The Northern Grand Duke and Uncle Paul
"That tool of Stahlism, Stalin, is using the Agricultural Cooperative to seize control of Poland, Comrade Rosa."
"We must stop this land reform at all costs, Comrade Trotsky!"
Rosa Luxemburg and Leon Trotsky were the ones who had stubbornly held their ground in Poland, weathering all kinds of horrific trials. Frankly speaking, the hardships Shtal had faced here in Poland were not even a fraction of what Trotsky had endured.
"That bastard Shtal is trying to take Poland for free under the guise of land reform?!"
Trotsky absolutely could not stand by and watch it happen. Stalin, for his part, was of the exact same mind.
"...To think those self-proclaimed Marxists are holding hands with reactionaries to block the socialization of the means of production. How utterly pathetic."
If they wanted to raise hell, they had all the means to do so. Trotsky and Rosa Luxemburg—the duo known as the jaws of death. With the two of them united, what couldn't they accomplish?
Administrative inefficiency, corruption, legal legitimacy, practical benefits versus administrative costs, audit demands, media manipulation, and so on... For two people who had spent their entire lives finding faults in everything, waging a public relations war was child's play.
"Citizens! Stalin is an occupier! This is nothing but a railroaded reform conducted by Austrians, without elections, without a parliament, and without laws! What right do they have to represent the legitimate political rights of the Polish people? Simply because they occupied Polish territory, they treat our ancestral land as their personal playground! Think logically! This is a land reform run by Austrians. Who stands to benefit? This is a new, unprecedented form of colonial rule!"
Trotsky began to fiercely attack the land reform using political justification as his weapon. Of course, Stalin was not without his own countermeasures.
"We must finish the job before that bastard has a chance to seize control of the political situation."
Stalin had his own methods: speed, efficiency, and an administrative capacity that Trotsky's faction couldn't even dream of matching. He released massive amounts of food imported from Hungary to relieve the impoverished. Through the Bosnian Revolutionary Guard, he established liberated zones, resolving issues of public security, education, and healthcare. And that wasn't all.
"Speed. Speed is everything. We can't get anything done with these half-assed official documents!"
"Excuse me, Chairman Stalin? Then how should we..."
"Standardize the forms. Make them so simple that even an illiterate civil servant can process them just by stamping them!"
"The backlash over the land surveys is severe!"
"Compensate them separately. If a problem erupts in Poznań, just offset it with land in Warsaw! For now, just match the minimum acreage to suppress their complaints."
"But the lack of proper procedures..."
"As long as we get their 'consent' by any means necessary, there is no problem. Once we distribute the land, any procedural flaws will be justified! Just make them shut up!"
Stalin's administrative capability was truly staggering. Naturally, a side effect of this relentless pace was that he shed a tremendous amount of weight. Stalin, who had already captured the hearts of Polish women with his striking looks, had just been about to gain some weight when he ended up skipping meals and signing approvals day and night, causing him to become lean and sharp once again. And then...
Stalin's ultimate weapon! The Northern Grand Duke, Stalin's photo book, was distributed nationwide alongside the official land reform notices. These were photos Stalin had barely managed to squeeze into his schedule to shoot, even when he didn't have time to stamp approvals.
"Now, Comrade Stalin! You know how to use a scythe, right? You'll need to help out with the farming for about two hours."
"...Why on earth?"
"You need to sweat for the photos to turn out well!"
Stalin sweating as he personally harvested wheat. Stalin wearing traditional Polish attire with an awkward smile. Stalin dressed in a crisp suit, hair neatly slicked back, diligently reviewing administrative paperwork. But the most popular of all was, without a doubt, Stalin in a Russian military uniform.
"If I wear... something like this, Trotsky will tear me to shreds, calling me a reactionary. Is this really okay?"
"Oh, please! You really don't get it. Have you heard of the movie The Great Dictator?"
"You mean that famous comedy film back home?"
"I'm the one who filmed that. Stop complaining and follow me."
"...That makes it even more terrifying."
In a Poland reduced to complete ruins, the photographer somehow managed to track down a jaw-droppingly luxurious mansion. There, they shot a photo of Stalin elegantly holding a champagne glass, raising a toast. And that wasn't all. They had scouted a beauty—not an unattainable goddess, but the kind of pretty girl you might spot three out of ten times if you looked closely on the streets of Warsaw. Unlike Stalin in his dashing uniform, she wore the simple garb of a Polish peasant.
"Now, Comrade Stalin! Take her hand."
"...I am a married man."
"Does that even matter right now?!"
"C-cough..."
"Excellent! The next scene is you being led by her hand to have an awkward meeting with the Polish villagers!"
This was the result of Shtal squeezing his brain to recall one of the few romance-fantasy webtoons he had read in his past life. The cold city man of Austria, Iosif Stalin. He was so chillingly cold that he could easily pass for a psychopath. One day, under Shtal's orders, this Stalin travels down to the Polish countryside for land reform. The notoriously fastidious Northern Grand Duke, Stalin, begins a strange and awkward life in rural Poland. As he ruthlessly carries out the land reform, he meets an innocent Polish maiden. The slightly airheaded Polish girl, completely unaware of his true identity, simply calls him the "grumpy Russian mister."
"Russian mister! If you keep scowling like that, you're going to scare everyone away!"
"..."
"Come on, try to smile!"
Scarred by the horrors of war, Stalin had long forgotten how to smile. To help the cold Russian mister find his laughter again, the Polish girl guides him through the peaceful rhythms of pastoral life.
"Russian mister! Goodness, that's not how you use a scythe!"
"And that's not how you dance... *Sigh*. Just take my hand and follow my lead. Ow! Don't step on my feet!"
"I-I am sorry."
Yet, Stalin found himself not entirely hating it.
And then, one day, the Polish maiden is kidnapped by an evil, strangely goat-like red reactionary...
"I am Stalin, the Chairman of the Polish Agricultural Cooperative and the executioner of Apis."
...A story along those lines was written in detail beneath Stalin's photographs. It was, in essence, an illustrated novel.
"Is... is this really right?"
Stalin, who rarely lost his composure, was visibly flustered. Meanwhile, the photographer was so moved by the story Shtal had outlined that he was practically weeping.
"S-sniff... This is a masterpiece! A masterpiece!"
"Even so, I'm the protagonist here, and this is a complete fabrication!"
"Ah, do not worry."
The photographer pointed to a tiny disclaimer printed on the back of the photo book.
Of course, just like the warning labels on advertisements, the text was barely legible.
Distributed nationwide, The Northern Grand Duke became an unimaginable sensation. Immediately upon release, it sold out across Poland, and within a month or two, it had spread across Western Europe and even into the Russian mainland.
"S-sniff... To think Chairman Stalin had such a tragic past..."
"It's so beautiful!"
"Darling! Don't go to any more rallies hosted by that goat-faced man, Trotsky, or whatever his name is!"
Stalin's approval rating began to pierce through the heavens! The political justification Trotsky championed? In truth, justification didn't matter. Aristotle once said that logic is not the most important element in persuading people. In persuasion, logic is actually the least important factor. The second most important is emotion. Naturally, the classic romance-fantasy Shtal had poured his soul into writing perfectly satisfied that emotional need. And the most important factor? Character. And just look at Stalin's handsome face. Perhaps Aristotle had simply substituted "character" for "appearance" because he couldn't bring himself to openly mock the notoriously ugly Socrates.
"Comrade Trotsky, I-I am sorry. My wife told me not to help you anymore..."
"Y-you fool?! Have you lost your mind? You're abandoning the revolution over a ridiculous photo book?!"
"Well, technically, it's not abandoning the revolution, is it? We're still distributing land to the people, aren't we?"
"Y-you...!"
Trotsky was driven to the brink of madness. He had already felt threatened by Stalin's formidable administrative capabilities, which was why he had spent every single day crafting logical arguments to disrupt the land reform. Yet, to think that the scales would tip so instantly in Stalin's favor because of some childish, cheesy photo book... Aristotle: 1, Trotsky: 0!
"Th-this makes no sense! Argh!"
Trotsky became the second person to suffer a seizure at the mere sight of Stalin's photo book. As a side note, the first person was Hitler.
Rosa Luxemburg let out a deep, weary sigh.
"...Comrade Trotsky, we must admit it. The Stahlists... they know exactly how to drive the masses wild."
"Does that mean we should just sit on our hands and suck our thumbs?"
"No. We have no choice but to fight fire with fire."
"How?! Even I know, objectively speaking, that I am not a handsome man! And what about you, Comrade Rosa? Are you objectively beautiful?"
"...I am not suggesting we do the exact same thing. Have you seen The Great Dictator?"
"That comedy film?"
That controversial masterpiece was only popular in Austria and Hungary, where people were completely intoxicated by Hitler-mania. To the rest of the world, just as Shtal had thought, it was pure comedy.
"Let's do exactly that."
"..."
Reluctant as he was, Trotsky had no choice but to play the clown. Thus, the rough draft of a masterpiece story photo book to rival The Northern Grand Duke was born.
Uncle Paul! Trotsky immediately booked a train ticket to Rome. Though the title sounded like a cheap knockoff of Stalin's photo book, its tone was entirely different.
Trotsky, a red revolutionary harboring nothing but grievances against the world! Suddenly, a distant relative sends a terminally ill boy to live with him.
"Goat mister!"
"You brat! Call me a goat one more time and I'll teach you a lesson!"
"Ahahaha! Goat mister, you're so funny!"
Bickering constantly, the goat-bearded mister and the terminally ill boy slowly build a bond of trust.
"By the way... realistically speaking, you have less than a year left to live, don't you?"
"Goat mister! Are you crazy?! Why would you say that?!"
Blunt as always, Trotsky accidentally makes the terminally ill boy cry. Though Trotsky had made countless reactionaries weep, he was utterly defenseless against the tears of a dying child.
"I-I was just looking at things practically... I just... wanted to ask if there was any present you wanted... or something you wanted to eat... Stop crying! I'm sorry. I'll grant you one wish instead. I have at least that much power."
"Really? You'll really grant me a wish?"
"Of course!"
"I've always wanted to visit Rome! Is St. Peter's tomb really inside St. Peter's Basilica?"
"Christianity is merely a tool to structure real-world inequality and exploitation..."
"Waaaah!"
"I-I'm sorry! Fine, let's go! I might as well go see those reactionaries myself!"
And so, Trotsky and the boy travel to the Vatican. Grumbling all the way, getting lost in Rome, and finding himself in all sorts of comical situations, Trotsky's cold heart slowly begins to melt because of the boy.
Then, just before the boy draws his final breath...
"Goat mister... what happens to me... when I die?"
"..."
"You were right, Goat mister. When I die... I'll just return to nothingness, won't I? I'm... I'm so scared of dying."
Trotsky, a lifelong atheist, abandons his deepest convictions for the sake of the terrified boy.
"No. Y-you have it all wrong."
"Huh?"
"Surely... Jesus will have pity on a good child like you. You will go to heaven. And Peter, whom you liked so much, will be waiting for you... at the gates of heaven."
"You're lying."
"I'm telling the truth! Why would I lie to someone who's about to die?!"
"Hehe... Actually, I like Paul more than Peter."
"Oh?"
"He always had so many complaints... but he was smart and spoke so well, just like you, mister. Thank... you, mister..."
"S-sniff..."
"Comrade Luxemburg! Why on earth are you crying?!"
It was a masterpiece that had moved even the formidable Rosa Luxemburg to tears. No matter how stubborn of an atheist one was, any Pole was bound to harbor deep, sentimental feelings toward Catholicism and Rome. Atheism was atheism, but memories were memories. A Pole without memories of the Catholic Church was no Pole at all. For instance, who didn't have a childhood memory of crying their eyes out in a confessional after a massive fight with their mother? Or getting completely wasted on communion wine during the Eucharist?
On top of that, it was a family melodrama that anyone could enjoy. Naturally, it was destined to become an even bigger hit than The Northern Grand Duke.
So, did Trotsky seize the upper hand? Not at all. Hitler and Shtal, the creators of The Great Dictator, were natural-born showmen. Trotsky and Stalin were entirely different. Trotsky was a scholar and an essayist; Stalin was a bureaucrat and a soldier. Neither of them could adapt to this kind of clownery. Having to pose for such unimaginable photos had completely shattered the mental state of both men.
"It has been a while, Stalin."
"Comrade Trotsky... Is it still appropriate to call you comrade?"
"Of course. We suffered through the same ordeal, did we not?"
"That is true. You must have had a terribly difficult time."
A dramatic compromise was struck between two men suffering from severe existential dread! In any case, both of their works were infinitely more pleasant to look at than The Great Dictator.