[atiff]

I wrote this a while ago, more about the character than a 'day in the life', but it may amuse some....

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Work at the Citizenship Office was not stimulating for him, but Pavel could see the logic in the process. The city was only capable of supporting a certain number of people, and even that relied on imports of food from the surrounding counties and vovoideships. So making decisions on who could and could not be a citizen of Krakow simply made good sense, if the city wanted to survive and prosper. Pavel could not understand why some of the petitioners seemed unable to agree with this reasoning.

He watched the queue and the process from his appointed place near the front of the hall. Mr. Kowalski and Mr. Chelavich were the gatekeepers. They sat opposite ends of a long table that served as the border between outcast and potential citizen. In a sense, they were the two most powerful people in the room. One or other of them questioned with each petitioner about their value to the city. The typical line of questioning went like this:
"What did you do before the war?"
"What have you been doing since then?"
"How many dependents do you have?"
"Why should we let you become a citizen of Krakow?"

The last question was rarely asked, and usually only be Mr. Chelavich. He said it was something to do with the "X factor" to help him decide. This did not make much sense to Pavel, as usually the first two questions were the deciding factors. Once given the answers to these two questions, Mr. Kowalski or Mr. Chelavich would call to their helpers, clerks that ran the filing cabinets. The clerks would bring the files related to the skills and professions that were in the petitioner's answers, and they would be checked to see if the city had need of such people.

Actually, Pavel corrected himself, that was not accurate. The city did not need them; sponsors did. Sponsors were the people who wished to take on extra staff, laborers, or specialists for their businesses. Usually specialists were what was most demanded, and so the criteria were quite exacting (as they should be, thought Pavel). If someone seemed to be a match to a requirement, they were escorted past the gatekeepers' table to the middle or back of the hall, where they waited until they were quizzed by citizens who were specialists. Some waited most of the day; many specialists often only attended in the last hour of the day. There were always a few experts in the room, but these were usually farming types or military men; this was the most common type of specialist in demand. If all went well, they were accepted by a sponsor, and went to another building for probationary citizenship processing; if not, they were escorted out of the hall.

Pavel's role in all this was to watch for and deal with anyone who would disrupt this process. For some reason, people could tend to get physical with the staff as this otherwise orderly process took place. Pavel did could not fathom why this would be the case. But it happened nevertheless, and Pavel was one of those tasked to deal with such instances.

As he stood and watched, suddenly he felt the throbbing again. It was always in the same place in his head. It happened less frequently now than before, perhaps only once or twice a week, and Pavel had learned how to deal with it. He clenched his jaw and waited motionless for the discomfort to subside. Normally, his vision blurred a little with the pain, but this time it stayed clear. Within a few seconds, the pain was gone, and Pavel relaxed his jaw again. As usual, no-one seemed to notice anything had happened.

Mr. Chelavich, who sat closest to where Pavel was stationed, called forward the next petitioner. A male, perhaps 35 years old, swaggered forward, dressed in a mismatch of military clothing that looked a size too small for his frame. Pavel could see American Army boots and shirt, trousers that looked of Polish issue, and a slightly singed leather jacket that was probably Russian in origin, perhaps a tanker's. The man had an aggressive expression on his face, looking like he might be trouble. Pavel casually moved his hands and clasped them together in front of his belt buckle.

Reaching the desk, the man spoke. His Polish was quite good, but with an accent that marked him as probably American. "So who do I have to screw to get into this place?"

Mr. Chelavich studied the man for a moment, and got a hard stare in return. He looked down and started with the routine questions; "What did you do before the war?"

"I'm a Master Sergeant from the US Army," spat the American. "I've been in since '87, and I've fought all over this god-damned country for the last three years. I daresay I know more about weapons and small-unit tactics anyone in your little free-city army here, and I want in. Now." He punctuated this final point by leaning on the table and stabbing his forefinger into the woodwork. Pavel picked up on the religious adjective, and shook his head slightly. He was a practicing Catholic and disapproved of the inappropriate use of the Father's name.

"I see," said Mr. Chelavich. He called for the files on military sponsors, and a clerk quickly retrieved a half-inch folder from the cabinets. Mr. Chelavich held it up and opened it so that he could see he contents, but the American could not. After perhaps five seconds, he closed the folder and said, "I am sorry, but there are no openings at the moment. Now, if you would please exit through..."

"Lying prick! That's a nice fat file you've got there," retorted the American. He pointed towards the back of the hall. "And I can see two NCOs and an officer from the ORMO right there, just waiting for someone like me."

"As I said, there are no openings right now," said Mr. Chelavich, as he stood up and closed the folder, preparing to return it to the cabinets himself. Pavel recognized the sign.

"Now look here..." said the American. But as he started forward, Pavel stepped smoothly into his path.

"You were asked to exit the office. The correct door is behind you," Pavel said, in English, in his usual level voice. It was not a threat. The man had been turned down, and should now leave. Pavel wondered what was so difficult with that concept.

The American stopped and glared at Pavel, standing almost casually in front of him with hands clasped at his front. Pavel was neither big nor tall. With Pavel being barely 5'10", the American was a good 4 inches taller. The taller man was also obviously in good shape, whereas Pavel's slightly baggy clothing disguised his athletic build. Pavel was not carrying a visible weapon. The American made his assessment quickly; "Like hell," he growled, and reached to grab Pavel by the front of the shirt, probably to toss him aside.

Instead, it was Pavel's hands that made contact. Still clasped, they shot up together from their starting point at his belt as Pavel took a half-step back. The effect was a kind of double-handed uppercut. Coming from a blind spot down low, the American didn't see the movement until Pavel's hands were over half-way towards their target. The blow struck squarely under the American's jaw. There was a crunch of teeth and bone, and the man's head was thrown back. Such was the power of Pavel's strike that the American was lifted onto his toes before falling backwards. His head struck the hardwood floor with a crunching thud, and then the tip of his tongue landed near his feet. Blood spilled from the man's mouth and nose as he lay motionless on the floor.

Pavel looked up, and saw the entire room had stopped. He glanced at Mr. Chelavich, who had gone a little white and seemed in shock. No-one said anything for a second or two. Pavel knelt next to the man on the floor, and turned his head to examine the jaw. It flopped a little too easily. Pavel checked the neck for a pulse, but found none. Still kneeling, he made the sign of the cross. "Lord, please forgive this man for his sins, and may he rest in peace. Amen."

Pavel picked up the body in a fireman's hold to move it out of the hall. He took two steps toward the door, then turned and stooped to pick up the piece of tongue. As he stood again, he heard the hushed voices of several people whispering.
"... busted neck?"
"... see how fast that was?"
"... and then he prayed for him?"
Pavel paid them no mind. The office should get back to business; it was almost the end of the day, and time was wasting. He motioned to another guard to take his place near the head of the queue. Then he carried the dead American to the exit, through a rapidly-parting queue of prospective citizens of Krakow.