An Eagle Begets an Eagle
I steadied my breath.
"…There is one thing I would like to ask."
"Ask it."
"That I am the General Secretary's son, and that I have come here under a false identity — how many people know those facts?"
"Ho…"
Brusilov answered with a note of admiration, as though the question had taken him by surprise.
"Those who know that, across this entire country, number very few."
The old general slowly uncurled his gaunt fingers.
"The General Secretary and Secretary Mikoyan. And Kacha, this old man, and a bare handful of subordinates who have stood at my side. That is all."
I see…
I nodded and sank into thought.
"But, young Stalin."
Brusilov tapped the table with a bony finger. Tap.
"Why do you not ask the truly important questions?"
A peculiar light entered the old general's eyes.
"How I came to know your identity, why I placed my only daughter at your side, why I so readily told you the names of those who know of you…"
From the hollows of his sunken sockets, those piercing eyes fixed me straight on.
"Are none of those of any interest to you?"
Instead of answering, I simply looked at Brusilov's face.
Of course they interested me. I had only felt the need to think before opening my mouth.
I laid the thoughts out one by one in my head.
One. Brusilov was a dying old man. If history held true, he would not, as Katerina had guessed, survive the year. And a man in that condition would invariably act with an eye toward settling his affairs after death.
A man with death before him goes so far as to petition the General Secretary himself to attach his adopted daughter to the General Secretary's son…?
That meant Brusilov had struck some kind of bargain with Stalin to place his foster daughter under Stalin's shadow.
And the fact that Katerina was at my side, and that Mikoyan, First Secretary of the Caucasus, had bothered to come all the way to Leningrad…
Must mean Stalin accepted the deal with Brusilov.
My mind raced.
That Brusilov knew of me was not so strange. And honestly, how he had learned it was of little real interest. What I wanted to know more was what Stalin stood to gain from a bargain with Brusilov.
I asked Brusilov specifically who his subordinates were.
Mikhail Savelyev. Alexander Vasilevsky. Boris Shaposhnikov, and others…
The roster that left his lips was staggering.
Even setting aside Mikhail Savelyev, who had quietly looked out for me at the Military-Political School — Vasilevsky and Shaposhnikov?
Alexander Mikhailovich Vasilevsky. And Boris Mikhailovich Shaposhnikov.
The former, alongside Zhukov, had been one of the great commanders who led the Soviet Union to victory in the Second World War; the latter, a brilliant military theorist and an able administrator of the Red Army. Shaposhnikov especially was a legendary figure — a former colonel of the Imperial Army who had thrown himself into the Red Army and would later rise all the way to Marshal.
He was never a field commander of glittering battle honors, but every major war plan of the Civil War had come from Shaposhnikov's mind — the nickname they gave him was the Red Brain.
Of course Vasilevsky was no ordinary officer either. Having volunteered in 1915 and served as a soldier for more than fifty years, he too was a man of legend who rose from praporshchik — junior ensign — all the way to Minister of Defense.
And the fact that Brusilov named them as his subordinates here means these two officers have entered Stalin's faction…
If my guess was right, Brusilov had clearly entrusted his power base to Stalin.
I laid every bit of this reasoning out before the old general without softening a word.
"……"
Brusilov looked startled by my even tone.
"Heh heh…"
He gave a hollow laugh and went on.
"They say an eagle begets an eagle… the old sayings never miss, do they."
Brusilov nodded slowly.
"You are right. Mikhail, Alexander, and Boris — the deputy commander of the Leningrad Military District — have all sworn to support the General Secretary."
Two of the great marshals who, in the original history, had no connection to Stalin until the interwar years, had taken Stalin's side?
At this point Vasilevsky was still an obscure regimental commander, but Boris was in the prime of his military career. And his post was deputy commander of the Leningrad Military District…
Suddenly I felt, with real force, that history was changing because of my choices.
"There is one more thing I would like to ask."
I continued, facing the old general.
"If… I had never come to Leningrad, and so no deal with my father had ever been possible… what choice do you think Your Excellency would have made?"
"A rather interesting question."
Brusilov fell silent for a moment in thought.
"Well… first I would have gone somewhere — Karlovy Vary, anywhere — to try and restore this dying body of mine."
Brusilov gave a dry laugh. His gaunt hand tapped his own chest.
"And then I would have done whatever I could for Kacha."
Brusilov's eyes turned toward the doorway.
"But in the end I would have gone round and round in the same place. The road ahead of that child is a hard one; putting off this old man's death a little would not have changed it…"
A shadow of melancholy settled over Brusilov. Then he looked at me and held out his hand.
"In that sense, I owe you a great debt."
I looked down in silence at the dry hand. A hand without color, the bones standing out — too frail and meager to belong to a guardian who had defended an empire.
I studied that hand for a long while, then took it and said evenly:
"There is no debt to speak of. The party Your Excellency built the bridge to was not me, but my father. I have only received help from Kate…rina. For which I am grateful."
I spoke coldly, but he seemed to take it differently; he answered with a faint smile.
"…Thank you."
The old general bowed his head weakly.
After that, conversation with Brusilov was, frankly, of little substance. A few more short exchanges followed, but they were mostly the old general's reminiscences.
"Hoo… hoo…"
From time to time Brusilov's words grew thick. His breath was growing short; his breathing was uneven.
"…They say a man talks more as he ages."
Brusilov sighed. Having poured the last of his strength into a few short remarks, he called for Katerina outside.
"I must go back now. It seems… this is as far as I can manage today."
Katerina helped him up with practiced hands, taking his arm. Brusilov leaned weakly against her and entrusted his weight to her. He looked as though he barely had the strength left to stand on his own.
I rose and bowed my head, and Brusilov, supported by Katerina, left the room at a slow pace.
— Creeeak…
The door closed.
I decided to remain in the room a little longer. Just as I was about to review the day's events, I heard the door open again behind me.
"Kacha…?"
— Creeeak…
Katerina stood before the door, closed it behind her back, and faced me. Her emerald eyes fixed on me.
"Father has been taken by another attendant. The one who brought Yasha today."
"Ah."
Come to think of it, it hadn't been Katerina who brought me today, but someone else.
…But then how was I supposed to get home? Walk?
Katerina tilted her head and said:
"With me here, do you need to worry about that, Yasha?"
Ah. If that's the case, then…
When I nodded, Katerina asked whether I meant to return to the ballroom.
"No. That is not a place for me."
I shook my head.
"Let us go back to the lodgings, Kacha."
We retraced our steps down the corridor we had come by. The din of the ballroom drifted faintly through the doors as we passed. Without hesitation I went past it and out of the building.
Leningrad in mid-May, the day's heat gone, was rather cool. A chill wind off the Neva seeped into the skin. The sun had not yet set, so it was hard to tell whether it was afternoon or night.
Outside the building a black automobile was waiting. I naturally opened the car door opposite Katerina's. She climbed in on the other side and started the engine with a single switch below.
Sparse streetlamps, stone buildings of the imperial age sunk in darkness, citizens still carrying the day's heat onward… Leningrad's scenery flowed past the window.
"So Kacha is… His Excellency Brusilov's daughter."
"……"
No answer came. The landscape outside kept changing. The sound of tires rolling over the paved road filled the car.
"How does Kacha feel about the bargain between His Excellency and my father?"
The hands on the wheel hesitated, very briefly.
"…Father gave me the chance to choose. That I am here means it is purely by my own will. Judging what the deal is or is not does not seem to be my concern."
Katerina kept her eyes on the road in silence. Then, suddenly, she left one more remark.
"Only… I think I am rather enjoying myself right now."
"Enjoying yourself…?"
Katerina smiled faintly and went on.
"At least I do not regret it, Yasha."
And so the long May Day of 1925 came to an end, and time drifted by in empty monotony.
Nothing of particular note happened at the political school, and Zinoviev, who had vanished with a scowl, likewise sent no further word. He was the first man of Leningrad, after all; he would have no time to spare for a mere cadet like me…
"Comrade Yakov Svanidze! By order of First Secretary Zinoviev!"
— That, as it turned out, was a miscalculation.
Cadet Yakov Svanidze is hereby appointed Production Inspector of the 3rd Galosh Factory.