It's just the style I picked for the story. I can write it without the anime characters, sure. I just happen to like anime.
Prussia - A Kaliningrad Story (Post WWII USSR Timeline)
- Thread starter Remitonov
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Are they using MILES system for Tankery?
On the tanks,gonna bet they'll use loads of Soviet surplus at first.If it became more international companies might make their own teams to promote their products.
On the tanks,gonna bet they'll use loads of Soviet surplus at first.If it became more international companies might make their own teams to promote their products.
First off, note that considering this is a Post-1900s forum, the info below will only be canon in my RP and ASB side story (basically a parallel universe of this TL, only with tankery). I can't put it here simply because it's just too implausible for me, but I do have a separate canon that's close to the original TL here.
That aside, yea, I'll be following GuPz canon for my ASB side TL, so it'll use MILES. Also, the West Baltic had six tankery schools in 1991, all of whom use Soviet surpluses. Only one (Vernost) escaped closure after independence, while St Elisabeth became the first post-war tankery school to form, using Panzers, no less. My RP is set ahead of time, in September (which is some time after this story will end in canon), and will look into the third tankery school to form, Rauschen Girls High. By now, tanks from other countries are readily accessible, so no need to use Soviet surplus.
Its just really funny would do a chapter about globalisation and how japanese anime has become prominent in prussia?
Well, it's just one of many fandoms, and one I admit wouldn't be that popular in this part of the world (except France. Je suis animu). I would say K-Pop and K-dramas would hold more sway than anime in Prussia (Koryo-saram, primarily), but even that doesn't compare to American, European or Russian pop culture.
Chapter 4-3
Here we go, and a bit of an update on the schools. :3
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.
Part 3
________________________
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum, Kyonigsberg, Prussia23 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.
Part 3
- From where we last left off
- What do you think will happen to you when you hit a commissar? :3
- 2016
- Students
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Saana Leppälä (CV: 江ノ島 盾子)
- Ozėjo Private Academy/Hosea Private Academy - Til'zit/Tilžė (Tilsit)
- Akvilė Vilkaite (CV: 玲奈 和泉)
- Vernost Stolypinskaya Girls High School - Plov (Pilava/Pillau)
- Agrafena Timofeyevna Ulrikh (CV: 白鳳院 涼子)
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Teachers
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Assist. Prof. Roman Vissariovich Vorarlberg (CV: アドルフ・K・ヴァイスマン / 伊佐那 社)
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Students
- 1956
- Committee for State Security (KGB)
- Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト)
- Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
- State Protection Authority
- Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬)
- Soviet Army
- Cpt. Mikalos Kaukėnas (CV: アイン・ダルトン)
- Civilian(?)
- Oh Sa Rang/Sara Petrovna Oh (CV: ベアトリクス・ブレーメ)
- Committee for State Security (KGB)
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IFV update. :3
New totally-not-BMD-4 design. :3
The BMD-3O (Russian: Обновить, Obnovit'), also known as the 'Halbbruder' (German: Half-Brother). An upgrade of the BMD series IFVs by Prussia's Machabeli Industries from the current BMD-3A1 (itself an earlier modification by Machabeli), the Halbbruder is slated as a strong contender in the airborne IFV market, in direct competition to Kurganmashzavod's BMD-4M. Named after a rank in the military of the Teutonic Knights, the BMD-3O integrates the old BMD series with newly-available Western technology, bringing the vehicle in line with NATO standards as part of Prussian defence strategy. With a completely redesigned turret based on the M2 Bradley, the BMD-3O is armed with two primary armaments, a 30mm Mk44 Bushmaster II and a 100mm rifled gun (based on the 2A70 gun/launcher), capable of firing an indigenous development of the 9M117 Bastion ATGM, the Djerid.
Like many of Machabeli's products, the components of the BMD-3s inherited from the Soviet Union, particularly the 2A70 gun and the 9M117 Bastion anti-tank missiles, were painstakingly reverse-engineered and replicated, with obsolete parts replaced with more advanced parts or redesigned. When unveiled in Prussia's 20th anniversary celebrations in 2011, many were quick to note the similarities with the Russian BMD-4. Some in Russia even accused Prussia of military espionage, with a stolen BMD-4 design disguised with a Bradley-esque turret. However, Machabeli and Prussia's defence ministry had steadfastly denied allegations, stating the difference in the upgrade package used for the BMD-3O. With an export variant upgrade package being marketed to countries in the former Soviet bloc (alongside with the BMP-3O), the company had already secured deals with Ukraine and Uzbekistan to modernize their BMD-1 and 2 stocks.
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Status report: About three pages covered, but it's still coming in slowly. If there's anything you want me to add regarding the demographic changes, feel free to highlight. I'll be going through it in the next update. :3
Also, coming soon on the ASB forum...
St. Elisabeth Catholic Girls Academy, the bastion of Prussia's Teutonic revival. Since the rise of its Panzer teams two years ago, the inheritors of the Teutonic Order had only known of defeat. Against the dreaded Slavic rivals in Pillau and the arrogant challengers across Europe, the sisters have been savaged on all sides, often failing to put a dent in the enemy ranks. And yet many refused to change their ways, and fellow knights would sooner fight between themselves than to unite against common foes. For too long, all anyone faced was a pale imitation of the feared crusaders, disunited, disloyal and laughably easy to rout.
Too bad they haven't faced the Turk.
(Alternate title art, for those who had seen my RP)
EDIT: IS HERE
Also, coming soon on the ASB forum...
(Now Playing: The War - The Magnificent Century Soundtrack)
St. Elisabeth Catholic Girls Academy, the bastion of Prussia's Teutonic revival. Since the rise of its Panzer teams two years ago, the inheritors of the Teutonic Order had only known of defeat. Against the dreaded Slavic rivals in Pillau and the arrogant challengers across Europe, the sisters have been savaged on all sides, often failing to put a dent in the enemy ranks. And yet many refused to change their ways, and fellow knights would sooner fight between themselves than to unite against common foes. For too long, all anyone faced was a pale imitation of the feared crusaders, disunited, disloyal and laughably easy to rout.
Too bad they haven't faced the Turk.
EDIT: IS HERE
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Chapter 4-4
I wish I can get an ethnic map of the USSR out, but I can't seem to find one I like. :|
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
A home... It had been something the young army captain had not seen in a long time. For as long as he recalled, he had only seen the four walls of his bunk, and ever so often, a new assignment would force him to move, setting up shop wherever the order points. Looking around the disturbing saccharine décor of 'home sweet home' signs, sofas and pictures, it looked almost like a carbon copy of an American suburban home. Peering at the raven-haired 'housewife' making tea, however, it was hard not to suspect this might actually be the case. It was a surrealist film in the making. The quaint little middle-income home in the middle of a steppes city; the happy breadwinner arranging his notes for a colleague on a business discussion; the beautiful homemaker and her child in the kitchen... Nothing seemed right about this family.
Nothing...
“Sorry about that,” Yevgeny blurted, a mass of charts in his arm as he tried not to drop the mess, “just got back from Yerevan. Nice timing you got. Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long.”
“No, not really,” Mikalos spoke, cordial as always, “I was just told to come by today. Why'd you head out anyway? Holiday?”
“Sort of... been travelling for a bit. Needed to clear my head,” the commander went, “thought it'll be good to spend some time with Sara and my boy. I've been at work way too long.”
“Yeah...” the Lithuanian spoke, his eyes shifting at the kitchen door, “of all the people to wed...”
“You'd think someone like me would have someone dour, do you,” he quipped half-joking, spreading his charts on the table, “I don't blame you. Sara's... exactly what you'd expect from the intelligence service. I suspect many of my superiors are very angry with me for pulling her out of the job. I was even thinking of being the house-husband myself.”
“Quite the henpecked type,” Mikalos quipped back, wasting no time to share a joking jab, “no wonder she married you. Maybe she's expecting more.”
“What, like betting on a future premier,” Yevgeny replied, breaking into a chuckle, “no, I don't think I have that sort of ambition.”
Sharing a chuckle himself, Mikalos' attention turned back to the documents on the coffee table. Charts, statistics, even maps... it looked like the project of an economist or census desk worker. Facing the lad, he asked in a more serious tone, “Stolypin. I was told by Colonel Tonchev that you needed some help regarding a project... What is this?”
Giving a coy smile, Yevgeny slowly rearranged the documents, bringing the map into the fore as he tapped on a point. On it, the entirety of northern Eurasia – the Soviet Union and Europe – was present, and his finger points to a small corner on the western end of the USSR.
“The future,” he said, pointing to Kaliningrad Military Oblast, “a world without boundaries. A union without nationalities.”
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
“...the plan devised by Stolypin was radical as it was daunting,” Vorarlberg explained, “taking control an entirely, almost exclusively Russophone territory and drowning it in minorities to whittle down its share. His goal, to create a territory where no single ethnicity, groups of ethnicities or religion dominated the area – the anti-thesis to the nationalist republics of the USSR. His hope was that the creation of an 'international' SSR and an analysis of its social evolution would pave the way for a reform of the SSR system, wiping away the policy of segregated nationalities by republics and autonomous oblasts, which was prone to fostering interracial hate rather than friendship. He wanted to prove, essentially, that the more people interact, the more they'll understand and the more the notion of the 'other' will break down. And... as we know much later on..." he recounted with a grim hint, "he was right on the SSRs."
"However," he elaborated, stepping around the illuminated digital map in the middle of the room as he tapped on the map like a piano, "his stated policies of attracting migrants to the territory, as many would raise out, was far from sufficient. While providing economic opportunities and removing the draconian Stalinist-era laws barring the return of exiles to Europe would attract migrants to Kaliningrad, ultimately, there is only so much persuasion can do. In the end, Stolypin became, unwittingly or not, complicit in the largest deportation movement since Stalin's purges. The scale, while nothing compared to the notoriety of the Man of Steel, was enormous in itself, and its biggest irony,” he explained, tapping the interactive board, “was that for every train that had brought exiles back from the Siberian wilderness, there was another heading east from the satellite states, deporting suspected dissidents and attempted defectors to Kaliningrad, where escape is difficult, if not impossible.”
Illuminating the grounds and train lines on the interactive map, a myriad of colours connected to Kaliningrad like a web, with each shade representing an ethnic group. Each plot represented an area where the migrants came from, and each line the paths taken to what was to be the West Baltic SSR. Most, as the students expected, came directly from the countries and republics representative of them. Others, as it turned out, came from the most unlikely areas, many of whom were in Siberia and Central Asia; the results of Stalin's merciless expulsions and engineered population change...
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
“...you're insane,” griped Mikalos as he looked at the arrow markings on the map, “you intend to talk them to death? I admit, there's probably a fair few who's looking for a ticket out of the wastes of Central Asia and Siberia, but do you really think you can get a mirror image of the USSR in a small oblast?”
“I'm not looking to make an exact mirror statistically,” Yevgeny blurted, feeling a bit awkward at his chastising, “who on earth can? I just believe that I can reduce the proportion of Russians in the oblast to a level where they won't think to dominate the rest of the population.”
“You know that's ridiculous,” Mikalos stated coldly, “you might as well be giving out free rations and no family from Eastern Europe would even think to move in anyway. There's a reason why the migrations are moving westwards. I... don't want to have to say this but...”
Shutting his eyes, Yevgeny could already tell what he meant. He could not deny that the capitalist system was a tried and tested system for generating wealth. And many seeking better opportunities would seize the chance to run, people who saw no future here, where their achievements would simply be confiscated by the state. Should he blame them for their so-called 'selfish tendencies'? Was there any way to stop them. Short of brute force, improving the economic system was a prime objective. But the command economy today was far out of his hands right now, and he dreaded what the army officer was suggesting.
“I know...” he went, “until the day we can provide a better life for them, they will continue to run. I really don't want to resort to force for this. I don't want to be another 'Stalin', you know.”
“If you want results, however,” Mikalos admitted, “you have to be prepared to force the issue if necessary. Cheating aside, you would need to consider alternatives to boost immigration. Unsavoury, yes, but what else are you going to do?”
Turning his gaze away, Yevgeny appeared lost for words, unwilling to answer the obvious. Despite his reservations, to get even close to the population quotas he mandated would require a large measure of force. He would have to resort to deportations to achieve his targets, and he was not keen on imprisoning so many when the aim of his project was for the people's benefit. In short, he was veering dangerously close to being a Stalinist ideologue. And despite his best efforts, his spite was showing on his face.
Bowing his head as he gave the lad a moment of quiet, Mikalos' eyes drifted on an adjacent document as he picked up the paper. On it, he recognized the Latin script written beside the Cyrillic. It was a list of names, most of whom were Lithuanian.[1]
“Stolypin,” he questioned, a heavy tone in his voice, “what is this?”
“Oh,” Yevgeny replied, spotting the list in his hand, “just an idea... You said I have to use force to get people in the city... I thought, maybe it's possible to convince some exiles to return?...”
Laying the document on the table in a serious look, Mikalos questioned, “you do realize the reason for their exile, right? They're enemies of the state. Criminals and subversives-”
“Do you really believe that,” Yevgeny cut in, flashing a cynical glare, “that they were enemies? These are women, children and elderly... do we damn the families of rebels just because they're related? And how do we even know... Comrade Stalin sent entire races to Siberia and Central Asia solely on his own intuition.[2] And how many time had he been right? If I accused you of treason, should you be sent east because I said so?”
For a moment, the captain's heart skipped a beat as Yevgeny raised his hand at him in a gun pose. He understood what he meant. He knew fully well he only meant to highlight a point. But just looking at the otherwise average-looking lad giving that grim stare... It almost made him reach for his gun on reflex...
“What's wrong, don't me that look,” Yevgeny quipped, lightening his tone again as he gave a nervous smile, “you look like you were going to silence me or something. Relax.”
“A-Ah...” Mikalos blurted, fazed by his own carelessness, “sorry... I don't think we should be questioning the intentions of the late Secretary General so openly. I mean, you could lose your job, and worse.”
“I guess so...” mused Yevgeny, looking down at the map again, “still, if at all possible, I want to welcome them, even if no one else would. It's not fair... none of it is...”
Focusing his eyes on the vast expanse of Central Asia and Siberia, Mikalos was not sure what to say. They skirting the law as it was, and with his rank and connections, it would be next to impossible for Yevgeny to bend the rules. He was asking for a purge at this rate, and even the officer himself knew he was treading dangerous waters. But Yevgeny was, if anything, unrelenting. He was not about to give up without trying. And he was willing to game the system to right a wrong that was never his business.
“You don't have to give your answer just yet,” Yevgeny said, “I still need to wait for Tonchev to obtain the approvals from the Eastern European heads. It's ok if you're not on board, but I do hope you'll join.”
Watching the lad get on his feet, Mikalos took a bit to let the plan sink in. It seemed way too ambitious to avoid attracting the ire of any jealous higher-up, and the potential for failure far too high. Moreover, he had no sympathies for the system, and no reason to aid a government stooge in his work. Still, a thought occurred to him that he had put behind his head at the start – why him?
“Why'd you ask me, Stolypin,” queried Mikalos, looking sceptical at his intentions, “I'm sure you have plenty of colleagues from the Baltic states who would be more eager to help you. Why me?”
Pausing at his words, the blonde could not help but make a small smile. Offering his hand to send him off, he answered simply, “because I need someone who can say 'no'.”
The irony as usual, was not lost. Sighing at his words, Mikalos could not help but admit that for once, he might give it some thought, if only because it was... interesting.
"Exiles, huh..." he mused to himself, intrigued by Yevgeny's suggestion as the lad saw him off, "I guess... I'll think about it..."
Part 4
Notes:
Cast
_________________________________
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
A home... It had been something the young army captain had not seen in a long time. For as long as he recalled, he had only seen the four walls of his bunk, and ever so often, a new assignment would force him to move, setting up shop wherever the order points. Looking around the disturbing saccharine décor of 'home sweet home' signs, sofas and pictures, it looked almost like a carbon copy of an American suburban home. Peering at the raven-haired 'housewife' making tea, however, it was hard not to suspect this might actually be the case. It was a surrealist film in the making. The quaint little middle-income home in the middle of a steppes city; the happy breadwinner arranging his notes for a colleague on a business discussion; the beautiful homemaker and her child in the kitchen... Nothing seemed right about this family.
Nothing...
“Sorry about that,” Yevgeny blurted, a mass of charts in his arm as he tried not to drop the mess, “just got back from Yerevan. Nice timing you got. Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long.”
“No, not really,” Mikalos spoke, cordial as always, “I was just told to come by today. Why'd you head out anyway? Holiday?”
“Sort of... been travelling for a bit. Needed to clear my head,” the commander went, “thought it'll be good to spend some time with Sara and my boy. I've been at work way too long.”
“Yeah...” the Lithuanian spoke, his eyes shifting at the kitchen door, “of all the people to wed...”
“You'd think someone like me would have someone dour, do you,” he quipped half-joking, spreading his charts on the table, “I don't blame you. Sara's... exactly what you'd expect from the intelligence service. I suspect many of my superiors are very angry with me for pulling her out of the job. I was even thinking of being the house-husband myself.”
“Quite the henpecked type,” Mikalos quipped back, wasting no time to share a joking jab, “no wonder she married you. Maybe she's expecting more.”
“What, like betting on a future premier,” Yevgeny replied, breaking into a chuckle, “no, I don't think I have that sort of ambition.”
Sharing a chuckle himself, Mikalos' attention turned back to the documents on the coffee table. Charts, statistics, even maps... it looked like the project of an economist or census desk worker. Facing the lad, he asked in a more serious tone, “Stolypin. I was told by Colonel Tonchev that you needed some help regarding a project... What is this?”
Giving a coy smile, Yevgeny slowly rearranged the documents, bringing the map into the fore as he tapped on a point. On it, the entirety of northern Eurasia – the Soviet Union and Europe – was present, and his finger points to a small corner on the western end of the USSR.
“The future,” he said, pointing to Kaliningrad Military Oblast, “a world without boundaries. A union without nationalities.”
_________________________________
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
“...the plan devised by Stolypin was radical as it was daunting,” Vorarlberg explained, “taking control an entirely, almost exclusively Russophone territory and drowning it in minorities to whittle down its share. His goal, to create a territory where no single ethnicity, groups of ethnicities or religion dominated the area – the anti-thesis to the nationalist republics of the USSR. His hope was that the creation of an 'international' SSR and an analysis of its social evolution would pave the way for a reform of the SSR system, wiping away the policy of segregated nationalities by republics and autonomous oblasts, which was prone to fostering interracial hate rather than friendship. He wanted to prove, essentially, that the more people interact, the more they'll understand and the more the notion of the 'other' will break down. And... as we know much later on..." he recounted with a grim hint, "he was right on the SSRs."
"However," he elaborated, stepping around the illuminated digital map in the middle of the room as he tapped on the map like a piano, "his stated policies of attracting migrants to the territory, as many would raise out, was far from sufficient. While providing economic opportunities and removing the draconian Stalinist-era laws barring the return of exiles to Europe would attract migrants to Kaliningrad, ultimately, there is only so much persuasion can do. In the end, Stolypin became, unwittingly or not, complicit in the largest deportation movement since Stalin's purges. The scale, while nothing compared to the notoriety of the Man of Steel, was enormous in itself, and its biggest irony,” he explained, tapping the interactive board, “was that for every train that had brought exiles back from the Siberian wilderness, there was another heading east from the satellite states, deporting suspected dissidents and attempted defectors to Kaliningrad, where escape is difficult, if not impossible.”
Illuminating the grounds and train lines on the interactive map, a myriad of colours connected to Kaliningrad like a web, with each shade representing an ethnic group. Each plot represented an area where the migrants came from, and each line the paths taken to what was to be the West Baltic SSR. Most, as the students expected, came directly from the countries and republics representative of them. Others, as it turned out, came from the most unlikely areas, many of whom were in Siberia and Central Asia; the results of Stalin's merciless expulsions and engineered population change...
_________________________________
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
“...you're insane,” griped Mikalos as he looked at the arrow markings on the map, “you intend to talk them to death? I admit, there's probably a fair few who's looking for a ticket out of the wastes of Central Asia and Siberia, but do you really think you can get a mirror image of the USSR in a small oblast?”
“I'm not looking to make an exact mirror statistically,” Yevgeny blurted, feeling a bit awkward at his chastising, “who on earth can? I just believe that I can reduce the proportion of Russians in the oblast to a level where they won't think to dominate the rest of the population.”
“You know that's ridiculous,” Mikalos stated coldly, “you might as well be giving out free rations and no family from Eastern Europe would even think to move in anyway. There's a reason why the migrations are moving westwards. I... don't want to have to say this but...”
Shutting his eyes, Yevgeny could already tell what he meant. He could not deny that the capitalist system was a tried and tested system for generating wealth. And many seeking better opportunities would seize the chance to run, people who saw no future here, where their achievements would simply be confiscated by the state. Should he blame them for their so-called 'selfish tendencies'? Was there any way to stop them. Short of brute force, improving the economic system was a prime objective. But the command economy today was far out of his hands right now, and he dreaded what the army officer was suggesting.
“I know...” he went, “until the day we can provide a better life for them, they will continue to run. I really don't want to resort to force for this. I don't want to be another 'Stalin', you know.”
“If you want results, however,” Mikalos admitted, “you have to be prepared to force the issue if necessary. Cheating aside, you would need to consider alternatives to boost immigration. Unsavoury, yes, but what else are you going to do?”
Turning his gaze away, Yevgeny appeared lost for words, unwilling to answer the obvious. Despite his reservations, to get even close to the population quotas he mandated would require a large measure of force. He would have to resort to deportations to achieve his targets, and he was not keen on imprisoning so many when the aim of his project was for the people's benefit. In short, he was veering dangerously close to being a Stalinist ideologue. And despite his best efforts, his spite was showing on his face.
Bowing his head as he gave the lad a moment of quiet, Mikalos' eyes drifted on an adjacent document as he picked up the paper. On it, he recognized the Latin script written beside the Cyrillic. It was a list of names, most of whom were Lithuanian.[1]
“Stolypin,” he questioned, a heavy tone in his voice, “what is this?”
“Oh,” Yevgeny replied, spotting the list in his hand, “just an idea... You said I have to use force to get people in the city... I thought, maybe it's possible to convince some exiles to return?...”
Laying the document on the table in a serious look, Mikalos questioned, “you do realize the reason for their exile, right? They're enemies of the state. Criminals and subversives-”
“Do you really believe that,” Yevgeny cut in, flashing a cynical glare, “that they were enemies? These are women, children and elderly... do we damn the families of rebels just because they're related? And how do we even know... Comrade Stalin sent entire races to Siberia and Central Asia solely on his own intuition.[2] And how many time had he been right? If I accused you of treason, should you be sent east because I said so?”
For a moment, the captain's heart skipped a beat as Yevgeny raised his hand at him in a gun pose. He understood what he meant. He knew fully well he only meant to highlight a point. But just looking at the otherwise average-looking lad giving that grim stare... It almost made him reach for his gun on reflex...
“What's wrong, don't me that look,” Yevgeny quipped, lightening his tone again as he gave a nervous smile, “you look like you were going to silence me or something. Relax.”
“A-Ah...” Mikalos blurted, fazed by his own carelessness, “sorry... I don't think we should be questioning the intentions of the late Secretary General so openly. I mean, you could lose your job, and worse.”
“I guess so...” mused Yevgeny, looking down at the map again, “still, if at all possible, I want to welcome them, even if no one else would. It's not fair... none of it is...”
Focusing his eyes on the vast expanse of Central Asia and Siberia, Mikalos was not sure what to say. They skirting the law as it was, and with his rank and connections, it would be next to impossible for Yevgeny to bend the rules. He was asking for a purge at this rate, and even the officer himself knew he was treading dangerous waters. But Yevgeny was, if anything, unrelenting. He was not about to give up without trying. And he was willing to game the system to right a wrong that was never his business.
“You don't have to give your answer just yet,” Yevgeny said, “I still need to wait for Tonchev to obtain the approvals from the Eastern European heads. It's ok if you're not on board, but I do hope you'll join.”
Watching the lad get on his feet, Mikalos took a bit to let the plan sink in. It seemed way too ambitious to avoid attracting the ire of any jealous higher-up, and the potential for failure far too high. Moreover, he had no sympathies for the system, and no reason to aid a government stooge in his work. Still, a thought occurred to him that he had put behind his head at the start – why him?
“Why'd you ask me, Stolypin,” queried Mikalos, looking sceptical at his intentions, “I'm sure you have plenty of colleagues from the Baltic states who would be more eager to help you. Why me?”
Pausing at his words, the blonde could not help but make a small smile. Offering his hand to send him off, he answered simply, “because I need someone who can say 'no'.”
The irony as usual, was not lost. Sighing at his words, Mikalos could not help but admit that for once, he might give it some thought, if only because it was... interesting.
"Exiles, huh..." he mused to himself, intrigued by Yevgeny's suggestion as the lad saw him off, "I guess... I'll think about it..."
Part 4
Notes:
- Operation Priboi - Deportation of relatives and supporters of anti-Soviet Baltic partisans, the Forest Brothers, to inhospitable areas in the USSR. Same as OTL.
- Too many to list... Same as OTL.
Cast
- 2016
- Teachers
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Assist. Prof. Roman Vissariovich Vorarlberg (CV: アドルフ・K・ヴァイスマン / 伊佐那 社)
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Teachers
- 1956
- Committee for State Security (KGB)
- Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト)
- Soviet Army
- Cpt. Mikalos Kaukėnas (CV: アイン・ダルトン)
- Civilian(?)
- Oh Sa Rang/Sara Petrovna Oh (CV: ベアトリクス・ブレーメ)
- Committee for State Security (KGB)
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Chapter 4-5 Preview
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
To say that his job got a lot more stressful was an understatement. Just a few minutes in and Roman was already getting some very heavy glares. His usual cadre of students did not seem to mind, but it was the more radical sections that was in danger of turning into an angry mob. The Kronstadt get-ups of Vernost's female cohort, by far, appeared the most irate, not surprisingly due his mention of the deportations. Roman could not hide that fact, sadly. The reality was that the communist governments of Eastern Europe, barring neutral Yugoslavia, were all too eager to throw troublesome elements of their society for the USSR to handle.[1]
“Anyway, queries? Clarifications? Angry objections,” Roman quipped half-jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
To his surprise, a mass of hands began to raise as the students began to stab questions right at him. A deafening echoing throughout a room, the professor was not sure if they wanted to know more or were simply heckling him. Changing tact, he quickly corrected, “quiet! Quiet! I can't hear a single coherent word like this! Okay, new plan. Discuss with your teachers what you want to ask and have them raise their hands. That way, I can address them better.
The plan, surprisingly, worked like a charm, the noise level plummeting enough to avoid the watch of the security guards standing nearby. Watching the huddles, he breathed a sigh of relief over avoiding the coming mayhem. He had underestimated the size of some of the cohorts, with schools like St Elisabeth and Vernost taking up a far larger proportion of students.
“Yes, Miss Puusepp,” he quickly pointed out a calm, bespectacled brunette, the teacher for Ozejo. Bending his head forward a bit, he was quick to notice her peculiar, oriental dress. On closer inspection, he realized she was wearing a lab coat over a kimono, squinting his eyes a bit at the bizarre look. Resisting the urge to shake his head, however, he tried to focus back on his task.
“Right, Professor,” uttered the teacher, bowing her head a bit in respect, “just something my students want to clarify. Captain Kaukenas joined the committee in the end, I presume? After all, his portrait on the wall is proof, is it not?”
“You had to spoil it for the rest, didn't you,” he uttered in relent, awkwardly stepping aside as he looked back at Mikalos' illuminated portrait on the wall, “yes, he agreed to it, albeit with much deliberation. Accounts of him mention multiple times that despite his misgivings, he decided to join the committee out of interest for Yevgeny's project. The question your students will address in their paper, however, is why, and I'll be going through that shortly.”
“What about you, Professor,” Ilse soon cut in, her arms crossed as she licked her tongue with interest, “where did your family come from? There's no question your line had chosen to adopt some... Slavic customs, but I'm curious nonetheless.”
“You have a problem with that, woman,” Natalia sneered eagerly, “assimilation is a natural process throughout human history. You yourself should know that. You're so quick to pretend you're not a Slav yourself.”
“Enough idle chatter,” Roman blurted in a hint of panic, “I don't want these poor kids kicked out. My bonus is on the line, you know... To... answer Ms Kowalchuk, and this being a rather personal question, I might add... yes, my family is primarily Russophone Germans. I descended from German Mennonites who immigrated to the Volga basin in Russia during the rule of Tsarina Catherine II the Great. Shortly before World War II, my great grandparents and many others were deported to northern Kazakhstan on orders of Stalin. My grandfather, Vissarion, seeking better opportunities outside their collective, took the offers laid out by the Committee and emigrated to Kaliningrad Military Oblast. The person responsible for the German migrations was this woman, Hauptmann Arnhild Weiss.”
Капитан Арнхильд Вайс, министр государственной безопасности (Штази)
Глава Германской иммиграции и по переселению администрации
Hauptmann Arnhild Weiß, Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (MfS)
Leiter der deutschen Einwanderung und Unsiedlung Behörde
Captain Arnhild Weiss, Minister for State Security (Stasi)
Head of the German Immigration and Resettlement Authority
Tapping on the legend on the map, the vibrant colours on the screen dimmed considerably, faded into monochrome save for a grey-blue shade. Illuminating the entirety of East Germany and the myriad, isolated German enclaves in Soviet Asia, the train lines leading to Kaliningrad told of a contradictory tale. The portraits of the committee members, too, had mostly dimmed in response, save for a single illuminated portrait. Dressed in an otherwise plain white office shirt and black tie over a dark blue office skirt, the portrait of a young woman, with long blonde hair in a headband, stared with icy blue eyes at the noisy audience before her.
“For her superiors in East Berlin,” Roman lectured, “the lives and affairs of Russophones like my grandfather were none of their concern, preoccupied with stemming the tide of westward emigration from East Germany at a time when the Berlin Wall had yet to be raised. For that,” he pointed at the highlighted rail between Berlin and Königsberg, “they were willing to arrest, deport, or even abduct as many East German citizens as possible to keep them away from the border to freedom. But Captain Weiss was entrusted with a very different task from what her superiors had intended.
Far from the glorified reeducation camp advertised by Colonel Tonchev to Walter Ulbricht and his cadres, Stolypin charged the Stasi representative with something anathema to her role.”
“He wanted her to free people,” he declared, in a slight solemn hint, pointing over to the Trans-Siberian railway as he looked back at the portrait, “he wanted the exiles out of their prisons, even if it was just to send them to his own...”
OOC Notes:
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
To say that his job got a lot more stressful was an understatement. Just a few minutes in and Roman was already getting some very heavy glares. His usual cadre of students did not seem to mind, but it was the more radical sections that was in danger of turning into an angry mob. The Kronstadt get-ups of Vernost's female cohort, by far, appeared the most irate, not surprisingly due his mention of the deportations. Roman could not hide that fact, sadly. The reality was that the communist governments of Eastern Europe, barring neutral Yugoslavia, were all too eager to throw troublesome elements of their society for the USSR to handle.[1]
“Anyway, queries? Clarifications? Angry objections,” Roman quipped half-jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
To his surprise, a mass of hands began to raise as the students began to stab questions right at him. A deafening echoing throughout a room, the professor was not sure if they wanted to know more or were simply heckling him. Changing tact, he quickly corrected, “quiet! Quiet! I can't hear a single coherent word like this! Okay, new plan. Discuss with your teachers what you want to ask and have them raise their hands. That way, I can address them better.
The plan, surprisingly, worked like a charm, the noise level plummeting enough to avoid the watch of the security guards standing nearby. Watching the huddles, he breathed a sigh of relief over avoiding the coming mayhem. He had underestimated the size of some of the cohorts, with schools like St Elisabeth and Vernost taking up a far larger proportion of students.
“Yes, Miss Puusepp,” he quickly pointed out a calm, bespectacled brunette, the teacher for Ozejo. Bending his head forward a bit, he was quick to notice her peculiar, oriental dress. On closer inspection, he realized she was wearing a lab coat over a kimono, squinting his eyes a bit at the bizarre look. Resisting the urge to shake his head, however, he tried to focus back on his task.
“Right, Professor,” uttered the teacher, bowing her head a bit in respect, “just something my students want to clarify. Captain Kaukenas joined the committee in the end, I presume? After all, his portrait on the wall is proof, is it not?”
“You had to spoil it for the rest, didn't you,” he uttered in relent, awkwardly stepping aside as he looked back at Mikalos' illuminated portrait on the wall, “yes, he agreed to it, albeit with much deliberation. Accounts of him mention multiple times that despite his misgivings, he decided to join the committee out of interest for Yevgeny's project. The question your students will address in their paper, however, is why, and I'll be going through that shortly.”
“What about you, Professor,” Ilse soon cut in, her arms crossed as she licked her tongue with interest, “where did your family come from? There's no question your line had chosen to adopt some... Slavic customs, but I'm curious nonetheless.”
“You have a problem with that, woman,” Natalia sneered eagerly, “assimilation is a natural process throughout human history. You yourself should know that. You're so quick to pretend you're not a Slav yourself.”
“Enough idle chatter,” Roman blurted in a hint of panic, “I don't want these poor kids kicked out. My bonus is on the line, you know... To... answer Ms Kowalchuk, and this being a rather personal question, I might add... yes, my family is primarily Russophone Germans. I descended from German Mennonites who immigrated to the Volga basin in Russia during the rule of Tsarina Catherine II the Great. Shortly before World War II, my great grandparents and many others were deported to northern Kazakhstan on orders of Stalin. My grandfather, Vissarion, seeking better opportunities outside their collective, took the offers laid out by the Committee and emigrated to Kaliningrad Military Oblast. The person responsible for the German migrations was this woman, Hauptmann Arnhild Weiss.”
Капитан Арнхильд Вайс, министр государственной безопасности (Штази)
Глава Германской иммиграции и по переселению администрации
Hauptmann Arnhild Weiß, Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (MfS)
Leiter der deutschen Einwanderung und Unsiedlung Behörde
Captain Arnhild Weiss, Minister for State Security (Stasi)
Head of the German Immigration and Resettlement Authority
Tapping on the legend on the map, the vibrant colours on the screen dimmed considerably, faded into monochrome save for a grey-blue shade. Illuminating the entirety of East Germany and the myriad, isolated German enclaves in Soviet Asia, the train lines leading to Kaliningrad told of a contradictory tale. The portraits of the committee members, too, had mostly dimmed in response, save for a single illuminated portrait. Dressed in an otherwise plain white office shirt and black tie over a dark blue office skirt, the portrait of a young woman, with long blonde hair in a headband, stared with icy blue eyes at the noisy audience before her.
“For her superiors in East Berlin,” Roman lectured, “the lives and affairs of Russophones like my grandfather were none of their concern, preoccupied with stemming the tide of westward emigration from East Germany at a time when the Berlin Wall had yet to be raised. For that,” he pointed at the highlighted rail between Berlin and Königsberg, “they were willing to arrest, deport, or even abduct as many East German citizens as possible to keep them away from the border to freedom. But Captain Weiss was entrusted with a very different task from what her superiors had intended.
Far from the glorified reeducation camp advertised by Colonel Tonchev to Walter Ulbricht and his cadres, Stolypin charged the Stasi representative with something anathema to her role.”
“He wanted her to free people,” he declared, in a slight solemn hint, pointing over to the Trans-Siberian railway as he looked back at the portrait, “he wanted the exiles out of their prisons, even if it was just to send them to his own...”
OOC Notes:
- The Tito–Stalin Split, which saw communist Yugoslavia under Josip Broz Tito breaking ranks with the rest of Soviet-dominated Eastern Europe. Cut off from the Eastern European market, Yugoslavia orientated westwards, maintaining neutrality while keeping good relations, access to Marshall Aid and trade with the US and her allies.
- 2016
- Teachers
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Assist. Prof. Roman Vissariovich Vorarlberg (CV: アドルフ・K・ヴァイスマン / 伊佐那 社)
- Schools
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
- Ilse Kowalchuk (CV: オドレイ・ガッセナール)
- Vernost Stolypinskaya Girls School
- Natalia Orlovskaya (CV: ベラルーシ / ナターリヤ・アルロフスカヤ)
- Ozėjo Private Academy
- Inge Puusepp (CV: 姫野 アリス)
- St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
- Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
- Teachers
- 1956-1963
- Soviet Army
- Cpt. Mikalos Kaukėnas (CV: アイン・ダルトン)
- Ministry for State Security (East Germany)
- Cpt. Arnhild Weiss (CV: アイリスディーナ・ベルンハルト)
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Huh.
This is less of an alternate history timeline and more of a loose story with said alternate timeline chumming in the background.
Interesting. We Lithuanians will always be better at being weeaboos, though. How are the relations between Prussia and Lithuania? Are they both in the European Union?
This is less of an alternate history timeline and more of a loose story with said alternate timeline chumming in the background.
Interesting. We Lithuanians will always be better at being weeaboos, though. How are the relations between Prussia and Lithuania? Are they both in the European Union?
:3
Yes. And NATO too. But for a while, it looked like Prussia was going on the path of Belarus instead. Bad news is, I need to get past the first arc with the old Soviet establishment first, so I can't give you more details on that.
Anyway, fun fact: Tilsit (OTL Sovetsk) and other areas south of the Neman river contains the largest concentrations of Balts in Prussia, many of whom were exiles brought back from Siberia but were unable to return to their homelands on the apparatchiks' orders. They feared creating a base of dissent within the Baltic SSRs, but they ended up doing that anyway in the West Baltic (predecessor to Prussia) thanks to Yevgeny's resettlement committee.
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Baltic minorities south of Nemunas? Are they not related to the same Baltic minorities that, well, lived there since the oldest of times? Before the Germans or Russians arrived?
This land was once Baltic land. *beats on chest*
Anyway, nice TL. If not a little... out of the norm for this site.
Thanks. I admit, my style fits a narrative than a textbook (thanks to RP). :3
Anyway, to answer, not the original Prussians or even the Lietuvininkai, sadly. The latter were expelled by the USSR as per OTL, and largely regarded as Germanized. The ones that settled in the West Baltic were mostly exiles who were nabbed in Operation Priboi and other forced migrations, but were allowed to leave Siberia. Settling in Prussia was as close as they could get to their homelands without Russification being shoved down their throats through a PVC pipe. There's even a monument to it beside Queen Louise's Bridge TTL. Basically, it's a pair of sets of stone statues seated opposite each other on the Nemunas, as if seeking to rejoin their kin.
A small minority in today's Prussia do identify as 'Baltic Prussians', but they're considered enthusiasts of Old Prussian traditions and language than the real deal. Most of the public is pretty skeptical over the issue, since the original Old Prussians were recognized to have went extinct via assimilation.
Huh. Odd that West Baltic SSR is considered to have been less Russified than the other Baltic soviet republics, considering that Kaliningrad in OTL had Russification and Russian settling pushed through hard, while, for example, Lithuania SSR under Sniečkus was secretly against it and thus Lithuania ended up as one of the least Russified of the Soviet republics.
I am not judging, though. Butterflies are a thing.
Well, it's still the most Russified of the four TTL, mostly because Russophones are the majority anyway. Yevgeny's policies, however, emulated Korenizatsiya/Nativization. This meant that each ethnic group is able to maintain and promote the use of their language and preserve their culture. In fact, this ended up rolling back Russification to an extent, even among Ukrainians and Belarussians, among others. It's one of many, many things that got him into trouble with his superiors.
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