The City of Revolution
The city of revolution, Petrograd.
At that time, Finland was in considerable internal turmoil as it worked to stabilize the country. With British support, the leftists had been defeated in the civil war, yet the scars remained. On top of that, the Russian Civil War raged right next door. But when a proposal arrived from Anastasia, the Tsarina of the White Army—who had captured Moscow and seized complete momentum—the nation was thrown into uproar once again.
President Kaarlo Juho Ståhlberg and Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim—former officer of the Russian Imperial Army and now a general in the Finnish Army—both found themselves with splitting headaches. The proposal was simple: if the Emperor of the Russian Empire would also serve as King of Finland, then Finland’s independence would be recognized.
Independence in name only. To many, it looked no different from the days when Finland had been a Russian territory. Still, they could not simply reject it. The White Army led by the Tsarina had essentially won the civil war, and the Finnish people—having suffered through their own civil war and the pressure of the Red Army—shuddered at the very word “communism.”
“A proposal like this from White Russia… Hmm.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Looking at this, it’s basically turning us into a British colony. Like Canada.”
“So in the end, we’re just being treated as a territory again, before we’ve even gained true independence?”
“If the current Tsarina also serves as monarch of Finland and in exchange recognizes our independence, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
The cabinet was in an uproar. But Mannerheim, who had been quietly observing the situation, held a different view. He was a monarchist at heart. Disgusted by Kerensky’s Russian Republic, he had returned to Finland and taken up a position there, yet his loyalty to the Russian Emperor had never wavered.
Unlike in the original history, because the White Army had gained the upper hand, Ståhlberg had kept Mannerheim as commander of the army. And Mannerheim, having accepted that role, had effectively become a political partner guiding Finland forward. Naturally, he welcomed this proposal. Both as a monarchist and as a Finland-Swede, it did not seem like a bad offer at all.
“Hmm. I believe it is acceptable.”
“Are you suggesting we turn Finland back into a territory, General?”
“If the enemy were winning, that would be one thing. But with most of the enemy leadership already captured in Moscow and only Petrograd left, it means the White Army has won. We should side with them. Accepting this proposal seems the wiser course.”
“But it still makes us a Russian territory!”
“The great powers have already recognized our independence, and Anastasia the Tsarina has personally guaranteed it. Wouldn’t it be better to take what we can get?”
Given Finland’s size and strength, even if Anastasia’s proposal was half truth and half lie, there had never been a real choice. At least she had promised to secure their independence. They had no option but to believe that. And if it was true, it was not a bad deal for Finland. As long as they played along, she would guarantee and maintain their independence.
“If this is true, then it is not a bad proposal. If it is true.”
“Hah. Then what exactly does that splendid Tsarina demand from us?”
“She simply asks that we allow Nikolai Yudenich’s Northwestern Army to attack Petrograd without interference from behind.”
“That much should be fine.”
Having accepted the proposal, President Ståhlberg granted Mannerheim—who had distinguished himself in the Finnish Civil War—the position of Supreme Commander of the Finnish Army and ordered him to support Nikolai Yudenich’s Northwestern Army as it pressed toward Petrograd.
The day of execution dawned.
At last, the day had come to deal with the core of the Reds. The day to wipe out every last one of the Soviet Union’s famous names from the original history.
“Vladimir Lenin, Georgy Chicherin, Alexandra Kollontai, Pavel Dybenko, Mikhail Frunze, Alexander Yegorov, Semyon Budyonny, Semyon Timoshenko, Kliment Voroshilov, Vasily Blyukher, Felix Dzerzhinsky, Yakov Peters, Ivan Konev… and the rest. All are hereby sentenced to execution by cannon.”
Many of the names were familiar from the original history. Looking at the Soviet Union, some of these people had genuine talent; it might have been better to spare them. But unfortunately, they were the ones who had fought the White Army with ferocious zeal during the Red-White Civil War—too much for me to overlook. Relying solely on future knowledge to keep them alive was impossible. To end the red plague once and for all, these Red Army commanders had to die.
If I, as a saint, spared them, the White Army commanders would revolt. If they had surrendered in the middle of the war, perhaps things would be different. But realistically, there was no room for leniency.
The only one among them worthy of forgiveness was Georgy Zhukov, who had come to the Black Baron with a white flag before the Battle of Moscow, serving then as a non-commissioned officer. And Tukhachevsky, whom I had sent off to Siberia. Still, it was fortunate we had managed to save even him.
When I thought about the White Army commanders, even if a German-Russian war broke out instead of the German-Soviet one, the lineup would still be decent. Things should turn out fine.
Boooom!
Those sentenced to execution by cannon were simply bound together in a group, lined up, and blasted apart by field artillery until nothing but chunks of meat remained. Those not mentioned here were all sent to Siberia. Even that eunuch Stalin and his wife were shipped off. Let me repeat: this time, escape would probably be impossible. The White soldiers whose comrades and families had been killed by the Reds would be the ones managing Siberia directly.
It felt strangely refreshing. Was it because victory meant I no longer had to fear death? Or perhaps the original Anastasia, killed by the Bolsheviks, had left behind a grudge that was finally being released. Either way, I felt remarkably refreshed and cheerful. This clean, cathartic feeling of having taken revenge.
“Yeah, with this much, you should be satisfied too.”
I muttered toward Anastasia, whether she was in the afterlife or lingering beside me, then turned my gaze. These were the documents the Soviets had left behind while ruling European Russia until the capture of Moscow. The fact that Trotsky and Stalin had fled and still left this much behind showed just how desperate they must have been. Or perhaps even after burning everything they could, this much still remained.
Directions the Soviet Union should have taken from here on…
“At least there was no Soviet-Polish War. That’s a relief.”
Whether because they were wary of the great powers or because the Red Army was in worse shape than in the original history, they had attacked the Baltics and Ukraine but never directly clashed with Poland. The Red Army’s only real achievement was the annexation of Belarus. That was something we could simply swallow up ourselves.
The Red forces in the Baltic states, which had been on the offensive, seemed to have been redirected toward Petrograd.
“Pardon?”
Drozdovsky, who had overheard my muttering, asked with a questioning tone. Well, there was no need to explain. If I started talking about “in the future, you see~” the Tsarina I had worked so hard to establish might be labeled mentally unstable.
“It’s nothing. But it’s surprising that Brusilov isn’t on the list.”
I knew that the famous general of the First World War, Brusilov, had joined the Reds. Had he not done so this time? He probably hadn’t followed Trotsky all the way to Petrograd. He wasn’t that much of a hardcore Red. In the original history, Brusilov had only chosen the Reds because the situation had left him no choice. It seemed history had changed quite a bit this time. If he had joined the Reds from the beginning, the Ohrana would have found out.
“Yes. However… among the Bolsheviks captured alive in Moscow, there is Alexei, the son of General Brusilov.”
“He was still alive?”
“Yes. He was captured yesterday by Red soldiers who surrendered to the White Army. I intended to report to Your Highness after the executions about what should be done with him.”
So that bastard was still alive. In the original history, he died. Here, he had somehow survived until now. His death was what had driven Brusilov to side with the Reds. Since his son hadn’t died, had he maintained neutrality all this time?
“Hmm. Did he kill many of our White soldiers?”
“It seems the Reds avoided sending General Brusilov into dangerous areas in order to win him over. Even in the Battle of Moscow, he was assigned to the rear.”
I see. They really were desperate to recruit Brusilov. Well, which side he chose would have had a massive impact.
“Hmm. Then perhaps we can spare—”
“The problem is that he is a hardcore Red. A fervent supporter. Even after being captured, he screamed that the White imperialist forces would be defeated.”
So that’s what he was like. With something like this, ideology is what matters most. The reason I had killed the famous Soviet generals from the original history was that, with the White Army victorious, they would never become famous in the first place. The same applied to Brusilov’s son. There was simply no way to cover for hardcore communist ideology. If we left him alive, there was no telling what kind of trouble he would cause. Of course, I didn’t think some Red brat could overturn the reformed Russia, but setting a precedent by sparing a hardcore Red was unacceptable. If I were going to spare people like that, I would have kept the famous Soviet commanders alive as insurance for the coming German-Soviet war.
“Good grief. Then he must die.”
“Your Highness! Your Highness!”
“You mustn’t do this!”
Why did Patton suddenly come to mind? No, the voice wasn’t Patton’s. The person who burst into my office was Brusilov himself. Had he come because he realized his son was about to be executed? That was the only possible reason. He had stayed completely neutral, refusing to join either side, yet the moment his son was captured, here he was. Well, I wouldn’t criticize him for staying neutral. The Empire had fallen, the Soviet situation was bizarre, and while there was White Russia, from his perspective it probably looked like nothing more than a successor to the Empire. So he simply couldn’t choose. In the end, neutrality was his only option. The problem with neutrality, however, is that once the conflict ends, it becomes an awkward position. Just like now.
If he had the power to maintain neutrality, that would be one thing, but the current Brusilov… well. Of course, if he stepped forward, he would have some influence. But that would only be possible if he joined our side. Or rather… could we make it possible? Couldn’t we just use his son as leverage?
“You have come to beg for your son’s life.”
“Your Highness. Please, I beg you to spare my son. He is still a child who has never killed a single White soldier and has no combat experience. I implore you.”
A father who wants to save his son is truly… He kneels before me for his child’s sake. This was the same man who had once demanded the Tsar’s abdication. Well, saving his son’s life wasn’t particularly difficult. But I still intended to get something out of this. That was why I had set the board this way from the beginning.
“If his ideology is already that of a hardcore Red, then he must die. Just like how my parents were killed by the Reds.”
“I understand your desire for revenge. But I swear he will never approach communism again. I will place him under house arrest and watch over him myself.”
That’s not what I’m saying.
“If you truly wish to save your son, you must offer a proper deal. I cannot spare him simply because an old general begs me to.”
Only then did a glimmer of hope appear in Brusilov’s eyes as he looked at me desperately. Yes. That’s more like it.
“What do you desire?”
Conveniently, there were the Reds who had defected. I had already incorporated them into the White Army. How about having him lead them?
“Take command of the recently defected Red soldiers and carry out anti-communist propaganda as you advance westward. While I recapture Petrograd, you will round up every last Bolshevik.”
That was the condition. If he stepped forward, it would surely be easier. The man who had never held much affection for the Bolsheviks did not look particularly shocked by the demand.
“You want me to suppress the Bolsheviks in the west?”
“Yes. If that is impossible, then I cannot help you. As a renowned general of the Empire, suppressing the enemy army is only natural, is it not?”
“I will do it.”
Just as he had chosen the Reds in the original history, the only path left to him now was to conduct anti-communist propaganda within the White Army. Honestly, he should be thanking me.
“However, until the civil war ends, you will remain under White Army supervision. Unless you completely reform that ideology, live as quietly as a dead mouse. The new Russia that will be established at the end of this civil war will despise the Bolsheviks.”
“Understood.”
Brusilov was a famous general of the First World War and held considerable influence within the Russian military. If he now began anti-communist propaganda, the Reds would collapse even more easily. That was all I could hope for.
After handing Brusilov the position of Commander of the White Army’s Western Front, I began erasing the traces of Bolshevism that Lenin had left behind. News about Trotsky also arrived.
“General Anton Denikin’s forces are sweeping up the Reds around Moscow. And just as Your Highness predicted, Trotsky has moved toward Petrograd.”
“That is good news.”
That bastard wouldn’t last much longer either. The Red Army had essentially lost its main force in the defeat at Moscow. With Soviet leader Lenin and most of the Bolshevik executives and party members dead, they had completely lost their center of gravity. Trotsky remained, but what could a lone Trotsky do after everyone else had died? The radical Trotsky had been quietly ostracized even within the Bolsheviks. He had exploited, threatened, and committed all sorts of atrocities against the people in order to build up the Red Army. No matter what he did while isolated in Petrograd, there was no way to revive the Soviet Union.
Still, we couldn’t give him any breathing room. The Reds had to be killed quickly.
“Finland has accepted our proposal and says they will support Yudenich.”
Then everything was ready.
“Right. Then let’s go.”
It had been two years since I became Anastasia. In the spring of 1920, when Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova turned nineteen, the White Army—having completed its reorganization in Moscow—began its final offensive to crush the remaining Bolsheviks in the west and capture Trotsky in Petrograd.