Glienicke Bridge, West German side
Havel River, Wannsee, West Berlin
Night, 22nd August 1983 C.E.
The 'Bridge of Spies', one of the most famous fronts of the Cold War. Straddling the frontline of the two superpowers, it was the site of many prisoner swaps throughout the latter 20th Century. Since the famed Powers-Abel trade, the two had changed hands many agents who had siphoned information off the opposing side, allowed to run free in their employers' homelands, albeit under close watch.
Driven in a black sedan, young Violett Immergarten was to be traded for a Western spy. Looking over the stubs where her arms once were, the speechless girl, barely reaching puberty, could barely express her emotions. The agent beside her, a gruff brown-haired main with large sideburns, appeared to ignore the girl, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
"Aren't you the least bit curious," questioned the officer, "who you're being traded for?"
Shaking her head, the child felt curious at the strange question. She could not tell what the Western spy was asking. Certainly, it was far from the pressing demands for details of her training program that it was relevant to. Violett, to her own admission, had told her captors, but only since she did not know whether to keep silent as her old handler ordered her. The world around her seemed far beyond her comprehension, and at her capture in Tyre a year ago, she did not even know a single
language.
As they stopped at their end of the Glienicke Bridge, the banners of the Soviet Union and German Democratic Republic could be seen flying in the distance, with grim-faced figures watching from the distance. Escorting Violett out of the car with a cuff to her knee, the Israeli, the man tasked with unlocking the secretive, even heinous training program that had created her, paid scant attention to the frowning Americans around him. He could tell. They wanted her. But her refusal to accept asylum in a Western country troubled them greatly, even when her young age suggested a different course of action. But there was a reason the Israeli wanted Violett traded and having her as a prisoner rather than a defector suited his need.
"This is your last chance, girl," a chiselled American flag officer sporting a bushy mustache spoke to her, kneeling to her level, "once you go over that bridge, you're theirs'. They might even have you shot as a traitor. You sure you don't want to defect?"
Violett, however, merely shook her head, just as she did before. Something about his words made her nervous, and from the Israeli man's sightless glare, he appeared to be hiding his scorn for the elder's opportunism. Patting her head, he stated to the American, "you heard her. She wants the commies to decide her fate. Let her be."
"You would give up a child soldier for a
corpse," the American general hissed in a sudden burst of temper, "have you lost your mind!? You don't even how they made her!"
"I suggest we stop discussing the matter," the shades-wearing man stated coldly, glaring heavily at the general, "they have eyes and ears on our side of the river too."
Without another word, he nudged the young prisoner on, waving his arm to his Communist counterparts as he dragged an ambulance stretcher along. On the call, one, an odd-looking Soviet with a turban began wheeling what appeared like a body bag on a stretcher towards them. On closer inspection, Violett could make out the dark skin of a goateed Levantine in those Soviet garbs, with dark-curled hair slipping out of his turban.
Gazing at the bag itself, Violett felt even less sure at the man's aims. A corpse, she understood, was far less useful compared to a live spy. Was he then trying to put her at the same value as one, or was the dead person really that valuable. As they halted just at the edge of the border, the grim-faced Israeli spoke in Arabic, "is this the girl you wanted?"
Unable to suppress a smirk, the Soviet officer answered in Hebrew, "yes. And is this who you're looking for?"
Gesturing for the Israeli to check as he unzipped the body bag, the Soviet officer stepped back as Violett's captor took a look. It was hard to see in the night, but Violett could barely make out the features of a young blonde woman underneath that bag. The drain of warmth and live blood appeared carefully masked with makeup, a strange act that should be reserved for a funeral. Zipping the bag, the Israeli growled, "would you go that far for a disabled girl, or are you people just
sick?"
"I wouldn't go that far just to make your girl pretty for you, Mr. Cohen," the Soviet officer sneered, his smile at risk of twisting into a scowl, "but my commander did not want you to take things the wrong way. Shame my brother did not get the same sort of respect."
Silent, the Israeli agent merely picked the deceased up in a bridal carry, laying the bag onto his own stretcher with utmost care. Kneeling to unlock Violett's knee cuff, the Israeli told her, "go. They'll take you wherever they'll take you."
Without another word, the child slowly stepped forward, crossing into the Iron Curtain as her former captor hid his grief, wheeling the deceased back to NATO lines. Glancing at the doll-like features of the girl, the Soviet Arab queried, "aren't you worried we might execute you?"
"I... I don't know," Violett finally spoke, her eyes shimmering as she stared at the darkness behind the Communist checkpoint, "I'm confused."
"'Confused'," chimed the officer, showing a more ironic smile, "of course you are. You're a child. It's natural to be confused at things you don't understand. Them," he pointed out the East Germans, "they don't give a damn. Fortunately, you're not their property now."
Waiting on the other side, a strapping blonde Russian officer could be seen watching her intently, a confident smile on his face. The redhead, pale East German, however, did not appear as happy, adjusting the cuffs on his Stasi uniform. As Violett stepped forward to salute, it took her a while to realize her missing arms again. Unable to suppress a light chuckle, the Soviet officer gently lowered her arm stub reassuringly.
"At ease, Violett," the Russian told her, kneeling down to her height, "it must be hard on you. My name is Viktor Tonchev. I'll be taking care of your day-to-day duties from now on."
"Orders," she asked instinctively, glancing at the Stasi as he turned away in a scowl. His eyes shifting for a moment, the Russian said, "I have someone you might like to meet. It'll be a bit of a flight to Kaliningrad."
Bowing her head a bit, Violett was unsure of what he meant. The only person she ever knew, her handler, was dead. Who else would she be interested to meet at that point? Regardless, she merely nodded without another word, following the officer back to his car. Whatever he had in store for him, she would follow duly.
Svetlogorsk Promenade
Svetlogorsk, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
21st October 1986 C.E.
Pacing down the promenade again, it was becoming very clear to the two they had hit a dead end. It was not that Mr. Pajari went missing. It was that he did not
want to be found. And the morose behaviour of his son was not assuring for Violett. What words did he share with him in those letters?
Gazing at her metallic fingers, Violett thought back at the dive shop owner's words. To be a guinea pig to test a pair of experimental prosthetics was a job any child could have taken, so why did Tonchev go this far to get her. Part of it, she had long suspected, could be her past as a Stasi assassin. But if that were the case, why discharge her after that?
"I-It's alright," she stammered in an almost uncharacteristic tone, "we all have regrets in our lives. You, me... If he'd known, surely he might forgive you."
As he halted beside the beach, Boyarov merely made a light sigh. Gazing at the autumn sunset, he admitted, "it wasn't me he hasn't forgiven, Violett. It was
himself. Of all things he could have blamed me for, he chose to blame himself for dragging me with him. I didn't become a policeman for party benefits or whatever. I joined because I wanted to serve the people. Becoming a lawman had always been my dream. In the end, I guess we both couldn't forgive ourselves for what we've done. I... I just wish..."
His words choking, Nikolai appeared to be struggling to restrain his emotions, covering his eyes as he gritted his teeth in remorse. Hesitant, the girl looked over her own hand, unsure of how to comfort him. Her arms were stone cold, especially in the frigid autumn. That, in itself, could not convey the warmth of a person's embrace, something the ex-policeman badly needed. Besides which, who was she to comfort someone, when she herself bore the regrets of her past literally on her shoulders. And yet, why shouldn't she? As she slid her cold hands over his, she could not tell how he would react. As someone who could not feel with her own hands, who was she to make others feel comfortable?
"We all have regrets, Mr. Nikolai," she said, herself unable to restrain her tears, "my hands... the hands I left behind... they're red with blood. I don't think I have the right to reassure you..."
Surprised by her reaction, Nikolai himself could not help but form a gentle smile. Patting her head, he said, "silly girl... You're supposed to be comforting
me... I know you miss him. We all will... And somewhere, across the Baltic somewhere, he's going to miss us too."
Unable to restrain herself, the hapless 'killer' finally slid into his embrace, bawling her eyes as the policeman comforted her. To think he was the one trying to calm the girl down instead... Nikolai was not sure why fate was toying with him so much. Perhaps that was why his father left a trail here. There were still people who needed his help, people his father knew needed his protection and guidance. But whether as a policeman or some other profession, he was still not sure yet. That was a question for another time, as he took the time to let the news sink in.
Nikolai Pajari would have to find his own path.
Exhibition Hall
Amber Sea Paradise, Rauschen, Rauschensky District
17th December 2016 C.E.
Back in the present, the stage was preparing for its final act. Shuffling through the seats in their costumes, Kirke, Terhikki, and Henna quietly rejoined their friends as they sat to watch.
"Nice performances," whispered Astlik, watching Olga and Liliya join them in the row in front, "all of you."
"I was nearly moved to tears there," interjected Iveta, "and the narration..."
"Thanks," Olga answered, "the organizers wanted to make this a tribute to the Finnic poets, but they had trouble picking a person in particular."
"That's why I suggested Aamu Pajari," whispered Henna in a pout, "he's not just Ritva Pajari's grandfather, but he was the writer for many of our songs. Not just in Karelian or Finnish. He had many songs written in the Baltic and Volga Finnic languages when he was imprisoned in Siberia. His son and his student kept them safe until the end of the Soviet Union, where they sent them to a local publisher. The original scripts are now on display in the National Arts Gallery."
"So that's why you wanted Ritva to participate," Milla remarked, "come to think of it. Wasn't my grandfather's dive rental the only one open in Rauschen then?"
"Or Iveta's father, or Terhikki and Henna's, or Selena's," Avelina chimed, "this isn't a big town. I'm very sure we all know each other."
"I guess," Iveta replied, "such a small town..."
That the Pajaris' story was this closely tied to the small town... it seemed strange from the onset. And while Immergarten and Pajari had long left Rauschen, their imprint on the sleepy resort town could still be felt. And it would not end there, as new arrivals filled the void left behind by many of its former residents. In a sense, the story of Rauschen is still being written, just as the stories of Aamu's son and protege are being continued elsewhere.
As the group hushed over the dimming lights, a single synthesizer was illuminated in the spotlight. In the silence, a single set of footsteps could be heard walking on stage, as a woman in blue, a blonde doll-like figure, emerged into the light. Sitting down, the woman with the hair bun style prepared to type on the typewriter, as if performing on a piano. But there was something unique about her hands... it
gleamed.
"Wait," Iveta spoke, "is that..."
"
OHMYGOD," Henna screamed in astonishment, "IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS!?"
Standing centre-stage, a girl with dark long hair and ruby eyes with was preparing for her act. Adjusting the mic on her ear, she announced, "good afternoon, everybody. My name is Antonina Pak, I'm one of Ms. Immergarten's students at the performing arts academy in Kyonigsberg. I hope you enjoyed the festival and the stage performances. The organizers, musicians, and crews have put in their utmost effort for today's festival, and I hope you give them a round of applause."
Pausing for the applause to die down, she continued, "I know this last act was supposed to be performed by Ms. Pajari and Madam Immergarten. But I was told she had a schedule clash earlier in the day, and so couldn't make it. So, Madam Immergarten then suggested I come, and personally drove me here all the way from Kyonigsberg. This last song, written by her, is not in a Finnic language, and it conveys what songs are capable of. She is not a Finn. She could not speak any Finnic tongue. But song helps to convey emotions what words could not. And I am sure many of you could understand the songs today even without knowing the lyrics. So yes, please enjoy our performance."
As the dark-haired Oriental sung to Kirke's melody, Violett's music presented a stark contrast to the lyrical poems of the other acts. Gone were the traditional music and rhymes, understood only to select members of the audience. Gone was the story of the lone poet, who disappeared into the autumn sun in the Baltic Sea. This was no longer a song of Finns. This is Violett's story too.
Amidst the dying, final note, the unseen audience outside the spotlight stood in applause, as the blonde teacher with metallic hands looked on. Her face slightly wrinkled with age, she could not help break into a small smile. When her student unexpected rushed towards her, she found herself pulled out of her seat to a waiting audience, all clapping for the 'outsider' of Aamu's story. Bowing her head, she tried hard to restrain her tears as she curtsied to her watchers.
"Thank you... everyone..."
Cast:
- 1984
- The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations (Mossad) - Israel
- United States Army Berlin - United States
- Committee for State Security (KGB) - Soviet Union
- State Security Service (Stasi) - East Germany
- 2016
- Raushen Girls High School (clockwise from top left)
- Astlik Margaryan (CV: 国木田 花丸)
- Milla Aračić (CV: 松浦 果南)
- Henna Kärkkäinen (CV: 黒澤 ダイヤ)
- Emma van Hoek (CV: 小原 鞠莉)
- Selena Davidovna Yo/Yeo Su-mi (CV: 津島 善子)
- Kirke Harma (CV: 桜内 梨子)
- Iveta Kovalenoka (CV: 高海 千歌)
- Avelina Yurievna Grebennikova (CV: 渡辺 曜)
- Terhikki Kärkkäinen (CV: 黒澤 ルビィ)
- St Nicholas Girls School, Ragnit (left to right)
- Olga Komarova (CV: 鹿角 理亞)
- Liliya Komarova (CV: 鹿角 聖良)
- Finnic Festival Stage Event Chreographer
- Performers
- Serbs (pictured above, in end credits)
- All-Yugoslav Festival Organizers
________________________________
Exhibition Hall
Amber Sea Paradise, Rauschen, Rauschensky District
17th December 2016 C.E.
Pacing out of the stage hall, the girls eagerly chat amongst ourselves as the festivities continued underway. The air was thick with the smell of food, the din was deafening and the crowds were denser than before. As they moved out of the exit for some air, the performing singers were peppered with queries. And Henna, the most disappointed of the girls, needed some consoling.
"Don't worry," Iveta tried to assure her, "I'm sure Pajari will come next year."
"And there I thought they actually got her to come," Henna grumbled.
"Better luck next time, I suppose," Milla said with an awkward smile, "maybe when she's free. Anyway, it's been fun, I best head back to-"
"Milla, there you are! You have to hurry!"
It was Nina, panting heavily from a sprint. She seemed to be panicking, and from the tone of her request, it could only be bad news.
"It's the organizers..." Nina said, "they brought the others..."
"Others," Milla queried, taking a moment for the realization to sink in. Her expressing twisting into shock, she blurted, "you don't mean...?"
Outside
Amber Sea Paradise, Rauschen, Rauschensky District
17th December 2016 C.E.
At the steps outside the aquarium, the Serbian families were beginning to discover the organizers' true intentions. Lined up on the roads were several coaches, bearing as-of-yet unknown visitors to their community gathering. Eyeing their presence like a one-eyed hawk, an old, gruff man in a trench coat could already sense something amiss with their appearance. But it was not until a Tatar girl with messy black hair and clear blue eyes stepped out to call them out with a portable mic. It was hard to make out what the guide in the sky-blue dress was saying, but she appeared to be calling them out.
"What's the meaning of this," the old man heard a scarred, bespectacled photographer with spiky brown hair question their guide in English, "are we expecting visitors?"
Gnawing on her words, the hesitant brunette with the side braid explained in a thick, almost drolling accent, "well, Ms. Liya called me the other day. She thought it might be a good idea if we got all the communities together for a day out. Mingle and something along the lines?"
"'Communities'," queried the elder Đurić, "wait, you didn't-"
"They did," Janko uttered, observing the folks slowly shuffling out of the door, "they gathered all the damn Yugoslavs in Sambia into one place."
True to the old man's fears, it was obvious who had come to join them. Bosniaks, Croats, even Kosovo Albanians... Their idea of a pan-Yugoslav family gathering just put them all that a lot closer to a visit from the riot police. Watching an angry Bosniak elder getting off the bus to protest to the lady, the grim-faced Serbians did not need to guess what he was saying. Many of those who emigrated to Prussia were refugees from the horrific wars that followed the collapse of Yugoslavia. For the families that fled Croatia and Bosnia in a war where ethnicity defined national boundaries, there were as many grievances among the Serbian elders as the others had of them.
"Who brought these murderers here," the Bosniak elder yelled in Bosnian at their guide, pointing his cane at the Serbs gathered atop the steps. A language that is considered separate from Serbian on nationalistic grounds, his protests needed no translation for the scowling crowd of 'Chetniks' the visitors were forced to contend with.
"You people are idiots," grumbled Janko, taking a puff as he awkwardly watched the drama unfold.
Songs, as it turned out, were not always used to overcome differences...
