The Saint Who Survived the Firing Squad
The last princess, Anastasia.
***
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
Even bullets hurt when they hit you gently. The round struck my body, then tumbled weakly to the floor with all the force of a wooden pellet—far beyond mere corruption in military supply contracts. If anything, it only added credibility to the claim that I was a saint.
“Th-this is impossible.”
“God declared long ago that the empire would fall once. My father and mother bore the heavy sin of ruining the empire, so there was no helping their fate. But He commanded me to raise the empire once more. Therefore, I absolve you of your sins.”
“Sins?! The Tsar deserved to die! All of you deserve to die!”
The man no longer cared whether the princess before him had truly returned from the dead. He was too busy venting his rage. He listed my supposed crimes with fanatical zeal, as if wishing I would simply crawl back into the grave. But unless I chose to lie down and die of my own free will, that wasn’t going to happen.
Above all—
“Did those innocent children—the young Tsarevich and princesses raised in a greenhouse, knowing nothing of the world—also deserve to be condemned?”
“!!”
Why on earth did the children have to die?
The true reason was painfully obvious.
“Be honest. You were afraid. If my father, my mother, and my siblings remained alive, they would become the rallying point for loyal imperial forces ready to fight the Bolsheviks. But God has commanded that I forgive your sins.”
Let’s get the words right. These bastards were terrified. Terrified that the Tsar might become a symbol around which the Soviet regime would collapse. And yet they still preached about righteous judgment while carrying out executions.
“This is madness. You expect us to prepare that horrific Tsar’s throne again? Nonsense! The empire is finished! The red flag of the workers has been raised!”
“God has also foreseen the future of the Bolsheviks. Their regime will be stained with authoritarianism and violence.”
“Lies!”
“If this is a lie, then what am I—the one standing before you, riddled with bullets and bayonets, doused in sulfuric acid, yet still alive?”
The Bolsheviks clamped their mouths shut. Even they would have a hard time accepting it. If a man they had killed was now standing here, pardoning their sins… anyone’s brain would short-circuit.
Soon after, the man who appeared to have led the execution finally spoke.
“Why didn’t this almighty God protect His precious empire?! Why didn’t He protect the Tsar’s subjects?!”
“Stagnant water is bound to rot. Russia had to be overturned at least once.”
“D-do you truly mean to forgive us? Us—the ones who killed your parents and siblings?”
“If I did not forgive you, I would also have to punish you for the sin of wanting to rape the imperial princesses. In my piety, I have forgiven even that.”
They had whined to Yakov about wanting to rape the daughters of the Nicholas family. They really were the worst kind of criminals.
“D-don’t listen to her! Th-that’s right! It must be that dead Rasputin pulling some trick!”
“Don’t you find your own words ridiculous? If that were true, wouldn’t it mean Rasputin was a genuine saint? I have absolved you of your sins. Through the deaths of my father and mother, the empire shall be reborn from the ashes—thus spoke God.”
Bang!
A hole appeared in the forehead of the man who had been shooting at me and nitpicking mere moments ago. His name had been Yakov, hadn’t it? Now the man who had orchestrated the firing squad had a clean hole through the top of his skull.
Even though the Romanov family could never be killed enough, these men had openly carried out the execution. And now they were shooting each other without hesitation. As expected, these reds had no principles whatsoever.
“Ah… I absolve you of your sins. You shall once again become subjects of the empire.”
Anyway, the situation was urgent right now. This was precisely the time when the White Army was beginning to move in earnest. They had rushed the Tsar’s execution out of fear that the Whites might rescue the imperial family.
“Ah, holy saint of Russia.”
“Please guide us.”
The Bolsheviks who had killed Yakov knelt before me, clasping their hands in prayer.
“You have now become enemies of the revolution. Therefore, you must follow me.”
“In that case…”
“Go to the warring great powers currently fighting and tell them that the Bolsheviks have brutally murdered the Russian imperial family. Beg for their help. Use every possible human expression at your disposal to make it known just how horrifically the Romanov dynasty was slaughtered.”
No matter what kind of body I possessed now, there was no way I could stay with the men who had killed my parents and siblings. I would leave just one to attend me and send the rest somewhere far away.
The plan was simple. First, head to the soon-to-be-established Russian state. Then, whether by Siberian train or any other means, reach Vladivostok, board a ship, and seek asylum in America or Britain. After all, the White Army was going to win. So I had to survive too.
***
Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Moscow.
The news of Princess Anastasia’s survival did not take long to reach Moscow.
Vladimir Lenin, upon receiving the report from the Bolsheviks dispatched to Yekaterinburg, was utterly horrified.
“Comrade Trotsky, what is this nonsense? Comrade Yakov is dead and Anastasia’s body is missing?”
“Yes, Comrade. The other comrades who carried out the execution have also gone missing.”
“Are you saying they kidnapped the princess and took her somewhere?”
“They did say Anastasia was exceptionally beautiful, so perhaps…”
“Ha! So they decided to have their fun with her before killing her? And that’s why they killed Comrade Yakov?!”
Lenin clenched both fists tightly. He could not begin to imagine how this insane blunder would spiral out of control.
“I heard from the beginning that they were men of low character.”
“Ugh… Find them immediately! We must capture them at once! If that twisted lust of theirs causes the princess to fall into the hands of the reactionaries—!”
That would be disastrous. The White Army was already swarming from every direction. If Anastasia fell into their grasp, the outcome of this civil war would become completely unpredictable.
The imperial officers who had remained neutral and those dissatisfied with the Bolsheviks would all rally under the princess. The Romanov dynasty might actually be restored. Just imagining it was horrifying.
The civil war would drag on indefinitely. The capitalist powers of the West would never recognize the Soviet regime as a legitimate state. They would undoubtedly support the White Army unified under Anastasia.
“They should still be in Yekaterinburg.”
“What in the world are those Cheka agents who took the princess doing?!”
“We must kill the princess if we are to survive, Comrade Lenin…”
Yes. She had to die. She absolutely had to die. Yet something was going terribly wrong.
“Urgent report! The White Army is marching on Yekaterinburg!”
“The Czech Legion is pressuring Yekaterinburg!”
The White Army—enemies of the Bolsheviks—had caught the scent and were rushing toward the city. Unlike in the original history, the Whites had begun moving swiftly upon hearing of the princess’s survival. Even the Czechoslovak Legion, which had maintained neutrality in the Red-White Civil War, was now acting suspiciously.
All of this was happening because of the princess’s survival.
“Why did the news spread so quickly?!”
“Well, Comrade… it seems that while the local Cheka agents were running around asking about the princess, the rumor spread.”
“You incompetents! Weren’t we trying to kill them to prevent the imperial family from falling into White hands?! What are you doing, throwing meat to the wolves?!”
They had to be captured no matter what. If only the princess were killed, the fractured White Army would never be able to defeat the Red Army. But if they lost her, she would undoubtedly march on Moscow crying out for revenge for her family.
***
“Fuck.”
How had things come to this?
Three days had passed since then.
For three whole days, these red bastards had piously gathered the remains of Anastasia’s parents and siblings—the very people they had murdered—reassembled them with care, and held a funeral. They had also refrained from going outside for a while. I heard they were just trying to hold out until the other Bolsheviks withdrew from the city.
After that, I would have to make my debut in this city.
These damn Bolsheviks—whether they had truly seen the light or simply wanted to parade me around for their own amusement—put me on a horse and began parading me through the very city where they had killed my parents and siblings, using me as propaganda.
Thankfully, I had learned horseback riding in my previous life, so I could ride well enough.
“This is the saint of the former Russian Empire—Her Imperial Highness, Princess Anastasia!”
These reds were going around everywhere promoting me as a saint. That’s right. I had piously forgiven, in the name of God, the very people who had killed my family—and had even killed me, Anastasia herself. No wonder they had gone completely insane and decided to defect to the White Army.
Anyway.
I—no, the defected Bolsheviks and I—remained in this place.
“Yebat’.”
I had grown quite used to Russian swearing by now. There was simply no way to avoid cursing.
Honestly, even if I had been a real Russian, I probably would have wanted to tear the flesh off Tsar Nicholas myself. He had made far too many mistakes for it to be helped.
The problem was me.
Nicholas II, his wife, and all their children had been wiped out—except for Anastasia, who alone had survived. These deranged, newly enlightened Bolsheviks were spreading that fact everywhere. They kept pushing me forward as their figurehead.
The reactions of the people we passed varied wildly. Some cursed the Romanov imperial family with extreme venom. Others showed pity. Still others declared they would support the Romanovs even if their heads split open.
I wasn’t sure whether they truly believed I was a Romanov, but—
“Is that woman really the princess?”
“Where’s the Tsar? Why is the princess wandering around all alone?”
“Seeing her like this, even the princess is just a person like us.”
Whether because the city was still steeped in revolutionary fervor or not, the citizens of Yekaterinburg did not look upon me kindly.
But… was this really Yekaterinburg?
Yes. For now, let’s define it simply: my father and mother—my parents—had died here. And the lunatics who had killed them were now committing the insane act of parading me around as a saint in the very city where they had murdered my parents.
These people called themselves the Cheka, right? Was this really how things were supposed to go?
Just to be sure, I asked.
“Is this really Yekaterinburg?”
There was no way they would promote me in the city where they had killed the Tsar.
“Yes.”
They answered so brightly I wanted to vomit.
Thank you for the confirmation, you absolute idiots.
These brain-dead morons were parading the last survivor of the imperial family they had murdered through the very city where the emperor had been killed. I seriously began to suspect they had taken their brains out and washed them.
At least these brainwashed fools, in order to cover up the crime of killing the imperial family, were working hard and using every possible propaganda method available to them.
“The Tsar was murdered by the Bolsheviks! He deserved to be tried by the people and executed, but the Bolsheviks didn’t stop there—they brutally shot even his children! The empress and princesses were violated, and this person is the only princess who survived that massacre!”
“The Tsar may have deserved to die, but even the children…?”
“Those Bolsheviks must really be out of their minds. Are they just shooting anyone they don’t like?”
Now even sympathetic gazes were pouring in.
Haha. Well, that kind of look was certainly better than murderous intent. Yeah.
At this rate, the shame alone might kill me. I needed to leave this city as quickly as possible.