Here we go, and a bit of an
update on the schools. :3
________________________
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum, Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
10.12 am
Stepping into the Cold War exhibition, the throngs of students were once again approaching the darkness, as dim lights of the room began to illuminate in the drab concrete facade. Grim anticipation awaited many, as the real phase of their lesson was just beginning. Before them, a giant, interactive map of 1960s Eurasia illuminated on a massive table, with an interactive panel for them to control. Highlighted on the map – Prussia itself, then known as Kaliningrad Military Oblast before its transition into the West Baltic SSR. On both sides, portraits decked the walls as they displayed the faces of the men and women who formed the people of the SSR. On the right, the portraits of Soviet bloc officers – Yevgeny included – were lined up in rank and file, with communist regalia and flas declaring their allegiance to the communist states. In contrast, the monochrome portraits of ordinary civilians stood on jagged pillars walls, faded of colour amidst an air of despondence as they faced the communist rulers. Across the room, the split between the orderly idealism of the Soviet regime and the reality faced by its people stood as clear as the World War II exhibition hall before it. Unlike before, however, the effect intended was different. The previous exhibition created the transition between the old and present Prussia. Here, it was the gap between the ruler and the ruled, the disorienting standing between the 'wardens' and 'prisoners' of what many accused to be the largest concentration camp in the world.
Cracking his knuckles as he watched the students assemble, Roman had reason to take this lesson more seriously. Observing the 'sailor' girls from Pilava (Pillau) and their black-uniformed counterparts as they shuttled in, the tensions in the room was already starting to build. Unlike the public and small-scale schools he was dealing with, the private academies on attendance were a lot more hardline, their stylized uniforms as great a status symbol as any. And some of them, students and teachers, tended to have views that veered dangerously to the fringe. Peering at the surroundings, he was sure some were trying to restrain a notable scowl. After all, he was hardly the kind of person who could promise them a story they would want to hear.
"Ok, class, settle," Roman called the class to attention, "let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Now... some admin; later on, I'll be distributing these," he announced, holding up a colored ball from the box, "each colour represents a person that will be featured in the Soviet exhibits, as well as the ethnic group said person is in charge of resettling. When you approach the display and select a group, that colour will highlight the person and ethnicity you'll be researching for your project. Do note, of course, that the one person you will not be doing is Stolypin himself. In any case, the display won't link to him. Each member of the committee, whether in charge of a subgroup or a single ethnicity, played a part in shaping the demographics of the West Baltic SSR. These demographics was to form the basis of future shifts in the post-Soviet era, as emigration of core groups and immigration from outside the former USSR would shape the policies of present and future Prussian governments. Each team will have a representative pick out a ball from the box. You only have one try, and please, put back the ball once you pick it up. I don't have many spares."
Refocusing on the lesson, he explained, “alright, back to business. First off, did you enjoy the exhibition so far? I know my instructions were to meet me here, but to get to this exhibit, you'll have to make your way through.”
The query, for those unfamiliar with him, came as a surprise. Looks were exchanged among the cohort, many of which found his query off. As a hand raised from the crowd eagerly, the professor was quick to point her out. To his hidden dismay, perhaps, it was a St Elisabeth student, a statuesque strawberry blonde with garish mascara on her eyes, disturbing fashion sense and an open 'window' exposing her ample chest.
“Es ist wunderbar, Professor,” the girl squealed gleefully at Roman, as disgust filled the faces of her glaring peers, “I've visited the museum five time already, and every one brings brand new displays to see~! I especially liked the armour of the Teutonic knights... So shiny and intimidating, it looks almost ready to face battle again~!”
“Ah...” the hapless lad went, glancing around as he noticed the unease, “anyone else?”
As his eyes darted around, he could already see the sea of 'marines' trying to jostle for his attention. In all honesty, he could already guess what their answer would be – the Soviet exhibits in the previous and current room would be more likely points of interest for them. Unwilling to escalate the situation, he quickly spotted a young girl in a pristine white, Western-style uniform. To his fortune, her answer was much less controversial.
“I guess the Old Prussian exhibits,” the black-haired girl responded, “the stone idols look fascinating. I was hoping for something as far back as the Roman period, but I guess we know so little of them, there wasn't much to say.”
Raising his finger to ask again, Roman could already sense the animosity from the blonde 'Tankie'. Given how he had deliberately avoided picking out her students, he could tell she was very unhappy. Given he had given St Elisabeth a chance, he felt unsure at giving Orlovskaya's girls the chance. In haste, he picked out whoever appeared the most reasonable of the bunch, a silver-haired girl wearing a braid and a confident look in her eyes.
“The Weimar exhibits,” she responded with an unusual level of grace, far unlike her peers, “I find the jazz titles being featured quite nice to listen to. A shame such prosperity was short-lived. I guess it's what history is for – to prevent the faults of the past.
“Right,” he said, continuing his lecture, “now, some of you might have found them interesting. Others, I assume, just ran ahead because you were late. But one thing I hope you'd keep in mind is that when looking at the exhibition up to this point, what did you see? Do you consider the history played out as if watching a movie – separate from your own reality, or did you see it as part of your own life, and the story of Prussia – this Prussia. What defines our historical narrative? Where does Prussia's history begin?
For those in my class, if you recall, I had one of you answer a query on the founding date of modern Königsberg's founding. One of you answered the Knights, and I disagreed, saying it was founded by the Soviets. However, as I said before as well, there's also no reason you can't refute me, and indeed, there will be some who will contend that the these ties are still very much unbroken, with plenty to justify. But history rarely yields right or wrong answers, especially not for answers lacking a number as mathematics would. The same extends to Prussia as a whole, and a look through the museum and your reaction will show you why.
For some of you, Prussia's history starts right at the beginning, in the times of the pagan Old Prussians at the start of the exhibition. For others, whom I know are many, Prussia dates back to the time of the Teutonic Order and the rise of the Polish Duchy of Prussia. And for a fair lot of you, it starts right here, with the Soviet settlement of Prussia's war-torn ruins and its formation into the West Batlic SSR. And then, for a few,” he explained as he pointed at the passage ahead, his eyes picking out Farah in the crowd, “it starts in the very last room, on August 21st, 1991.
All of them, I would say, are both right and wrong answers. History as a whole, no matter the objectivity of the author, is a matter of perspective. Each point has its value for justification and rebuttal, and if I start asking now... we're not going to be able to finish the lesson by closing time. Still, the one thing you should keep in mind is that perspective play a key role in how you view our past, and you will need to keep in mind both your own views of historical facts, as well as those who disagree with those views. You will need that for your assignments.”
Stepping over to Yevgeny's portrait, Roman explained further, “now, some recap. When I last left off my class, I explained the early days of East Prussia under Soviet rule, and the man who would build the foundations of modern Prussia. Placed under military administration since the end of WWII right up to 1959, the Kaliningrad Military Oblast was the largest closed zone of the Soviet Union, restricted to military personnel and workers sent from the Slavic Soviet republics in its reconstruction. But the last years of the Oblast, landscape of the territory was radically changed under, under the Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization. Under the guidance of Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin, the oblast would make its transition into the West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, the very first created outside the boundaries of nationality that defined the rest of the union's republics. For some, like himself, it was a project aimed at revising a troubled system of segregated republics and autonomous areas in favour of a multicultural fabric that aims to integrate the myriad ethnicities of the Soviet Union. For others, particularly those who were less willing to be sent there, it is a laughable guise for a gulag spanning all 15,100 square-kilometers, the largest concentration camp the world would ever see. To fulfil his goals, he actively set population quotas aimed at changing the demographics of the area in hope of creating a population where no ethnicity dominated the majority. On hindsight, it was a goal so ridiculous it could only be done by force, which many subordinates performed under orders from their state agencies or simply as appeasement. In the end, his unrealistic goals, his shockingly lenient policies for the SSR and his removal as chairman, set the stage for the West Baltic's separation from the USSR three decades later. And all that started with his final assignment in the Hungarian Uprising, as his outlook on Soviet policy, as historians continue to argue, had taken a turn for the worst”
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
It had been a strange few months for Mikalos, not the least due to the bloody aftermath of the uprising. At no time had he doubted that the revolt would fail miserably, and despite the faint hope that the Americans might just paradrop some troops in to save them, the danger of the revolt spiralling into a Third World War was just too much of a disincentive to save the Hungarian people. They, like the East Germans and Poles before them, were now brought to heel through brute force. For some reason, the idea of hope itself appeared absent on this side of the Iron Curtain, a view that the Lithuanian himself was growing very acquainted with as part of the mechanism for oppression.
What was strange, however, was his encounter with Yevgeny.
He had only known him for a few moments, a few days at best. For a first impression, the lad came across as nothing more than a hapless stooge, leapfrogging the hierarchy by the grace of his blood ties and revolutionary part. From the onset, he had already written him off as a craven, deluded clown, no different from the many party cadres who desired better luxuries from the state organism. After all, it was probably the easiest assumption to make of him, a desk job secretary sobbing like a baby at slain dissidents splattered like squashed tomatoes. But the girl who watched him told a very different story. Something just did not seem right to the officer.
Driving his GAZ-69 to the porch, he felt a bit awkward looking being in the middle of a neighbourhood that seemed virtually alien to him. Never mind the Central Asian heat that Father Frost could only migitate in the slightest, Mikalos felt that he was a lot further east than he should. Korean Hangeul accompanied Cyrillic on the signs of family homes, a legacy that, while fast vanishing, remained a tether for these exiled folks to their native land. Many, as he learnt from the classes, were fast losing their tongues, or already had in the course of Stalin's paranoia. The greatest irony, he felt, was that these Koryo-saram had far more reason to despise the Japanese than Stalin had he not acted anyway. Such was the myopia of European leadership, people like him would have been unable to tell the Japanese apart from those they brutally oppressed.
Stepping forward, he tried to spot the home of the man himself. At first, he felt sure that it would have been obvious, where the name 'Stolypin' would have stood out among the masses of three-to-four letter surnames scattered around. It did not take long before he realized his error. As he stopped at the apparent address scribbled for him, the surname 'Pak' instead stood at the front gate. From the onset, he could tell the home was somewhat larger than the rest of the neighbourhood. And yet, the austere, even plain facade contrasted with the proclamations of status and wealth found in state-owned dachas. It was hard not to be mistaken.
Stepping up to the front door, he looked around nervously as if worried about prying eyes. His Soviet officer uniform stood out well under the bright sun and arid surroundings. Even he felt a bit unnerved at how the neighbours might think. After all, a visit from the authorities usually meant bad news for anyone.
“What have I gotten myself into...” he mumbled, hesitating to knock as his raised knuckle halted just inches from the door, “I just happened to be there...”
Something spelt trouble about Yevgeny and his page boy for him... He was sure of it...
Cordon
Budapest, Hungary
24th October, 1956 – Earlier [1]
Nighttime in the Hungarian capital, and the skies seemed none the brighter. Sleepless, strained and ever the straight-laced officer, the Lithuanian watched over a bridge crossing with his cordon as fighting continued to erupt. The sound of gunfire was delirious, and no word came of who their enemies were? Were they going to overturn the current regime and support the protesters, or quash the protesters and support the regime? As far as Mikalos believed, the latter appeared the more likely option. After all, Imre Nagy's clique was, if anything, of dubious loyalty to Moscow. That alone was enough of a casus belli against him, such was the nature of international communism.
His skin prickling in the autumn chill, the sulking commander tried to reach for his coffee as he tried to fight off the cold. Holding the cup, he tried to rub his hands on the furry glove covering the surface, hoping in vain to siphon some warmth back to his frigid fingers. But a honk from a distance caught him off guard, as coffee splattered on his face at a jump. Fortunately or not, it was far too cold to scald him, though equally useless in warming his freezing body.
"What the hell," he grumbled, wiping his face with his handkerchief as the surprised guards started to halt an oncoming GAZ-67 jeep. On board, a panicking, blonde ensign was stammering for access, yelling at the guards as he demanded access past the bridge. Pacing over, he could feel the frustrations burning over at the stooge's actions. However, clutching his fists, he tried hard to resist the urge to punch him, holding steadfast to his professionalism as before.
"...I told you, I'm looking for my superior, Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin! He could be anywhere in the city! Just let me through," the boy demanded, arguing with the exasperated guards as they continued to gesture their hands in refusal. Peering over at the approaching officer, the guards quickly gave way as Kaukenas addressed him. It took a while to notice under the strain and darkness, but he could have sworn he had seen him. Still, he was far more concerned about the ruckus to recall.
"Are you the commander of this cordon," the boy stated imperiously, annoyed at the cordon impeding him as he got out of his jeep. Despite the disparity in rank, Mikalos could tell from the boy's hapless attempts to intimidate him how much he valued his profession in the commissariat. Grimacing a bit, he answered coldly, “yes. Captain Mikalos Kaukenas, 2nd Guards Mechanized Division. What of it?”
Dwarfed by the captain's height, the youth could not hide his discomfort for long. His eyes batting, he toned down his language as he requested, “Junior Lieutenant Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev I demand access past this cordon. One of my superiors has gone missing and I wish to find him-”
“Forget it,” Mikalos shot down almost instantly, his voice raised slightly to put the point across, “the city's under curfew right now. Angry mobs are lynching any one wearing a uniform right now. Your boss is probably hanging on a tree with a noose around his neck at this point. You're going to get yourself killed if you go out there.”
Jittered by the harsh analysis, the lad tried hard to hold in his panic, explaining, “but I can't just look the other way! My broth- Colonel Tonchev has entrusted me to keep a lookout for him. If Stolypin comes back in a body bag, I-”
“I'm sure your
superior would find a good excuse for you,” hissed Mikalos in response, his eyes lowering to spot his name tag, “it's not like they'll put an errand boy to task over a missing officer, Lieutenant
Tonchev.”
In all honesty, his own commander might have reprimanded him for his poor choice of words, especially to a political agent. But Mikalos could not resist the temptation. After all, whatever the boy claimed himself to be, it would be hard for him to deny that he did not have familial relations involved in his assignment. Besides which, the Lithuanian felt a grave sense of disdain for him. As someone who had to climb the hierarchy on his own will, seeing greenhorns leapfrog him with connections filled him with great disgust. He did not want to admit it, but seeing the boy panic gave him a small hint of satisfaction. However, he was well aware of the dangers of offending the wrong people. He had little doubt the boy might squeal on him if this persist.
“But fine,” he relented, half-hoping the boy would not come back alive, “I'll approve. Still, not much hope out there now that the city is in a state of civil war. Besides, what are the odds...”
Stopping short his words, however, the army officer could not help but shield his eyes as an approaching glare hit his eyes from the bridge. Approaching the cordon as the guards called for it to halt, a black Škoda 440 braked slowly in front of the barricade as the chauffer called out in heavily accented Russian. Pacing over, he soon spotted a young Hungarian girl stepping out of the front passenger seat, in a white fur coat slightly tarnished by dust. Watching her sweep herself off, the agitated commander was growing weary of the sudden influx of visitors.
“What now,” he grumbled, before calling out the girl in question, “identify yourself!”
Unlike Valeriy, the girl appeared far more composed, stepping over as she revealed her ID from her sleeve. Smiling against the tyre fires in the distance, she did not appear as shaken by the turmoil, if at all. Her credentials, as the captain realized, showed why. Adjusting his collar a bit, his earlier snark had quickly melted away, unwilling to try the same sarcasm he performed on the coffee boy.
“Margit Haraszti, Hungarian State Protection Authority,” he read off the ID papers, “reason for passing through.”
Tilting her head gingerly, the blonde girl remarked, “I just escorted back an off-duty political officer from the Radio Budapest building. He appeared traumatised by the angry mobs. I fear his safety is in jeopardy if he remains in the city.”
“Wait,” blurted Valeriy, overhearing her words as he tried to race for the cordon. Held back by the guards, he called out, “what's his name!? Can I see him!?”
Exchanging a glance with Mikalos, the girl appeared eager to show him. Shutting his eyes, the captain caught the hint very grudgingly, waving his guards to let him through. As Valeriy clamoured to the car, his nervousness soon dissolved into elation. There was no mistake from the boy. He had found his missing guy.
Pacing over to the car, Mikalos watched with gross apathy as Valeriy helped a figure out, slinging the superior's arm over his shoulder. A blonde young man in a vest and pants, it was hard to tell at he was a political officer at all. In fact, from the looks of it, the only real damage appeared to be psychological. Despite his commitments, the Lithuanian could not help but scoff at the shock on the young man.
“You got lucky, Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich,” the commander loudly hissed with annoyance as the two passed by him, unable to restrain himself much longer, “you could have walked past a protest picket and they'd never know the difference. Did you enjoy your shopping trip? Did you get anything nice for your girlfriend?”
“Are you done,” Valeriy snapped, “I can report you for contempt, you know!”
“That's enough...” the weary lad said, unslinging his arm as he held his hand up to stop him, “that's enough...”
Staggering forward to face Mikalos, the shell-shocked officer appeared somewhat pale, his sleepless eyes highlighted under the light. Slouched, dirty and haggard, it was hard not to think lowly of him. Still, there was a strange glare in his eyes, one that seemed to belong to someone with blood on his hands. It was hard to think he had done anything mandated of his job, but Mikalos would not be terribly surprised if he somehow had.
“Do you think I went out there taking my safety that lightly,” he questioned in a low voice, “do you think I was out there for fun?”
“Yes,” Mikalos insisted, his ego throwing caution to the wind as he continued to taunt him, “I don't care why you went out. The fact that you tried at a time like this is enough for me to call you a fool. Only someone with a death wish would try something like that? Or are you that sick of your job to want to play hero?”
Breaking slowly into an awful cackle, the officer opened his arms out as he went, “a hero?... Eheheheheh... Yes, I want to be a hero... Maybe I'll get a nice medal for killing some kids on the street... Ahahahahahaha... What's wrong!? Not happy with me!? Stuck in a barricade waiting in the freezing night... You must be itching for some action!”
Gritting his teeth in rage, the army captain looked close to sending a fist through Yevgeny's face. Whether he was merely venting off his frustrations or genuinely trying to provoke him, the political aide was agitating him, from the incessant, bitter laughter to the overly casual remarks. Unable to restrain himself, the pissed, black-haired Balt raised his fist as if prepared to hit him. But the lad was, if anything, quicker, seizing his collar as his cackling started to dissolve in sobs.
“Yes... I'm a fool... What am I thinking?...” Yevgeny blubbered in agony, burying his head on Mikalos' chest, “'I want to talk to them...' Who am I to talk!? I don't want to do this... Korea... Here... I could have stopped them... I should have...”
Lowering his fist, Mikalos was quite taken aback by his words. Normally, he would have gloated at the sight of him, cracking under the guilt and pressure of serving the state apparatus. But something about him made the Lithuanian guilty himself. He had accused him of being suicidal. He never thought he was going to admit
that.
“Sorry.”
Giving Yevgeny a tight slap, the captain quickly spun him around as he shove him back to his aide. Adjusting his collar, he stated in a more solemn, professional tone, “if you're done, you should head back to your base and check for injuries. I still have a job to do. Next time, don't run out into danger. Your family wouldn't like you in a body bag.”
Pacing back to his post as he waved for the cordon to open the barricades, the black-haired Mikalos paid little heed to the group any longer. Peering back, he could see the despondent lad with his head bowed, getting his footing back as he followed Valeriy back to the jeep. It had been a stressful evening, and Mikalos was not keen to stretch it out into a full argument. The faster they left, the better.
'I feel like I'm hitting a woman', he thought in grim agitation, leaning against a barricade as Margit's car followed the jeep back, 'somehow, I'm going to regret this.'
Mikalos never thought much after. With the intervention preoccupying his mind, he had put the incident at the back of his mind, all but forgotten. But nothing prepared him for what came after, when the uprising came to end. His life was about to take a sudden spin.
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956 – Present
Hesitating on the porch, Mikalos had to ask himself what went through his mind then. Intimidation, assault, all of which are on KGB agents. He never expected the coffee boy to be this snide, counting down the number of insults he gave that night. On hindsight, he should have been more careful, and just give in to the boy's demands. He never thought his brother was decorated in the Great Patriotic War, and so tied to the inner circle. [2]
“At least I'm not freezing my ass off,” he grumbled, readying to knock.
“You should, Captain,” a woman suddenly crooned in a chillingly sultry voice, “I don't take kindly to strangers hitting my family~, even if he's willing to take the hit.”
Looking back, he spotted the Russian captain just outside the porch, luggage on hand while dressed in a leather winter coat. Bewilderment in his eyes, he appeared a bit surprised to see the Lithuanian, likely not expecting visitors. However, what jittered him was the raven-haired, East Asian woman beside him, holding their toddler by hand as she glared with her ruby eyes. Something frightened him about the woman, even more than the idea that a hapless pencil pusher could nail a bombshell like her.
“Good afternoon, Captain Kaukenas,” she addressed the stunned Lithuanian, “I take it Colonel Tonchev sent you?”
Mikalos could only rue his luck. Yevgeny had connections, and they were hitting the army officer in full.
- From where we last left off
- What do you think will happen to you when you hit a commissar? :3
Cast
- 2016
- Students
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Ozėjo Private Academy/Hosea Private Academy - Til'zit/Tilžė (Tilsit)
- Vernost Stolypinskaya Girls High School - Plov (Pilava/Pillau)
- Teachers
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- 1956
- Committee for State Security (KGB)
- State Protection Authority
- Soviet Army
- Civilian(?)