Ok, so I overestimated, sorry. Looks like no horror show just yet. Also, sorry for the delays. I have deadlines and exams looming, so I couldn't find much time either. :V
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State Protection Authority (ÁVH) Building, Andrássy út 60
Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic
20th October, 1956
Seated around a dimly lit room, several nervous officers were growing tense at the deteriorating situation in the capital. Once the hive of the dreaded fascist Arrow Cross Party, the Hungarian State Protection Authority, ironically and not, had established themselves in the building as their police headquarters. Under the regime of Mátyás Rákosi, the ÁVH, as it had come to be known as in 1950, had worked to extend Soviet power over Hungary. And just as other Eastern European nation-states had been devoured by the Iron Curtain, Hungary itself faced a lifetime of brutality under the communist secret police.
But all that had suddenly crumbled in the shocking wave of change taking hold on the country. Anger over Rákosi's floundering Five Year Plans, Soviet exploitation of the country and bereft of much needed Marshall Aid from the West, Hungary's economy is facing total and utter collapse. Political repression, a hallmark of communist rule, had not served to stifle, but stiffen resistance to Soviet domination; and the reformist policies of Imre Nagy had seen an attempted loosening of Moscow's grip on the country, one the Kremlin took with great admonishment. Now, cornered with an impending insurrection on their hands, the various commanders of the state security were at a loss at action. Some advocated immediate deployment to crush the rebels, with or without approval. Others were less sure, preferring to wait until a definitive order arrives or when events start to change before moving. The din, growing by the minute to match the anger brewing outside, was matched only by the chiming of piano notes in the background. As the officers bickered, a lone figure quietly tapped on the keyboard to provide a soothing "
Ave Maria", supposedly to calm their nerves. But the music appeared to be creating an opposite effect, rattling the otherwise discomforted officers further.
“This is madness,” one officer hissed as the din churned over the developments, “this wouldn't have happened if not for the damned premier's speech.[2] Rákosi would have never allowed this to happen.”
“Gerő is a goner too,” another remarked, “soon the protesters will converge on the headquarters and demand Nagy's return. We'll be lynched on the streets.”
“To hell with them,” a third cursed, slamming the table in anger, “why can't we just deploy!? We have the weapons! We can put them down-”
“-and what? Spark a revolt,” interjected a fourth, “if that happens, Moscow will have us all arrested for failure no matter what we do. We should wait and see how things transpire before we act.”
“See!? Haven't we done enough seeing,” the previous officer cried, “very soon, we'll be seeing the tips of pitchforks and placards! We can't just wait and see! And stop playing that damn piano! It's frustrating-”
In a deafening surge of jarring, violently struck tunes, the music came to an abrupt, anti-climatic halt as its player jammed her fingers haphazardly on the keyboard. As silence following the noise, the player quietly looked towards the mess of officers stunned by her interruption. Seated under the afternoon shadow, the blonde, young girl in a plain sundress gave a disturbing, courteous smile as she addressed the jittered commanders.
“I believe that panic is not the right course of action at this juncture, kind sirs,” she stated with an eerie, calm smile, “I hoped that my music would calm your nerves, but it is apparent that you find that unnecessary. In all honesty, we cannot act unless the order is passed down from the government, or at least Moscow, to suppress the revolt. However, by now, the dissidents have rallied and have been allowed to amass support from the populous and the armed forces. It is already too late to preempt them. All we can do now is brace the impending storm.”
“Are you telling us to
DIE, woman,” yelled an alarmed, frustrated young captain, taking off his cap as his reddened eyes flared as if ready to burn her on sight, “we have the Red Army on our side! Why should we hide like rats!?”
“Because even with the Red Army at the Austro-Hungarian border, we ourselves cannot guarantee that they will be able to come for us immediately. Takes time to move.” she stated, “we are in a hornet's nest right now, and the beekeepers are still away. Like I said, we have to wait it out until they do, preferably where they can't find us-”
Incensed by the girl's seemingly mocking tone, one of the commanders slammed his fist on the table as he began marching towards her. His face turning into a dark plume of crimson under his peach skin, he yelled, “shut up! I will not be cowed by these rabble! How dare you suggest hiding!? Who do you think you are-GUHH!”
Motioning quickly at the offending player, the officer felt a sudden sting to his chest as the figure jabbed and twisted a stick-like object into the center of his ribcage. Falling back with a slight nudge, he collapsed on the floor in pain, gripping the injured area as he looked at the dropped 'weapon' used to impale him. It was a black piano key, plucked in quick succession from the keyboard as its corresponding place was left empty. Coughing up, he finally took a look up at the assailant who forced him back, cold sweat forming on his head as his colleagues watched aghast at the attack.
“Who am I,” she quipped with nary a change to her jovial smile, stepping out from her seat as she walked into the sunlight cast from its dull windows, “I'm just doing my job, and if you hope to live long enough to stay in yours, then I suggest we scatter before the protesters burn the building down. Take it as a nice vacation. Just be careful not to show yourselves though, unless you wish to be lynched.”
Turning her attention to the petrified staff, the blonde, thick-browed girl informed the others, “rest assured, comrades, Hungary will emerge from this disturbance in triumph. Let the jackals dance while they can. They will learn soon enough just how capricious their American masters are. And when they do... we will kill them all.”
“
Every last one. Will beg. For death.”
It was a job she would take full delight in, even as her smile began to distort and curl, to the discomfort of her own colleagues before her...
Train, enroute to Lviv-Glavny Station
Lvov, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
20th October, 1956
Chugging through the raillines as the surrounding countryside whizzed past around it, a lone passenger train was approaching the western edge the homeland itself. In the distance, the city of Lvov, known as Lviv by the local Ukrainians and Lwow by its former Polish owners, the city was just one of Stalin's many prizes in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War. Unlike Kaliningrad, there was a greater historical basis for the Soviets to claim the area, for although the lands had always been outside Russian control until recently, its Ukrainian inhabitants shared, nominally or not, the same cultural and linguistic ties with their eastern brethren against all odds. But the city, as the heart of East Galicia, had also been the center of fascist sympathy and Ukrainian separatism against their Polish masters. Considered 'Aryanised' by Hitler, many joined the ranks of the SS' native 1st Galician Waffen Grenadier division. Their treachery, in the end, was met with brutal punishment by the Red Army. But even as the train slowed amidst the transforming city landscape, the onlooking commissar riding within had little doubts that some still resent their new Soviet overlords. Separation from the rest of Russian Ukraine had, after all, made the contrasts obvious.
Stepping back from the windows dressed in his usual military coat, Yevgeny could already see the difference. The bourgeoisie Austro-Hungarian architecture of Lviv-Glavny Station hid a cavernous interior completely rebuilt in the familiar style of Soviet Stalinist grandeur. The jarring transition, just one of many, was a sign of the immense task awaiting Kiev in integrating the so-called 'wayward Westerners' into the Ukrainian patrimony. He himself was about to confront these issues on a somewhat larger scale, with plans on turning Kaliningrad Oblast into a 'geographic' rather than 'ethnic' SSR. Integrating whatever ethnic groups he would soon be resettling in the area remained the first and foremost task. It was a challenge the young officer admitted would not be easy, let alone trying to gain approval for the plan at all.
Pacing out into the platform, the clueless commander shifted his head around as he tried to spot the platform he was to swap to. From what Vladimir instructed him, he was to meet his new adjutant at the platform. Stepping towards the platform bound for Budapest[3], he took a moment to reflect while he waited. For some reason, he felt a bit nervous going back to a warzone, even though, barring an occassional F-86 Sabre duelling in the air, his Korean experience was nowhere close to the vicious fighting at the 38th parallel.
“Calm down, Yevgeny,” he tried to calm himself, “just a routine assignment... You'll be safe with the Red Army folks, no need to get jittery...”
“Sir?”
Overcome with a sudder shiver as a random voice popped up beside him, the jolted lad turned to face the interruption as a bit of cold sweat forced itself out of his skin in silence. Before him, a relatively young teen, dressed in a military cadet uniform a bit out of size for him with his own hand luggage in tow. The blonde young man, to his admission, bore a striking resemblance not just to his younger days, but also to Vladimir. The name tag, however, even matched the latter's surname as the straight-laced cadet declared, all the ready to impress yet another unassuming officer.
“Captain Stolypin, I presume, sir,” he spoke in a raised, almost enthusiastic voice.
“Yea... I'm Stolypin, yes,” Yevgeny merely went, hardly matching the junior's excitability with a plain admission.
“Oh, apologies. Junior Lieutenant Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev, at your service,” the lad responded at verbatim, saluting the officer instinctively as Yevgeny returned with a fair bit of lethargy, “I've been sent by Colonel Tonchev to act as your adjutant. I've heard many praises of you from him.”
“Praises,” quipped the bemused lad, “well, I suppose he told you I nearly shat my pants in front of the examiners when I went for my interview for graduation as well. At ease, Valeriy, at ease. I'm not going to tell your brother to mark you down for not keeping a smile on your face 24/7. It's exhausting. I know. I've done it before.”
“Umm, right,” the bewildered junior merely answered, feeling a bit awkward at being at ease as he remained standing like a parade guard, “if I may ask, Sir. How did you know Colonel Tonchev-”
“-is your brother,” Yevgeny quickly concluded, pointing at Valeriy's name tag, please... you yourself introduced your name in full; anyone could have guessed that you're brothers. Don't worry, I'm not one to judge you as some 'prince' piggybacking on a successful hero's legacy. No... I'm not much better myself... not with my family...”
In his own honesty, perhaps Yevgeny did judged Valeriy a bit at first sight. In the nepotism-rife bureaucracy of the Soviet Union, people like him and his new assistant had become the new 'aristocracy', where blood ties to revolutionary roots had become vital keys in the fast track to promotion and power. He tried not to focus too much on them. He tried to justify his parentage. But in reality, Yevgeny knew that his position was very much taken for granted, especially when comparing with his peers, and Sara herself.
“Sir,” Valeriy spoke again, a bit discomforted by his silent naval-gazing, “are you alright?”
Snapping out of his thoughts, the startled lad blurted, “oh yes. Sorry... mind wandering again. We should board the train.”
Almost on instinct (and suspiciously out to impress), the preppy cadet tried to seize Yevgeny's luggage, imploring, “I'll help you with your bags then-”
“No need, no need,” the nervous captain quickly tried to assure him, pulling his luggage out of reach of the cadet, “I don't want to burden you like a crude old man. It's not even that heavy! Hnnnnnnnnnggggggg...”
With that, the hapless, prideful officer forcibly hauled his cumbersome luggage onto the waiting train, his adjutant watching nervously as Yevgeny struggled on board before stepping in, himself.
Notes
- I can't find a period-appropriate picture of this, so... enjoy the evil lair-style deco (or just try to imagine that it's not there.)
- Is sekret speech
- Yevgeny would have to change from Russian gauge to Standard gauge, I presume.
Part 3
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Cast
- Soviet Union
- Hungarian People's Republic
