Part Zwei! Sorry it took so long. I simply could not find the time to write.
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August 1953
“'
The Democratic People's Republic of Korea. At the forefront of the global war against the encroaching forces of American imperialism, the united armies of the Korean workers and their Chinese brethren have struck a decisive victory over the coalition of Western colonists and oppressors. Signing a humiliating peace with the emboldened communist fighters, the American-led savages have been consigned back south, forced to contend with the embarrassment of defeat and the liberation of the Korean people's cherished ancient capital, Kaesong. It had taken three bitter years of fighting to drive back the insidious slavers from the bank of the Yalu, but the blood was well worth spilt. Perhaps one day, the brave heroes of the proletariat will liberate their southern brethren from the clutches of Washington and its puppets. For now though, a great victory was won this day, a first of many in the battle to spread revolution and freedom to the despondent masses of the world.'"
"Some 'victory'.”
Trudging through the dirt path of an isolated prisoner-of-war camp, a lone stranger, dressed in a dark olive North Korean uniform and officer cap was making his way toward one of the shanty buildings in the middle of the square. Loud, orchestral music, played in the all-too-familiar propaganda march, echoed in the air as Korean lyrics spouted messages long been drummed into everyone but the stranger himself. Held on his hand, a set of documents awaited processing from his superiors inside. Approaching the guards standing tall at the door, he watched as they instinctively saluted to the commissar ready to enter, the lone man stepping in as he removed his cap under its roof.
With bright blonde hair and cyan eyes, the ethnicity of the man quickly became apparent. Neither Chinese nor Korean, he was not part of the great legions that had overrun the UN following its decisive push towards the Yalu. Rather, his contingent was far smaller, actively denied by his government to have even existed at all. The reason was all too clear; a Russian like him publicly discovered on Korean soil would spell nuclear apocalypse for both his country and the United States. It was not to say the Soviet Union never tried to help, but their fears of a Third World War, so close to the end of the second, were not unfounded and worth preventing at any cost.
Rubbing his head as he ruffled his short hair a bit, the young lad took another look at the files within, a short, typewritten article for the publishers at Pravda back home to print out. A sinking feeling enveloped his throat as he struggled to read his own handiwork. For him, most of the article was sheer poetry, a disturbing lack of information stuffed with overused slogans that failed to explain one simple thing – the actual condition of the Korean War's aftermath. For him, victory came closest for the Korean communists further back, in 1950. With Pusan surrounded, there was little reason to believe that Kim Il-Sung's Workers Party of Korea could not fulfill his promise to a unified Korea on his own. But a combination of Soviet indolence and missteps, and committed American intervention had turned this into a rout, before the Chinese under Mao finally stepped in to prevent total destruction. Shaking his head, he questioned whether it would have been better had the Soviets been able to veto the U.N. resolution for 'police action' rather than abstain. A simple mistake, but a costly one that now consigned the peninsula to a permanent division, possibly for generations to come.
“Another article, Min-Hyeong,” a voice mysterious crooned in his ear in Korean, “you look like you want to burn it. Can I see~?”
“Oi,” blurted the surprised lad, backing up in a hurry as he blurted, “do you mind, Madam!? You're sucking my personal space.”
Standing just inches away, a tall, raven-haired woman was keenly eyeing him, a predatory smile on her face. With wild, springy hair and a carnivorous gaze, she had the stature of a wild amazon, straight from the annals of Greek lore. Loosening his collar a bit, the hapless lad could not help but feel flustered. He could not deny the North Korean officer had the looks and figure to strike a man down, both physically and metaphorically.
“Such cute eyes,” Sara teased, “they're like a lamb staring straight at a panther's face. And I already told you to call me 'Sara', didn't I? 'Madam' makes me feel like an old lady. I hate it when boys like you call me that. So, how long until your superiors let you run back to your cosy home? War's over already, even if it's just a ceasefire.”
“That's up to my superiors to decide, thank you,” he stated with a slight bow, “I trust everything is in order?”
“More or less,” she mused, “armistice is already well and signed, and we just need to settle the issue with the prisoners of war. The party leadership in Pyongyang and Beijing isn't exactly stellar that so many cowards are pleading to stay under capitalist guardianship. By comparison, we've barely convinced a few hundred to stay with us. No matter, perhaps one day, we'll deal with them. For now, we should be thankful the Americans didn't succeed in wiping us off the map. I'll drink to that victory any day.”
“Yes, a grand 'victory' for international socialism,” griped the lad, “a little faster on the offensive a few years ago and you wouldn't have to pretend it's one.”
True to the man's expectation, Sara's gleeful smile turned the corner at the jab, a rather sullen attitude at his impudence growing. Sternly, she cautioned, “a jab like that could damn you to a life in Siberia, Yevgeny, or worse. Just because you're a well-connected political officer doesn't make you immune. I'm warning you because I don't want to see an idiot spout his head off for a bullet to his skull. You understand?”
From his dour look, Yevgeny appeared a bit bitter at the thought. Sure, he meant it as a joke, but for some reason, he felt the entire escapade meant for nothing. What was the point of spilling so much blood if it simply got everyone back to square one? Sure, he could claim that the North Koreans were saved from destruction, but given that they had fallen back from one end of the country to another, he hardly counted that as anything but a consolation. Still, he had to keep Sara's words in mind. He was speaking out of line and definitely under threat from arrest by his own commanders. Fortunately, only she and Yevgeny were present, and Sara appeared aloof enough not to report it, or at least seemed to consider the matter too trivial.
“Sorry,” he grunted, “it's just... do you honestly believe we've won? Fine, if you want to speak of 'survival', I'll give it to you. But what happened to reunification, when it came so close the Workers Party (of Korea) already had victory celebrations prepared? If that's the case, how can this be considered a victory at all? We've wasted blood just getting back to the same starting point as before.”
Glaring at the disappointment hovering over him, Sara could only sigh in relent. Bending close to him as she laid her forehead on his, she whispered in a less stern, concerned tone, “so what of it? Life can't go our way all the time. Let the imperialists brag all they want. I can safely tell you no one here wants to recall that little fact. You better start learning to hold your tongue. Believe it or not, the truth can hurt, and it hurts a lot.”
“Pak,” a voice soon called out from across the corridor, drawing the two's attention. In the distance, a lone commissar, equally pale as Yevgeny, appeared to be waiting on him, prompting his colleague to back away from Sara. Re-tightening his collar and tie, he quickly greeted the woman with a salute, “another time, then, Colonel Oh.”
“Take care, Stolypin,” the woman responded with a brief salute, her eyes still fixed on him as he took his leave.
Marching away as he forced his head forward, the young man could feel his pace quickening a bit too fast for comfort. His heart was racing for some reason, especially after his superior's shockingly intimate discussion. As he reached his colleague, he noticed a distinctly mischievous grin on his face. To his disappointment, he could tell he was going to have a good laugh, as the elder patted him on the back as if a job well done.
“I see you've been busy, Yevgeny,” he joked, relishing the look on the red-faced junior, “courting a full colonel like a Kavorka. You lucky ass.”
“You misunderstand, Major,” blurted the embarrassed commander, his eyes widening a bit at the comment, “she just bumped into me.”
“Sure, sure, Yevgeny,” he replied in a hearty chuckle off his mustache, wrapping his arm over his shoulder as he ushered the boy along, “it's not like I dispute your taste in women. If you can take 'used and hazardous products', I'll be more than happy to offer blessings. I would go for her too, but you know my wife. She'll dice me and feed me to the dachshunds before she let that slide.”
“What's that supposed to mean,” the hapless boy yelped in a cringe.
Rubbing the lad's shoulders as he released him, all the bemused major quipped was, “you need to grow up, Yevgeny. Maybe the colonel can teach you a few things. Anyway, enough man talk. I got a job for you.”
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Arriving at the door, the young officer deftly watched with grim anticipation as the East Asian guards opened the door. Within, he could see a couple of chairs in front of a table in a faint grey room, illuminated by a single light above. Before him, he could barely make out the appearance of an American G.I., at least from what he assumed from the uniform. But unlike most that his senior had so far interrogated, this man appeared dark-skinned, far from the pale European Americans that they had dealt with so far.
Straightening his tie a bit as he waited for his senior to take his seat, Yevgeny felt a bit intimidated by the grim-looking African American. He had never seen one in person before, no matter how much his superiors and the state media harped about them. The disenfranchised minority in the American homeland, their plight had been a regular target for Soviet propaganda to preach the hypocrisy of the capitalist world. Yevgeny himself learnt that much from the political lectures in his officer training, likely so he could one day confront it. But he was not sure how to address one in person, to his dismay. He hated to admit it, but he himself was starting to judge the G.I. already.
“Yevgeny,” his officer told him, “this is Corporal Adams, United States Army artilleryman. He expressed refusal to be repatriated to the United States and wish to assist us. Colonel Zhao already spoke to him. Perhaps you can ask him a few queries.”
“Zhao,” he queried, “you mean the other bitch?”
“Yevgeny,” griped the major, frowning a bit as his hapless junior blurted an apology over the comment, “Zhao convinced Colonel Adams to settle down in China to... learn the life of socialism. I feel that might not be the best option. I was hoping you might ask him if he wishes to come with us instead.”
Blinking a bit, Yevgeny found his request a bit confusing. True, he himself did not quite like the PLA commander that much, but he found no problems letting the PLA take him in. Exchanging a look with his commander, Yevgeny was not sure what he wanted out of convincing this 'Adams' to come with them instead. But orders were orders, after all. Shrugging, he stated, “ok... I'll try.”
“Right,” the major concluded, as he got up to let him step forward. Adjusting his collar again, the young man appeared hesitant to take the plate. Placing his officer cap on his lap, he strained to get his English out of his mouth.
“Sorry about that,” he spoke to the G.I., watching as his senior stepped out, “he was giving me a brief introduction. Good afternoon, I am Yevgeny Mik- I mean Pak. Pak Min-Hyeong, but people here just call me Yevgeny because I'm... you know.”
“You're Russian, I know,” the G.I. confirmed, looking a bit discomforted by the lad's stammering, “it's not like we had our heads in the dirt. Fagot pilots spouting Russian curses when they get mad, that sort of thing. Can't admit you're here and stuff because no one wants to see the Big Bang and all.”
“Ahh...” Yevgeny grunted in a bit of confusion, trying to comprehend what he was saying, “you mean the MiGs and World War III. Yes, I'm sure. Last one ended just eight years ago. I don't think anyone's eager to fight another. Anyway, my superior told me you spoke with Colonel Zhao. Any particular reason you wish to settle in China?”
“Oh, you mean the China board,” Adams said, “yeah, I spoke to her. Told me I could settle down in the capital, get an education and stuff without no White G-Man telling me to sit in the back of the bus or wait in a separate line.”
“A-Buh-what,” the hapless commissar asked again, this time far more unsure about the slang, “sorry, I only caught education. I'm quite sure the Soviet government would be able to afford a better one for you, but what was that other thing?”
Heaving a sigh, the G.I. appeared to be collecting his words. Dropping the slang, he elaborated, “tell me, Commander 'Pak', have you ever been told your whole life that your life meant shit because you have a different skin colour? I don't expect much from a White man like you – being European and all.”
Surprised, the awkward young man was a bit disturbed by the query. What was going on in America that people were making such wild accusations. Yevgeny felt guilty being unable to imagine it – the Soviet Union never had a substantial African population. Loosening his collar, he answered, “I will admit I don't, but we learn never to judge people by any race. That is enshrined in our constitution.”
“Well, constitutions don't mean jack shit if people don't follow it,” the man replied in a grim, pent-up tone, “'all men are created equal'; that's the first line on our constitution. But for Washington, we only count as three-fifth men, so we don't 'deserve' to be treated equally by them. All my life, we've had to sit at the back of the buses because the whites reserved the front. All my life, we've had to sit in separate classrooms, drink from separate water coolers, and wait in separate lines. All because some white man doesn't dare to breathe the same air as us! I couldn't take going back to that life... The kind of hypocrisy my government is throwing at suburbians.”
“That's why you intend to defect to the Chinese,” he confirmed, “you think they'll treat you better.”
“Not just that, man,” the G.I. affirmed, “because I sincerely believe they know better. I went for the classes. I think I know what I'm doing.”
Pouting a bit, Yevgeny was not sure how to convince him otherwise. He himself had no problems, but he had to ask him to come to Russia instead. He felt a lot like some travel agent having to compete with a competitor selling the Great Wall as a destination. What can he sell to him? Yevgeny himself was uncertain.
“Well, as much as I respect your decision,” he said, “I am very unsure if the Chinese are above judging you by your appearance and race. After all, the vast majority of them are Han Chinese. They are not used to dealing with minorities as we do.”
“And you do,” Adams questioned, feeling a bit curious.
“I believe so,” Yevgeny tried to sell his idea, “of course, you will need time to learn Russian and settle down, but I am sure you will fit in. Believe it or not, a former African slave had risen the ranks of the Russian nobility once. His name was Abram Gannibal. Maybe you might be the next.”
Shaking his head as he gave a appreciative smile, the G.I. replied, “nah, I can't. I'm not that ambitious. I just want a simpler life, one with dignity, not like back home.”
“Well, I'm sure my superiors can afford you one, if you choose,” Yevgeny told him, “don't worry too much if you don't feel comfortable among Europeans again. We will treat you far better than the Americans ever had, maybe even the Chinese.”
“I see,” Adams concurred with a nod, looking down on the table as he appeared in deep thought, “well, if it's not too much to ask; how do you treat your minorities? How do they fare then?”
This stopped Yevgeny in his tracks. In all honesty, living in Leningrad his whole life, the sheltered young man could not honestly tell how the minorities were faring. Where he was, virtually everyone spoke Russian, and looked Slavic to him without comparison. Rarely, if ever, had he encountered anyone but a Russian there, perhaps maybe a Russian-speaking Ukrainian or a Belarussian. Even in his journey across the Trans-Siberian railway, he had failed to notice anyone that seemed remotely different from him. Korea, in fact, was the first time he had seen non-Russians in such great number. And in honesty, it frightened him. A lot.
“I...” he blurted, clearly unable to give an actual answered. His hand gesturing, he almost felt like giving in and admit he genuinely did not know. But before he could give his answer, the door behind burst open in a violent shudder. Jumping a bit as he got off his seat, he turned to face the intruders with apprehension. This time, it was not his superior looking for him. The guards and the officer leading them wore slightly different uniforms from the KPA. They were Chinese.
“What are you doing here, 鬼子，” questioned the officer in clear Russian, a young woman about a head shorter than Yevgeny, with flax, straight black hair and a pair of gleaming spectacles on her nose. A far cry from the 'honeypot' Yevgeny spoken to earlier, the Chinese officer look plain and straight-laced, even a bookworm in all respects. However, Yevgeny knew better than to think little of her. She was the officer in charge of speaking to Adams, and she was not happy with a rival commander around trying to talk him over.
“I was told by Major Barisov to speak to the prisoner, Colonel Zhao,” Yevgeny forced a reply, “so I spoke to him-”
“Don't play dumb with me,” she growled in a stern voice, “he already said he's coming with us once the grace period is over. Your superior told me it was your idea when we confronted him. You think you can pinch him off my nose, boy?”
Yevgeny, predictably, was aghast. He found it hard to believe he was being blamed for a task assigned by his superior. Lost for words, he tried to stammer out a protest, yelling, “what are you saying!? He ordered me to speak with him! I was asking where he wished to emigrate to! How was it my idea!?”
“I heard enough,” the woman, however, threatened, “from both of you. 同志们，把他拉出去，” she ordered her guards, “看他下次还敢跟我鬼鬼祟祟！臭小子！”
To his horror, the hapless youth found himself being hauled shoulder to shoulder by Zhao's guards, panicking and screaming injustice as he was hauled out of the interrogation room. He could still see the shocked G.I.'s face on the way out of the door, confused at the sudden turn of events as the man he was speaking too was being dragged out. Yevgeny himself had no idea what had happened, beyond a fear that his superior had scapegoated him in an attempt to escape Zhao's questioning. Sadly, he himself was about to find out the consequences.
Lieutenant Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin, political officer for the Soviet Air Force, was in for a lot of pain.
Cast
- Soviet Air Force (official designation)
- People's Liberation Army
- U.S. Army POW
- Corporal Clarence Adams[1]
- Yes, he's real. Yes, he defected to China (before returning to the US). No, there wasn't any real efforts by the USSR to poach him, not that I know of.
