Nothing Happened
Nothing happened.
By this time, Moscow was already in chaos, choked with streams of refugees. To stop the Bolsheviks from fleeing, troops threatened them at gunpoint, branding any evacuation as reactionary behavior. Some were even executed as examples. Yet the human tide refused to slow.
“You damn reactionaries!”
“Like hell we will.”
No matter how many times the officers issued threats, the refugees merely sneered and pressed onward. Open curses against the Bolsheviks grew bolder by the hour. Those who voiced them were usually shot where they stood, of course. But the executions only stoked greater resentment toward the Bolsheviks.
And then—
Upon learning that Lenin had collapsed, Trotsky returned to party headquarters and glared at Stalin, breathing hard.
“Stalin! What is the meaning of this? Comrade Lenin has lost consciousness!”
“It appears he collapsed from overwork.”
Of course it was not overwork. Stalin had arranged for his wife to administer poison to Lenin. He had prepared two paths. If Lenin died, the Ohrana would spread word of an assassination by the vile White Army. Since he had not died, they would claim simple exhaustion. With Lenin incapacitated and confusion spreading, they would flee to Petrograd under the pretense of protecting him and buying time. To set the stage, Stalin had ordered Mikhail Frunze to launch one attack against the White forces.
Trotsky, unaware of any of this, rolled his eyes in despair. The living symbol of the Soviets had collapsed at the worst possible moment. In an already dire military situation, it felt like a death sentence.
“Of all times for him to fall…”
“How is the front?” Stalin asked, handing Trotsky a glass of cold water. He already knew the answer.
Trotsky drained a bottle of vodka in heavy gulps and slammed it onto the table with a crack.
“We can hold Anton Denikin somehow. But the princess and the Black Baron’s army are beyond us. On top of that, Mikhail Frunze’s offensive failed.”
“I was the one who ordered that attack.”
“What are you saying? We can barely defend ourselves and you told them to charge?”
Trotsky’s eyes widened in disbelief. Why commit such suicidal folly? The situation was already desperate; making defense even harder was madness.
“We cannot allow word of Comrade Lenin’s collapse to spread.”
“What exactly are you thinking?”
“Recall the Red Army from the Baltic and withdraw to Petrograd.”
“The reactionary leader—that princess—is staring at Moscow with blood-red eyes, ready to seize it, and you want us to run?”
For the Bolshevik leadership to abandon Moscow would be an open admission of defeat to that woman Anastasia. Trotsky could not accept such reality.
“Moscow is not even the official capital yet, is it?”
“That is not the point!”
Stalin knew that. Still, he intended to manufacture proper justification before they left. This was not about tucking their tails and fleeing.
“Yes, I understand. So are we all simply going to die here?”
“What?”
“That vengeful, half-mad princess is coming with her reactionary army to devour Moscow. If we die in battle, so be it. But if we are captured, she will kill us in the most gruesome ways imaginable.”
“Are you afraid of death?”
Afraid? Of course he was. But Stalin had no intention of dying here. He wanted to build a communist state and dream a grander dream than Lenin ever had.
“With Comrade Lenin collapsed and communism itself trembling, our deaths would truly mean the end of everything.”
“Hrm.”
Trotsky could not deny it. Communists across the world were watching this civil war. They watched the Bolsheviks fight the White reactionaries and the imperialist figurehead, Princess Anastasia. The war was clearly sliding toward the defeat of communism and the Bolshevik cause. If the battle ended with every Bolshevik in this room dead, they might become martyrs. Yet it would also prove that armed struggle like theirs was unstable. Communists everywhere would shrink back, more cautious than ever.
In that case, survival was necessary. Stalin placed both hands on Trotsky’s shoulders with a gentle expression.
“Listen, Trotsky. We are only withdrawing for a time. To prevent the collapse of communism. Yudenich has not yet taken Petrograd. Let us go there first.”
Yudenich, tasked with capturing Petrograd, had been unable to advance immediately. Anastasia’s survival had complicated the Finnish independence question, and Finland had not joined the White Army. Without them, Yudenich alone could not succeed. Even Trotsky could not deny that Petrograd remained relatively secure. There was no reason to keep fighting the reactionaries here.
“What of Moscow?”
“Leave it to Mikhail Frunze.”
“He will not last long.”
Trotsky assessed the situation coldly. Frunze was holding for now, but not for much longer. His offensive had failed to threaten Anastasia in any meaningful way. Moscow would inevitably fall to the White reactionaries.
“The survival of the Communist Party is what matters. You take charge of Comrade Lenin.”
“Then what about you, Koba?”
“Someone must serve as bait to lure that demon princess, no? I will slip away in my own fashion and head for Petrograd after misleading their eyes.”
“Good luck.”
For the first time, Trotsky seemed genuinely moved as he clasped Stalin’s hands. Who would have thought the man possessed such a spirit of sacrifice? During the Kerensky Republic, Stalin had demanded the execution of the Tsar’s family. When Anastasia’s survival turned everything upside down, Trotsky had reversed his own position and ordered the executions, only for Stalin to corner him for it. That alone had convinced Trotsky that Stalin was a power-mad lunatic.
Now Trotsky felt ashamed for ever thinking Stalin was no different from the imperialists in his hunger for power.
Of course, Stalin’s true thoughts were quite different.
You fool. I’ll simply leak your position to the imperialists and escape while you draw their attention.
With that in mind, Stalin quietly spread rumors among the Ohrana units scouting the city streets. He himself had already left Moscow with his wife, Voroshilov, Blyukher, Tukhachevsky, and the others. The three had originally fought under Mikhail Frunze against the White Army, but Stalin had designated them as key personnel and brought them along for the escape.
“Is it all right for only us to leave like this?”
“Once we reach Petrograd we will need to defend against the White Army. We will need every one of you.”
“A shame Budyonny could not join us. Very well. We will follow.”
Around the same time, a detachment of the White Army whose members spoke suspiciously fluent German was circling wide around Moscow, seemingly lost. The Germans had been following the American troops who were supposed to strike the rear of the Bolsheviks fleeing the city alongside the Asiatic Cavalry Division. Somehow they had lost contact with the Americans.
“What the hell are we doing in this Slavic land?”
A German soldier grumbled in a location that seemed near Moscow yet felt strangely adrift.
“Damn it all. Why should we fight for these Slavic bastards? We’re even wearing their uniforms.”
As the disgruntled German corporal searched for the Americans, a column of Red Army soldiers was spotted moving in the distance.
Yes. It was all their fault. Jews and Bolsheviks. Those two had brought the German army to this place. The Jews had caused Germany’s defeat; the Bolsheviks had dragged him into this land of Slavs.
“Time to vent.”
The Russian corporal who spoke German with eerie fluency raised his rifle and fired at the group dressed in Red Army uniforms. He needed to pour out his resentment on someone.
“Bolsheviks! Get them!”
A single shot rang out. He scattered his misplaced fury toward the fleeing Bolsheviks, and as if the heavens had granted his wish, the bullet tore straight through the groin of the running man at the front.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
The pain was far worse than anything Stalin had endured while wandering Siberia or during his arrest and exile. He collapsed forward. Blood poured between his legs. In the grip of unimaginable agony, he could not think straight. Even now, blood continued to gush from his groin.
“Kyaaa! Blood—there’s blood between your legs!”
“Stalin! Stalin!”
“Damn it, his groin is soaked red!”
“N-no… We must… reach Petrograd… ugh.”
Not long after leaving Moscow, Stalin and his companions were captured by White Army soldiers who spoke suspiciously good German.
And—
“Strange… I feel oddly refreshed. Why is that?”
The German soldier who had shot Stalin in the groin felt a bizarre sense of satisfaction, strong enough to momentarily pull him out of his shock over Germany’s defeat. It was as if he had slain an enemy from a previous life. The feeling was profoundly, inexplicably refreshing.
The supposedly impregnable Moscow had fallen. In truth, it had never been that strong. It was like trying to fill a cracked jar with water. Internally, Petrograd offered no cooperation. Externally, we kept hammering. There was no other possible outcome.
“We surrender.”
Mikhail Frunze, eastern commander of the Red Army responsible for Moscow’s defense, capitulated shortly afterward.
As though the bloody, mutual slaughter had never occurred, the White Army entered a Moscow wrapped in eerie silence. Only the visible signs of war remained; everything else was quiet.
The surrendered Bolsheviks were, naturally, disarmed at once.
“We have finally reclaimed the Third Rome!”
Wearing a Russian general’s uniform refitted from Louise’s princess attire, I rode into the heart of Moscow on horseback. White Army soldiers who had entered earlier parted to create a path and lined both sides of the avenue in formation to greet me. Behind them, Moscow’s citizens watched cautiously. Some parents clutched their children and trembled. Elders stared with lifeless eyes. A child younger than I, still wearing a Soviet uniform, wept openly.
These people had supported the Bolsheviks—some willingly, others not. They feared we would slaughter them just as the Bolsheviks had slaughtered their enemies.
I rode forward to face them.
“Nothing happened.”
“After the Black Death, the worst plague in history raged for a short time. There was no civil war. There was no brother killing brother.”
“Human beings are destined to endure trials. Our Russia has simply suffered a brief one. Yet we remain Russian. We are the heirs of the Eastern Roman Empire that once commanded all Europe. Let us rise above this ordeal.”
“The funerals for those who perished in the plague will be held once Moscow is stabilized.”
“All of this was the work of the red plague. Neither you nor we bear any fault. We may forget it all.”
“Now, citizens of Moscow, return to your lives and your work.”
The citizens listened in breathless silence. When I finished, the tension in the air seemed to ease, if only slightly.
That single speech was enough.
Now, to finish cleaning up the remaining Bolsheviks.