Hey! This is my first attempt at making a plausible timeline, so do correct me if some parts don't seem that way. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Also, the next one will take a long time, so sorry if I don't respond soon. Special thanks to those who responded in my previous WI threads on the subject, and on related and duplicate WI topics. Also, I know there's another thread running on the same premise, but I feel like making my own take on it.
Anyway, without further delay...
Prussia - A Kaliningrad Story (1945-Present) A Post-WWII Timeline Playing: Gundam: The Origin - Main Theme - composed by Takayuki Hattori
Baltic Fleet HQ, Kaliningrad, West Baltic SSR [1], Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
21st August, 1991
Kaliningrad, home of the Soviet Baltic Fleet of the USSR.
Half a century ago, the city that was to bear the name of the wartime president of the USSR was a German city, with a name that exuded everything Germanic about its seven hundred year long past,. It was a name the Soviet government believed wiped from the map forever, after taking the territory for themselves as a spoil of war in the Great Patriotic War. After which, Kaliningrad and its surrounding area was rebuilt as a Soviet port, flooded by immigrants from the rest of the Soviet Unon, most from Russian-speaking areas. However, no amount of machinations performed on the city in the name of socialist realization had exorcised the ghosts of old Königsberg. Rather, looking into the city now, there were many who felt that they had, at last, advanced in full force, as the union reached its grim, inevitable twilight.
It was a surreal sight for the garrison, barricaded in front of hordes of protesters marching forward to confront them. For some, having been forced to withdraw from Lithuania in January the previous year, seeing Russian slogans interspaced with Prussian flags while demanding their expulsion was hypocrisy at its highest. The protesters were not ethnic nationalists. Many were Russophones, even ethnic Russians, almost all of whom would have family ties with the homeland. And yet, seeing the slogan 'Free Kyonigsberg' painted in Cyrillic on their signs, it felt a lot like they were possessed by Prussian ghosts, out to reclaim the city in for their Teutonic brethren. This was not a call for democracy like the Yeltsinski mobs. They want Moscow out.
Looking beside the barricade as the protesters, a bewildered guard shook his head in disbelief at the sights. He was sure had anyone told him a few years ago that this would happen, he would have assumed he had lost it. Now, he was sure he was the one going mad instead. He would have expected this had he been in the other Baltic SSRs, but Kaliningrad was as Russian as Russia itself, and yet they now threaten to break away like the rest.
“This is insane,” the hapless man remarked to one of his comrades, his AK-74 held down in his hands, “not even NATO could create this. They're possessed, I tell you! Germaniye ghosts, the lot of them!”
“Get a grip, boy,” grumbled the elder, more gruff soldier, still holding his position behind a barricade ready to fire, “these aren't ghosts. Our world's going south, and they want to jump ship. The only thing left to do is watch everything burn. Only question is, who burns first?”
The coup had become a dangerous trigger, with events escalating beyond their control. The commanders of the garrison did not know who to answer, whether it was the detained secretary general or the radicals in control of the Moscow White House. It would not have taken much just to send in the tanks, as the Chinese had done in Tiananmen. But force at this point was ineffective without proper command, and none of the guards holed up in the HQ were sure the ground they were on had any intention to remain Soviet anymore. After all, while many in the West Baltic SSR voted in favour of Gorbachev's proposed Union State, the turnout was barely in the mid 30s to 40s percentage [2]. Most boycotted the proceedings as a sham, intent on independence as their only answer. The ruling Novaya Prussiya (Russian: Новая Пруссия, New Prussia) party, for one, apparently believed it to be the case.
But the results of the soldiers' predicamented extended beyond Gorbachev's troubled reforms. A representation of the messy social experiments conducted during the Khrushchev period in developing the 'international' city, Kaliningrad was stacked full of ethnicites throughout the USSR, some of whom were simply tossed there without approval. Converted from a 'military-governed district' established by Stalin after the Great Patriotic War, Kaliningrad Oblast, and later West Baltic SSR mutated under the whims of his successor, bought by an ambitious commissar's promises of a multi-ethnic, socialist utopia to put the segregationist United States to shame [3]. Today, the divisive demographics of the SSR showed, now united in their ire for the central government, and bouyed by a spike in interest in Prussian intellectual history and culture. One could only imagine what went through the late premiers' minds when they led their descendants into this predicament, from the city's separation from civilian rule under Stalin, to the transmogrification of its identity into the Teutonic spectre it is today.
Soon, voices cracked in the radioes of the crewmen as the noise from the protester began to mutate into cheers. It was the voice of the West Baltic parliament. The die was cast.
“...persuant to current crisis surrounding the state coup in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, on August 19 of the Year 1991 of the Common Era; and in accordance to the will of the people of the Soviet Socialist Republic of the West Baltic, the Supreme Soviet of the West Baltic SSR hereby advocate the right of separation under Article 72 of the Constitution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, henceforth implementing the Act of Declaration of Independence of the Republic of the West Baltic, in separation from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as a sovereign, independent nation-state...”
This was no longer the beginning of the end, and those cornered within the base could now see their ignoramous departure in sight. Like the other Baltic states, the West Baltic republic would continue its drift to the European sphere, though its birth was unlike the forcible incorporation of its sisters during the chaos of war. In many respects, the West Baltic was comparatively loyal to Moscow, not the least since it had no defining national identity at the start. But what sucked this otherwise loyal entity of the Soviet state into the hysteria of the Baltic Way at the end? What inspired its people to take on the mantle of the much-demonized Teutonic Knights and the Baltic Old Prussians before it? What created Prussia as the world saw it today? The answer, perhaps, laid at the beginning, as the burning embers of fascism and Ostsiedlung were being snuffed out in Königsberg...
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In real life, Kaliningrad was a part of the Russian SFSR, now Russia. However, this TL will explore how that changed, starting with the first chapter
In OTL, the Soviet referendum for the formation of the Union of Sovereign Republics did get an overwhelming 'yes' vote, even in the remaining states that didn't boycott it. In the West Baltic SSR's case, the boycott didn't hit it especially badly, and plenty of Russophones voted 'yes'. This divide will be explored in greater detail in later chapters, and how it would plague West Baltic politics post-USSR.
Remember when I said I won't get this up after a long time? I finished it in a day.
For that you get new title! Really just a translated one, but the characters took some time to render
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Immanuel Kant State University of Kyonigsberg [1], Kyonigsberg, Republic of Prussia
12 January, 2016 C.E.
Kyonigsberg, Prussia.
Twenty-five years after the chaotic breakup of the Soviet Union, Prussia, as the reconstituted West Baltic Republic is now known, is an anarchronism in time. Despite claiming the legacy that extends back to the rise of the Teutonic Knights, virtually none of its citizens originated from the former German Empire; recent migrants from the former Soviet Union during its tenure as a communist domain. Yet, these contradictions had played a vital role in building a national identity in the small, fragile state. As Putinist Russia terrorized its former vassals with separatist sponsorship and covert invasions, Duma representatives chafed at trying to explain how millions of Russian-speakers, supposedly the very people Moscow claims to protect, openly reject their forced paternalism with a level of prosperity and clean governance unseen in their old motherland.
Much worse, these people live under the aegis of the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, far safer from Moscow's harassment than other, ill-fated former Soviet states. Most importantly, Prussia represents a conundrum for Kremlin's policymakers over its foreign policy; while the warm-water port was a much prized possession that seemed quite in reach compared to the other vehemently anti-Russian Baltic states, Russia could never hope to claim the area to be 'centuries-old Russian lands' as they had elsewhere, for it had nothing genuinely Russian to answer for but a brief period of governance during the Seven Years' War [2]. All that was common knowledge, for both the population and its government, the Prussian Seym [3]. As the world around them grows under threat from belligerent states and rogue terrorist insurrections, Prussia could only prepare for the worst, and live a life of normalcy in total defiance of expectation.
On the snowswept garden in front of the Albertina, the students of the Immanuel Kant State University of Kyonigsberg [1] were just arriving back for their first week in semester. The sour mood over the end of the Christmas season last week still lingered in the air, as the depression of returning to a semester of learning filled the young men and women with dread [4]. But a lecture hall within the campus was expecting a slightly... younger class of students.
“Say, is it true you're going to Seoul for a pop idol career,” a young girl squealed to her classmate, dressed in a beige high school uniform with a pleated skirt, “I wish I could sing like you.”
“But don't you have to know Korean when you get there,” another asked, “I mean, if all you can speak is Russian, the locals will laugh at you.”
“Do I look that shortsighted to you,” gloated the idol wannabe in question, twirling the fringes of her long raven hair on her finger as her admirers peppered her with questioned, “I've been attending a Korean language course. Besides, it's not like my parents would take 'no' for an answer. They've been hoping I could work in Korea for a while, as well as cultural roots and stuff.”
“Wow,” blurted one of the girls in awe, “I didn't know they were so supportive of your music career!”
To her dismay, the young raven-haired girl could only force a smile, muttering, “well... If it pays well, why not... Not like my parents would have wanted me to...”
“Everyone, hurry up,” a snappy call in the distance soon echoed, a brunette girl with shoulder length hair barking at the mob of girls, “we're going to late. Do you want to make the professor mad? It's our first day!”
“Calm down, Student President,” whined the diva, eyeing the schoolmate with a slight scowl, “it's not like we're in school. Besides, what's so exciting about an old man with a huge beard groaning on local history? It's not like we haven't heard the stories already.”
Feeling put off by the blunt response, the class president could only grumble under her breath, “at least show the poor grandfather some respect, will you? This is a university...” Despite her best hopes, the class president could not hope to see any improvement in her class' behaviour, an embarassment not only in front of the lecturer, but the other schools participating.
Stepping into the lecture hall, she could already see a myriad of uniforms dotting the length of the desks. A holdover from Soviet times, many schools in the country still had school uniforms, including her own. Some, like her school, had already made the switch to more European styles. Others, however, still wore Soviet-era navy-inspired designs, though adherence to orthodox dress codes had also begun to vary with years. Overall, the palette of colours showed just how large these excursions to the university was. In fact, the social studies project they were taking was to mean much more than grades.
“See, Farah,” Yana told off the hasty girl, shuffling beside her as the class began to filter in to take their seats with their peers, “teacher's not here yet. He's late. Probably overslept in his office or something.”
“Then shouldn't we try to call him,” questioned the senior, “it's no good to keep everyone waiting.”
“Do you even know his office then,” Yana griped, agitation growing on her expression, “Farah, this university is big. How are you supposed to find this Professor Stefanovsky in short time-”
“Sorry,” blurted a more mature voice behind them, in a rather rushed tone, “apologies for the wait.”
Shuffling past the surprised girls at the door was a fairly young man with shoulder-length, platinum blonde hair, dressed in a white collared shirt and pants as he carried his laptop in in a hurry. Up in the stands, a small swoon could be heard as the various high school girls whispered among themselves over the strapping tutor's appearance, his looks far from the gruff, olden professor they were told they were going to meet. Slightly bewildered, the two arguing students too were silenced by his sudden arrival, rushing to their seats as they tried to make sense on the situation. Soon enough, the lad was already scribling his name of the blackboard, written in bold Cyrillic and Latin alphabets as he began plugging in his equipment.
“Apologies for the delay, everyone,” he told the class, “I just got called in by the department today. Dr. Stefanovsky had to leave on urgent leave. His daughter's giving birth in Stuttgart; bless their souls. They won't be back until the end of your national education program, so I'll be stepping in for him for all your lectures. Anyway, my name is Roman Vissariovich Vorarlberg, assistant professor in the Department of History. Been here for maybe five to six years. Certainly not much older than any of you, even if I feel that way.”
“Anyway,” he said, checking the monitor as his presentation flashed on the projector, “on to business. Forgive me if I can't recall all your names. With close to a hundred of you, maybe more, I can't say for sure I'll remember you guys. Brief orientation: you'll be embarking on a project on modern Prussian history, that is about post-war Kaliningrad to the present day. Your teachers have already demanded a presentation and paper for the end of the course – sorry about that, not my call – in which you and your group will explore a particular subject on the history of modern Prussia. Now, I'm sure many of you are already groaning and wished I could get this over with, but I am not just going to be here stuffing you with info like turkeys. Because I want you to think carefully on this. Would your life be the same had history gone down a different path? Would you even be calling yourselves Prussians, probably the most undeserved title ever given to a country rebuilt entirely by people whose idea of Germany is a giant bloody swatstika cartwheeling across Eastern Europe like a wheat harvester.”
Drawing a few small chuckles, the tutor continued, “now then, let's start with a fairly easy query. When is modern Königsberg founded, and who founded it? Come on, don't be shy. Not like your friends will lynch you for knowing random trivia. Maybe. Yes,” he called out, pointing at a young girl with hair-decor fringes.
“1255 C.E., by the Teutonic Knights,” the young girl answered, feeling a bit unsure. A few others, did not seem that discomforted, their heads turned to her as if they knew she answered correctly. However, pointing back at the girl, the lecturer replied in a firm, “wrong.” As murmurs start to fill the room, the lecturer began to make his justification.
“I'm sure you're wondering why I said that,” he explained, “you see. My question asked for modern Königsberg. What you answered for, young lady, was for medieval Königsberg. You aren't exactly wrong, but tell me, class. Where are the founders' descendants now? Where are the Germans?”
An eerie silence fell over the lecture hall as the students pondered over the queries. The answer, for all of them, was obvious. They had been deported, virtually every last one. Any German that had not already fled Königsberg at the dying days of the war was deported to the shattered remnants of East and West Germany by the Soviets – their ancestors. Those that now inhabited the city were descendants of Soviet immigrants sent to fill the void. In essence, they were squatters on what was essentially a war trophy, and quite a few were starting to feel guilty.
“Come now, don't give those faces,” he assured them, “no adult holds children accountable for their parents' actions. Such facts cannot be changed, not after so long. The main thing about history is to learn from it, picking up the better decisions and tossing out the worse. Modern Königsberg, or Kaliningrad, as it was known, was founded in 1945, by – yes, we all know that name – Joseph Vissariovich Stalin. Expelling the original German inhabitants from the city, he repopulated the empty shell with immigrants from the Soviet Union, mainly Russians, Ukrainians and Belarussians. But did you know what he did with the city?”
Feeling a bit stumped, the students began showing a few shaking heads, others straining their heads for an answer. As the pause became defeaning, the lecturer finally broke the silence. Tapping his head, he quizzed, “well, think about it. Do you think that Joseph Stalin would care at all to make a Soviet republic out of nothing? Do you know that for a time, the leader considered simply ceding the territory to an existing republic or even a foreign country? It was actually a very real possibility then, and he could have simply merged it with a puppet Poland, or the recently annexed Lithuania. But in both case, the countries simply refused to take in a city filled with Russophones out of fear of upsetting the population. The last reasonable solution then was simply to include it in the Russian SFSR itself. Can you imagine the city cut off from the rest of Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union, having to survive the post-Soviet crash as an exclave, much less being run by United Russia?”
The lecturer, for one thing, had a flair for political humour, drawing a few laughs from the students even in the frightening Eastern European climate. Switching the slides, he declared, “all that could be your life had Stalin dictated, mark my words. However, for reasons that scholars still debate to this day, the dictator elected a different approach. No one knows for sure why, but theories have flown. If not for that choice, Prussia would still be a mere frontier district of a much larger nation, and you and I might probably be elsewhere, speaking a different language, living different lives...”
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Kremlin, Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
April 1946
Kaliningrad, the westernmost frontier of the Soviet Union. Seized from the fallen Third Reich, the former city of Königsberg is undergoing a thorough purge of everything that exuded the 'corruption' of Germanic fascism unworthy of a place in the socialist utopia. Those who had survived the horrors of the war and have yet to flee the advancing Red Army now face the mercy of Joseph Stalin, spared only by his distaste for further trouble with the Western Allies as they were deported westwards to the remains of their occupied homeland. Intent on rebuilding the shattered ruins as his own, Russophone immigrants from the USSR had been brought in to the ice-free port to bring the city back to working order. But administrative-wise, the question on its delineation remained, and opposition to its inclusion in the Lithuanian SSR was already growing.
“... the People's Seimas has already made it clear,” one officer reported, his distinctive bald head and goatee gleaming under the spotlight. Standing in a musty room filled with map charts and documents, a gruff, ageing uniformed man with a handlebar mustache looked over the details as his cadre briefed him on the proceedings. Speaking over the documents on hand, the officer stated, “they are not willing to incorporate Kaliningrad Oblast into the LSSR. They... do not feel, quote unquote, 'worthy of your generosity'. It's probable though that they simply will not stomach a boost in the Russophone population. I believe they fear an uprising among the people if they tried.
“Let them say what they want,” the old man merely rambled, gesturing on the map without any sign of displeasure, “it doesn't matter where I put it. If they don't want it, I'll just fix it to the RSFSR. They're Russians, after all, so it's only fair.”
“Yes, Comrade Secretary,” the officer concurred, feeling a bit stifled over provoking the man, “no difference at all.” The officer, despite his intimidating appearance, has much to fear. Joseph Stalin, the man who would kill millions on a single allegation, was not someone to get on the wrong side of. Already, he had purged the officer core of the Red Army, several minorities, and driven millions of his citizens into starvation. The costs, to the man, was akin to a few coins, barely meaningful and worth paying if necessary. For the man to be the union's saviour, however, was both ironic and prophetic. Who else could have matched Hitler's bloodlust for Jews and Slavs? Who else was willing to throw men to the meatgrinder, when defeat seemed so ominously near? Part of the reason the Great Patriotic War was this bloody, the officer admitted to himself, was because Stalin had impeded the Red Army's chances to resist severely. But only a dead man could tell him in the face that purging trained officers and pretending the glut of evidence for Barbarossa was a figment of imagination were utterly bad ideas, and even then, Stalin would have him rot to death in a gulag anyway.
Adjusting his collar, the captain waited desperately for the man to adjourn the meeting. The less he spent in Stalin's presence, the lower the chance the paranoid dictator might suspect he was having ulterior motives. Just the thought was making his natural calm twist into nervousness. He was sure if the man noticed at all, he might think he was up to something, and send the NKVD guards surrounding the room to haul him away.
But just when Stalin seemed ready to call it a day, a voice cracked from the side. Raising his hand, a strange cadre with frazzled blonde hair and a hunch stepped forth to speak, a strange, disturbing gaze in his eyes as he greeted, “greetings to the great hero of the war! Vanquisher of fascism! Dispenser of justice to the working masses-”
“Enough flattery,” Stalin ordered coldly, a hint of annoyance in his eye over the grovelling officer, “what do you want?”
“Just a little thought on your grand plans, Comrade Secretary,” crooned the strange figure, “but why are you putting that small piece of land with one that's not attached to it? Seems strange, don't you think?”
Scoffing at the admittedly juvenile query, the stoic dictator answered, “what does it matter? I control all the land in between. That was the deal promised to me by the Western Allies. What does it matter that Kaliningrad is under a republic it's not connected to?”
Then, heaving in a raspy voice and a wide open grin, the strange man hollered in a jovial tone, “because it's ugly.”
The words sent chills down the cadres' spines. Whoever this commissar was, he was right out of his mind. To contradict Stalin was one thing. To contradict Stalin over something as trivial as border orthodoxy was outright madness. Even the Comrade Secretary himself was at a loss for words. Who on earth commissioned this man? Was he drunk?
“Ex...cuse me,” he questioned, slightly miffed at the accusation. While he appeared to be trying to stay cordial, it was plainly obvious that the eccentric character had painted, or was close to painting, a target for himself. Thinking hard as he exaggerated his finger wagging and expressions, the clown explained in an excited voice, “let me explain to you, Comrade Secretary. You see, why give the port, a valuable piece of real estate for your armed forces, to civilian government, when you can have it for yourself? It's already going to be a closed city, so what point is there to hand it over to a bunch of rubber stamps, hmm? Let the military handle the place. Let the men in uniform show it how it's done. After all, if the men in green run the district, they can say who can or cannot get in and better watch over the area. You'll have an exclusion zone far bigger than just one closed city. It'll a self-sustaining base of its own.”
His wild, theatrical gestures, were downright audacious. His intimate address to the leader himself bodes ill for the fool. Giving the man a good hard stare, Stalin himself appeared to be racking his brain over the most painful method to teach the clown of his place. But just when it seemed he was about to be hauled off, his eyes turned back to the maps, stroking his chin in deep thought at the words.
“I will... think about it,” was all he answered, waving off the cackling commissar as the hobbling figure stepped back behind the other cadres. Cold sweat running down their backs, the rest could only breathe a sigh of relief as the leader adjourned the proceedings. Eventually, they learnt just how seriously Stalin actually took the man's suggestion. A few days after, he addressed the creation of a 'military-administered district', a 'closed oblast', the first of its kind. While the idea was largely claimed to be Stalin's own, the few eyewitnesses who viewed that faithful proceedings still questioned the whereabouts of the eccentric cadre. Some believed he was disposed of, sent off to the gulag so Stalin could take credit. Others were not as sure, claiming the man never appeared in the NKVD registries. And some went further to claim he was simply insane, likely sent off to an asylum shortly after the meeting due to his liability, or even sent back after an escape and impersonation of a political officer. Whatever the reasons, the man never appeared again, his bizarre attitude earning him the nickname 'the Jester'[5], his name not even known to this day.
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Concluding his presentations to the class, Roman posited, “history is full of strange occurances. To paraphrase a quote, 'reality does not have to make sense'. If you have any questions, feel free to speak to me after class. If not, next time, we'll go through the immigration patterns that occurred during the early years of Kaliningrad's refounding, and the man who conducted one of the most ambitious social experiments in the 20th Century, in full approval of Stalin's successor, Nikita Khruschev. See you next time, class.”
As the class adjourned, the students were soon abuzz with chatter and talk. Crowding in front of the desk, the sudden surge quickly took the hapless lecturer aback. In all honesty, Roman did not really expect the students to ask him anything, half-expecting the lecture hall to clear in a moment's notice. Just the scene of bright female students eager to learn more from him almost filled him with a guilty pride. At least... until the questions came.
“Yes, yes,” he called out to the curious girls, “how may I help you-”
“Where're you from, Professor,” blurted an excited girl.
“How old are you, Mr Vorarlberg, you look so young,” praised another student eagerly.
“Are you German,” posited a third excitedly, “your name sounds very German!”
“Do you have a girlfriend yet,” a few quickly begged for answers, “is she pretty, Professor!?”
Stammering for an answer as the cadre shot him up with queries, the confused lecturer could barely get a word out as he started to back up over the blackboard. Desperate, he began issuing meek pleas for the girls to spare him, his words drown in the mass of hysteria that had utterly consumed his female charges. The few males in the hall, in contrast, had nothing to say, electing to depart as they left their senior at the girls' mercy. Pacing out into the corridor, a short-haired young man, however, could not help but think back at the lecture. Something about the incident piqued his interest, and the outright implausibility of the eyewitness accounts only serve to draw his imagination further.
“'The Jester, huh...” he commented, “where did I hear that before.”
That, however, was a tale for another story.
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IOTL, it's known as the Immanuel Kant Baltic Federal University (Russian: Балтийский федеральный университет имени Иммануила Канта) formerly known as the Immanuel Kant Russian State University (Russian: Российский государственный университет имени Иммануила Канта, Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy universitet imeni Immanuila Kanta). Here, I had some trouble thinking up a name, so this is the best I can think of. :V
From 1758–62, Imperial Russia occupied the city from Prussia during the Seven Years' War. This was as 'Russian' as the city could be claimed to be by anyone, and it might as well have been said that any Russian influence pretty much disintegrated with the departing army.
One of the only non-Germanic influences on the new Prussia, based on the Polish Sejm and Lithuanian Seimas. The term was supposedly meant to highlight Prussia's new Baltic identity, based on the original Old Prussians. Others have proposed renaming it the Landtag, but for obvious reasons anschluss, the government chose 'Seym' instead.
Given its overwhelming Eastern Orthodox population, Christmas Day is recognized as a public holiday on January 7, based on the Julian Calender.
Sorry it took this long. Part 1 of Chapter II is now out. Main part will come out eventually. For now, here's the start. Also, sorry if it's a bit lacking in pictures. Most of them are in the character list, so help yourself. :V
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33 Möller Avenue, Kyonigsberg, Republic of Prussia
14th January, 2016
Möller Avenue (Russian: Меллерский проспект, Mellerskiy prospekt), named for the nearby Kyonigsberg Art Museum. One of the many, many roads that had undergone extensive de-Russification, its original name, Moscow Avenue, was in itself a replacement for an old German street name that modern Prussians either had trouble finding, too implicating to put up or simply never bothered. At the height of 'Prussomania' shortly after independence, virtually all traces of its Soviet presence on the city were erased, just as the Soviet conquerors before had with old Königsberg. In its place, the authorities restored as much 'Prussian-ness' to new Königsberg as possible, with extensive restoration works to revive the image of the city of philosophers and mathematicians. Not surprisingly, many a few veterans of the Great Patriotic War wept as relics of Soviet heritage – marks of their hard-won victory over fascism – were systematically destroyed. As quoted from one veteran, “it was like the Nazis had possessed our children and 'won' the war. Now everyone thinks we're the villains. I don't understand.”
But the mood in the West Baltic Republic was clear, all links to the Russian motherland that implied subservience were to be severed, and the new Prussian Seym, taking over the role of government from the West Baltic Supreme Soviet, took extensive action under the newly elected New Prussia (Russian: Новая Пруссия, Novaya Prussiya) coalition. Streets were renamed, towns as well. And the shattered remnants of the old Prussian city was to be restored to its former beauty as much as possible, including the removal of any gaudy Soviet-era constructs. In 1995, after intense negotiations with its Polish and Lithuanian neighbours, the West Baltic Republic finally unveiled its new name. Protests broke out throughout Eastern Europe at the ultimate insult. The Poles and Lithuanians feared irredentism from the new Prussia. Russians were simply irate.
“They're fiends, the lot of them,” an elderly woman in a protest in St. Petersburg once decried to a reporter when the news came, “have they forgotten who they are!? My father, husband and sons died for their families. They fought against the Prussian monsters. And now they're bringing it back! Next thing you know, they'll be speaking German and demanding 'anschluss'!”
But the Prussian people had limits to their embrace of pre-Soviet history. Few in Prussia wanted unification with Germany, and Chancellor Helmut Kohl would have nothing of it anyway, already saddled with the burden of the former German Democratic Republic. A popular referendum for the naming of the new parliament went to 'Seym', rather than 'Landtag', with Prussians wary of associating themselves as a state of Germany when few could even pronounce the latter name. Russian, not German remains the de-facto lingua franca, and both were recognized as official languages along with many others brought from the former USSR. Ultimately, the new Prussia was fine as an independent nation in full embrace of its pre-war past, but abandoning its hard-won sovereignty to any party, Russian, German or Polish-Lithuanian, was outright blasphemy.
Standing in front of a television set in an apartment living room, as the a brunette girl dressed in an old school, black sailor-style uniform gnawed quickly on her toast, licking her fingers as she styled her hair fringes with her trademark white ribbons. Bright-eyed, immature, with an excitable look, the youth was typical of any high school student her age. Her pleated skirt, a change from the stringent days of Soviet state education, appeared a bit too short for comfort. Nonetheless, checking her attire in front of the mirror, she gave herself an approving nod for a job well done.
“I'm going off now, Mom,” she called into the kitchen, picking up her bag as she squeezed her feet into her shoes.
“Be careful, Sonya,” a concerned female voice answered back from within the house, “the university is pretty big. Try not wander around. Uni(versity) boys these days like to prey on little girls like you.”
“I'm going to be in university myself soon,” complained the girl in a huff, skipping out the door, “it's not like I can't learn to take care myself. See you tonight!”
But stepping into the corridor as she closed the door, the girl soon noticed a vague familiar place beside her. Stepping out just next door, a similar high school girl, this time dressed in a Western-style school uniform, was preparing to leave as well. A brunette with emerald green eyes, she did not seem to be around the block before. But Sonya could have sworn she saw her somewhere, staring at the more immaculately dressed peer as a much taller, slightly-tanned skinned Central Asian in office clothes followed her out.
“Eh,” went the neighbour in bewilderment, her eyes peering at Sonya's brown irises, “aren't you from Professor Vorarlberg's lecture?”
Stunned, Sonya's eyes widened as she tried to register what she had said. She could have sworn she heard her call Vorarlberg by name, and the only students who could possibly know him were university undergraduates and the high school students under her school programme. It was only after a few brief seconds that it dawned on her. Blinking a bit, all she could muster was brief, “eh?”
Möller Avenue, enroute to University of Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsberg, Republic of Prussia
Ten minutes later
Riding among the herds of smoke-chugging automobiles, a single Hyundai Sonata was weaving its way around a turn, driving for the Immanuel Kant University just ten minutes away. Huddled at the back, the nervous Sonya was still tongue-tied over her new neighbours, a Tajik mother and daughter, the latter of whom happened to attend Dr. Vorarlberg's class with her. For the girl, Farahnaz to recognize her right away when she could barely remember her from the session felt nothing short of embarrassing. But seated beside her mother in the front passenger seat, the girl did not appear to mind at all.
“Don't be shy, Miss Sonya,” Farah commented, “it's not like we're ogres or something. We probably should have introduced ourselves when we moved in just a week ago. Sorry.”
“No... it's ok,” Sonya blabbed, her legs still closed as she dared not look up, the stoic glare on the bespectacled woman's eyes in the rear-view mirror peering up as if to check on their guest. Shuffling her feet, she muttered, "don't you think it's a little sudden to ask me to hitch a ride with you? I mean... we just met."
"Relax, dear girl," Farah assured her with a jovial grin, "we're going to the same place anyway. Mother just found it convenient to bring both of us along. What are neighbours for?"
"Yes... sure," the girl answered awkwardly, still a bit unsure whether unfamiliar neighbours should even do favours like these. Trying to distract herself, the girl looked over at the shifting skyline as she asked offhand, “so... how do you find Dr. Vorarlberg?”
“Dr. Vorarlberg,” Farahnaz teased, “why're you asking me, you're the one at the front harassing him. Don't think I never saw. You were bending over so much we can see your-”
“Farah, watch your language, please,” her mother calmly admonished in Tajik, cutting in to her words, “you don't want her parents to accuse you of harassment, do you?”
Pouting at the scolding, Farah muttered indignantly, “Мутаасифона (Tajik: Mutaasifona; Sorry), mother... I was just joking. Anyway, Sonya,” she told the girl, “my mother said Dr. Vorarlberg's currently working with the Ministry of Cultural Development on several monuments in the city. You remember the 'buried robot' at the Königsberg Castle grounds?[1]”
“Yeah, I remember,” Sonya blurted, “wasn't it demolished when we were kids?”
“Of course,” Farah quipped, “Mother said Dr. Vorarlberg's working on restoration works at the castle for its unveiling in this year's Independence Day celebrations. Isn't that great?”
“I didn't think he was such a busy man,” Sonya mused, “how did you know?”
“My mother works in the government,” Farah declared jovially, “how else would I know?”
Slowing down the car at the university porch, the woman stated in another monotone, “Farah, do you mind not disclosing such information to random strangers? I'm not even supposed to tell you about this.”
“How it so important that you have to keep it secret,” grumbled the younger Tajik, puffing her cheeks as she and Sonya stepped out of the car, “the news will be on to him eventually.”
“Exactly,” the senior stated, “that's why I prefer not to have them distract him from his work. Now run along. I'll prepare dinner before you come back tonight.”
“Ҳа, ҳа,” the Tajik finally agreed, waving off her mother as her new acquaintance bowed in thanks, “come on, neighbour, let's not keep the charming scholar waiting.”
Feeling a sudden nudge on her shoulders, the hapless Russian blurted, “wait! We just met and all!”
“Come now, we're going to be neighbours for some time,” Farah chimed, however, “no harm being friendly now~”
Without warning, the hapless neighbour found herself hustled to the lecture hall by the eager Farah. Never before was she so swiftly accosted by a stranger she had only just met a couple of days ago, whose only claim of acquaintance was standing behind her amidst a crowd of swooning schoolgirls at a young university educator. Perhaps her over-eager interrogation of Vorarlberg that day caught her attention a bit too much. All she could hope now was to sit back with the company of her own classmates and attend the lecture in peace.
___________________________________
Lecture Hall, Kant University, Kyonigsberg, Republic of Prussia
Later
Crowded along the rows of the lecture hall, the arrangement of the students looked unlike te scattered dots it started last lecture. Like settled sediment, the front rows was stacked with unusual density, the students apparently more eager to attend than before. But while the back rows still dot with young, somewhat listless lads, the rank and file of the female cohort appeared pulled to the front of the hall, to a somewhat self-aware tutor confronted with a strange phenomenon.
“The cohort is a bit bigger than I recall,” he commented, stroking his chin as he observed the full line of female students covering the front few rows, “did all of you get approval from your teachers? I'm not sure I'm being paid enough to do this.”
“Don't worry about them, Professor,” another woman in office clothes addressed him, fixing up the laptop at the desk behind him, “this is coming out of the Education Ministry's pocket, so feel free to request a bonus. Besides, I thought you liked kids.”
“Maybe, but I don't think they're here to listen to me,” he joked.
“Oh, they are,” she teased, giving a innocently devious smile, “just not what you're saying. Just remember to treat me next time, before I tell your fans you hang out with 'Bae Yong-joon'.”
Watching his colleague part with a wink, the hapless lecturer could only muster a sad chuckle, grumbling, “you had to call him that too, didn't you?”
Clearing his throat as he prepared to address the class, he spoke, “right, sorry for the delay. Had a bit of trouble with the projector. And before you ask, no, she's not my girlfriend. She's my colleague, Professor Pavlyuk. Same department as me. Bugs me like hell and back, pardon.”
Pausing for a moment as he tried to calm the excited murmurs among the girls, the lecturer urged, “alright, settle down. Back to the lecture hall, everyone. Well... girls, anyway. Before I start, a few simple queries. Raise your hand if your answer is 'yes'. You can raise your hand more than once. Who here are East Slavs? Russians, Ukrainians, Belarussians, you know the ones.”
Hesitant for a moment as they started to absorb the question, many sleepy hands slowly found their way up, close to half the class, in fact. Predictably, Sonya herself raised her hand gleefully, as did many of her classmates. Nodding, he again asked, “OK, West Slavs. Poles, Czechs, Slovaks...”
Again, few hands showed up, though a lot less compared to the East Slavs. Eyeing the scene around her, one of the female students, a brunette with long, curly hair, looked genuinely nervous, even unhappy with the proceedings. But her schoolmate in front, a brown-haired boy with hazel eyes, appeared less troubled, somewhat surprised by the numbers in fact. Absentmindedly, he whispered in Polish, “I didn't know there were this many.”
“You call this 'many', Stanisław,” the girl grumbled, “I can count the numbers with both hands, and that's including Czechoslovaks.”
Scanning the numbers, Roman called again, “ok, Balts this time.”
To Sonya's surprise, Farahnaz's hand now followed its way up, as were about a dozen students. After her brief exchange with her and her mother, the girl could swear on her life she was Muslim. But as Roman called again, the Russian teen quickly got her answer.
“Right, Turkic and Persian peoples,” he questioned, “I'd say Muslim, but that's a religion, not an ethnic group.”
This time, Farahnaz's hand came up again, as did a couple of dozen students. As Sonya looked again, she soon noticed at least one or two faces having raised more than once. It did not take much for her to guess why. She could only assume Farah's father was a Balt, hence the reason for her to declare that as her race as well.
“Caucasians,” he called out, “Armenians and Georgians, basically. Any Finno-Urgics? South Slavs?”
Watching the last few hands raised, he appeared satisfied with the turnout. From the looks of it, it was obvious who the majority in the hall were. It was hardly a surprise, given the lecture itself was already in Russian. But one face caught the eye of the young lecturer. Seated a few seats beside Farahnaz among her schoolmates, a nervous Yana was staring at him with anxiety, as if trying to wait her turn to raise her hand.
“Hmm...” he went in curiosity, “none of the above?”
True enough, Yana's hand came up almost instantly, the only one among the entire cohort. It took a moment for the girl to realize she was alone, cringing a bit as her raised hand started to waver. It was hard not to, given the power of peer pressure. But to her surprise, the professor did not tell her to put it down. Stepping closer with his microphone out, he asked, “what's your name, Miss? Don't be shy. Just because you raised your hand alone doesn't make you an alien.”
Shrinking a bit on her seat, the visibly embarrassed girl uttered in a whimper, “Yana... Yana Pak.”
“'Pak', is it,” he mused, “that's a Korean surname, isn't it? From Central Asia?”
“Y-Yes,” she again answered, “from Samarkand, Uzbekistan... my grandparents immigrated here. My great-grandmother was from North Hwanghae, North Korea.”
“I see,” the lecturer replied courteously, “well, if you haven't already dogged me for answers last lecture, I'm 'none-of-the-above' too, my German grandfather came from northern Kazakhstan, in fact. Don't be afraid to stand out just because you're different. We all are, one way or another. Let's give Miss Yana a hand, shall we?”
Visibly flustered, the young girl felt herself sinking down her seat, as if trying to hide under the desk as her classmates applauded her. Peering at the side, she could see Farahnaz looking especially gleeful, clapping her hands vigorously as she applauded her courage. Forcing a meek smile, the hapless Korean could not tell if she was mocking her. But the girl had known the student president long enough to believe she was not. Merely exciteable, and incorrigly so.
“Now, I bet you're all wondering why I asked all that,” he told the class, stepping back to his desk, “well, what you saw before you is what the general representation of Prussia's modern day demographics. Although East Slavs, most of whom are Russian and Russian-speakers, form a majority in Prussia, minority groups such as the Tatars, the Baltic groups and Poles have formed sizable populations of their own. In fact, these demographics more or less mirror that of Lebanon, in the Middle East, with East Slavs forming just less than half the entire population. Now, what does that all mean? It means that like it or not, no one group has a controlling stake in Prussia. This is not a Russian Prussia; this is not a Polish Prussia; this is not a Tatar Prussia. Everyone has a stake in this country. All of you have a stake in building this country.”
“But it was not always this way,” he told the class, “remember, in our last lecture, I mentioned how Joseph Stalin bused thousands of migrant workers to rebuild Kaliningrad from ground up. Almost all of them, as a matter of fact, were East Slavs, the vast majority of whom were Russians. Up until Stalin's death, Kaliningrad and its surrounding villages were dominated by Russian-speakers, ostensibly the most 'loyal' to the Soviet Union. So where did all the rest come in? The Poles? The Lithuanians? The Central Asians? Who brought all of them here?”
“Believe it or not, the man behind one of the greatest mass migration since the end of the war was hardly one that modern Prussians would respect today. In fact, most contemporaries of his time did not either, and any mention of him were duly purged from official Soviet records until his work was rediscovered after the fall of the Soviet Union. But this lone soul, an optimistic political officer whose goal of an integrated, multi-racial society that would ultimately encompass his life, laid the foundations of the Prussia we see today. I can say for certain he would not approve of our break from Moscow, but perhaps he might find some solace that his dream came to life after so long, after seeing it seemingly torn to shreds by the very superiors he served so faithfully...”
Part I
The House of Soviets, a.k.a. the 'buried robot'. Built over the demolished remains of Königsberg Castle, it's a hideous, structurally unsound abomination that, true to its nickname, looks like a robot head. Unfinished since construction to the present day IOTL, a German consultant already advised demolition and construction to be a more feasible option. Despite this, the Russian government seemed desperate to get it running against all odds, as if to prove a point. ITTL, however, it was demolished in 2005, rather than tossed a coat of fresh paint as Putin did to celebrate Kaliningrad's 60th and Königsberg's 750th anniversary. The restored castle is slated for opening in mid 2016.
Part Zwei! Sorry it took so long. I simply could not find the time to write.
_____________________________________
Pyoktong #5 POW Camp, near the Yalu River, Democratic People's Republic of Korea
August 1953
“'The Democratic People's Republic of Korea. At the forefront of the global war against the encroaching forces of American imperialism, the united armies of the Korean workers and their Chinese brethren have struck a decisive victory over the coalition of Western colonists and oppressors. Signing a humiliating peace with the emboldened communist fighters, the American-led savages have been consigned back south, forced to contend with the embarrassment of defeat and the liberation of the Korean people's cherished ancient capital, Kaesong. It had taken three bitter years of fighting to drive back the insidious slavers from the bank of the Yalu, but the blood was well worth spilt. Perhaps one day, the brave heroes of the proletariat will liberate their southern brethren from the clutches of Washington and its puppets. For now though, a great victory was won this day, a first of many in the battle to spread revolution and freedom to the despondent masses of the world.'"
"Some 'victory'.”
Trudging through the dirt path of an isolated prisoner-of-war camp, a lone stranger, dressed in a dark olive North Korean uniform and officer cap was making his way toward one of the shanty buildings in the middle of the square. Loud, orchestral music, played in the all-too-familiar propaganda march, echoed in the air as Korean lyrics spouted messages long been drummed into everyone but the stranger himself. Held on his hand, a set of documents awaited processing from his superiors inside. Approaching the guards standing tall at the door, he watched as they instinctively saluted to the commissar ready to enter, the lone man stepping in as he removed his cap under its roof.
With bright blonde hair and cyan eyes, the ethnicity of the man quickly became apparent. Neither Chinese nor Korean, he was not part of the great legions that had overrun the UN following its decisive push towards the Yalu. Rather, his contingent was far smaller, actively denied by his government to have even existed at all. The reason was all too clear; a Russian like him publicly discovered on Korean soil would spell nuclear apocalypse for both his country and the United States. It was not to say the Soviet Union never tried to help, but their fears of a Third World War, so close to the end of the second, were not unfounded and worth preventing at any cost.
Rubbing his head as he ruffled his short hair a bit, the young lad took another look at the files within, a short, typewritten article for the publishers at Pravda back home to print out. A sinking feeling enveloped his throat as he struggled to read his own handiwork. For him, most of the article was sheer poetry, a disturbing lack of information stuffed with overused slogans that failed to explain one simple thing – the actual condition of the Korean War's aftermath. For him, victory came closest for the Korean communists further back, in 1950. With Pusan surrounded, there was little reason to believe that Kim Il-Sung's Workers Party of Korea could not fulfill his promise to a unified Korea on his own. But a combination of Soviet indolence and missteps, and committed American intervention had turned this into a rout, before the Chinese under Mao finally stepped in to prevent total destruction. Shaking his head, he questioned whether it would have been better had the Soviets been able to veto the U.N. resolution for 'police action' rather than abstain. A simple mistake, but a costly one that now consigned the peninsula to a permanent division, possibly for generations to come.
“Another article, Min-Hyeong,” a voice mysterious crooned in his ear in Korean, “you look like you want to burn it. Can I see~?”
“Oi,” blurted the surprised lad, backing up in a hurry as he blurted, “do you mind, Madam!? You're sucking my personal space.”
Standing just inches away, a tall, raven-haired woman was keenly eyeing him, a predatory smile on her face. With wild, springy hair and a carnivorous gaze, she had the stature of a wild amazon, straight from the annals of Greek lore. Loosening his collar a bit, the hapless lad could not help but feel flustered. He could not deny the North Korean officer had the looks and figure to strike a man down, both physically and metaphorically.
“Such cute eyes,” Sara teased, “they're like a lamb staring straight at a panther's face. And I already told you to call me 'Sara', didn't I? 'Madam' makes me feel like an old lady. I hate it when boys like you call me that. So, how long until your superiors let you run back to your cosy home? War's over already, even if it's just a ceasefire.”
“That's up to my superiors to decide, thank you,” he stated with a slight bow, “I trust everything is in order?”
“More or less,” she mused, “armistice is already well and signed, and we just need to settle the issue with the prisoners of war. The party leadership in Pyongyang and Beijing isn't exactly stellar that so many cowards are pleading to stay under capitalist guardianship. By comparison, we've barely convinced a few hundred to stay with us. No matter, perhaps one day, we'll deal with them. For now, we should be thankful the Americans didn't succeed in wiping us off the map. I'll drink to that victory any day.”
“Yes, a grand 'victory' for international socialism,” griped the lad, “a little faster on the offensive a few years ago and you wouldn't have to pretend it's one.”
True to the man's expectation, Sara's gleeful smile turned the corner at the jab, a rather sullen attitude at his impudence growing. Sternly, she cautioned, “a jab like that could damn you to a life in Siberia, Yevgeny, or worse. Just because you're a well-connected political officer doesn't make you immune. I'm warning you because I don't want to see an idiot spout his head off for a bullet to his skull. You understand?”
From his dour look, Yevgeny appeared a bit bitter at the thought. Sure, he meant it as a joke, but for some reason, he felt the entire escapade meant for nothing. What was the point of spilling so much blood if it simply got everyone back to square one? Sure, he could claim that the North Koreans were saved from destruction, but given that they had fallen back from one end of the country to another, he hardly counted that as anything but a consolation. Still, he had to keep Sara's words in mind. He was speaking out of line and definitely under threat from arrest by his own commanders. Fortunately, only she and Yevgeny were present, and Sara appeared aloof enough not to report it, or at least seemed to consider the matter too trivial.
“Sorry,” he grunted, “it's just... do you honestly believe we've won? Fine, if you want to speak of 'survival', I'll give it to you. But what happened to reunification, when it came so close the Workers Party (of Korea) already had victory celebrations prepared? If that's the case, how can this be considered a victory at all? We've wasted blood just getting back to the same starting point as before.”
Glaring at the disappointment hovering over him, Sara could only sigh in relent. Bending close to him as she laid her forehead on his, she whispered in a less stern, concerned tone, “so what of it? Life can't go our way all the time. Let the imperialists brag all they want. I can safely tell you no one here wants to recall that little fact. You better start learning to hold your tongue. Believe it or not, the truth can hurt, and it hurts a lot.”
“Pak,” a voice soon called out from across the corridor, drawing the two's attention. In the distance, a lone commissar, equally pale as Yevgeny, appeared to be waiting on him, prompting his colleague to back away from Sara. Re-tightening his collar and tie, he quickly greeted the woman with a salute, “another time, then, Colonel Oh.”
“Take care, Stolypin,” the woman responded with a brief salute, her eyes still fixed on him as he took his leave.
Marching away as he forced his head forward, the young man could feel his pace quickening a bit too fast for comfort. His heart was racing for some reason, especially after his superior's shockingly intimate discussion. As he reached his colleague, he noticed a distinctly mischievous grin on his face. To his disappointment, he could tell he was going to have a good laugh, as the elder patted him on the back as if a job well done.
“I see you've been busy, Yevgeny,” he joked, relishing the look on the red-faced junior, “courting a full colonel like a Kavorka. You lucky ass.”
“You misunderstand, Major,” blurted the embarrassed commander, his eyes widening a bit at the comment, “she just bumped into me.”
“Sure, sure, Yevgeny,” he replied in a hearty chuckle off his mustache, wrapping his arm over his shoulder as he ushered the boy along, “it's not like I dispute your taste in women. If you can take 'used and hazardous products', I'll be more than happy to offer blessings. I would go for her too, but you know my wife. She'll dice me and feed me to the dachshunds before she let that slide.”
“What's that supposed to mean,” the hapless boy yelped in a cringe.
Rubbing the lad's shoulders as he released him, all the bemused major quipped was, “you need to grow up, Yevgeny. Maybe the colonel can teach you a few things. Anyway, enough man talk. I got a job for you.”
________________________
Arriving at the door, the young officer deftly watched with grim anticipation as the East Asian guards opened the door. Within, he could see a couple of chairs in front of a table in a faint grey room, illuminated by a single light above. Before him, he could barely make out the appearance of an American G.I., at least from what he assumed from the uniform. But unlike most that his senior had so far interrogated, this man appeared dark-skinned, far from the pale European Americans that they had dealt with so far.
Straightening his tie a bit as he waited for his senior to take his seat, Yevgeny felt a bit intimidated by the grim-looking African American. He had never seen one in person before, no matter how much his superiors and the state media harped about them. The disenfranchised minority in the American homeland, their plight had been a regular target for Soviet propaganda to preach the hypocrisy of the capitalist world. Yevgeny himself learnt that much from the political lectures in his officer training, likely so he could one day confront it. But he was not sure how to address one in person, to his dismay. He hated to admit it, but he himself was starting to judge the G.I. already.
“Yevgeny,” his officer told him, “this is Corporal Adams, United States Army artilleryman. He expressed refusal to be repatriated to the United States and wish to assist us. Colonel Zhao already spoke to him. Perhaps you can ask him a few queries.”
“Zhao,” he queried, “you mean the other bitch?”
“Yevgeny,” griped the major, frowning a bit as his hapless junior blurted an apology over the comment, “Zhao convinced Colonel Adams to settle down in China to... learn the life of socialism. I feel that might not be the best option. I was hoping you might ask him if he wishes to come with us instead.”
Blinking a bit, Yevgeny found his request a bit confusing. True, he himself did not quite like the PLA commander that much, but he found no problems letting the PLA take him in. Exchanging a look with his commander, Yevgeny was not sure what he wanted out of convincing this 'Adams' to come with them instead. But orders were orders, after all. Shrugging, he stated, “ok... I'll try.”
“Right,” the major concluded, as he got up to let him step forward. Adjusting his collar again, the young man appeared hesitant to take the plate. Placing his officer cap on his lap, he strained to get his English out of his mouth.
“Sorry about that,” he spoke to the G.I., watching as his senior stepped out, “he was giving me a brief introduction. Good afternoon, I am Yevgeny Mik- I mean Pak. Pak Min-Hyeong, but people here just call me Yevgeny because I'm... you know.”
“You're Russian, I know,” the G.I. confirmed, looking a bit discomforted by the lad's stammering, “it's not like we had our heads in the dirt. Fagot pilots spouting Russian curses when they get mad, that sort of thing. Can't admit you're here and stuff because no one wants to see the Big Bang and all.”
“Ahh...” Yevgeny grunted in a bit of confusion, trying to comprehend what he was saying, “you mean the MiGs and World War III. Yes, I'm sure. Last one ended just eight years ago. I don't think anyone's eager to fight another. Anyway, my superior told me you spoke with Colonel Zhao. Any particular reason you wish to settle in China?”
“Oh, you mean the China board,” Adams said, “yeah, I spoke to her. Told me I could settle down in the capital, get an education and stuff without no White G-Man telling me to sit in the back of the bus or wait in a separate line.”
“A-Buh-what,” the hapless commissar asked again, this time far more unsure about the slang, “sorry, I only caught education. I'm quite sure the Soviet government would be able to afford a better one for you, but what was that other thing?”
Heaving a sigh, the G.I. appeared to be collecting his words. Dropping the slang, he elaborated, “tell me, Commander 'Pak', have you ever been told your whole life that your life meant shit because you have a different skin colour? I don't expect much from a White man like you – being European and all.”
Surprised, the awkward young man was a bit disturbed by the query. What was going on in America that people were making such wild accusations. Yevgeny felt guilty being unable to imagine it – the Soviet Union never had a substantial African population. Loosening his collar, he answered, “I will admit I don't, but we learn never to judge people by any race. That is enshrined in our constitution.”
“Well, constitutions don't mean jack shit if people don't follow it,” the man replied in a grim, pent-up tone, “'all men are created equal'; that's the first line on our constitution. But for Washington, we only count as three-fifth men, so we don't 'deserve' to be treated equally by them. All my life, we've had to sit at the back of the buses because the whites reserved the front. All my life, we've had to sit in separate classrooms, drink from separate water coolers, and wait in separate lines. All because some white man doesn't dare to breathe the same air as us! I couldn't take going back to that life... The kind of hypocrisy my government is throwing at suburbians.”
“That's why you intend to defect to the Chinese,” he confirmed, “you think they'll treat you better.”
“Not just that, man,” the G.I. affirmed, “because I sincerely believe they know better. I went for the classes. I think I know what I'm doing.”
Pouting a bit, Yevgeny was not sure how to convince him otherwise. He himself had no problems, but he had to ask him to come to Russia instead. He felt a lot like some travel agent having to compete with a competitor selling the Great Wall as a destination. What can he sell to him? Yevgeny himself was uncertain.
“Well, as much as I respect your decision,” he said, “I am very unsure if the Chinese are above judging you by your appearance and race. After all, the vast majority of them are Han Chinese. They are not used to dealing with minorities as we do.”
“And you do,” Adams questioned, feeling a bit curious.
“I believe so,” Yevgeny tried to sell his idea, “of course, you will need time to learn Russian and settle down, but I am sure you will fit in. Believe it or not, a former African slave had risen the ranks of the Russian nobility once. His name was Abram Gannibal. Maybe you might be the next.”
Shaking his head as he gave a appreciative smile, the G.I. replied, “nah, I can't. I'm not that ambitious. I just want a simpler life, one with dignity, not like back home.”
“Well, I'm sure my superiors can afford you one, if you choose,” Yevgeny told him, “don't worry too much if you don't feel comfortable among Europeans again. We will treat you far better than the Americans ever had, maybe even the Chinese.”
“I see,” Adams concurred with a nod, looking down on the table as he appeared in deep thought, “well, if it's not too much to ask; how do you treat your minorities? How do they fare then?”
This stopped Yevgeny in his tracks. In all honesty, living in Leningrad his whole life, the sheltered young man could not honestly tell how the minorities were faring. Where he was, virtually everyone spoke Russian, and looked Slavic to him without comparison. Rarely, if ever, had he encountered anyone but a Russian there, perhaps maybe a Russian-speaking Ukrainian or a Belarussian. Even in his journey across the Trans-Siberian railway, he had failed to notice anyone that seemed remotely different from him. Korea, in fact, was the first time he had seen non-Russians in such great number. And in honesty, it frightened him. A lot.
“I...” he blurted, clearly unable to give an actual answered. His hand gesturing, he almost felt like giving in and admit he genuinely did not know. But before he could give his answer, the door behind burst open in a violent shudder. Jumping a bit as he got off his seat, he turned to face the intruders with apprehension. This time, it was not his superior looking for him. The guards and the officer leading them wore slightly different uniforms from the KPA. They were Chinese.
“What are you doing here, 鬼子，” questioned the officer in clear Russian, a young woman about a head shorter than Yevgeny, with flax, straight black hair and a pair of gleaming spectacles on her nose. A far cry from the 'honeypot' Yevgeny spoken to earlier, the Chinese officer look plain and straight-laced, even a bookworm in all respects. However, Yevgeny knew better than to think little of her. She was the officer in charge of speaking to Adams, and she was not happy with a rival commander around trying to talk him over.
“I was told by Major Barisov to speak to the prisoner, Colonel Zhao,” Yevgeny forced a reply, “so I spoke to him-”
“Don't play dumb with me,” she growled in a stern voice, “he already said he's coming with us once the grace period is over. Your superior told me it was your idea when we confronted him. You think you can pinch him off my nose, boy?”
Yevgeny, predictably, was aghast. He found it hard to believe he was being blamed for a task assigned by his superior. Lost for words, he tried to stammer out a protest, yelling, “what are you saying!? He ordered me to speak with him! I was asking where he wished to emigrate to! How was it my idea!?”
“I heard enough,” the woman, however, threatened, “from both of you. 同志们，把他拉出去，” she ordered her guards, “看他下次还敢跟我鬼鬼祟祟！臭小子！”
To his horror, the hapless youth found himself being hauled shoulder to shoulder by Zhao's guards, panicking and screaming injustice as he was hauled out of the interrogation room. He could still see the shocked G.I.'s face on the way out of the door, confused at the sudden turn of events as the man he was speaking too was being dragged out. Yevgeny himself had no idea what had happened, beyond a fear that his superior had scapegoated him in an attempt to escape Zhao's questioning. Sadly, he himself was about to find out the consequences.
Lieutenant Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin, political officer for the Soviet Air Force, was in for a lot of pain.
Yes, he's real. Yes, he defected to China (before returning to the US). No, there wasn't any real efforts by the USSR to poach him, not that I know of.
Happy Lunar New Year, all! Here's the last part of the chapter. Do let me know if the story's going too slowly. I wanted to get to the really fun parts. Oh well. :V
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Leningrad Suvorov Military School, Leningrad
1947
“I am Sara Petrovich Oh, daughter of exile Kim In-hye. One day, I hope to return to my liberated homeland of Korea and join my countrymen in restoring it to its former glory. Division is but a temporary setback. One day, we will strike down the capitalist puppets and reunite with our enslaved brethren.”
Those were the first words Yevgeny heard from Oh Sa-Rang in his days in the Suvorov Military School, one of many in the country. The persona of a typical prodigious child of a resistance fighter, Sara appeared the part every cadet in her class was aspiring to be. Patriotic, revolutionary and loyal to the socialist cause, few could describe her as anything but. But seated right at the front class, Yevgeny struggled to hold in a chuckle. The gag, to his dismay, was caught by the professor, who wasted no time showing the class what happens to those who ridicule model students like her.
As the evening sunlight faded from the windows of the empty classroom later that day, Yevgeny could only curse his inability for restraint. Punished with cleaning the entire lecture room, the hapless boy could only work out the debt, shining the very last table spotless as he grimly awaited his scolding from his mother later at home. With one last check, he finally prepared to carry the cleaning tools back to the closet and run for home. But a shadow appeared to be waiting, standing behind him as he turned around with the pail and cloth.
“Why did you laugh,” questioned the raven-haired girl, her bag still slung on her shoulder.
Glaring pettily at the girl, Yevgeny felt put off by her serious facade. He did not know why, but something about her reeks of a liar. He could feel it in his bones, just as he felt with very much everyone in the class. Everyone eagerly exhorted the virtues of Comrade Stalin and socialism. But Yevgeny could hear it in their voices. They did not mean it. They were all liars.
“Because you're a phony,” Yevgeny snidely remarked, “just like everyone else in this school. It's not something I've heard for the first time, you know. Everyone could say the same thing on stage. Me? I believe in socialism, and I believe there is much that's needed to be corrected in this land before we achieve our ultimate goal. Truth is the first step to self-reflection. If we keep telling ourselves our society is already perfect, then it'll only stay otherwise.”
For a moment, Yevgeny seemed sure she had been struck by awe. The strange, awkward silence admittedly made his head swell a bit, though he tried hard to play the part of a magnanimous man. To his dismay, the girl crudely answered, “bullshit,” unimpressed with his speech. Crossing her arms, she stated, “there's something worse than a liar, you know. It's called a clown, and you make a very talented one at that.”
“Clown,” barked the agitated boy, “who're you calling clown!?”
“That'll be you,” Sara again retorted, her tongue showing her true colours as she started to shoot verbal barbs at him, “an honest man in a land of liars is a fool in everyone's eyes. If you keep spouting your thoughts out, you'll be doing more than just cleaning classrooms.”
“I don't have to take this,” the frustrated lad yelled, struggling to haul the full pail out, “I'm going home!”
But halfway out the door, the snide girl again stated, “aren't you forgetting something.” Pointing at the broom and mop by the side, the girl seemed like she was hiding a devious smile beneath her deceptively innocent facade. Cringing, the struggling lad could only hobble over as he tried to reach for the pair. But with a full pail occupied, he appeared to be straining, and in danger of toppling over at the slightest trip.
To his surprise, the Korean quietly stepped forward as she picked the handles of the tools beyond his grasp. Ticked off, he growled, “oi, what'd you want-”
“I'm helping you,” the girl stated, “you seem like you could spill the pail at any moment. Don't want spend the night cleaning the floor, do you?”
Taken aback by the sudden offer, the hapless kid yelled, “I-I can do this myself!” Sadly, Sara was too quick to acknowledge the refusal, coldly uttering, “I see,” as she stepped back to lay the broom and mop back on the wall.
Shock overcame the young cadet as he watched Sara begin to depart. He found it hard to believe she was that callous, leaving him to do all the work at the slightest insistence from him. Unfortunately, Yevgeny could only rue his own pride for refusing her help. His teeth clenching as he felt his arms burn at the heavy pail, the hapless lad finally swallowed his pride as he spoke, “s-sorry! I lied. I need help.”
Stopping at the door, the girl appeared to have heard him clearly. Glancing back at the lad, she flashed a small, but cocky smile at him. Turning around, she picked up the cleaning tools again without another. As she finally prepared to depart, she remarked in a playful tone, “you're cute. I was acting too. Let's go.”
This was Yevgeny's first meeting with Sara. A stoic, model officer hiding a trickster-like personality, Yevgeny had reason to call Sara scary. As she soared up the ranks above him, the lad found himself increasingly cowed by her dominating attitude and appetite for schadenfreude. But strangely for him, only he was 'privileged' enough to see that side of her, as if he alone gave her the luxury to bare her fangs.
Colonel Oh's Bunk, Officer's Quarters
Night, August 1953
Yevgeny's day had been nothing short of harrowing. On his first assignment in Korea alone, he had found himself on the wrong end of several rifle butts, fists and boot tips in one very bad spur of the moment. He would have expected this from the UN guards, in the event he would find himself captured. What bothered him most that his bruised and battered state was the direct action of people he would have confidently called compatriots, clearly a sentiment not shared by Zhao Yüfei and her ilk. Wincing as the other, more buxom officer applied some ointment on his forehead, he could feel the disgrace swelling over his head. It was bad enough he got beaten up by the Chinese. To have a superior tend to his wounds felt a lot worse.
“You really have a death wish, do you,” the guile woman, now dressed in a simple top over her pants, commented in a snide tone, smudging the cotton wool on a bruise, “you've only been here a few days and you're already getting hazed. Some people might think you're a masochist or something.”
“Don't ask me-ow,” grumbled the hapless fool, “I've no idea. I don't think apologies would work either. She seems livid.”
“She's always livid, Yevgeny,” Oh stated flatly, “been this way since the Second Sino-Japanese War. Her parents died in the Japanese Occupation when Beijing was overrun. Now she blames us for not doing enough to protect her people. Called us 'mercenary'.”
“Mercenary? How the hell are we mercenary,” Yevgeny questioned, “we're doing all we can to help them. We just don't want instant sunshine heralding a new world conflict.”
“Well,” the colonel mused, “do you know how we supply weapons to them?”
“We... supply them,” the lad uttered a confused guess.
Unwrapping another wad of cotton to dab on his bruises, the officer explained, “not really. We sell them to the Chinese. The Chinese are angry that we refused to give our tanks and guns for free. I heard they've even used a Soviet loan meant for rebuilding after the Civil War.”[1]
“Is that why Zhao was that mad,” he questioned, “that she thought I was trying to poach one of their propaganda piece for Moscow.”
Raising an eyebrow as a small, devious smile creeped up, the Korean remarked curiously, “huh. You're not as daft as I thought. Fact is, with Stalin's death, any 'friendship' between the Soviets and Chinese is officially dead in the water. Beijing wants to take a leading role in the spread of communism, but you know fully well we won't have that. The last thing we want is another communist superpower calling the shots instead of us. It might even give the Americans a friend to approach, if or when they abandon the Nationalists in Taiwan.”
“Some schism, definitely,” he admitted in a bit of nervousness, “I didn't think bad blood can run that deep.”
A fox-like glimmer in her eyes as she approached the injured man, she remarked in a keen tone, “oh, yes. Bad blood can run deeper than any ideology. To them, we're still the 'barbaric redheads' who had systematically extorted their once great civilization of land and silver. It makes little difference if we renounce the Tsar's ways. Our actions prove to them otherwise.”
Instinctively reaching for his collar, Yevgeny did not appear to endear to the idea. Was humanity still the same base creatures that would react on anger? Was socialist brotherhood that shallow that age-old grudges would trump a brief camaraderie. From his perspective, Colonel Zhao and her counterpart now beside him clearly thought so. He hated to imagine what would result if relations were to sour even further.
“What about you, Colon-... I mean... Sara,” he questioned, “you're not staying in Korea?”
Pouting a bit, the svelte girl replied gingerly, “you're not going to stay, are you? So why should I?”
“Huh,” blurted the bewildered lieutenant, “what does this had to with me?”
It seemed like a bizarre answer for him. After all, Oh Sa-rang, or Sara as she was known by her fellow Russian-speaking cadets, had called Korea her home, and likely still did. His thoughts on the young Korean refugee attending his officer school was one of a girl fighting for the liberation of her homeland. That was pretty much how she had portrayed herself in class all the time, and after that, in her career. But Yevgeny had the misfortune to see who she truly was. A sly woman with an amazonian allure, she was the kind his mother had always warned against. Seductive, deceptive and ruthless, she was the kind who would play men around like a fiddle before leeching every bit of coin off them. In Sara's case, she had all the qualities of an information-sapping vampiress, honeypots that would blackmail politicians and activists with their colourful sexual endeavours. Yevgeny never got a straight answer from her on those, often just teases that hinted both for and against that line of work. But Yevgeny had never seen her this way when in the presence of others. It was only alone that she showed her true side. Was it because she felt pressured to play the part of the straight-laced prodigy? In that case, what made him important enough to be her confidant?
But before he could even approach the questions in thought, he felt a slight tinge of pain on his forehead. Glancing up, he could see her lips briefly touching his bruise, her bosoms close to his chin as she pulled back. Batting an eyelid as the sting of embarrassment and burning pain was welling at his head, he blurted, “that hurt.”
To his dismay, the woman could not help but chuckle at the response. As if relishing his small sense of agony, she answered, “you're an idiot. Medicine is meant to hurt. That's how it heals.”
Yevgeny's face instinctively flushed with blood, embarrassment and excitement melding into a hot mix as he tried to keep his cool. Was he that daft not to see it this whole time? No, he had known for some time. But part of him felt he was just not worthy. What woman, he imagined, would want to get together with a hapless dork?
“Well,” he blurted absentmindedly, “I suppose some pain is inevitable for healing to work.”
Sadly for him, her trademark smirk was forming again as she glared ravenously at the hapless boy. He could feel the chills down his spine as he observed, as if a little lab waiting to be devoured. He was already starting to rue his choice of words, whatever he just implied. Was she going to laugh at him again? Was she going to poke more fun at the 'honest fool'?
“You suck at propositioning,” Sara commented, sliding herself close to Yevgeny.
Yevgeny was in for even more pain. Perhaps not for the first time, he began to question if he was a masochist, eager for punishment, particularly from the predator before him...
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Lecture Hall, University of Kyonigsberg
Present
"...following his tour in the Korean peninsula, Stolypin returned to the Soviet Union haunted by the words of Corporal Adams' words," Roman's words began ringing back into Yana's ears as her eyes began to crack open again, "having lived in Leningrad his whole life, he had admittedly not seem a case in which non-Russians were discriminated against. But as he looked into the policies of the Soviet system, he started to have doubts how the very country was run. Despite its claims of an internationalist, non-nationalist stance, the fact was that Stolypin, as a Russian and a fluent Russian-speaker, enjoyed many advantages in the Soviet system that would otherwise be denied to one that wasn't fluent in his language."
'W-What was that,' she thought to herself, her cheek chilled by the cool bench before her as she tried to awaken from her nap. She could have sworn she had dreamed about a young blonde lad, the same one shown on Professor Vorarlberg's slides before she dozed off in boredom. What was stranger was the details being dropped in. She felt as if she had heard those stories before. No... not so much the lecture, but the trivial details. In fact, she knew the female officer's very name.
"Sara Oh," she uttered, "isn't that my gran-"
"-Yana," a question suddenly shot at her from the front of the hall, "here's a question."
Startled, it took a moment for her to shake the lethargy off her. A quick look at the teasing face of her schoolmates were telling of her trouble. But it was far too late for her to back off. She could only take the query head on.
"Where was Stolypin assigned during the Korean War," Vorarlberg asked her with a polite smile.
"Eh," the confused girl went, racking her brain. Instinctive, a word came out of her mouth that seemed like a plausible answer. In an awkward, uncertain tone, she replied, "Pyoktong #5? The POW camp?" Biting her lip in a tinge of nervousness, she simply awaited the tongue-lashing and giggles that would come her way.
"Ah. Correct," the lad answered in a bit of amazement, likely not expecting the dozing girl to have listened to his lesson, "and there I thought for a moment you were off in dreamland somewhere. Anyway, you're all probably as exhausted as her, so have a lunch break. We'll be back at 1pm. Don't be late, class. If you have any questions, feel free to ask."
Hearing a few residual giggles chirping around her, Yana could only gaze down in embarrassment as she tried to comprehend her dream. The fact was, she was in dreamland somewhere. It just so happened it was that particular prison camp, and she was somehow looking into a window into the past. Was it really just his lecture doing wonders on her? She could have sworn she had heard that incident before.
"Close call there, idol," Farah teased, sliding close to her as she tugged her arm to come along, "or maybe you have a knack of listening in your sleep. What's wrong," she asked, sensing her discomfort on her face, "don't worry, Professor Vorarlberg's a nice man. He won't do much to you-"
"It's not that," she went, feeling a bit uncomfortable, "the fact was... I wasn't really listening. You know that. I had my head on the desk. It's just... I must have heard his lecture somewhere. How that Yevgeny guy worked in a prisoner of war camp. How he got beaten up by the Chinese..."
"What are you talking about," Farah questioned, her eyes crossing a bit as if weirded out by her talk, "Professor Vorarlberg never mentioned that last part."
That was when it dawned on her. It was not that she heard the stories from Vorarlberg. She had heard it from someone else, someone far closer to her when she was much younger. Stolypin was not the only Soviet officer at Pyuktong #5. He had superiors watching him there, one of whom was a raven-haired vixen no history book would have bothered to write about. Getting from her seat, she hesitated to ask the professor such a strange query.
“Oh,” Yana merely said, trying to shake off the thought, “my bad. So, where're you eating? Don't tell me it's McRoland's[2] again...”
Perhaps, she thought, it was better not to ask first.
Part III (End)
Bedroom, Kaunas, Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic
August 1953
“...today, security forces have announced the liquidation of several terrorist cells set up throughout Lithuania. The so-called Movement for the Struggle for Lithuanian Freedom, a terrorist group set up by fascist sympathizers to overthrow the democratically elected People's Seimas, has once gain been struck a heavy blow. Official reports state that army units sweeping the villages have sustained minimal casualties, killing at 42 enemy combatants while arresting several others. Eyewitnesses have claimed that the terrorists had used villagers as human shields while Soviet soldiers attempted to clear the areas. Prime Minister Gedvilas has vowed justice against the perpetrators of such violence, intent on restoring peace to the country...”[3]
It was a story eagerly propagated by the Soviet media. Weaving a spun tale of Soviet bravery in the face of Neo-Nazi militiamen, the Lithuanian broadcaster's voice in the radio bore hints of enthusiasm, as if urging viewers to cheer for the victory. As its newest listener stepped in to a small bedroom lined with lime wallpaper and a simple bunk bed at the side, the booming rhetoric of Moscow's official line pummelled relentlessly throughout the room. From the onset, the neatly pressed uniform and cap of the bedroom's owner appeared the part of the radio's most ardent listeners, a Lithuanian dressed from head to toe in Soviet army regalia. But as he settled down on his bed listening to the broadcast, his gloved hands reached to pull off his cap as they held together in anticipation. Finally, the news he was awaiting for finally came, the word he had dreaded the most.
“...meanwhile, Soviet officials in the Yakut ASSR in Russia has announced the execution of one of the ringleaders of the terror movement. Partisan commander Jurgis Sakalauskas, was executed by firing squad for the massacre of several civilians in the town of...”
Clenching his hands tightly, the young black-haired lad could only react grimly as the condemned's name rang inside his head. His eyes narrowed, he had dreaded the coming of the news for a long time, though far from unexpected for him. In the end, the news brought no relief, no agony, and no anger. All he could feel was emptiness, a sense of failure that nothing he could do could have changed that outcome. That there was nothing he could have done that might have prevented it, only hasten the inevitable.
'I'm the last one, am I,' he thought to himself, as if speaking to the deceased prisoner, 'the last Lithuanian...'
If you're familiar with Soviet media, you'd know there's a hint of truth in it, stuffed with loads and loads of 'embellishment'. And as per OTL, the Lithuanian partisans were being quashed by the Soviets. Also, no changes to the government lineup in Lithuania, then under PM Mečislovas Gedvilas
It is one of the most dreaded places for a dieting heiress. Cheap, fattening, and allegedly just passable for food, McRonalds is both a place of memories for young students getting their first taste of modernity, and regrets for those threatened with obesity. Following the collapse of the Soviet empire, the spectre of American fast food wasted little time conquering the untouched lands of Eastern Europe. For Yana, the idea of going to a place like this endangered her chances of making it big in Korea, all while her friends lined the queue for a quick bite.
“You had to come here, did you,” grumbled the girl to Farah, looking around at the vast outlets dotting the sprawling, newly renovated cafeteria, “why'd you have to come here every time we go out for a meal?”
“If you're not happy, just buy something else,” Farah stated as a matter of fact, quite perturbed by her whining, “they opened a new Subway outlet right across. Why don't you get that.”
“Do I look wealthy to you,” Yana retorted, “my parents are already having issues splitting allowances between me and my cousins. You know how much my mother likes to whine at me.”
Pouting at her insistence, however, Farah merely grumbled, “well, that's a surprise, coming from you. You seem the type to burn money on cosmetics and CDs. Besides, how many cousins do you have?”
“Five, Farah,” the Koryo-saram wailed in agitation, biting her lip at the thought, “three of whom still live at my house. You remember my brother's birthday party, don't you? My uncle gets on way too much for my aunt-in-law to take.”
“That's only one wife, though,” Farah interjected, “my uncle probably had more wifes than we have fingers. My grandfather pretty much disowned him for his philandering, among other things. My mother's still mad at him for trying to fleece our family for help.”
“He's actually quite nice, though,” Yana mused, “he does get it on too much, but fair enough. Your customs and all.”
“Javaneh told you that, didn't she,” the Tajik responded, narrowing her eyes a bit, “she's his daughter. Of course she had to defend him. You know your clan is big when your cousin knows your friend's cousin.”
“Well, that only because I have many cousins myself,” grumbled the friend, “I can't exactly be held up as an example...”
Speaking of family had always been a fairly thorny issue for Yana, not the least since many in the family had military roots. Her mother, Yelena, is an Prussian marine Warrant Officer stationed in the Kyonigsberg Naval HQ, former home of the Soviet Baltic Navy and, as of a year ago, the current home to the US 6th Fleet's Baltic detachment[2]. Her uncle Svetovid is an even larger enigma, his official duties as a special forces colonel largely doing little to explain the myriad off-the-radar missions he had done under Soviet, and now NATO employment. The most delibating was the lack of information from her late great grandparents. Largely silent on the matter, what little her great-grandmother told of her family was the name of her missing spouse and her 'rather uneventful' career as a KGB informant in the air force, before quitting to become a housewife.
But Vorarlberg's lecture revealed a possibly disturbing development for Yana. She questioned whether her daydreaming was just a figment of imagination. She had heard her great grandmother's stories long ago, when she was still in her final days in a Pilava retirement home.[3] The tale of the hapless fool who gave her son his patronymic and surname, and his little dream. The details, however, still eluded her for the most part. After all, it had been far too long since her great grandmother passed away, and Yana's memory was not exactly perfect.
But before she could entertain the thought further, a call from the twintailed, teenage cashier started speaking to her. Snapping out of her stupor, the unnerved Yana found herself under pressure to order. Darting her eyes on the menu, she hastily picked out the most half-way decent item on the menu. As she arrived defeated at the table with her tray, her friends wasted little time poking on her pride.
“Grilled chicken wrap, huh,” mused one of Yana's classmates with dyed, bright orange hair, as he looked over her food items, “you know that healthy stuff's a gimmick, right?”
“I got too distracted to get out of the queue, ok,” grunted the woman, batting a death glare at the young lad, “what's your deal?”
“Let's just eat, ok,” mused another lad, a brown-haired lad, “and try to focus this time, Yana. People might think you're some attention whore if you keep getting the lecturer to call on you.”
“Funny you should say that, Ahmed,” joked Farah, “her whole goal is to become one.”
“Farah,” snapped the indignant girl, getting off her seat as if ready to reprimand her. Her face rosy, Yana clearly found the remark offensive, not the least since she had already been singled out enough by the lecturer. Fortunately, her friends were quick to restrain the two before Yana could start berating her. But something else was drawing attention away, beyond the usual noise and chatter of the cafeteria diners.
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“Can I help you, miss,” asked the hapless cashier next to his Caucasian colleague, struggling to keep a straight face as the schoolgirl in front of him tried to stifled a fit of giggles. A raven-haired Asiatic with tied bunches, she appeared no older than his part-time colleague, looking a bit too amused at the similarly Central Asian cashier. Keeping his grimace from twisting into view, he tried again to ask the girl for an order. Only a quick nudge from the student's friend finally prompted her.
“Tarana, stop looking at him funny,” hissed the wine-haired girl at her friend, “what's wrong with you?”
Coughing a bit as she tried to restrain herself, the snide girl made a few whispers, as if to point out a joke. Unable to restrain his disgust, the lad's professional smile managed to turn down the corners for a short moment. For some reason, he had already guessed the reason for the girl's morbid humour. A quick look at his name tag, to his dismay, would have said it all.
“Excuse me, your order,” he once again asked in his best courteous tone, albeit more off-key than before. He could already feel his nerves reaching his limit as he had to deal with the gagging teen, hoping against God that she just leave with her order. Fortunately, her friend quickly stepped in for a couple of orders on her behalf. Wasting no time, the lad hastily passed the prepared meals as he punched at his cash register to take their payment.
“Come again soon,” he declared with a painful smile as he watched the redhead hastily ushered her gagging friend out, laughter finally breaking out in the distance. It was hardly anything unexpected, but no matter how many time this occurred, the hilarity people faced at his expense never failed to grate on his nerves.
“What's wrong, Erasylov,” his colleague questioned him, looking a bit surprised at his grim appearance.
“It's that thing again,” he grunted, tugging at his collar as he tried to calm down, “ten years, Horthy. Ten years, and not a single person who took a close look at my name tag had forgotten about it. Some wise guy once in a while would even sing that song. Maybe I should take it off...”
“It's just a name, Erasylov,” the girl tried to assure him, even as his nerves started to fray again, “let the customers joke all they want. It's not like your name is exactly the same.”
“I don't think it matters,” he grunted, forcing back a smile on his face as another customer arrived, “one letter doesn't make a difference to them.”
Arriving at the counter was another pair of schoolgirls, their blue uniforms identical to that of the giggling midget from early. From the looks of it, the girls seemed more mature, a blonde with hair tied into a ponytail and a dark-haired girl with pigtails and 'assets' rivalling even his young colleague. Shaking off his earlier apprehension over their schoolmate's uncouth laughter, he again greeted in a professional tone, “welcome to McRonalds, can I take your order?”
“Yes, just a couple of cheeseburger meals, with cola and fries, please,” the blonde mused, a lot more composed at first. But a quick look at the nametag, she tried to address, “Mr... 'Borat'? I mean 'Bolat', sorry! Mr Bolat is what I meant! Mr Bolat...”
To add to his growing dismay, the girls were already starting to succumb to the same giggles as the last customer, the source again coming from his unfortunate name. While the Cyrillic written on his nametag was obvious enough to be different, it appeared that a lot of people would not pass up the chance to joke about the damnable movie. It sadly would not help if they knew he was an actual Kazakh too. It was not that he found offence over a British comedian's eager caricaturizing of his ancestral homeland. It was just that his very name was now a target of ridicule, way more than he could necessarily take.
“I'm real sorry,” the other girl tried to apologize, trying to hold her laughter in as the increasingly depressed cashier looked on, “two cheeseburger meals, sorry.”
Despondent, the hapless lad could only grunt in a simple, “ah”, shambling to the food rack as he relented on his anger. It had been ten long years since that movie came out; ten years since he had to suffer incessant poking from everyone around him. And yet no one has forgotten that movie. No... in today's internet age, it was next to impossible for anyone to forget.
“'Man of steel',” the aggrieved employee muttered, “that was what my name's supposed to mean, not 'man of potassium'... Why?...”
Just another day at work for Bolat Erasylov, assistant manager of McRonald's little university branch outlet.[4] His only consolation was that those who knew him would eventually get tired of the joke. He could only wish that were the case for every new customer he encounters. Thinking back to his latest encounters, he questioned whether he could ever get used to this kind of treatment.
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OOC: Short omake is short. :| Apologies for the lack of content. We'll jump back to the lecture next post, at least I hope so...
Anyway, feel free to ask me any questions. If it's not crucial to the plot, I can answer.
The general unpleasantness of the Ukrainian crisis isn't exactly met with enthusiasm from the West in either TLs, but here, Uncle Sam has one very sick way to rub salt into the bear's wounds.
Baltiysk, formerly and now ITTL, known as Pilava. Plov is the Russian translation, and sometimes known as such instead of the German name.
EDIT: Amended, due to this Russian Wikipedia page.
EDIT 2: I'm an idiot. Took a closer look at this list and because I can't read, I realized now that it's a proposal for Russifying old East Prussian locale names.
Gathered back at the lecture hall, the students appeared resigned to another drubbing of Professor Vorarlberg's lecture. So far, much of what he covered was the very beginning, the early life of Yevgeny Stolypin, architect of modern Prussia's multiethnic demographics. Some appeared disinterested already, likely a habit they carried of all classes in general. Others, mostly girls, seemed more eager to pay attention to the lecturer, though familiarity seem to have worn off most of the initial fascination. But one blonde schoolgirl had her eyes on more recent events, peering down at a large, hardcover book borrowed from the university archives. Its contents were identical to the copy she had at home. And for someone like her, the history of Prussia was involably tied to her own, a fact few, even her friends, realized so far.
“You've been staring at the book for some time now, Vasilka,” a tangerine-haired girl with a lopsided ponytail commented beside her, bending her head over for a look.
Snapping out of her daze, she turned to the curious schoolmate as she apologized, “sorry, Aušra. I just thought it seemed relevant to the lecture.”
“It is relevant to the lecture, Vasilka,” the buxom, dark-haired friend teased beside her, “you just claimed not to know because you don't like being singled out for it.”
“About what,” Aušra questioned, nudging herself over the book as she tried to get a closer look. But the sudden pull of Vasilka's hands forced her tome away from her, as if trying to hide its contents.
“Do you mind,” she told off the ditz, quite annoyed by her behaviour. To her relief, Roman's voice began to echo from the front of the hall, as the last few students started to settle down.
“Ok, settle down,” Roman announced, “break time's over. Back to the dull and/or soothing voice of the old man in front of you, however you want to call it. From where we left off, we looked briefly into the early career of Yevgeny Stolypin, the man who would initiate a daring repopulation plan for what was then Kaliningrad Military Oblast. The demographics he aimed to achieve was, to put it bluntly, far beyond human capacity, and for someone who is not willing to repeat Stalin's grand example of 'organized migration', almost impossible to achieve. In fact, alone, his voice would probably not even reach the highest halls of the Supreme Soviet, his plans likely to rot away or reused as waste paper. So he had help – friends in high places, and friends who, in some way or not, shared his vision for a cohesive, multiracial society. So who are these people? Anyone care to name a few?”
As expected, virtually all the students appeared stumped at what to answer. Even Yana minced their lips on this one. If her great grandmother's stories ever mentioned about this, which was unlikely at best, she could safely assume she had cleanly forgotten. But Vasilka felt confident, oddly enough, her hand half raised almost instinctive. But someone else beat her to the query. Shifting her eyes down the row, she spotted among her nine friends a girl with a wine-coloured bob standing to answer.
“They call themselves the Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization of Kaliningrad Military Oblast, nine in total. Besides Stolypin, they include four others from the Soviet Union's various SSRs and four from the satellite states of the Soviet Union. Each one was tasked with the settlement of various ethnic groups under their charge, hence their selection based on their own ethnicities-”
“Woah, calm down, Miss,” Roman urged candidly, holding his hand up, “if you're going to info dump like that, I won't have anything left to teach. Your name? Don't worry, I'm not scolding you.”
Flustered by the lecturer's discomfort, the girl scratched her cheek as she blurted in a less firm voice, “Maria Hayrapetyan, Singenwaldhang Girls High School.”
Flashing his cheeky smile again, he told her, “thank you, Maria. You're correct, by the way. The committee, if you can't recall the long name, had the responsibility of resettling the area based on the target demographic ratios Stolypin was seeking. His superior, Colonel Vladimir Petrovich Tonchev, believed the best option was to delegate the promotion of migration of each ethnic group based on the individual's ethnicity and understanding of the target populous' culture. In fact, he was the man who helped Stolypin present his proposal to Nikita Khruschev as a sponsor. We can debate all we want whether he had any ulterior motives for that, but that's for a different class. Ok, names these time. Bonus if you can give their place of origin.”
This time, Vasilka took the chance to answer, standing almost abruptly as Maria and her other friends looked on. Sternly, she answered, “Valeriy Tonchev of Bulgaria, Mikalos Kaukėnas of Lithuania, Hakob Narcessian of Armenia and Nurzhan Aitmukhambetov of Kazak-pfftchhii-I'm sorry... -of Kazakhstan.[1] For Valeriy, in particular, he was a Lipovan immigrant from Bulgaria who arrived in the Russian SFSR with his brother Vladimir, initially to seek treatment for their ill father in the USSR, later becoming part of Stolypin's resettlement project. After the West Baltic was established, he-”
“-he became the longest-serving Chairman of the West Baltic SSR to its dying day and stopped at nothing to prevent the country from seceding, to abject failure,” a voice in front suddenly spoke out, “yes, we all know that part of the story.”
Getting up from her seat with a slightly miffed look, Farah did not seem to enjoy the rather descriptive, almost sympathetic portrayal of the man. Watching her glare up at the blonde, Vasilka could not help but feel hostility, as if she seemed out to slam Tonchev at the first opportunity. Shifting her eyes at the professor, she could tell he seemed a bit stunned by the interruption. Nonetheless, he appeared able to bring matters back under control, as he spoke to the girl in question.
“I'm sorry,” he uttered to Farah in a hint of nervousness, “if you have a question or you want to answer, perhaps you should wait until she finishes. It's quite rude.”
Exchanging a few glances between Vasilka and Roman, Farah felt a bit grudging at relenting. She did not feel she had spoken out of line, having felt compelled to speak out against what seemed like a deceptively sugarcoated example of historical revisionism. But the shaking head of her friends dissuaded her from pursuing the matter. Settling back down, she apologized in reluctance, “sorry. I was rash to interrupt.”
“It's ok,” the lad assured her, “this is a university. Refuting the lecturer or other students isn't forbidden. Just be polite about it, though. Wait for the speaker to finish before your rebuttal. Otherwise. people might think you want a fight. Anyway, settle down, both of you. Your names?”
Buttoning her lip a bit, Farah muttered, “Farahnaz. Farahnaz Ibrahimi. Blühenderwald High School.”
Hearing the query, however, Vasilka felt even more reluctant to answer, though her stern facade did not show much of her anxiety. Tugging her collar for a bit, she considered whether to lie to the professor of her surname. But after Farah's interruption, she felt even more indignant at her attitude. She could tell she had something against the old Soviet-era leader, and she was not about to back down from that show.
“Vasilka Lyubomirova Toncheva,” she stated in a resolute tone, “yes. Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev is my granduncle, the man whose life was sent into a spinning typhoon amidst the hysteria of imminent Soviet collapse. Very easy for anyone to fault him for being a Moscovite lapdog. But have you ever considered what you could have done in his position, when no one would listen to you, and no one to answer to?”
Getting down on her seat, Vasilka's expression quickly soured at the thought. She admitted to herself that deep down, being related as a Tonchev made her somewhat biased for her extended family, her very name inspiring awe and revulsion alike. It did not take much for her to guess which side of the fence Farah belonged to. Like many Muslims, her family likely supported the independence-seeking New Prussia party, and revered its leader and later founding prime minister of West Baltic-Prussia. His conversion to Islam via marriage to a Muslim Tajik likely aided in his popularity among Muslim ethnic groups. It did not help that the party's main opposition in the Sejm, Fatherland Front, held the image of a heavily Christian-based party hostile to open immigration and Muslim identity[2]. A brief stare at Farah as she made a small scowl proved a telling sign of future scuffles. Weary, the Lipovan girl felt strained dealing with partisan youths like her.
“She's quite outspoken, isn't she,” one of her friends commented, a similarly sensible-looking girl with long, black hair, “a bit strange for her to call you like that for such a simple question.”
“Probably a fanatic in the New Prussia youth wing, Ritva,” the buxom girl mused, “you know how political types go.”
“You tell me, Ludmilla. If this is the kind of verbal abuse these people would throw at me and Alisa, I hate to imagine what Rayka goes through on a daily basis,” Vasilka grunted, “what's the world coming to?”
“Don't worry about a thing, Vasilka,” Aušra assured them excitedly, “if anyone tries to come after you. Ludmilla will beat them to mince meat!”
Frowning at the suggestion, though, the sulking blonde could only peer at the buxom girl's cat face to know that would not go well.
“Don't encourage her, Aušra,” Vasilka told off gently, “violence never ends well.”
Looking back at the stage, the hapless young lecturer was making a quick sip of water, likely over the sudden peak in tension and attention spun towards the 'princess' further back at the rows. Checking back on the slides, he called out, “ok, drama's over. Back to reality. If you like to talk 90s politics, this can wait until a few lectures down. We won't get there on time if you dawdle. Eyes back on me, please. Anyway, to add on to Miss Toncheva's point. Representatives from the Soviet Union itself, Stolypin included, encompass more than half the group. With the exception of Tonchev, who manages the settlement of South Slavs like himself, sort of, the representatives manage the immigration of various ethnic groups within the USSR itself. Stolypin, Kaukėnas, Narcessian and Aitmukhambetov are thus tasked with managing the immigration of East Slavic, Batlic, Christian Caucasian and Muslim Turkic and Iranic groups, respectively.
Besides them, the other four are tasked namely with immigration from the satellites to Kaliningrad; Stanislav Mazurski of Poland, Stefania Rotaru of Romania, Margit Haraszti of Hungary and Arnhild Weiss of the German Democratic Republic. I don't think I need to explain where their responsibilities lie, though in Rotaru's case, I would point out that she deals with Moldovans as well. In addition to encouraging immigration, the committee was tasking with overlooking the development and management of the existing population, a task that mainly fell to Stolypin and Mazurski due to the significant Russian and Polish populations in the area at the time. But as you will find out. Their task was far from easy.”
Prussia has a two-party system, with largely center-left to left New Prussia (Russian: Новая Пруссия, Novaya Prussiya) and right-wing Fatherland Front (Russian: Отечественный фронт, Otechestvennyy Front) taking up most of the Sejm. I will elaborate on that in future.
Errata:
Margit's surname is changed to Haraszti, for consistency
Cast
Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg Faculty
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
18th October, 1956
“...in other news, tensions are escalating in Hungary as dissident university students began launching increasingly brazen attacks against the legitimate Hungarian government, allegedly agitated by Western agents and sympathizers supporting the disgraced chairman, Imre Nagy. General Secretary Ernő Gerő has assured Communist partners that the movement will shall be 'defeated with great justice' in defiance of Western designs on the Hungarian nation. In his rally...”
Autumn had arrived in Moscow, and the frigid air was slowly leaking into the streets around the walls of the Kremlin. Pacing along the vast stretch of the Moscva River, a lone officer holding a set of files appeared shrivelled under his heavy coat, the chilly breeze trying to pierce into his frail body. The officer cap, to his dismay, provided even less protection to the elements, not like the ushanka he kept in his hotel room. He wished for once he had that with him to swap. However, ever the dutiful follower of regulation, he kept stubbornly to his officer cap in what was the most harrowing review he ever had, not the least since it concerned his own future.
“...with your credentials, I'm afraid it would be very difficult for us to back your resettlement plans, Captain Stolypin[1],” the voice of the most powerful man in the Soviet Bloc rang, as the image of the distant desk of obscured executives flashed back into his mind, “however, since your superior has assured us, we will... review your proposal in earnest. We will let the both of you know of our decision.”
Clinging to the railings as he took a hefty gasp, Yevgeny could still feel his nerves rattled at the sight of the Premier and his fellow staff staring right across the room at him. What was he, he felt, a mere captain promoted for a few weeks of typewriter punching in Korea to these people, powerful men with the will and connections to control half the world? What was he even doing there?
“Still shaken, Yevgeny,” questioned a calm voice behind him, “I can understand if it's your first time. I get the butterflies too when I had to address Stalin for the first time.”
Looking to his side, he could see the shadow of the man who managed to get him into the Kremin. Tall, blonde and charming, the astutely dressed colonel had the look of a proud war hero, a small scar on his head that could easily be mistaken as a war trophy. For the fairly short, spindly Yevgeny, Colonel Vladimir Petrovich Tonchev was everything he was not, confident, brave and possible ruthless too. A veteran in the Soviet Air Force during the Great Patriotic War, the man probably had no shortage of lovers, despite his marriage to a well-connected family. Yevgeny, of course, never really dared to ask. He could only assume he might trade a sharp wit of his own about his own wife, the infamous 'black widow' that somehow allowed herself to be 'caught' by the 'court jester'.
“Easy for you to say,” he mused in a bit of self-depreciation, “you were fighting Germans since you were thirteen. A young pioneer turned pilot. I wish I had that kind of steel nerves.”
“Well, it wasn't as if I had a choice,” Tonchev answered in kind, leaning on the railings as he faced the Moscow River too, “bastards will kill us all otherwise.”
Watching the senior pick out a cigarette from his pocket cigar box, Yevgeny could only agree. Everyone knew what kind of monsters the Germans were. Even though Stalin, for one, matched Hitler in every respect in terms of ruthlessness, he never exactly killed people for who they were. Just what they might plan against him. Even the deportations were for that specific reason, even if the accusations were covering entire races. If anything, unlike Hitler, Stalin oppressed everyone with equal disregard, hardly playing favour to any one race.
At least, that was what he assumed at first.
While his experience in Korea remained an afterthought despite the fairly serious bruising, he never quite shook off what the POWs in Pyuktong told him. Interest in communism, he deduced, stemmed from disenfranchisement due to poverty. It was, as he long learnt from state education, the root cause of the February and October Revolutions. However, what was the root of this disenfranchisement? African Americans like Clarence Adams, seemed to have a ready answer – racism. Whatever the ideals spread by the enlightenment, it was clear the escalating gap between the Europeans of the 19th Century and their counterparts throughout the world had imbumed in them a sense of arrogance for their 'genetic superiority'. Having outstripped their Asian rivals to become the premier powers in scientific and empirical-based knowledge, the kingdoms and republics of Europe and their immigrant-spawned dominions in the Americas, had become conceited over their overpowering might despite the lack of manpower. Intent on dominating the trade networks to enrich their own societies, they had taken to usurp power throughout Africa, Asia and the Americas, bending the indigenous societies to their own whims. All that, as claimed by the revolutionaries of the Soviet state, was what communism was created to combat against, the continued disgrace of the poor and downtrodden not only in Russia, but throughout the world.
But Yevgeny felt unnerved at the direction taken by the current Soviet state. Digging what he could beneath the web of propaganda (no less with Sara's help), he began piecing a disturbing picture of his homeland. Indigenization (Russian: коренизация; lit. putting down roots) , the policy launched since the victory of the Bolsheviks after the Civil War, was replaced by a silent, but systematic program of Russification. People like himself, with perfect command of the Russian language, was favoured as loyalists, while those who could not were derided as separatist, of little use to the state and a danger to Soviet unity. Claims of dissolving ethnic boundaries veiled a startling attempt to recreate the Tsars' own persecution of its non-Russian subjects. Those of Asian or Baltic descent were the most particularly affected, as peripheries with the greatest potential to secede at the first chance. While the constitution guaranteed that right in the first place, part of him was concerned that it might be exploited at some point, either by local strongmen seeking to consolidate power at Moscow's expense, or by local opposition itself. And who, he grudgingly admitted, could blame them?
Looking out at the opposite back, he questioned, “sir... If I may ask, why did you recommend my proposal. Forgive me if I sound disparaging, but is there anything you want to ask me in kind? I feel like I need to return the favour.”
Giving a small chuckle, the colonel replied, “no offence taken, I assure you. I merely I found your proposal of great interest to me. A daring, perhaps fatalistic challenge to the state, in fact – if I haven't been there to edit it to cover your ass. However, I do think you have a point. The current SSR system requires a bit of change. Right now, our country is being held together at one center, Moscow. If Moscow falls apart, so will the union. All it takes is one weak leader to take the helm. When that happens, we'll be reenacting the end of Rome for the viewing pleasure of the Western world. For that reason, we must build a solid foundation for unity across the board to combat possible separatist intent. Favouring Russian-speakers isn't enough. No... in fact, it's exactly what we should dismantle if we are to prevent collapse.”
It was a handful, coming from the colonel. Yevgeny hated to admit it, but his superior had a way with words he could never hope to spew. Shaking his head in relent, the captain felt the man seemed well placed for a future in the Kremlin itself. For someone like him to take interest in Yevgeny's project seemed like a grand opportunity, but knowing Vladimir, he probably wanted something in return.
“In any case,” he added, “I admit, I do have a request in mind. It wasn't like I haven't planned to ask for it anyway when I made the approval, my apologies. Don't worry, it's nothing illegal. Just a little mentorship for a young pioneer just like yourself. You'll like him.”
“Who,” Yevgeny asked, facing the senior in curiosity. While he had a feeling the colonel was going to ask for a return, he never expected to become a mentor to anyone. As Vladimir turned to face him, he coyly stated, “you'll find out soon enough. I arranged for him to join you in your next assignment in Hungary. I'll let you know the details later. We still have to hope for the deal to pass, do we?”
Bowing his head a bit, Yevgeny could only admit it to be the case. For now, however, Hungary awaited, and perhaps, if the proposal fails to convince the panel, he might just settle down with Sara in Samarkand for good. He could feel the strain of his job wearing him thin. He just was not sure how long he had to be apart from her like this.
“Hungary, huh...” was all he could muse by now, as the two continued to watch the opposite skyline lit up beneath the dimming skies above.
________________________
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
18th October, 1956
“Hungary, I see,” a voice rang into the receiver, “sounds a bit dangerous.”
Seated along the ruins of the old Silk Road, the ancient city of Samarkand had long been a contested frontier for much of its history. From the Persian Achaemenids and Sogdians, to Alexander the Great; from the rule of the Mongol horselords to the remnants of the Central Asian emirates. Today, it remains a frontier republic of the Soviet Union, successor to the conquerors of imperial Russia. And like other frontiers in Central Asia and Siberia, Samarkand and the region as a whole had become a dumping ground for deported minorities deemed potential fifth columnists by the Muscovite authorities.
Living in a modest but startlingly well-furbished house in the suburbs, a young boy was seated on the floor scribbling on paper with crayons as his mother spoke on the phone. With black hair and typical Asiatic features, there was no question of his blood ties to his mother. But his blue eyes spoke of European origins, far unlike the small, exiled Korean community he and his mother owe their identity to. Even his surname, Pak, did not reveal anything suspect; and his patronymic did little to betray his father's true identity beyond the name, with so many Koryo-saram Russified beyond recognition of their counterparts in the homeland. Only the housewife on the phone knew the identity of his father in full. While hardly a secret in official papers or the prying eyes of neighbours, not much was spoken of the man or the strange-looking, well-to-do family living on the site.[2]
“It's probably just a bit of discontent,” Yevgeny's voice rang over the phone to the oddly amazonian housewife, “Colonel Tonchev said command will send escorts for us. Don't worry, I won't die that easily, not unless – God forbid – World War III breaks out there. I should be back by the month's end.”
“You're not one to believe in God, Yevgeny Sr,” Sara chimed in her usual sarcastic fashion, “force of habit?”
“It goes with my mother, I guess,” he admitted, “I just hope my proposal gets through.”
“Strange,” she teased endearingly, “I was hoping you might fail. Then you'd have to come back and tend to your son.”
“You're still sore I left in a hurry, aren't you,” the father uttered in discomfort, “it's not like you have a job anymore. Someone has to hold a salary.”
Cackling a bit, the former agent wasted no time toying. Tapping the phone, she remarked, “how do you know I've actually quit? Because I told you so? Alright, I won't hold you back. Take care, Yevgeny.”
“Ah...” blurted the officer, “take care then.”
Putting the phone down, Sara's devious smirk finally receded with the facade. Her hand still gripped on the receiver, the woman could not shake off her discomfort. After all, what she knew of the situation in Hungary, some of which came directly from her former colleagues, the population was growing increasingly incensed, with the Communist government largely powerless to stem the tide of unrest. It would be a matter of time before Budapest calls for Soviet tanks to roll in. When that happened, it was nobody's guess what would entail.
“Be careful,” she muttered grimly, a tinge of fear working its way up her spine for the first time since her 'retirement', “seems like you're headed somewhere very ugly.”[3]
Ok, so I overestimated, sorry. Looks like no horror show just yet. Also, sorry for the delays. I have deadlines and exams looming, so I couldn't find much time either. :V
_____________________________
State Protection Authority (ÁVH) Building, Andrássy út 60
Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic
20th October, 1956
[1]
Seated around a dimly lit room, several nervous officers were growing tense at the deteriorating situation in the capital. Once the hive of the dreaded fascist Arrow Cross Party, the Hungarian State Protection Authority, ironically and not, had established themselves in the building as their police headquarters. Under the regime of Mátyás Rákosi, the ÁVH, as it had come to be known as in 1950, had worked to extend Soviet power over Hungary. And just as other Eastern European nation-states had been devoured by the Iron Curtain, Hungary itself faced a lifetime of brutality under the communist secret police.
But all that had suddenly crumbled in the shocking wave of change taking hold on the country. Anger over Rákosi's floundering Five Year Plans, Soviet exploitation of the country and bereft of much needed Marshall Aid from the West, Hungary's economy is facing total and utter collapse. Political repression, a hallmark of communist rule, had not served to stifle, but stiffen resistance to Soviet domination; and the reformist policies of Imre Nagy had seen an attempted loosening of Moscow's grip on the country, one the Kremlin took with great admonishment. Now, cornered with an impending insurrection on their hands, the various commanders of the state security were at a loss at action. Some advocated immediate deployment to crush the rebels, with or without approval. Others were less sure, preferring to wait until a definitive order arrives or when events start to change before moving. The din, growing by the minute to match the anger brewing outside, was matched only by the chiming of piano notes in the background. As the officers bickered, a lone figure quietly tapped on the keyboard to provide a soothing "Ave Maria", supposedly to calm their nerves. But the music appeared to be creating an opposite effect, rattling the otherwise discomforted officers further.
“This is madness,” one officer hissed as the din churned over the developments, “this wouldn't have happened if not for the damned premier's speech.[2] Rákosi would have never allowed this to happen.”
“Gerő is a goner too,” another remarked, “soon the protesters will converge on the headquarters and demand Nagy's return. We'll be lynched on the streets.”
“To hell with them,” a third cursed, slamming the table in anger, “why can't we just deploy!? We have the weapons! We can put them down-”
“-and what? Spark a revolt,” interjected a fourth, “if that happens, Moscow will have us all arrested for failure no matter what we do. We should wait and see how things transpire before we act.”
“See!? Haven't we done enough seeing,” the previous officer cried, “very soon, we'll be seeing the tips of pitchforks and placards! We can't just wait and see! And stop playing that damn piano! It's frustrating-”
In a deafening surge of jarring, violently struck tunes, the music came to an abrupt, anti-climatic halt as its player jammed her fingers haphazardly on the keyboard. As silence following the noise, the player quietly looked towards the mess of officers stunned by her interruption. Seated under the afternoon shadow, the blonde, young girl in a plain sundress gave a disturbing, courteous smile as she addressed the jittered commanders.
“I believe that panic is not the right course of action at this juncture, kind sirs,” she stated with an eerie, calm smile, “I hoped that my music would calm your nerves, but it is apparent that you find that unnecessary. In all honesty, we cannot act unless the order is passed down from the government, or at least Moscow, to suppress the revolt. However, by now, the dissidents have rallied and have been allowed to amass support from the populous and the armed forces. It is already too late to preempt them. All we can do now is brace the impending storm.”
“Are you telling us to DIE, woman,” yelled an alarmed, frustrated young captain, taking off his cap as his reddened eyes flared as if ready to burn her on sight, “we have the Red Army on our side! Why should we hide like rats!?”
“Because even with the Red Army at the Austro-Hungarian border, we ourselves cannot guarantee that they will be able to come for us immediately. Takes time to move.” she stated, “we are in a hornet's nest right now, and the beekeepers are still away. Like I said, we have to wait it out until they do, preferably where they can't find us-”
Incensed by the girl's seemingly mocking tone, one of the commanders slammed his fist on the table as he began marching towards her. His face turning into a dark plume of crimson under his peach skin, he yelled, “shut up! I will not be cowed by these rabble! How dare you suggest hiding!? Who do you think you are-GUHH!”
Motioning quickly at the offending player, the officer felt a sudden sting to his chest as the figure jabbed and twisted a stick-like object into the center of his ribcage. Falling back with a slight nudge, he collapsed on the floor in pain, gripping the injured area as he looked at the dropped 'weapon' used to impale him. It was a black piano key, plucked in quick succession from the keyboard as its corresponding place was left empty. Coughing up, he finally took a look up at the assailant who forced him back, cold sweat forming on his head as his colleagues watched aghast at the attack.
“Who am I,” she quipped with nary a change to her jovial smile, stepping out from her seat as she walked into the sunlight cast from its dull windows, “I'm just doing my job, and if you hope to live long enough to stay in yours, then I suggest we scatter before the protesters burn the building down. Take it as a nice vacation. Just be careful not to show yourselves though, unless you wish to be lynched.”
Turning her attention to the petrified staff, the blonde, thick-browed girl informed the others, “rest assured, comrades, Hungary will emerge from this disturbance in triumph. Let the jackals dance while they can. They will learn soon enough just how capricious their American masters are. And when they do... we will kill them all.”
“Every last one. Will beg. For death.”
It was a job she would take full delight in, even as her smile began to distort and curl, to the discomfort of her own colleagues before her...
Train, enroute to Lviv-Glavny Station
Lvov, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
20th October, 1956
Chugging through the raillines as the surrounding countryside whizzed past around it, a lone passenger train was approaching the western edge the homeland itself. In the distance, the city of Lvov, known as Lviv by the local Ukrainians and Lwow by its former Polish owners, the city was just one of Stalin's many prizes in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War. Unlike Kaliningrad, there was a greater historical basis for the Soviets to claim the area, for although the lands had always been outside Russian control until recently, its Ukrainian inhabitants shared, nominally or not, the same cultural and linguistic ties with their eastern brethren against all odds. But the city, as the heart of East Galicia, had also been the center of fascist sympathy and Ukrainian separatism against their Polish masters. Considered 'Aryanised' by Hitler, many joined the ranks of the SS' native 1st Galician Waffen Grenadier division. Their treachery, in the end, was met with brutal punishment by the Red Army. But even as the train slowed amidst the transforming city landscape, the onlooking commissar riding within had little doubts that some still resent their new Soviet overlords. Separation from the rest of Russian Ukraine had, after all, made the contrasts obvious.
Stepping back from the windows dressed in his usual military coat, Yevgeny could already see the difference. The bourgeoisie Austro-Hungarian architecture of Lviv-Glavny Station hid a cavernous interior completely rebuilt in the familiar style of Soviet Stalinist grandeur. The jarring transition, just one of many, was a sign of the immense task awaiting Kiev in integrating the so-called 'wayward Westerners' into the Ukrainian patrimony. He himself was about to confront these issues on a somewhat larger scale, with plans on turning Kaliningrad Oblast into a 'geographic' rather than 'ethnic' SSR. Integrating whatever ethnic groups he would soon be resettling in the area remained the first and foremost task. It was a challenge the young officer admitted would not be easy, let alone trying to gain approval for the plan at all.
Pacing out into the platform, the clueless commander shifted his head around as he tried to spot the platform he was to swap to. From what Vladimir instructed him, he was to meet his new adjutant at the platform. Stepping towards the platform bound for Budapest[3], he took a moment to reflect while he waited. For some reason, he felt a bit nervous going back to a warzone, even though, barring an occassional F-86 Sabre duelling in the air, his Korean experience was nowhere close to the vicious fighting at the 38th parallel.
“Calm down, Yevgeny,” he tried to calm himself, “just a routine assignment... You'll be safe with the Red Army folks, no need to get jittery...”
“Sir?”
Overcome with a sudder shiver as a random voice popped up beside him, the jolted lad turned to face the interruption as a bit of cold sweat forced itself out of his skin in silence. Before him, a relatively young teen, dressed in a military cadet uniform a bit out of size for him with his own hand luggage in tow. The blonde young man, to his admission, bore a striking resemblance not just to his younger days, but also to Vladimir. The name tag, however, even matched the latter's surname as the straight-laced cadet declared, all the ready to impress yet another unassuming officer.
“Captain Stolypin, I presume, sir,” he spoke in a raised, almost enthusiastic voice.
“Yea... I'm Stolypin, yes,” Yevgeny merely went, hardly matching the junior's excitability with a plain admission.
“Oh, apologies. Junior Lieutenant Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev, at your service,” the lad responded at verbatim, saluting the officer instinctively as Yevgeny returned with a fair bit of lethargy, “I've been sent by Colonel Tonchev to act as your adjutant. I've heard many praises of you from him.”
“Praises,” quipped the bemused lad, “well, I suppose he told you I nearly shat my pants in front of the examiners when I went for my interview for graduation as well. At ease, Valeriy, at ease. I'm not going to tell your brother to mark you down for not keeping a smile on your face 24/7. It's exhausting. I know. I've done it before.”
“Umm, right,” the bewildered junior merely answered, feeling a bit awkward at being at ease as he remained standing like a parade guard, “if I may ask, Sir. How did you know Colonel Tonchev-”
“-is your brother,” Yevgeny quickly concluded, pointing at Valeriy's name tag, please... you yourself introduced your name in full; anyone could have guessed that you're brothers. Don't worry, I'm not one to judge you as some 'prince' piggybacking on a successful hero's legacy. No... I'm not much better myself... not with my family...”
In his own honesty, perhaps Yevgeny did judged Valeriy a bit at first sight. In the nepotism-rife bureaucracy of the Soviet Union, people like him and his new assistant had become the new 'aristocracy', where blood ties to revolutionary roots had become vital keys in the fast track to promotion and power. He tried not to focus too much on them. He tried to justify his parentage. But in reality, Yevgeny knew that his position was very much taken for granted, especially when comparing with his peers, and Sara herself.
“Sir,” Valeriy spoke again, a bit discomforted by his silent naval-gazing, “are you alright?”
Snapping out of his thoughts, the startled lad blurted, “oh yes. Sorry... mind wandering again. We should board the train.”
Almost on instinct (and suspiciously out to impress), the preppy cadet tried to seize Yevgeny's luggage, imploring, “I'll help you with your bags then-”
“No need, no need,” the nervous captain quickly tried to assure him, pulling his luggage out of reach of the cadet, “I don't want to burden you like a crude old man. It's not even that heavy! Hnnnnnnnnnggggggg...”
With that, the hapless, prideful officer forcibly hauled his cumbersome luggage onto the waiting train, his adjutant watching nervously as Yevgeny struggled on board before stepping in, himself.
Notes
I can't find a period-appropriate picture of this, so... enjoy the evil lair-style deco (or just try to imagine that it's not there.)
Banishing the Red ghosts - restoring Prussia's pre-war names. By Anna Novik
Prussian correspondent for the BBC
One of many social campaigns launched in the first years of Prussian independence, the then West Baltic government, headed by Prime Minister Henrik Gram, sought to assert their newly granted powers to erase all traces of the country's Soviet legacy. Considered as 'Soviet whitewashing', the former names of German East Prussia had been replaced with celebratory remembrances of the Great Patriotic War, including war heroes of the East Prussian campaign, Red Army operations and the most glaring, the name of the wartime head of state, Mikhail Kalinin. To the new government, all that has to go not just to prove to its fellow Baltic countries that it too sought a clean break from its ties with Moscow, but also to its own people. 'Our future would begin with severing its links with the duplicitous nature of Soviet histography', Culture and Information Minister Gustav Mägi justified.
The restoration of Prussia's pre-war names was but the first of many punitive campaigns launched, and fierce opposition from pro-Russian Prussians was not surprising. The most violent clashes took place at Baltiysk, where many Soviet personnel still served within the confines of the naval base. Thousands lined treasured monuments as human shields, desperately guarding against anti-Russian protesters armed with sledgehammers and other tools. Police forces, supported by elements of the local, soon to be defunct KGB, had little issue showing sides, with arrests of pro-Russian protesters dwarfing their opponents. Though unwilling to use force, PM Gram recognized the deep popular demand to wipe away the stain of communism. Indeed, he himself was no fan to the retention of Soviet-era names, viewing the heroes of the Red Army as foreigners celebrating a conquest of land belonging to what was now a newly independent country.
"I will not lie to you," he proclaimed in a televised speech in 1992 inaugurating the capital's restoration to its original name, "I despise the name 'Kaliningrad'. I despise the idea of my capital should remain named after a foreign leader of a foreign country. And I despise the fact that that country had shown time again their blatant disregard for human dignity and eagerness for war trophies and spoils. Prussia may not have a king anymore, but better a king than a chairman. So let us bring back the 'king's hill' once more. We will banish these trophy names to the depths of history where they belong!"
By 1995, the year the West Baltic was renamed Prussia, most of the country had already been restored to its former pre-war names. The most notable exception, Baltiysk Naval Base, remained in Soviet hands until the end of the year, though generous promises of Prussian citizenship and secure jobs in the armed forces (in contrast to the dreadful treatment of returning Soviet soldiers in Russia) had depleted most garrisons elsewhere and facilitated a much swifter takeover. Admiral Yuriy Golubkin, himself an ethnic Russian from Sevastopol and faced with citizenship issues, then in the newly formed Ukraine and now in Russian-controlled Crimea, recalled the rapidly changing city outside his office.
"Until the end of the Soviet era, I didn't even know what Baltiysk was called before the Second World War. Baltiysk was all I knew since I came as a skipper back in the 60s, after which I became garrison commander in '88. I was due to leave the base until the very land I was in became an independent country. After which, I felt like some rat in a cage, in a city that's becoming ever more alien by the day. Every day, I look outside the window, I could see the city turning into 'Pillau'. By the time we were finally given the green light to depart, I could no longer recognize a single landmark there, beyond a few pre-war buildings, perhaps. Before, there were many who didn't want to see us leave because we provided jobs for the city. By the end, the crowds sending us off were more than eager to jeer at us to swim home. I don't hate Gram for it. I can understand that he was only doing what was best for his country. Ultimately, I can only say he was proven right. 'If we allow the Russians to stay, they will stay for good', that's what he said."
The transfer of Baltiysk Naval Base, dismantled of sensitive equipment, was the final blow to Russian desires for a warm-water port in the Baltic sea. Just like the rest, it was renamed Pilava Naval Base, or Pilau Naval Base, and its new occupants would not only be Prussians, but its American allies. The irony was not lost to the head of the US 6th Fleet's Baltic Detachment, Rear Admiral Dwight Yang. In the aftermath of Russia's takeover of Crimea, thousands marched on the streets outside the naval base, not only to laud Gram's defiance against Russian designs, but also the new naval detachment arriving in Prussia to demonstrate NATO's resolve.
"The (US) marines and sailors seem to take great pleasure in rubbing salt into the Russians' wounds," he remarked jokingly, "when our ships first arrived, we could see a whole crowd lining the coast welcoming us. I'm guessing their numbers shooed away any pro-Russian rally that wanted us out, but there's no question the crews enjoyed singing 'Guess who got the lease' just to make a point. What they don't understand is that this could very well have ended differently. The first Prussia rose from very fortunate circumstances to unite Germany. The second narrowly avoided termination by a powerful central authority so often that its rebirth seemed like a wish-fulfillment of Neo Nazis. Good thing it's not (a Neo-Nazi haven)."
In the end, it was more than just names that Prussia had restored to the days of the Teutonic Knights and imperial Germany. It was the pride of a new nation, proud of its Kantian traditions and medieval past, but founded on the principles of social harmony, and inter-ethnic cohesion in a country that belonged not to the Germans or Russians, but to Prussians of all creeds. Banishing the legacy of a regime dedicated to 'divide and rule' was but one step to that achievement.
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OOC: Was only planning to post a drawing I made out of boredom. But then words came out. :V
EDIT (10/11/2016): Amended name to Pillau, because I didn't know a Cyrillic rendition existed.
EDIT 2 (3/7/2017): Amended again, on closer inspection of this article I've held on to but didn't truly understand until now it's a prepared list for Russifying place names because I can't read titles. >_>
Apologies for the ridiculous wait. I am still stuck on the last part, and busy with work, so here's a preview. Hopefully, I can get over my block. :V
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Budapest Keleti railway station
Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic
21st October, 1956
Budapest Keleti, one of three terminals serving the capital of Hungary. The eastern gateway to the capital alongside Nyugati (the western station) and Déli (the southern station), Keleti remains active as usual, travellers shuffling about with their luggage as they prepared to board.
But a different atmosphere had set in of late, as few passengers alight from its stations. Political turmoil in the country has reached fever pitch, and those with deep pockets and generous ties to the regime were itching for a ride out. Watching the half-empty train rolled to a halt in front of the platform, the officer could already feel the fear and anxiety leeching into the cold autumn breeze. The ushanka and coat doing little to block the icy winds, he awaited with a slighly sour expression as the new batch of commanders began pouring from the train, most of the greenhorns, likely to face their first 'test' on the field.
“Bastards,” the dark haired lad grumbled, overhearing the excited chatter among the junior officers about the chance to 'shoot some rebels', “this isn't some game hunting. No different from Poznan.[1]”
“Let the men talk, Kaukenas,” grunted his ashen-faced superior, a gruff elderly man with wild frazzled hair, the years of war written over his bare wrinkles and scars, “they'll sober with experience.”
Glaring at the chatter, however, nothing on the lad's face suggested he believed a single word. The incessant Mat littering the air, the sadistic cackle at getting a shot at a battle... There was little reason for him to sympathize. To him, the privileged cadets from Moscow have no idea. They have no understanding of the periphery of their vast empire, nor care of the whims of the folks there. Rubbing his eyes, he had half the mind to interrupt. But marching in to tell off a bunch of Moskals would probably leave him barraged by yells and shoves, not to mention shameful to his superior officer.
“...you sure you can take all that, Valeriy,” a voice echoed among the disembarking passengers, as a wandering captain with a suitcase was pacing behind an aide-de-camp overloaded with bags.
“No, no, Sir. This is nothing,” the hapless junior uttered in a cracked voice, straining to keep the bags off the ground as he hauled them like dumbbells, “I wouldn't- I wouldn't want to burden you, Sir. I consider it training!”
Frowning at the sight of the helpless boy, the captain appeared to have relented against letting his subordinate burden himself. Pacing back, he tersely demanded the boy to hand over his own luggage to ease his load. Watching as they fumbled for custody, Kaukenas could only purse his lips. Needless to say, it cemented his opinion of the arrivals quite neatly. A mess waiting to happen.
“I somehow doubt that, Colonel,” he admitted to the elder World War veteran, “wouldn't mind seeing the ranks thinned of silver spoons, though.”
Mikalos Kaukenas had no reason then to think much more of them. The Muscovite elites had always dominated Soviet politics. It hardly changed since the days of Lenin, and it was hardly going to change now. Being in the periphery of a Russocentric system, He, of all people, had had to contend with living under the iron grip of Soviet rule, abandoned by the capricious West in exchange for an uneasy peace with what they viewed was a lesser evil than Nazism.
And yet, somehow, that 'lesser evil' never seemed marginally any better by the day...
God it's been long... Had to play this over and over to get the mood up. >_>
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Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic
23rd October, 1956
'Hey love,
I hope you and Junior are doing well. Pretty sure the censors are going to black out a lot of things again, but I think you can guess what's going on. Barring the illegal gatherings, heckling and tense army presence around our barracks, things are still pretty normal so far. No one has been shot dead yet, so I count that a bonus, but I can't say this won't stay the same. The officers in the meeting still think they're planning a revolt, but I don't feel that way. If anyone's provoking them, it's us. I... tried suggesting talking to them, but the senior officers simply stated I'm way over my head. I'm pretty sure you'd say the same.
Nonetheless, I really wish someone in the government wouldn't just stick their fingers in their ears and try to speak to them. If their concerns are reasonable, then there's no reason we shouldn't address them. From what little I know, they're simply mad over the economy. In that case, shouldn't the answer to it is make it better? Perhaps I could prove the trigger-happy folks wrong. I hope I'm not doing anything crazy myself.
Love you,
Yevgeny'
Looking over the scribbled writing on his desk, Yevgeny could already see the black bars painted all over the letter. Ever the astute insider in the workings of Soviet information control, Sara had warned him in no uncertain terms not to put his grievances in writing. Yet, every chance he got to finally send a letter, he wound up putting up a long list of grievances that could not only damn him, but bore his wife to tears, whichever was worse. Wiping his face, the hapless lad set aside the paper as he tried to put his pen on yet another sheet. But nothing suitably nuanced seemed to come to mind, no matter how he tried to commit to self censorship.
“'Hey love. I'm perfectly fine. Nothing of importance happening here. Hope to see you soon', he rehearsed to himself, a tinge of sarcasm boiling in his throat, “yeah, right. She'll never buy that. She never buys anything. Must be an occupational hazard or something.”
“Come again?”
Turning his back, he found Valeriy stepping in, still in full uniform with his officer cap in his arm. Saluting to the youngster, his superior blurted, “oh, nothing. Just writing a letter to my wife. She gets on edge every time I go overseas. You know how wives are.”
“Madam Oh Sa-Rang, I presume,” Valeriy concurred, “my brother told me. She used to be your superior officer back in Korea during the Fatherland Liberation War[1]. Kind of surprised she would let that go to be a housewife, though my brother seemed to believe she still does... unofficial business.”
“Yea, I hate it when people keep saying that,” Yevgeny grumbled, sulking a bit at the duplicity, “it's like one of those mind games that keep people guessing who's who. Anyway, what's up.”
“Oh,” the lad responded, stepping forth as he handed a file over, “orders from HQ. They want you to investigate the disturbances in Budapest and report on possible causes and potential subversives within the ranks.”
“In short,” Yevgeny griped, swiping a quick glance through the files as he slapped it on his table, “they want to make shit up and blame 'Western-aided counter-revolutionaries' for the riots. Is that what they're saying?”
It was a careless slip, and on hindsight, Yevgeny should have probably kept his temper down. However, whatever facts he ended up finding on his investigations tended to be distorted for public viewing anyway, demanding another bout of creativity as he spun another propaganda piece for the papers to distribute. Being a peon in the cog of the state internal security mechanism, he could scarcely imagine what was going through the mind of the bureau head, Ivan Serov, and his taskmasters in Moscow[2]. No doubt, putting a suitable stooge in position and crushing the dissidents would be the prime directive. After putting up with such dubious duties, Yevgeny believed himself familiar to their antics all too well.
“Come again,” blurted Valeriy, looking a little confused. Rubbing his eyes, Yevgeny quickly corrected himself, stating, “sorry. A bit stressed of late. Most likely, the leaders were being encouraged by Western propaganda, or even actively aided by them. Pointing them out and disrupting their attempts to communicate to the Red Army would be our priority. I'm going outside.”
“Wait, are you mad,” blurted the panicked aide, “it's dangerous right now, at least let me join-”
“It's too dangerous to ask you to come,” Yevgeny interjected grimly, “you'll only blow our cover.
Changing out his uniform for a simple vest, shirt and pants, the unusually serious young man was going back undercover. It was a whole lot harder to do in Korea, when it was plainly obvious to the Asiatic civilians in Pyongyang that he was an advisor. Here, he believed he might get a little leeway with his barely passable Hungarian.
Outside, as it would turn out, was a whole lot angrier than him, and not any easier to fool...
Part 4
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The dark, shadowy streets outside the army cordon was nothing short of eerie. Bereft of civilians, save for a few brave souls, the city looked besieged, its inhabitants hiding under cover, afraid of the carnage to come. But the line between the besiegers and the besieged had blurred to barely recognizable levels. Like the Alesia battlefront, both sides are encamped within each other like a coiled snake on its tail. The loyal Stalinist government cornered by the hostile Hungarian revolt, and the entire Warsaw Pact around Hungary itself.
Wandering in the night, Yevgeny tried hard not to reach for his concealed pistol in his jacket. It would not have taken much to expose a plainclothed officer if he were carrying a weapon in the open. Even then, the hapless lad could not help but dart his eyes for danger, at the very least looking for looters trying to go for an easy robbery. The silence proved deafening and frightening with each step, his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to find at least some people.
As it turned out, the people were just nearby.
Almost as soon as he entered the 'twilight zone', the din in the air began to pick up almost instantly. Ahead, a sea of anger swarmed around a radio station heavily guarded by armed soldiers. Banners and holed flags – Hungarian flags with the communist coat of arms cut out - fluttered in the air screaming for blood as the citizenry chanted slogans against their communist enslavers. For someone who needed to find the 'root cause', Yevgeny could clearly hear the grievances in the air. The problem was, their pleas had become tainted with bloodlust, a virulent anger against their leaders and their Muscovite puppet masters, the very state apparatus Yevgeny himself was a part of. Adjusting his collar, he was not sure whether he could leave while he was still not spotted. Running would have created suspicion as it were, but even walking away might have made him appear like a communist sympathizer (a charge Yevgeny was obviously guilty of).
“This evening,” the speaker announced in front of the crowd, braving the grim-looking cordon around the station, “the 'good' First Secretary Ernő Gerő has denounced the peaceful movement for Hungarian liberation as a Western ploy! He has damned us as traitors to the revolution, and has denied the people he and his cronies had sworn to serve the right to decide our own fate! Foreign policy, economics, and all manners of society are to remain under Muscovite tyranny! How long are we to tolerate the machinations of the Soviet dictatorship and their puppets!? How long must our children and grandchildren be force-fed the lies and deceit of communist avarice! We do not desire to subject ourselves to American slavery! We desire to hold on to our own destiny! Freedom to speak against tyranny and injustice! Freedom to decide our friends and trade partners! Freedom to think beyond the closed cell of Marxist dogma... Is that unlawful! Is that right a crime for the so-called 'free people' of the Union!?”[3]
The demands, as the speaker declared, was to Yevgeny's blunt honesty, reasonable by Hungarian perspectives. No people wished to break under the rule of a foreign power. No patriot would desire to serve the interest of foreigners over their own. But Yevgeny had always thought that, for all its faults, the Soviet government would never think to covet the wealth of Europe for itself so greatly. It defied the very notion of Marxist-Leninist ideology that expoused against it. It was pure nationalism in itself.
But nowhere in the Soviet Union had Yevgeny seen anything that suggested any adherence to their words. Everywhere, Soviet interests, in particular Russian interests, trumped those of its constituent states. Everywhere, the identities of its myriad minorities were overwritten by the faux-internationalist agenda of Russian culture and language. Even Stalin himself, a Georgian by birth, was Russian to his very core, a cold, hardline utilitarianism that placed himself above all others, and the Russians above the rest. Perhaps, if Yevgeny had not met Sara, he might have believed in his country's own lies. But Sara was living proof of the toxic effects of Russification, unable to pronounce her own Korean name properly, let alone speak the language of her fathers. Just as the Tsars had before, his own government was not only robbing itself of its diversity, but saw it as an end to unify the 'equal republics', perhaps making it redundant in a Russian nation-state. Now, the Soviets were free to pillage Eastern Europe of their so-called rightful spoils. The damage done to the union in the war was great, but the sacking of its liberated states was hardly just the acquisition of reparations. It had been a decade and more since the end, and peace, however unstable, had returned. But the Soviets never left Eastern Europe. Instead, they now held on to its reins like covetous merchants, no less different than the capitalists they claim to fight against.
Should that, he grudgingly complained, be the end goal he should fight for?
Biting his knuckle as he heard the vitriol grow, the hapless lad took a step back as he surveyed the situation. He could see the crowds mobilizing to march, likely to their very doom. He could feel his legs stuck on the spot, arguing between itself whether to block their way or move aside for their owner's safety. Cold sweat ran down his head as he tried to think of an alternative. Without warning, the hapless lad slipped on the cobblestone road as he fell on his bottom. As a few eyes glared back, he cringed at their bewildered reaction. Were they going to storm the station? Were they going to surround him?
Unexpectedly, he felt his arm pulled up as a stranger helped him up without a word. A young blonde girl with thick eyebrows, she was dressed in a pure white fur coat and woolly hat as she jovially dusted him off. Nervous, the lad was not sure if she was a protester, unwilling to accept her sudden help. Forcing a smile, he stammered in what little Hungarian he could, “t-thanks. I-I can get up on my own.”
“No problem,” the girl said nicely, peering to see if the protesters' attention had shifted back, “always happy to help.”
Looking over the angry crowds, the girl mused, “a frightening sight, isn't it? When the will of the people is rallied to a singular goal...”
“Yea...” he blurted, “it's... very scary. I don't want to be a part of it.”
Realizing his gaffe, the hapless lad cursed himself for his lack of knowledge. He had tried his hardest to learn the locals' tongue on such short notice, and he simply intended to state he did not want to interfere. But his phrasing appeared to have gave a more hardline impression, even exposing him as a turncoat and a Soviet mole. His eyes shifting at her, he tried to explain, “I-I mean... I don't want to... I, uhh...”
“Don't speak,” the girl mysteriously spoke in fluent Russian, “any more and you might give yourself away. It'll all be over soon. No need to interfere.”
Yevgeny, to put it simply, was shocked. Paling considerably, he was quick to suspect the girl's allegiance on a moment's turn. The only people that might find use in Russian are those who had to deal with the Soviets themselves. To say she was a sympathizer was an understatement. Somehow, he had a feeling she was more than who she seemed, and she was quick to discover his identity for some reason. It was only then he realized a hand reaching into his coat. She had her hand on his pistol, and had she wanted, could have simply swiped it on a moment's notice. Strangely enough, however, she merely released her grip on the gun as she slipped her hand out of his jacket pocket. It did not take long for him to surmise her identity.
“Y-You're not going to kill them are you,” he whispered in panicked Russian, his eyes darting at the scene as he heard the guards at the cordon began to demand the protest's dispersal, “there are women and children there. They don't know any better-”
“Are you sure,” she queried calmly, her courteous smile hiding any possible offence she might have felt over his words, “sympathy may be an admirable trait, but you yourself must keep in mind who you are. For all your admiration for them, their ultimate goal is to kill you and any Russian in this country who still held onto their chains. Their made their choice, and they will give their lives for it. I see no problem obliging them. Do you not think it benefits you to see them dead? Do not expect them to hold the same capacity for sympathy as you. Just as much, there is no reason to feel any for them.”
Buttoning his lips, Yevgeny could tell she was serious. He had no idea how to respond, and as much as he wanted to stop her, he knew he had no authority to order her, at least to his knowledge. In addition, he hated to admit that butchering the protesters would be of benefit to his superiors to a great extent, and to himself. But he was not that cold blooded as to watch them run to their doom. Was he?...
Before long, the shouting grew even more violent, as events at the front began to unfold. Trying look over their heads, the hapless lad could see a few people being pinned down by the guards, likely arrested. Before long, the protest started spiralling out of control, as the mob began descending on the cordon in a violent wave. Devoid of any other option, the sinister hail of choking spoke began to fire upon the crowds, trying to clear the way.
“It has begun,” she stated, as she began pulling Yevgeny away, “we shouldn't get into their line of fire. It's too dangerous-”
“Dangerous,” blurted the panicked lad, trying to shrug off her arm instinctively, “you're firing tear gas on them! Isn't that a provocation!”
“They provoked us first, Russian,” she simply stated, “we are just reacting. If they kept quiet, we would not have to resort to violent measures to defeat them. Traitors who reject the good graces of socialism must be put to heel. Surely, as a commander for the Red Army, you must understand where you stand?”
Suddenly, a shudder overcame his feet as he nearly tripped on the pavement again. Gunfire reigned in the air like firecrackers as the hideous blast of AKMs began to fell the front ranks of the mob. The formerly clustered sea began to disperse in rapid succession, as chaos reigned amongst the protesters. Falling over on the asphalt as an even greater shudder lifted him from his feet, he could feel a strange shower of dirt and dust mounting over him, his hands over his head to shield himself from the debris. Lifting his head for a closer look, he could see the girl from earlier prone beside him as well. As his gaze shifted back, he now saw for himself the outcome of their resistance.
The street had become shrouded in an eerie, choking smoke, blanketed by silence as he saw no sign of the angry mob that sought to tear apart the station. Shaking his head as he tried to force his hearing back, a small drift of sound began leaking in as the smoke began to clear. In full sight, he began to see figures running away from him, the mob dissolving as the entire affair played in slow motion like a movie reel. Before long, he could start hearing the wave of panicked screams echoing from the scattered crowd, accompanied by the thunderous, drum-like tapping of assault rifle fire and the occasional blast of a tank gun. His eyes shifted lower, he now saw what remained of the people who had tried so adamantly to issue their grievances. One, two... maybe three bodies laid scattered across the battle-scarred road now, the telltale signs of gunfire being spewed on them. Those hit by a tank shell, however, were far less lucky – where a crater now stood, bits of what used to be Hungarian civilians now scattered the entire radius of the blast site, their remains splashed over like a morbid canvas of red and grey. His eyes flinching, the stunned lad turned to his side as he saw the familiar red star of the T-34 shifting past him, its crew ready to drive the remnants from the premise in full.
The whole scene felt surreal, almost like a drama serial. He was not sure if he was actually dead, unconscious or otherwise in an otherworldly experience, but not since Korea had he seen the dead up close. Even before, he had the luxury of only seeing the dead, not so much the dying. Turning his head back over the site, he spotted the body of a young girl lying on the ashphalt, or what was left of her. Just a few feet near the crater, the blast had left her with just over half her body, her right side severely savaged and dismembered by the attack. Yevgeny could not utter as much as a gasp, his shock stifling his voice as he bit his knuckle in horror. Agony written over his face, he could only whimper in futility as he bend forward in a prostrated state, his head to the ground as he faced away from the ongoing carnage, a few gargles of despondence cracking out of his throat as he rued the aftermath of his confrontation.
Yevgeny now knew what he was up against, and he knew, for a long time, that those responsible would escape retribution, and mock their deaths with glee.
Is update nao. :3 Probably too much wangst put into it, but I needed to get this aside first.
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Lecture Hall, Kyonigsberg State University
Present
It had been an hour and a half since the start of the lecture, several more if the morning session was counted. What enthusiasm and attention the students had had long been eaten away, and while those who still held a genuine interest in history could keep an unearthly focus on the lesson, most seemed contend to distract themselves with scenery or slumber. Peering at his freckled, curly haired friend Petr as he laid face-first on the desk, Stanislaw felt a grudging pity for the professor. Given Roman's profession, he was sure he had encountered this plenty of times. For him to remain that optimistic was quite a surprise. As the silver-haired lecturer tried to provoke the class' attention again with the Hungarian Uprising, the lad could not help but think the information was for mere show. After all, why else would he add a seemingly unnecessary tidbit of Yevgeny's life after droning on about the early days of military administration of the oblast? Granted, there was not really much of note at all from the latter. The most the military ever did was bring in East Slavic workers to build their bases. There was no reason to care about their wellbeing to any extent beyond the running of the bases. It was only after Yevgeny took charge that things changed decisively.
“Ok, it's been hours, I know. I think that's about all for today. Do remember, that from next week onwards, all classes will be on Saturdays, except this coming one. Anyone who's been keeping track of the time will know why.”
As if on cue, wails of agony began to reverberate all over the room as students began to panic and mourn in quick succession. Standing with his head clutched, the freckled boy screamed at the top of his lungs in point blank range, causing the Pole to wince at his reaction. Discomforted, he questioned, “do you have to scream like that, Petr. Don't tell me you forgot about school.”[1]
“I haven't done my homework yet, Stan, and we only got three days to enjoy before we go back,” Petr whined, “what, don't tell me you've finished-”
“I finished my work long ago, Petr,” Paulina stated flat out, “lets me clear my head for the rest of the winter break. Maybe you should have done the same.”
“How dare you,” the Czech growled, “what about you then, Stan? Ready to burn some midnight oil with me.”
Giving a bit of an awkward smile as the lad slung his arm over his shoulder, all Stanislaw could admit was, “sorry... I already finished too. I felt I should concentrate on the history lectures, so I spent the start of the break completing the assignments.”
Seething with petty outrage, the hapless young man could only huff at the friends' 'betrayal', crossing his arms as he groaned, “some friends you two are. And here I thought we could spend some time working on the assignments.”
“If you need help,” Stanislaw simply stated, “just ask. I'll come over anytime.”
However, pouting a bit at his offer, Paulina reprimanded, “don't pamper him, Stan. Let him figure his homework out for himself.”
Shaking his head as his two classmates began to bicker over his involvement, the Pole could only lament his predicament. In all honesty, he only finished his work early so he would not have to worry about it later. And true enough, Petr's reaction showed him the consequences of neglect in full. As he tried to pull his focus away, he heard the nervous professor tried to call for their attention again. This time, though, it was about their next lesson, and what to expect.
“Alright, settle down,” he calmed, “you still have the weekend, so good luck with that, I guess. However, something to note about next lesson before I release you. Whatever you do, do not come for the lesson here, because we won't be holding a lecture here. Instead, report to the National Museum at 10 am sharp.[2] For those reporting from their school, please ask your teachers on the details. Also, I'll be handing you your first assignment for your history course, which will be a written report on a specific figure covered for the first part of our lectures. More details will be coming when we're at the museum, because it'll be easier for me to explain there. Any questions, please come forward. If not, have a... happy weekend, I suppose?”
From the mass of groans filling the room, it was hard to think anyone other than Stanislaw could enjoy their weekend at this juncture. Then again, not everyone had the foresight to do their work, and like many his age, last minute rushes were but a malignant normality.
_____________________________
Outside, Kyonigsberg State University
Present
Stepping out of the Albertina's front door, the chatter of high school students continue to fill the air over the coming days, and the anticipated approach of the second school semester. Some bemoaned the impending hell awaiting them, especially those whose assignment sheets had remained unanswered for the whole winter break. Others were rapidly drafting plans to squeeze whatever fun was left for their break, though a small minority compared to their lax classmates. And some eagerly anticipated the trip to the National Museum in the old Königsberg Stock Exchange building. Refurbished and reopened just a few years prior, few had yet to visit the history museum.
Pacing down the steps, the Singenwaldhang nonet were still debating their next course of action. Among them, the two 'amber-heads' were in full panic mode, hollering their friends for help to little avail. The twintail midget, among the grave offenders with due homework, remained defiant and silent, despite the gravity of her situation. The rest, however, remained dutiful students as always, forced to bemoan their friends' laziness. But the incessant pleas from their friends hardly made the situation better, with Ausra as the most desperate of the three.
“... for the last time, you can't copy my homework,” snapped Ritva, trying to pry the blubbering Ausra off her as she locked the Finn's waist in her arms, “I warned you this would happen! What have you been doing when we were studying together these past few days!? And you said we needed to practice our routine!”
“Please, I need you,” begged Ausra, “if I can't complete my math, I'll be held back a grade! Please, I beg of you...”
“We should just help her out, Ritva...” blurted the hapless ash-blonde Mariyne, “I mean, we can't let her copy our work, but we can teach her. Wouldn't that be better?”
“She's un-teach-a-ble,” the raven-haired girl griped, “god damn, stop crying, we're in public!”
“Pleaaaaase,” the persistent girl whined, nearly causing the hapless prisoner to trip. True enough, despite her stern-looking expression, all Ritva could do was relent. Batting an eyelid as Zisel tried the same routine with her fellow first years, she finally answered, “fine... we'll help you. Same with Zisel. But, you have to figure your answers yourself. We're only going to help you revise, ok?”
Brightening up almost instantly, the jovial airheads let out a yelp as she raised her arms in the air in praise. Watching Ritva raise her palm to her land in regret, the unnerved midget tried hard to resist asking. But as she felt a pair of hands massaging her shoulders deviously, she jolted at the creepy touch. Her calm failing, she could hear a whisper, “sure you don't need help too, Tarana?...”
“D-Don't be silly,” the red-eyed Azeri insisted, trying to avoid the gaze of the towering, buxom peer, “I could do my work just fine... Why would I need help. I mean...”
“Would be a problem if you get held back for remedial,” Ludmilla silently inched forward, her face dangerously close to her victim as she whispered in her ear, “we don't want to have to practice our performances without you, do we?”
Biting her lip as cold sweat broke from her forehead, Tarana quickly broke, admitting, “i-i-if you insist. Please take good care of me...[3]”
“You hear that, Maria,” teased the elder at the bob-haired redhead, “we could use a place to study~”
“Why does everyone keep asking me to be the host,” Maria groaned, “anyone's house would be fine.”
“Because you have the nicest villas~,” the nonchalant senior stated, “I'm sure everyone agrees.”
“Let's go to Maria's,” Zisel rejoiced, “more than enough room for the nine of us!”
“What do you think, Vasilka,” Ludmilla asked of the blonde, “it'll be fun-hm?”
Out of the nine, however, it was Vasilka appeared the most nervous. Her head bowed a bit as if deep in thought, she seemed as if she too had forgotten her assignments. But Ludmilla knew her too well to be this careless, and the group knew beforehand she was already done by their previous study session. The blonde had reason to worry, but the cause was more immediate.
“Oh, you were saying something,” she asked Ludmilla, snapping out of her thoughts. Watching her friend's thought drift, Ludmilla answered assuringly, “relax, Vasilka. We're still here for you. If that girl dares to snap at you again, we'll stand by you no matter what.”
“Are you sure,” the worried ponytail-wearing blonde spoke, biting her lip at the idea, “you don't know these New Prussia fanatics. Everything they see wrong about this country gets pinned on us for blame. To them, we're nothing but a family of dictators. Everyone of us are considered devils itching to seize power like my uncle and granduncle. And I'm just from the extended family. What about Rayka? She's only a first year, and looks like a grade-schooler. She's already staying at the most pro-Fatherland part of the country and she still gets harassment from social justice warriors and journalists. I'm too tired to talk about such things, not the least to some youth wing zealot.”
Peering beside Vasilka's head, Ludmilla and her friends could already see said zealot making her way out. True enough, Farah's eyes remained glued to the Tonchev's head, even with Vasilka refusing to face her. Farah's friends, however, appeared to have more sense than her, trying to pull her away before she created a scene. How the girl could be this persistent was beyond her.
"Bugger off her already," Yana tried to restrain her, as the nine began distancing themselves from Farah and her friends, "what do you have against her? She just another student."
"She's not just 'another student'," Farah growled, "you heard her. She's-"
"She's former PM Tonchev's niece. So what," Ahmed stated flat out, "she hasn't made it a big deal. Why should you?"
"You don't know them, Ahmed," Farah snapped, "people like her... are the reason why this country is sucked so deep in despotism. Her family profitted from turning the country into a giant arms factory. They silenced and weeded out dissent. They ousted my father and tore his vision for a peaceful, modern Prussia apart. How is that not a big deal!? And don't pretend you never heard that, woman!”
Pausing at the foot of the stairs as her friends nervously looked on, Vasilka could only sulk at the raving schoolgirl behind her. Not that she failed to understand where she was going – her very words had betrayed her true identity. However, to believe that Prussia was at its darkest under the Tonchevs... as much as she tried to resist any futile measure to correct her, it was becoming extremely clear she was not going to get silence regardless.
“What do you want me to do then,” Vasilka snidely replied, turning back to face her with a heavy glare, “get on my knees and apologize? Sorry, but I have no reason to assuage your ego, Miss Gram. Maybe you should check your facts before you give such fiery accusations.”
“'Gram',” Zisel questioned in bewilderment, "what is she talking about?”
“Don't tell me you don't recognize her...” Ludmilla clarified with her, as the group observed the confrontation with utter dread, “Farahnaz Gram is the daughter of Henrik Abraham Gram, first Prime Minister of West Baltic-Prussia and founder of the independence party, New Prussia. He ousted Vasilka's granduncle, Chairman of the Presidium, Valeriy, and her uncle, Viktor, served in Gram's cabinet as Minister of the Interior during the first years of independence. Then, her uncle broke ranks along with half of New Prussia' elected ministers to form the opposition party, Fatherland Front. They defeated Gram in the first post-Soviet general elections in 1996, and he became the second Prime Minister. To put it simply, our princess is salty, that the 'hero of Prussia' was booted from office after a single term.”
Livid, Farah appeared eager to march right at the blonde's face for a tight slap. But held back by her nervous friends, she was ultimately hamstrung into firing more verbal abuse. Angered, she barked, “I checked my facts perfectly! Maybe you should do the same! Are you going to tell me the detentions your uncle made in his tenure were 'necessary', and that arming the nation to the teeth and selling the excess was 'essential' to the economy!?”
“Prussia became a first world nation under my uncle,” Vasilka stated resolutely, clearly undaunted by the accusations as she jabbed her pointed finger at Farah in the distance, “his cabinet built the economy and armed forces from ground up. He destroyed Rodina and other extremist groups that threatened to divide our people. Your father lost the elections because he treated Prussia like a refugee camp than a actual country. He forgot his commitments to the citizenry and the electorate responded in kind. You blame me and my family for every perceived ill that had befallen our country, but ask yourself; what has New Prussia done for us? I can list out everything that had gone wrong under your party's administration and you'd still deny it.”
“How dare you,” Farah blurted in outrage, her eyes wide in shock and indignity as Vasilka shot down her charges, “my father fought for the rights and freedoms of every individual here including yours! How did Tonchev answer that? He split the party in two and tried to sell our nation out to Russian demagogues! He sealed off Prussia's borders and whipped up anti-Muslim hysteria to push his cause! He even sabotaged entry negotiations into the EU-”
“-and look what happened to Prussia after New Prussia won back the Seym,” Vasilka countered immediately, increasingly matching Farah's volume in kind as she grew impatient with the activist, “common market? Freedom of movement? Collective security? Our country is being dragged down with the Eurozone as we speak.[5] We've traded a Russian garrison with an American one. Syrian refugees are overwhelming our borders because the 'shining beacons' of Western democracy couldn't find a single 'moderate' rebel to back. We were going to join the EFTA and access the European market without handing over control of our finances.[6] We were committed to neutrality and mutual friendship with both East and West. We had the power to control the tide of migrants into our country to manageable levels. Your party burned everything we stood for in the name of political correctness and self-obsessed social justice!”
“Then why not join the EAU if you care so much about Russia,” snapped Farah again, “why not the CSTO! You said neutrality would protect us. Look what happened to Georgia and Ukraine! You said Fatherland wanted to reduce immigration to manageable levels, then why is it that only Muslim migrants are being locked outside!? You said joining the EU was a mistake...”
Biting her lip, Farah was actually lost for words on that point. She hated to admit it, but the current situation in the Eurozone made startlingly powerful fuel for Eurosceptic rhetoric such as Vasilka's. It was a disturbing sentiment that was spreading throughout Europe, not the least in Prussia itself. If the latest electoral campaigns are to show for, many people are unhappy and exasperated with New Prussia's Europhilic goals. And fear of Fatherland Front's record for authoritarian leanings failed to outweigh their message of order and stability in a chaotic world.
But while Farah had cut her tongue, Vasilka merely kept silent, her arms crossed as she tried to rack her brains for a way out of the debate. They were wasting all their time, but while Vasilka was too tired to continue arguing with such a persistent character, she hated to concede either. Her family, in her view, did nothing wrong. They were not traitors as Farah had actively billed them, and she was not about to give her the pleasure to gloat about it.
Fortunately, a honk from the porch managed to break the stalemate for them.
Halting in front of the bickering students was an Iveco LMV, the insignia of a black eagle interspaced with an anchor showing by the side. Anyone who knew the military could tell it was from the Prussian marines, but its appearance at the center of a university was quite unusual. Poking her a head out of the window from the driver's seat for a look, a relatively young East Asian in an olive uniform with a strange set of lotus hair decs had her handphone pinned to her ear. Right on cue, a faint buzz was echoing from Yana's pocket, forcing her to release her friend's arm as she picked up her call.
“Yana, you there,” the marine driver's voice spoke in her ear, “what's going on? You have a fight with Farah?”
“No, mother...” the Korean responded nervously, looking over at the LMV as the growing mob around her had their attention fixed on them, “it's just... Just a little scuffle. Farah is getting hyper, as usual. I'll be right down.”
Hanging her phone, the sulking girl cast a nervous gaze at Farah as she questioned leaving the boys to deal with her. Sensing the chance to break off, Vasilka quietly turned away as the nine began pacing off again. Annoyed, the Tajik barked, “where do you think you're going!? We're not done yet!”
“Farah, are you done yet,” Yana growled, batting an eyelid at her persistence, “are you going to create a scene every time you two meet? We'll be seeing them every weekend for the entire semester onwards. Are you going to make yourself miserable by confronting her every single time?”
Buttoning up her lower lip, Farah could not help but relent at her friend's demands. In all honesty, Farah herself was growing weary of such courtroom debates, not the least due to the unwanted attention she had attracted to herself. A glare at the blonde Russian as she turned back for the last time was met only with cold silence, as if Vasilka was done wasting her breath, or unwilling to agitate her to speak further. Bowing her head a bit, she could tell she was being unreasonable to begin with. What, she felt, was she expecting out of Toncheva anyway? She dared not admit it, but her opposite might have guessed right about her. Did she really expect Viktor's own family members to apologize for a decade of Fatherland rule, or condemn him for his actions? She could never imagine saying the same scathing rhetoric the blonde had of Gram.
“Excuse me...” she grunted, making a hasty retreat back into the Albertina. From the look on her grudging face, Farah seemed close to tears, and desperate not to show them in front of her designated rival. Concerned, the hapless Ahmed questioned, “should I?...”
“Let her bawl her eyes out on her own,” Yana stated, “best to give her some space. Sorry, I got to go. My mother's waiting.”
“Ah...” Sergei merely blurted, still stunned by the whole affair, “bye then.”
Rushing down the steps onto the porch, the hapless girl hesitated as she peered at the nonet again. Biting her lip, she muttered to the girls, “look... I...”
“No need to apologize for her,” stated Vasilka, tempering her frustration as her tone softened noticeably, “I've seen it before. I doubt she hasn't been on the receiving end of this, so her reactions aren't all that surprising. However, I hope she keeps quiet from now on. Let's not make another scene at the museum, for everyone's sake.”
“Yeah...” Ausra pleaded with her hands clapped in prayer, “we don't want to get kicked out, do we? And we don't want the professor to get angry too, right?”
Guilty, the black-haired Asian could only bow her head, replying in an uncertain voice, “ah... We'll keep watch on her.”
Watching the girls depart, Yana herself doubted if she could keep Farah silent for long. She had known the girl too long, and the idea that a hero like Henrik Gram could be brought down so easily just did not sit well for her. Getting into the other side of the LMV, she was not sure how to answer her mother on this. Anyone with a smartphone would have this on Youtube in a few moments, and the world would laugh at Farah's antics. Again.
_____________________________
Later, in the LMV
“You worried about your friend, Yana,” the marine officer asked her passenger, driving through the crowded evening streets of the city as Yana sat in deep thought.
“Ah...” Yana admitted, “this isn't the first time she made a scene. She disrupted the class when that Toncheva girl answered the professor's question. I don't what's driving Farah crazy. It's not like she's the one being confronted. Anyone could tell she was agitating for a response.”
“I suppose... some people want to reclaim honour for their families,” her mother tried to surmised, “for a lack of a better word. This Toncheva girl... is her father Viktor?”
“No. Lyubomir. Viktor is her uncle,” Yana replied.
“Lyubomir...” mused the driver, “I think I remember him. Splitting image of his father, Vladimir. Your father and I actually attended Viktor Tonchev's wedding. Your grandparents, your uncle and great-gran too. Viktor's wife was the sister of your father's teammate in the Soviet Olympic swimming team. Small world...”
“Wait,” blurted Yana, “you know the Tonchevs?”
“Not really,” she mused, “acquaintances, perhaps, but I wouldn't count myself close. Your great-gran though, worked with Mr Valeriy in the Committee for Resettlement back when she was a young woman. She refused to speak about it, though. Your father felt she probably never got over the fact that he had your great-grandfather die in a Siberian gulag.”
“I see...” Yana queried, increasingly unnerved by the links, “did... Great-gran ever mention about great-grandfather?”
Shaking her head, however, all her mother could say was, “she wouldn't tell us, not even your grandfather. All she would say was that he was a brilliant man who helped build Prussia as it is today. But she would never tell us who he is exactly. Perhaps she feared the KGB will take your grandfather away, or she simply did not want any unwanted attention. I'm sure you've heard before. They accuse her of being Stolypin's spymaster and even lover. Some even go as far as claim they were married in secret. She would never tell, though. She was impossible to break. But she told us she left a clue for us to find, particularly for you, Stefan (Yana's brother) and your cousins. Try asking Ana. I believe she still has it written somewhere.”
Pulling her hair back, Yana was unsure what to expect anymore. Her head was still reeling from the lecture, and Farah's unprovoked verbal assault had only made it worse. She could only muse the irony of her family ties with the Grams' political enemies. Most of all, she questioned her great-grandmother's role in it all, the nasty old crone who, in her youth as a black widow, had a hand in stuffing thousands of Koryo-saram like herself into train cars bound for Kaliningrad, just to meet Yevgeny's unreasonable quotas on West Baltic's future demographics. It all made as little sense as her South Korean romance drama.
“Small world...” was all she could say, as the vehicle made its way back through the crowded rush hour traffic. She was not sure what to believe anymore, and she dreaded the day of the museum visit more than ever.
The school year starts in the first week of September, with the second half starting after winter break on the week after the Eastern Orthodox Christmas Day.
Königsberg Stock Exchange, one of the few building that was rebuilt IOTL.
よろしくお願いします
Fatherland Front. Politics post for more information.
Nesselbeck Remand Center, Nesselbeck, Neuhausen Raion, Prussia
23 January, 2016
8.47 am
Nesselbeck, just outside the capital and the city of Neuhausen (formerly Guryevsk). Once known as Orlovka, the town, like many locales throughout East Prussia, is dominated by the looming facade of its medieval castle.[1] Its ruined facade juxtaposed with a modernist theme, many locals had long complained over the gaudy appearance. But the Prussian government continued to lack the funds to save every last Teutonic castle in their country, with the fate of the castle left to the hotel now in ownership.[2]
But the mangled castle was not the only locale Nesselbeck proved famous for. Located just off the main road, Nesselbeck Remand Center had become an ominous home for many of Prussia's rich and wealthy. A minimum security prison for high-profile corporate and political criminals, the center plays host to one particularly troublesome inmate. A man that half the country wished to see locked up forever, and the other freed from his 'falsified' charges, his presence in Nesselbeck had become a source of dread for wardens and guards who have had to deal with protests from his fanatical supporters. The fact that he remained defiant, appealing against the charges imposed on him by his prosecutors, was of little relief. Fortunately for them, perhaps, his family members seemed to possess more sense than his supporters.
Stepping through the brightly painted concrete corridors, a blonde man with long locks looked on in dread at the sterile surroundings, his thick sunglasses hung on the lapel of his red jacket betraying his age and outdatedness as he prepared to greet the prisoner. Besides him, Vasilka tried her hardest not to look at the blue guards around every corner. For a prison that was only meant to keep in white-collar workers, she could not help but think the guards had doubled in numbers each time they visit.
“In here,” the warden spoke professionally, letting them into the interview room, “try not to take too long. It's a bit odd for you to come this early in the morning. The guards aren't exactly used to morning routines.”
“Don't worry,” quipped the lad jokingly, “my daughter needs to head for her history class. If anyone is on edge, it's her. I think you know why by now.”
Pursing his lips a bit, the warden tried hard to hide his sympathies. As a civil servant, he had sworn by oath to abstain from politics, but the fact that the guards in Nesselbeck Prison had to be handpicked hinted otherwise. Perhaps there was still a lot to fear from New Prussia over their worst enemy, and the family that had dominated Soviet and post-Soviet Prussian politics. That a brief shouting contest between the two teenage scions of Prussia's rival dynasties was enough to make the news showed just how on edge the political scene had become.
Sitting behind the bulletproof screen as her father waited behind her, Vasilka felt unsure at what to say. She, like her father, was admitted not that close to the main family, their relationship tenuous due to the death of their grandfather, Vladimir. But their granduncle, Valeriy, never hesitated to shower his love for his brother's family, often treating her father and aunt, Lyubomir and Liliana, as his own. For that reason, the inmate himself was practically a brother to him, and his daughter Rayka a sister to Vasilka. The more she thought about it, the more she could not help but feel that New Prussia was making it their mission to tear them apart.
'Is this how that girl keeps living through her life,' she questioned herself, 'believing we have nothing better to do than to sit up all night thinking of more creative ways to make Gram's life a living hell?'
She could only hope Farahnaz had more sense than that. If every meeting was going to degenerate into a premiership debate, she was going to lose a lot of sleep for nothing. Looking up, she could see the similarly blonde inmate stepping in already, dressed in a plain shirt and jeans as he sat down to pick up the phone. Hesitating a bit, she felt nervous about telling him. How was he going to react? Would he get angry about this? Knowing her uncle, he would have taken anything against his family as a personal slight, particularly from a Gram. Picking up the phone, she finally decided to shake off the thought. Their uncle already has enough to worry about. She felt it was better if he did not have to worry about her.
“Good morning, Uncle Viktor,” she spoke to the inmate, the defiant former prime minister of Prussia, “are you okay?”
National Museum, Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
9.23 am
The National Museum, situated in the old Königsburg Stock Exchange.[3] Rebuilt by the Soviet authorities, it is one of the few buildings in old Königsburg deemed of any value to the Kremlin due to its similarities to Russian neo-classicism. Today, it is the main repository of Prussia's historical legacy, from the days of the Baltic pagans to the modern day. On the flagpoles outside the entrance, the flags of Prussia's past and present flew in tandem, from the black cross of the Teutonic Order, the Polish-Lithuanian Royal Banner, the black eagle of the Prussian duchy and kingdom, to the tricolours of the German empire and republic. The only flag missing, the Nazi Hakenkreuz, was skipped for the red banner of the Soviet Union after. Finally, the tricolour of the West Baltic SSR stood by side with a duplicate, with the hammer and sickle removed for the latter. The present black-white-blue tricolour, Prussia's current flag, stood in front of the others, defining itself from its myriad past selves.[4]
Seated in a brightly furnished French-decor cafe in the museum's lobby, the hapless nonet – or currently octet - of blue-vested schoolgirls was waiting on their friend to arrive. Unusual for the locale and time, the new cafe, Patisserie La Soleil, was playing host to a startling flood of students on a bright Saturday morning. Many of them, unlike the girls, were not from Vorarlberg's class. From the looks of it, it appeared today's class was specially tailored for a combined class, one that only the museum could cater.
Peering over the top, Tarana looked apprehensive at the surge of students in the museum, some of whom appeared to have come from far better schools than their own. The sea of black covering an entire side section, in particular, caught her attention, as the chatter filled with all sorts of Western European languages. Peeking beside her, Zisel herself seemed intrigued, though the appearance of the cafe's unique 'cat maids' – waitresses dressed in French maid uniforms and cat ears and tails – distracted her again.
“Parfait please,” Zisel eagerly blurted to the black-haired, twintail waitress, as Leila squealed for her own order.
“It's morning,” Maria reprimanded, “watch your diet, will you?”
“But it's so sweet,” Zisel begged, “and it's not every day we come to La Soleil.”
“Why'd they even have a cafe like this in a museum,” the Armenian grumbled, “I expected this near an anime store, not in a place like this.”
“What'd you have against cat maids,” weeped the girl, making a cat-like pout at Maria's sneering as she suddenly grasped the startled waitress' hand, “I believe in you, miss~! Pay no attention to this cat-hater-achoo!”
“Y-You welcome,” the hapless waitress could only respond, a bit creeped out by her gestures, “and bless you. I'll fetch your order.”
Watching the employee flee hastily, Maria quipped snidely, “I hope you're happy. If you were a guy, she might have slapped you already. No... I might have slapped you regardless. And what are you looking at, Tarana? Looking for that psycho Farsi again? Relax, Vasilka isn't here yet, and I don't think that girl will wilfully look for trouble if the press hangs on to her like glue.”
“Quiet already,” Tarana whispered, shushing the group with a nervous glare, “she's there.”
“Who,” Maria queried, peering over as well.
“Die Schwarzer Königin,” hissed Tarana, pointing at the mob of students in black uniforms. Seated in neatly-dressed uniforms and pleated skirts, it did not take much to guess that the schoolgirls came from a prestigious school. The black cross school insignia, in fact, hinted at a Catholic school, even one funded by the Teutonic Order itself.[5] But the most striking figure among the mob of girls was a head of strawberry pink, tied in a braid as the girls around her giggled and chatted with her. Spying at the conspicuous schoolgirl, Tarana seemed a bit too obsessed with her for comfort.
“Who,” Ludmilla queried, “I speak German and even I don't know what 'the Black Queen' is. Is it some sort of code.”
“Don't be silly,” Tarana griped, feeling agitated as she slipped back down to fiddle with her phone, she quickly opened a music video on her cellphone, with music filling the table as a girl with the target's likeness appeared on the screen. The title below, as it turned out, said it all.
“You actually watch that crap,” Tarana queried sarcastically, “not surprised, but I expected better. But yeah, she sung the opening for the series.”
“But who's Mia,” grumbled Maria, “you haven't answered at all.”
“H-How dare you,” blurted the agitated girl in outrage, “you never heard of Mia!? She's been an idol since she was 13. She's even joining the national selection for Eurovision this year. Come to think of it, she should be my age by now.”
“Your age,” mused Leila inquisitively, trying to count the years. Annoyed, the midget girl yelled, “I'm 17, junior! Same age as Vasilka and Ludmilla! What, I don't look mature enough for you!?”
“I honestly wouldn't have guessed,” Ludmilla admitted playfully, faking an innocent look, “I always thought you were younger.”
As the agitated loli look set to blow, a familiar head of blonde quietly showed herself in. Noticing the scuffle, Vasilka spoke, “sorry I took so long, everyone. My dad wanted to pay a visit to my uncle at Nesselbeck Prison.”
“Nesselbeck,” Ritva questioned, “I see. How're they doing then?”
“Fine,” Vasilka simply said, sitting down beside Ludmilla, “my uncle is stubborn as usual. He intends to fight the charges to the bitter end. What about you girls.”
“Oh,” Mariyne blurted, “Tarana is stalking idols again. One of them is in the cafe with that crowd of students in black uniforms. I think her name was Mia something...”
“Mia Trier, you pleb,” growled Tarana, “and she's from St. Elisabeth Catholic Girls School. I suspect they're here for Vorarlberg's class. How did I not see her before?”
“Because she wasn't there before,” suggested Ritva, “I don't think they're in Professor Vorarlberg's class specifically. Maybe we're having a combined class with others in the history program.”
“Seems like it,” Ausra quipped, getting off her seat, “well, what're we waiting for? We should get going to the exhibit then-”
“But my parfait,” blurted the started Zisel, panicking with Leila as the girls prepared to leave. Hauling the poor girls out of the seats, Ritva stated firmly, “we'll order to go. Class is starting in a few minutes, we don't want to be late.”
Dragging the hopeless pigs away, the girls were soon on their way to the cashier, ready to delve into the museum for their newest journey into the life and times of Soviet Prussia. Unbeknownst to them, a few eyes had already fixed on to them as the noise made by the sweet tooths rattled for the attention of the club. Looking over, the girls of St. Elisa were quick to identify them. Whispering into the idol's ear, they seemed bewildered by their fellow peers.
“Isn't that Muse,” asked one of the students beside Mia, “I heard they're going to compete in the national selection for Eurovision.”
“No, they're not,” griped another, “you're talking about the independence celebrations. Some of them aren't even old enough to join Eurovision, after all. Just ask Mia. She's been waiting four years to meet their age requirements.”
“Ah, that's good, I suppose,” blurted the girl, looking a bit concerned as Mia stared on at the nonet, “she's up against Rhapsodos and Tre Stelle as it is. Is she going to make the Eurovision qualifiers?”
But Eurovision appeared the least of the pink-haired girl's concerns, her eyes fixed on the girls as they shuffled their whining members out. Bowing her head a bit, the young girl twiddled her thumbs at the thought. School idols seemed like a very alien concept for her, when the line between friend and pop idol blurred beyond recognition. For someone who had always performed solo and in a professional capacity, people like them may as well be pinned as amateurs, though experienced seemed to be proving her wrong.
Yes, I am as shocked as you are. This is how the castle looks now IOTL, and I don't think the Prussian government would have that much money to spare to save every ruin throughout the country.
Status Update: I know I promised to get the next part out. The bad news is, it's going slowly, and still a lot of content to go. If any of you are disappointed by the delays, I truly apologize. So instead, I have this up. The timing is too good to pass up. :3
______________________________
Prussian Olympic Team Waiting Room, Maracanã Stadium
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
5 August, 2016, Brasília time
Rio de Janeiro, host of the 31st Olympiad.
It had been a year of grave uncertainty, and the latest in a very long line since the 21st century. From the fallout of Britain's impending exit from the EU, terror in the heart of Europe and the continuing bloodbaths in the Middle East and former USSR, little seemed able to absolve the world, even for the moment, of the dark realities that continue to shape history. Not even the Olympics itself, the great unifier of nations in the goodwill of sport, was immune, from Russia's state-sponsored doping expose, to Rio's long list of problems in health, pollution, poverty and crime.
But tonight, Rio has persevered. Tonight, the drive of thousands for their dreams begin. Most will fail. Some will succeed. But the journey to Rio begins here, and for the next two weeks, camaraderie, not violence, will prevail.
Waiting in their rooms as the parade of nations shuffled out into the Maracanã, one nervous Olympian rubbed her hand as the echo of cheers and samba drums radiated into the walls. She had trained her whole life to reach Rio, and follow her cousin to compete in the Brazillian arenas. Combing her hair, the twintail, Oriental girl could not shake of her discomfort. She was not sure if she was daunted by the waiting audience, or simply unsure at how to act as they enter the stadium field.
Her dress, a blue coat jacket over a white shirt, was paired with a pleated blue-based skirt with black and white grid patterns. A black bow tie completed the Prussian tricolour motif, though her elders preferred shawls or scarves to something inappropriate for their age. Their male counterparts, dressed in all black over their white shirts and blue ties and scarves, faced a far less enjoyable trek under the tropical South American climate. One of the coaches, a hazel-eyed, seemingly young man with dyed blonde hair, looked set to brace for the heat, reluctant to button up his shirt under the air conditioning until the very last moment. Giggling at the sight, the twintail-wearing girl could not help but imagine the scene ahead, given the coach's laidback attitude. Looking by the side, she saw her cousin, holding up the Prussian tricolour upright in his hand as he rested the flagpole on the floor. Watching the swimmer chat with his fellow teammates as one of the girls coyly adjusted his jacket, the hapless gymnast could not help but bite her lip.
“Jealous,” a voice teased in her ear, as the surprised girl yelped in shock. Noticing her redhead, similarly twintail-wearing teammate inching close to her face, the Oriental griped, “don't do that, Nastya! I get jumpy when you do that! Besides, why should I be jealous? He's my cousin.”
“But Anna, he's Stefan Park, the London gold medallist and flagbearer in Rio,” joked the spunky girl, “the star of the Olympics back home. If you're not careful, someone from this very room might swipe him away~. You know how your family likes to churn out Olympians? Loosen up, though. We can worry about training and competition tomorrow. Now's the time to smile and wave~!”
“A-Ah...” went the girl awkwardly. True, if there was any time she should be concerned about, it would be near the final three days. There, she and her rhythmic gymnastics team will be competing in the Arena Olímpica do Rio. Compared to this, the dread of fighting for gold against the sporting powers of the US, China and Russia would be even greater. But something else worried her right now, particularly given her position as an Olympic athlete. While Anna Svetovidovna Pak was no stranger to pressure on the floor mat, she was now a representative of Prussia, thousands of kilometers from home with many of her countrymen, let alone her family, on their television sets late in the night. Her grandmother, herself an ex-Soviet rhythmic gymnast and her role model, had always held high standards for herself and her charges. Given the one thing the Paks produce other than military men were Olympians, it was hard not to see why. But looking at the swimming coach and uncle, Oleg Yevgenevich, relaxing under the chilled air, he did not appear as eager to play the patriot Peering at the flag held in Stefan's hands, she felt confused at how to act.
“I'll try,” she muttered, “just not sure how to act later. You know how uptight my granny is. Said I have to stay composed and dignified, being Prussia's representative and all that. Unc- Stefan's coach just told me to relax and enjoy, though. I don't know who to listen to.”
Pouting at the girl's trivialities, Nastya eagerly poked her head as a tease. Grinning as she adjusted her friend's bowtie, she assured her, “just relax, ok? We're not in some military parade, so just be yourself. I don't think your grandmother will blame you for indulging in festivities as long as you don't do anything silly. Oh, and don't forget your seed. Do you part for the environment~!”
Watching Nastya put a small bean on Anna's palm, the hapless girl could not help but stare at the seed. It seemed like a dull gimmick, putting a seed in the pod for planting in the Athlete's Garden just to make a point for environmentalism of some sort. Given the conditions of Rio, she hated to imagine the turnout many years down the road. Somehow, it seemed pointless to try. Even so, the thought did count did count, unable to dismiss such a gesture as meaningless. Whatever happens to it is outside her power, but neglecting to try was. Pocketing the seed, in her jacket, she could see the local usher calling the athletes out in Portuguese-accented English. Getting to her feet, she quietly dusted herself off as they prepared to assemble.
“Mh~! Let's go!”
Stadium Entrance, Maracanã Stadium
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
5 August, 2016, Brasília time
Marching through the gantry as the technicolour lights glittered in the distance, Anna felt a bit dwarfed by the festive mood. Wedged between the Portuguese and Kenyan teams, Prussia's fourty-odd athletes and handful of officials appeared halved in size compared to their adjacent contingents. Led on by the bicycle cart at the front, the contingent trudged forth as drummers in bright blue suits played away in the excitement behind. With a small Prussian flag on one hand and her phone in the other, the Koryo-saram could hear the cheers pouring ahead, reaching deafening levels as the Portuguese vanished into the exit.
“I don't recall the cheers being this loud before,” Anna mused, shielding her eyes from the blinding lights of the stadium.
“That's because they're the Portuguese,” a brunette teammate with shoulder-length hair answered, “good or bad, it's hard to deny the locals have an affinity to their past.”[1]
“But that means the cheers for us will be even softer by comparison, Elena,” complained.
Giggling at the dismay, the girl answered reassuringly, “you can't blame them, though. We're just one out of two hundred over teams competing. They have to save the most cheers for last.”
Stepping into the stadium as dancing volunteers in colourful, signboard costumes point the way down the road, the girls felt almost overwhelmed. Already, a good half of the entire parade were already there, cheering on each new arrival while snapping pictures of the festivities. Some gave their thumbs up at the posts where they deposited their seeds for planting. Others danced to the samba music welcoming the athletes and officials to the ceremony. On hindsight, Anna felt silly even worrying about how to act. This was Rio. And this was a celebration.
“Prusse. Prussia. Prússia,” went the announcers over the speakers, as Stefan led the contingent in with the waving tricolour. Waving to the cameras zeroes on them, the athletes eagerly waved as they huddled for pictures with their phones. Swimmers, shooters, gymnasts, runners... it was no secret that Prussia's Olympic legacy came directly from the USSR. Even those in the current team of coaches, some of whom represented Prussia for the first time in Barcelona in 1992, were the result of the Soviets' medal-winning sporting program.[2] But six Olympiads on and with the torch passed from the old Soviet Olympians, their efforts and victories will be entirely their own, and their young nation's.
This will be Prussia's seventh Olympiad; and Anna's first in Rio.
Journey to Rio
OOC Notes:
Brazil was a Portuguese colony.
The West Baltic Republic (Prussia), as did the other Baltic nations, did not join the Unified Team into the 1992 Barcelona Olympics.
So... 8th page on my draft in and it's probably getting quite long. I guess I'll put the preview in for the moment.
National Museum, Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
9.42 am
Stepping through the passage of the neo-classical architecture, Stanislaw appeared dazed, even unfocused, marvelling at the open décor as light sifted through the modernist glass roof. A contrast between the old and the new, the renovated museum provided a unusually pleasant balance and blend. A healthy flow of warm air and sunshine against the chilling cold outside, the methodical work put into bringing the museum back in operation – in time for the country's 20th anniversary in 2011 – was telling of the renovators' skills and commitment. Now, banners advertising the exhibits for Prussia's independence movement and referendum rejoice at the upcoming quarter-centennial. Given the context of their visit, the lad could not help but feel the need to take notes for the course.
“I'm going to need another notebook,” he mused, taking his exercise book from his bag. Frowning in dismay at his friend's studious attitude, Petr whined, “can you chill for once, Stan? We're not going to be studying the independence movement until like... March or April. No need to jump the gun.”
“Well, since we're already here, we might as well,” Stanislaw justified simply, “it might be useful for our second group project.”
“We have group projects,” Petr questioned ignorantly, a bit shocked at the news. Not surprisingly, the scowl on their female friend said it all, quite exasperated at Petr's relaxed attitue.”
“Yes, we do,” Paulina stated snidely, “in fact, we're getting our first assignment today, or are you going to tell me you forgot?”
“O-Of course not,” denied the Czech defensively, quite ticked off at her agitation, “we just don't know what the project is about. We don't want to waste our time with useless trivia, right?”
“I'm pretty sure it'd come in useful, Petr,” Stanislaw admitted honestly, much to his friend's dismay, “you never know.”
But before he could continue, a strange, orange coif caught his eye as the stream of St. Elisabeth schoolgirls began to flood the entrance. Standing out in a pick coat amidst a sea of black-uniformed St. Elisabeth students, the young girl checked in with her friends as they entered the gantry into the exhibition hall. Trying to tiptoe a bit as the noble-looking girl vanished along the line, Stanislaw felt the girl strangely familiar.
“Stan,” Petr questioned, glaring with him at the line of schoolgirls, “what are you doing? Girl caught your eye?”
“Ah,” the hapless lad absentmindedly answered, “I guess so.”
Scowling again, Paulina did not appear to approve. Hugging her bag, she stated, “funny tastes, if I do say so myself. Of all the people to go for, you go for a Teuton. Sometimes I wonder what goes through your mind.”
“'Teuton',” asked Petr in confusion, “what're you talking about?”
“St. Elisabeth Catholic Girls School,” Paulina clarified, pointing at the line of girls, “even though they're a sister school to St. Wotjech and set up by the Unified Catholic Council of Prussia, they're a German-language school funded and taking on the Teutonic Order as patrons.[1] Why else does their school coat of arms have a black cross?”
“I see,” blurted Petr in surprise, “I thought the Teutonic Knights were disbanded already.”
“They weren't,” Paulina affirmed grudgingly, “the only people that actually tried to ban them were the Nazis. They're a charitable organisation now, but you know... they're still the same order that fought in Grunwald.”
“That doesn't necessarily make them bad by default,” Stanislaw tried to explain, “I mean, it's six centuries already.”
Pouting a bit at the thought, the nationalistic Pole stated coldly, “well, six centuries on, Vitort (Vytautas) and Jogaila are rolling in their graves...[1] and we're all welcoming the restoration of its mortal enemy.”
Watching the girl pace to the counter to get their tickets, Stanislaw would not help but think she was overreacting. What on earth made her hate the Germans this much despite the disparity in years. Most Poles had long learnt to put that aside, especially after decades of German restitution and repentance for the Second World War.[2] That Paulina pined over a battle countless generation ago bordered on fanaticism. Sure, there was little issue remembering and celebrating the triumph of Poland-Lithuania over its mortal enemies, but there was no reason to bring the grudge to the modern day. Shaking his head, all he could do was follow. Taking out his wallet, he too prepared his card for his ticket.
“Oh ya, Stan,” Petr asked, opening his hand out, “can you lend me some money for the ticket?”
“Money,” Stanislaw questioned, looking up at the price list in front of the reception, “it's free. For all Prussian citizens. Just show the receptionist your student card.”
“Oh... about that...” the hapless lad cringed, scratching his head a bit. Sighing at Petr's lack of tact, Stanislaw simply said, “Transport pass works too. It's got your nationality on it.”[3]
It appeared Stanislaw would have to carry the papers on his own.
OOC Notes
Polish-Lithuanian leaders in the Battle of Grunwald
Ostpolitik
Electronic passes for public transportation. Basically an adaptation of Singapore's ez-link pass system.
Cast
Students
St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
Stepping into the museum exhibition, the journey into the history of Prussia seemed, at least initially, alien to its present inhabitants. Inhabited by the old Baltic tribes since prehistoric time, the prologue of Prussia's eight-hundred-year legacy was one edging to the realm of legend. Greeted to a open room overflowing with a green and blue mosaic, Stanislaw felt a strange attunement to the nature 'growing' around him. Soft sounds of flowing rivers and the brushing of leaves in the wind hushed overhead from the stereo, as sunlight wafted through the glass roof only to be blocked by green netting of fake leaves and flowers. Ever the pious girl, Paulina merely sniffed at the nature-esque décor of the Old Prussian exhibition. Quickening her pace, she appeared eager to gain some distance from the pagan artifacts out of discomfort, as the mesmerized Stanislaw lagged behind to view the displays.
Looking through the old Baltic relics, it was apparent just how little the Old Prussians had left behind. What little was known of them were told through the eyes of the Christians. Targeted by pagan raids from the Balts, Polish and German monks spun tales of barbarity and godlessness among the Old Prussians, and of martyrs who staked their lives to deliver the word of God to the misled souls. Nonetheless, what the Poles and Germans who came to control Prussia brought to the present proved invaluable in deciphering the culture and language of the Old Prussians. It was no surprise then, that without their research, reconstructing the language for the lyrics of the Prussian Hymn would have been impossible.[1]
(Now Playing: Mountain of Home - Medieval II: Total War Teutonic Campaign Soundtrack)
As the green mosaics began to gave way, Stanislaw felt a chilling exhilaration ahead. Awaiting in front of him, a mock up of a medieval gate adorned with shields of the Teutonic Order welcomed him, as he entered into the grey, medieval exhibition room. There, suits of armour, jewellery and paintings celebrated the struggles between the German crusaders and their Slavic and Baltic nemeses adorned the halls, with many students crowding around for a better view. Among the most prominent of the exhibition, the full body portraits of major leaders stood in prominence, commanders of pivotal battles like Alexander Nevsky of Novgorod, Grandmaster Ulrich von Jungingen and his successor, Heinrich von Plauen.
Looking in the distance at a replica painting of the Battle of Grunwald, Stanislaw could see the banners of the Teutonic Order, the Polish white eagle and the Lithuanian 'charging knight' crossing each other overhead. In front, the St. Elisabeth girl from earlier was viewing the details of the painting. Adjusting his collar, the hapless boy could feel his feet pacing towards her, as if demanding the host to speak to the girl.
“Hey look, Stani,” blurted Paulina's voice from the corner of his ear, as the shocked lad found himself yanked by the arm to the side without warning. Brought beside Petr as their friend excitedly showed them the towering portrait of Vytautas and Władysław II. Unable to put a word in, the silenced lad could only peer over his shoulder as the girl with the coif made her way over to the next one. On hindsight, the lad was not sure what he was doing. Perhaps, he felt, it was better not to strike up a conversation with a stranger, lest he be looked at funny.
“Ah, nothing,” he said, “it's just... we might need to look at the time.”
“Don't worry,” grumbled the girl, “I'm not Petr. Besides, the next few exhibits depresses me. You know why...”
Shaking his head, Stanislaw was not sure how to answer. Paulina, for a lack of a better word, was a radical; a fervent Polish nationalist who took the historical narrative of the nation far too seriously for comfort. No matter how much he tried to speak reason, the girl refused to consider the views of any side but her own. For people like her, Prussia was, and still is an aberration – meant to be buried in the junkyard of history after centuries of humiliating the Polish people with Russia. The Nordic 'Tatar' who defied the call for union, and the Lubyanka rat who silenced them were but two sides of the same coin to her. It was little wonder to Stanislaw that she had little to say of either heirs in their class.
(Now Playing: Anno 1850 - Victoria II Soundtrack)
As the tide of students and visitors shuffled on, the atmosphere transition from the grim citadel facade of the medieval Ordensburg to the neoclassical relics of the Renaissance. From the heart of Catholicism in the Baltic coast to a center of Reformation, the rise of Hozenhollern Prussia from the broken remnants of the order heralded a new phase in its history. Silver Thaler coins, regalia and printed philosophical manuscripts were just some of the museum's displays, as the famed black eagle flew overhead on the duchy's and kingdom's flags. Paintings and picture of early-modern Königsberg and other East Prussian cites decked the halls, as students shuffled their legs through. As the St. Elisabeth schoolgirl approached the painting of Friedrich I's coronation, there was a strange foreboding that, perhaps on hindsight, the exhibition was about to become increasingly dark.
“How long are you going to follow me, Malwina,” she spoke suddenly, her arms crossed to her back as she gazed over the painting, “I said I'll be fine. I got my classmates with me, and plenty of security guards at the museum. In fact, I'd be more worried if you got arrested for acting so suspicious.”
Approaching the girl from behind, a tall, redhead woman in a violent longcoat and large ascot cap stepped beside her with a stern gaze, trying to hide her dismay at her discovery as she took off her headdress. Bowing her head a bit, she grunted, “nothing escapes your ears, as always, Your Highness. Do forgive me if I'm intruding, but we can't be too sure.”
Rubbing her gloved arms around each other, the student could barely hide her discomfort. Her eyes rolling, she stated, “I'm not a princess. I'm your employer, at the very best. If I need personal guards, I'd ask for it, but you're freaking out the visitors, and my friends. Just take a break outside for a bit. I wouldn't want Ms Kowalczuk to get agitated.”
Shifting her eyes over at the chatting, light-haired girls, the bodyguard did not appear to share her sentiment. A perpetual frowner as always, she stated with dull eyes, “are you sure about that? I would not want those girls to upset you. After all, your father protested to your attendance in St. Elisabeth. A Pole in a German-affiliated school... much less the Order's...”
“We've been through that already, Malwina,” the aristocrat rebuked as a matter of fact, “it doesn't matter which school I go to, or who attends it. This is a free country. Race or religion are social constructs that put up imaginary identities for communities. We should learn to look past that.”
“How did that argument go for the skinheads, then,” the guard questioned again, hiding her snide tone behind her aloof, cold facade.
Resisting the urge to tense up, the 'princess' simply turned to move on, avoiding the query whole as she grunted, “I don't talk to neo-fascists.”
As the displays around them portrayed, the old Prussia stood at the forefront of the Enlightenment and Romanticism, its philosophers and scientists contributing to the wealth of knowledge accumulating in Europe and the world. Minds like Immanuel Kant and Johann Georg Hamann, pitted against each other in the quest to convince and provoke thought, the voice of reason against the voice of emotion. But Prussia's present inhabitants recall a very different picture, one that still resonates today. As the bright lights of the Enlightenment manuscripts began to dim in the distance, uniforms and weapons began to replace books and printing presses. This was the Prussia the Soviet Union remembered. The 'dark side' of German militarism in the Baltic, the Bicornes and war flags of the Napoleonic and Victorian eras now dominate the exhibition, as dramatic paintings of field battles paint the landscape. Looking up as the German black-white-red tricolour separated the kingdom from the imperial age, visitors of the now Slavophone country had reason to be jittered. The Germany their ancestors remembered was not one of thinkers and writers, but soldiers.
Looking through the grayscale photographs on display as the nonet made their way towards the meeting point, the girls could almost feel the sightless mannequins in German and Russian uniforms staring at them, haunted by the ghosts of the past. The Eastern Front of the First World War, unlike the Western Front, was not a static line of trenches designed to grind the male population of Western Europe to hamburger meat. But that did not mean it was any less grim, with archival newspapers heralding the victories of Tannenberg and the capitulation of the new Soviet government to the Brest-Litovsk treaty. It was a unique, ironic situation, where the sons and daughters of the Russian invaders were the ones to read the local papers a century on. That was to be the case in the next world war, one that awaited them further down as the atmosphere grew heavy.
“The ironies of history,” Ludmilla quipped, putting an earphone on an exhibit to her ear as she listened in on the jubilant German announcer on the Russian surrender, “that an entire volume, centuries in weight, would be tossed out and written by a new author. Professor Roman had a point, what are we to pretend this is our past?”
“You have that benefit, though, Ludmilla,” Ritva commented, checking the displays of Mosin-Nagants alongside Gewehr 98s, “your family were Baltic Germans, weren't they?”
“That's exactly why I'm counted as an outsider too, Ritva, like the rest of us,” Ludmilla corrected her, “my family fought for the Tsar - no better than race traitors in the eyes of the Germans. My great-grandfather believed in the same Übermensch swill that the Nazis would preach later on, and yet believed even more in Russia, and her divinely-appointed monarch. He fought against the Germans, and then the Bolsheviks for that outdated ideal. If anyone is unwelcome here for the old phantoms, it's me. Too bad for them~, an Austrian corporal lost Prussia to us. Isn't that strange?”
As the visitors emerged from the jingoism of Imperial Germany, the atmosphere around them took on a sombre, yet cautiously optimistic note. For most of the students, what happened before the rise of Nazi Germany seemed like a straightforward slide into the abyss, with anger and poverty over the sour aftermath of the war promoting the growth of extremist parties like the communists and fascists. However, beyond the expected bog-value Reichmarks and photographs of poverty-stricken Prussians in the streets, the Weimar Era did, for a time, yield a glimmer of hope. As the portrait of Gustav Stresemann was held on display, movie posters and carabet music began to play overhead. For most of the students, it came as a mild surprise. For a moment, what came after drifted from some of the girls' minds, as they began to marvel at the cultural renaissance that bloomed in those short years.
“Oooo,” Ausra bleated excitedly, as she and Zisel crowded in front of an antique movie reel being played on a projection, “this looks like it came straight from Hollywood!”
“Strange, I thought I expected this from an American museum,” Zisel commented, “where are the Nazis?”
“The Nazis didn't come up yet,” Maria informed them, looking through the news reel of the failed Beer Hall Putsch on an LCD screen disguised as an antique TV, “sure, there was a lot of putsches early on, but with Stressmann's rapprochement to the old Entente and the Dawes' Plan, their economy picked up again.”
“It's sad, isn't it,” Vasilka commented, staring ahead at the darkened path ahead, “a calm before the storm. All it takes was the right trigger to bring everything down. After that... we all know what happened then.”
(Now Playing: Pavlov's House (German Side) - Red Orchestra 2 Soundtrack)
Walking through the increasingly narrow, claustrophobia-inducing corridors, an ominous echo of booms and orchestral music began to ring overhead. Almost instantly, the air grew heavy with dread and fear, as the surroundings became dark, almost pitch black. No doubt by design, the exhibition was taking its darkest turn yet, as the temporary reprieve of Weimar Germany was left behind. This was the final, bloodiest chapter of German Prussia, with a line of blood-red, swastika-emblazoned flags hung over the tattered remains of the old Weimar one under a transparent plastic floor.
Stepping into the Nazi German exhibit, the corridors quickly widened into a large room with dull grey concrete pillars, likened to a bomb shelter. Projections of Adolf Hitler, the very scourge that would raze Europe to ashes, flashed on the walls, along with reels of the German offensives in Eastern Europe. Panzers and planes now accompanied guns as the sinister realities of the Second World War were shown in full. Quivering at the heavy atmosphere, the hapless Jew nearly threw up at the sight of a photograph beside her, one of many on the Nazi concentration camps, too unspeakable to describe.
“We should move on,” Mariyne implored the others, unnerved by the sights as she ushered the sickened Zisel into the conveniently placed restroom, “this place scares me.”
“I'm not surprised,” Vasilka admitted, her eyes shifting at a warning sign at the room's entrance as it cautioned on the graphic scenes ahead, “the worst of humanity, all in one room, and we're expected not to be squeamish? At least it's a straight path down. As long as we don't get curious, we should be fine.”
Looking at the reactions of the other students, it was fairly obvious most seem to agree that the museum planners might be taking this too far on this segment. Barring a dubious, tasteless few who jokingly posed selfies with a Nazi salute, most would rather not dwell here too long. The direction taken by the curators evoked a theatre of terror perfect for the time period. But with regards to the age group involved, many, perhaps, considered the exhibits too shocking and needed to be toned down.
Noticing a figure from the corner of her eye as she waited on her friends, Vasilka could have sworn someone was watching her, turning to the Bf 109 display as the crowds of students began filling the room. For a moment, she could spot a few green vests in front of the plane, the same one worn by Farahnaz's schoolmates. But the dreaded Farsi herself appeared absent, or at least hidden. Perhaps, the blonde felt, it was for the best. With deadline for the meeting fast approaching, she could see her hapless friends arriving back out, ready to move on.
“...who does she think she is, leading a 'school idol' group”, barked the voice of an angry brunette, “she's perverting the power of song for her own ends!”
“You need to chill, Farahnaz,” a messy, sleepless young redhead in a hoodie grunted in a tired voice, chewing on a pick as she accompanied Farah and her friends, “you're thinking too much. Not everyone wants to get involved in state politics like you. Besides, she's not even a founding member, let alone leader. Look.”
Departing the Messerschmitt exhibit, the Blühenderwald students too were making their way to the meeting area. Unlike before, however, they were joined by more of their peers, some of whom had to be put outside Professor Vorarlberg's class or outright skipped it. Raising her smartphone to Farah's eyes, the frowner had the images of the group in question on image. Strangely enough, only a third of them were present in the concert setting, none of whom was her self-proclaimed nemesis.
“So,” she hissed, tapping at Ausra's virtual face on the recluse's phone, “that proves nothing, Tsiuri. How'd she know she's not a proxy.”
“How'd you know that she is,” the recluse retorted in a low grumble, “first off, Toncheva is one of the last two of the nine-girl group to join. Second, Muse is led by a girl with absolutely no connection to her. Third, two of their group members are Muslims, an Azeri and Circassian, in the same group as an Armenian and a Jew, much less her. Fourth, none of their songs have anything that even remotely sounds like 'fuck New Prussia'. Fifth, that video of you spazzing out at Toncheva last week made you look mental.”
“Mental,” snapped Farah at the suggestion, “I'm not mental! I'm perfectly ok! I-”
“Maybe you need to calm down,” Yana pleaded, “you're getting frantic again. Besides, if you haven't noticed, you're always the one that starts out with the arguments, not her. Don't you think people might fault you for that? Do you want your mother to chew you out again?”
Biting her lip as her friends glared at her with apprehension, Farah proved quick to realize her error. Unnerved, she muttered, “I... maybe I am overreacting... I can't help it... Each time I see her, it's like seeing all that spam in my email, or letters to my house. I admit, I don't really think she would instigate others to harass me. But I can't help myself... Each time I see my parents open a hate mail... It breaks my heart.”
“And you think she had not seen it too,” Ahmed stated, “if you haven't noticed, what you're doing is no better than what those trolls had done to your family. I can tell from her look. She looked like she had seen your acts before. Just take Javaneh's word. Leave her alone. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to oblige. You'd also feel happier that way.”
“I... I guess,” she went, bowing her head in guilt, “I'll try...”
(Now Playing: Spartanovka (Soviet Side) - Red Orchestra 2 Soundtrack)
Following the seemingly endless, monochrome halls, the students began to notice a subtle, but growing change in the lighting. As the ominous opera music and bombs began to fade away in the distance, the strange melodies of waltzes and patriotic Soviet music began to ring in the air. Red banners marked the divide between the Nazi and Soviet exhibits, as the World War II exhibition was reaching its foregone conclusion. T-34s, Yak fighters and other Red Army relics greeted the approaching visitors as they 'faced off' with their Axis enemies on the other side of the room. The final chapter in Prussia's history before the Soviet takeover, images and maps of the East Prussia offensive and the German expulsion dotted the displays. With the projection of Joseph Stalin watching overhead, the visitors were now stepping into familiar terrain. Most, if not all its present inhabitants, would trace their lineage in Prussia from this point onwards. Only some of its pre-war population would return to Prussia after 1991.
Standing at the end of the WWII exhibit, Roman seemed to be eager as always, waiting on his young charges as they made their way past centuries of Prussian history. In his usual white shirt and office pants, the history lecturer appeared relaxed as always. To his dismay, however, the lad felt a tinge of pressure as prying eyes watched him from behind. Given the size and importance of his lecture today, the schools were now taking no chances, with a line of high school teachers watching his and the students' every move.
Beside him, a couple of blonde women were waiting for their students. One was a stern-looking woman in black office clothes, wearing a long braid like a Teutonic valkyrie as she scanned the hall like a hawk. The other was dressed in an olive Soviet Army jacket, caught the eye of the Teuton as they exchanged glares with grim anticipation. On the Roman's other side, a hapless lad in a lab coat scratched his head with an unfocused, tired look. His eyes sporting a couple of shadows, the telltale signs of a hangover were making him appear like a jobless hobo. Sitting right beside at the benches, a portly, bespectacled elder with a combed-back coif was resting behind, dressed in a simple jacket that seemed jarringly 80s. In all, Roman could count at least one teacher for each school involved.
But a surprised glomp from behind caught the professor off guard, as a young man in a fashionable bright white vest over a brown shirt called out at him. With orange-hair with amber eyes, he seemed a tad younger, perhaps in his mid-to-late 20s. Backing up with his hand over his shoulder, he appeared eager to make an acquaintance out of Roman. A grin on his face, his presence proved an unusually calming effect.
“You have your work cut out for you, Professor,” teased the high school teacher, his Afrikaner accent showing, “now you have some very nice young ladies eyeballing you inside out.”
Chuckling awkwardly as he stepped away, Vorarlberg quipped, “I'm sure, Mr Oosthuizen, though not as much as you. You have to keep watch on your stars, don't you?”
“Oh, don't worry about me,” went the cheery young teacher, “I'm not the one who has to panic. In Singenwaldhang, Vasilka is just another student council president, stepping down for the year while her junior, Ausra, takes the reins for the next. Never crossed my mind she was from You-Know-Where or related to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I just wish the press just stop knocking at our door. Our headmistress can give out a very vicious tongue lashing when pushed too far.”
“Maybe it's because you're not from around here,” grumbled the gruff, labcoat-wearing teacher, “you don't know what it's like. You're from South Africa, lad? Don't think I can't tell from the name. How long have you been here, boy? Five? Ten?”
Pouting a bit at the man's dare, Oosthuizen answered confidently, “been here since I was born, though only because my parents left while I was still on board my mum. Still, how can you fault them? Not everyone left South Africa because they hate black people. Looking at it now, it's somewhat harder to prove them wrong...”
Clearly perturbed by his attitude, the dark-haired man merely stared as he stated, “not everyone has the benefit of choice, boy. Some of us don't have that privilege. My family fled Bosnia during the Yugoslav Wars. Unlike you, we came to save our own damn lives.”
Tilting his head over the man's temperament, the Afrikaner questioned in a more concerned tone, “I'm... sorry to hear that, Mister. Look, I'm not here to question how you came here. I just think it's preposterous to pester schoolchildren about the lives of their families. Hell, my parents aren't even rich. They were just farmers, you know, not high-flying executives-”
“When that girl's uncle tells me I can't bring mine over because they're 'distant relatives'-” the incensed teacher nearly yelled, his voice growing loud before he caught himself in the act. Heaving a heavy sigh as he tried to calm down, he quickly corrected, “sorry. I had too much to drink last night... You're right, kids shouldn't be made to answer that. And I'm supposed to be the one telling her off.”
Watching the tense teacher wipe his face, Roman could tell he was not up for the task this day. One of several sent to watch over the students of their respective schools, Mr Gudelj did not appear fit enough for the job. Hopefully, though, his duty as a civil servant (and the potential risk of reprimand) would keep him focused on keeping the students in line. Sadly, as the students began to gather in strength, Roman could not help but see the divisions forming, both among the teachers and the students.
“Mr Gudelj,” Ahmed questioned, astonished at his presence as he and his friends gathered around him, “what're you doing here?”
“You look smashed...” the spiky-haired Sergei blurted, “have you been drinking again?”
“You smell too,” Yana whined, covering her nose in annoyance, “what, did you sleep on the streets or something?”
“Nah, he has Ms Schierlingwald to pay his expenses,” Tsiuri stated flat out, “probably rented a hotel room nearby and stayed in so he could sleep in later”
Stammering at the barrage of damaging commentary, the hapless teacher blurted, “why I-well... You got me there, geek...”
“What, you actually rented a hotel room,” Farah blurted, shocked at his admission, “but this is the middle of downtown! The nearest one from here is-”
“The Swissôtel Kaiserhof,” Tsiuri finished her words in a deadpan tone, “you have expensive tastes, Mr Gudelj. Maybe you should quit your job and go full-time.”[2]
Aghast at the redhead's brazen words, Gudelj barked to his colleague's surprise, “how dare you! How dare you, geek! Who do you think you are!? I'm your homeroom teacher! I'm-”
“-a formerly-jobless hobo working in a makeshift lab in a rented apartment, who recently was hauled out of his room by his landlady and family friend and press-ganged into a job at our school,” Tsiuri recited in brief, but concise detail, “you paid for the room using Ms Schierlingwald's credit card and-”
“Didn't people teach you not to hack into confidential information,” yelped the jumpy teacher as he flinched at Tsiuri's lackadaisical expression, “do you know what the police does to people like you?”
Looking away with a pout, however, the girl stated, “please... I don't need to do that. I have your landlady's number. Poor girl. Besides, you use a fucking IBN 5100. I can't remotely hack something that can't connect to the internet, you know...”
Chewed out by his own student, the hapless teacher dared not look at the colleagues watching him. Oosthuizen could only bite his lower lip as he restrained a chuckle, while the blonde women stared at him as if he was some street begger beaten up by gopniks. Shame swelled up his gut just trying to face the stare. As Roman tried hard to put up a brave front for him, the disheveled educator could only hand the floor to him.
"Alright, alright, settle down," he called out to the students, "we have a very big class today, so report to your teachers first before we get started. Sirs and Madams, once you finish your role calls, hand over the attendance sheets to me. Let's see now, quite a large cohort for St. Elisabeth... a sea of black as far as the eye can see."
"Of course, Professor," concurred the braid-wearing teacher, lifting her chin in pride as she took pride in her school's massive cohort, "St. Elisabeth places the utmost emphasis on education. This was, after all, the land of the fabled knights and their inheritors. As educators in the annals of history, we have every responsibility to enlighten our children to the achievements of Prussia's past. We will... hide no part of the grim realities of Soviet occupation for the past half-century."
Flinching at the woman's scoffs, the teacher in the Soviet coat gave a deathly glare to her counterpart, as if itching to poke her eye out with a knife. Turning to face the woman as her own girls in sailor-style uniforms looked on, she crooned, "'grim'? Oh yes, how could we forget the 'cruel fate' that befell the lands that once housed those who called for the annihilation of entire peoples and cultures... Centuries of proud Teutonic history ended in one fell swoop... One might shed a tear for it. But look around you, 'Frau', and tell me whose children do you see. The home Chairman Stolypin built for us... is one that has consigned the toxic memory of German superiority to the dustbin of history. 'A home for everyone', as he always said, not 'a home for fascist only'."
Biting his lips, Roman could sense where the conversation was going. A cold sweat down his cheek, he felt compelled to step in before the argument degenerated any further. He had expected this from the students (Farahnaz, specifically), but not the teachers themselves. As he laid a foot forward, however, the other seniors were already trying to separate the two.
"Alright, alright," the portly elder implored the two, "let the Professor do his work, now. We don't want a scuffle. You don't want us to get kicked out, do you? He knows better than any of us on the topic. Give him some peace."
Adjusting her collar, the serious 'Teuton' affirmed, "very well, Brother Cieślik... I'll hold my tongue. But don't blame me if she intends to turn this session into a farce. Professor Vorarlberg, I trust in your expertise as a history doctorate holder. Don't be afraid to stand up to intimidation."
Batting an eye at the woman's hints, the silk-haired blonde in the army coat went, "fine... I'll get to work. Don't disappoint, Professor. I trust you will be fair in your delivery. I've seen too many take the opportunity to slander our forefathers."
Tensing up at the words, Roman was far from sure what to say. He could tell they had expectations, and he knew all to well he was going to disappoint them both. He was, first and foremost, a historian, and trained to look at events with cold impartiality as much as possible. What the two women desired, however, was a patriotic spin on events, one in favour of a damning review of Soviet misrule and another a glowing adulation of their achievements. Both were gravely unfair in itself, and he was afraid to raise their ire. Regardless, his paycheck was, if anything, on the line. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, all he could say was, "I'll do my best. I can't promise to say what you want to hear, but I'll promise to show events as it is. As I've told the kids - they're their own judge, not me."
This was going to be a long day... Gritting his teeth as he tried to conceal his apprehension with a smile, Roman was quick to realize that the students were going to be the least of his problems.
Part 2
OOC Notes:
OTL's Ostprussenlied, adapted with Old Prussian lyrics, though lyrics in major languages (i.e. Russian, German, Polish, Lithuanian, etc.) are co-official and more commonly sung.
OTL's Heliopark Kaiserhof. ITTL, another hotel chain had bought over the Kaiserhof hotel
Cast
Students
St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
Here we go, and a bit of an update on the schools. :3
________________________
Cold War Exhibition, National Museum, Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016
10.12 am
Stepping into the Cold War exhibition, the throngs of students were once again approaching the darkness, as dim lights of the room began to illuminate in the drab concrete facade. Grim anticipation awaited many, as the real phase of their lesson was just beginning. Before them, a giant, interactive map of 1960s Eurasia illuminated on a massive table, with an interactive panel for them to control. Highlighted on the map – Prussia itself, then known as Kaliningrad Military Oblast before its transition into the West Baltic SSR. On both sides, portraits decked the walls as they displayed the faces of the men and women who formed the people of the SSR. On the right, the portraits of Soviet bloc officers – Yevgeny included – were lined up in rank and file, with communist regalia and flas declaring their allegiance to the communist states. In contrast, the monochrome portraits of ordinary civilians stood on jagged pillars walls, faded of colour amidst an air of despondence as they faced the communist rulers. Across the room, the split between the orderly idealism of the Soviet regime and the reality faced by its people stood as clear as the World War II exhibition hall before it. Unlike before, however, the effect intended was different. The previous exhibition created the transition between the old and present Prussia. Here, it was the gap between the ruler and the ruled, the disorienting standing between the 'wardens' and 'prisoners' of what many accused to be the largest concentration camp in the world.
Cracking his knuckles as he watched the students assemble, Roman had reason to take this lesson more seriously. Observing the 'sailor' girls from Pilava (Pillau) and their black-uniformed counterparts as they shuttled in, the tensions in the room was already starting to build. Unlike the public and small-scale schools he was dealing with, the private academies on attendance were a lot more hardline, their stylized uniforms as great a status symbol as any. And some of them, students and teachers, tended to have views that veered dangerously to the fringe. Peering at the surroundings, he was sure some were trying to restrain a notable scowl. After all, he was hardly the kind of person who could promise them a story they would want to hear.
"Ok, class, settle," Roman called the class to attention, "let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Now... some admin; later on, I'll be distributing these," he announced, holding up a colored ball from the box, "each colour represents a person that will be featured in the Soviet exhibits, as well as the ethnic group said person is in charge of resettling. When you approach the display and select a group, that colour will highlight the person and ethnicity you'll be researching for your project. Do note, of course, that the one person you will not be doing is Stolypin himself. In any case, the display won't link to him. Each member of the committee, whether in charge of a subgroup or a single ethnicity, played a part in shaping the demographics of the West Baltic SSR. These demographics was to form the basis of future shifts in the post-Soviet era, as emigration of core groups and immigration from outside the former USSR would shape the policies of present and future Prussian governments. Each team will have a representative pick out a ball from the box. You only have one try, and please, put back the ball once you pick it up. I don't have many spares."
Refocusing on the lesson, he explained, “alright, back to business. First off, did you enjoy the exhibition so far? I know my instructions were to meet me here, but to get to this exhibit, you'll have to make your way through.”
The query, for those unfamiliar with him, came as a surprise. Looks were exchanged among the cohort, many of which found his query off. As a hand raised from the crowd eagerly, the professor was quick to point her out. To his hidden dismay, perhaps, it was a St Elisabeth student, a statuesque strawberry blonde with garish mascara on her eyes, disturbing fashion sense and an open 'window' exposing her ample chest.
“Es ist wunderbar, Professor,” the girl squealed gleefully at Roman, as disgust filled the faces of her glaring peers, “I've visited the museum five time already, and every one brings brand new displays to see~! I especially liked the armour of the Teutonic knights... So shiny and intimidating, it looks almost ready to face battle again~!”
“Ah...” the hapless lad went, glancing around as he noticed the unease, “anyone else?”
As his eyes darted around, he could already see the sea of 'marines' trying to jostle for his attention. In all honesty, he could already guess what their answer would be – the Soviet exhibits in the previous and current room would be more likely points of interest for them. Unwilling to escalate the situation, he quickly spotted a young girl in a pristine white, Western-style uniform. To his fortune, her answer was much less controversial.
“I guess the Old Prussian exhibits,” the black-haired girl responded, “the stone idols look fascinating. I was hoping for something as far back as the Roman period, but I guess we know so little of them, there wasn't much to say.”
Raising his finger to ask again, Roman could already sense the animosity from the blonde 'Tankie'. Given how he had deliberately avoided picking out her students, he could tell she was very unhappy. Given he had given St Elisabeth a chance, he felt unsure at giving Orlovskaya's girls the chance. In haste, he picked out whoever appeared the most reasonable of the bunch, a silver-haired girl wearing a braid and a confident look in her eyes.
“The Weimar exhibits,” she responded with an unusual level of grace, far unlike her peers, “I find the jazz titles being featured quite nice to listen to. A shame such prosperity was short-lived. I guess it's what history is for – to prevent the faults of the past.
“Right,” he said, continuing his lecture, “now, some of you might have found them interesting. Others, I assume, just ran ahead because you were late. But one thing I hope you'd keep in mind is that when looking at the exhibition up to this point, what did you see? Do you consider the history played out as if watching a movie – separate from your own reality, or did you see it as part of your own life, and the story of Prussia – this Prussia. What defines our historical narrative? Where does Prussia's history begin?
For those in my class, if you recall, I had one of you answer a query on the founding date of modern Königsberg's founding. One of you answered the Knights, and I disagreed, saying it was founded by the Soviets. However, as I said before as well, there's also no reason you can't refute me, and indeed, there will be some who will contend that the these ties are still very much unbroken, with plenty to justify. But history rarely yields right or wrong answers, especially not for answers lacking a number as mathematics would. The same extends to Prussia as a whole, and a look through the museum and your reaction will show you why.
For some of you, Prussia's history starts right at the beginning, in the times of the pagan Old Prussians at the start of the exhibition. For others, whom I know are many, Prussia dates back to the time of the Teutonic Order and the rise of the Polish Duchy of Prussia. And for a fair lot of you, it starts right here, with the Soviet settlement of Prussia's war-torn ruins and its formation into the West Batlic SSR. And then, for a few,” he explained as he pointed at the passage ahead, his eyes picking out Farah in the crowd, “it starts in the very last room, on August 21st, 1991.
All of them, I would say, are both right and wrong answers. History as a whole, no matter the objectivity of the author, is a matter of perspective. Each point has its value for justification and rebuttal, and if I start asking now... we're not going to be able to finish the lesson by closing time. Still, the one thing you should keep in mind is that perspective play a key role in how you view our past, and you will need to keep in mind both your own views of historical facts, as well as those who disagree with those views. You will need that for your assignments.”
Stepping over to Yevgeny's portrait, Roman explained further, “now, some recap. When I last left off my class, I explained the early days of East Prussia under Soviet rule, and the man who would build the foundations of modern Prussia. Placed under military administration since the end of WWII right up to 1959, the Kaliningrad Military Oblast was the largest closed zone of the Soviet Union, restricted to military personnel and workers sent from the Slavic Soviet republics in its reconstruction. But the last years of the Oblast, landscape of the territory was radically changed under, under the Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization. Under the guidance of Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin, the oblast would make its transition into the West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, the very first created outside the boundaries of nationality that defined the rest of the union's republics. For some, like himself, it was a project aimed at revising a troubled system of segregated republics and autonomous areas in favour of a multicultural fabric that aims to integrate the myriad ethnicities of the Soviet Union. For others, particularly those who were less willing to be sent there, it is a laughable guise for a gulag spanning all 15,100 square-kilometers, the largest concentration camp the world would ever see. To fulfil his goals, he actively set population quotas aimed at changing the demographics of the area in hope of creating a population where no ethnicity dominated the majority. On hindsight, it was a goal so ridiculous it could only be done by force, which many subordinates performed under orders from their state agencies or simply as appeasement. In the end, his unrealistic goals, his shockingly lenient policies for the SSR and his removal as chairman, set the stage for the West Baltic's separation from the USSR three decades later. And all that started with his final assignment in the Hungarian Uprising, as his outlook on Soviet policy, as historians continue to argue, had taken a turn for the worst”
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956
It had been a strange few months for Mikalos, not the least due to the bloody aftermath of the uprising. At no time had he doubted that the revolt would fail miserably, and despite the faint hope that the Americans might just paradrop some troops in to save them, the danger of the revolt spiralling into a Third World War was just too much of a disincentive to save the Hungarian people. They, like the East Germans and Poles before them, were now brought to heel through brute force. For some reason, the idea of hope itself appeared absent on this side of the Iron Curtain, a view that the Lithuanian himself was growing very acquainted with as part of the mechanism for oppression.
What was strange, however, was his encounter with Yevgeny.
He had only known him for a few moments, a few days at best. For a first impression, the lad came across as nothing more than a hapless stooge, leapfrogging the hierarchy by the grace of his blood ties and revolutionary part. From the onset, he had already written him off as a craven, deluded clown, no different from the many party cadres who desired better luxuries from the state organism. After all, it was probably the easiest assumption to make of him, a desk job secretary sobbing like a baby at slain dissidents splattered like squashed tomatoes. But the girl who watched him told a very different story. Something just did not seem right to the officer.
Driving his GAZ-69 to the porch, he felt a bit awkward looking being in the middle of a neighbourhood that seemed virtually alien to him. Never mind the Central Asian heat that Father Frost could only migitate in the slightest, Mikalos felt that he was a lot further east than he should. Korean Hangeul accompanied Cyrillic on the signs of family homes, a legacy that, while fast vanishing, remained a tether for these exiled folks to their native land. Many, as he learnt from the classes, were fast losing their tongues, or already had in the course of Stalin's paranoia. The greatest irony, he felt, was that these Koryo-saram had far more reason to despise the Japanese than Stalin had he not acted anyway. Such was the myopia of European leadership, people like him would have been unable to tell the Japanese apart from those they brutally oppressed.
Stepping forward, he tried to spot the home of the man himself. At first, he felt sure that it would have been obvious, where the name 'Stolypin' would have stood out among the masses of three-to-four letter surnames scattered around. It did not take long before he realized his error. As he stopped at the apparent address scribbled for him, the surname 'Pak' instead stood at the front gate. From the onset, he could tell the home was somewhat larger than the rest of the neighbourhood. And yet, the austere, even plain facade contrasted with the proclamations of status and wealth found in state-owned dachas. It was hard not to be mistaken.
Stepping up to the front door, he looked around nervously as if worried about prying eyes. His Soviet officer uniform stood out well under the bright sun and arid surroundings. Even he felt a bit unnerved at how the neighbours might think. After all, a visit from the authorities usually meant bad news for anyone.
“What have I gotten myself into...” he mumbled, hesitating to knock as his raised knuckle halted just inches from the door, “I just happened to be there...”
Something spelt trouble about Yevgeny and his page boy for him... He was sure of it...
Cordon
Budapest, Hungary
24th October, 1956 – Earlier [1]
Nighttime in the Hungarian capital, and the skies seemed none the brighter. Sleepless, strained and ever the straight-laced officer, the Lithuanian watched over a bridge crossing with his cordon as fighting continued to erupt. The sound of gunfire was delirious, and no word came of who their enemies were? Were they going to overturn the current regime and support the protesters, or quash the protesters and support the regime? As far as Mikalos believed, the latter appeared the more likely option. After all, Imre Nagy's clique was, if anything, of dubious loyalty to Moscow. That alone was enough of a casus belli against him, such was the nature of international communism.
His skin prickling in the autumn chill, the sulking commander tried to reach for his coffee as he tried to fight off the cold. Holding the cup, he tried to rub his hands on the furry glove covering the surface, hoping in vain to siphon some warmth back to his frigid fingers. But a honk from a distance caught him off guard, as coffee splattered on his face at a jump. Fortunately or not, it was far too cold to scald him, though equally useless in warming his freezing body.
"What the hell," he grumbled, wiping his face with his handkerchief as the surprised guards started to halt an oncoming GAZ-67 jeep. On board, a panicking, blonde ensign was stammering for access, yelling at the guards as he demanded access past the bridge. Pacing over, he could feel the frustrations burning over at the stooge's actions. However, clutching his fists, he tried hard to resist the urge to punch him, holding steadfast to his professionalism as before.
"...I told you, I'm looking for my superior, Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin! He could be anywhere in the city! Just let me through," the boy demanded, arguing with the exasperated guards as they continued to gesture their hands in refusal. Peering over at the approaching officer, the guards quickly gave way as Kaukenas addressed him. It took a while to notice under the strain and darkness, but he could have sworn he had seen him. Still, he was far more concerned about the ruckus to recall.
"Are you the commander of this cordon," the boy stated imperiously, annoyed at the cordon impeding him as he got out of his jeep. Despite the disparity in rank, Mikalos could tell from the boy's hapless attempts to intimidate him how much he valued his profession in the commissariat. Grimacing a bit, he answered coldly, “yes. Captain Mikalos Kaukenas, 2nd Guards Mechanized Division. What of it?”
Dwarfed by the captain's height, the youth could not hide his discomfort for long. His eyes batting, he toned down his language as he requested, “Junior Lieutenant Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev I demand access past this cordon. One of my superiors has gone missing and I wish to find him-”
“Forget it,” Mikalos shot down almost instantly, his voice raised slightly to put the point across, “the city's under curfew right now. Angry mobs are lynching any one wearing a uniform right now. Your boss is probably hanging on a tree with a noose around his neck at this point. You're going to get yourself killed if you go out there.”
Jittered by the harsh analysis, the lad tried hard to hold in his panic, explaining, “but I can't just look the other way! My broth- Colonel Tonchev has entrusted me to keep a lookout for him. If Stolypin comes back in a body bag, I-”
“I'm sure your superior would find a good excuse for you,” hissed Mikalos in response, his eyes lowering to spot his name tag, “it's not like they'll put an errand boy to task over a missing officer, Lieutenant Tonchev.”
In all honesty, his own commander might have reprimanded him for his poor choice of words, especially to a political agent. But Mikalos could not resist the temptation. After all, whatever the boy claimed himself to be, it would be hard for him to deny that he did not have familial relations involved in his assignment. Besides which, the Lithuanian felt a grave sense of disdain for him. As someone who had to climb the hierarchy on his own will, seeing greenhorns leapfrog him with connections filled him with great disgust. He did not want to admit it, but seeing the boy panic gave him a small hint of satisfaction. However, he was well aware of the dangers of offending the wrong people. He had little doubt the boy might squeal on him if this persist.
“But fine,” he relented, half-hoping the boy would not come back alive, “I'll approve. Still, not much hope out there now that the city is in a state of civil war. Besides, what are the odds...”
Stopping short his words, however, the army officer could not help but shield his eyes as an approaching glare hit his eyes from the bridge. Approaching the cordon as the guards called for it to halt, a black Škoda 440 braked slowly in front of the barricade as the chauffer called out in heavily accented Russian. Pacing over, he soon spotted a young Hungarian girl stepping out of the front passenger seat, in a white fur coat slightly tarnished by dust. Watching her sweep herself off, the agitated commander was growing weary of the sudden influx of visitors.
“What now,” he grumbled, before calling out the girl in question, “identify yourself!”
Unlike Valeriy, the girl appeared far more composed, stepping over as she revealed her ID from her sleeve. Smiling against the tyre fires in the distance, she did not appear as shaken by the turmoil, if at all. Her credentials, as the captain realized, showed why. Adjusting his collar a bit, his earlier snark had quickly melted away, unwilling to try the same sarcasm he performed on the coffee boy.
“Margit Haraszti, Hungarian State Protection Authority,” he read off the ID papers, “reason for passing through.”
Tilting her head gingerly, the blonde girl remarked, “I just escorted back an off-duty political officer from the Radio Budapest building. He appeared traumatised by the angry mobs. I fear his safety is in jeopardy if he remains in the city.”
“Wait,” blurted Valeriy, overhearing her words as he tried to race for the cordon. Held back by the guards, he called out, “what's his name!? Can I see him!?”
Exchanging a glance with Mikalos, the girl appeared eager to show him. Shutting his eyes, the captain caught the hint very grudgingly, waving his guards to let him through. As Valeriy clamoured to the car, his nervousness soon dissolved into elation. There was no mistake from the boy. He had found his missing guy.
Pacing over to the car, Mikalos watched with gross apathy as Valeriy helped a figure out, slinging the superior's arm over his shoulder. A blonde young man in a vest and pants, it was hard to tell at he was a political officer at all. In fact, from the looks of it, the only real damage appeared to be psychological. Despite his commitments, the Lithuanian could not help but scoff at the shock on the young man.
“You got lucky, Captain Yevgeny Mikhailovich,” the commander loudly hissed with annoyance as the two passed by him, unable to restrain himself much longer, “you could have walked past a protest picket and they'd never know the difference. Did you enjoy your shopping trip? Did you get anything nice for your girlfriend?”
“Are you done,” Valeriy snapped, “I can report you for contempt, you know!”
“That's enough...” the weary lad said, unslinging his arm as he held his hand up to stop him, “that's enough...”
Staggering forward to face Mikalos, the shell-shocked officer appeared somewhat pale, his sleepless eyes highlighted under the light. Slouched, dirty and haggard, it was hard not to think lowly of him. Still, there was a strange glare in his eyes, one that seemed to belong to someone with blood on his hands. It was hard to think he had done anything mandated of his job, but Mikalos would not be terribly surprised if he somehow had.
“Do you think I went out there taking my safety that lightly,” he questioned in a low voice, “do you think I was out there for fun?”
“Yes,” Mikalos insisted, his ego throwing caution to the wind as he continued to taunt him, “I don't care why you went out. The fact that you tried at a time like this is enough for me to call you a fool. Only someone with a death wish would try something like that? Or are you that sick of your job to want to play hero?”
Breaking slowly into an awful cackle, the officer opened his arms out as he went, “a hero?... Eheheheheh... Yes, I want to be a hero... Maybe I'll get a nice medal for killing some kids on the street... Ahahahahahaha... What's wrong!? Not happy with me!? Stuck in a barricade waiting in the freezing night... You must be itching for some action!”
Gritting his teeth in rage, the army captain looked close to sending a fist through Yevgeny's face. Whether he was merely venting off his frustrations or genuinely trying to provoke him, the political aide was agitating him, from the incessant, bitter laughter to the overly casual remarks. Unable to restrain himself, the pissed, black-haired Balt raised his fist as if prepared to hit him. But the lad was, if anything, quicker, seizing his collar as his cackling started to dissolve in sobs.
“Yes... I'm a fool... What am I thinking?...” Yevgeny blubbered in agony, burying his head on Mikalos' chest, “'I want to talk to them...' Who am I to talk!? I don't want to do this... Korea... Here... I could have stopped them... I should have...”
Lowering his fist, Mikalos was quite taken aback by his words. Normally, he would have gloated at the sight of him, cracking under the guilt and pressure of serving the state apparatus. But something about him made the Lithuanian guilty himself. He had accused him of being suicidal. He never thought he was going to admit that.
“Sorry.”
Giving Yevgeny a tight slap, the captain quickly spun him around as he shove him back to his aide. Adjusting his collar, he stated in a more solemn, professional tone, “if you're done, you should head back to your base and check for injuries. I still have a job to do. Next time, don't run out into danger. Your family wouldn't like you in a body bag.”
Pacing back to his post as he waved for the cordon to open the barricades, the black-haired Mikalos paid little heed to the group any longer. Peering back, he could see the despondent lad with his head bowed, getting his footing back as he followed Valeriy back to the jeep. It had been a stressful evening, and Mikalos was not keen to stretch it out into a full argument. The faster they left, the better.
'I feel like I'm hitting a woman', he thought in grim agitation, leaning against a barricade as Margit's car followed the jeep back, 'somehow, I'm going to regret this.'
Mikalos never thought much after. With the intervention preoccupying his mind, he had put the incident at the back of his mind, all but forgotten. But nothing prepared him for what came after, when the uprising came to end. His life was about to take a sudden spin.
Pak Residence
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
8th December, 1956 – Present
Hesitating on the porch, Mikalos had to ask himself what went through his mind then. Intimidation, assault, all of which are on KGB agents. He never expected the coffee boy to be this snide, counting down the number of insults he gave that night. On hindsight, he should have been more careful, and just give in to the boy's demands. He never thought his brother was decorated in the Great Patriotic War, and so tied to the inner circle. [2]
“At least I'm not freezing my ass off,” he grumbled, readying to knock.
“You should, Captain,” a woman suddenly crooned in a chillingly sultry voice, “I don't take kindly to strangers hitting my family~, even if he's willing to take the hit.”
Looking back, he spotted the Russian captain just outside the porch, luggage on hand while dressed in a leather winter coat. Bewilderment in his eyes, he appeared a bit surprised to see the Lithuanian, likely not expecting visitors. However, what jittered him was the raven-haired, East Asian woman beside him, holding their toddler by hand as she glared with her ruby eyes. Something frightened him about the woman, even more than the idea that a hapless pencil pusher could nail a bombshell like her.
“Good afternoon, Captain Kaukenas,” she addressed the stunned Lithuanian, “I take it Colonel Tonchev sent you?”
Mikalos could only rue his luck. Yevgeny had connections, and they were hitting the army officer in full.
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:
Operation Priboi - Deportation of relatives and supporters of anti-Soviet Baltic partisans, the Forest Brothers, to inhospitable areas in the USSR. Same as OTL.
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:
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.
Cast
2016
Teachers
Immanuel Kant National University of Kyonigsberg - Kyonigsberg (Königsberg)
