Short Stories from Carentania

[Socialist Commonwealth]

In Carentania, no one is poor...
At least that was what they had promised Hanifa, in letters that had been sent home by family members of several of her friends. Letters that spoke of a better future, of a country where everyone lives in wealth. Promises that now ring hollow in her ears, but back in the days, in her home country, sounded sweeter than honey. Hanifa had paid a lot of money to a company that guarantueed to get her to Carentania.
They almost sunk with the completely overloaden, rusty motorboat. An outdated nutshell, a sorry excuse for a ship. Even Hanifa, who never before had been to the sea, could tell how bad the shape of this boat was. But, inshallah, they made it to the coast of this promised land. During night they landed on a desolate beach, city lights on the horizon, regardless of the direction Hanifa looked. Back in that night, Hanifa felt relieved, despite her exhaustion. Thirsty and hungry she nevertheless was optimistic that her life would now turn to the better and soon she could send her children back home money.
The men that had brought her to this country immediately left again, headed back to get more refugees and bring them to Carentania for horrendous sums. And Hanifa? She began to realize that she had nowhere to turn, nowhere to go. Faith had brought her to Carentania, but now she didn't know what to do next. So all she could do was follow those who seemed to know.

On the next morning, as the sun slowly began to rise from the sea to the east, Hanifa and the others arrived on the edge of a large city. A street sign with the name of the city written on it was all welcoming committee the group of almost fifty men and women got. It was called Učka, a young man told Hanifa – she couldn't read latin characters, nor speak Carentanian. But it still didn't occur to her, that things would not be so easy in this country as she had thought.
The group headed for a suburban railway station. Some, including Hanifa, wanted to protest against this idea, mentioning that they had used all money they got to come to Carentania, some like Hanifa even indebted themselves to less than trustworthy people. But their worries were quickly shaken off. The man that had already read out the sign for Hanifa was fast to explain, that public transport was always free in this country. All they had to do was to get into the train, be headed for the town center and find the office of a worker council – because that was the place to turn to when they wished to be part of this country, to get a job, a home and all the other things that were guarantueed to a Carentanian citizen.
And so they did. In that train, Hanifa noticed to looks of the natives for the first time. This look of deep mistrust, of suspicion and uncertainty, as to what exactly Hanifa had come for. Back then, she ignored these looks, not understanding what kind of problem these people had, shook them off and instead let the city of Učka fascinate her. Everything seemed so clean, so perfectly maintained. Not one piece of garbage on the streets, not one graffitti on the house walls. Today however, Hanifa understands. Her headscarf, her traditional islamic clothing provoked these people who had been raised to deny the existence of god. Hanifa today knows, she had come to a country of heretics and her faith was a threat to them.

But this was only a minor issue. Some sort of final push, but not what had really gotten Hanifa to where she stood today. When her group arrived at the council office, the secretary could quickly assign a few of the people new jobs, making them citizens of Carentania almost instantly. Especially the young man who spoke Carentanian, a college graduate as it seemed, could be happy to call himself a student of the medical professions from that day on. Most people, however, were rejected for the time being. "Sorry, but we currently have no vacant place you qualify for," the secretary told Hanifa, assuring her however that the Commissariate for Economic Planning constantly tries to utilize the labor of new immigrants instead of letting it unused.
That was a sentence that Hanifa would hear repeatedly, for the next nine months. During this time, she had been sent to a language school, but she was slow to learn, Carentanian being a complicated language. Meanwhile, not having a job meant not being able to become a citizen, and not being a citizen meant having no home. While she could just walk into the next store and get her daily meal, though the selection wasn't all too abundant, not having a home proved to be a real problem as the sommer ended and winter approached. On the streets, Hanifa almost freezed one night. Then god seemed to have decided to end her hardship, as the next morning she was told there was a vacant position for her. With the job in a fish factory and her Carentanian citizenship, things slowly seemed to get better.
Hanifa had already realized that there would be no money she could send home. This strange country, she now understood, does not use any money. It was a hard truth, that sent her back to the ground again. Instead, she would now have to look for a way to get her kids to Carentania as well. A nearly impossible task, without money.

But yes, back then Hanifa still believed she could manage. A naive belief, she had dropped in the same way she now dropped her body over the edge of the bridge connecting Učka with the island of Vrnik. In her hand, she held a letter which, as she fell down, was carried away by the wind, off to a faraway place. A very short letter she had gotten that very same day and which read:
"Hanifa, something terrible happened! Bandits have taken your boys. They said you owe them money. Only Allah knows where they are now."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

"Okay men, this is it. Get ready and get out!"
Guardsman Stolar yelled at the recruits lined up in the plane, waving at them to get out of the large door at the end of the machine. With a fanatic scream, each one of them fell out of the sky and raced towards ground. "Just jump already," he said to everyone who hesitated only slightly and, towards those still in the plane he added: "Just remember. This jump makes you a paratrooper. So get out and get down:"
Then Stolar jumped himself, as last one of the group.
It was a bit unusual, actually, for there to be only one man with an Airborne Badge to be in a platoon, but after some guards had quit, the ranks were refilled entirely with conscripts and Stolar was the only one left to teach them how things work. Of course, he had some backup by the teachers at the military academy, but still, his platoon had only him to lead them. The only platoon in the entire division where elections for platoon leader would have been moot.
This excercise was the final part of the training. The first jump in full gear with an added mock combat, concluding the Airborne training and earning the men and women of the platoon their Airborne Badge in white, the sign of a succesful jump. There were three more badges, one in brass for five jumps, one in silver for twenty and one in gold for fifty. Additionally, there was the possibility to earn an Airborne Badge with a star, the sign for a combat jump. It had been a while since the last soldier acquired a star for his Airborne Badge.
Drifting to the ground, Stolar could see his men and women reach their dropzone at ease and he could also spot their target, a small village in north-western Carentania. For this excercise, units from the third infantry brigade had dug into the village, not knowing the airborne would be their enemies. It was common in the Carentanian army to add the element of surprise to an excercise and it was just as common for the both units to have the conclusion of a training unit to be dependant on the victory in the excercise. In case of the third infantry, this was the final exam for a four heavy weapon teams.

Stolar dropped to the ground in a small swamp dangerously close to the Levantine border. Most excercises were conducted here, because the Carentanians wanted their neighbours to see that the Carentanian forces are well trained. However, the north-west is also one of the less densely populated areas of Carentania, allowing for such excercises in the first place. Nevertheless it had the drawback that, in case of the Airborne, occasionally soldiers missed out on their dropzones and came down in Levantine territory. A crossing of the border on the ground, meanwhile, was unlikely, given the heavy fortification of the borderline on both sides.
This time the paratroopers had luck and Stolar could gather all his comrades in a matter of minutes. As soon as possible, Stolar got his unit within reach of their target, ordered three of his men to distract the machine gun next with a smoke grenade and moved a squad into its back.
"Bang, you're dead," Stolar himself greeted the disappointed recruits. With the first machine gun emplacement out of the way, three heavy weapon tems were left on each corner of the village. The second team was taken out as quickly as the first one, as Stolar had another squad rush into the building without the team noticing, but with half the enemy taken out, the men of the third infantry began to realize they had come under attack, shifting their forces to counter the sneaky assault and surprising six of the paratroopers with the rattling of blank shots.
"Don't look that stupid," Stolar yelled. "You're all dead, fools. Now drop to the ground. And you, second squad, take the gun under fire from the building at the corner. Once you got their attention, we'll rush forward and knock 'em out!"
Tense seconds passed, but as shots began to be exchanged between the mentioned building and the third machine gun, Stolar began running. "Go, go!" he shouted, but as his group leaped forward, the fourth weapon team of the infantry fired upon Stolar and his man.
"The fuck?" Stolar stood idle on the middle of the street. The electronic equipment he was wearing for this training reported him shot, while the rest of his group had managed to run back into cover.
"They have moved the fourth gun to cover the third. You've been hit, sir. I will assume command."
Kosor was one of the "voluntary conscripts" of the first paratroopers brigade. People who had signed up with the military some time ago, volunteering for a one year service at the next time a free place became available. They could be conscripted any time after they signed up. Some volunteered for a second, some even for more rounds. For Kosor it was the first, but Guardsman Stolar was already hoping for him to at least have a second conscription round, if not even becoming a Guardsman, a professional soldier with a position comparable to that of an NCO in other armies. Kosor was a born leader and a quick thinker and he toppled the machine guns with a number of smoke grenades provoking the machine gunners into firing at the smoke in the belief they were covering an approach, while Kosor in reality got his squad into position to fire grenades into the buildings.

"First and only, Airborne!" sitting on the back of a truck headed back to their camp, the men of Stolars platoon were cheering, now fully being part of the first airborne division of Carentania.
"Next stop: Talemaniki!"

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Branimir blew his breath into his hands, warming them with the breeze. It was an extraordinarily cold day in Carentania and even the thick leather jacket he was wearing barely kept the icy wind outside. He was annoyed, he really was. He even couldn't tell anymore why he came all the way to this small mountain town. The noble fight and all that sure was important, but freezing to death for it? But Branimir did not say a word, he couldn't risk his comrades finding out about his lack of willpower, even though he could tell they were just as annoyed by this little trip to rural Carentania as he was.

Well, all but the man in the long black coat who had organized all this. He was walking around as if he had just been crowned King of Carentania, a wide smile on his lips and a megaphone under his arm.

It was a march of the Mezhist League and about fifty of them had come to convince the rurals of the evils of Communism and the glory of a strong nation under a powerful leadership. Mezhism was almost as old as the Workers' Republic, a movement founded by Carentanian expatriates who fled from the communist revolution. They rejected the degenerate communist ideology, their weakness and their vile lies. For Mezhists, it was all about keeping the country clean and strong. The nation should be the center of all actions, its prosperity the goal of all citizens and ethnicity as slav a source of pride for everyone in Carentania.

But naturally the Mezhist ideology met harsh repression from the socialist demagogues. Returning to Carentania with the strong determination to end communist rule did not bear exactly well with the reds and their intention to chase out all disease-ridden, degenerate immigrants did not earn them plus points with the liberals either. Though there was a time the Mezhists could actually rely on a base of followers within Carentania who were actually willing to join the fight against Communism, those times were long over. However, now that the wellbeing of the nation was threatened by the constant influx of foreigners, Branimir and his comrades felt that the time was ripe to rebuild the movement.

The man with the megaphone had just begun to welcome his comrades, when suddenly, amidst loudly cried paroles, a mob entered the towns square from several directions. At least two hundred people were pouring onto the place, many of them carrying red flags, some even pepper spray and batons. Yelling insults, they closed in on the group of Mezhists and surrounded them, threatingly waving around the crude weaponry they brought. An internationally respected sign for "you're gonna get it now."

One of the men stepped forward then, beginning to speak.

"Hand over any Mezhist propaganda material you have and leave then. We'll keep an eye on you and we won't tolerate Mezhist activity in our Republic."

None of the Mezhists refused. This was Carentania, this was how this country worked. The citizens themselves enforced the law, and this meant they could bend the law as far as they wanted. A dreadful thought, a rule of the communist mob. Branimir knew just as well that it was no use fighting now. They were outnumbered and the Anti-Mezhists were better armed. And if they had come with guns, the councils could always call in Special Weapons Squads or even the Revolutionary Army. Carentanias Mezhists had to learn it the hard way during the fifties.

Suddenly a fist hit Branimir in the face. A hot blooded young man, a teenager actually, stood before him, seemingly enraged. He yelled a number of harsh insults, before he got pulled away by the surrounding people and one of the Communists told him how unnecessary that was. Branimir could only feel despite for this arab kid - he could smell it was an arab. A dirty, disgusting stink of garlic and sweat. "You coward, how about you try that without all these people to protect you?" Branimir threatingly cracked his knuckles, but the man who had ordered them to disperse immediately intervened.

"There will be no fights here and there will be no hatespeech. You leave this place in small groups, now. And if we find you gathering again in another place, we will find ways to make sure you will not try to ignore our laws again."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

"Whoah."

Daniel stood still for some seconds, staring in disbelief through the door at something that must have been utterly amazing but which sadly was out of view for his colleagues. They were stretched out across a large couch, some of them eating a light meal before their large gig, others tuning their instruments. Finally, Daniel closed the door and turned back to his fellow band members, saying, with a mix of disbelief and joy:

"You won't possibly believe how full that place is. Our largest concert by far."

The "Samobor Drug Laboratory" was one of many small, independent music groups throughout Carentania. Ironically, though referring to the largest Roma district in Carentania, located in the city of Duvno, the "Samobor Drug Laboratory" was originally from Sisak, the southern metropolis on the border to Talemantros. It had started out as the project of five bored teenagers a few years ago, but, steadily growing over the years, it had become their contribution to Carentanias vibrant music scene and managed to attract a small, but fiercely loyal following. Nevertheless, a crowd this large, Daniel was sure, they had never played in front of.

"How many," Micha, their drummer asked calmly in between two bites of Pizza.

"At least five, maybe six hundred."

Micha almost choked on a slice of tomato. Usually, their "small, but fiercely loyal following" consisted of maximum a hundred people, and that was in the big centers of Carentania, in Rijeka and Duvno and Sisak. Here, however, they were in an obscure bar in Paki, a medium sized city in the north-west of the country. And Paki had been the last place they had expected a large crowd to show up, since the cities visitors tend to be rather, well, specific - and the venue of their gig was no exception.

With a loud fizzling noise, Micha opened a can of apple cider and swallowed a large gulp, clearing his throat of food remainders with the sweet alcoholic beverage that was just as popular as beer in Carentania, mainly because it was, like beer, freely available.
Paki, as was known, was avoided by the largest parts of the Carentanian population. There was no secret about it, Paki was known as "gay capital", a center of LGBT culture. Full of homosexual clubs, bars and discos, it was also one of the most vibrant and lively cities in the nation. But even though most Carentanians would not admit to having any prejudices and sentiments against the homosexual community, it wasn't exactly the place where they would spend their weekend.

"Seems we really struck a chord with the gays, huh?" Daniel concluded, seizing the can from Michas hand and swallowing the last bit of the drink. "Then let's get out there and play. Fucking hell man, five hundred people," Daniel added, sounding quite excited and nowhere as cool as he had intended that sentence to be. "Anyways, where is Stan?"

Stanislav, the bassist of the "Samobor Drug Laboratory" had been stuck on toilet for fifteen minutes by that moment and his band members, eager to play the show of their life, where growing impatient. Deciding that Stan' could just as well "lock the brown snake back in" if necessary, the hammered on the door with combined strenght, resulting in confused mumurs and, finally, the silhouette of a very weakly looking Stanislav emerging from the hastily opened door, shaking, rings under his eyes and his pupils dilated.

"Wazza madda," he uttered. Then he collapsed on the ground.

Drugs it seemed, had closed the Samobor Drug Laboratory for today.