of the SSR, Valeriy Tonchev. Remarkably, when the status was remove in the 1970 census, some 1,200 Old Believers remain, greatly multiplying the number of adherents. Today, some 22,000 Old Believers are registered with various communions, the largest of which...”
“We're going to need some books,” she mused, stepping away from the exhibit.
But Vasilka could not help but think she might need resort to interviews instead. No matter how she tried to look at it, her family was still at the centre of it all, a key witness and actor in the founding of Prussia. She could only pray she would not have to resort to interrogating an old man for this.
Part 2
OOC Notes:
- Old Believers. Most of those in the Danube live in Romania, but there are communities in Ukraine and Bulgaria too, thanks to current post-WWII borders.
- Street names are, to a large extent, based on maps of old Königsberg with street names. But the great differences in the roads in Soviet Kaliningrad made renaming many roads difficult.
- 1957 - Committee for Resettlement
- Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト)
- Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
- Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬)
- 2016 - Singenwaldhang Girls High School
- Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
Last edited:
Glad to see Kaliningrad is back. Oh, I also like your Prussian tank. :3
Say, when will you make the thread about your Prussian military? Surely, it's not the same one as the Germans in 18th Century. If anything, what can you two tell us about your Prussian Armed Forces?
Say, when will you make the thread about your Prussian military? Surely, it's not the same one as the Germans in 18th Century. If anything, what can you two tell us about your Prussian Armed Forces?
Two? I'm the only author. :V
Anyway, I'll see what I can come up with. No plans for a thread on just one aspect of the TL; this thread is fine as it is. I'll have to see.
Interlude 4 - Amber (Economy)
Economics post is out. Not much, honestly, but I thought it's good to share.
Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, Main Atrium, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
Sitting outside the main exhibition hall, the atrium appeared stacked with other events for the day. As with other venues, the museum is running a special Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, a welcome start to a year of national festivities for the 25th Independence Day celebrations. Lined up were the various aspects of Prussia's modern system. Its economy, transport, military, education... While the permanent exhibition was a story of Prussia's past, the special event-based one is a story of Prussia's present.
Examining the amber gems on display inside the cases, a group of students in black sailor uniforms and red scarfs were looking through the exhibits. At first sight, they seemed no different from the other teenagers inside the main hall, especially their schoolmates. However, while their fellow girls in Vernost were able to enter the main exhibition, some are mysteriously locked out of the gantry, instead taking to the atrium's free roam exhibits.
"Pretty~," blurted an oddly blue-haired girl, her long hair dyed and tied in a distinctive knot as she marvelled at the ancient butterfly encased within its amber tomb, "no wonder they call this the 'Amber Republic'."
"Eww...," a short, black haired girl with a braid and cat-like fringes replied with a cringe, her eyes fixed on a prehistoric lizard in a similar grave, "are you sure?"
"And all this is from Palmniken," mused a black-haired senior with short hair and dusky eyes, "you'd think the mine owners would be free to fix the prices."
Amber deposit mine in Palmniken (German: Palmnicken), Palmniken City/Gorod
Palmniken, as the exhibit description detailed, is the heart of Prussia's amber mining operations. With over 90% of the world's amber deposits located in the Sambian coast, Prussia's monopoly on the precious stone is all but guaranteed.[1] Controlled by a conglomerate of state-owned and private enterprises, a large portion of Prussia's wealth is derived from amber mining and refining alone. It was thus little surprise that amber mining companies outside Prussia were forced to compete on uneven ground, though European Union and local regulations still applied to ensure fair competition.
"'...since the time of the Teutonic Knights, amber mining has been an essential part of the local economy'," the cool-headed girl read the description, "'control over the Sambian coast has granted rulers a complete monopoly over the amber trade, from the Prussian Hohenzollern domain to the Soviet West Baltic republic. Under Soviet rule, the Yantarny mines, as it was known then, produced approximately 600 tonnes under the management of Baltiysky Yantar.[2] However, the post Cold War situation led to the closure and sale of the company over illegal mining operations and corruption charges.[3] Now run under the watch of the Ministry of Trade and Industry's Amber Regulatory Commission, strict mining regulations have been put into effect to ensure environmental protection and fair practices in mining operations.'"
"My dad works in Palmniken," the junior remarked, "he always comes late at night. I hardly see him, even on weekends. These days, he's just trying to hold on to the job."
The Vernost girls were not Prussian citizens. They and their parents were post-Soviet migrants from Russia and other post-Soviet states in the east. As the economic situation deteriorated during the Yeltsin years, many took to emigration as an answer. Some exploited the right of return granted by Germany or Israel to flee to better pastures. Others have simply straight out left for other parts of Western Europe. But those too poor to dream of the facade of Lady Liberty or Big Ben used family ties in the emergent Prussian republic for better opportunities. But even they were slowly being squeezed out, as work permits began to dry up in the face of EU migrations within, and a looming 'second Cold War' abound.
"Sounds tough. I don't think I'd spend my life in the mines," the blue-haired girl commented, peering at some of the other displays, "I prefer theatre."
Raushen (German: Rauschen) Beach, Raushensky District/Raion
Königreich Süßenburg Amusement Park, Pilava, Pilavsky District/Raion
Peering through the collection of displays, Prussia's economic landscape proved far more diverse. While heavy industries such as manufacturing and shipbuilding had been present in Prussia since the Soviet period, much of it laid in shambles in the immediate post-Soviet years, with the Prussian state desperate to keep them afloat. Faced with the difficult choice of shock treatment and gradual reforms, Gram's new government opted for the latter, preferring not to sacrifice the livelihoods of ordinary citizens and local businesses in the name of progress. As Tonchev's Fatherland Front swept into power, so too came the promise of radical economic reform. As trade barriers lowered and foreign investments flooded the country, local and multinational conglomerates such as Machabeli cemented its control. From its original focus on heavy industries, Prussia began to expand its scope on other fields. Finances, electronics, and tourism were just some of its more valuable sectors today. While amber exports were never truly eclipsed, much of Prussia's wealth was no longer dug from the ground.
"You're not thinking of joining that circus, are you, Mikaela," the short-haired classmate grunted.
"It's not a circus, it's an amusement park; a permanent fixture," the blue-haired girl snapped back, "besides... I'm not a very smart person... and I like acting..."
"That 'Pregola' was bad, and you know it," the senior sneered back in a tease.
Peeved at her friend's tone, the fan retorted, "how dare you," shaking her down in defence of her idol's name.
Machabeli Avtotor factory in Kyonigsberg[4]
Unbeknownst to the tussling exchange students, a similarly-aged girl with grey hair and princess curls was overlooking the scene, her arms crossed as she glares at the trio. Dressed in a black, western-style uniform with a grey bow-tie, she had no qualms showing her status as a St Elisabeth student. Shifting her eyes back to the car on display, she tried to ignore the noise. Burying herself in the exhibit's descriptions, she silently read the English descriptions over the Cyrillic one.
'...some of the key industries of the post-Soviet era are manufacturing and shipbuilding,' she read mentally, 'amidst the collapse of the Soviet command economy, local conglomerates like Machabeli were formed to fill the void left by the bankruptcy of state-owned enterprises. Today, Machabeli ranks one of the largest European companies by revenue, with branches extended into fields like automobiles, electronics, and... defence.'
Machabeli Defence tank factory in Taipau[5]
This was the masterpiece of Prime Minister Tonchev's economic revival. While the revival and expansion of Prussia's moribund industries had long been a priority, the development of its defence industries had raised more than a few eyebrows. Building the country's defensive capability from scratch, he enlisted the help of his former KGB deputy, Georgi Machabeli, to exploit and re-utilize the crumbling state of the Soviet Union's defence firms. Entire factories and weapons were transported back to Prussia as they sought to reverse-engineer Eastern Bloc designs and develop an indigenous base with Western technology. It seemed an effort in redundancy - there were few weapons Machabeli could have made at the time that could not be obtained at a better standard and cost overseas. But from indigenous modifications and tests came experience. And as the country reached its quarter-centennial, the company that had grown in reputation and revenue, exporting its products across the world as one of the world's foremost defence giants.
"T-93PM," she read off the last line of the description, the designation for Prussia's latest upcoming Main Battle Tank. Unlike the Vernost exchange students, she was a very different kind of migrant. There was a term for people like her; ethnic German returnees to what was once East Prussia. But she was no Baltic German, or Russian Mennonite from the remote countryside. She was a Junker, the Prussian noble class that had once held great sway over the old Prussia and unified Germany. Many families like hers had actively invested in the fledgling country's economy in its formative years, and in the years since the Prussian economic miracle, settled back in the former estates of their forefathers. But not everyone was willing to adapt to the new Prussia. For some Junkers, there is only one definition for Prussia - the old one. The Slavic-dominated institutions of the present were, at best, tolerated, but since their inclusion into the European system, there can only be one path - restoration.
"Rochelle," a voice spoke to her, "what're you doing here? You're not in the NE (National Education) program."
Yelping at the sudden words, the grey-haired noble stepped back as she spotted a pair of gold eyes from a blonde bearing down on her. Confronted with a trio of schoolmates, the girl refuted vainly, "silly girl. I am as much a slave to fate as all. I've been called to a dark presence in these halls. It is just sad I am unable to enter the keeper's toll."
"You know," grunted one of the girls, a calm-looking lass with long black hair, "if you've said you were part of our group, the receptionist would have given you a free pass too. It's not like anyone would be able to tell the difference."
"A-Are you crazy," snapped the grey-haired student, finally breaking character over the suggestion, "they'll throw me out!"
"If you're going to tell the whole building about it, of course, they'll throw you out," the hair-loop-wearing blonde remarked, "if you're that worried, you could have just bought a ticket~"
"In any case," the last brunette told her, "lesson's over. We're heading downtown for some lunch. You must be tired waiting around."
"Ngh," gushed the girl, shrinking under her collar, "sure..."
Prussia's economic miracle laid at the foundations of earlier developments, from the age-old stones within the soil to the factories of Soviet-era West Baltic. But much more could be credited to the minds and hands of many who made it possible; the workers, the investors and the thinkers. But one thing is certain. There is no Prussia without its people. Where worse nations dig their wealth from the ground, Prussia's was earned by its people. Whether it was an altruistic drive to benefit the common folk, or a utilitarian need for an educated working class, Prussia's first world status could not be possible without the men and women who call it home, citizen and not.
Cast:
TL Notes:
Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, Main Atrium, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
Sitting outside the main exhibition hall, the atrium appeared stacked with other events for the day. As with other venues, the museum is running a special Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, a welcome start to a year of national festivities for the 25th Independence Day celebrations. Lined up were the various aspects of Prussia's modern system. Its economy, transport, military, education... While the permanent exhibition was a story of Prussia's past, the special event-based one is a story of Prussia's present.
Examining the amber gems on display inside the cases, a group of students in black sailor uniforms and red scarfs were looking through the exhibits. At first sight, they seemed no different from the other teenagers inside the main hall, especially their schoolmates. However, while their fellow girls in Vernost were able to enter the main exhibition, some are mysteriously locked out of the gantry, instead taking to the atrium's free roam exhibits.
"Pretty~," blurted an oddly blue-haired girl, her long hair dyed and tied in a distinctive knot as she marvelled at the ancient butterfly encased within its amber tomb, "no wonder they call this the 'Amber Republic'."
"Eww...," a short, black haired girl with a braid and cat-like fringes replied with a cringe, her eyes fixed on a prehistoric lizard in a similar grave, "are you sure?"
"And all this is from Palmniken," mused a black-haired senior with short hair and dusky eyes, "you'd think the mine owners would be free to fix the prices."
Amber deposit mine in Palmniken (German: Palmnicken), Palmniken City/Gorod
"'...since the time of the Teutonic Knights, amber mining has been an essential part of the local economy'," the cool-headed girl read the description, "'control over the Sambian coast has granted rulers a complete monopoly over the amber trade, from the Prussian Hohenzollern domain to the Soviet West Baltic republic. Under Soviet rule, the Yantarny mines, as it was known then, produced approximately 600 tonnes under the management of Baltiysky Yantar.[2] However, the post Cold War situation led to the closure and sale of the company over illegal mining operations and corruption charges.[3] Now run under the watch of the Ministry of Trade and Industry's Amber Regulatory Commission, strict mining regulations have been put into effect to ensure environmental protection and fair practices in mining operations.'"
"My dad works in Palmniken," the junior remarked, "he always comes late at night. I hardly see him, even on weekends. These days, he's just trying to hold on to the job."
The Vernost girls were not Prussian citizens. They and their parents were post-Soviet migrants from Russia and other post-Soviet states in the east. As the economic situation deteriorated during the Yeltsin years, many took to emigration as an answer. Some exploited the right of return granted by Germany or Israel to flee to better pastures. Others have simply straight out left for other parts of Western Europe. But those too poor to dream of the facade of Lady Liberty or Big Ben used family ties in the emergent Prussian republic for better opportunities. But even they were slowly being squeezed out, as work permits began to dry up in the face of EU migrations within, and a looming 'second Cold War' abound.
"Sounds tough. I don't think I'd spend my life in the mines," the blue-haired girl commented, peering at some of the other displays, "I prefer theatre."
Raushen (German: Rauschen) Beach, Raushensky District/Raion
Königreich Süßenburg Amusement Park, Pilava, Pilavsky District/Raion
Peering through the collection of displays, Prussia's economic landscape proved far more diverse. While heavy industries such as manufacturing and shipbuilding had been present in Prussia since the Soviet period, much of it laid in shambles in the immediate post-Soviet years, with the Prussian state desperate to keep them afloat. Faced with the difficult choice of shock treatment and gradual reforms, Gram's new government opted for the latter, preferring not to sacrifice the livelihoods of ordinary citizens and local businesses in the name of progress. As Tonchev's Fatherland Front swept into power, so too came the promise of radical economic reform. As trade barriers lowered and foreign investments flooded the country, local and multinational conglomerates such as Machabeli cemented its control. From its original focus on heavy industries, Prussia began to expand its scope on other fields. Finances, electronics, and tourism were just some of its more valuable sectors today. While amber exports were never truly eclipsed, much of Prussia's wealth was no longer dug from the ground.
"You're not thinking of joining that circus, are you, Mikaela," the short-haired classmate grunted.
"It's not a circus, it's an amusement park; a permanent fixture," the blue-haired girl snapped back, "besides... I'm not a very smart person... and I like acting..."
"That 'Pregola' was bad, and you know it," the senior sneered back in a tease.
Peeved at her friend's tone, the fan retorted, "how dare you," shaking her down in defence of her idol's name.
Machabeli Avtotor factory in Kyonigsberg[4]
Unbeknownst to the tussling exchange students, a similarly-aged girl with grey hair and princess curls was overlooking the scene, her arms crossed as she glares at the trio. Dressed in a black, western-style uniform with a grey bow-tie, she had no qualms showing her status as a St Elisabeth student. Shifting her eyes back to the car on display, she tried to ignore the noise. Burying herself in the exhibit's descriptions, she silently read the English descriptions over the Cyrillic one.
'...some of the key industries of the post-Soviet era are manufacturing and shipbuilding,' she read mentally, 'amidst the collapse of the Soviet command economy, local conglomerates like Machabeli were formed to fill the void left by the bankruptcy of state-owned enterprises. Today, Machabeli ranks one of the largest European companies by revenue, with branches extended into fields like automobiles, electronics, and... defence.'
Machabeli Defence tank factory in Taipau[5]
This was the masterpiece of Prime Minister Tonchev's economic revival. While the revival and expansion of Prussia's moribund industries had long been a priority, the development of its defence industries had raised more than a few eyebrows. Building the country's defensive capability from scratch, he enlisted the help of his former KGB deputy, Georgi Machabeli, to exploit and re-utilize the crumbling state of the Soviet Union's defence firms. Entire factories and weapons were transported back to Prussia as they sought to reverse-engineer Eastern Bloc designs and develop an indigenous base with Western technology. It seemed an effort in redundancy - there were few weapons Machabeli could have made at the time that could not be obtained at a better standard and cost overseas. But from indigenous modifications and tests came experience. And as the country reached its quarter-centennial, the company that had grown in reputation and revenue, exporting its products across the world as one of the world's foremost defence giants.
"T-93PM," she read off the last line of the description, the designation for Prussia's latest upcoming Main Battle Tank. Unlike the Vernost exchange students, she was a very different kind of migrant. There was a term for people like her; ethnic German returnees to what was once East Prussia. But she was no Baltic German, or Russian Mennonite from the remote countryside. She was a Junker, the Prussian noble class that had once held great sway over the old Prussia and unified Germany. Many families like hers had actively invested in the fledgling country's economy in its formative years, and in the years since the Prussian economic miracle, settled back in the former estates of their forefathers. But not everyone was willing to adapt to the new Prussia. For some Junkers, there is only one definition for Prussia - the old one. The Slavic-dominated institutions of the present were, at best, tolerated, but since their inclusion into the European system, there can only be one path - restoration.
"Rochelle," a voice spoke to her, "what're you doing here? You're not in the NE (National Education) program."
Yelping at the sudden words, the grey-haired noble stepped back as she spotted a pair of gold eyes from a blonde bearing down on her. Confronted with a trio of schoolmates, the girl refuted vainly, "silly girl. I am as much a slave to fate as all. I've been called to a dark presence in these halls. It is just sad I am unable to enter the keeper's toll."
"You know," grunted one of the girls, a calm-looking lass with long black hair, "if you've said you were part of our group, the receptionist would have given you a free pass too. It's not like anyone would be able to tell the difference."
"A-Are you crazy," snapped the grey-haired student, finally breaking character over the suggestion, "they'll throw me out!"
"If you're going to tell the whole building about it, of course, they'll throw you out," the hair-loop-wearing blonde remarked, "if you're that worried, you could have just bought a ticket~"
"In any case," the last brunette told her, "lesson's over. We're heading downtown for some lunch. You must be tired waiting around."
"Ngh," gushed the girl, shrinking under her collar, "sure..."
Prussia's economic miracle laid at the foundations of earlier developments, from the age-old stones within the soil to the factories of Soviet-era West Baltic. But much more could be credited to the minds and hands of many who made it possible; the workers, the investors and the thinkers. But one thing is certain. There is no Prussia without its people. Where worse nations dig their wealth from the ground, Prussia's was earned by its people. Whether it was an altruistic drive to benefit the common folk, or a utilitarian need for an educated working class, Prussia's first world status could not be possible without the men and women who call it home, citizen and not.
Cast:
- Vernost Stolypinskaya Girls School
- Mikaela Danilovna Remitonova (CV: 桂浦 香具耶)
- Aliya Mustafaevna Nasretdinova (CV: 七咲 逢)
- Vlada Nikolaievna Kuznetsova (CV: 時雨)
- St Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls Academy
- Rochelle Beatrix von Fünflinden (CV: 神崎 蘭子)
- Emma van Hoek (CV: 小原 鞠莉)
- Khertek Kuular (CV: 渋谷 凜)
- Alsu İlgizova (CV: 新田 美波)
TL Notes:
- OTL.
- OTL, and the company was known as Russky Yantar OTL.
- Still a problem IOTL.
- Photo taken from OTL's Avtotor factory in Kaliningrad.
- Photo taken from OTL's Kharkiv tank factory. Source: Al-Jazeera
- Palmniken/Palmnicken, Palmniken Gorod - Yantarny, Yantarny Urban Okrug
- Raushen/Rauschen, Raushensky Raion - Svetlogorsk, Svetlogorsky Raion
- Pilava/Pillau, Pilavsky Raion - Baltiysk, Baltiysky Raion
- Kyonigsberg/Königsberg, Capital City Area - Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Urban Okrug
- Taipau, Taipausky Raion - Gvardeysk, Gvardeysky Raion
Last edited:
Because I took most of their appearances directly off existing anime characters and added 'actor credits' for then on a whim. I guess I was influenced by Osamu Tezuka's reuse of characters as 'actors', so I thought I put some easter eggs for anime fans who can identify them.
Also, I can have trouble recalling who is who, though I do have a list for that in my PC.
Last edited:
Chapter 5-3 Preview
Steindamm Church, Steindamm Avenue (formerly Lenin Avenue), Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.
Steindamm Church, Tuesday.
One of the oldest churches in Königsberg, Steindamm Church in its present form mimics its last known appearance before the end of the Second World War. Once a mere wooden Catholic chapel, the Polish church had changed much, transitioning into Lutheranism as it catered to the thriving community in the city. However, in the rise of the Prussian-led German Empire, services in the Polish language declined with a lack of demand. By the end of the Second World War, Steindamm Church had narrowly avoided destruction by Allied bombing, only to be levelled by Soviet artillery in the city's siege.[1]
Its current site, adjacent to its original location, is a chilling reminder of that fate. Reconstructed after the Prussian revolution, the new authorities simply did not have the will to rebuild the church where it once stood, now occupied by the busy thoroughfare that once bore Lenin's name.[2] The city as a whole had changed too much under Soviet rule, and much of its roads no longer matched the old Prusssian city blueprints. But the Polish people demanded its return, and its reconstruction now sits within the crowded downtown of the city's heart once again. But all who knew its past doubted it could ever be the same. However much they cling on to its past, Steindamm, as had the city and country, had changed.
Sitting in the chapel in contemplation, Stanislaw could see the myriad trappings of Catholic iconography that now defined its purpose. In a bitterly fought campaign between the Roman Catholic Church and its Lutheran counterpart, the former was able to obtain ownership of the reconstructed chapel, on basis of the overwhelmingly Catholic Polish demographic. Growing up in a proud, pious family, the young man had long been surrounded by tales of Poland's long and turbulent history. For them, God was more than the divine being that saved and safeguarded the souls the Polish people. He defined Poland.
“Out of school already,” a voice broke the silence, “I wasn't expecting you, Stani.”
Stepping out from a side door, a young priest, no older than his early thirties, stepped out in a black robe, a small gold cross hung around his neck. With neatly-cut brown hair and a pair of spectacles, he appeared the part of a scholar, easily mistaken as a lecturer of a seminary. The fact that he had until recently been studying in one was not lost to Stanislaw. Standing up, he opened his hand for a shake.
“I'm just here to congratulate you, brother,” he said, “sorry I haven't come to visit. How're you doing?”
“Haven't conducted my first Sunday service here yet,” quipped the smiling priest, “can't say. Your studies?”
“Well... you know... I'm doing ok,” blurted the lad, trying to force a smile to assure him.
“Oh yes,” the priest recalled, “you've started on your 'National Education' course, have you? How'd you find it?”
“How do I find it,” Stanislaw admitted, “feel like brainwashing to me.”
“Well, the curriculum had changed since my time,” his elder brother told him, “back then, pride in an ancestral land is tantamount to disloyalty to Prussia. It's a lot less about that now, thankfully. Can't say I approved of such forced nationalism then.”
“What was your lessons like, though? I mean, you went to a seminary, so I wouldn't know,” queried Stanislaw.
Pausing for a moment of thought, the elder replied, “hmm... Let's just say there were people who didn't believe this country should exist, and that the government pulled all the stops to weed out such ideas.”
“I didn't think Gram was that sort of person,” the younger Pole quipped.
“That wasn't the work of Gram, Stani,” the priest informed him in a more serious tone, “he was out of office by then. It was the brainchild of PM Tonchev. He believed that any ties to a foreign homeland, even family ties, had the potential to destroy Prussia from within. It was a troubling time, I know that. But there was something heavy-handed about his approach I just don't like. “
Bowing his head, Stanislaw could hardly imagine. He could barely remember his own childhood, when the boy could hardly care for such things as politics and history. Looking around the downtown area outside the stained glass windows, he could still recall the faint structures of late Soviet-era blocks. However, now, all he sees is postmodernist shopping malls, and a giant scaffold decorated with images of late Prussian thinkers where the Palace of Soviets once stood.[3]
Before he could ponder, however, he noticed at the corner of his eye a figure passing by. Walking around the edge of the chapel hall, the same orange-haired coif from the museum took a bow to the priest in silence as she stepped out the door. Staring back at the exit, Stanislaw felt a tap on his shoulders. He had not realized how long he had been fixated at it, a mischievous grin on his elder brother's face.
“Someone you know,” teased the young man.
Waving him off, Stanislaw denied, “bug off.”
Chucking at his blushing face, the priest stated, “relax, boy. I won't keep you here for long. I believe she's heading for Nox just across the street. Funny place to put a library, but I guess it's hard to find space in the capital.”
“Nox,” mused the brown-haired teen, pausing to think through his next move. Hesitant for a moment, he quietly stood up as he bid, “thanks, Jerzy. I'll see you around then.”
Without a moment's haste, the lad soon made a move on, prompting the pastor to shake his head in relent.
“Kids these days,” Jerzy quipped, as Stanislaw vanished behind the door, “I must be getting old.”
Stanislaw's next destination was just a street across, but his chase would come with more than just a lad's crush...
[4]
OOC Notes:
26th January, 2016 C.E.
Steindamm Church, Tuesday.
One of the oldest churches in Königsberg, Steindamm Church in its present form mimics its last known appearance before the end of the Second World War. Once a mere wooden Catholic chapel, the Polish church had changed much, transitioning into Lutheranism as it catered to the thriving community in the city. However, in the rise of the Prussian-led German Empire, services in the Polish language declined with a lack of demand. By the end of the Second World War, Steindamm Church had narrowly avoided destruction by Allied bombing, only to be levelled by Soviet artillery in the city's siege.[1]
Its current site, adjacent to its original location, is a chilling reminder of that fate. Reconstructed after the Prussian revolution, the new authorities simply did not have the will to rebuild the church where it once stood, now occupied by the busy thoroughfare that once bore Lenin's name.[2] The city as a whole had changed too much under Soviet rule, and much of its roads no longer matched the old Prusssian city blueprints. But the Polish people demanded its return, and its reconstruction now sits within the crowded downtown of the city's heart once again. But all who knew its past doubted it could ever be the same. However much they cling on to its past, Steindamm, as had the city and country, had changed.
Sitting in the chapel in contemplation, Stanislaw could see the myriad trappings of Catholic iconography that now defined its purpose. In a bitterly fought campaign between the Roman Catholic Church and its Lutheran counterpart, the former was able to obtain ownership of the reconstructed chapel, on basis of the overwhelmingly Catholic Polish demographic. Growing up in a proud, pious family, the young man had long been surrounded by tales of Poland's long and turbulent history. For them, God was more than the divine being that saved and safeguarded the souls the Polish people. He defined Poland.
“Out of school already,” a voice broke the silence, “I wasn't expecting you, Stani.”
Stepping out from a side door, a young priest, no older than his early thirties, stepped out in a black robe, a small gold cross hung around his neck. With neatly-cut brown hair and a pair of spectacles, he appeared the part of a scholar, easily mistaken as a lecturer of a seminary. The fact that he had until recently been studying in one was not lost to Stanislaw. Standing up, he opened his hand for a shake.
“I'm just here to congratulate you, brother,” he said, “sorry I haven't come to visit. How're you doing?”
“Haven't conducted my first Sunday service here yet,” quipped the smiling priest, “can't say. Your studies?”
“Well... you know... I'm doing ok,” blurted the lad, trying to force a smile to assure him.
“Oh yes,” the priest recalled, “you've started on your 'National Education' course, have you? How'd you find it?”
“How do I find it,” Stanislaw admitted, “feel like brainwashing to me.”
“Well, the curriculum had changed since my time,” his elder brother told him, “back then, pride in an ancestral land is tantamount to disloyalty to Prussia. It's a lot less about that now, thankfully. Can't say I approved of such forced nationalism then.”
“What was your lessons like, though? I mean, you went to a seminary, so I wouldn't know,” queried Stanislaw.
Pausing for a moment of thought, the elder replied, “hmm... Let's just say there were people who didn't believe this country should exist, and that the government pulled all the stops to weed out such ideas.”
“I didn't think Gram was that sort of person,” the younger Pole quipped.
“That wasn't the work of Gram, Stani,” the priest informed him in a more serious tone, “he was out of office by then. It was the brainchild of PM Tonchev. He believed that any ties to a foreign homeland, even family ties, had the potential to destroy Prussia from within. It was a troubling time, I know that. But there was something heavy-handed about his approach I just don't like. “
Bowing his head, Stanislaw could hardly imagine. He could barely remember his own childhood, when the boy could hardly care for such things as politics and history. Looking around the downtown area outside the stained glass windows, he could still recall the faint structures of late Soviet-era blocks. However, now, all he sees is postmodernist shopping malls, and a giant scaffold decorated with images of late Prussian thinkers where the Palace of Soviets once stood.[3]
Before he could ponder, however, he noticed at the corner of his eye a figure passing by. Walking around the edge of the chapel hall, the same orange-haired coif from the museum took a bow to the priest in silence as she stepped out the door. Staring back at the exit, Stanislaw felt a tap on his shoulders. He had not realized how long he had been fixated at it, a mischievous grin on his elder brother's face.
“Someone you know,” teased the young man.
Waving him off, Stanislaw denied, “bug off.”
Chucking at his blushing face, the priest stated, “relax, boy. I won't keep you here for long. I believe she's heading for Nox just across the street. Funny place to put a library, but I guess it's hard to find space in the capital.”
“Nox,” mused the brown-haired teen, pausing to think through his next move. Hesitant for a moment, he quietly stood up as he bid, “thanks, Jerzy. I'll see you around then.”
Without a moment's haste, the lad soon made a move on, prompting the pastor to shake his head in relent.
“Kids these days,” Jerzy quipped, as Stanislaw vanished behind the door, “I must be getting old.”
Stanislaw's next destination was just a street across, but his chase would come with more than just a lad's crush...
[4]
- OTL.
- IOTL, the church was never rebuilt.
- As mentioned in an earlier post, the Palace of Soviets was demolished to rebuild Königsberg Castle. The decorative scaffold design around it is inspired by those that were build around the old Japanese General Government building, which was demolished to allow for restorations to Gyeongbokgung palace.
- OTL's ION Orchard, in Singapore's downtown. IOTL, the area occupied by the Nox shopping mall is a hotel.
- Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
- Jerzy Andrzejewski (CV: シンルー＝ハウゼン/カストル) - Priest of Steindamm Church
- Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)
Last edited:
Chapter 5-3
Playing: End of the Unknown - NieR: Automata Soundtrack by Keiichi Okabe
Nox (Нокс), Steindamm Avenue, Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.
Nox, one of the newest additions of downtown Kyonigsberg. Built in 2010, the modern shopping complex is one of many to spring up in the heart of the capital. Its prime location at the northern junction had made it a prominent landmark along the river Pregola. That, along with the entire district, provided a clear contrast with buildings of heritage across the river, and soon, across the street.
Crossing the busy intersection as throngs of suit-wearing pedestrians, Stanislaw could barely make out the girl's facade among the crowds. As he slipped through the automatic doors of the shopping mall, the human waves did not appear to abate. It was as if every effort was being made to obstruct him, as he shuffled through the claustrophobia-inducing masses.
“I thought this is a weekday,” Stanislaw grumbled, “where the hell do these people come from?”
“...I hope you're on the edge of your seats, folks,” an announcement soon broke out in the distance, “in just a few hour, the worldwide release of Otherworld's latest expansion, Legacy of Man will be out, with the full update ready for your gaming pleasure! I see a lot of excited gamers crowding the lines, some of whom I've heard have been here all night! Be sure to stay tuned, though, because we still have a lot of events coming up, so stick around!”
Squeezing into the main atrium, Stanislaw could not help but cringe at the sight of the seemingly infinite human mass. Lines upon lines of young men and women, some with laptops on hand, are busy waiting in front of the stage and by the sides. An elaborate stage decorated with walls of disjointed stacks of white cubes gave the entire event area a digital feel, likely the theme of the game. There were even some dressed in fantasy costumes and apparels, and in some cases, science fiction.
“You got to be kidding me,” the Pole grumbled, trying to spot for the strange girl again. To his good fortune, a string of Polish-accented Russian amidst the noise reached his ear, as he turned to face a group standing in line.
“...what kind of student council waits in line for a video game,” quipped the shawl-wearing Pole to a group of girls in fantasy and sci-fi costumes at the queue, one of them in a wheelchair, “I thought you were heading for the library.”
“We'll get there... eventually,” teased a young 'elven knight' with light blue hair, shifting her eyes coyly, “it'll only be a couple of hours, don't worry.”
“I'm only human, Agata,” went the wheelchair-bound 'robot' in the silver, futuristic suit, her calm voice muffled by her mask, “don't I deserve to relax? If I had to take everything so seriously, I might end up like 'Miss Potter'.”
“I suppose,” the orange-haired girl mused, “just remember to come up later. We need to get started on the project.”
“Why don't you get a copy yourself,” teased the blonde elf, “we can play together~.”
“I'm not a gamer person, Shelly,” she declined gently, “I find computer games too mindless for me. Anyway, I'll see you upstairs then."
Watching her depart for the elevator, Stanislaw tried to think through their words. Last he recalled, there was a public library set up on the mall's upper-most floor, a strange place given its location. Nonetheless, tailing behind, he could barely see the lady vanishing behind the elevator doors, the digital screen counting up the floors. Pressing himself inside a crammed, transparent lift, he pressed the desired floor before waited at the back. Slowly the stacked lift began to clear with each floor, as the noise downstairs faded slowly with the distance. Eventually, only a few were left to disembark, with the boy stepping out last. Looking around again, he once again spotted the girl departing into an entrance, this time the gantry of the library.
“Who puts a damn library in a shopping mall,” he grumbled again, tapping his library card at the gantry to tail the mystery girl. Unbeknownst to him, however, his presence attracted a pair of bewildered eyes. It was his classmates, with Paulina busy sampling lipstick from a beauty store.
“Is that... Stanislaw,” blurted the brunette, a bit wide-eyed at his appearance as Stanislaw failed to notice them, “I thought he said he was going to the Polish Church.”
“You... tell me...” Petr forced the words out, struggling with several bags of merchandise, “maybe he just wants to read some books.”
Narrowing her eyes, Paulina could not hide her suspicions. He appeared to be following someone, to her. Putting the lipstick back on the display, the girl soon marched off for the library, leaving the hapless helper behind.
“Oi,” Petr cried out, barely able to move with his load, “wait up!”
Stepping into the chilly, air-conditioned library, the booming music of the atrium downstairs was mysteriously stifled behind the soundproof walls. Tailing the young redhead as she stood at the counter, Stanislaw could spot a CD being handed by the dour elderly librarian. Watching the lady take the digital relic into the computer lab, the hapless boy paced towards the counter as he tried to think up a query. Faced with the piercing glare of the granny, however, the words choked up in his throat, forcing him to clear it in an audibly embarrassing cough.
“Uhh...” he stuttered a response, his eyes shifting over the desk as he spotted a half empty set of CDs, “what's that?”
'Shit,' he quickly thought in a cringe, 'get it together, just ask for a disk or something.'
“I mean, uhh...” he quickly forced a reply, “do you have anything on the Polish community in Soviet-era Prussia?”
It was not a total lie, but the awkward phrasing of the query would have been suspicious to just about anyone, much less a cynical-looking old lady. As the wrinkled, bespectacled elder, turned back to her box of CDs, she pulled out the first on the extreme right side. Her ageing arm lifting to pass the disk, she said in a low groan, “Part 1.” Fortunately for Stanislaw, the woman did not appear to suspect him of any ill-intent, or more likely, care.
Accepting the disk, the awkward-looking boy stepped into the computer lab as he tried to spot the girl again. A coif of orange hair seated at the back, the young teen was suprisingly easy to spot in the sparsely populated room. Taking a seat in front of a terminal down the row from her, the confused lad was not sure how to approach. He was not even sure why he came, though the disk seemed to have passed on him a convenient excuse.
“Well... since I'm here...” he mused, thinking back at his team project. Dropping the disk into the player, he quietly put on his headphones as he took slight glances between the girl and his desktop...
______________________
Playing: Warszawianka 1905 by Wacław Święcicki
Polacy Prus w 20 wieku
Поляки Пруссии в 20 веке
Polish Prussians of the 20th Century
Part 1 – Exile and Return
Playing: Warszawianka 1905 by Wacław Święcicki
Polacy Prus w 20 wieku
Поляки Пруссии в 20 веке
Polish Prussians of the 20th Century
Part 1 – Exile and Return
The Poles of Prussia are among the oldest groups to have lived on its soil. Alongside the Germans and the Balts, the history of the Polish people in Prussia is intrinsically tied to their motherland, with a proud history dating back over a millenium. But most Poles living in the modern state are, like virtually everyone else, recent migrants from the Soviet period. Their past with the Soviet regime had been complicated, with many a part of the communist revolution, and others fierce resistors in the rebirth and preservation of the Polish nation-state.
By the end of the Second World War, much of the Polish population had long vanished, the result of increasing stigmatization of the community by post-WWI Germany. However, through the efforts of the Belarusian-born Pole, Stanislaw Mazurski and his Committee for Polish Integration, some 48,000 new Poles would be registered by the end of the Internationalization project in 1963. Some, undoubtedly, were ethnic Russians who Polonized for various reasons to immigrate to the West Baltic SSR, but much of its Polish population were derived from expelled dissidents, economic migrants, and Poles exiled to Siberia during Stalinist rule. This coalescing of different groups, similar to the diverse demographics of the German population, would play a part in defining Polish identity in Prussia, both as a part of the greater Polish people, and as a distinct diaspora tied to the new nation-state.
Cast
- St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
- Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
- Paulina Krakowska (CV: ミコット・バーチ)
- Petr Nováček (CV: タクヤ・イレイ)
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
- Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)
- "Elven Swordswoman" (CV: 結城 明日奈)
- "Catgirl Archer" (CV: 朝田 詩乃)
- "Blonde Elf"/Shelly Eban (CV: 桐ヶ谷直葉)
- "Some... robot person" (CV: 倉崎 楓子)
Last edited:
Last edited:
*helicopter idles in distance*
´Rah.
How you do that?So this is not dead, then?
Good.
Overall, a fascinating nation you've made. I look forward to MOAR.
Update: I'm finished with my latest post, barring a few touches. That said, I still need to round off the Polish section for this before I move on. Next one will either be the Germans or Lithuanians (with other Balts, perhaps), but I assure, it will be interesting, especially the Baltic section...
Chapter 5-4
That took long enough, and admittedly not the best one I've written, but I need to get this out of the way.
Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E.
Stanislaw Mazurski
Yasnaya Polyana, one of several ethnic Polish villages scattered across the steppes of northern Kazakhstan. Founded by expellees from the European Soviet Union in the 1930s, the village was another story of starving and tired exiles who, against all odds, manage to survive the harsh, alien environment thrust upon them by the Man of Steel. Much of it was credited to the local Kazakhs, who disregarded their own poverty and differences to welcome and aid their new neighbours. Still, the shanty conditions of the clay houses spoke of a grim life in the Central Asian frontiers, something a young Polish administrator hopes to ratify.
Getting off his sedan on the dirt roadside, Stanislaw Mazurski pulled his officer cap down below his eyes nervously. This was his first time with a major assignment, and the lad did not feel too confident. Many of the villages, he had been told, were more fluent in Russian than Polish, and he himself was unsure if they wanted to move again. More importantly, it was a task he was personally impressed with, after Prime Minister Gomulka’s talks in Moscow to repatriate Soviet Poles last November. In all, the weight felt a lot heavier than he anticipated. He expected a simple desk job in Kaliningrad, not running around in the middle of the Siberian wastes hunting ‘lost tribes’.
“What am I doing,” he muttered, as a clumsy, bespectacled secretary in an oversized pink cardigan tailed him, “I thought this was just an ambassadorial service. Sit behind a desk, sign documents, organize cultural events... not mucking around in the middle of nowhere like a recruiter.”
“Well, you asked for it,” the bob-haired girl replied, adjusting her red-rimmed glasses, “you raised your hand when the officer asked.”
“I didn’t know it involves travelling,” barked Mazurski, “I even had to act touched when the PM spoke to me! ‘Bring them home’, he said. I... I’m not here for great things. I just don’t want to be an errand boy.”
Mazurski’s task to encourage the Poles of the Soviet Union to immigrate to the oblast appear a direct contradiction to Gomulka’s intentions. He knew, based on the job description that the oblast was never meant to be more than a glorified processing centre. But the expectation was that once the Poles were considered ‘rehabilitated’, they would move back to Poland. And there was only so much the Polish government could have done on an official capacity with their Soviet masters. As a coordinator for the project, Mazurski was in a unique position as a middleman, too insignificant for the Stalinist hardliners in Moscow to care about, yet with enough power to pull a great number of his exiled countrymen westwards. Kaliningrad, by their knowledge, existed simply to rehabilitate potential immigrants where possible. With proof of Polish citizenship unnecessary for immigration to Kaliningrad (or any part of the USSR), it was a chance to re-Polonize candidate settlers meant for the new ‘recovered territories’, or ‘compensated territories’ as Mazurski crudely defined.
“If you’re so unhappy about it, why don’t you just quit,” the girl pestered.
“I... I can’t just quit,” barked Stanislaw, “I haven’t even started. That won’t look good if I want a promotion or anything! I’ll be ruined! Besides, I can’t say not to that man. He’s... I don’t know... inspiring.”
‘Inspiring’ might not have been the right word for him to describe his new boss. For the cynical blonde lad, Captain Stolypin was, as far as he could tell, a clown. Overly optimistic and barely grounded in reality, he might have made an interesting addition to the Soviet propaganda department. How and why he ended up in the secretive KGB was anyone’s guess. But Mazurski had little doubt he had deep connections, a contradiction to the persona he saw at their meeting in Kaliningrad...
Office for the Committee for Resettlement
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E. (Flashback)
Stanislaw Mazurski
“......I’m sure you’re all eager to give suggestions and such, so we’ll start on housing policy then...”
Seated by the side of a large boardroom table, the Stanislaw of last month was a bored, albeit eager young man. Having taken up the task as administrator for the Polish community of Królewiec, or Kaliningrad as the Russians now renamed it, the young man expected an easier life than his drab coffee boy tasks at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A prestigious opportunity to improve on his credentials, he was tasked with improving the cultural and economic situation of the Poles in the military region. It seemed too easy, especially since the Polish community in the region had been, for a phrase, non-existent. Given that it was a core territory of Nazi Germany, Stanislaw doubted there was any of significant numbers left after the war. Still, it was a manageable task, and admittedly an exciting prospect. But the daft looking Russian at the front of the room foretold a very different story.
His eyes drifting to the side in boredom, he felt a slight jolt down his spine as a young blonde woman in an SS-looking uniform settled beside him. Stoic, unfeeling and decked in stylish dark grey, Stanislaw nearly let out a yell as he glared at the woman. For a moment, he had actually though he was seeing a ghost, even under the sunlight gleaming from the windows. But the shadows cast from the woman showed she was still among the living, and obviously, not a Nazi.
“You like older women, huh,” a disgusted whisper echoed into his ear as he gasped in shock. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the pouting face of his bespectacled partner, hissing back, “do you mind, Jo! I get jumpy when you get near me like that.”
Noticing the cold blue eyes of the ‘Nazi’ peering at him, the hapless lad made a few bows as he apologized frantically. Fortunately, the woman appeared to pay little heed, looking back at Stolypin as she unpacked her suitcase. Agitated, he tried to turn his attention back at the meeting as he watched Jo jolt down his words. For some reason, he felt a strange, petty vibe coming off her, a sour undertone on her face, as if she was trying not to mind him.
“You’re not jealous, are you,” he teased softly, “she’s just older than you. Get a grip.”
“Jealous,” grunted the bob-haired girl, adjusting her spectacles, “what do you mean ‘jealous’? I have no reason to be jealous. I’m younger than her. I can grow up.”
“I’m sure...” he chirped deviously, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. If there was anything Joanne felt touchy about, it was her appearance. Her dowdy spectacles, bob haircut and oversized cardigan made her look like a granny. In sharp contrast, the East German officer had a head of gold and shimmering blue eyes, and a statuesque physique that would have made her the epitome of a Aryan superwoman. For a moment, he had a wacky idea of her possible origins, a Lebensborn experiment turned to the enlightened socialism of her Soviet liberators.
“You’re insane!”
Jumping at the sudden yell, the surprised Pole quickly snapped out of his thoughts. Peering up, he could see a tall, buxom redhead in a Red Army uniform, hammering the table as she directed her anger at Stolypin. The lad, unsurprisingly, was a bit taken aback, though he appeared restraint as his job demands, listening on the objection.
“Dissolving all ethnic districts,” the woman decried, “you call that a ‘plurality’!? If the areas are not segregated, there will be a Russian majority in every district and every village!”
“Sit down, Anahit,” a scholarly-looking man in a civilian suit grunted, his hands clasped as he rolled his eyes at her noise, “let the man speak his piece. What are you so fearful about?”
“But Father,” blurted the officer, hesitating for a moment at her slip as she corrected, “Professor-“
“Sit. Down,” the professor firmly told her off, as the woman finally relented to his orders.
Mazurski could only bite his lip. Noticing his aide adjusting her large spectacles nervously, the Pole had not expected this. Whispering to Jo, he asked, “what happened? What were they discussing.”
“If you’ve taken a moment off ogling the Niemec,” she stated sarcastically, “you’d hear that they were discussing demographics. The plans Colonel Tonchev sent us were outdated. Captain Stolypin doesn’t intend to segregate the populations. He wants to spread everyone out, with housing quotas. Every district, every city, every housing block will include as many diverse groups as possible, at best to reflect the proportion of the general population of the Eastern Bloc.”
“What,” the lad blurted, still a bit confused. This was the first time he has ever heard of such a tactic. Much worse, dissolving the various nationalities would leave just one as the majority, the Russians. And they were already familiar with the effects of Russification, much longer than the entire history of the Soviet Union.
“I... understand your concerns,” the captain spoke to the woman, looking ill at ease over the outburst, “I never stated this will be easy, but segregation builds barriers, and such barriers create distrust and hate. If we’re still at the point where we have to worry about ethnic tensions, then we’re not really the ‘family of nationalities’ we claim to be, are we?”
His words were pure madness. To question the facts of party orthodox; Mazurski had to wonder if he was in way over his head. Already, the looks on the division heads were those of skepticism and worry, and in the red-head woman’s case, anger. Only her father and the blonde Hungarian in the expensive coat showed any interest at all, and it was the dubious kind of optimism, one of super-villain glee. And there was more to worry about for Stanislaw. Stolypin had mentioned about ethnic tensions. As far as he knew, there were plenty of axes to grind for the Poles towards a lot of groups, mainly their own neighbours.
“Never mind management,” a tanned Central Asian queried Stolypin, “how do you intend to get sufficient numbers to immigrate? The Soviet Union is vast with no shortage of resources. How do you intend to set this little hamlet apart?”
“I have... a few plans,” he mused, “but I feel I need to discuss with the team on economics before I proceed. And when we have a set plan on what workers are needed, we can figure out incentives to rope them in. That is where you come in as a representative.”
“If you intend to encourage migrants via incentives,” the German finally spoke, “then this venture has already failed to meet your objectives. All migration rates being equal, the territory will remain Russian dominated. There is little way to offset this peacefully, even if you prioritize minority privileges over the majority. With that in mind, are you willing to employ more drastic methods?”
The words struck a nerve with Stanislaw. He could see where the Stasi officer was going. The only real way to change the demographics of an entire area was the same way Kaliningrad became Russian in the first place; by force. The suggestion did not appear to be lost to Yevgeny, as his expression turned terse. Rubbing his hands, he seemed deeply troubled by the implication.
“I... really do not want it to come down to this,” he explained, “if at all possible. That is why I sent a request to the politburo regarding the population transfers. Check your files, there’s a copy for each and every one of you.”
Pulling out a document from his file, he revealed an approval with official state seals printed. On it was the signature of the General Secretary himself, along with the main coordinator who broached the plan to Warsaw, Vladimir Tonchev.
“Hmm,” the bob-haired girl mused, adjusting her spectacles as she analyzed their copy, “Stan! This is an authorization for repatriating ethnic minorities deported east during the Stalinist period, with Khrushchev’s signature on it! How the hell did he get this?”
“I... I don’t know...” Stanislaw blurted, a bit stunned by the document’s contents. He had his suspicions when Gomulka personally spoke to him out of the blue. But now he knew why. Someone had told him about the approval. That was what he meant when he asked Stanislaw to ‘bring them home’.
“You are crazy,” a Romanian girl with brown, wavy hair decried Stolypin, “those people were deported for a reason! You want to invite enemies of the state back into Europe? You’re liable to get us all arrested!”
“Calm down, little girl,” the professor assured her, a hint of patronizing in his words, “the paper has the Soviet leader’s name on it. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“That still isn’t grounds for rewarding criminal behaviour,” the girl insisted, “these people are Nazi collaborators! Their presence this far west endangers the very security of the bloc. This is a waste of time. I refuse to be a part of it.”
Something of the girl’s words felt like a provocation. Gripping his hand under the table, Stanislaw tried his hardest to restrain himself. Despite his communist allegiance, Stanislaw was far from the ideological sycophant the likes of Iron Felix. Shutting his eyes, he wondered if he should speak out over this. He had no idea what might happen if he tried. He dared not test the system, for what it was worth.
“In 1930,” Stolypin spoke in an unhesitant, strangely serious voice, “General Secretary Josef Vissariovich deported over a hundred thousand Poles from western Ukraine and Belarus to Central Asia. Many did not survive the first winter. In 1939, we deported several times that number from the annexed areas. More died. What were their charges, then? Were they fascist too? Or were they just Poles?”[1]
The words struck him like a nail. The sternness of Yevgeny’s words unnerved and fascinated him; echoing a sentiment no Pole would dare say to their Kremlin overlords. More importantly, his words contradicted political correctness – it questioned the very actions of Stalinist-era deportations. A few years back, and this would have earned him a place in the gulag. But Stalin was dead, and it appeared as if the new leadership, at least him, was heading down a different path.
“What do you think,” Yevgeny questioned Stanislaw out of the blue, “what crimes were these deportees accused of? Do you know?”
“I...” he blurted hesitantly, his mind turning blank as he began to panic. At first, he felt like feigning ignorance, acting like a naive boy who simply was not astute enough to understand history. But sitting in front of a clique of young adults, he felt he could not fake the same innocence the committee head had displayed so far. Racking his brain, he quickly crafted the best answer he could.
“Nothing,” he stammered, peeking to his side at the German woman staring at him “I do not think they were guilty of anything. Stalin was paranoid; he feared having hostile populations within his borders so he expelled whoever he thought might threaten him. Many were women and children. In some cases, even communist sympathizers. It’s not a stretch to say he was just one step away matching Hitler.”
Stanislaw was already beginning to regret his words. All around, he could see stunned expressions, in particular the young blonde aide who accompanied Yevgeny – ‘Valeriy’, he recalled. Others appear intrigued, with the Armenian doctor’s spectacles gleaning in the sunlight. Joanne herself was horrified, likely due to the statement’s seditious content. But what surprised him was Yevgeny’s expression. He seemed... appreciative, as if he was glad.
“You hear that, everyone,” he told the committee, “those are the words of someone who will change our world. This country... the Revolution... everything that we have worked for the past half-century is at risk of degradation. And it has already begun. We have turned a blind eye to atrocities. We lie and congratulate ourselves for absent achievements. I will not deny I am not proud of the course my country had taken since Comrade Lenin's death. What right do we have to ask you, the future of Eastern Europe, to be grateful to us for the Nazi defeat? I have seen things that make me wonder if we’re really that different from them, and I ask you to do the same.”
“This is sedition,” the Romanian blurted in shock, aghast as the others at his statement, “are you fomenting a revolt?”
“I’d never think of it,” Yevgeny stated firmly, “I do not want war. I want change, and I know it’s possible. And this is where it will start. I will build the ideal country, a model for the world to follow. I will prove there is a better way. No... we will prove that to Moscow. The Politburo has granted me and Tonchev full authority to prepare and administer the region as it transitions to civilian rule. I don’t believe I can repay him for his aid, but I will not let his help go to waste, nor yours. Do I have your support?”
Stanislaw felt stunned. He had no idea how big this operation was going to be. At the very least, the captain had a way of inflating their importance to the greater scheme of things. At a time when the Soviet Union was having a standoff with the capitalists, something as minute as a city planning committee was hardly something in the scope of grand projects.
But something about this piqued Stanislaw’s interest. He did not know why, but he felt... invigorated.
“Full authority, you say,” Stanislaw queried, “that means the Border Guards cannot stop us if we begin repatriating people from the east, am I right.”
Smirking a bit at his words, Yevgeny coyly answered, “yes. No one can stop you, save the Secretary General himself.”
For a moment, any doubt he had was suddenly shoved into the back of his head. He did not understand why, but Stanislaw felt convinced by the man’s words. For a clown, Stolypin had a mysterious charisma in his eccentricity, and while it had not won over most of the skeptics in the committee, it had certainly won over him.
For a moment, he actually believed in him...
Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E. (Present)
Stanislaw Mazurski
“’Bring them home’,” Stanislaw grumbled in irk, “what was I thinking?”
The Stanislaw of the present was beginning to regret leaping into Yevgeny’s project. For a coordinator, he had not realized how ‘hands-on’ his task was to be. While his Internationalization project sounded like a government scheme to erect a huge Pometkin country, the reality was far harsher in hindsight. The Politburo and Khrushchev had given them full authority to conduct their operations, but that did not mean they would be given the resources. With few staff, little funding and little government support, they were on their own, languishing on their own effort while Khrushchev’s own Virgin Lands initiative saps the budget. In all respects, Stanislaw could see why they were even given so much power to conduct repatriations in the first place. Moscow never really thought they could succeed, and thus saw no reason to stop them from bringing a few token exiles to build their little facade. Wiping his face, he wondered how he could have gotten sucked into Stolypin’s hysteria then.
“I still think we can make it,” Jo admitted with a surprising sense of optimism, “like you said, we’re not really here to help Stolypin. We’re here to help our fellow Poles. Whether this project fails or not is of no consequence to us. What matters is how many we can bring back to Poland, before they become fully Russified.”
“I guess,” he said, “but I expected more help than this. We have God-knows-how many square kilometres of land to cover. We’ll never find them all.”
“Well, this is a nice place to start,” Jo affirmed, “like you said, we haven’t even started.”
Reaching the chapel, the lad heaved a sigh as he prepared to meet with the village elders inside. He did not anticipate a huge response, likely because of the meagre size of the village. But stepping inside, he was soon confronted with a hall full of old folks, weary farmers and screaming infants and kids. His eye batting, he was starting to dread the work to come.
“God help me...” he muttered, stepping forth to face them.
National Library, Downtown Branch
Nox (Нокс), Steindamm Avenue, Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.
“...initial visits to the remote lands of the Soviet interior yielded little results at first,” the narrator reported as the disk played a montage of clips from the 50s, “hampered by a lack of staff and material support, Mazurski often had to make trips deep into the Asiatic regions personally. His first visit to Yasnaya Polyana drew a tepid response, as residents had grown wary of trusting Soviet officials on their word. But realizing his message of a better life in Kaliningrad may never match the promise of returning to Poland, the official opted instead for an old Soviet approach – he twisted the truth. While it had long been the intention of Polish authorities to see their brethren repatriated, the decision to allow Poles to return ultimately lay with Moscow, and by extension, to Mazurski’s superior, Stolypin...”
Listening to the video with a half-bored look, the other Stanislaw had tried to keep an eye on the redhead girl. Every few moments, he glanced down at the aisle at her, staring back on his screen after a small pause to avoid being spotted. But as time wore on, his attention was increasingly being sucked by the documentary. As he peered back down the aisle again, he quickly realized she was gone.
“Ah shit,” he blurted in a whisper, standing up as he paced out of the lab. Passing the girl’s emptied seat, he noticed a strange keychain – a plastic model of a ball-like robot toy – left on the table. The chain appeared rusted and broken, as if snapped by accident. Scanning the vicinity as he stepped out, he felt unnerved at her sudden disappearance.
“Where do you think you’re going,” Paulina questioned without warning, appearing right in front of him, “how long do you intend to stalk her?”
“Gah,” Stanislaw gasped in a fluster, staggering back at the presence of his two friends. Agitated, he denied, “stalking!? Who’s stalking? I’m not stalking! I was just... studying, that all. We need to work on our project and all that. Besides, what are you doing here-“
“If that’s the case, why didn’t you call us,” Paulina sneered back, “it’s a group project, Stan. There’s not much of a point if you do it alone.”
“She’s jealous, man,” Petr whispered from behind, “better own up before she slaps you.”
“Jealous,” snapped the girl angrily, attracting a frustrated hush from the librarian at the desk. Dropping her volume, she hissed at Petr, “I am not jealous. I’m trying not to get him slapped with a restraining order. It’s different!”
“Like I said,” Stanislaw insisted in frustration, “I am not-“
Before he could complete his sentence, however, he noticed from the corner of his ear a noise at the exit. Turning over his shoulder, he spotted the ‘princess’ at the gripped, her hand gripped by a redhead woman in a black collared shirt and a pink shawl. Beside her, an identical-looking woman in a yellow top and hot pants appear nervous, possibly her twin. It did not take long for him to recall the former; she was the escort back at the museum, and she appeared ticked off.
“-let go of me, Malwina,” the redhead ordered as the same escort from the museum dragged her towards the exit, “I already told you. I don’t need you to tail me.”
“I cannot comply with that,” the woman insisted cold, “you know how dangerous it is to walk around alone.”
“I have Wanda with me already,” she claimed, forcing a smile to assure her “you don’t have to worry-“
“I, for one, cannot trust Wanda on this,” Malwina questioned rhetorically, “don’t think I don’t know you. You brought her along knowing she can’t keep an eye on you. And people wonder why I’m the younger sister...”
“Hey,” blurted the sibling, “I can take care of Agata just fine! I’m just giving her a bit of breathing space, that’s all. She’s going to hate you you’re going to keep breathing down her neck. No need to drag her back home like this.”
“Shut up,” Malwina growled, “I’m not about to take any chances. You’re coming home, now!”
“I don’t want to go back,” insisted the ‘princess’ stubbornly, “let go of me!”
Stanislaw had no idea how to react. His first thought was simply to grab her and run, but her aristocratic-looking appearance dissuaded him, suggesting a really problematic outcome for him. But he felt he could not just leave her be, being dragged away by overprotective escorts like a child. It was then he recalled the trinket he found on the computer desk, and he simply stepped forward.
“E-Excuse me,” he spoke, holding the keychain by the chain, “I think you lost something. I found it by your desk when you left so...”
Unsurprisingly, the serious-looking twin of the duo gave him a hard stare as Stanislaw tried hard not to look nervous. Watching her ward rummage through her bag, he heard her remark, “he’s right. It must have broken off somehow. Thank you-“
But before Agata could reach for it, Malwina yanked her back as she stated, “who are you? How did you know she was at that seat?”
“C-come on,” Stanislaw blurted in agitation, “I was studying near her in the computer lab. It’s not that hard to notice her.”
His gaze drifting to Agata and Wanda, the hapless boy had no idea what he was getting into. Was he trying to distract the woman? Was he trying to dissuade her? Stanislaw was so eager to get the girl out of her dilemma he never really thought of a plan. Should he try to make a break for it? Was he going to risk looking like a cheap drama cliché?
“Yoink,” blurted Wanda without warning, pulling her sister’s hood over her in a moment of instinct. Stunned and blinded, the stern escort floundered as the mischievous lady ran off with their charge out of the gantry. Startled by the flurry of events, Stanislaw could only catch Agata’s gaze one more time. Malwina, however, did not appear amused at all, neither with them nor him. Fortunately for the boy, she opted to pursue them instead, hopefully dismissing him as a bystander. But Stanislaw could sense her blaming him. After all, he did appear to have intent on roping the girl away.
“A word of warning, young man,” she told Stanislaw, “stay away from Miss Lubomirska. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Watching her depart, the young boy could only wince at the chilling warning. In his own admission, he always suspected the girl had a dubious background, even if he had eyes for her. But the teen had no idea why. He felt... drawn to her, a strange connection he could not explain.
“Ow,” he yelped, as Paulina sent a punch on his forearm and puffed her cheek in agitation. Bowing his head in apology, he admitted, “sorry... I was... acting a little off, wasn’t I?”
“Very off,” Paulina griped, “what the hell were you thinking!? You can tell right away she’s bad news! Probably some rich bitch with underworld connections.”
“I... I was just returning a keychain,” Stanislaw tried to justify, “I... didn’t know better.”
“Well you should have, lover boy,” snapped Paulina, seizing his hand, “let’s go.”
Startled by the sudden tug, Stanislaw cried out, “owowowowow! Where’re we going!?”
Giving a devious grin, she chimed, “you wanted to study, don’t you? You were in such a rush you left your bag behind. I’m going to pound some history into you for this!”
Chuckling a bit as the brunette took him along, the lad finally relented, “fine... we’ll look into it. I was just about to tell you what I looked up.”
“Liar,” Paulina grunted, a playful undertone behind her words, “you weren’t focusing, were you?”
Stanislaw himself could only chuckle in silence. He could not help but feel she was right to scold him. However, he could tell the ‘princess’ had came to the library for that same project. While he doubted he might bump into her again, he could not help but wonder if retracing Stanislaw Mazurski’s path might end up doing just that.
“Agata Lubomirska,” he mused absentmindedly, “what the hell is wrong with me...”
Stanislaw had no idea...
Part 4
OOC Notes:
Cast
Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E.
Stanislaw Mazurski
Yasnaya Polyana, one of several ethnic Polish villages scattered across the steppes of northern Kazakhstan. Founded by expellees from the European Soviet Union in the 1930s, the village was another story of starving and tired exiles who, against all odds, manage to survive the harsh, alien environment thrust upon them by the Man of Steel. Much of it was credited to the local Kazakhs, who disregarded their own poverty and differences to welcome and aid their new neighbours. Still, the shanty conditions of the clay houses spoke of a grim life in the Central Asian frontiers, something a young Polish administrator hopes to ratify.
Getting off his sedan on the dirt roadside, Stanislaw Mazurski pulled his officer cap down below his eyes nervously. This was his first time with a major assignment, and the lad did not feel too confident. Many of the villages, he had been told, were more fluent in Russian than Polish, and he himself was unsure if they wanted to move again. More importantly, it was a task he was personally impressed with, after Prime Minister Gomulka’s talks in Moscow to repatriate Soviet Poles last November. In all, the weight felt a lot heavier than he anticipated. He expected a simple desk job in Kaliningrad, not running around in the middle of the Siberian wastes hunting ‘lost tribes’.
“What am I doing,” he muttered, as a clumsy, bespectacled secretary in an oversized pink cardigan tailed him, “I thought this was just an ambassadorial service. Sit behind a desk, sign documents, organize cultural events... not mucking around in the middle of nowhere like a recruiter.”
“Well, you asked for it,” the bob-haired girl replied, adjusting her red-rimmed glasses, “you raised your hand when the officer asked.”
“I didn’t know it involves travelling,” barked Mazurski, “I even had to act touched when the PM spoke to me! ‘Bring them home’, he said. I... I’m not here for great things. I just don’t want to be an errand boy.”
Mazurski’s task to encourage the Poles of the Soviet Union to immigrate to the oblast appear a direct contradiction to Gomulka’s intentions. He knew, based on the job description that the oblast was never meant to be more than a glorified processing centre. But the expectation was that once the Poles were considered ‘rehabilitated’, they would move back to Poland. And there was only so much the Polish government could have done on an official capacity with their Soviet masters. As a coordinator for the project, Mazurski was in a unique position as a middleman, too insignificant for the Stalinist hardliners in Moscow to care about, yet with enough power to pull a great number of his exiled countrymen westwards. Kaliningrad, by their knowledge, existed simply to rehabilitate potential immigrants where possible. With proof of Polish citizenship unnecessary for immigration to Kaliningrad (or any part of the USSR), it was a chance to re-Polonize candidate settlers meant for the new ‘recovered territories’, or ‘compensated territories’ as Mazurski crudely defined.
“If you’re so unhappy about it, why don’t you just quit,” the girl pestered.
“I... I can’t just quit,” barked Stanislaw, “I haven’t even started. That won’t look good if I want a promotion or anything! I’ll be ruined! Besides, I can’t say not to that man. He’s... I don’t know... inspiring.”
‘Inspiring’ might not have been the right word for him to describe his new boss. For the cynical blonde lad, Captain Stolypin was, as far as he could tell, a clown. Overly optimistic and barely grounded in reality, he might have made an interesting addition to the Soviet propaganda department. How and why he ended up in the secretive KGB was anyone’s guess. But Mazurski had little doubt he had deep connections, a contradiction to the persona he saw at their meeting in Kaliningrad...
Office for the Committee for Resettlement
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E. (Flashback)
Stanislaw Mazurski
“......I’m sure you’re all eager to give suggestions and such, so we’ll start on housing policy then...”
Seated by the side of a large boardroom table, the Stanislaw of last month was a bored, albeit eager young man. Having taken up the task as administrator for the Polish community of Królewiec, or Kaliningrad as the Russians now renamed it, the young man expected an easier life than his drab coffee boy tasks at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A prestigious opportunity to improve on his credentials, he was tasked with improving the cultural and economic situation of the Poles in the military region. It seemed too easy, especially since the Polish community in the region had been, for a phrase, non-existent. Given that it was a core territory of Nazi Germany, Stanislaw doubted there was any of significant numbers left after the war. Still, it was a manageable task, and admittedly an exciting prospect. But the daft looking Russian at the front of the room foretold a very different story.
His eyes drifting to the side in boredom, he felt a slight jolt down his spine as a young blonde woman in an SS-looking uniform settled beside him. Stoic, unfeeling and decked in stylish dark grey, Stanislaw nearly let out a yell as he glared at the woman. For a moment, he had actually though he was seeing a ghost, even under the sunlight gleaming from the windows. But the shadows cast from the woman showed she was still among the living, and obviously, not a Nazi.
“You like older women, huh,” a disgusted whisper echoed into his ear as he gasped in shock. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the pouting face of his bespectacled partner, hissing back, “do you mind, Jo! I get jumpy when you get near me like that.”
Noticing the cold blue eyes of the ‘Nazi’ peering at him, the hapless lad made a few bows as he apologized frantically. Fortunately, the woman appeared to pay little heed, looking back at Stolypin as she unpacked her suitcase. Agitated, he tried to turn his attention back at the meeting as he watched Jo jolt down his words. For some reason, he felt a strange, petty vibe coming off her, a sour undertone on her face, as if she was trying not to mind him.
“You’re not jealous, are you,” he teased softly, “she’s just older than you. Get a grip.”
“Jealous,” grunted the bob-haired girl, adjusting her spectacles, “what do you mean ‘jealous’? I have no reason to be jealous. I’m younger than her. I can grow up.”
“I’m sure...” he chirped deviously, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. If there was anything Joanne felt touchy about, it was her appearance. Her dowdy spectacles, bob haircut and oversized cardigan made her look like a granny. In sharp contrast, the East German officer had a head of gold and shimmering blue eyes, and a statuesque physique that would have made her the epitome of a Aryan superwoman. For a moment, he had a wacky idea of her possible origins, a Lebensborn experiment turned to the enlightened socialism of her Soviet liberators.
“You’re insane!”
Jumping at the sudden yell, the surprised Pole quickly snapped out of his thoughts. Peering up, he could see a tall, buxom redhead in a Red Army uniform, hammering the table as she directed her anger at Stolypin. The lad, unsurprisingly, was a bit taken aback, though he appeared restraint as his job demands, listening on the objection.
“Dissolving all ethnic districts,” the woman decried, “you call that a ‘plurality’!? If the areas are not segregated, there will be a Russian majority in every district and every village!”
“Sit down, Anahit,” a scholarly-looking man in a civilian suit grunted, his hands clasped as he rolled his eyes at her noise, “let the man speak his piece. What are you so fearful about?”
“But Father,” blurted the officer, hesitating for a moment at her slip as she corrected, “Professor-“
“Sit. Down,” the professor firmly told her off, as the woman finally relented to his orders.
Mazurski could only bite his lip. Noticing his aide adjusting her large spectacles nervously, the Pole had not expected this. Whispering to Jo, he asked, “what happened? What were they discussing.”
“If you’ve taken a moment off ogling the Niemec,” she stated sarcastically, “you’d hear that they were discussing demographics. The plans Colonel Tonchev sent us were outdated. Captain Stolypin doesn’t intend to segregate the populations. He wants to spread everyone out, with housing quotas. Every district, every city, every housing block will include as many diverse groups as possible, at best to reflect the proportion of the general population of the Eastern Bloc.”
“What,” the lad blurted, still a bit confused. This was the first time he has ever heard of such a tactic. Much worse, dissolving the various nationalities would leave just one as the majority, the Russians. And they were already familiar with the effects of Russification, much longer than the entire history of the Soviet Union.
“I... understand your concerns,” the captain spoke to the woman, looking ill at ease over the outburst, “I never stated this will be easy, but segregation builds barriers, and such barriers create distrust and hate. If we’re still at the point where we have to worry about ethnic tensions, then we’re not really the ‘family of nationalities’ we claim to be, are we?”
His words were pure madness. To question the facts of party orthodox; Mazurski had to wonder if he was in way over his head. Already, the looks on the division heads were those of skepticism and worry, and in the red-head woman’s case, anger. Only her father and the blonde Hungarian in the expensive coat showed any interest at all, and it was the dubious kind of optimism, one of super-villain glee. And there was more to worry about for Stanislaw. Stolypin had mentioned about ethnic tensions. As far as he knew, there were plenty of axes to grind for the Poles towards a lot of groups, mainly their own neighbours.
“Never mind management,” a tanned Central Asian queried Stolypin, “how do you intend to get sufficient numbers to immigrate? The Soviet Union is vast with no shortage of resources. How do you intend to set this little hamlet apart?”
“I have... a few plans,” he mused, “but I feel I need to discuss with the team on economics before I proceed. And when we have a set plan on what workers are needed, we can figure out incentives to rope them in. That is where you come in as a representative.”
“If you intend to encourage migrants via incentives,” the German finally spoke, “then this venture has already failed to meet your objectives. All migration rates being equal, the territory will remain Russian dominated. There is little way to offset this peacefully, even if you prioritize minority privileges over the majority. With that in mind, are you willing to employ more drastic methods?”
The words struck a nerve with Stanislaw. He could see where the Stasi officer was going. The only real way to change the demographics of an entire area was the same way Kaliningrad became Russian in the first place; by force. The suggestion did not appear to be lost to Yevgeny, as his expression turned terse. Rubbing his hands, he seemed deeply troubled by the implication.
“I... really do not want it to come down to this,” he explained, “if at all possible. That is why I sent a request to the politburo regarding the population transfers. Check your files, there’s a copy for each and every one of you.”
Pulling out a document from his file, he revealed an approval with official state seals printed. On it was the signature of the General Secretary himself, along with the main coordinator who broached the plan to Warsaw, Vladimir Tonchev.
“Hmm,” the bob-haired girl mused, adjusting her spectacles as she analyzed their copy, “Stan! This is an authorization for repatriating ethnic minorities deported east during the Stalinist period, with Khrushchev’s signature on it! How the hell did he get this?”
“I... I don’t know...” Stanislaw blurted, a bit stunned by the document’s contents. He had his suspicions when Gomulka personally spoke to him out of the blue. But now he knew why. Someone had told him about the approval. That was what he meant when he asked Stanislaw to ‘bring them home’.
“You are crazy,” a Romanian girl with brown, wavy hair decried Stolypin, “those people were deported for a reason! You want to invite enemies of the state back into Europe? You’re liable to get us all arrested!”
“Calm down, little girl,” the professor assured her, a hint of patronizing in his words, “the paper has the Soviet leader’s name on it. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“That still isn’t grounds for rewarding criminal behaviour,” the girl insisted, “these people are Nazi collaborators! Their presence this far west endangers the very security of the bloc. This is a waste of time. I refuse to be a part of it.”
Something of the girl’s words felt like a provocation. Gripping his hand under the table, Stanislaw tried his hardest to restrain himself. Despite his communist allegiance, Stanislaw was far from the ideological sycophant the likes of Iron Felix. Shutting his eyes, he wondered if he should speak out over this. He had no idea what might happen if he tried. He dared not test the system, for what it was worth.
“In 1930,” Stolypin spoke in an unhesitant, strangely serious voice, “General Secretary Josef Vissariovich deported over a hundred thousand Poles from western Ukraine and Belarus to Central Asia. Many did not survive the first winter. In 1939, we deported several times that number from the annexed areas. More died. What were their charges, then? Were they fascist too? Or were they just Poles?”[1]
The words struck him like a nail. The sternness of Yevgeny’s words unnerved and fascinated him; echoing a sentiment no Pole would dare say to their Kremlin overlords. More importantly, his words contradicted political correctness – it questioned the very actions of Stalinist-era deportations. A few years back, and this would have earned him a place in the gulag. But Stalin was dead, and it appeared as if the new leadership, at least him, was heading down a different path.
“What do you think,” Yevgeny questioned Stanislaw out of the blue, “what crimes were these deportees accused of? Do you know?”
“I...” he blurted hesitantly, his mind turning blank as he began to panic. At first, he felt like feigning ignorance, acting like a naive boy who simply was not astute enough to understand history. But sitting in front of a clique of young adults, he felt he could not fake the same innocence the committee head had displayed so far. Racking his brain, he quickly crafted the best answer he could.
“Nothing,” he stammered, peeking to his side at the German woman staring at him “I do not think they were guilty of anything. Stalin was paranoid; he feared having hostile populations within his borders so he expelled whoever he thought might threaten him. Many were women and children. In some cases, even communist sympathizers. It’s not a stretch to say he was just one step away matching Hitler.”
Stanislaw was already beginning to regret his words. All around, he could see stunned expressions, in particular the young blonde aide who accompanied Yevgeny – ‘Valeriy’, he recalled. Others appear intrigued, with the Armenian doctor’s spectacles gleaning in the sunlight. Joanne herself was horrified, likely due to the statement’s seditious content. But what surprised him was Yevgeny’s expression. He seemed... appreciative, as if he was glad.
“You hear that, everyone,” he told the committee, “those are the words of someone who will change our world. This country... the Revolution... everything that we have worked for the past half-century is at risk of degradation. And it has already begun. We have turned a blind eye to atrocities. We lie and congratulate ourselves for absent achievements. I will not deny I am not proud of the course my country had taken since Comrade Lenin's death. What right do we have to ask you, the future of Eastern Europe, to be grateful to us for the Nazi defeat? I have seen things that make me wonder if we’re really that different from them, and I ask you to do the same.”
“This is sedition,” the Romanian blurted in shock, aghast as the others at his statement, “are you fomenting a revolt?”
“I’d never think of it,” Yevgeny stated firmly, “I do not want war. I want change, and I know it’s possible. And this is where it will start. I will build the ideal country, a model for the world to follow. I will prove there is a better way. No... we will prove that to Moscow. The Politburo has granted me and Tonchev full authority to prepare and administer the region as it transitions to civilian rule. I don’t believe I can repay him for his aid, but I will not let his help go to waste, nor yours. Do I have your support?”
Stanislaw felt stunned. He had no idea how big this operation was going to be. At the very least, the captain had a way of inflating their importance to the greater scheme of things. At a time when the Soviet Union was having a standoff with the capitalists, something as minute as a city planning committee was hardly something in the scope of grand projects.
But something about this piqued Stanislaw’s interest. He did not know why, but he felt... invigorated.
“Full authority, you say,” Stanislaw queried, “that means the Border Guards cannot stop us if we begin repatriating people from the east, am I right.”
Smirking a bit at his words, Yevgeny coyly answered, “yes. No one can stop you, save the Secretary General himself.”
For a moment, any doubt he had was suddenly shoved into the back of his head. He did not understand why, but Stanislaw felt convinced by the man’s words. For a clown, Stolypin had a mysterious charisma in his eccentricity, and while it had not won over most of the skeptics in the committee, it had certainly won over him.
For a moment, he actually believed in him...
Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E. (Present)
Stanislaw Mazurski
“’Bring them home’,” Stanislaw grumbled in irk, “what was I thinking?”
The Stanislaw of the present was beginning to regret leaping into Yevgeny’s project. For a coordinator, he had not realized how ‘hands-on’ his task was to be. While his Internationalization project sounded like a government scheme to erect a huge Pometkin country, the reality was far harsher in hindsight. The Politburo and Khrushchev had given them full authority to conduct their operations, but that did not mean they would be given the resources. With few staff, little funding and little government support, they were on their own, languishing on their own effort while Khrushchev’s own Virgin Lands initiative saps the budget. In all respects, Stanislaw could see why they were even given so much power to conduct repatriations in the first place. Moscow never really thought they could succeed, and thus saw no reason to stop them from bringing a few token exiles to build their little facade. Wiping his face, he wondered how he could have gotten sucked into Stolypin’s hysteria then.
“I still think we can make it,” Jo admitted with a surprising sense of optimism, “like you said, we’re not really here to help Stolypin. We’re here to help our fellow Poles. Whether this project fails or not is of no consequence to us. What matters is how many we can bring back to Poland, before they become fully Russified.”
“I guess,” he said, “but I expected more help than this. We have God-knows-how many square kilometres of land to cover. We’ll never find them all.”
“Well, this is a nice place to start,” Jo affirmed, “like you said, we haven’t even started.”
Reaching the chapel, the lad heaved a sigh as he prepared to meet with the village elders inside. He did not anticipate a huge response, likely because of the meagre size of the village. But stepping inside, he was soon confronted with a hall full of old folks, weary farmers and screaming infants and kids. His eye batting, he was starting to dread the work to come.
“God help me...” he muttered, stepping forth to face them.
National Library, Downtown Branch
Nox (Нокс), Steindamm Avenue, Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.
“...initial visits to the remote lands of the Soviet interior yielded little results at first,” the narrator reported as the disk played a montage of clips from the 50s, “hampered by a lack of staff and material support, Mazurski often had to make trips deep into the Asiatic regions personally. His first visit to Yasnaya Polyana drew a tepid response, as residents had grown wary of trusting Soviet officials on their word. But realizing his message of a better life in Kaliningrad may never match the promise of returning to Poland, the official opted instead for an old Soviet approach – he twisted the truth. While it had long been the intention of Polish authorities to see their brethren repatriated, the decision to allow Poles to return ultimately lay with Moscow, and by extension, to Mazurski’s superior, Stolypin...”
Listening to the video with a half-bored look, the other Stanislaw had tried to keep an eye on the redhead girl. Every few moments, he glanced down at the aisle at her, staring back on his screen after a small pause to avoid being spotted. But as time wore on, his attention was increasingly being sucked by the documentary. As he peered back down the aisle again, he quickly realized she was gone.
“Ah shit,” he blurted in a whisper, standing up as he paced out of the lab. Passing the girl’s emptied seat, he noticed a strange keychain – a plastic model of a ball-like robot toy – left on the table. The chain appeared rusted and broken, as if snapped by accident. Scanning the vicinity as he stepped out, he felt unnerved at her sudden disappearance.
“Where do you think you’re going,” Paulina questioned without warning, appearing right in front of him, “how long do you intend to stalk her?”
“Gah,” Stanislaw gasped in a fluster, staggering back at the presence of his two friends. Agitated, he denied, “stalking!? Who’s stalking? I’m not stalking! I was just... studying, that all. We need to work on our project and all that. Besides, what are you doing here-“
“If that’s the case, why didn’t you call us,” Paulina sneered back, “it’s a group project, Stan. There’s not much of a point if you do it alone.”
“She’s jealous, man,” Petr whispered from behind, “better own up before she slaps you.”
“Jealous,” snapped the girl angrily, attracting a frustrated hush from the librarian at the desk. Dropping her volume, she hissed at Petr, “I am not jealous. I’m trying not to get him slapped with a restraining order. It’s different!”
“Like I said,” Stanislaw insisted in frustration, “I am not-“
Before he could complete his sentence, however, he noticed from the corner of his ear a noise at the exit. Turning over his shoulder, he spotted the ‘princess’ at the gripped, her hand gripped by a redhead woman in a black collared shirt and a pink shawl. Beside her, an identical-looking woman in a yellow top and hot pants appear nervous, possibly her twin. It did not take long for him to recall the former; she was the escort back at the museum, and she appeared ticked off.
“-let go of me, Malwina,” the redhead ordered as the same escort from the museum dragged her towards the exit, “I already told you. I don’t need you to tail me.”
“I cannot comply with that,” the woman insisted cold, “you know how dangerous it is to walk around alone.”
“I have Wanda with me already,” she claimed, forcing a smile to assure her “you don’t have to worry-“
“I, for one, cannot trust Wanda on this,” Malwina questioned rhetorically, “don’t think I don’t know you. You brought her along knowing she can’t keep an eye on you. And people wonder why I’m the younger sister...”
“Hey,” blurted the sibling, “I can take care of Agata just fine! I’m just giving her a bit of breathing space, that’s all. She’s going to hate you you’re going to keep breathing down her neck. No need to drag her back home like this.”
“Shut up,” Malwina growled, “I’m not about to take any chances. You’re coming home, now!”
“I don’t want to go back,” insisted the ‘princess’ stubbornly, “let go of me!”
Stanislaw had no idea how to react. His first thought was simply to grab her and run, but her aristocratic-looking appearance dissuaded him, suggesting a really problematic outcome for him. But he felt he could not just leave her be, being dragged away by overprotective escorts like a child. It was then he recalled the trinket he found on the computer desk, and he simply stepped forward.
“E-Excuse me,” he spoke, holding the keychain by the chain, “I think you lost something. I found it by your desk when you left so...”
Unsurprisingly, the serious-looking twin of the duo gave him a hard stare as Stanislaw tried hard not to look nervous. Watching her ward rummage through her bag, he heard her remark, “he’s right. It must have broken off somehow. Thank you-“
But before Agata could reach for it, Malwina yanked her back as she stated, “who are you? How did you know she was at that seat?”
“C-come on,” Stanislaw blurted in agitation, “I was studying near her in the computer lab. It’s not that hard to notice her.”
His gaze drifting to Agata and Wanda, the hapless boy had no idea what he was getting into. Was he trying to distract the woman? Was he trying to dissuade her? Stanislaw was so eager to get the girl out of her dilemma he never really thought of a plan. Should he try to make a break for it? Was he going to risk looking like a cheap drama cliché?
“Yoink,” blurted Wanda without warning, pulling her sister’s hood over her in a moment of instinct. Stunned and blinded, the stern escort floundered as the mischievous lady ran off with their charge out of the gantry. Startled by the flurry of events, Stanislaw could only catch Agata’s gaze one more time. Malwina, however, did not appear amused at all, neither with them nor him. Fortunately for the boy, she opted to pursue them instead, hopefully dismissing him as a bystander. But Stanislaw could sense her blaming him. After all, he did appear to have intent on roping the girl away.
“A word of warning, young man,” she told Stanislaw, “stay away from Miss Lubomirska. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Watching her depart, the young boy could only wince at the chilling warning. In his own admission, he always suspected the girl had a dubious background, even if he had eyes for her. But the teen had no idea why. He felt... drawn to her, a strange connection he could not explain.
“Ow,” he yelped, as Paulina sent a punch on his forearm and puffed her cheek in agitation. Bowing his head in apology, he admitted, “sorry... I was... acting a little off, wasn’t I?”
“Very off,” Paulina griped, “what the hell were you thinking!? You can tell right away she’s bad news! Probably some rich bitch with underworld connections.”
“I... I was just returning a keychain,” Stanislaw tried to justify, “I... didn’t know better.”
“Well you should have, lover boy,” snapped Paulina, seizing his hand, “let’s go.”
Startled by the sudden tug, Stanislaw cried out, “owowowowow! Where’re we going!?”
Giving a devious grin, she chimed, “you wanted to study, don’t you? You were in such a rush you left your bag behind. I’m going to pound some history into you for this!”
Chuckling a bit as the brunette took him along, the lad finally relented, “fine... we’ll look into it. I was just about to tell you what I looked up.”
“Liar,” Paulina grunted, a playful undertone behind her words, “you weren’t focusing, were you?”
Stanislaw himself could only chuckle in silence. He could not help but feel she was right to scold him. However, he could tell the ‘princess’ had came to the library for that same project. While he doubted he might bump into her again, he could not help but wonder if retracing Stanislaw Mazurski’s path might end up doing just that.
“Agata Lubomirska,” he mused absentmindedly, “what the hell is wrong with me...”
Stanislaw had no idea...
Part 4
OOC Notes:
- Numbers are subject to dispute (not helped by Wikipedia’s penchant for dubious quality edits), but I generally picked the lower numbers since Yevgeny would have likely gotten estimates from Russian sources.
Cast
- 1957
- Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization of Kaliningrad Military Oblast (1957)
- Stanislaw Mazurski (CV: 神原 秋人) - Polish representative
- Joanne Kasztanowa (CV: 栗山 未来) - Mazurski's aide
- Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト) - Leader of the Committee
- Cpt. Arnhild Weiss (CV: アイリスディーナ・ベルンハルト) - German representative
- Cpt. Anahit Narcessian (CV: ダリル・マクマナス) - Hakob's aide/daughter
- Dr. Hakob Narcessian (CV: ジーナス博士) - Armenian representative
- Cpt. Nurzhan Aitmukhambetov (CV: アレルヤ・ハプティズム) - Central Asian representative
- Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
- Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬) - Hungarian representative
- Stefania Rotaru (CV: フィオレ・フォルヴェッジ・ユグドミレニア) - Romanian representative
- Stanislaw Mazurski (CV: 神原 秋人) - Polish representative
- Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization of Kaliningrad Military Oblast (1957)
- 2016
- St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
- Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
- Paulina Krakowska (CV: ミコット・バーチ)
- Petr Nováček (CV: タクヤ・イレイ)
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
- Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)
- Agata's Caretakers
- Malwina Ciszek (CV: マリーダ・クルス)
- Wanda Ciszek (CV: エルピー・プル) (OOC Note: Would have preferred to find a pic of her at Marida's age, but owell)
- St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
Last edited:
- Status