Red Stars of Russia

It was with this charming line that Marko was rudely awoken by the beam of a handheld flashlight, startling him. A brief scuffle ensued, in which Marko was thrust from the watchtower, binoculars around his neck. Upon hitting the pavement, he glanced at his watch to find hours of duty remained.

Sighing, he set off in the morning light towards the new arrivals, clipboard in hand. Kerch was a vital port, and thousands of ships needed to be processed daily. He stumbled sleepily onto the ramp of an unassuming turkish cargo ship, and called out to the captain. His calls unanswered, Marko descended cautiously below deck.

"Yes. What is it?!" A scruffy looking man called, approaching from a smoky room at the end of a long hallway, blocking Marko's path. "Routine inspection, will only take a moment"

The man he now assumed to be Captain begrudgingly agreed, and the pair walked slowly together down the hall. As they progressed, Marko thought he heard men frantically scattering contraband of some kind. Whatever it was, he couldn't have cared less. They entered the smoky room, and the captain fished papers from a small cabinet drawer. Marko looked them over, found himself satisfied, and surveyed the room. Five men faced the opposite wall, a rather large crew for a vessel of this size. The third man wore a peculiar lapel.

"What's with the little red star brother? You guys Bolsheviks or something?" Marko snickered in an amused tone.

Marko suddenly perceived a sharp change in tone, and an electric tension permeated the air. None dared move, and all eyes locked upon each other. Sensing the danger in his joking remark, Marko tried to defuse the situation.

"Ill be going then….safe travels" Marko walked rather quickly back towards the hallway, only to find his way blocked by a burly sailor. A bullet entered his abdomen, and Marko crumpled towards the floor. As he lost consciousness for the last time, he heard the shouts of those that stood above.

"God damn you Olek! He was leaving."

### The Polish Example

> "Despair is typical of those who do not understand the causes of evil, see no way out, and are incapable of struggle." -Vladimir Lenin
>
>

Pyotr squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, struggling to find a position that didn't exacerbate the contradiction between his bulky form and the small frail chair that supported him. Above him sat a fan, his only reprieve from the cramped and sweaty room he inhabited. The move to Berlin clearly was not yet complete. Lifting his eyes from the fan, he scanned the faces that sat against the opposite wall; Asian, European, Latin American. Each was similar to him, the humble representatives of a downtrodden people.

A door opened, and a man in a tan uniform stepped out. Despite his appropriate dress and an attempt at a stern expression, Pyotr could see the cracks in his facade. He had spent years on the edge. As a political dissident residing in one of the most repressive states on earth. In such an environment, it was required that one observe others before they themselves were observed.

The man took a seat next to Pyotr, and the pair sat silently for several minutes. Finally exploiting the weakness in his eyes, Pyotr turned to gain information.

"Cigarette?"

"Dzięki Bogu"

Pyotr handed his newfound Polish comrade a cigarette, and inquired about his fluency in Russian. The man replied with "da" and another, shorter silence ensued. Finally, Pyotr leaned in.

"Seems like they're still setting things up around here, eh?" The Pole smiled wryly, and shook his head. "Every goddamned day has been the same since the war's end"

"That include us sitting here, now?"

"Some form of it.." He took a drag from the cigarette. "I cant tell you how many Frenchman i've met these last few years, each full of a passion rivaling the one before." He turned and looked Pyotr in the eyes with sincerity "Comrade, Sometimes it all feels.."

Pyotr finished the words for him "Futile?"

"Yes. Since our Russian "Liberators" have arrived, their grip has remained total. Combine a return of old Polish lands, a dash of secret police, and a smidgen nationalism, and you will receive one helpless, jaded revolutionary." he sighed, head in his hands. "Of what use is revolutionary action in the face of an hostile populace and a reactionary neighbor ? Much less one who yields extensive atomic power?"

Pyotr stared at the younger man before him, feeling a mix of disgust and amused sympathy. He couldn't deny that such feelings had existed within himself at one point or another, but unlike the creature before him, he would never capitulate.

"Comrade" he started quietly "I am Russian. You speak of the hopeless situation in your homeland, and what of mine? Tell me, do you see a time in the near future where the Russian worker may enjoy the fruits of his labour?"

The uniformed pole's head rose from his hands at the statement, as the assuredly obvious realization of Pyotr's nationality dawned upon him.

"How can you sit in Berlin, a city which only years ago housed the most brutal and efficient bourgeois state, and spew defeatism? The polish worker, toiling in misery, depends upon our actions"

Embarrassed at the accusation, and blindsided that a once pleasant conversation had turned into an interrogation of values, the man's casual tone assumed a formal bent.

"I did not mean to imply I was not dedicated to the cause, comrade.."

The secretary called Pyotr forward before the Pole could finish, and Pyotr wished him farewell. He was off to see another of the so called passionate Frenchman, this time, with a plan for Russia.