Prussia - A Kaliningrad Story (Post WWII USSR Timeline)
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Chapter 7-3
Happy New Year! :3
Karelian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
1977
Karelia, 1977. The heartland of the famed Finnish epic, the Kalevala, the songs of ages past had echoed in the forests for centuries. Passing down their music and traditions by tongue, it was only in the modern age that the Karelian people had preserved their poems in the written word. But in a time when tradition was anathema to national identity, the Finnic-speaking people had had to endure deportation, exile and absorption into the greater Russian nation-state. For all their preaching of the 'union of nations', the Soviets had displayed a distinct lack of tolerance for anyone who did nto subscribe to Russian identity.
Driven through the bumpy dirt road around the remote lakes of the region, a young, up-and-coming officer was embarking on the most difficult mission of his career. For him, it meant the difference between a promotion, a post and a cushy job, and a life of abject suffering in the Siberian wilderness. For Lieutenant Boyarov, the answer seemed clear at first, but his heart, for all his attempts to suppress it, said otherwise. His conscience, he knew, was hounding him, and it was sickening to ignore it.
Halting in front of a rundown log cabin, the officer beside him, a senior by several years, patted him on the shoulder, a grim look on his gaunt face as he tried to put up an emphatic front. Bowing his head, the young man could tell what his superior was going to say, a word of assurance that it was for the best. But much as he tried to deny his guilt, the fact remained of the sin he was about to commit. For all his pretensious denouncement of reactionary tradition, part of him felt dirty, disembarking from the car as he rubbed his hands in anxiety.
Walking before the door, the hapless officer could hear his heart pound in his ears, the silence deafening around him, as if the crows were eager to watch the theatrics. He had never felt this dreadful conducting an arrrst before. Already, he had made his career pinning down black market peddlers and hardened Bratva gangsters. But this was different. This was no cheat or thug. He was a thought criminal.
Standing at the door as he prepared to knock, the lad's hand hesitated as he heard the faint tune of the kantele playing inside. It was sung in an indiscernable tongue, one he had discarded a long time ago when he became involved with the Communist Party. His desire to leave this ugly forest, to dream of a better future in the bustling city of Leningrad... all that culminated in this final moment of betrayal.
And he was not ready at all.
"Hello," a faint voice spoke from within, the kantele's tunes ceasing without warning, "is someone there?"
Startled by the sudden voice, the young man felt ill at his actions. What was he doing at all? Why was he standing in front of this log cabin, of all place? But just as ominous was what would happen if he did not act? His superior was still watching him, as did a pair of armed guards.
"L-Lieutenant Nikolai Boyarov of the MVD," the boy bellowed, trying to muster his usual professional tone, "open up!"
As the door creaked open before him, Boyarov's wavering heart finally sank. Before him, a dishevelled, hunched old man stood before him, his green eyes gleaming as much as his own. It was the look of a man worn out by time, and waiting for death to take him. But the sight of Boyarov seemed to have broken something inside, and he was not alone.
"Son," blurted the surprised elder, the kantele still on hand. Boyarov could no longer bear the sight of him. For his own future and safety, he would break his own heart into pieces...
Baltic Sun Inn
Svetlogorsk, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
October 13, 1986
The West Baltic, 1986. The Iron Curtain, once the rigid fence dividing the Communist East from the rest of the world, was starting to rust. Under the new secretary general, Mikhail Gorbachev, a reformist central government was attempting to reverse the decay, brought by decades of corruption and negligence. Some within his supporters pine for a fading hope, that the utopia promised by the Bolsheviks close to seventy years ago was not a lie this whole time. The policies of 'restructuring' and 'openness' had only just begun, and perhaps, with change, the union could still be saved.
But for all the simmering changes sweeping the nation, one corner of the union appeared virtually unaffected. The western-most and smallest of the Soviet republics, the West Baltic was the dream of one visionary, a name still mired in mystique and controversy. Before Gorbachev, Chairman Stolypin's plan to break down the borders of the divisive nationalist lines had laid the foundations of a non-national republic that, to that day, was caught in a troubling limbo. His arrest, and the denunciation of his policies, had put the West Baltic's existence in jeopardy. But years of wrangling with the West throughout the Third World had distracted Moscow from the issue. In the end, the West Baltic continued to exist as it had always been - a country-sized naval base and a dumping ground for undesirables from their home regimes.
Sitting at the half-empty bar of the German-style inn, the lone television on the bar, a Kaliningrad-made set, the television presenter sternly criticized the failure of the Reykjavik Summit, a failed attempt at mutual nuclear disarmament between the hawkish American president, Ronald Reagan, and Gorbachev. Sitting among the aged retired officers and holiday-goers, Nikolai Boyarov stared at his empty whiskey glass with a forlorn expression. How many years had it been since he got himself a nice captaincy using his own father as collateral? How long had he had to live with that dream? Was his father trying to torment him for his betrayal? Was it God? Boyarov had no idea, and the best he could do at the moment was drown his sorrows in alcohol, as news from the failed Reykjavik Summit filtered from the television set.
"It's already your seventh glass," the bartender remarked concernedly, "any more and you'll kill your liver."
"What do you know," uttered the morose, now retired commander, "can't you see I'm drowning my sorrows?"
"Sir, I run a bar," the bartender retorted, "you're not the first person to get drunk here."
Breaking into a sad chuckle, the mid-aged officer could not help but appreciate the lad's spunk. Blonde, well-built and a scar across the front of his face, the bartender clearly faced a few scraps in his life. His fluent Russian sounded rough, similar to the street thugs that were growing in numbers in Leningrad's urban sprawls. He could not imagine a better suited bartender to maintain order.
"You must have gotten into a few bar fights then," the elder remarked, taking a swig off his cup, "then again, who can afford to come to a place like this."
"You here to forget, Sir," the bartender asked, cleaning a glass with a cloth.
"No, not really," the colonel admitted, "there's someone I want to look for. Someone important to me. He... he was a poet sent to Siberia for writing seditious literature. I heard he was sent to Svetlogorsk for medical rehabilitation."
"'Medical rehabilitation'," the young man went, "from the sound it, he's probably just sent here to die."
"I won't deny that," the colonel went, shaking his head with resignation, "loads of people who aren't that huge a threat are sent here to die. What about you?"
"Don't be silly, old man," grunted the bartender, "I'm no political prisoner. I'm just here to open an inn here. There isn't a shoreline in my hometown to open one of these. If you need help finding your man, you can ask around. What is he? A Balt? Estonian?"
"Karelian," Boyarov answered, "his name is Aamu Pajari. What of it?"
"Karelian... Finnic, I see," the bartender suggested, "if you're looking for Finns, you can speak to Iiro Kärkkäinen. He's the supervisor of a collective farm in Gorbatovka, and one of the Finns' local community leaders. Though, people call him a 'kulak' for earning too much. The West Baltic doesn't seem to follow the same rules on planned economy as the rest."
Boyarov raised an eyebrow hearing his words. While the auspices of Gorbachev's reforms had just started, the former MVD officer was not used to such seditious language. Shrugging, he simply resigned himself to getting used to the changing conditions, placing the tab as he thanked the bartender. But something about Svetlogorsk struck him as odd. It did not feel like it was part of the Soviet Union. The military bases aside, it seemed almost... prosperous. The quaint atmosphere of East Germany's Rügen island came to mind at first. But there was something else... something... liberating.
"There goes nothing," he went, his heart lifted slightly for the first time in years.
Cast
________________________________
Karelian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
1977
Karelia, 1977. The heartland of the famed Finnish epic, the Kalevala, the songs of ages past had echoed in the forests for centuries. Passing down their music and traditions by tongue, it was only in the modern age that the Karelian people had preserved their poems in the written word. But in a time when tradition was anathema to national identity, the Finnic-speaking people had had to endure deportation, exile and absorption into the greater Russian nation-state. For all their preaching of the 'union of nations', the Soviets had displayed a distinct lack of tolerance for anyone who did nto subscribe to Russian identity.
Driven through the bumpy dirt road around the remote lakes of the region, a young, up-and-coming officer was embarking on the most difficult mission of his career. For him, it meant the difference between a promotion, a post and a cushy job, and a life of abject suffering in the Siberian wilderness. For Lieutenant Boyarov, the answer seemed clear at first, but his heart, for all his attempts to suppress it, said otherwise. His conscience, he knew, was hounding him, and it was sickening to ignore it.
Halting in front of a rundown log cabin, the officer beside him, a senior by several years, patted him on the shoulder, a grim look on his gaunt face as he tried to put up an emphatic front. Bowing his head, the young man could tell what his superior was going to say, a word of assurance that it was for the best. But much as he tried to deny his guilt, the fact remained of the sin he was about to commit. For all his pretensious denouncement of reactionary tradition, part of him felt dirty, disembarking from the car as he rubbed his hands in anxiety.
Walking before the door, the hapless officer could hear his heart pound in his ears, the silence deafening around him, as if the crows were eager to watch the theatrics. He had never felt this dreadful conducting an arrrst before. Already, he had made his career pinning down black market peddlers and hardened Bratva gangsters. But this was different. This was no cheat or thug. He was a thought criminal.
Standing at the door as he prepared to knock, the lad's hand hesitated as he heard the faint tune of the kantele playing inside. It was sung in an indiscernable tongue, one he had discarded a long time ago when he became involved with the Communist Party. His desire to leave this ugly forest, to dream of a better future in the bustling city of Leningrad... all that culminated in this final moment of betrayal.
And he was not ready at all.
"Hello," a faint voice spoke from within, the kantele's tunes ceasing without warning, "is someone there?"
Startled by the sudden voice, the young man felt ill at his actions. What was he doing at all? Why was he standing in front of this log cabin, of all place? But just as ominous was what would happen if he did not act? His superior was still watching him, as did a pair of armed guards.
"L-Lieutenant Nikolai Boyarov of the MVD," the boy bellowed, trying to muster his usual professional tone, "open up!"
As the door creaked open before him, Boyarov's wavering heart finally sank. Before him, a dishevelled, hunched old man stood before him, his green eyes gleaming as much as his own. It was the look of a man worn out by time, and waiting for death to take him. But the sight of Boyarov seemed to have broken something inside, and he was not alone.
"Son," blurted the surprised elder, the kantele still on hand. Boyarov could no longer bear the sight of him. For his own future and safety, he would break his own heart into pieces...
Baltic Sun Inn
Svetlogorsk, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
October 13, 1986
The West Baltic, 1986. The Iron Curtain, once the rigid fence dividing the Communist East from the rest of the world, was starting to rust. Under the new secretary general, Mikhail Gorbachev, a reformist central government was attempting to reverse the decay, brought by decades of corruption and negligence. Some within his supporters pine for a fading hope, that the utopia promised by the Bolsheviks close to seventy years ago was not a lie this whole time. The policies of 'restructuring' and 'openness' had only just begun, and perhaps, with change, the union could still be saved.
But for all the simmering changes sweeping the nation, one corner of the union appeared virtually unaffected. The western-most and smallest of the Soviet republics, the West Baltic was the dream of one visionary, a name still mired in mystique and controversy. Before Gorbachev, Chairman Stolypin's plan to break down the borders of the divisive nationalist lines had laid the foundations of a non-national republic that, to that day, was caught in a troubling limbo. His arrest, and the denunciation of his policies, had put the West Baltic's existence in jeopardy. But years of wrangling with the West throughout the Third World had distracted Moscow from the issue. In the end, the West Baltic continued to exist as it had always been - a country-sized naval base and a dumping ground for undesirables from their home regimes.
Sitting at the half-empty bar of the German-style inn, the lone television on the bar, a Kaliningrad-made set, the television presenter sternly criticized the failure of the Reykjavik Summit, a failed attempt at mutual nuclear disarmament between the hawkish American president, Ronald Reagan, and Gorbachev. Sitting among the aged retired officers and holiday-goers, Nikolai Boyarov stared at his empty whiskey glass with a forlorn expression. How many years had it been since he got himself a nice captaincy using his own father as collateral? How long had he had to live with that dream? Was his father trying to torment him for his betrayal? Was it God? Boyarov had no idea, and the best he could do at the moment was drown his sorrows in alcohol, as news from the failed Reykjavik Summit filtered from the television set.
"It's already your seventh glass," the bartender remarked concernedly, "any more and you'll kill your liver."
"What do you know," uttered the morose, now retired commander, "can't you see I'm drowning my sorrows?"
"Sir, I run a bar," the bartender retorted, "you're not the first person to get drunk here."
Breaking into a sad chuckle, the mid-aged officer could not help but appreciate the lad's spunk. Blonde, well-built and a scar across the front of his face, the bartender clearly faced a few scraps in his life. His fluent Russian sounded rough, similar to the street thugs that were growing in numbers in Leningrad's urban sprawls. He could not imagine a better suited bartender to maintain order.
"You must have gotten into a few bar fights then," the elder remarked, taking a swig off his cup, "then again, who can afford to come to a place like this."
"You here to forget, Sir," the bartender asked, cleaning a glass with a cloth.
"No, not really," the colonel admitted, "there's someone I want to look for. Someone important to me. He... he was a poet sent to Siberia for writing seditious literature. I heard he was sent to Svetlogorsk for medical rehabilitation."
"'Medical rehabilitation'," the young man went, "from the sound it, he's probably just sent here to die."
"I won't deny that," the colonel went, shaking his head with resignation, "loads of people who aren't that huge a threat are sent here to die. What about you?"
"Don't be silly, old man," grunted the bartender, "I'm no political prisoner. I'm just here to open an inn here. There isn't a shoreline in my hometown to open one of these. If you need help finding your man, you can ask around. What is he? A Balt? Estonian?"
"Karelian," Boyarov answered, "his name is Aamu Pajari. What of it?"
"Karelian... Finnic, I see," the bartender suggested, "if you're looking for Finns, you can speak to Iiro Kärkkäinen. He's the supervisor of a collective farm in Gorbatovka, and one of the Finns' local community leaders. Though, people call him a 'kulak' for earning too much. The West Baltic doesn't seem to follow the same rules on planned economy as the rest."
Boyarov raised an eyebrow hearing his words. While the auspices of Gorbachev's reforms had just started, the former MVD officer was not used to such seditious language. Shrugging, he simply resigned himself to getting used to the changing conditions, placing the tab as he thanked the bartender. But something about Svetlogorsk struck him as odd. It did not feel like it was part of the Soviet Union. The military bases aside, it seemed almost... prosperous. The quaint atmosphere of East Germany's Rügen island came to mind at first. But there was something else... something... liberating.
"There goes nothing," he went, his heart lifted slightly for the first time in years.
- Colonel (ret.) Nikolai Utrovich Boyarov (CV: ギルベルト・ブーゲンビリア)
- Bartender Augusts Kovalenoks (CV: 8823/はやぶさ)
- Other Name: Август Ефимович Коваленко
- Aamu Pajari (CV: ?)
Last edited:
Bookmark1995
Banned
Is that Boyarov guy a man in a mental limbo between his native culture and the almighty state he serves?
Bookmark1995
Banned
Ironically, it will be the capitalist abomination of a reborn Prussia that would actually allow him to enjoy his Karelian roots.
Quite an irony indeed. Sadly, it's the result of Soviet Russification policy. Cannot blame the man for being torned between his own culture and the government he serves.
Bookmark1995
Banned
It is one of the reasons why the failure of the USSR was probably inevitable: it existed by stomping on the rights of nationalities.
that's true. The USSR kept a lid on nationalities in order to maintain its monolithic control...when it died, the cat came out of the bag.
Not only that, the USSR was designed to be a union of separate but equal nationalities, a salad bowl rather than a melting pot. Stalin took it a step further and turned the nationalities against each other so they wouldn't hurt him. And while assimilation had been done against potentially disloyal minorities, it's far too slow to actually fully Russify the principal ones (Ukrainians, Balts, etc.) and too visible for comfort.
Bookmark1995
Banned
It is a blatant argument against the idea that tyrannies are inherently stable. Tyrannies are like a kennel of beaten and starved dogs. Beaten dogs may bow and scrap, but they do not have loyalty to their master, except for ones who are beaten so hard, they are reduced to empty shells. Once they can, they will bite back.
The nationalities of the USSR never felt like they actually belonged. Gorbachev opening the door was like the kennel releasing the abused and starved dogs before he could instill in them real loyalty, the dogs being the Baltic States and Ukraine.
So much for claims of Internationalism. All in all, Soviet Union in my view is like the resurrected Russian Empire in another form.
If you want more details on the difference and similarities between Tsarist Russia and Soviet Union. This one might helped.
If you want more details on the difference and similarities between Tsarist Russia and Soviet Union. This one might helped.
Hell, the USSR engaged in more ethnic cleansing in 70 years than the Russian Empire ever did in the same timespan.
And just take a look at the Soviet anthem...
Gee! It's almost like the USSR was nothing more than a Russian Empire with Red paint!
Bookmark1995
Banned
To be fair, most major powers are inclined toward hypocrisy.
For decades, America said with a straight-face "we were the land of the free", even though a black man could be executed for stealing less than dollars-and being rude to a white woman, and Mexicans couldn't serve on juries in Texas despite being the FUCKING NATIVES of Texas (That little bit of hypocrisy was apparently the casus belli for LBJ's civil rights efforts).
America, unlike Russia, somewhat matured on the issue of minority rights (I say somewhat because of Roy Moore almost winning an election despite saying that slavery was like Shangri-La proves we can still go two steps back).
Soviet Russia, meanwhile, couldn't evolve (and in some cases backslid, like with the Doctor's Plot) on those issues, and thus Balts and other peoples felt left out of the Soviet regime.
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