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June, 1960, Odessa, Ukraine
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Mr. Smith stood before an older building near the waterfront in Odessa eyeing the Rhodesian flag that had been hung from just above the doorway. The building was an older one, though like every other building in this part of the city, it had suffered damage from fighting over the years. The area in which he stood had once been a thriving tourist destination but now, with the war and regional instability, it was over run with Russian Refugees. Where some saw chaos, Smith had seen opportunity, an opportunity that had not presented itself in his lifetime with the Foreign Office. He had been directed to find white folk to settle in Rhodesia and while the Russians were hardly of Anglo-Saxon stock, they could certainly make a big difference. It was an opportunity it would be a shame to miss. 

The windows next to the door had been partially covered in placards that showed rolling Savannah, beautiful mountainscapes, rolling fields, and ocean vistas. Each sign read, "Peace, Stability, Life, Rhodesia", in big bold font, alternating between Russian, Ukrainian and English. It was early, the sun barely touching the tops of the surrounding buildings but already a small line had formed. 

Desperate people in desperate times made for interesting applicants and though not a single one had actually been seen by the staff inside, Smith already knew which would be rejected. There were young, old, male, female, injured, infirm, strong and bright eyed. With hundreds of thousands displaced and pouring into the Ukraine, the Rhodesians would be able to take their pick of the best and brightest. They would take no more than 10,000, all of them under the age of 30 unless they had badly needed skills. Those like Doctors, Engineers, or others with valuable skills, would be welcome if they were not over 50. 

Smith excused himself past the slowly growing crowd and stepped into the cool interior of the building. The huge windows that faced the street were allowing light to stream in to the mostly empty space. Six desks had been arranged in a line near the back wall with expectant looking clerks behind them, half of them black. Part of the application would be seeing how the applicants responded to having to deal with a black person. Rhodesia, despite its policies, did not want people who could not get along with the majority of the population. 

Behind each desk stood two men or women in Rhodesian uniform, though they were not armed, that would hardly fly on foreign soil, and one Ukrainian police officer, lured in by the promise of double wages for a days work during their time off. Several others were out on the street to maintain order if required. Smith did not believe there would be trouble, but then again, he was always prepared. The local Police Commander had been given a "gift" to ensure there would be no issues and the city permit people had quickly cut through any red tape for the building when offered a hundred pound. 

"Everyone ready?" He asked the assembled group. The Ukrainians nodded, as did the Rhodesian soldiers. The clerks, their desks piled high with applications for the hopeful refugees gave a thumbs up and grinned. "Good. Here we go."

He turned back to the doors and pushed them open, taking a moment to prop them open on either side, allowing the fresh spring air to flow into the musty building interior. The line, doubled in size since he had gone inside, took a shuddering pace forward, and he smiled, waving the first ones inside.

"Welcome! Welcome!" He repeated the phrase over and over again in his broken Russian as people streamed past him. They queued up quietly enough in small groups or with their families, the look of hope on their face almost pathetic to behold. Many had everything they owned with them, which was not much. 

Slowly the lines moved forward, each individual completing their document with the assistance of the Ukrainian translators, or the two Rhodesians who knew Russian from their overseas studies. Once the document was completed it was carefully filed into a manila envelope which went into a brown box to be carried away by one of the Rhodesian soldiers behind the desk. 

Those forms, two pages in total, asked for basic information such as age, sex, weight, height, occupation, education, family, etc. Each box ticked was worth a certain number of points, or in some cases, immediate disqualification from the process, though the applicant would not know it yet. Smith would have had to have a heart of stone not to feel for the old couples that shuffled forward together to fill out the paperwork, the glimmer of hope in their eyes hopeless before they even arrived. They would leave with many a "thank you" and a bow, chatting amiably, not knowing that they had already been rejected. 

The day ground on as hundreds of hopefuls made their way down to the building, flowing in and out again like the tide. Smith watched it all happen from a corner of the big room where he had his own desk. Only the very skilled immigrants were sent to him and, at this point, only a half dozen had been worth the time he needed to invest in them. Still, plenty of young folks had come through and that was worth something.
 
He stretched his long legs under the desk and beckoned the next man forward, his wife and two kids in tow.