Somewhere north of Estonia and south of Lithuania lies the Baltic state of Kurzia. A heavily forested land dotted with centers of industry, its primary exports are lumber and automobiles to Russia and the rest of the Eastern Bloc. About one million people were living in Kurzia according to the 1989 census; Grwta Medniss was one such Kurzian (Her given name was to be Greta but the appointed typist suffered a stroke while filling out the form). Born in 1967, she had just graduated from the Nizhny State Institute of Kurzia at the age of 22 with a degree in Agricultural Engineering. Shortly after her graduation she was assigned to the State Ministry of Communication Equipment. During her first day on the job, a car hauler carrying half a dozen Ladas spun out and toppled a utility pole, leaving half the country without access to working phone lines and spilling factory new jalopies all over the highway.

Stepping through the front doors of the Ministry’s central office, a monolithic cinder block of a building, Grwta was greeted by a friendly receptionist.

“Hello!” Grwta introduced herself, “I’m here to report to –”

“Your name?” The receptionist interrupted cheerily. Grwta read the woman’s name tag, Iveta.

“Sorry, my name is Grwta Medniss, I’m the new recruit,” Iveta typed into a terminal out of Grwta’s view.

“We don’t have anybody by that name.”

“Oh, it’s spelled G-r-w-t-a.”

“Give me a second,” Iveta replied. While the cheerful smile remained on her face the sound of her fingers digging into the keys belied her true frustration with the error. “Looks like you’re good to go! Don’t forget to take this,” Iveta reached below her desk out of Grwta’s sight and they both waited a good half minute as a printer could be heard slowly churning out a name tag.

“Thank you!” Grwta said when she was handed the name tag. As she was affixing it to her shirt she caught something from the corner of her eye. On the wall of the lobby was a map of Kurzia with lights representing every town and village. The southern half of the map had just gone from green to red.

“Oh dear,” said Iveta, “You best report to Minister Ainars quick, take this with you.” She handed Grwta a document labeled Accident Report, “You best hurry, the Minister’s name is Ainars Zikaras, his office will be down the hall behind me and then take a right.”

Grwta gave Iveta a confident nod and set off down the hall briskly. She decided to take a look at the accident report, perhaps she could offer some particular insight into whatever this situation might be.

Beginning of Report
The lights on the bottom of the map turned red.
End of Report

“Well that’s hardly useful,” she mumbled to herself. She looked up and found herself before a door labeled Ainars Z. Opening the door she found a needle-nosed man rifling through a filing cabinet.

“I’m looking for Ainars Zikaras,” Grwta proclaimed.

“I am him,” the man replied puzzled.

“This is for you.” Grwta handed Ainars the accident report. He pored over the document with the utmost scrutiny for a minute. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked curtly.

“You’re the Minister aren’t you?”

“I’m the what?” Ainars replied. Suddenly a look of realization took his face. “No no no, you must be looking for Ainars Zikaras, I’m Ainars Zikarus.”

“Oh?”

“Yes yes yes, Minister Ainars is on vacation right now, I delivered a memo to that receptionist yesterday,” Ainars said with a hint of frustration. Grwta could see the memo sitting on Ainars’ desk as they spoke.

“Well if the Minister isn’t here, who should I speak to?”

“Why that’d have to be Deputy Minister Konstantina. You can find her on the third floor in room no. 320.”

“Well thank you very much.” Grwta left the room frustrated, and began to navigate the labyrinth of concrete walls and ancient carpeting. Once she found the staircase she began to climb the just-too-tall steps until she reached the third floor. Following the directory she finally arrived at Room 320. After opening the door she was greeted by a bullpen office of a few dozen women. The sound of clattering keys filled her ears and the smell of peeling wallpaper flooded her nostrils.

“I’m looking for Deputy Konstantina.” She said, nearly drowned out by the sound of typing.

The woman nearest her looked up, “What!?”

“I’m looking for Deputy Konstantina!” “Does it look like we have a Konstantin in here honey!” she replied mockingly. “Konstantin-A! A woman!”

“Oh,” the rude woman muttered in defeat, “She’s in the row nearest the window, you’ll know her when you see her.”

Grwta couldn’t be bothered with “thank you”s at this point. She made her way to a middle aged woman wearing a garish burgundy pantsuit, her hair up in a perm.

“This is for you.”

“I’m sure it must be ​very​important,” she snarked. Konstantina snatched the memo and looked it over. “Oh heavens, this just will not do.” “Might I ask what those lights mean?”

“They represent telephone coverage,” she said haughtily. “If the light is green then they’re covered, if it’s red they’re not.”

“Ours was red.”

“It was?” she said, shocked. She looked around the office at all the people typing away uselessly at disconnected terminals and faxing documents that were going nowhere. “Yes.”

“Well in that case you simply must find Jaroslavas Dzerins, he operates our telegraph system, he should be our only contact with the outside world now. He can get in contact with the Ministry of Communication Equipment Repair.

“Where’s he?”

“Floor B3”

“Which room?

“The only room.”

Grwta made her way back to the staircase and began her grand descent down five flights of stairs until she reached B3. The musty room was dimly lit by amber lamps that faltered to a silent rhythm. The room was crossed by cables and wires that stretched from floor to ceiling and everywhere else. Sitting at a solitary desk, in this web of communications was an ancient man frantically scrawling on a notepad; he was surrounded by loose sheets of paper all over the floor.

“Jaroslavas?” Grwta nervously approached.

“Yes! You have entered the office of Jaroslavas Dzerins,” he said proudly. “But you may call me Jarka”

“I have an accident report for you, the telephone lines in southern Kurzia have been disconnected”

“Well then I must send a message to Cent​—​” A grin took Jarka’s face, “I suppose this means I’m our only connection to the outside world.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

Jaroslavas looked around laughing, “That would explain all these messages,” his face turned solemn. “When’s the last time you’ve used a telegraph?”

“What are you talking about? Never I guess.”

“Exactly! Nobody uses these infernal machines, yet they’ve kept me around down here since I was a boy!”

“Kept you!?”

“Well kept me until closing time of course, but I’ve ​always worked in this pit,” Jarka calmed down a notch or two. “While I’m here I’ve been treated like complete waste, an afterthought! This is the first time in my entire career I’ve been useful for something and you want me to fix that away?”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s Deputy’s orders.”

“I won’t do it,” he said defiantly, crossing his skeletal arms.

Grwta sighed and reached into her pockets for her wallet. Her parents raised her well.

“How much?”

“Hm?”

“To grease the wheels? How many rubles?”

“Why, I’d never take a bribe, it’d be against the character of an envoy of the state like myself.”

“Would 25 be against your character?”

After a period of silence, “30.” Jaroslavas swiped the notes from Grwta’s outstretched hand.

“Now leave me be! And go see that receptionist about getting your name tag fixed, it has an error.”

“I’ll see to it.”