Place In the Sun: What If Italy Joined the Central Powers? (1.0)

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Apr 11, 2021

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Apr 11, 2021

And now for something completely different!

Inspired by the discussion a few pages ago about Germany's royal family, I made this wikibox shedding light on Kaiser Gustav I. It gives a few hints (but nothing too revealing) about what this world's like in the present. My Wikibox skills leave something to be desired.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Apr 18, 2021

Chapter Forty-Three: The Second Paris Commune

"This will be the final revolution. I draw from two streams to create conditions uniquely suited to a French dictatorship of the proletariat. On the one hand, I draw from the Jacobins. The guillotine, doubtless, will return and the reactionaries will tremble before it once more. Yet, in the century and a quarter which has elapsed since the first revolution, a new stream of thought has infected political life. The people will finish now what Robespierre commenced all those years ago."
-Georges Sorel musing on the success of his revolution, spring 1918.

"We, my friends, are the true revolutionaries. Sorel would be best served nursing his wounds abroad, while propriety forbids me from opining on Comrade General Famride's revolutionary credentials."
-Ludovic-Oscar Frossard to his SFIO colleagues, January 1918

Losing the Great War had destroyed French cohesion. The Third Republic, having failed to defend la Nation, was now an object of scorn. It had sucked up Philippe and Jean-Paul in 1914, torn off one of their limbs in the meat-grinder, and sent them home to beg for worthless paper currency two years later. Urban workers blamed the regime for inflation and unemployment; rural villagers isolated themselves from the regime, dodging taxes and building self-sufficiency. Marxists believed defeat in the Great War to be a sign that the historically inevitable revolution was only months away; Catholics believed it was a sign of divine displeasure. Emile Loubet’s civilian government shambled on, a dead man walking, until October 1917. (1)

The Second French Revolution was both inevitable and the product of accident and miscalculation. On the one hand, the Third Republic had so disgraced itself that it was bound to fall at some point. On the other, the specific trigger for revolution was so small that Loubet cannot be blamed for preventing it. A jailbreak in Dijon escalated into a riot, and within weeks a rebellious growth had formed across France’s heartland. Soldiers sent to crush the revolt defected to it and elected one of their own as leader. If Jean-Jacques Famride provided the brawn, Georges Sorel was the brains of the revolt. A desire to see revolution first hand had brought the Marxist philosopher to Dijon, and his oratory had won him allies. Montbard, on the road to Paris, had given itself to the revolutionaries in late November.

Meanwhile, Paul Deschanel had been shooting himself in the foot. His Emergency Powers Act #3 (4) had turned France into a dictatorship, with censorship imposed and civil rights restricted. Though it suppressed action, it couldn’t stifle thought. Jumping at shadows did more harm than good. Every politician arrested for “disloyal” sentiment was a sign that the Third Republic had become a tyranny, that like a Tsar, Deschanel could destroy you for no reason. This made the Sorelians seem like a breath of fresh air. Still, secret police knocked on doors and carted people off to detention camps as sacrifices on the altar of the pagan ‘god’ Securité. This harmed Deschanel’s second goal, which was to gain foreign support for his regime. As one Swiss journalist put it, “that Frenchmen are fleeing the French government for the auspices of the German Army is all one needs to know about the situation!” Kaiser Wilhelm II found this quite amusing, and even quipped in private that, “I always knew I was a far superior leader to any frog. The good people of France, it seems, have come to their senses and are aware of strength and good character when they see it!” (5) Eventually, though, fear of an influx of potentially troublesome Frenchmen led to Germany, Italy, and Belgium closing their borders (while Spain and Switzerland established strict refugee quotas). Deschanel’s attempt to live down the embarrassment by claiming that these refugees were fleeing “anarchist Marxism” (6) fooled no one; Georges Sorel gleefully poured gasoline on the fire by highlighting the stories of people fleeing government-held areas to rebel held ones. That the franc wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on thwarted hopes of purchasing foreign arms. While no one had yet extended recognition to the Sorelians, no one was interested in intervention to stop them.

Deschanel was alone as events pushed the clock towards midnight.

The French Section of the Worker’s International- la Section française de l'Internationale ouvrière, SFIO- had been driven underground in early November. Paul Deschanel, appointed PM to crush the revolt, believed that giving the far-left a seat at the table in the middle of a Marxist revolt was asking for trouble. Arrest warrants were issued en masse, and much of the SFIO now languished in political prisons. However, the SFIO’s leaders had gone into hiding in anticipation of this. General Secretary Louis Dubreuilh had decamped for rural Normandy, while his right-hand men Ludovic-Oscar Frossard and Marcel Cachin remained in the capital in disguise.

Now, Georges Sorel wanted to meet with them.

Locating the leftist leaders proved challenging. The state of emergency meant that all mail was being read while crossing France without papers was difficult. Ironically, Dubreuilh was easier to find than the others- there were far fewer government informers in a Normandy village than in Paris. An SFIO agent entered La Motte-Fouquet- where Dubreuilh was living under an alias- in the small hours of 1 December 1917. Dubreuilh assumed the man to be a government spy and nearly killed him before he said a coded phrase revealing him as ‘one of us’, whence the General-Secretary fell over himself apologising. He’d been following the revolt as best as the censored newspapers would let him and was elated to hear that Sorel wanted to meet with him. That night, the two men began a roundabout journey to Dijon. Disguised as a priest (2), Dubreuilh walked and hitch-hiked down country roads, keeping a low profile. Considering that a month later, he was able to discard his Roman collar and enter Montbard, he must have played his part well enough.

The three leaders of the French Section of the Workers International
From top to bottom: Louis Dubreilh, Ludovic-Oscar Frossard, Marcel Cachin

Ludovic-Oscar Frossard and Marcel Cachin were easier to find. Both were bouncing around from one Parisian safe house to another under assumed names. The capital was full of SFIO men who both Frossard and Cachin knew. Frossard had shaved his moustache off and lost weight since being driven underground, and now travelled to Dijon without his glasses (judging stumbling around like a blind man to be a fair price to pay for security). Cachin, who was very attached to his whiskers (3), donned a mask for disfigured soldiers and pretended to walk with a cane- the SFIO agent who found him pretended to be his guide. Thus disguised, the French radicals travelled to Dijon.
Georges Sorel, who’d lost his left arm to a sniper at Montbard, wasn’t amused by Cachin’s faux injury, but was eager to get down to business. Meeting at his bedside (he was still recovering from his amputation), the four men discussed what the next steps were. Sorel wasn’t altogether comfortable. He had the loyalty of the Dijon rebels, but the SFIO men had far more political experience. Nonetheless, since it was better to befriend a rival centre of power rather than treat it as an enemy, Sorel emphasised what they could accomplish together. Would it be possible for the SFIO to call for a general strike to paralyse the Deschanel regime? How could the SFIO persuade soldiers to change sides? Dubreuilh wanted to know how Sorel’s men could help SFIO members in political prisons, while Cachin mentioned ideological differences between the two which would need to be resolved. The most important point, though, came from Frossard. Jean-Jacques Famride, he said, was clearly “pas un de nous”- not one of us. Sorel nodded slowly. “And what do you propose? He is a military man and I am not.” Ludovic-Oscar Frossard remained silent for a moment before saying, “Marx spoke of two revolutions, n’est-ce pas? One alongside the bourgeois-democrats, one against them.” This was code for collaborating with Famride during the fighting before turning on him. Aware that this conversation had the potential to turn explosive, Sorel changed the subject, but harboured similar thoughts. Famride was a rival, and it was reassuring to know that he’d have support in a struggle for dominance.

In the end, the men crafted a modus vivendi despite their differences. Sorel knew that the SFIO men were potential rivals but was willing to work with them for the power they brought. Meanwhile, the SFIO saw Sorel as an outsider. As veterans of the French far-left, they were determined to use the revolt for their own causes.

To this end, they decided upon a second Paris Commune.

Striking was illegal under Emergency Regulations Act #3, and the Parisian police had been working hard to prevent labour unrest from forming. In taking the easy way out- suppressing popular anger rather than treating it- Deschanel was sowing trouble. Convinced that steel could defeat hearts and minds, he’d ignored all advice to liberalise.
He was about to pay for that mistake.

* * *

Paulette Vidal dreaded going home. She could have taken a back-road, she could’ve slept rough. But there was no choice- she had to explain. Her father had charged Boche machine-guns for two years and, judging by his Legion d’Honneur, done a fair bit of damage. If he could put the fear of le bon Dieu into the invaders, what would he do here? Paulette crumpled the pink paper. Throwing it away would only delay the explosion until tomorrow. No, there was only one thing for it. Heart in mouth, Paulette pushed the door open and began the climb to her fourth-story flat. “Bonjour, papa! C’est moi!”

“Bonjour, Paulette.” Alfred Vidal was built like an ox, with a scar crossing his face. “How was the factory today? Come to think of it, today was your pay-day, n’est-ce pas?” He grunted. “And about time too. Here”- he rubbed his hands together- “donnez-moi.” Paulette handed him the money with her left hand, hiding the pink paper in her right. She tried not to look at where her father’s right leg had once been. “Only thirty million? Degoutant. How, Paulette, are we supposed to keep this family fed if they do not give you more? Why, the government gave me one hundred million last month for this”- he tapped his pinned-up trouser leg- “and what can I buy for that now? Absurd.” Alfred blew his nose on a 1,000,000-franc note with Deshcanel’s face on it. “And anyhow, my daughter, how is, er…” He gestured at her bulging belly.

“Assez bien, vraiment.” That was a lie- she’d been nauseous the whole day, and the baby hadn’t helped by kicking. No sense in making papa worry, though. He’d have enough to worry about soon. “Er, papa…”

“What is it, Paulette?” Her father’s eyebrows jumped up. “You are not ill, I trust?”

“The… the father spoke to me today.” Her father frowned. Every word had to be forced out, but Paulette carried on, her throat tightening. “The… the father. He said that, that… oh, papa! He said that because, well, I am carrying this baby, that he will not let me work any longer!” Tears ran down her face as Paulette handed her father the crumpled pink paper. “Oh, what are we to do?” She buried her face in her hands.

“That bastard! That utter bastard!” Just as she’d feared, Alfred Vidal hit the roof. His voice like rolling thunder, he called the factory foreman several things he’d picked up in the trenches as he waved his cane around furiously. She stood there, helpless and alone. “The swine! He is responsible for getting you into this mess. When you realised that you were carrying this child, he promised us that you would still have work. Now he proposes to throw you out and harm not just you and this family, but his unborn child as well?”

“I do not care about his child!”, she shrieked. “I care about us, papa! You said it yourself. A hundred million francs cannot buy a thing now and our savings are worthless. We shall have nothing!”

“We will see about this”, muttered Alfred Vidal. “We will damn well see about this.”

* * *

Poor Paulette’s story got out quickly. Many of her fellow factory girls, having suffered similar injustices, were sympathetic, and they staged a walk-out on 15 December 1917. Apoplectic, the foreman called the police. A “Dijonite disturbance” had broken out and needed to be crushed at once! It was a classic example of the Third Republic’s over-reaction. The image of mounted policemen wading into a crowd of striking women and swinging bludgeons around was a propaganda disaster. When SFIO men began shouting from the rooftops about the “massacre of innocent women”, people paid attention. Parisian workers viewed the mugshots of the arrested female strikers in the papers, and saw weary eyes, haggard faces, skin turned yellow by chemicals and hair turned grey by stress. In short, they saw themselves.

Instinct told the Parisians what to do next. Protests erupted the next day where the women were being held, calling for their release and for the foreman whose droit de seigneur had started this whole mess to be sacked- amongst them was the one-legged Alfred Vidal. This is where the SFIO came in. Chairman Louis Dubreuilh, Ludovic-Oscar Frossard, and Marcel Cachin had been lying in wait for an opportunity, and leapt at it like an animal ambushing its prey. How long, they asked, “are the workers to tolerate oppression of those like them in every particular, whose place they may take tomorrow?” The three men enjoyed the respect of the working classes and their words went far. Many joined the protests the next day (the 17th), while others held solidarity strikes. Paulette Vidal and her compatriots were nearly forgotten; what mattered was giving two fingers to the Third Republic.

Paul Deschanel was determined to quench the flames. Though he’s been justly criticised for his tendency to overreact, unrest in the middle of Paris was menacing enough that he can be forgiven for seeing Georges Sorel’s hand in this. He sent the police in at 10:30 AM. However, today’s protestors- who were mostly young men and greater in number than the previous day’s- fought back, and the police withdrew after half an hour. When they returned at noon, they found a terrifying sight waiting.
Barricades were going up in Paris.

The people had finally had enough. If Paul Deschanel was going to send armed men against them for having a sense of justice, then they would fight back. People donated bricks, furniture… anything a man could take cover behind. When the police captain in charge of the second attack, a man named Humbert, saw, he turned pale. “Les barricades- ils sont la révolution!” has been popularised, but “Merde!” is closer to the truth. Fighting raged throughout the afternoon, after which the police were repulsed again. The rebels- for that is what they were- now controlled two square miles of Paris.

The aptly titled Night of 17-18 December, painted six months after the fact when France was still in the afterglow of revolution, depicts men standing around a bullet-ridden red flag atop a barricade in a cobble-stone street. Silver moonlight illuminates the figures as they wait for a government attack. In reality, the night of 17-18 December was a bloody mess. Confused street fighting reigned as more barricades went up. Soldiers shot first and asked questions later; attempts to detain potential suspects only led to more violence. Deschanel had no more control over events than Georges Sorel hundreds of miles away. The fighting died down at midnight as both sides rested, but when the sun rose everyone returned with vigour. Street fighting ripped through Paris all throughout the 18th. Labourers defending their workplaces fired on any and all intruders; they were then treated as enemies by the Army men in the streets. Cognisant of which way the wind was blowing, soldiers defected en masse to the revolutionaries. For the second time in fifty years, the cobblestone streets of la ville lumiere were witness to violence. Gunshots replaced accordions; cordite replaced food and flowers. Chaos reigned.

The SFIO triumvirate had mixed feelings. On the one hand, all professed Marxism and believed revolution inevitable. By that metric, they told themselves, what they were doing was not just a milestone, it was profoundly moral. Yet on the other hand, they’d always been career politicians working inside the system. Socialism, to them, had meant Party congresses, political debate, and winning elections. Burning the system down felt, if not wrong, then alien. (9) Nonetheless, like Sorel in Dijon they had crossed the Rubicon of revolution. On the twentieth, the three declared themselves “representatives of the revolutionary working peoples of Paris”, who would “steer the ship of popular rule in a stable and prosperous declaration.” The city was declared to be under siege. Men young and old were conscripted into an “Armed Committee for the Defence of Paris”, supplied by opening the city’s armory. One of the paramilitary’s first tasks was guarding the city’s food supply- that was one thing the masses couldn’t be allowed to redistribute. Food was distributed three times a day under bayonet-point. However, no one was disconcerted by this. Paul Deschanel’s soldiers had guarded the granaries too, but to deny food to the hungry rather than feed them. The masses appreciated the regime’s “On Redistribution”, issued on Christmas Day. Anything which had belonged to “class enemies” (that term was never properly defined, so as to encourage a broad interpretation) was declared “the property of the people”. Chaos ensued as poor Parisians grabbed at the luxury they’d seen but never enjoyed. Wealthy urbanites who hadn’t fled were forced to watch mobs tearing through their homes taking what they pleased- fear and shame drove more than one aristocrat to suicide. Objets d’art which had survived the madness of 1789 fell victim to the mobs of 1917 while mansions were burned. That said, there were limits to the damage- most paintings and antiques, not being seen as worth destroying, survived, while the new regime took care to protect cultural sights. Once the initial pent-up anger of rebellion had been released, the destruction quietened as people of Paris had no desire to destroy their home city.

Rebels clash with incoming mounted police during the Second Paris Commune

Amidst all this, the main question amongst loyalists was, “Where is the Prime Minister?”

Paul Deschanel was dead. His mental health had been declining for some while (7), and the recent stresses of the civil war had proven too much. His last order had gone out at 10:30 PM on 17 December; his body was found at 4:15 AM on the 18th. Though his cause of death would formally be listed as heart attack, one cannot rule out the possibility that he killed himself, but was assigned a less ‘shameful’ cause of death for the world to see. (8) Président de la République Louis Marin took up his predecessor’s banner in Nantes. The war, Marin declared, would be fought to its successful conclusion, and “the integrity and structure of the French State thereby secured.” Events spoke louder than politicians. Apathy swept over France as the truth sank in. Soon, it would be Sorel and the SFIO who ruled over them, not Marin. People did their best to ignore his government, only acknowledging its existence to prevent it imposing its will on them. Soldiers continued to form councils and desert, peasants continued to eat their foodstuffs, not sell them, and the cities teetered on the brink of anarchy. The regime lacked the strength to crush the Second Paris Commune, much less advance on Dijon. Marin was fated to be one of those grey men whose failure to hold back the tide sums up the Third Republic.

Georges Sorel, meanwhile, was learning a great deal about how to fake a smile. Since the SFIO were his nominal allies, he had to applaud their seizure of Paris. Yet, they were his political and ideological competitors. While he’d taken Dijon and become bogged down in Montbard, a rival centre of leftist power had conducted a second Paris Commune. Yet because they shared a mutual foe in Deschanel, he had to treat this like a good thing.

A desire to outperform his rivals led Sorel to the most radical step of the Revolution yet.

On 1 January 1918, Georges Sorel issued another of his famous manifestos. The Second Paris Commune had only been the beginning. “After all, only two of France’s cities- Dijon and Paris- have liberated themselves thus far. Yet, how many are in France? How many metropoles with their teeming masses are left, waiting to be liberated?” A nationwide General Strike was needed to “bring the machinery of the Third Republic to a halt and establish national liberation for all of France.” People listened. The first week of 1918 saw walkouts en masse across the country. Trains stopped running, the factories stopped producing goods, and students were not taught as was left of France’s economy was killed by the very people who made it function. In certain key areas, mostly to do with energy production and basic transportation, the regime diverted badly-needed soldiers to force people to work. Train engineers did their jobs with an officer’s pistol to their heads; miners were escorted by armed men to ensure that government-held regions stayed warm. Aside from that, though, the Sorelians were right. Georges Marin lacked the soldiers to establish a military dictatorship, and so the general strike carried on. The harvest had already been brought in and farmers had enough for themselves- there was nothing to lose by bringing food to the cities (albeit less than in calmer years). In exchange, they received not a billion francs but something physical and tangible. France had been sliding to a barter economy ever since the spectre of hyperinflation came, and the new year saw this extended and deepened. One could eat a loaf of bread; one could merely blow one’s nose with a banknote. In such uncertain times, which had more value? Depending on the buyer, a farmer might get a pair of gloves, a hat, or brand-new horseshoes in exchange for two loaves of bread and a pint of milk. Thus, the city-dwellers of France found themselves with calories in their stomachs, minimal work, and a political vision before them. Montpellier, Toulouse, Nantes, Bordeaux, and other cities all found themselves gripped by riots as people turned on the Third Republic. The entire system was collapsing before Georges Sorel’s eyes like a colossus in an earthquake. “Urban councils” were declared in many places, with union leaders, local radicals, or the man with the key to the granary taking charge backed up by a few guns. Soldiers were attracted to these places like moths to a flame, wanting nothing more than to return home and forget that they’d ever had anything to do with defending the Third Republic. Rebel political commissars and soldiers were greeted with open arms as they integrated these towns into Sorel’s state. Young men flocked to the rebel army; many officers brought their units over en masse when they deserted.

The Third Republic died in February 1918.

Georges Marin was left broken by this. He hadn’t wanted the job of state president any more than Deschanel had wanted to be Prime Minister- adverse circumstances had forced it on him. Just like his predecessor, Marin had been forced to build a brick wall to keep the revolutionaries out of power, yet he had been given no straw. Despite his best efforts, Marin knew that his name would go down alongside Louis XVI, Napoleon III, Joseph Caillaux, Emile Loubet, and Paul Deschanel- Frenchmen who, through their failures, brought calamity on la Nation. (10) At 6 AM on 1 March 1918, he led his family and government aboard the destroyer Bouclier- the entire French Navy, down to the last ship, escorted them to Algiers. This was not just for security- dispersing the fleet across the North African coast would deny it to the rebels.

France was now divided. Valiant government units fought delaying actions all through the spring, francs-tireurs slipping into the woods to harass the new regime. Banditry continued to be a problem, as armed men decided to go their own way rather than submitting to Sorel. The Vendee, haven of monarchism during the Revolution, held out the longest- Comrade General Famride (as he took to styling himself) wasn’t pacified until the early summer. Yet, by the end of March the deed was done. Half a year after a Dijon jailbreak had sparked a riot, a red shadow had covered France. It remained to be seen what would happen next.

Across the Mediterranean, the Third Republic lay prostrate. Their own people had turned on them; the soldiers of France had proven bigger foes than the soldiers of Germany. Though France of course had a long history of regime change, this seemed different from the conservative perspective- never had so radical an ideology seized the mainland. Yet, shielded by the remnants of la Marine Nationale, the ancien regime survived. Though stalemate ensued for now, the Third Republic’s leaders were determined to neither forgive nor forget. In this, they were inspired by their cousins across the Atlantic, in la belle province de Québec. The Quebecois national motto- je me souviens- spread around Algiers like wildfire that spring and summer.

I will remember.

Comments?

Chapter 17 reveals all…
OTL, Zhou Enlai did this to get out of Shanghai in 1927, so there’s something resembling precedent.
And rightly so!
See chapter 23
Because he’s Egoistic Kaiser Wilhelm II™! Incidentally, I’ve been reading The Guns of August as of late, and the first chapter is replete with little anecdotes depicting what a character Wilhelm was in OTL…. worth your time!
I’m perhaps the furthest thing from a Marxist possible and even I can spot the contradiction here.
As his Wikipedia article makes clear
Less shameful from the perspective of someone in 1917, anyway.
Especially Chairman Louis Dubreuilh- from what I can gather a reasonably conservative man within the Socialist context
Caillaux was the Prime Minister who signed the Treaty of Dresden while Loubet was PM when the revolt began.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Apr 20, 2021

Dear Readers,

Someone (my apologies; I'm tired and can't remember who) commented on the unlikeliness of a German Emperor wearing civilian garb even in TTL's 2021. So, here we have Kaiser Gustav I photographed in his office.

Also, @CosmicAsh my already immense respect for you has increased tenfold. Making this gave me some indication of what you must've gone through for your (vastly superior) Larry Hogan edit.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Apr 25, 2021

Chapter Forty-Four: Over Open Sights, Over Open Ocean

"As the trenches ran through Ypres, so the Mediterranean runs through France."
-Popular saying bitterly commenting on France's divided state

"Cadres come and take our food without paying. If we protest, we stare into the barrel of a gun, if we protest further, we are imprisoned. There is not enough to eat and none of our produce so much as reaches the cities, so it is all for naught. Do correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression there had been a revolution!"
-Excerpt from a letter of protest secretly circled around France, autumn 1918.

"You may write, you may dream. I do not doubt this, nor do I doubt their worth. But this is not theory, Chairman. If this enterprise of yours fails, the revolution fails and we shall be under Clemenceau's boot."
-Ludovic-Oscar Frossard imploring Georges Sorel to repeal Réquisition révolutionnaire

"I am the State. Now that one man is at the helm and politics rendered moot, the exiles of France may hope for a safe and secure society until such time as the mainland is liberated. No party nor political interests will ever succeed in throwing the ship of state off its course ever again!"
-Georges Clemenceau, boasting of his newfound power in private conversation

Overstating how traumatic the past four years had been for France is difficult. Losing Alsace-Lorraine and being humiliated with every glance at a map had reshaped the national psyche. As the Crusaders had striven to restore the Holy Land, so the French strove after those six thousand square kilometres. War had united all but the firmest radicals- including several of the men now controlling the mainland. If la Nation stood as one, they asked in summer 1914, surely nothing was beyond them? Surely?

Evidently not.

A fluctuating consensus of 800,000 has formed around the heaps of dead Frenchmen in the fields of Artois and Ypres, in the Alpine mountains and Libyan desert. (1) That was 800,000 young men who would never return home, 800,000 families irrevocably broken, a reduction of 800,000 in the workforce and tax base- slightly more than one out of twenty Frenchmen.

And for what? Those men had given their lives for the privilege of losing one-fifth of France’s landmass, the bulk of the navy, the worth of the franc, and the country’s honour. Instead of revenge for 1871, the French people had found a calamity to throw it into the shade. They had done their utmost, put everything they had into the war, and it had proven inadequate.

Given that the less comprehensive 1871 had destroyed Napoleon III, the surprise is that the Third Republic lasted as long as it did before collapsing.

German restrictions eliminated the trenches, the weeks and months of standing still in freezing rain and damp mud, watching eight hundred thousand of your countrymen die alongside you. The few set-piece battles all saw manoeuvre and morale dominate. Elan vital, the icon before which generals bowed in 1914, had finally come into play- except it was directed at them. Revolution, not modern war, swept through the streets like a giant vacuum, blowing the old regime across the sea to Algeria. The Third Republic meant war, hunger, misery, and an almost unimaginable shame. If they did not fight this beast, its unfitness to rule would consume them and their families.

For better or worse, the people now had their wish.

Eradicating the Third Republic had been the easy bit. Now the victors had to replace it. Philosopher Georges Sorel had transformed a revolt in Dijon into a revolution. Sorel’s eccentric past had taken him from Orthodox Marxism to syndicalism, while at the same time flirting with social conservatism. (2) His was the face on the poster, he’d convinced the masses with his pen, and he expected the lion’s share of power. General Jean-Jacques Famride complimented Sorel. (3) Famride was not a socialist; rather, he was the officer who’d been ordered to strangle the Dijon revolt in the cradle before his conscience led him and his men into Sorel’s camp, where he’d found himself the most senior military man. After winning a few key victories, Famride had spent the past few months trying to figure out how to turn the rebel army into a proper force. Since he wasn’t actually a socialist, Famride was seen as ideologically neutral and by extension, a potentially key ‘swing vote’ in any major decisions made. However, as commander of the most organised force in the country, his status as an unbeliever concerned some. If he deemed the new regime too radical, might he not move against it with all the guns in France?
This fear predominated amongst the last three regime founders. Louis Dubreuilh had led the French Socialists (SFIO) before the war; Ludovic-Oscar Frossard and Marcel Cachin had been his lieutenants. Their commitment to revolution was matched only by awareness of their own power. Although it had always worked within the system, the SFIO had been France’s largest socialist party for twelve years. Tens of thousands across the country respected General Secretary Dubreuilh, and it was his name which endeared prewar Socialist Party officials and voters to the new order. The SFIO troika was uneasy about the status quo. On the one hand, they were thrilled at opening the door to ‘socialist paradise’ (4) and ensuring their place in history- the intoxication of power sweetened this. Yet, as the afterglow faded they were left slightly disappointed. Georges Sorel had never sat in the Chamber of Deputies, never addressed the masses in whose name he claimed to rule, never sighed at an economic balance sheet or wondered what the people thought. While Dubreuilh had led the nation’s socialist movement, Sorel had been an eccentric recluse, growing pudgy as he slaved away at the study of theory. And now he claimed to lead them? As for Jean-Jacques Famride, well, he was a military buffoon whose only saving grace was in sweeping them all to power. If he vanished tomorrow, the SFIO chairman would not shed a tear. A coup d’etat was too radical to imagine, but so was settling for anything less than his perceived fair share.
These disparate personalities had to unite to give la beau patrie a stable regime.

The most pressing task was preventing another 1792, when Prussia and Austria had sparked twenty years of war with revolutionary France. Ejecting the Third Republic was one thing; repulsing a German-led counter-revolution would be another. What if Britain landed in Normandy while Georges Marin attacked from the south? Suppose Italy decided to advance its frontier to the Rhone? (5) Revolutionary France was surrounded by conservative monarchies and its central ideology demanded that workers of the world overthrow their kings for the new creed. Serious materiel shortages made a levee en masse impossible. Germany and Italy had overwhelmed the vastly superior army of 1914- marching to Paris would’ve been easy. As Jean-Jacques Famride admitted, the rulers would have to be mad not to intervene. If there was one thing European history had proven, said the general, it was that feuding monarchies could reconcile overnight if they found a common enemy- witness how the threat of revolutionary France had ended the ‘stately quadrille’ (6). The list of problems the new men could see were endless.

However, the new regime was in less danger than it might seem.

Jean-Jacques Famride’s comment was less accurate than first meets the eye. Diplomacy had been more fickle in 1792 and war had since become infinitely more costly. The war in Danubia, controlling the Eastern puppets, and subduing Mittelafrika distracted Germany. (7) No one wanted to extend the perpetual low-level insurrection in occupied France to the rest of the country. (8) Great War debt needed paying off while it took something as cataclysmic as the sack of Vienna for the public to approve sending troops south. Georges Sorel wisely refrained from calling for the Kaiser’s overthrow or stirring up the German occupation zone. Italy was waiting for an opportunity that would never come to extend its influence in Danubia. Britain’s sacrifice of youth to defend France had shaped the national consciousness, and the average Briton would’ve been repulsed at the idea of France being an enemy. Furthermore, Germany would’ve viewed British intervention as an intrusion on its sphere. Switzerland, Belgium and Spain had no power to act alone. No one respected the new regime, yet so long as Sorel kept to himself, they wouldn’t spend blood and treasure to kill him, and the state of emergency slowly faded. By the end of the year, Sorel felt comfortable enough to declare that “revolution is not always a linear process… peace is often a common interest shared between revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries.” It was as much of an olive branch as Kaiser Wilhelm II would get but it was enough.

Germany now accidentally gave Sorel’s regime a chance at life. By late February 1918, the Third Republic’s days were clearly numbered. Berlin had no love for the regime, but neither did it want to see Marxists to its west. Thus, Ambassador Wilhelm von Schoen took a French destroyer to Algiers. Depriving the revolutionaries of recognition was supposed to harm their international image, but Georges Sorel turned it to his advantage. Since Germany wanted nothing to do with revolutionary France, he would have nothing to do with Germany. Therefore, all reparations debt under the Treaty of Dresden should be applied to the “Algiers clique”, not “the true France!” Kaiser Wilhelm faced a conundrum. He could recognise Red France to legitimise his claim to reparations, invade to secure them, or drop his claim. Recognising the revolutionaries was out of the question, and an invasion would’ve been more trouble than it was worth- some economists calculated that France physically lacked what Dresden required of it. Thus, Berlin was forced to accept Sorel’s unpalatable fait accompli. While officially demanding that the Algiers regime pay in full, German elites privately conceded that the money was “as far gone as our hopes for peace on the last day of July 1914.” Prime Minister von Heydebrand withstood savage criticism but always maintained that this was the best of bad options. Ultimately, out of the 65 billion in specie agreed to at Dresden, less than a quarter found its way into German pockets.

This gave the new regime a chance. The collapse of the franc had thrown millions into chaos, costing the Third Republic legitimacy. Communism won hearts and minds by promising to burn the system down. However, Sorel knew the problem wouldn’t vanish with a change of flags, and if he couldn’t increase living standards fast the people would turn on him. Talking his way out of reparations enabled him to create a stable economy. Sorel declared the Third Republic’s currency null and void as two trillion francs populaires rolled off the press (9). By the end of 1918, the franc populaire had overcome its teething troubles. Keeping specie in the country as opposed to shipping it off to Germany gave the communist currency enough support to be trustworthy- although real prices were still three times higher than 1914.
Other economic policies were less popular.

Sorel was determined to capitalise on revolutionary France’s first harvest. He remembered all too well that hungry urbanites had gone over to him because they believed he’d feed them better than the ancien regime. If Sorel failed them, they’d topple him. German occupation halved France’s grain farmland, but also reduced the number of bellies to fill. It would not be easy, especially without foreigners from whom to buy food, but Sorel believed a sustainable Communist agricultural programme was possible.

Sorel, Dubreuilh, Frossard, and Cachin issued their economic encyclical Réquisition révolutionnaire (Revolutionary Requisitioning) on 22 August 1918. It was an attempt to dictate not just the harvest but the entire French economy. Its lengthy preamble declared that with foreign foes occupying much of the nation’s best land, la Nation needed a supreme effort to feed itself, which would require “perfect harmony” between urban and rural areas. Government-appointed agricultural inspectors would frequent all farms to confiscate the vast majority of the produce and farmers would not be paid. In exchange, farmers wouldn’t be subject to taxation and their sons would be exempt from military service. “The farmer pays la Nation with his goods”, declared the elder statesman, “to ask anything more of those who feed us would be unjust.” These goods would then be processed at a local warehouse and shipped to the capital. Every month, the newly-created Ministry of Distribution would assess the goods and decide on a monthly distribution plan. From Paris, the goods would be shipped across nationalised railways to warehouses, where local Ministry of Distribution officials would feed the people. Urbanites received ration books which allowed them to purchase a certain amount of food. Purchase was key- while food was not inordinately expensive, the government expected compensation for the trouble it went to in distributing. Farmers were not issued ration books- rather, they were able to submit applications detailing their family size, ages, states of health, etc, and local Ministry of Distribution officials would use that to decide how much food to leave them.

Urban production was no less convoluted. Réquisition révolutionnaire dictated that all tradesmen register with a newly formed ‘national guild’ by the end of the month. These ‘guilds’ were not like their medieval counterparts- rather, they were organisations designed to run a nationalised economy. As an example, the abandoned Renault factory in Paris was integrated into the National Motor Production Guild ; the foremen and manager were state employees paid by the regime. Ironically, given that Sorel was a syndicalist, unions were forbidden. This was a major source of tension between the leader and the SFIO men. Now that the revolution was complete, Dubreuilh and his allies said, the workers had no reason to unionise because they already owned everything. Sorel retorted that unions would give industrial workers ‘a revolutionary spirit’ and could serve as useful tools for weeding out counter-revolutionaries. He believed his position as leader gave him the final word, yet the SFIO men refused to budge. In the end, Sorel conceded, but he fully expected a reciprocal concession. The debate over unions was the first spat in the leadership, but it would not be the last.

Georges Sorel’s hopes that this mess of paperwork (which was what the system ended up being on paper) would bring the French economy into glorious egalitarianism quickly disintegrated. Farmers hid food or exaggerated the number of people under their roof and banded together to chase food collectors away; more than one met a grisly fate in a vegetable patch. Local Ministry of Distribution officials furiously demanded to know why there was so little food and sent their collectors out again, often with instructions not to spend too long asking politely. This prompted further backlash, and soon collectors couldn’t go anywhere without armed guards. Government officials nicking their produce while armed men threatened their families reminded most peasants of nothing so much as the Third Republic. Collected food ended up spoiling in warehouses and freight cars. Urbanites weren’t pleased that they often could only purchase half or two-thirds of what their ration book entitled them to, while loathing the ‘guild’ system. They were supposed to own the means of production, yet all the directives came from a distant, bureaucratised central government and were enforced by government agents.

The biggest difference between the Third Republic and the revolutionaries, one Parisian bitterly remarked, was the colour scheme on the propaganda posters.

French farmers fill out the paperwork to ascertain how much food they should be left, autumn 1918. Contrast their haggard looks with the well-fed cadres.

Georges Sorel was confused. Years in the ivory tower had taught him that Marxism was perfect for industrialised France. Furthermore, surely the ‘liberated’ people would rationalise any sacrifices as being for the greater good. The same spirit which had got the country through the Great War could see them through communism’s teething troubles. Sorel’s mistake was to approach the business of statecraft from a theorist’s perspective. Composing an eloquent essay or a sharp rebuttal was far easier than dealing with overworked, incompetent bureaucracy and nebulous popular opinion. Sorel’s romanticised vision, incubated during years of study, of a worker’s paradise where human beings enacted his theories like actors giving life to a masterful script, was a pipe dream.

Louis Dubreuilh and his allies entered the vacuum. As career politicians, they knew how to translate vision into action. The problems, they said, ran deeper than just Réquisition révolutionnaire. Sorel’s mistake had been to enact full communism without building a proper government- Ludovic-Oscar Frossard compared it to building a pyramid upside down. The people needed to see a stable government rather than random and confusing policies.

Thus, the five regime heads crafted a new constitution in February 1919 behind closed doors; the masses in whose name the rulers wielded power had no say. Georges Sorel was in favour of looser rules and a more ‘revolutionary spirit’, but the SFIO men had a better understanding of how politics worked. Jean-Jacques Famride, not caring one way or the other, occasionally looked up from his novel to act as tiebreaker. Compromise was thus the order of the day. The SFIO and all labour organisations (many of which had survived for the past year despite Réquisition révolutionnaire’s prohibition) were replaced by the new Communist Party of France (CPF). Any Frenchman over the age of eighteen in good standing with the law- male or female, regardless of race- could apply. Georges Sorel was Chairman of the Party and Marcel Cachin #2. Elections to a unicameral People’s Parliament would be held annually. Although the constitution forbade other parties, multiple CPF candidates could run in the same province. Any adult citizen could vote, regardless of sex or property qualifications- radically broad suffrage compared to 1914. This, the Chairman declared, was socialist democracy.

Sorel took much flak for this. Disbanding the SFIO was seen as a power-grab; assuming control over the successor organisation calmed no one. Dubreuilh viewed this as a major intrusion on his power. The posts of prime minister and state president- official leader and second-in-command of the state- weren’t enough to soothe Dubreuilh or Frossard, respectively. The division of power between the state and Party- that is, between Dubreuilh and Sorel- would be a major sticking point throughout the regime’s. Barbs flew behind the scenes as blood rushed to the one-armed Sorel’s cheeks before Famride adjudicated.

Other matters were less controversial though. Banning non-Communist parties raised no ire, nor did repealing the worst excesses of Réquisition révolutionnaire- the Chairman was quite happy to let Dubreuilh handle unglamorous economics. 1919 saw revolutionary France’s centralised economy loosen. Some private enterprises returned and farmers began selling their produce again. Dubreuilh even went so far as to say that a socialist economy in the early stages should be like a caged bird, with individual effort (private enterprise) flying around freely within government-set parameters. (10) Of course, the Prime Minister hastily added, that was merely in the early stages. With time, French socialism would outgrow such measures. After all, their regime would last forever. History as dictated by Marx said so.

Flag of the People's Republic of France

* * *

Louis Marin didn’t want the Prime Ministership. Had Paul Deschanel not died in the Second Paris Commune (11), he would’ve remained contently shuffling papers. Yet, the world had other plans for him, and he found himself in Algiers. Marin privately compared himself to a minesweeper. “Both must stumble along, unaware of when their rendez-vous with fate will be but all too aware that it will come when they least expect it, and that every effort of theirs to survive will be rendered moot.” Or, as one of his aides put it, Monsieur Marin wanted to know if the governor had wired. A more apposite analogy would be a builder forced to make a house with only half the bricks required. Marin’s task in Algiers was to assess the wreckage which had drifted across the ocean and discern what needed rebuilding.

The situation now made the mess of six months ago look rosy.

Losing the mainland left only the pieds-noirs, French immigrants to the colonies, under la tricolour. Whites now found themselves massively outnumbered by Muslim Africans, foreigners in their own land. If there was a lesson there, Marin was too busy to notice it. That said, the pieds-noirs now found their ranks stiffened by an exodus. Aristocrats, Catholic priests, and conservatives all feared persecution. With the surrounding nations closing their borders, Algeria was the only place to go. One study conducted decades later estimated that these nouveaux pieds-noirs (as subsequent generations dubbed them) raised the percentage of whites in Algeria by three to five percent in the span of a few months. Smuggling refugees to Algeria became a major industry on the south coast, with up to seventeen thousand illegally crossing in 1918 and 1919. Regardless, Algeria, West Africa, Madagascar, and the French Caribbean were no substitute for Paris, the cathedral at Reims, the bustling docks of Marseilles, or the vast majority of French-speakers. Nevertheless, truth was on Marin’s side. The Third Republic was the internationally recognised government of France and had ruled by popular mandate for forty years. Not comprehending that the people had rejected him, Marin believed that if they saw him survive in exile they’d soon overthrow the “Sorel clique”. Thus, the Prime Minister wrote long essays on liberation and resistance which were smuggled into the mother country via Spain and Britain. However, as the summer of 1918 dragged on (his Gallic complexion suffered terribly in the desert), Marin realised his failure. The mainland regime would not crumble and he lacked the means to invade it. As much as it pained him, Marin privately conceded that results were fast transferring legitimacy from Algiers to Paris.

Having failed at statecraft, the Prime Minister opted to save his honour by falling on his sword. A few dissuaded him- what would the message be if the Third Republic’s government collapsed in this dark hour?- but most were glad to see him go. Louis Marin stepped down on 4 August 1918, and even today is remembered as one of the greatest buffoons in French history.

It’s difficult not to have a little sympathy for the man, as he’d inherited a hopeless situation from Paul Deschanel. Marin had taken over at the eleventh hour, with his predecessor dead and the people having set their heart on regime change. A swifter response to the Dijon uprising on Deschanel’s part, coupled with attempts at understanding its root causes, might have left the Third Republic in power and Marin as a nameless but content placeholder. But then, legitimate criticism of Deschanel has limits. Paul Deschanel had come into power because of the revolt caused by his predecessor’s incompetence. Emile Loubet might have been adequate in quieter times, but he was out of his depth in the postwar crisis. Had Loubet handled inflation and popular disgust, the Dijon revolt would never have erupted and Deschanel wouldn’t have faced such daunting prospects. Yet, though vituperating Loubet is reasonable, he inherited a hopeless task. The Treaty of Dresden had stripped France’s northeast and confiscated its specie, making hyperinflation certain regardless of what Loubet did. Marin’s failures, then, were just a fraction of what killed the Third Republic.

Proper procedure dictated an election. Parliamentary governments rose and fell (12), but parliamentary systems lived on. Yet, no one could pretend that this was normal. Paul Deschanel and then Louis Marin had ruled by emergency powers to prevent the loss of the mainland. Their failure deepened the emergency. With the departments under enemy rule, the people of France wouldn’t be able to vote, while many politicians either hadn’t escaped, or had defected to the revolutionaries; this included most of the Socialists. Thus, it was decided to craft a “crisis government” in back rooms to suspend the chaos of French politics until the mainland was freed.

Virtually all the emigres felt entitled to lead. They compared resumes in the Algiers town hall (converted into an impromptu parliament) while arguing bitterly. For the first three weeks of August 1918, the republic-in-exile lacked even the trappings of government. There was no one at the top to whom the world could point and say, “l’état, c’est lui!” Even in their darkest hour, myopic politicians saw only their own careers, only the glorious tales they could tell when they returned to France. Exile became half nuisance, half opportunity- yes, you were stuck in this bloody colony and your holiday was cancelled, but on the other hand half your political rivals were neutralised. It was enough to drive one man mad. Something, he decided, had to be done.

Georges Clemenceau conferred with Charles Lutaud, governor-general of Algeria, to plot treason equal to Sorel’s. Clemenceau believed in results above all else and had little respect for his fellow politicians. Their incompetence, he believed, had cost France the mainland, and he was damned if he’d let them bungle the redoubt. Clemenceau had no doubt about his own abilities, and believed that he was the only emigre with a chance of saving the country. One look at the deadlock told him that he’d never get anywhere through legal means. Lacking guns, Clemenceau realised that he needed outside help if he was to mount a coup. The governorship gave Charles Lutaud command of the colony’s militia… which just so happened to be the largest body of troops who answered to the Third Republic. Several quiet meetings throughout August produced a plan. Lutaud’s men would occupy the town-hall-cum-parliament and ‘suggest’ a definitive vote for a new government, at which point Clemenceau would present his credentials. It wasn’t treason, both men told themselves, it was patriotism. The Third Republic had to be rescued from its own leaders, and they loved France so much they’d do anything to save it.

Algiers awoke on 30 August 1918 to gunfire. The Republican Guards- bodyguards for the head of state- had received priority in evacuating the mainland specifically to resist a potential coup. Lutaud knew that trying to move them would arouse suspicions, which might lead to failure. As they had nothing to do with the Algerian colonial apparatus, the Guards didn’t answer to Lutaud. Thus, they had to be taken out. Lutaud had fed his men a steady wave of lies over the preceding days that the Republican Guards were plotting a coup of their own to place someone of their choosing in power. It was palpable nonsense, but after recent months nothing could surprise the cynical loyalists. Militiamen- white and native- attacked before dawn. The confused Republican Guards put a lot of lead in the air. These were all elite soldiers hand-picked for their loyalty to the regime, and protecting the government was what they’d been trained to do, but numbers were against them. It wasn’t the first time elan vital had failed to save the Third Republic. Civilians sheltered in their homes, unaware of what was happening- had the Sorelians tried to attack? Had the people risen up as in Paris or Dijon? Soldiers enacted a lockdown, proclaiming that there were ‘insurrectionists in our midst’. As many of these militiamen were Islamic Algerians, the locals trusted them and remained calm.

Meanwhile, the militiamen entered the town hall over the dead Republican Guards. There were no massacres, but the handful of people who tried to resist realised what a fatal mistake they’d made. Most threw up their hands and were marched to an ad hoc prison ‘for their own safety’, where they were placed under armed guard as gunfire rattled in the hallways. Republican Guards stationed in the town hall itself- as opposed to the barracks outside- fought hard. By now, it was eight AM, two hours after the initial gunfire. Governor Lutaud telephoned commanders across the colony, saying that “the attempted coup d’etat in Algiers is in the final stages of eradication… Dispatching additional forces would only invite unrest elsewhere.” In buying the lie, they unwittingly brought Lutaud time.

At 8:03 AM, armed militiamen burst into the main room where the politicians were hiding- the lock and bolt on the door were no match for a well-swung rifle butt. Some attempted to climb out of windows, others fell on their knees and clutched rosaries, others simply closed their eyes and waited to die. “Arretez!”, the militiamen cried. “Levez-vous vos mains!” Fifteen minutes later, Lutaud burst in breathlessly. He shed crocodile tears for the violence they’d suffered and explained that the Republican Guards had attempted to kill them all and seize power for themselves, but that the local militia had saved them. The fighting was over, Lutaud said, and it was time to return to the task of forming a government. Certainly, the recent chaos proved the need for a strong figure at the helm?

Georges Clemenceau chose that exact moment to walk in.

Georges Clemenceau and Charles Lutaud, photographed in different locations shortly after the coup

The moustached, bald Frenchman stared at his compatriots for a few moments, his eyes ablaze. “They have not taken me”, he cried, “but it was not for lack of trying!”
“It is high time we returned to voting”, interjected Lutaud, “now that the threat has passed.” He stood at the back. “I say we give Monsieur Clemenceau the time of day.” He nodded to his men, whose gleaming bayonets made the best argument of all for Clemenceau. The old man with the moustache smiled as three-fourths of those present voted to grant him power.

“Mistakes have been made; do not think of them except to rectify them. Alas, there have also been crimes, crimes against France which call for a prompt punishment. We promise you, we promise the country, that justice will be done according to the law. ... Weakness would be complicity. We will avoid weakness, as we will avoid violence. All the guilty before courts-martial. The soldier in the court-room, united with the soldier in battle. No more pacifist campaigns, no more Marxist intrigues. Neither treason, nor semi-treason: the war. Nothing but the war. Our armies will not be caught between fire from two sides. Justice will be done. The country will know that it is defended.” (13)
His first address set the tone for how Georges Clemenceau would rule. Liberating- the word ‘conquering’ angered him- the mainland was his one goal. To that end, he couldn’t tolerate dissent. The handful of Socialists who’d chosen to leave the mainland were all arrested- they’d belonged to the SFIO and were thus guilty by association of treason. Deschanel’s Emergency Powers Acts were renewed; striking was declared illegal since, as it had played a pivotal role in “la grande trahison” (14)- his term for the Revolution. If it could happen in Dijon and the Second Paris Commune, why couldn’t it happen in Algiers? Strict censorship was the norm- criticism of his regime or simply being left-of-centre became a crime as time wore on. Look what happened when Emile Loubet let leftists speak their minds. Though he concealed it for the first few weeks, when the truth that he’d seized power via coup emerged, Clemenceau was nonchalant. “Indeed I stole the Prime Ministership!”, he admitted in his later years. “This was not treason. The treason came from pacifists, politicians. Those who bickered as France failed, and were thus complicit in its demise.” Being Minister of War and Minister of the Interior simultaneously to Prime Minister gave Clemenceau control over all troops and security forces. Some saw him as France’s last great white hope, others saw a dictator who would share Deschanel’s fate. Admirers called him ‘the Tiger’, detractors mocked his moustache by calling him ‘the Walrus.’ Regardless of one’s opinion on him, no one denied that Georges Clemenceau was a force to be reckoned with.

Thus, as the 1920s emerged, the two Georges stared across open sights and open ocean.

Comments?

OTL, about 1.4 million Frenchmen died in four years; here, since the war ends in 1916, it’d probably be just over half.
He was briefly affiliated with Action Francaise and Integralism before the war
Fictitious.
Oxymoron in Aisle 4.
Not plausible at all, inspired by this exchange.
Reminds one of how we have not, in fact, always been at war with Eastasia.
See chapter 20
See chapter 40
I just made 2,000,000,000,000 up. If that’s totally wrong, please say so! I’ve mentioned once or twice before that I’m not an economist….. No?
Not my analogy; Zhao Ziyang came up with it in the Eighties. Much of what’s here is based off of my knowledge of Maoist China (the Communist regime about which I’m most knowledgeable), with hefty doses of War Communism in Réquisition révolutionnaire. If it’s too implausible, please say so and why!
See chapter 43
Living as I do in the United States, I continue to be baffled by the ease with which (from my perspective at least) parliamentary governments are elected and fall apart… but then, I’m sure the rigid four-year election cycle must seem peculiar when viewed from the outside. All what you’re used to, I suppose.
An OTL quote, but with "Marxist" replacing "German"
My many thanks to @Le Chasseur for catching this!

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 2, 2021

Chapter Forty-Five: Better To Bend Than to Break

"This state has, praise be to God, survived the Germans and their Italian and Austrian lackeys. But now we face a stronger enemy: ourselves. The war exposed our infirmities in the worst way possible: not just on the field of battle, but in the long soup lines and in the halls of power, and at the peace table in Konigsberg. We must adapt, modernise, revitalise ourselves if we are to survive."
-Tsar Michael II to Georgy Lvov, early 1917

"You, Your Excellency, remain the rightful Tsar. That brother of yours had no right to steal the throne from you, much less shut you up in here as though you were a cloistered woman in a convent! Following the passing of your son, you are the only man in this empire who loves Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality, and who is capable of fighting to restore them. Inertia now means that the mob of September will return..."
-Ivan Goremykin to the former Nicholas II

Mikhail Alexandrovich Romanov was Tsar of All the Russias, Supreme Autocrat by the Grace of God, lord and master over the world’s largest country. After Nicholas II bungled the Great War, Julius Martov had led Petrograd into revolt in September 1916 and Nicholas had ceded power to Michael in the hopes his brother could defeat the revolution. Martov’s alliance with Prince Georgi Lvov had nearly finished two centuries of Tsarism, and only Lvov’s defection had enabled Michael to retake the capital and make peace. The Treaty of Konigsberg, ending the war on the Eastern Front, had been surprisingly mild- Poland, the Baltics, and western Belarus were a comparatively small price for peace. Two months after the Tsarist crown had been knocked to the floor, the regime was secure, Nicholas was alive, the foreigners were no longer a threat, and Tsar Michael II enjoyed supreme power over more than 150 million Russians.

And the Tsar was none too happy about it.

Historians emphasise that the tsardom’s survival was a miracle. Tsar Nicholas, in the words of one modern Russian scholar,

"had taken the fruits of two hundred years of despotism and squandered them. In his myopia, shielded from the world by the golden window-panes of the Winter Palace, he saw only what the couriers wanted him to see, what his own regime’s propaganda told the proletariat. The loss of not just the Pacific Fleet, but the Baltic Fleet had made no impression on this man, nor the loss of hearts and minds. If he was, by the grace of God, tsar of all the Russias, then he operated under a charism of invincibility. The golden barrier separating him from the world was as fixed as a geometric axiom... In this cocoon, Tsar Nicholas was oblivious to the losses his empire was facing, to the slow but steady erosion of the supports… The armies of the Central Powers proved his undoing, as the cordite of Hindenburg and steel of Ludendorff proved unwilling to listen to the proclamations of God’s representative on earth…”

Michael was now forced to repair the damage.

God's much-beleaguered representative on Earth, Tsar Michael II

Part of the reason the Germans had been comparatively lenient at Konigsberg was because they knew that Russia’s internal problems would distract it for years. The national economy was in shambles. During the war, the most manifest symptom had been soldiers going into battle unarmed, but civilians had suffered too. While it never reached the almost darkly comedic levels seen in France, inflation bit into the Russian worker’s pay and rendered savings useless. The queues for bread were always longer than the queues for bullets- and the demand didn’t vanish at the stroke of a pen. As the rest of Europe looked forward to their first proper meal in thirty months at Christmas 1916, the Russians were disappointed to find that rumours of extra potatoes in the shops were just rumours. The Central Powers were none too keen on selling to Petrograd while trade with neutrals resumed slowly. Farmers across Kazakhstan and the Volga were thus forced to work longer and harder to feed the Rodina.
Ukrainian unrest exacerbated Russia’s shortages.

Germany had refrained from taking Ukraine because it was too large to send their overextended forces into, but that didn’t mean Berlin wasn’t interested in exerting influence there. As soon as Michael’s regime sued for peace, revolt flared up in Ukraine. October 1916 saw blue and yellow fly in Kiev. “Give us a Hetman!”, they cried. “Free Ukraine in a free Russia!” Ukraine was not ‘southwest Russia’, it was a subjugated nation. Tsar Michael was known to be a liberal man and the nationalists hoped to reason with him. The protestors had disparate goals. Some wanted an independent Ukraine under a German prince, others hoped for a ‘Grand Duchy of Ukraine’ under Michael’s personal rule, a la Finland. Still others were Marxists who hoped for a socialist republic. Diversity proved the movement’s undoing because it impeded a united front. Tsar Michael couldn’t offer concessions so early in his regime because it would be seen as weakness. Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, and the United Baltic Duchy stood on German steel, while Finland had broken away under its own power. (1) These were tolerable because they were separate nationalities who’d always existed on the periphery of the empire. Ukraine was different- Petrograd dismissed it as “the southwestern provinces”, as Russian as Moscow or Siberia. If part of the heartland declared independence, the Tsarist balancing act would crumble.

It didn’t take long for Tsar Michael to overcome his liberal scruples.

Russia’s army may have been too weak to resist the Germans, but it had the strength to subdue Kiev. The protestors were driven from the streets and the Tsarist tricolour hoisted above Ukraine.

Unsuccessful though they were, the autumn 1916 protests convinced all Ukrainian people that they were a nation. The Tsarist bear who’d stood on them for centuries had had its claws trimmed by German steel; the new emperor appeared naked. If the Finns could achieve independence under their own power, they could too. Literature nurtured the independence movement. Mykhailo Hrushevsky, whose magnum opus History of Ukraine-Rus (2) made him a distinctly Ukrainian figure in the public eye, called for a second uprising from exile in Galicia. Nationalist poetry and literature circulated underground, as writers played cat-and-mouse with the secret police. Hrushevsky’s works were disguised as Bibles (3); people secretly studied the mother tongue. Austria-Hungary became a refuge for Ukrainians, as the war’s aftermath kept the Okhrana (4) out of Lemberg. Emperor Karl was sympathetic to the Galicians who slipped across the border to fight.

Had Ukraine erupted in 1917, it might have finished off Tsar Michael’s regime. As it was, the land remained under de facto martial law. Although governors and mayors officially ran the oblasts, cold hard steel kept the Ukrainians down. When the spring harvest came in 1917, peasants took enough for their families and hid the rest. Soldiers thus had to force peasants to work at gunpoint, which cost time, resources, and morale. The autumn harvest was no better.

Tsar Michael was torn. On the one hand, his liberal instincts told him to trade autonomy for cooperation. Grain was more valuable than pride. But as he watched the Croat crisis drive Hungary into revolt, the Tsar decided on conservatism. Compromise would validate the empire’s minorities, releasing forces outside his control; Russian chauvinism would keep the ship of state moving. So, the capital’s bread queues lengthened.

The empire’s Muslim minorities proved equally troublesome. More than one in ten imperial subjects prayed facing Mecca (5), and harboured a tradition of periodic rebellion. The war had taught them that the foreigners weren’t omnipotent, and many began dreaming of independence. The Ottoman sultan, whose status as Caliph gave him nominal suzerainty over all Muslims, was happy to encourage this. Russian influence in Persia had weakened, as the garrison moved to stem the feldgrau flood. Its border with Central Asia was long, while the Caucasus had plenty of ill-guarded passes which a knowledgeable man could slip through. Azeris and Uzbeks found plenty of nationalist literature wrapped around a rifle. Though the Uzbeks, Turkmens, Azeris, and Chechens were fatigued- conscription-related unrest which had flared up at the end of the war had been brutally suppressed- the most Tsar Michael could pray for was that the next round of violence didn’t come too soon.

His prayers would end up unanswered.

Ethnic Russians were no less of a headache. Tsar Michael believed a British-style constitutional monarchy where he’d share power with the Duma (parliament) to be the only way to prevent revolution. Reaction created a stiff structure which a strong breeze would break; reform created a flexible one. As the cornerstone of the system, Michael couldn’t suddenly abandon authoritarianism.Post-revolution Russian politics were so unstable that if Michael didn’t maintain a firm hand on the tiller, things would spiral out of control. Part of the problem was the Prime Minister. Prince Georgy Lvov was a longtime liberal who’d briefly aligned with Julius Martov in the September Revolution, but then repented and defected back to the Tsar in exchange for the Prime Ministership. This violated protocol, but Michael agreed. If he didn’t accept Lvov’s offer, he might not be able to rein the revolution in. Now, he was forced to pay the price.

Prime Minister Boris Sturmer, a Russian of Baltic German descent, was sacked in October 1916. Sturmer was outraged, and from then on was radically opposed to Michael and Lvov (though ironically, he was just as liberal as they were). Sturmer drifted to the right in the New Year, and made a famous speech in February attributing the loss of the Great War to a stab in the back from ‘subversive Martovists’. However, conservatives never embraced the former Prime Minister. His liberal past made his new rhetoric seem like political grandstanding, while the loss of his Baltic estates had rendered him bankrupt. Sturmer faded into irrelevance, and his assasination in July by a crazed nationalist (who referred to him as ‘the German Prime Minister’) attracted minimal attention.

Tsar Michael represented everything aristocrats had always feared- a weak-willed man who couldn’t stand up to liberalism. His failure to resist the ‘Martovist stab-in-the-back’ (virtually everyone on the right brought into this conspiracy), had reduced the empire to its smallest size in a hundred years. Michael’s opposition to Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality- the troika which the tsars had governed by for sixty years- menaced the status quo. “Before the war”, said one Russian conservative, “we feared outside forces eroding the power of the Tsar. But we were mistaken. The idea that the Tsar would erode that power of his own free will never crossed our minds!” To them, Lvov was a traitor (they remembered his affiliation with Martov), and Michael was a Trojan horse designed to give the reformers everything they wanted to lay the groundwork for the next attempt at revolution. It was nonsense, but when viewed from a reactionary perspective it made sense. To right-wing nobles- the one group who’d thrived before 1914 as Tsar Nicholas’ regime had catered to them in exchange for political support- Michael’s talk of reform was gravely offensive.

All this gave way to a conspiracy which convinced the Tsar he was under attack from his right as well as his left.

Nicholas II had survived the September Revolution. He and his family had fled the capital for Tsarskoe Selo, where he’d ceded the crown to his brother. As 1917 opened, Nicholas found himself shut out of power. Michael refused to let Nicholas return to Petrograd or live at Tsarskoe Selo for fear of popular anger. The former Tsar spent Christmas in Moscow before purchasing a lavish estate near Smolensk, where he slid into depression. Michael was taking the empire in an ominous direction, and he genuinely believed his brother’s life was in danger. Any moment, Nicholas told himself, revolution would return to the capital. If only he hadn’t abandoned the throne, the country wouldn’t be in this mess! Nicholas’ personal life offered no respite. His four daughters found their social circles and material wealth much diminished and their marriage prospects dead. Paranoia over assassins led Nicholas to forbid them from leaving the estate unescorted. They took their frustrations out on one another, and Nicholas rapidly grew sick of hearing their arguments. His wife Alexandra turned bitter, isolating herself in a separate bedroom where she wrote tortured letters to her friends. The real worry, though, was his son Alexei. The boy had been raised to believe that he’d be emperor one day, and believed that his ‘Uncle Michael’ had stolen the crown from him. Alexei grieved over the loss of most of his personal effects, having to leave the lavish Winter Palace for the relatively small estate, and the death of his healer Rasputin. (7) He gave vent to his depression and anger through rebellion, screaming at his relatives with a sharp tongue for a thirteen-year-old boy. Nicholas’ worry wasn’t over his son’s behaviour- Alexei had always been spoiled- but his health. With Rasputin dead, there was no one who could treat his son’s chronic hemophilia. If Alexei so much as nicked himself with a pencil, he might bleed to death. Nicholas didn’t see much of the boy because Alexandra kept him in her bedroom for days at a time, never letting him out of her sight for fear that he’d injure himself and even making him sleep in her bed. The former Tsar agonised over his son’s health and screamed at his wife to let him see his own boy, while Alexei pulled his mum’s sheets over his head and sobbed.

The inevitable happened on 18 April 1917. Alexei, in a troublesome mood that day, snuck into his father’s bedroom and stole several of his medals. The family butler yelled at him to give them back, but the boy ran to a second-floor window and threatened to throw them out. He lost his balance and tumbled to the paved road. He howled like a wolf in a trap as his sisters carried him inside. Alexei’s left wrist and nose were broken and one of his front teeth was chipped. Had he been alive, Rasputin would’ve healed the boy, but the finest doctors in Smolensk weren’t up to the task. Poor Alexei bled in bed for three hours. His skin turned pale, and by sunset he was chalky white. Alexandra and Nicholas stayed by his bedside all night as every trick in the doctor’s book failed. Shortly before midnight on 18 April 1917, Alexei Romanov died at fourteen years old.

Alexei’s death threw everyone into mourning black and bottomless depression. Alexandra remained in her room, fasting and praying with the door locked and curtains closed. A servant brought kasha on a plate once every eight hours, but she seldom had any appetite. Nicholas found solace in long horse rides along the perimeter of the estate, but also in that time-honoured Russian escape: the vodka bottle. In late-night rages fuelled by drink, he cursed “my fucking thief of a brother”, “traitors” (generally understood to mean anyone less reactionary than him), “my lying cousin Wilhelm”, “misery-guts” (Alexandra) and “that scamp Alexei”. (How the boy’s death was his own fault is an excellent question). He would pound on Alexandra’s door, demanding to talk to her, but the lock and bolt defied him. More than once, he went to Alexei’s bedroom and sobbed his eyes out, kicking the walls and cursing misfortune. His actions were indefensible, but he was acting from a dark place, trying to exhume a year of untrammelled pain. The former emperor’s eyes grew bleary and his stomach expanded. It’s a miracle that no one in the ‘family’ (if it could be called that) attempted suicide.

It was in this state that Nicholas received a special visitor.

Ivan Goremykin personified discontent with the current Michael-Lvov regime. Born to noblemen in 1839, he’d entered the civil service in his late twenties and spent the past half-century as a conservative firebrand. Goremykin believed Michael was verging on treason by refusing to play the part of God’s representative on earth, while Georgy Lvov was a traitor who’d lied his way into power. Needless to say, in Goremykin’s mind the Rodina had been stabbed in the back by Jewish Martovists.
Goremykin hoped to persuade Nicholas to return to power for the sake not just of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality, but to save the empire’s soul.
Getting into the estate was a challenge. Alexandra took mourning extremely seriously and while she couldn’t prevent her husband going for his horseback ride (her one attempt had ended with her nursing a black eye), she prohibited visitors from entering. Goremykin tried to reason with her- the two had been close before the war- but she would not budge. The old Alexandra had been replaced by a different woman with all the life sucked out of her, and nothing Nicholas could do or say could change that. Eventually, though, Nicholas had an idea. On the first of June 1917, Nicholas went out for his horseback ride and galloped off the estate, where Goremykin waited. Nicholas smiled for the first time in months at thwarting his wife’s will, and the two men got down to business. The situation, Goremykin said, was grave. Michael was planning to call a constitutional convention to become a ceremonial monarch, but that was just the beginning. Georgy Lvov wasn’t the only ex-revolutionary whom Michael was courting; he planned to legalise the banned Mensheviks and Bolsheviks with the end goal of turning Russia into a republic! Nicholas hung onto every word. Now it all made sense! Michael hadn’t taken the throne in September 1916 to save the monarchy, but to undermine it! He, Nicholas, was too strong a defender of the old order for revolutionaries to fell him, so they’d placed Michael on the throne. Or, perhaps the truth was even worse and Michael had engineered the September Revolution. After all, Karl Marx predicted two revolutions- a liberal bourgeois one followed by a socialist one. In Nicholas’ tortured state, Goremykin’s lies made sense. The implication of what needed doing was all too clear. Nicholas could remain on this estate with his ruined family, watching the colour and soul drain from his wife as the Motherland succumbed to socialism, or he could come with Goremykin.

Leaving the horse to make its own way home, Nicholas got into Goremykin’s car.

As soon as she realised Nicholas had left, Alexandra had a nervous breakdown. She lay screaming and crying on the floor for hours, biting the carpets while the girls wept in their room. Grief and stress eventually felled her, and she died on the fifth of August. She was forty-three years old, and had spent twenty-three years as Empress of Russia.

Meanwhile, Nicholas and Goremykin travelled to the latter’s estate, where several of the country’s most reactionary politicians were present. Alexander Krivoshein, Alexander Dubrovin, Vladimir Purishkevich, Nikolay Markov, and Alexander Trishatny gave Nicholas a standing ovation as he entered the sitting-room. Goremykin led the men in an off-key rendition of ‘God Save the Tsar’, and they all bowed very formally. Together, the men composed a manifesto to the people. Nicholas was alive and well, and as such there was no reason for Michael to rule. He was casting “unbearable shame and disgrace” upon the “God-ordained throne of Protector of all the Russias” with his “liberalising instinct running counter to the divine principles of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality.” For the good of the country, Michael should retrocede the crown to Nicholas. One by one, the men signed.

Tsar Michael was livid. He loved Nicholas as a brother and respected him as a political ally, but this was unacceptable. On 1 September, he travelled to Goremykin’s estate, escorted by a company of soldiers. Wearing a plain military uniform without medals, he personally knocked on Goremykin’s front door. “It is the Tsar”, he said, “the man you claim to venerate. I am going to speak with my brother.” The sound of stomping boots surely dissipated dreams of resistance. Escorted by handpicked guards, Tsar Michael strode into the sitting-room. “My good men”, he said, a chuckle concealing his anger, “I thought you believed in Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality! Stand up for your Tsar.” Everyone did so, their eyes trained not on their monarch but his bodyguards. “Escort these gentlemen out.” The bodyguards complied, leaving him alone with Nicholas.

Ivan Goremykin: the first in a long line of nobles who tried to remove Tsar Michael

* * *

They sat across a coffee table from one another. Tsar Michael offered his brother a cigar; he declined. Michael smiled sadly. “Nikolai Alexandrovich”, he said, “this facade must cease. I am the Tsar, God’s representative on Earth. You gave me that power.”

“And you have abused it, Mikhail Alexandrovich! I entrusted you to save the monarchy, not to run it into the ground and reduce it to a hollow caricature!” Nicholas’ eyebrows, turned grey by stress, shot up. “To defend Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality, not run them into the ground!”

“And how well did you defend them?” Michael smiled silently as his brother squirmed. “Can you say the Rodina was stronger in September of 1916 than it was when our father passed away all those years ago?”

“Can you claim, brother, that it is stronger today than when I was swindled out of power?”

“I believe so, Nikolai Alexandrovich.” Michael’s smile lacked warmth. “If the Germans are still shelling Petrograd, they are being terribly quiet these days!”

“You… you swineherd!” Nicholas leapt from the armchair. “You have ruined me, stolen my crown, and…” He swallowed hard. “You have caused my Alexei to pass on.” The former Tsar ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“I am sorry”, Michael sighed. “I truly am, Nikolai Alexandrovich. You may rest assured that I shall pray for the repose of the boy who is my own nephew. But you must understand that this petition of yours”- he idly picked up the document- “is meaningless. If you and these good Russians truly love the institutions of State, you will let them be.” The Tsar’s heart felt like a stone as he stood up and stared his brother in the eye. “If these gentlemen do not cease and desist, I shall have no choice but to place them under arrest.”

“You cannot mean that, Mikhail Alexandrovich!” Colour rushed to Nicholas’ face. “I, the rightful Tsar, treated like a common criminal. Why…”

“No, there you are mistaken.” Now the ice flowed from Michael’s lips. “You, my brother, are no longer the Tsar and never shall be again. In fact… in fact, my brother, I would encourage you to return to the estate near Smolensk and pack your case. I am not ordering you to do this- you may reject my advice and no prosecution will ensue- but I believe it would be advantageous if you were to depart the empire.”

“Izgnanie?” Nicholas spat it out- exile- like a vile curse. “I will not be bundled up and exiled from my homeland like a common criminal sent to count trees in Siberian fields!!”
“I am sorry, Nikolai Alexandrovich. But I cannot take the risk that you will move against my crown. As this incident has shown, there are those in the empire who wish to restore you to power. One way or another, I must isolate you from them. The alternatives to a life abroad…” The clock ticked.

“I… I am a Romanov.” Nicholas appeared to be staring into space, at something Michael couldn’t see. A life all alone, where no one cared who he was or who he’d been. A life where his status as Tsar was meaningless, as the world had moved on, much as one’s childhood accomplishments are moot in the real world. Michael stared at Nicholas staring into the precipice. Was that vodka he saw in his brother’s eyes? “This is all I have ever known. I have nothing else outside this empire. Alix is… is dead. They will not take me in Hesse, I know that. In fact, it would not surprise me in the least if I was thrown out, cast aside, blamed for her death. Mikhail Alexandrovich, what am I to do?”
“Remember the alternative, Nikolai Alexandrovich.” Guilt tore at the Tsar as he abandoned his brother. But what else could he do? Casting aside Nicholas would be wrong; casting aside his throne would be worse. “Think of your four daughters and your own honour.” Michael opened the door. “You can come in now, gentlemen!” Bayonets trained on them, the others entered. “Nikolai Alexandrovich has something he wishes to say.”

“Da”. Nausea swelled up inside the former emperor as he gestured to the man he’d once loved as a brother. “God Save the Tsar.”

* * *
This incident left Tsar Michael fearful for his crown. Being liberal, he discovered, was the worst of both worlds. Radicals wanted to crush him as an agent of oppression, while moderates criticised him for not moving fast enough. Yet, the people who’d backed his brother’s regime were just as hostile to him as Julius Martov. Those for whom Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality were as sacred as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost viewed Michael a heretic. Ironically, their loathing of him was predicated not around his over-use of power but rather his not using it enough; they would’ve been fine with him reigning absolutely if he did so like a ‘proper Tsar’. However, there was no respect between them. Michael recognised that the petition to reinstate his brother had been the first stumbling step towards a coup d’etat. Sending Nicholas and the girls to Germany would hopefully help, but could only do so much. Purging the elite not only ran counter to his liberal worldview, it was beyond the power of even the dreaded Okhrana and would surely have brought an immediate reaction.

It was a strange world indeed when the Russian Tsar feared overthrow for being too liberal.

None of this deterred Michael. A reactionary coup might kill him but couldn’t destroy the institutions of state. A coup that murdered the rightful Tsar and installed a distant relative in the name of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality would look very foolish. And besides, a quarter millennium of authoritarianism had taught the Russian secret police a trick or two, while Michael did have a son to pass the crown to if worse came to worst. Atrophy was the bigger threat; the damage done by the ossifying system had greatly harmed the Rodina without paving the way for change. Michael believed he could succeed where Karl of Austria-Hungary was presently failing; reforming the monarchy and institutions to modernise them without opening the door to chaos. As Christmas 1917 approached, he planned a constitutional convention for the new year. Before he could do that, though, he had to convene the Russian parliament. Duma elections were scheduled for every five years, and the last had been in 1912. Russia’s tiny electorate would thus go to the polls in January 1918; the Fifth Duma would assemble three weeks after that. Ideally, Michael told himself, his realm would be a modern constitutional monarchy a year hence.

Little did he know how things would go wrong…

Comments?

See chapter 35
Entirely OTL. I was very much inspired here by Anne Applebaum’s incredible (and incredibly depressing) Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine. Let’s sincerely hope such a book never needs to be written ITTL!
Totally off-topic: the idea came to me as I was reading an online article about underground Christianity in Maoist China. Apparently, individual Gospels were translated into Chinese and disguised as Little Red Books, with several ‘disguise’ pages containing images of Mao just to be on the safe side. Why couldn’t that happen in reverse, I asked myself? And there you have it…
Tsarist secret police.
The 1897 census said 11.07%, but that’s including the Christian lands lost at Konigsberg, so the percentage would be considerably higher.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 2, 2021

To tie up a loose end from the chapter:

The four girls lived happier lives. Along with their maternal aunt Elisabeth, they were sent to live in Hesse, where their mother’s side of the family hailed from. Michael gave them a generous allowance, and they were treated well by Elisabeth’s brother, the Grand Duke.

Olga, the eldest, married a minor noble from Saxony five years later and spent the rest of her life in Dresden, dying in 1988 at the ripe old age of 95 and leaving five children and twelve grandchildren behind.
Tatiana defied the many suitors she found in Germany, and moved to Vladivostok in 1927, where she spent her last forty-three years in a convent.
Maria left Hesse at the start of 1918 and married Prince Kiril of Preslav. After her husband’s death in 1967, she quietly returned to Petrograd, where she died in 1970. Her children and grandchildren remain in Bulgaria to the present.
Finally, Anastasia lived in Hesse for a year before marrying the American vice-ambassador, whom she met at a soiree in Berlin to which her uncle was invited. They moved to California but divorced after only two years; she never remarried. She subsequently entered the film industry and became a respected celebrity in 1920s America. Anastasia became an active supporter of a Romanov restoration and partnered with an up-and-coming German filmmaker, Leni Riefenstahl, in 1936 to produce The Riddle, an allegory of her family and exile. She died in a motor accident in 1947. Her memoirs, published posthumously, are read today by monarchists the world over.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 9, 2021

Chapter Forty-Six: You Say You Want A Constitution?

"Reform is sealed by my brother's blood. No one can murder a Tsar and claim to love his country."
-Tsarina Xenia, in her coronation address

Fate hung in the air as the Russian Empire went to the polls on 10 January 1918. Tsar Michael II had inherited a broken economy, a rebellious periphery, and Marxist revolutionaries in the wings. His brother Nicholas’ amateur coup had failed, but though Nicholas was now in exile the reactionaries who’d backed it remained as hostile as the Central Powers. The Tsar knew he might find an assassin in his bedchamber one morning, but he didn’t know if it would be a Menshevik or a Black Hundredsman. (1) Yet that didn’t deter his dreams of saving Russia from its backwardness via constitutional rule.

The New Year’s Duma elections were meant as the first step… but it would all go wrong.

The composition of Russia’s electorate- nobles and the richest industrialists- showed how much Michael had to achieve. A reduction of seats, from 434 to 400, reflected wartime population losses. Many who’d fought in the Great War were disenfranchised, as was everyone in Ukraine and much of Central Asia. Given that the September Revolution had nearly toppled the monarchy, the decision to ban left-wing parties is understandable. Michael was walking a tightrope between stability and liberalising. He’d drawn the right conclusions from the revolutions of 1848 and ongoing war in Danubia. In the former case, Metternich- like Nicholas- had kept an iron grip on power, not giving an inch for fear that revolution would steal a mile. Yet, the more the Austrian chancellor had tightened his grip on power, the more it’d slipped through his fingers. The same process had begun in September 1916, and Michael believed that the dynasty would’ve collapsed but for his intervention. Liberalising instinct was like electricity; harnessed properly, it could provide a new light, without caution it could kill. Memories of the masses seizing Petrograd convinced Michael that they’d do it again if given the vote. Association with the Martovists tarred the now-banned Social Democrats, Socialist Revolutionaries, and Trudoviks. Their seats were declared vacant- conservatives joked that these parties would sweep Siberia. There was thus a powerful conservative element to Michael’s agenda, which historians dubbed ‘managed reform’. Yet at the same time, Michael was a liberal by Russian standards. He couldn’t have a constitutional convention without a freely and fairly elected Duma, especially not if that body was to assume day-to-day governance. Thus, Michael prohibited intimidation at the ballot-box or ‘correction’ of votes. He would win his centre-left Duma without cheating. Russia’s soul was at stake.

Given the importance historians later attached to them, the results were anticlimactic. The Progressist Party took seventy-four seats, the Kadets 127, the Centre Party twenty-five, the Nationalists thirty, and the Union of the Russian People (URP) 124. Independents held twenty other seats. All but the URP were centrists, though some were more liberal than others. Tsar Michael strode into Tauride Palace two days after the election to raucous applause. “The Nation has much which needs doing.” he declared. “Tradition must be codified; the foundations of our state must be improved upon. Revolution must be heeded off for the good of the Rodina!” Standard business of governance consumed the first seven days- the last three quarters of 1918 and all of 1919 received budgets- and Michael made a great effort to involve himself. Those who spotted the irony of the tsar wielding his supreme authority to push through liberal policies which would weaken said authority kept mum. Interacting publicly with the Duma gave it the legitimacy it’d need to participate as a major political force. Nicholas had only reluctantly formed the institution and gone to great lengths to keep it castrated; Michael revitalised it. Michael’s eyes lit up as the vision of a Duma which would represent all Russians- within reason of course; no reason to enfranchise women or minorities- dangled before him.

To this end, he steered the Duma towards the project closest to his heart: a Constitutional Convention.

Duma delegates deliberate aspects of the new Constitution

On the first of February 1918, Michael received another wave of applause at Tauride Palace before presenting his outline for a constitutional convention. Every delegate would have one vote, and a three-fourths majority would be required for a proposed article to pass. He acknowledged the potential for deadlock, but believed that was a lesser evil than a bare majority of radicals dictating events. As it happened, the three-fourths majority rule ended up as a bullet in the Tsar’s foot, and taught him that in a democracy, one must play by the rules even when the proceedings are unpalatable.

Alexander Dubrovin's URP found the whole thing gravely offensive. Those of them who hadn’t participated in the petition to restore Nicholas had supported it, and its failure frustrated them. Their loathing of democracy didn’t prevent them from exploiting it. While Dubrovin couldn’t prevent the Constitutional Convention from taking place, he was determined to stonewall it. Thus, he ordered his fellow reactionaries to veto anything which came before them. Nothing in the proposed constitution- even if it produced no changes, even on paper- was permissible, because it implied that state institutions were up for debate. Controlling thirty-one percent of the Duma enabled the URP to use Michael’s three-fourths majority rule against him. Dubrovin issued two orders to the URP the night before the convention opened. First, they were to remain silent during deliberation. Participating in debates would only legitimise them; standing aside would show that the URP regarded the entire process as contrary to “the spirit of two centuries of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality.” Second, Dubrovin established a dress code. URP delegates were to wear a lapel bearing a double-headed eagle, the traditional Tsarist symbol. Aside from that, they were to wear all black, as if they were travelling to a funeral. Thus, Dubrovin hoped to distinguish the reactionaries from the liberals who aimed to destroy the empire while looking intimidating. Glasses were clinked and mischievous grins crossed ancient bearded faces as the men anticipated success.

Tsar Michael had no idea what was coming.

1 February 1918 opened with a patriotic speech from the Tsar. “Tradition is always in motion, tradition does not lock the ashes of the past into prominence forever”, he declared. “A new human spirit is needed in the organs of governance; we must open the windows of the Winter Palace to let fresh air in.” The liberals cheered, but the motionless and silent URP stole much of the attention. Michael then sat his first proposal for a constitution on the podium. “One: The Russian Empire is led by the person who, by the grace of God, acts as Tsar of all the Russias and father to the Russian people...He shall be recognised as having granted this constitution to the people for their betterment, as an extension of his regnal responsibilities.” Dubrovnik raised an eyebrow and whispered to a colleague, “Nyet, neyt. King Louis did just this. It is a fig leaf, my friend.” (3) Dubrovin imperceptibly shook his head, his thoughts shifting to that nice bird in his hotel who’d brought him his morning kasha. Michael droned on for an hour, interrupted occasionally by cheers from the liberal benches.

“Let the process of objections begin”, said the Tsar. Three more hours passed by as delegates quibbled over this or that point. Some objected to the retention of the oblast system- a new constitution was a perfect opportunity to adapt superior subdivisions! Others bemoaned the fact that Duma elections were only scheduled for every five years. Surely, they said, every thirty months would foster a livelier political climate? Nor was all the criticism from the left. Devout Orthodox vehemently opposed the separation of church and state, often flavouring their objections with choice adjectives about Muslims. Conservatives described broadening the franchise as ‘insanity’- the workingman wasn’t educated or cultured enough to deserve a ballot, and given half a chance he’d vote for Julius Martov to return and execute them all! (That such a statement could be read as an indictment of the Tsarist system likely never crossed his mind.) None of it meant anything to Dubrovin. The objections, he said later on, “were all of form, not of essence. Even those who called for Orthodox supremacy- to take but one example- were liberals in their hearts. If they truly loved their faith and nation, they would have shunned the disgusting spectacle for what it was.” When asked for objections, the URP silently left the liberals to outline the Constitution. Five days a week for five weeks, the reactionaries sat silently in their black suits and eagle lapels, never taking their eyes off the Tsar whose person they loathed but whose throne they adored. Why was he doing this, they asked themselves. He was not only harming his own power, he was harming the Motherland. Only a traitor would do such a thing. There could be no other explanation. Meanwhile, no one quite knew what the URP was up to. Their silent stares and uniform dress were unnerving, slightly menacing yet certainly not a threat to safety. The general consensus amongst the liberals was that it was fine if they wanted to boycott the proceedings- it meant a less reactionary end product.

By 11 March 1918, the two hundred and eighty-six participating delegates had ironed out all the kinks, compromised, and expended political capital, and the end product lay on the podium ten yards from where they sat. Russia now had a modernised, liberal version of the 1906 Constitution. The country had four hundred oblasts, each governed by an elected governor, and divided into eight governorates-general. Petrograd-appointed territorial governors ruled the endless snow-fields where bears outnumbered people. Running for office required at least a hundred thousand rubles or the land equivalent thereof to one’s name, as well as a letter of approval from the Tsar. This gave the petit-bourgeoisie a sense (however erroneous) that they were politically relevant, while excluding the sort of rabble who might’ve marched with Martov.

The Duma, roughly the lower house of the legislature, had one seat per oblast (thus commencing with four hundred). Any adult male citizen with ten thousand rubles or the land equivalent thereof was eligible to vote for oblast governors and Duma representatives; elections were to occur every five years on 11 January, starting in 1923. The Duma was obliged to convene for the first three months of each year but they could lengthen this as needed. The Prime Minister could summon emergency meetings whenever he so chose. Eliminating the Tsar's power to convene or dismiss the Duma would hopefully disable Nicholas II's tactic of dismissing the body whenever it displeased him. A bill could pass the Duma with a three-fourths majority, at which point it required approval from the State Council. Crucially, this opened a pathway to laws enacted without the monarch's consent, as all a bill needed to become law was to achieve three-fourths support in both houses.

Aside from stripping two seats from the former Grand Duchy of Finland, the new Constitution hardly affected Russia's upper house. The zemstvos had fifty-six seats, the Assemblies of Nobility (an otherwise irrelevant social club for the gentry) eighteen, the Orthodox Church, intelligensia, and financiers six each. The new Constitution obliged the State Council to meet whenever the Duma was in session, and they operated under the same three-fourths majority rule as the Duma. A bill which passed the State Council needed to pass in the Duma to become law. The one alteration made by the new Constitution was in removing the Tsar's ability to appoint half the State Councilmen.

Certain powers remained in the emperor's hands though. He remained supreme commander of the Russian military and granted neither body any say in its affairs. Conscription was retained (even if post-Great War budget trimming and equipment losses curtailed its scope), and the Tsar had the right to dismiss commanders at his pleasure. Furthermore, the monarch controlled foreign policy and the Foreign Minister (despite being picked by an incoming Prime Minister) answered to him. The most the Duma could do to influence treaties and declarations of war and peace was to clap enthusiastically from the sidelines. Since modifying the Constitution required the royal signature, there was no chance of the Tsar's authority being further eroded. Finally, the trappings of the Tsar's office- his being crowned in a religious ceremony not a civil one, his status as "Emperor of All the Russias By The Grace of God", etc- suggested the absolutism of Peter the Great, not the liberal constitutionalism of George V.

Despite its backwardness by European standards, this constitution was a major step forward for Russia. Liberals were exultant, centrists and conservatives sighed and shrugged, recognising a fait accompli when they saw one, and the Union of Russian People stared out from their wall of black.

“Let the voting commence!”, the Tsar declared, smiling as one by one the liberals voted to castrate the imperial office. The few conservatives who voted against the constitution did so symbolically. If they’d been truly opposed to the new order, they would’ve been wearing black and eagle lapels. As the ‘ayes’ passed two hundred and sixty, people began worrying what would happen if the reactionaries abstained. Not to worry, one man declared. If only 286 people voted (the remaining 124 out of 400 being URP men), only those votes cast would be counted, and they’d still end up on top. Optimism filled the air as Alexander Dubrovin rose. Unbeknownst to everybody else, this had been pre-choreographed the night before. “Nyet!”, the URP leader thundered before turning to his party. “What do you say, my Black Hundred?”

“NYET!”

The roar nearly knocked the Tsar off his feet. “No, no, no!”, the reactionaries cried, releasing five weeks of pent-up anger. “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality!”, “Down with the traitors, up with the Rodina!”, “Apostasy on the throne!”, and “God Save the Tsar… from his own wickedness!” were some of the favoured chants. Tsar Michael must’ve feared for his life and wondered why he’d ever taken the throne.

The Tsar now had to confront the aftermath of his great failure.

Michael was livid at having his constitutional dreams flouted so publicly but realised he was at a dead end. If he dissolved the Duma and called a ‘special’ election rigged in favour of reformers, the Union of Russian People would rightly call him a hypocrite. Altering the rules so that the Constitution could pass with an absolute majority (which would be in alignment with what the document dictated) seemed the best task. The Tsar thus decided to wait a month for tempers to cool before reconvening the Duma. With four hundred seats, two hundred were needed to pass the constitution. Since cenrists and liberals held 286 seats, the Tsar believed the document was as good as passed.

Alexander Dubrovin had other ideas. He’d ignored his conscience and participated in the ‘illegitimate Constitutional Convention’ out of a genuine hope that it could defeat reform quickly, but wasn’t the least bit surprised that Michael was ‘cheating’ by planning to reconvene the Duma. Enough, Dubrovin decided, was enough. Michael was clearly using the Duma as a fig leaf to push his agenda, and if his party’s votes weren’t going to count for anything then Dubrovin wouldn’t bother. Michael would always be able to stuff the Duma with enough liberals to render Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality irrelevant. Desperate times called for desperate measures. The new constitution was only the beginning, Dubrovin told himself. If he didn’t act fast, the Martovists who’d stabbed the country in the back would succeed where they’d failed in September 1916. He wasn’t planning treason, the reactionary leader told himself over again. His loyalty was to the throne, not its occupant.

Alexander Dubrovin was going to enlist the help of some more menacing Black Hundreds than elderly nobles in funeral attire.

Meanwhile, the people were no more thrilled. Contrary to Lenin and Martov’s propaganda, the average Russian didn’t give a toss about constitutions. The price of bread and potatoes was far more important than whether or not the factory foreman would be able to vote- because they certainly wouldn’t. If the Tsar really cared about the people, they said, he’d let unions and labour leaders sit in the Duma! If the Tsar really cared, he’d limit the price of bread! Soldiers in the street and censored headlines suggested a repressive Tsar Michael defending himself after getting his fingers burned, not a liberal one who’d change their lives for the better. Spending his political capital on institutions rather than raising the standard of living, while also openly denying that he had a divine right to rule, was fast eroding the Tsar’s support amongst the people. However, their opposition wasn’t as fierce as Dubrovin. The Tsar’s position as a benevolent father ruling for his people’s benefit was deeply ingrained into Russian society and enabled the monarch to get away with far more than a Western leader- people had blamed Nicholas II’s failings on deceptive advisers. Michael’s shying away from Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality didn’t override a lifetime’s venerating the throne. If the Tsar wasn’t providing for his people, the masses decided, it must be because someone was focussing his attention on a constitution which would harm his ability to care for the people. As soon as they learned the Duma was reconvening, the people of Petrograd decided to remind Michael of his paternal tasks.

15 April 1918 dawned. Tsar Michael was already trimming his moustache in front of the mirror while a servant checked his notes one last time. Shortly after six AM, Michael pinned his last medal to his chest and led his honour guard into the royal car. Soldiers- some mounted, others on foot- stood at every street corner, fearfully glancing at the iron-grey sky. Everyone snapped to attention as the Tsarist motorcade reached the Tauride Palace. Michael returned the volley of salutes thrown at him before pausing in front of the lawn, where white, blue, and red flowers had been arranged in a giant Russian flag. A banner across the entrance proclaimed in ten-feet high characters, “God Save the Tsar.”

“God Save the Tsar”, Michael breathed, “for I cannot do it alone. And He alone knows what will happen if I fail.” The Tsar entered the Tauride Palace. After perfecting everything in his office, Michael strode into the Duma hall for yet another standing ovation. Yet, it was quieter than before. Many seats were vacant- and the dreaded black wall was nowhere to be found.

The reactionaries had boycotted the event.

The Duma session was supposed to have opened at nine AM, but the Tsar decided to wait for half an hour, assuming that the URP was arriving late to protest. However, by nine-thirty the reactionaries were nowhere to be found, and Michael decided to get on with it. After a preliminary opening speech thanking the congregants for re-assembling on such short notice- and “lamenting that circumstance prevents many of us from gathering here today”- the Tsar reversed his support for the three-fourths majority, and said that for the sake of legislation it had to go. An absolute majority of 200- out of 400 seats, not the 286 currently occupied- would suffice to abolish it. That formality finished, the Tsar began reciting the document. ““One: The Russian Empire is led by the person who, by the grace of God…”

Shouting came from outside the Tauride Palace. Everyone glanced at the door, and the guards gripped their rifles tighter. One could’ve heard a pin drop were it not for the din outside. Shouting, cursing, and footsteps echoed through the halls. Everyone’s heart raced as they glanced for the exits. The roar grew louder every moment, and several delegates hurriedly made their way out the fire exits. A moment later, the Tsar saw the doors opening. Michael tore off his imperial regalia, preparing to fight the mob who were surely breaking through…

...except they weren’t.

The workers of Petrograd airing their grievances to their "imperial father" at the Tauride Palace

The people of Petrograd believed that their loyalty earned them a seat at a redone Constitutional Convention. If reactionaries had the Tsar’s ear, they needed to physically show him their concerns. Thus, approximately three thousand people congregated before the Tauride Palace throughout the morning. Their signs read ‘God Save the Tsar’, ‘Reactionaries keep away from power’, and most touchingly, ‘Imperial Father, do not abandon your children!’ Enormous Russian flags were strung out on two or even three poles, each held by a different man. Protestors called for cheaper and better bread, lower rent and taxes- all the usual concerns of the average workingman. Assuming that the Union of Russian People was present, the mob yelled inflammatory things loud enough to be heard inside, disrupting the Tsar’s reading of the Constitution. Fortunately, no one tried to climb the steel fence or trample through the front lawn, while the overtly patriotic nature of the demonstrations must’ve reassured many. The confused Tauride Palace guards restricted themselves to keeping the protestors away from the main entrance; opening fire would’ve caused a bloodbath. A tense standoff lasted for nearly half an hour as both sides tried to figure what the other wanted. Eventually, a captain of the tsarist bodyguard stepped out, escorted by fifty men. He demanded that they disperse or face the consequences; the protestors insisted on being allowed to parley with the Tsar. Sending the fifty reinforcements to help keep an eye on things, the captain entered the chamber where the Duma was meeting.

After showing half a dozen people his insignia to prove he wasn’t planning to kill them all, the captain explained the situation to Tsar Michael. Michael pinned his regalia back on and slowly walked to the front of the palace, heart pounding. As soon as he stepped out, the protestors exploded into applause. “God Save the Tsar!” mingled with “Deliver us!” and “Imperial father!”. The Tsar smiled benevolently. Clearly, he said, the people loved him. In September 1916, a crowd such as this one had forced his brother to flee for his life from a balcony, and now they came to praise him. Michael ascribed this not just to his liberal policies but to “the innate love each one of you has in your heart for God and for the Rodina.” While he couldn’t invite three thousand people into the Tauride Palace, he would happily permit three “representatives of the people” to address the Duma. Another wave of cheers erupted, and after ten minutes three men were cast forward- Lev, Vladimir, and Felix. Lev wore a suit and a kippah; the other two were clad in overalls and collarless shirts.

Michael grinned disarmingly as the four men entered the hall together. “Here, good Russians, we have the representatives of the people!” Polished gentlemen stared at the grease and grime covering Vladimir’s trousers and his bulging muscles, Felix’s bad teeth and oily skin, and the missing button on Lev’s jacket as though they came from Mars. Had these three fought alongside Julius Martov? Had they met these three ruffians nineteen months ago, would they have shouted “Peace, Bread, and Land” and reached for their knives? Were these the people who turned the wheels of empire, and whom as liberals they allegedly represented?

The proletarians stared back. The gold wristwatches, the horn-rimmed glasses and polished shoes, the pristine beards and odour of aftershave might’ve sufficed for the ‘deities’ of Olympus but which were as far removed from the workingman’s daily drudgery as the Greek mountain. These ‘liberals’ seemed no closer to them than the boycotting reactionaries. Only the Tsar cared; he was their father. The two worlds stared in mutual incomprehension before Michael broke the silence. What did the people want from the new constitution? How could he best guarantee their well-being? Unbeknownst to the three, Michael’s liberalism only went so far, and he wasn’t enthused about talking to the people. He’d pondered what the three had been up to in September 1916, and certainly didn’t want any ideas from that revolution to cross into his project. Ideally, Lev, Vladimir, and Felix could offer some trivial concession- fixing the price of bread or even labour laws- to keep the system running and the working classes happy. A secretary took notes as they conversed. Noblemen shook their heads- what was the world coming to, the Tsar simply sitting down and talking with riffraff?- but they were bloody glad not to be fleeing for their lives. A servant brought some glasses, and everyone took an impromptu vodka break, cracking jokes in poor taste about ‘the stench’. By eleven-thirty, things were progressing nicely, and the Tsar contemplated adjourning for lunch.

A gunshot broke the hubbub. Everyone froze, glancing at the door as they eyed the emergency exits again. Shouts, curses, and screams came from outside, pierced by more gunshots. “What is the meaning of this?”, the Tsar thundered. “Your people will pay dearly if they attempt to break in, you know.”

“Sire, we do not know ourselves!” Vladimir’s face was a mask of fear.

“Well, by God”, the Tsar growled, “there is one way to find out.” He made for the door.

All was chaos outside. Most of the guards lay dead or dying as a street battle raged. Signs praising the Tsar lay smashed, and the cries of “Deliver us, imperial father!” had been drowned out by three words. “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality!” Personal insults about Michael- and even worse, “God Save Tsar Nicholas!”- poked their heads above the chorus of screams, trampling boots, and gunshots.

The Black Hundreds had returned.

The Union of Russian People had skipped the second Duma session for a very simple reason. Since legal means couldn’t stop Michael and the rest of the liberals from what he considered treason, Alexander Dubrovin abandoned all pretence. He’d spent the days before the congress conferring with the real Black Hundred- the legions of nationalists with many guns and few scruples, for whom liberalism was a crime not just against the State but against God, and who’d partaken in pogroms and thuggery before being pulled into the trenches of the Great War.

Now, they were determined to take matters into their own hands.

An artist's depiction of the Black Hundreds assaulting the Duma, 15 April 1918

Clashes erupted within moments. The Black Hundreds were all too pleased to disperse a crowd of neo-Martovists hell-bent on allying with the treasonous Michael to foment revolution, while the mob wasn’t afraid to fight back once attacked. A sense of betrayal engulfed the protestors. Had this all been a trick? Had Tsar Michael deliberately had them wait outside, so as to let his thugs crush them? That false rumour would eventually blossom into a conspiracy theory which the Bolsheviks would put to good use later on. Not everyone present on that fateful day, though, would live to see the revolution. Palace guards who rushed to separate the two were trampled. Both sides had too much pent-up hatred to listen to reason and a hundred armed men weren’t enough. The Black Hundreds were outnumbered nearly five to one, but virtually all were armed, whereas only a few labour protestors were. Compounding the confusion, the Black Hundreds were dressed fairly similarly to the labour protestors. People stuck close to their friends, swinging clubs or knives at anybody they didn’t know. The Black Hundreds were under orders to break into the Tauride Palace with the end goal of killing as many as possible, but their enemy prevented this. Having congregated around the entrance well before the Black Hundreds arrived, the demonstrators formed a human shield around the Tauride Palace, and the Black Hundreds would’ve needed to kill every last one of them to enter. Their failure wasn’t due to lack of effort.
Tsar Michael wasn’t about to let Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality conquer the Tsarist crown. Bullets whipping all round him, his guards dead and dying, he scampered back into the Tauride Palace. “Get everyone out of here!”, he ordered the guard captain. “And find me a telephone!” While portly noblemen who hadn’t run since their schooldays picked their way down the fire escape, the Tsar of all the Russias screamed into an underground telephone. If the entire Petrograd garrison didn’t get to Taurida as fast as was humanly possible, the brigadier would be torn limb from limb and his successor would find himself defending the capital against a revolution and answering to the Tsar’s eight-year-old son. Michael flavoured this with several choice remarks about the brigadier’s personal life best left in the original Russian. Smoke curled into the room moments later. Fire alarms wailed and a bead of sweat trickled down the Tsar’s neck. A younger Michael might’ve said that it couldn’t end like this, that he was too young or too powerful. But Michael knew. April 15 1918 might be his last day, just as the revolutionaries had caught that swine Rasputin in September 1916. Natalia’s face flashed before his eyes, as did little George in his schoolboy’s trousers. God Save the Tsar, Michael thought. His boy wasn’t ready; restoring Nicholas to the throne would be disastrous. If Russia was going to survive, the only man who could save it was trapped in an underground telephone booth with a fire above him.
What did he have to lose?

Tsar Michael II ran like a bat out of hell, feeling every one of his forty years as he stumbled in his formal boots. His heart pounded against his chest like a battering ram; he sucked oxygen like there was no tomorrow. Flames blocked the door he’d come through. He felt like a roast in the oven as the heat stuck his uniform to him. Michael grabbed his throat, fighting for every breath. His legs turned to jelly, and he yelped as his bare skin touched the flaming floor. No, no, he thought, can’t have that. Crawling forward an inch used all the strength in his body, and his vision began to blur. It was all too much. Tsar Michael II, Tsar of All the Russias by the Grace of God, closed his eyes for the last time.

The assault on the Duma left the prospect of a coup d’etat very real. No one knew where the Tsar and Duma representatives were, or even if they were alive. Losing the roughly three hundred men who managed the empire would create an insurmountable power vacuum. Once the Petrograd garrison had dispelled the Black Hundreds and labour protestors- making little distinction between the two- they began searching. Petrograd was placed under martial law and the Winter Palace secure while firemen combatted the blaze. By the end of 15 April 1918, the Tauride Palace was a shell of its former self, its ashes wafting into the sky and choking the residents. Fortunately, out of the 286 Duma delegates who’d been present, 189 had managed to escape during the attack; soldiers had taken them to safety. Firemen pulled another forty-five from the wreckage. They were hospitalised for grievous burns but thirty-six pulled through. The remaining twenty-four weren’t so fortunate. Some were pulled from the wreckage horribly disfigured and placed in body bags; others were missing and presumed dead. Amongst them was Tsar Michael II. The emperor’s charred corpse was retrieved from the basement and taken to the Winter Palace. His funeral at St. Isaac’s Cathedral, held a month later, was reminiscent of the better days before the war. Kaiser Wilhelm II, cousin to the late Tsar, was present, as was King George V. The French government-in-exile sent a junior functionary. All the Duma survivors out of hospital were present, including Prime Minister Georgi Lvov.

More than one scholar has commented that Michael’s death would’ve caused a civil war without the Constitution. As it was, the resultant succession crisis left an extremely poor government in place to face the revolution. Tsar Alexander III’s death in 1894 had left three sons (4) and two daughters atop the House of Romanov. Nicholas, the eldest son, had become Tsar Nicholas II while Michael had become a grand duke. The older of the two sisters, Xenia, had married Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich (5), while the younger, Olga, had defied her brother's wishes to marry a minor noble. (6) Michael's death left the country at a crossroads. His son Georgi was eight years old and as such would need a regent until his sixteenth birthday. There was, however, one small problem: Georgi was the product of a morganatic marriage. Michael's wife Natalia was a lawyer's daughter whose honourary nobility had been awarded upon marrying the heir presumptive. Much like the late Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, the imperial family only grudgingly consented to the marriage after Michael promised that none of his children would be eligible for succession. Court conservatives thus refused to hear of Georgi becoming emperor, instead fixing their sights on the worst candidate imaginable.

Michael's death had weakened the Russian liberal movement. Much of the energy behind the Constitutional reforms had stemmed from him, and without their leader, the movement began fracturing. To oppose liberalism was no longer to oppose the Tsar. Georgi Lvov's assumption of the liberal mantle politicised the issue, and before long support for or opposition to the Constitution became based around one's personal feelings about the Prime Minister. In short, reform was now just another political issue and not something all Russians could unite around. Many who had previously supported the project now backed away, fearful for their lives and unsure if a future Tsar would roll back reforms. This all gave rise to a movement arguing that liberalism had been a great mistake. It was time to pull the plug on the Reform Era, they said, and revert to the prewar status quo. As 15 April had desecrated "Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality", (7) these conservatives simply spoke of "the Russian tradition". They derided the crude criminality of the Black Hundreds and were genuinely repulsed by Michael's murder while sympathising with their reactionary goals. For these conservatives, the ideal Russia was one where their estates and interests were sacrosanct, where the 'rabble' (Martovists and Black Hundreds alike) were shut out of power, and where the Tsar defended their interests without tipping the ship of state into revolution. Many were wealthy landowners who simply wanted to roll the clock back to 1914.

Their suggestion to the power vacuum was to restore Tsar Nicholas II. Given Nicholas' collaboration with Alexander Dubrovin (implicated by Lvov in helping plan 15 April), this seemed absurd, even offensive to Michael's memory. However, the former Tsar enjoyed a certain prestige amongst the empire's upper classes- it was why Michael had exiled him. Now though, given a choice between handing power over to Nicholas and handing it to the son of a morganatic marriage, many viewed the former monarch as the lesser of two evils. Besides, many still associated Nicholas with the better days before the war, when estates undisturbed since Napoleon's day sprawled across the country and vodka flowed like running water. If anyone could bring back the good old days, it was him.

Thus, several prominent conservatives visited Nicholas in exile in June 1918. Kaiser Wilhelm had given his cousin an abandoned estate in Pomerania, half a million marks (his time out of power hadn't been kind to Nicholas' personal finances) and instructions to keep out of politics. Bitterness over the failure of his political and personal lives had driven the ex-Tsar to develop an excessive fondness for the local beer and spirits. Early in the morning of 16 April, the telephone had interrupted fried egg sandwiches and 'reinforced' coffee served by a rather attractive Pomeranian nurse. It was the Russian ambassador to Berlin, and his brother was dead. Nicholas genuinely grieved over Michael's death. Despite their fierce political opposition, the two remained brothers and loved one another. He spent the rest of April in mourning black and often wept at his desk. He tossed and turned in his bed, muttering the names of those lost to him. "Michael", "Alexei", "Alexandra", and the four girls. Nicholas refused to believe that the Black Hundreds had killed his brother, believing instead that the Tauride Palace had been torched by "Septembrist revolutionaries".

When a delegation from Petrograd visited him, Nicholas' first thought was not again. The last time he'd been approached about returning to power had ended dreadfully. With Michael dead, his future enemy wouldn't show him fraternal love and mercy, while Kaiser Wilhelm would be furious for sticking his head above the radar. However, the conservative argument struck a chord in his heart. Russia, they said, stood at a crossroads. Either they could have an "illegitimate brat" and an equally powerless regent on the throne with Georgi Lvov pulling the strings, or they could have "the one true Tsar".

The pretty young nurse soon found herself packing cases.

His brief participation in the September Revolution was the most obvious reason Georgi Lvov was determined to move heaven and earth to stop this. Julius Martov had conferred with Lvov hours after driving Nicholas from Petrograd. The two had collaborated for less than forty-eight hours before Lvov defected to Michael, but the Prime Minister (correctly) believed Nicholas loathed him. Restoring Nicholas would be fatal for Lvov's career... and maybe his physical health too. Lvov also believed Nicholas would be disastrous for Russia. He credited himself (not unjustly) with saving the regime in September 1916; Nicholas' incompetence lay behind that revolution. Constitutionalism and liberalisation would die if Nicholas retook the throne, and the Russian Empire would rust before Martov returned to put it out of its misery. The best way forward, Lvov believed, was for either Michael's son Georgi or one of Alexander III's daughters to ascend the throne as a constitutional monarch and for the Duma to modernise the country's institutions. An incidental benefit of this, of course, was that it gave Prime Minister Georgi Lvov immense power. Lvov could've tried to ban the former Tsar from the country. Weeks without a Tsar had left much of the day-to-day business of administration in his hands, and it's a good bet that border guards would have obeyed any order if they knew it came from the Prime Minister. Nor had he much standing in conservative eyes to lose if he tried such a thing. However, Lvov had an even stronger weapon at his disposal: a knowledge not of the 1918 Constitution but of its predecessor, the 1832 Fundamental Laws, which even the firmest conservative grudgingly admitted was the law of the land.

Tsar Nicholas II was ineligible for the throne. Both the 1832 and 1906 documents made clear that while the monarch had the right to abdicate, that abdication was irreversible. As Nicholas had ceded the throne to Michael in September 1916, he could neither reclaim his throne nor act as Regent for young Georgi. More than one conservative turned this into a cudgel with which to beat liberalism- what constitution wouldn't let a rightful emperor reclaim his place?- but Lvov was adamant. A petition which circled the Duma and State Council declared that "while our fealty to the Tsarist throne is forever boundless, we must subjugate our loyalty to the person bearing the title of His Sovereign Majesty to our loyalty to the throne and laws surrounding it." Besides, Nicholas' support for reaction left him tarred by association with his brother's death- pinning it on leftist revolutionaries didn't help. Finally, after weeks of correspondence, Nicholas II gave up. On 1 July 1918, he announced that he wouldn't return to Petrograd. Lvov's legal and emotional argument had won the day. With Nicholas removed from power, his four daughters lost their succession rights. None ever claimed the Russian throne, nor have any of their descendants.

With Nicholas' branch of the Romanovs neutered, the axe fell on young Georgi. Discussion of conveniently forgetting his morganatic status or altering the law in question was forgotten- to do so would set a dangerous precedent that Russia's constitution could be shifted to suit the needs of the moment. Michael's widow Natalia was amiable to this; she'd seen what power could do to those who wielded it. Living obscurely but safely with her boy seemed far better than watching the Okhrana stop ninety-nine attempts on her son's life only for the hundredth to succeed. Natalia, Georgi, and Natalia's daughter from an earlier marriage who shared her name moved to Michael's estate at Brasovo, which he'd left her in his will. They fled the revolution for Germany and later America, where she died peacefully in 1952. Georgi (8) spent the rest of his life as a pretender to the Romanov throne even as Russian neo-monarchism coalesced around his aunt's descendants. His death in 1989, leaving behind three sons. The eldest, the self-styled Count Nick Brasovich, claims the title Tsar Nicholas III as head of the 'Michael branch' of the Romanovs. Virtually no one recognises this today, and the 'count' is more focussed on his New Jersey insurance company (Double-Headed Eagle Insurance: Eyes In the Backs of Our Heads For Your Safety) than his dynastic claim, and has few qualms about his Americanised first name. (9)

With Nicholas and Michael's branches of the Romanov family removed from the equation, the succession fell to the oldest of Alexander III's daughters. Grand Duchess Xenia Alexandrovna had watched events with concern from the sidelines and predicted that calamity would come from Nicholas' rule. She counted her blessings that, as a woman, she was at the back of the succession queue. Fear for her personal safety drove Xenia to strenuously avoid politics during her brother's regime. She was out of Petrograd on 15 April, but quickly rushed to be with Natalia and young Georgi. Xenia was never especially close to Natalia, but believed the only thing to do was to crown Georgi. The alternative- restoring Nicholas- would have been disastrous. Xenia wrote to her brother, urging him to stay in Germany, at the same time as she published an open letter calling for Georgi's coronation. Ideally, Georgi would reign as Tsar, and a Regency Council- with her husband and her at the top, of course- could run the country until he achieved his majority in 1926. As the weeks stretched on with no end in sight, though, she realised this wouldn't happen. Placing Georgi on the throne- aside from being unconstitutional- would cause too many behind-the-scenes struggles for influence over the boy monarch. Division at the top was the last thing Russia needed. That left only one option.

Xenia went to see Prime Minister Lvov on the fifth of July 1918. They'd not interacted much before, and the meeting was initially quite stiff and formal. "We both have a common interest", said the Prime Minister. "Young Georgi Mikhailovich has been removed from the succession line- indeed, he was never there to begin with- and your brother will not be leaving Germany." The Romanov dynasty was in a fairly precarious place. Only two women were eligible to rule Russia, and one of them was sitting in this office. He'd been in contact with her sister Olga, and she'd refused the throne. The choice, Lvov said, was between Xenia or a republic.

Twenty minutes later, Tsarina Xenia was on the phone with Patriarch Nikolay Rayev. How soon could he perform the Sacrament of Coronation?

The coronation occurred with full pomp and splendour on 1 August, ending a three-and-a-half month interregnum. In her coronation speech, Xenia declared her fealty to the constitution and promised that "those whose hatred for modernisation has led them to commit heinous crimes against the State and Crown will be punished most sincerely." Though she was nominally lord and master of all Russia, halfway between God and the people, Xenia was a middle-aged woman without political experience. Georgi Lvov had managed the gap between Michael's death and her coronation, and everyone knew he'd play an integral role in the new regime.

There was little pretence when Xenia convened a special "Constitutional Session" of the Duma twelve days into her regime. With the Tauride Palace nothing more than a heavily guarded heap of ruins, the legislative body met in the Winter Palace’s orchestra hall. Petrograd was placed under martial law during this time and no less than five thousand armed men guarded the palace itself. Only 225 out of an initial four hundred were present; the 124 reactionary seats had been abolished while many others had died on 15 April. The constitution for which Michael had given his life passed unanimously… provided one ignored the 175 non-votes.

So began the Russian Empire’s democratic tradition.

Tsarina Xenia

Comments?

Hundredsman? Hundred? Won’t make much difference to Michael, that’s for sure….
As distinct from liberal. Leftist=Marxist here, while liberal=constitutional monarchist.
The Bourbon Restoration’s Charter of Government was framed as a gift from Louis XVIII to the people, as opposed to stemming from ‘natural rights’... and the Restoration regime didn’t last two decades.
Nicholas, Michael, and Georgi, another George V lookalike, who died in 1912.
This gentleman, who just so happened to be her father's cousin.
Nikolai Kulikovsky
They're now 'buzzwords', if you will.
Whose death in a motor accident was butterflied away ITTL
This is meant as a parody of certain online monarchists who veer into LARPing- vilifying republicanism more intensely than actual members of royal houses despite basically being average Americans.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 16, 2021

Chapter Forty-Seven: Stand With the Majority, Die With the Minority

"It is fortunate, Julius Opisovich, that you are only a minority! If all revolutionaries adhered to your errors the Tsar would crush us underfoot!"
-Vladimir Lenin to Julius Martov at the Second Unity Congress

"Our two countries have been allied before, you know. Despite the war we still touch Germany on both sides. Now that the French proletariat has liberated itself, and after the Russian people have followed suit, the dictatorship of the proletariat will surround the dictatorship of the Kaiser. Then a new Franco-Russian Alliance, one of the people, not the emperors and capitalists, will succeed where the first failed!"
-Vladimir Lenin to Georges Sorel at Toulon

Julius Martov had spent the past year trying to learn Norwegian while surveying the wreckage of his career. September 1916 had been disastrous. His position as chairman of the Petrograd Central Worker’s Group had left him poised to seize control of the riots, to harness the power of the masses as man harnesses electricity. Nicholas II had been expelled from the capital while Georgy Lvov had sided with him. Yet, it hadn’t lasted. Lvov had betrayed the Revolution and Nicholas’ brother had crushed it. As soon as he’d heard gunfire in the streets, Martov had fled to Petrograd harbour in disguise and stolen a fishing-boat. He then travelled, not west into the Baltic, but east along the Neva River to Shlisselberg on Lake Lagoda. Schisselberg wasn’t under revolutionary control and no one was looking for him there. Disguised as a refugee, Martov had bribed his way on a ferry to Sortavala near the Finnish border. Thus began a month-long odyssey across Finland which involved hunger, hitch-hiking, freezing weather, and cost Martov ten pounds and his luscious beard. The deprivation was hard, especially for a man in his forties, but the idea of what the Okhrana would do to him was worse. Tired but safe, Martov staggered into Helsinki on the first of December 1916. It was there that he realised what had happened on his long march. When Martov had fled Petrograd, Finland had been a discontented Russian province; it was now the Finnish Socialist Workers Republic. (1) Martov was enchanted by the new order, but more than a little surprised that agricultural Finland- which, like all good Russians, he condescendingly viewed as a backwater- had been the first to successfully pull off a socialist revolution. Never mind that Matti Passivuori’s decidedly liberal regime wore only the aesthetic of socialism (it even let the gentry, native and Russian, keep their property), or that the current government was decidedly unstable. Seeing red flags fly so soon after his own defeat convinced Julius Martov that though he’d lost the battle, he would win the war. The laws of history said so.

Julius Martov

Much as he would’ve loved to remain in the new Finland, Martov had to keep moving. Though Petrograd had recognised Finnish independence, he was a wanted man and doubtless assassins would find him if he stayed in one place too long, international border or not. Thus, on Christmas Eve 1916 he conferred with Kullervo Manner, the furthest-left politician in Finland. Manner agreed to slip Martov over the border to Norway, and presented him with a set of false documents. He was now Grigory Strissykn, a Russian landowner from Finland who held a Norwegian passport. Julius Martov set sail from Turku on the 27th, and Grigory Strissykn set foot in Oslo on the third of January, 1917.

Spring 1917 was a bleak time for Martov. Few of his Menshevik colleagues knew where he was, and e had no idea where they were. Norwegian newspapers were illegible, and the Russian ones he purchased at the embassy were all ‘tsarist rags’ (as he described them). Every week, some high-up in Tsar Michael’s bureaucracy promised that a “new wave of security enforcement is forthcoming to counter the revolutionary threat.” Such articles were followed by missives gloating about how such-and-such a “Martovist” had been arrested or executed. Their names were usually so obscure Martov was led to one of two conclusions. Either the Okhrana was losing its teeth and only capturing a handful of people, or the names of those arrested were picked at random from thousands sent to Siberia. Silence from his colleagues supported Martov’s fears of the latter. Seeing his own name vilified in the papers was exciting at first, but novelty soon turned to fear- the promised million-ruble reward for anybody who delivered Martov to Petrograd dead or alive didn’t help. If he didn’t seek protection from the Norwegian government, he’d be defenceless against tsarist assassins, but to acknowledge that he wasn’t in fact Grigory Strissykn would send a flare visible for hundreds of miles to every Okhrana agent in the world. Security shoved Martov into isolation. Odd-jobbing barely kept body and soul together (not speaking Norwegian wasn’t a huge benefit), and he began taking his meals at a Russian Orthodox charity kitchen. Grigory eneboer- Grigory the recluse- became known for his halitosis and liquor-induced red nose. Martov scrupulously avoided drinking in public- he couldn’t take the risk that he’d drunkenly curse the Tsar and reveal his identity. So, he stayed up late, vodka filling his stomach, calling Georgy Lvov every name in the book. When he awoke the next day, he blamed Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality for his hangover. Aware that the police could crack his door down at any moment, Martov left no traces of his Marxism. His taxes were paid on time and in full, a Russian Talmud rubbed shoulders with Anna Karrenia and War and Peace, and a journal of his lamented his lack of romance and desire to return “to God and the Tsar.” Every lie in that book was a knife in the guts, part of a disguise which might protect Martov’s flesh but scourged his soul.

Failure exacerbated loneliness. Martov had spent his entire adult life preparing for September 1916. Revolution was inevitable; popular will couldn’t be defeated. Martov’s religion said as much. September 1916 had caught him off-guard as much as anybody else, but within twenty-four hours he had taken control. But letting that traitor Georgi Lvov parley with the foe doomed the revolution on which so many had pinned their hopes. That Russian communism had been set back years was painful; the belief that it was entirely his fault was agony. When he closed his eyes, Martov saw his Bolshevik foes sneering, saw his surviving allies abandon him for Vladimir Lenin, saw history books a century later call him the damn fool whose failure derailed the Revolution. It’s miraculous that suicide never once crossed Martov’s mind.

However, the night is always darkest before the dawn. On the first of May 1917, a knock came on Martov’s door. “Julius Martov? Open up now!” His heart leapt- had the Okhrana found him at last? Would he rather throw himself from a window and die quickly? Heart in mouth, he trudged to the door of his grubby flat. This, evidently, was how it all ended. A moment later, a forceful blow nearly knocked him off his feet. “Julius Opisovich Martov, you are alive!”

Leon Trotsky’s eyes gleamed beneath his spectacles.

Trotsky’s past few years had been chaotic. He’d last seen Martov at a socialist antiwar conference in September 1915, where Martov had proven too conservative for his tastes and Lenin too radical. Six months later, as the Western and Italian fronts caved in, authorities deported Trotsky to Spain for sedition. (2) While Martov was raising the red banner in Petrograd, Trotsky was learning to describe his feelings about the food and the war in Spanish. Upon his release in December 1916, the authorities had planned to send him to Murmansk, but he refused, knowing what the puto zar- both men smiled at the description of Michael- would do to him. Instead, Trotsky had gone to stay with Jewish Communist contacts in New York City. The Lower East Side was a long way from Russia and the Tsar’s writ didn’t extend there. The good news, Trotsky told Martov, was that all the important Communists were alive. Though the Okhrana had inflicted ghastly fates on a few, the September Revolution hadn’t lasted long enough for the principal players to stick their necks out. Bloody purges in Petrograd and Moscow had taken many innocent lives, but the only major revolutionary to die had been the unpopular Nikolai Rozhov. Lenin was in Switzerland while Nikolai Bukharin had found refuge in socialist Finland. September 1916 had been a setback, Trotsky said, not a catastrophe. Martov hadn’t failed, he’d forgotten that the liberal revolution was only the first step. Now that Russia had the beginnings of a liberal bourgeois government, the revolutionaries had to unite to overthrow that regime, just as Marx prophesied. It was time for Mensheviks and Bolsheviks to set aside their differences and unite against the common enemy. "If you and Lenin quarrel", he told his comrade, "the only winners reside in Petrograd." Trotsky grinned as he retrieved two steamship tickets to Glasgow- one for Grigory Strissykn, the other for ‘Snezhok Goldstein’. (3)

It was time for a second Unity Conference.

Congregating was dangerous. The key revolutionaries had all survived by going under the radar in places the Romanovs couldn’t reach. Hundreds of Russians suddenly appearing in Glasgow would cause a stir and be impossible to conceal, reinvigorating the Tsar’s attempts to kill them. A handful of disguised Okhrana men could easily arrest them all or the British authorities could send them back to Russia en masse. That would ingratiate London with Tsar Michael’s regime, while also getting rid of individuals for whom Whitehall had little love. Finally, Martov wasn’t sure he wanted to meet with a man nearly as hostile as the Tsar. Martov's nightmare of Lenin castigating him before friend and foe alike for bungling the September Revolution seemed frighteningly plausible.

Trotsky acknowledged Martov’s fears. There was a danger from the Tsarist police, he said, but that had always been true. “Just think of when I knocked on your door a moment ago. Who were you to presume that the first Russian you’d heard in half a year was a comrade-in-arms, not a secret policeman?” The revolutionaries would slip into Scotland a few at a time and wouldn’t stay together- they’d move about the countryside for a few weeks before congregating, while their disguises would hopefully confuse snoops. As for the other, he reminded Martov that he had good relations with Lenin. Trotsky promised to ensure that Lenin didn’t humiliate Martov or the Mensheviks- provided Martov was respectful towards the Bolsheviks. Martov reluctantly agreed, and the two ventured to Scotland.

Part of the disguise involved around Glasgow for a month. Their English phrase books were slightly deficient, but they got by. On 22 June, Trotsky presented Martov with a coded message- the paperboy was starting a new route, and wanted Martov to greet him outside his house. The ‘paperboy’- Vladimir Lenin with his distinctive newsboy cap and goatee- had finally made it. A week later, Martov received more coded instructions; he was to buy a bus ticket to the hamlet of Duck Bay, several hours north of Glasgow. The knowledge that if he couldn’t understand the reason for all this secrecy, the Okhrana wouldn’t be able to either, reassured him.

Duck Bay’s population doubled in the first days of July 1917. The arrival of so many strange foreigners baffled the handful of conservative, ageing Scotsmen, who murmured amongst themselves about the ‘bloody foreigners. The only man not to complain was the owner of Duck Bay’s sole bed-and-breakfast, who received a vast sum for leaky bedrooms and an endless supply of potatoes, cabbage, and baked beans. Secured by the knowledge that the place was so miserable no secret policeman, British or Russian, would ever set foot there, the revolutionaries got down to work.

The Russian Social Democratic Labour Party had split over a variety of practical and theoretical differences. Vladimir Lenin, champion of the hard line, had won a majority of followers at the 1912 Party Congress, and his allies came to be called bolsheviki- the majority. The more flexible and conciliatory Martov had led the smaller mensheviki- minority. Much had changed since both sides were under the same roof five years ago. While the numerical distinction between Bolsheviks and Mensheviks had previously been minimal, Martov’s failure in Petrograd had won Lenin converts. The goateed Bolshevik savaged Martov’s liberalism, accusing him of being insufficiently revolutionary. His alliance with Georgy Lvov was held up as an example of his lack of revolutionary spirit- no real Marxist would’ve collaborated with a Tsarist tool! Red-faced, fists shaking, Martov replied that not only was Lvov’s treason hardly his fault, the September Revolution had been a liberal bourgeois one. Where was Lenin, he said, jabbing his finger at the Bolshevik, when the gunshots were ringing out? “In Switzerland”, Martov thundered, “reading old copies of Iskra!”

“You may have started the revolution, Julius Opisovich, but I will finish it! After all, you and your minority are the liberal bourgeois, true, but you have forgotten your theory. For the liberal bourgeois government is not the final stage, is it? The people will overthrow it in good time.” Lenin then launched into a diatribe about the cruelties of Tsar Michael’s regime, lamenting the deaths of ‘revolutionary martyrs’ sent to Siberia or given nine grammes of lead in the back of the head, before explaining his version of the September Revolution to the assembled revolutionaries. Though he’d risen against Tsar Nicholas, Lenin said, Martov had in fact hoped the revolution would fail. His ‘liberal minority stance’- pozitsiya liberalnogo menshinstva, позиция либерального меньшинства- had led him to launch the September Revolution with intent to fail. Rather than setting out to establish a “genuine people’s government”, Lenin said, Martov had been willing to settle for a moderate regime. The dangerous implication- that Martov’s liberal views were closer to those of a moderate Tsar than his fellow revolutionaries- hung in the air. All the while, Martov was sitting in the front row, his fists and teeth clenched. He’d been called to Scotland to reunite the Party, not to be insulted in front of his peers! Before he could tell Lenin where to go and what to do when he got there, Trotsky raised a hand. Ideological differences were important, but the gulf between Bolsheviks and Mensheviks paled next to that between revolutionaries and the Tsar. September 1916 had been a partial success- though it had failed to create a people’s government, it had established the liberal bourgeois government Marx predicted. This, Trotsky emphasised with his eyes fixed on Lenin, had been an accidental effect unrelated to its failure, not Martov’s ultimate intent.

So ended the first day of the Second Unity Conference.

Lenin and Martov photographed for the last time together at the Duck Bay Congress

The next day’s discussion of tactics was telling. Despite Trotsky’s mediation, Lenin had triumphed over Martov. The Menshevik was the failed moderate who’d traded one tsar for another; the Bolshevik brimmed with revolutionary fire. Thus, Lenin’s views dominated the discussion on the role of the peasantry. He criticised the Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party (SRs) for being lukewarm, but reiterated his belief in the revolutionary potential of the peasants. In fact, Lenin claimed, one thing September 1916 had shown was that peasant cooperation was essential, and Martov’s ignoring them had been “a major theoretical and practical error.” Only Petrograd had risen up- the farmers had remained docile, and the revolution had failed. Martov objected that the September Revolution had ended too quickly for the peasants to rise up, to which Lenin retorted that Martov’s poor leadership was to blame. Before the Menshevik could defend himself, Trotsky interjected, pleading with both to forget the past and focus on what needed doing. This earned him flak from both Lenin and Martov- the former was disappointed at losing a chance to humiliate his rival, while the latter was furious at not being able to defend himself. The discussion then moved onto the SRs. Lenin criticised their liberalism and support for the Great War, and said that there were far too many “voices opposed to full-throated revolution” in their ranks. The peasants would be best served, he said, by throwing their weight behind the radicals in the party. At this, Boris Kamkov (4) interjected with a hearty “hear hear!”, before the more conservative Viktor Chernov shouted him down. Citing his internal exile as proof that he was a genuine revolutionary, he publicised his deep offence at Lenin’s insinuation. Chernov also mentioned his colleague Avram Gots, who’d fallen prey to the post-September purges. Lenin, Chernov said, “was not the entire revolution. This is a popular movement, a movement of masses and of hearts. No one man can stand on a podium and dictate the course of events, and then proclaim himself an agent of worker’s democracy!” Martov’s smirk was short-lived, as Vladimir Lenin shrugged.

“Very well, Viktor Mikhailovich. You are right. Revolution is not one man dictating events from a podium, it is the people in action. The people, let it be remembered, constitute a majority. If you are a revolutionary, you will side with the bolsheviki. If you are a reactionary, you will side with the mensheviki. But the minority will lose in the end.” Martov stared at his erstwhile comrade like a deer caught in headlights, before glancing fearfully at Leon Trotsky. His heart sank as Trotsky smiled at his ally Lenin. One by one, the delegates rose to their feet. “Long live the majority! Da zdravstvuyet bol'shinstvo! Да здравствует большинство!”

Following this, the Second Unity Conference dissolved. The Bolsheviks had triumphed; Martov had been sidelined. The left wing of the SRs had defeated the right. It was time to decamp before MI5- or worse, the Okhrana- discovered them and made Tsar Michael’s day. Lenin and Trotsky returned to Helsinki; Martov sulked, tail between his legs, to New York. He would play no role in the human tragedy which would unfold from Tsar Michael’s constitutional dreams and restructure the Russian state in ways no one could’ve imagined.

Victory enabled Lenin to return to the safety of Zurich via Germany in September 1917 with his wife Nadezhda Krupskaya, where he rented a flat under an alias. He availed himself of Swiss university libraries and three visits to Marx's birthplace in Trier to begin composing a new polemic. Imperialism As The Self-Destructive Outgrowth Of Capitalism (5) argued that the 'reactionary powers' were in constant competition for resources because, "that which stops growing begins to rot". The near-total colonisation of Africa and Asia left little unsettled space on the globe, and Lenin believed that the reactionary powers would now turn on one another. Lenin viewed the Great War as the first step in this, with the Tsarist regime and France having been the great losers. In keeping with his aggressive line at Duck Bay, Lenin described the September Revolution as incomplete and barely attempted to conceal his view that Julius Martov had deliberately bungled it. Imperfect though it was, Lenin conceded, the September Revolution served as proof that the weakest reactionary regimes would die first. He refused to describe Tsar Michael's Russia as the liberal bourgeois regime Marx had predicted. In his mind, the Tsarist facade needed an even greater defeat for a proper revolution. Lenin acknowledged a major contradiction in his theory: the Tsarist regime needed a defeat too massive to survive, but the only state with the military force for such a thing was Germany and her allies. Yet if Germany assumed power over Russia, surely they would establish a reactionary regime of their own choosing? While acknowledging this paradox, Lenin believed that a "true popular expression of sentiment" would forestall a German-dominated Russia. Citing Kaiser Wilhelm's refusal to occupy all of defeated France and his thus-far non-intervention in the Danubian Civil War (6), Lenin argued that Berlin could never hold all Russia. If the Germans faced "a united front of the working and producing masses... in Petrograd, Smolensk, Moscow, Kiev, and Odessa", they would eventually come to terms with the people's government. This wasn't the greatest argument and Lenin knew it.

From his flat in New York City, a livid Julius Martov wrote two long missives to Lenin. The first, dated 29 August, criticised him for "infringing the unity of the Party by marginalising the minority." If Lenin did not cease his dogmatism, Martov warned, the only victor would be Tsar Michael. Lenin didn't give Martov the dignity of a response but commented to Nadezhda that "of course (Martov) is marginalised. The minority is, by definition, in the margins! Perhaps if he would cease being a Menshevik, he might come out of the margins!" The second letter was far longer and concerned two separate points in Imperialism As The Self-Destructive Outgrowth Of Capitalism. "Though you and I can agree on precious little these days, Comrade Vladimir Ulyanovich, both of us have stood on the barricades and raised the red flag against the Tsar... To claim that our practical experience of socialism is so little, when neither of us can set foot in our Motherland because we have chosen the revolution over peace and stability, seems wrong in the extreme and I would recommend you modify this accordingly." Given that he'd trouced Martov two months before at Duck Bay, he told his wife in putrid terms, this was damned insolent. Martov criticised Lenin's belief that the Tsarist regime needed another great external defeat before the people could liberate themselves on the grounds that the only power which cold achieve this was reactionary Germany, and that this wouldn't be an improvement. This irked Lenin- hadn't Martov read the bloody response to that exact argument?- but what came next made Lenin want to tear his beard out in rage. Martov declared that this "reeked of a certain pro-German sentiment, which might be construed as active support for the militarised Kaiser's regime under the guise of popular revolution." Lenin sat speechless as Nadezhda held his shoulder, possibly to comfort or to restrain. A slew of Russian cursing broke half a minute of silence.

"A German agent, me?" The goateed Bolshevik crumpled Martov's letter and hurled it against the wall, calling his foe every name in the book. After he'd calmed down, Lenin ordered his wife to fetch a pen and paper, before devoting three hours to a counter-polemic. All the wounds which had festered since the Party schism, all the bad blood brought to the surface at Duck Bay, spewed from Lenin's acid tongue. He couldn't destroy what he hated, so he mocked it, cursed it, made it the victim of the one thing he had- his pen. Lenin condemned Julius Martov as "basically of the same ilk" as Georgi Lvov and charging that both had betrayed the September Revolution in different ways. Had he been in charge of the Petrograd Workers Army, fine revolutionaries would not have met their fates before the Okhrana and the people would've displaced the Tsars. Believing- as Martov was alleged to- that Michael's regime was the liberal one predicted by Marx, Lenin declared, was not just erroneous; it was grounds for schism. One could either stand with the majority or die with the minority. Lenin filled Stand With the Majority, Die With the Minority with fire and anger shines through the dense Communist prose a century on. However, this emotion comes at the cost of the intellectual airs of Lenin's other works. At times, the work is almost childishly petty and virtually no one reads the piece today outside of research purposes.

In setting the tone for the forthcoming revolution and post-revolutionary politics, however, Stand With the Majority, Die With the Minority was deeply important. No longer could one claim to be an "adherent of Marxism" or even a "Russian revolutionary." You were with Lenin and viewed Julius Martov as a worse enemy than Tsar Michael, or you were a Menshevik traitor. His hardline approach won Lenin much criticism, but it also won him more than a few converts. Martov was the failed revolutionary whose incompetence had transferred power to Michael and Georgi Lvov; Lenin was the new firebrand.

The business of revolution now distracted Lenin from his ideological battles.

Vladimir Lenin hadn't expected the Second French Revolution. Writing had consumed his time in Zurich and prevented him from appreciating the mess to his west. Historians often express surprise at this given his later revolutionary credentials, but it isn't so peculiar. After all, events surprised Georges Sorel in Italian exile just as much. When the Dijon revolt erupted in the first weeks of October 1917, no one knew what to make of it. If information couldn't reach the Parisian central government in a timely manner, it certainly wouldn't reach Swiss journalists soon. Besides, it's easy to forget given his infamy as the great Marxist revolutionary of all time how obscure Lenin was in autumn 1917. Most of those who knew his name at this point were either his devotees or mortal enemies. The average Dijonite rebel knew no more about Lenin in late 1917 than about the politics behind the Mexican-American War. Furthermore, it wasn't initially clear that these rebels deserved Lenin's praise. Even after Georges Sorel became their undisputed champion, their Marxist credentials remained shaky. Lenin, who knew nothing about Sorel, didn't want to champion a man who might turn out to be his ideological enemy. Besides, who could say if the rebels would win? Switzerland had one of the freest presses in Europe but it enjoyed cordial relations with the Third Republic, and its papers certainly provided Paris' version of events. Marxist publications were short on tactics and strategy. Attempting to visit Dijon would've got him arrested at the border as a 'subversive' or killed in the fighting. So, Lenin abstained from intervention or even public comment, though he discussed the war at great length with his wife.

Vladimir Lenin was thus shut out of the Second French Revolution.

Unbeknownst to Lenin, he was the subject of fierce debate amongst the new French leadership. Ludovic-Oscar Frossard, Marcel Cachin, and Louis Dubreuilh wanted nothing to do with him. This wasn't because they disapproved- all three shared his Orthodox Marxism and had read his works- but because they feared a power struggle. As men who'd enjoyed traditional political careers before the war, they viewed themselves as surrounded by outsiders. Sorel, despite being their nominal leader, was a quasi-syndicalist philosopher; Jean-Jacques Famride a military buffoon. Adding Lenin into the mix would only complicate matters. Additionally, Lenin was one of Europe's most wanted men. While they all professed not to care about relations with the "reactionary states", the triumvirate knew that if Lenin assumed a public mantle in the French revolutionary government, every Okhrana agent in the world would follow... and no one would shed a tear if they managed to kill one of the French revolutionaries either. Georges Sorel disagreed. Lenin, he said, "had a rare revolutionary spirit." Even though he had no intention of sharing power with the Russian, Sorel wanted to meet him, even if only informally. Sorel's practical experience burning the edifice to the ground would doubtless come in handy in Russia while Lenin's encyclopedic knowledge of Marxist theory could help in crafting a new state apparatus.

Thus, Georges Sorel invited a group of Russian union leaders to Toulon in summer 1918. Sorel’s syndicalist past gave him a firm appreciation of unions and he believed they could play a ‘vanguard role’ in toppling Tsarism. Cognisant that Vladimir Lenin had routed Julius Martov at the Duck Bay Congress two years prior, Sorel refrained from inviting major Mensheviks. The forty Russian union leaders who received invitations to France were all marked as having ‘revolutionary sympathies’- a badge of honour in Sorel’s mind. Vladimir Lenin travelled from Zurich but neither Leon Trotsky nor Martov attended. The French maintained absolute secrecy, sending delegates first to America and then Spain before providing guides to slip them through Pyrnenees passes. Georgi Lvov knew something was amiss in France, but not its scope or nature- like all Europeans, he assumed whatever came out of Sorel’s world had to be insane. Nevertheless, more than one Okhrana agent was later found on the wrong end of the Franco-Spanish border, nine grammes of lead in the back of his skull.

Having perfected the security, the French revolutionaries opened the Preliminary Congress of Russian Soviets on 11 August 1918.

Georges Sorel was visibly ailing. He’d lost an arm in the closing stages of the French Civil War and had been undergoing treatment for the wound, which for a man nearing seventy wasn’t a boon to one’s health. The stress of maintaining power over a rogue state while watching his dreams of a centrally planned economy fade had aged the philosopher. “Why are we listening to this man?”, asked one Russian delegate. “He has none of Comrade Lenin’s revolutionary vitality nor even theoretical experience.” The goateed Bolshevik was of the same mind. “I feel like a schoolboy being lectured to by an aged professor unaware of how times have changed.” Worse than the embarrassment of being a junior partner was the fear that Sorel would turn the union leaders against Lenin. If he nominated one of their own as a potential revolutionary leader, the union leaders might eschew Lenin in favour of Sorel’s man. Nor did Lenin see much of revolutionary France. Though Réquisition revolutionnaire had yet to be issued, the nucleus of a centrally-planned economy was already taking shape, and many of the Russian's ideas found their way into Sorel's economic platform. (7) However, Sorel didn’t want Lenin to see the economic damage wrought by the Great War and civil war lest it reflect poorly on his leadership. Thus, Lenin was cloistered in a luxury Toulon hotel, forbidden even to take a stroll around town unescorted. His Russian stomach didn’t take well to lavish French food and his hosts were more than a little put out when he eschewed escargots for potatoes and rice.

Imperfect amenities didn't prevent the revolutionaries from learning at Toulon. Georges Sorel’s recollections of the early days in Dijon, when no one could tell if the revolt would be crushed, elated the Russians. Here was the only man to have fought for the creed they’d given their lives. The street battles of 1905 and riots of 1916 paled besides the liberation and conquest of France. “If any of you still have cause to doubt my dedication”, the grey philosopher said, “let them see my arm.” He dangled his empty sleeve before a speechless Lenin. Ludovic-Oscar Frossard and Marcel Cachin stressed the importance of expanding popular support for the revolution early on, citing the Left Socialist-Revolutionaries and all labour unions as potential allies. Lenin cooly replied that it was the decision of the majority- bolsheviki- alone. The politically charged word shut Cachin up. Jean-Jacques Famride invited Lenin to inspect a unit of elite soldiers and offered insights into military strategy. Lenin and five comrades were in the room when Réquisition revolutionnaire became law on 22 August 1918, though security prevented their being photographed. Georges Sorel viewed Lenin’s presence as a test for his domestic security, and their success greatly pleased him. Though he never told Lenin, three Okhrana agents were apprehended during his time in France on separate occasions; their interrogations and subsequent executions went seamlessly. “If we can protect this man, the most wanted revolutionary in all of Europe aside from myself, then I trust we can declare our regime defensible. I challenge Georges Clemenceau to do as well as the Tsar” was a warm and valued compliment. Lenin and the Russian union leaders agreed that May Day would be the start of “our great enterprise”.

No primary records of the Toulon Conference exist; the memoirs of Lenin and Cachin, plus the testimonies of captured Okhrana officers, are all historians have. As such, it’s entirely plausible that gaps exist in the story, as doubtless the two chroniclers were writing to boost their ideologies and reputations while the Tsar's agents knew relatively little.

Lenin’s sojourn ended at the Spanish border, where he received a faux Finnish passport on 2 September. Arriving in Helsinki three weeks later, the revolutionary counted down the days until 1 May 1919.

He had a Russian Revolution to plan.

Comments?

(1) See chapter 35
(2) OTL
(3) ‘Snezhok’ is the Russian for ‘snowball’. Does that give you a clue?

(4) This gent
(5) A TTL work of his replacing Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism, which was not published in this world owing to Lenin's preoccupation with the Duck Bay conference. The central pillar of the two is more or less unchanged though.
(6) Lenin is writing in autumn 1917, weeks before the sack of Vienna and two to three months before the Danubienkorps sets foot in the Habsburg Empire. Chapter 41 has the full story...
(7) It had better; RR is more or less OTL's War Communism....

Spamavalanche · May 19, 2021

map of of the world after the french civil war

Spamavalanche · May 21, 2021

here is a Infobox of the Great War

Screenshot_2021-05-21 Wikipedia Military Box Editor.png

and a map of alliances of the Great War

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 23, 2021

Chapter Forty-Eight: The May Day General Strike

"You may rest assured, Your Imperial Majesty. It is nothing. Within forty-eight hours the Army will have complete control."
-Georgi Lvov to Tsarina Xenia, May Day 1919

"The French guillotined their monarch and are now a people's state. I say we follow their path!"
-Banner carried by one striker in the General Strike

Tsarist Russia had paid a higher price for liberalism than any country since Revolutionary France. Many in the empire had feared that, as in 1789, events would spiral out of control and the House of Romanov would be forced to flee for its life. Yet, there is a simple reason why the period between the September Revolution and coronation of Tsarina Xenia is known to historians as the “Reform Era”, not the “Revolutionary Era”. Autumn 1916 had seen the end of the Great War nearly destroy the empire. Even as German shells landed in Petrograd, the people turned on Nicholas II, whose incompetence had brought the empire to such lows. Menshevik Julius Martov had been in the right place at the right time and driven the Tsar out of power. Nicholas had ceded the crown to his brother and gone into exile near Smolensk. Tsar Michael II had crushed the insurrection and traded Poland, Finland, western Belarus, and the Baltics for regime security. Though historians have been quick to scorn Michael for his failures, the new emperor saw his brother’s obstinance as a greater threat than reform and believed it fell to him to save Russia from domestic decay. Reactionaries in the Duma had shot his first proposal for a constitution down; they shot him down the second time. The Black Hundreds, for whom Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality superseded the imperial person, had no qualms about removing a ‘betraying’ emperor. Michael’s sudden death left his sister Xenia reigning but not ruling. During the nearly three months between Michael’s death and her coronation, Prime Minister Georgi Lvov had run Russia, and he was in no mood to cede power. Lvov’s first act was to implement Michael’s dream constitution, giving the new regime a more liberal bent than it might’ve had under Michael. An American journalist visiting in autumn 1918 commented on the “new spirit of industry and progress crisscrossing Russia… Though it is perhaps too early to speak definitively, one gets the impression that defeat in the Great War was the cold shock the Tsarist regime needed… The contrast between this Petrograd and the one I visited five years ago is striking.”

It was a pity so little had changed.

Though Russia was now nominally a democracy, it lacked the democratic traditions and viable institutions prevalent in the West. Ever since the eighteenth century, the entire system had been predicated around commands flowing from the Winter Palace through court favourites to the provinces. Like a Roman emperor, the Tsar was half-divine and loyalty to his (or her) person superseded all else. He commanded armies like men on a chessboard and allocated funds as he saw fit. Proximity to the monarch dictated one's position on the social ladder. All this had led Russia to develop a weak political culture ill-suited for a system where the offices themselves were more important than the men occupying them. Nobles continued to throw their pocketbooks around, paying tenant farmers subsistence wages and bribing their way out of taxes. Judges in the capital were always happy to rule in favour of anyone with a title before his name. Police who’d spent their careers beating suspects as they carted them off to prison without trial didn’t want “pencil-necked Jewish lawyers” (as one Muscovite constable so charmingly put it) preventing them from doing their jobs. Magistrates seldom understood why trials needed to be so extensive when beforehand a criminal could be sent to Siberia after half an hour. Liberal nobles- including Georgi Lvov, himself a landed prince- had replaced those reactionaries punished after 15 April. and many of his Duma colleagues were as wealthy as the purged reactionaries. Modernisation certainly didn’t mean ceding their economic supremacy; their concessions to the proletariat didn’t go beyond voluntarily reducing rents and increasing wages.

As 1919 opened, the seeds of the Russian Revolution were already germinating. The entire Russian right, ranging from moderate conservatives to frothing reactionaries, used forthcoming events to attack Tsarina Xenia and constitutionalism. Many of the liberals lucky enough to survive repudiated their ideology and felt personally responsible for the calamity, believing that their actions in 1918 enabled the disastrous 1919.

The ticking of the clock made Georgi Lvov feel like a man on death row. 15 April 1919 was the one-year anniversary of the assault on the Duma and murder of the Tsar, and Lvov was damned if he’d let events get out of hand. The disaffected workers and hyper-nationalists were typically different people; the latter were usually affluent enough not to have to live from one pay-packet to another, and knowledgeable enough not to be swayed by socialist propaganda. They also tended to communicate in less official ways which were harder for the Okhrana to track. Thus, as March turned to April Lvov began having nightmares of a mad Black Hundredsman incinerating him or the Tsarina. What better way to end the disastrous reform era than by lobbing a bomb at its architect? Petrograd went under martial law on the fourteenth to prevent ‘seditious gatherings’ while the Prime Minister covertly discouraged nobles from travelling to the capital. Yet, the riots he’d so feared never materialised. 15 April 1919 was a quiet day in the Russian capital- the rebuilding of the Tauride Palace continued under armed guard and soldiers scowled at anyone they deemed suspicious. Part of this was due to Lvov's show of force- no one wanted to be the first to yell "Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality" to an armed man with authority to shoot- but more had to do with the effectiveness of the purges. Those insane enough to attack the Duma were now in prison, and their allies didn't fancy joining them. Lvov sighed and poured himself a large drink as the sunset bathed the capital in pink. The reactionaries were too cowed to threaten his regime again.

As it turned out, that didn’t make any difference.

Petrograd rapidly demobilised following the non-events of 15 April 1919. Martial law in the capital was expensive and made the regime look oppressive. By the end of the week, the last soldiers were back in their previous positions. The Okhrana agents who’d snooped around for any hint of a forthcoming assault on the Duma received leave in Sochi. No one thought about what came only two weeks after the anniversary of the assault on the Duma.

The Communist Second International had consecrated May Day in 1889 to commemorate the Haymarket riots three years prior. For the past thirty years, people had associated the first of the month with the Chicago factory-workers who, depending on whom one talked to, had been brutally cut down by police after reacting to a bomb placed under a false-flag, or attempted a socialist revolution in the heart of America before one of their number set his bomb off too soon, enabling the police to pre-emptively attack. When the quarter-century anniversary came, few had paid much attention. In 1919, though, revolutions had shaken Russia and captured France. The ideology of May Day was finally bearing fruit.

May Day 1919 would outdo the original.

Georgi Lvov had picked an abysmal time to relax. Though the danger from the right had diminished, that threat was totally unconnected to the ever-growing leftist menace. The late Tsar Michael's conservative liberalism might’ve been innovative a century and a half ago, but it did nothing for the people. The French working classes had taken matters into their own hands. Ironically, the regime’s censorship harmed it here (though the absence of proper journalism in revolutionary France contributed). When people read obviously censored articles about the Second French Revolution, they filled in the gaps with what made sense to them. The Russian workingman thus viewed Georges Sorel as a hero who’d liberated the people from conditions even worse than these, blind to the failings inherent in the system. Deluded by whispers that Lvov had orchestrated 15 April to crush them and lacking confidence in the Tsarina, they decided to use this international day of labour to express their rage.

Against all odds, the fearsome Tsarists were caught off-guard.

Historians have been as scathing as contemporaries were towards the Okhrana for its role in the forthcoming General Strike. Namely: it played no role. The security apparatus Russians had dreaded for decades, which had sent revolutionaries to freeze in Siberian fields or given them brutal deaths in dingy urban prisons, which had opened letters and arrested at will for more than half a century, failed to prevent the May Day General Strike. This cost the organisation all its prestige and its leader his job, but when viewed from a certain perspective, their inertia made sense. Russia’s greatest domestic threats had been the Black Hundreds and their supporters- with the blood of a Tsar on their hands- who’d felt free to riot in the heart of Petrograd. Lvov directed the secret police against it accordingly. 15 April 1919 passed, he congratulated the Okhrana on having defeated a major national security threat. Just as May Day drew near, the feared secret police lowered its guard. Second, the Okhrana overemphasised the Menshevik-Bolshevik split, and made a crucial error about the relative strength of the two factions. The Mensheviks, not the Bolsheviks, had launched the September Revolution, and the two were now enemies. The mistake the Okhrana made was partially in assuming that the Mensheviks were the stronger of the two groups because they had more revolutionary experience under their belt, and that whatever the one did, the other would oppose. Thus, after the publication of Stand With the Majority, Die With the Minority, the secret police relieved the pressure on known Bolsheviks. They ordered their many agents in Finland not to assassinate major Bolsheviks while redoubling their efforts against Mensheviks. Ideally, Georgi Lvov told himself, the Bolsheviks would move against Julius Martov’s next stab at revolution so as to prevent him from seizing the glory of having deposed the Tsarina!

Lvov was similarly lenient towards unions. They’d been legal on paper since 1906 but the police had always discouraged them from meeting. However, the social turmoil of the war and Reform Era changed things somewhat. From just under 5% in 1914, roughly one in five Russian labourers was unionised by the two-year anniversary of the September Revolution. Forcibly eradicating them would’ve touched off too strong a popular reaction, but at the same time they made Russia’s elite uneasy. “We are sitting on a time bomb”, commented Alexander Kerensky (a liberal noble if ever there was one), “give the workers a sense of power and things will explode.” The unions had much to be angry over. Capitalists had no qualms about making workers put in twelve or fourteen hours a day for less than nothing. Though striking was now technically legal, hiring goons to break demonstrations and skulls wouldn’t get anyone into trouble. Ukraine remained unruly: while it was officially just ‘southwest Russia’ and represented in the Duma, only soldiers in the streets of Kiev and Odessa kept people from a bid for independence or autonomy. This impeded the ability to collect the harvest, which drove prices up for the consumer- inflation didn't help. Reliance on public charity increased, and since the government was in charge of shipping grain from Ukraine to the cities, government agencies got the lion’s share of the food- after corruption and graft had taken their toll, of course. Limiting the amount of bread available on the free market further increased prices. While the new ‘democratic Russia’ enthused some, many investors grew to dread the Tsar’s monarchy. What if they put their hard-earned money into Petrograd, only for proletarian revolutionaries or reactionary militias to burn it to the ground? Foreign enterprises shuttered their windows, throwing many industrial workers onto the curb. With war-production orders long gone and not much appetite for a luxury goods industry, domestic or foreign, more factories closed their doors. Bosses responded to the increased demand for work by slashing wages further. When the two-year anniversary of the September Revolution came, protestors were driven from the streets with rifle and bayonet.

The Russian workingman was worse off in liberal democratic Russia than he’d been in the realm of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality.

During the reigns of Nicholas and Michael, moderate labour movements had looked to the Tsar for deliverance, but now they saw through the woman on the throne and had nothing but contempt for Lvov. This lack of manifestoes and protests was more worrying than reassuring. Those who’d appeared on 15 April 1918 to air their grievances had appealed to Tsar Michael as an imperial father, confident that he could improve their lives. They targeted very little of that sentiment towards Xenia. Signs reading ‘A liberal noble is still a nobleman’ and ‘No bread in the Constitution’ were far more menacing than ‘Tsar Michael, Representative of God, Deliver Us From Evil.’ The Black Hundreds were partially responsible. One of the worst aftereffects of 15 April was a conspiracy theory that held that the attack on the Duma had been a trap. Georgi Lvov, rumour had it, had deliberately left the labour protestors waiting outside the Tauride Palace and then summoned the Black Hundreds to murder them all. His brief participation in the September Revolution fuelled rather than diminished the conspiracy theory- he’d betrayed the working people once before! None of this was true. Lvov’s actions for a few days in September 1916 had resulted from accident and miscalculation. His brief cooperation with Martov had been solely to save his own skin, and it seems likely that he would've deserted the revolution even if Tsar Michael hadn't given him the opportunity. Regardless, the average workingman had no love for his Prime Minister, who personified the industrialised callousness which had ground the Russian people down. The unions which Lvov tolerated for their "anti-Martovism" were cauldrons of discontent.

Such blindness would end up costing Lvov dear.

Russians expected the May Day general strike much as a Caribbean weatherman predicts summer hurricanes. Too much had gone wrong for the working class not to make its frustrations known. Even the crucially misinformed Okhrana took steps in the final days of April to detain potential troublemakers in a last-ditch attempt to pre-empt the strikers. However, the general plan was to ride the unrest out. Much like those taking shelter against the elements, the empire’s bosses had plans. They made sure their workers knew that if they didn’t turn up on 1 May, they needn’t turn up on the second. Knowing that they’d be ignored, they posted ‘Help Wanted’ signs near soup kitchens and homeless shelters. Those without work would happily replace the strikers for half the pay while the stronger ones could act as strikebreakers. Police chiefs in Petrograd and Moscow anticipated trouble, but nothing too serious. There would be protests- maybe even riots- to quell, but nothing which would seriously disrupt affairs. Wealthy urbanites decamped for their estates; others stocked up on bread and potatoes to weather the storm in their townhouses. Exhausted with relief that 15 April 1919 had ended well and cognisant that, whatever else they did, the strikers weren’t about to torch the Winter Palace with the Tsarina inside, Georgi Lvov was certain everything would end well.

Trouble started before dawn in the empire’s main cities- all were in one time zone, so these events happened more or less simultaneously. Virtually everybody knew a general strike was en route, but not everyone went along with it. Many who were just barely getting by and knew they’d be fired if they struck weren’t willing to starve so their comrades could feel accomplished. Given that many Russian proletarians lived cheek by jowl in cramped apartments, they rose at four AM and donned their overalls in full view of their striking comrades. Arguments ensued, as strikers called workers ‘sellouts’, and those who were going in asked if the strikers would be willing to pay their bills from now till the end of time. Some of these escalated into fistfights, and some of those ended up with knives and guns being drawn. Perhaps one worker in twenty made it to his factory in the small hours of May Day. Once they arrived, these workers found the entrances blocked by scowling sheets of muscle, the sort of men who even the officers had feared in the trenches. They’d been hired by the bosses to guard their factories, and weren’t too interested in letting individuals through. More often than not, these arguments too ended up with fists and weapons being drawn. All these predawn scuffles distracted the police, who should’ve been asleep during the predawn hours, and made industrialists realise today wasn’t going to go smoothly.

How very right they were.

By midday on 1 May, the Russian Empire was in chaos with urban absenteeism approaching 90% and most aspects of daily life shut down. Businessmen couldn’t commute into the city because not only were the train conductors and engineers on strike, so were the men working on the lines and the girls at the ticket counter. The paralysed rail network didn’t, by itself, have the dire economic consequences foretold, though. One example illustrates: A dockmaster in Odessa was forced to turn away millions of rubles worth of cargo because not a single man had turned up to work. Seven different import-export men howled into the telephone about their finances throughout the day. He didn’t bother coming in on the second.

Independent farmers sat the chaos out, nibbling away at produce they would now never sell, but those working for landed magnates joined their urban comrades. Everyone from farmers in the fields with pitchforks and homemade banners to butlers and chiefs in manors united to paralyse their master’s quasi-feudal estates. In one sense, these strikers were less menacing- few had any prospects off of the estate and thus no incentive to destroy it, which in turn kept their demands more reasonable and specific than their urban counterparts- but their extreme proximity to their overlords and the lack of police soothed no one. The levels of violence on the rural estates varied- while some landlords were beaten or even killed, others reasoned with their striking workers.

With unrest spreading in the countryside, it would only be a matter of time before hunger bit the cities even if the railroads were brought under control.

The empire’s major cities were too focussed on their rage against the regime to contemplate this. Underpaid teachers stayed home, as did secretaries and janitors. No newspapers were printed that morning. Sympathetic journalists refused to make money covering the strike as a matter of solidarity; right-wing journalists found no one willing to set their type and print the papers. Taxi drivers parked their vehicles- motorised or pulled by horses- and grabbed a crimson banner. Postmen and post-office workers refused to touch anybody’s mail, while milkmen and rubbish collectors didn’t make their rounds. Strikers cut telephone and telegraph wires. Hospitals were largely unaffected- no doctor would let politics impede his Hippocratic oath while few nurses were able to let men die on the table in front of them for the sake of labour.

It was a good thing hospitals operated as normal because the Casualty wards filled up rapidly.

Despite the best efforts of industrialists, many factories came under attack. Strikers, many armed with wartime bayonets and pistols, clashed with hired thugs and police outside their places of work. They castigated those who’d tried to sneak in for a day’s pay or had been hired as replacements as “sell-outs” and “traitors to their class”. The fortunate ones escaped with severe beatings; the unfortunate were killed. Knowing they had the law on their side, hired thugs fought back with a vengeance. More than a few were ex-Black Hundreds who were chomping at the bit to get back at the “Martovists” who they believed had stabbed their country in the back. If they couldn’t burn Tsar Michael in the Tauride Palace, they were happy to quench the fire of revolution.

Strikers assemble in central Petrograd, May Day 1919

Georgi Lvov was stunned. This was an order of magnitude above the strikes and protests he’d imagined. Half an hour after being woken by clashes in the street, he telephoned the Petrograd garrison once more- taking care to use a ground-floor telephone. He wanted the streets cleared immediately. The commander remembered the fate which had befallen his predecessor after his failure to save Tsar Michael and moved with great haste. By eight AM, the five thousand troops in the capital were out in the streets. Their rules of engagement stipulated one warning and then acting as though in combat conditions. Unfortunately, these five thousand men were up against hundreds of thousands of workers. Clearing the streets proved unfeasible and so they settled for barricading key locations. Sandbags and machine-guns surrounded the Winter and Tauride Palaces, the Petrograd Cathedral (1), the mayor’s office, jails, and the Imperial treasury. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow and the Kremlin became miniature fortresses.

As the day stretched on, Lvov got a handle on things. Aside from a handful of enraged workers attacking their factories, the protests were relatively peaceful. Police spies in the streets reported that the general trend seemed to be redress of grievances, not the overthrow of the regime. That was the only bit of good news. Every sector of the economy was affected to some degree. The coal miners and oil-field workers of Siberia had walked out, while the railroad strikes meant that even if they returned to work tomorrow, transporting their products would be impossible. Every city had emergency stockpiles that could last for a few days (the lack of operating trains and factories would help stretch this), but after a few weeks, the empire’s energy situation would become very grave. Lvov thanked God for the warm weather, which would prevent thousands freezing to death in unheated Russian winters! Food was slightly better- emergency stockpiles were under armed guard, while postwar shortages meant that rationing still existed. Provided rations were reduced and guarded even more stringently, shortages wouldn't escalate into starvation… at least not anytime soon. The Council of Ministers impressed upon Xenia and Lvov the need to get the country’s railroads running immediately. If soldiers could reach the grain fields of Ukraine or Siberian coal mines from the cities, they could avert economic extinction. A formal state of emergency was needed, the Prime Minister told his monarch, to grant her the powers to get events back under control. Xenia’s husband, Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, concurred.

Post-revolutionary propaganda vilified Lvov for this. The Prime Minister, so they said, had tricked the empress into signing something she didn’t fully understand to increase his own power. This ignores two things. First, while Xenia lacked the political instincts of her brothers, she was by no means a stupid woman and would never have declared an emergency if she didn’t think it the right thing to do. Second, these were the same propagandists who portrayed Lvov as the mastermind who’d set up the September Revolution to fail and that he’d summoned the Black Hundreds to kill the peaceful labour protestors on 15 April. Witnessing excessive bloodshed in the capital over the past three years had converted Lvov to the religion of stability. The 1918 Constitution enabled the Tsar to declare a state of emergency, and this was unquestionably an emergency. Furthermore, Lvov was actually signing power away here (at least in theory). Under a state of emergency, the Tsarina could wield absolute power without reference to the Duma. All this should give the lie to revolutionaries who claim Lvov planned to make himself dictator.

When Lvov arose in the small hours of 2 May, something seemed out of place. It wasn’t until the cries of a drunk pierced the night-time silence that he realised the protests had temporarily ceased as everyone slept. If he was going to act, now was the time.

Donning a suit and tie, Lvov rang the drowsy general in charge of Petrograd. He wanted the city’s printing presses secure, and if he didn’t get a telephone call in half an hour informing him that it had been done, the general would find himself counting Siberian trees. Twenty-three minutes later, four armoured cars carried Lvov to the headquarters of the capital’s daily newspaper, where the bewildered printers stood in their nightclothes, guns trained on them. “What is this, Prime Minister?”, asked one of the more outspoken ones. “Do not worry, you are in no trouble”, Lvov smiled. “For you fine gentlemen, the general strike is over. Now listen carefully.” He retrieved a piece of paper and read off the proclamation of a state of emergency which Xenia had signed hours before. “See to it the world knows, gentlemen.” Three hours later, soldiers were pasting proclamations on anything which would hold them, and wires were carrying the text to garrisons across the empire. Georgi Lvov returned to the Winter Palace, where he relaxed with kasha and tea, convinced that the shock of reading proclamations of martial law under a rifle and bayonet would convince the strikers to return to work.

“DECLARATION OF THE STATE OF EMERGENCY WITHIN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE:
Today, 2 May 1919, I, Tsar Georgi Mikhailovich Romanov, Tsar of all the Russias by the Grace of God, in accordance with the principles of the Fundamental Law of 1832, the Constitution of 1906, and the Constitution of 1918, do hereby declare that a state of emergency exists across the Russian Empire. Over the past twenty-four hours, dangerous insurgents have taken to the streets in a dangerous repeat of the actions of September 1916. Their intents are not benign, not for the good of the Motherland, and do not stem from reverence for the Imperial throne or the people of Russia. Rather, they derive from the treasonous revolutionary Julius Martov, whose cabal of revolutionaries is influencing events. (2) They attempt to paralyse our economy and induce starvation in the cities through the seizure of our rail networks and disruption of agriculture. Treacherous agents in our streets have harmed untold innocent Russian patriots and done much damage to the fabric of our economy. As the father of all the Russian people, I would be most derelict in my duties if I failed to defend our nation and people against this menace. Therefore, the following measures shall enter into effect immediately, superseding all law unless specifically stated to the contrary, and shall remain until such time as the threat has passed.

All of the following industries are to immediately pass under the management of the Russian Army for the duration of this crisis
- Coal mines
- Oil production facilities, including oil refineries
- All farms and estates larger than twenty acres
- Railroads, including urban trolleys
- Harbours
- Urban factories concerned with the production of essential civilian goods
- Printing presses
- Telegraph and telephone wires
All labour unions and forms of worker’s organisations are temporarily suspended. Participation in such an organisation during the duration of this crisis shall constitute a substantial criminal offence.
All reservists in the Russian Army are hereby summoned to their duty stations.
No pamphlet, bill, or work of literature may be submitted without prior approval
Martial law is established in the following cities:
- Moscow
- Petrograd
- Yekaterinburg
- Kharkov
- Smolensk
- Kiev
- Nizhny Novgorod
- Odessa
- Kazan
- Chelyabinsk
- Samara
- Tiflis
- Bukhara
- Omsk
- Rostov-on-Don
- Ufa
- Yerevan
- Krasnoyarsk
- Voronezh
- Perm
- Volgograd
The rights of the accused to a trial are temporarily suspended. All those imprisoned on grounds of participation in seditious activities will have an opportunity for a legitimate hearing once the crisis has passed.
Given the nature of this present crisis, I delegate the authority of decision-making on a momentary basis, to best handle events as they occur, to the office of the Prime Minister, or to another man whom he may appoint as his delegate."

He’d unknowingly just signed his regime’s death-warrant.

Martial law galvanised the strikers. Despite their myriad of grievances, they’d been forceful but peaceful on the first day. Very few on May Day dreamt of toppling the monarchy- the average striker just wanted an eight-hour day and a pay packet which would keep pace with inflation. Those participants with the intellect for politics limited their goals to removing Georgi Lvov and holding new elections. Thus, their treatment as traitors not only shocked them but radicalised them. If Lvov was going to treat them as the enemy, they would fight back! Protestors thus violently resisted preemptive strikes and greeted police with knives and guns. Armed gangs assaulted soldiers posting martial-law proclamations. Initial skirmishes escalated into full-scale street battles as both sides summoned reinforcements- and this was before the main protests resumed at dawn.

2 May 1919 made the preceding day look tame. Protestors occupied public squares and parks and, taking a cue from the Second Paris Commune, constructed barricades. Whereas these protests had been peaceful yesterday, they now crossed into violence. Years of pent-up rage at poverty and callousness, of long nights huddled around a fireplace with three other families as winter winds blew through thin walls, hoping to catch three hours of sleep before the alarm clock summoned you to the factory for eighteen more hours, ignoring the growling in your stomach and the cries of your sick children, burst forth. Rioters ransacked townhouses and subjected their occupants to fearsome- often fatal- beatings. China, jewelry, and delicacies became ‘reparations to the people’. Factory owners and foremen were abused by the mob; more than a few were lynched. Armed soldiers attempting to seize factories and rail stations in accordance with the declaration of emergency often found them occupied by the workers; both sides vied for control at a great cost in human life and property damage. Russia’s cities became chaotic places of shattered windows, broken glass, holes in walls, and wounded men in the streets crying out for God and for mother. The rioters left hospitals alone, but doctors and nurses were overwhelmed by the casualties. Those who’d been surgeons during the Great War later said this was the worst thing they’d seen since.

Into all this stepped the missing piece: the spark who would set off the gunpowder.

Vladimir Lenin had spent most of his career planning for this. He’d dodged four different monarchs, spent time in Siberia, and crisscrossed from one safe haven to the next. He’d experienced major defeat in 1905 and enjoyed a major success at the Duck Bay Congress. Lenin had made a valuable ally in Georges Sorel and quietly helped draw up the world’s first socialist economy. (3) He'd negated his rival Julius Martov; Leon Trotsky and Nikolai Bukharin were on his side.

And now, it was all coming to a head.

Lenin waited several days in the Finnish town of Lappeenranta as events unfolded. He knew that this risked losing the initiative but deemed it essential for security. If the general strike was snuffed out quickly, he’d be in Petrograd with few allies and plenty of Okhrana agents. The friendly Finnish regime kept him well-informed, (3) and after three days Lenin proceeded south. Escorted by several Russian-speaking Finnish Red Guards, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov set foot on his native soil for the first time in years on 4 May 1919.

The Petrograd strikers weren't well organised. As had happened all across the empire, individual unions had gotten wind of the planned strike and informed the workers- this was enabled by Lvov's tolerance of unions as a safety valve. Contrary to the image of a secretive organisation pulling strings from afar, the General Strike was quite decentralised. It was spread out over too vast an area and involved too many people to be centrally controlled. Some simply wanted better living conditions, others wanted to replace the monarchy with a socialist republic. Though the workers expressed their anger through rioting and streetfighting, the truth was they had no end goal. The average striker in May 1919 wanted nothing more than a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. His thoughts were fixated on his wife and children, not regime change. It was the powerful strike leaders who, since they were detached from the material concerns of the workers, were able to contemplate revolution, but they lacked a consensus. Many had attended the Toulon conference and considered themselves loyal Bolsheviks, but others had belonged to the now-banned Social Democrats, Socialist-Revolutionaries, or Trudoviks, which, although fierce opponents of reaction and monarchy, weren’t as revolutionary as the Bolsheviks, and they would have taken any attempt by Lenin to order them about amiss.

Lenin had to unite the different factions behind his programme to accomplish his revolution. To that end, he proceeded to the Nevsky Prospekt, his bodyguards in tow. Striking protestors already filled the street, slogans and banners bouncing off of one another. Soldiers defended key buildings but weren't opening fire- no one wanted a massacre. Lenin climbed on top of a broken-down car, shielded by his bodyguards, and addressed the crowd.

"People of Petrograd! We stand at a most critical hour for the fate of mankind. You, people of Petrograd, though it has not yet been made clear to you, are at the forefront of this process. That which is ancient, rotten, and ossified has reached the natural state- death and extinction. The capitalists not of just Petrograd, not even just of the entire Russian Empire, but of the entire world, have sat upon the workers and soldiers ever since time immemorial. For centuries your ancestors believed their honeyed words and the lies they told you that you might remain happy and content, scarcely conscious of your own oppression, placidly turning the gears which operate the machine oppressing you. Yet you, people of Petrograd, you have taken the first step forward into a world without such cruelty. It is through the collective mass action of the workers of Petrograd that the human race might take its first step into a brave new world. Your own efforts, and the efforts of all the proletariat of Russia, have brought about this General Strike, this refusal to be oppressed and put upon any further.

But the most stringent, fervent expression of the will of the people can not survive if not properly directed. Else it shall become confused, ill-focussed, lacking in purpose and subject to defeat by counter-revolutionary aspects. It is in this, people of Petrograd, that you are lacking. Fortunately, it is far easier to remedy a lack of focus and of ideological knowledge than of raw popular desire for change. Your innate loathing of the capitalist and noble who have lorded over you since time immemorial and feeling that revolution and equity must be achieved at your hands shall serve as the basis for revolution. Armed with this, it shall not be long before we all reap the harvest of socialism.

I now offer the following directives to the masses, that they might serve as future planks not just of the Revolution but of the worker's socialist state which must be its outcome:

1. The specific feature of the present situation in Russia is that it has yet to attain the first stage of the revolution- it remains, contrary to mistaken notions, a pre-revolutionary society by the unreasoning confidence of the masses in the government of tsars and of capitalists, the worst enemies of peace and socialism.. Russia must first experience a revolution to shatter the monarchist institutions and place power in the hands of a coalition, thence to the second stage, which must place power into the hands of the proletariat and the poor strata of the peasantry. This specific situation demands of us the ability to adapt ourselves to the specific requirements of Party work among unprecedented large masses of proletarians who have just awakened to political life.

2. No support must be given to the regime of Xenia Alexandrovna Romanova; the utter falsity of all its promises must be explained, particularly those relating to the liberalisation of political institutions within the monarchist framework. Exposure, and not the unpardonable, illusion- breeding “demand” that this government, a government of capitalists, should cease to be an imperialist government.

3. The fact must be recognized that in most of the unions directing this General Strike our Party is in a minority, and so far in a small minority, as against a bloc of all the petty-bourgeois opportunist elements, who have yielded to the influence of the bourgeoisie and convey its influence to the proletariat. It must be explained to the masses that the Soviet of Workers’ Deputies is the only possible form of revolutionary government, and that therefore our task is, as long as this government yields to the influence of the bourgeoisie, to present a patient, systematic and persistent explanation of the errors of their (the non-Bolshevik socialists) tactics, an explanation especially adapted to the practical needs of the masses. As long as we are in the minority we carry on the work of criticizing and explaining errors and at the same time advocate the necessity of transferring the entire power of state to the Soviets of Workers’ Deputies, so that the masses may by experience overcome their mistakes.

4. A republic of Soviets of Workers’, Agricultural Laborers’ and Peasants’ Deputies throughout the country, from top to bottom. A parliamentary republic may become a necessity under the first stage of revolution, but only as an intermediary measure through which revolutionary government may advance and the masses may become politically enlightened. Abolition of the police, the Army and the bureaucracy. The salaries of all officials, who are to be elected and subject to recall at any time, must not exceed the average wage of a competent worker.

5. in the agrarian program the emphasis must be laid on the Soviets of Agricultural Laborers’ Deputies. Confiscation of all landed estates. Nationalization of all lands in the country, the disposal of the land to be put in charge of the local Soviets of Agricultural Laborers’ and Peasants’ Deputies. The organization of separate Soviets of Deputies of Poor Peasants. The creation of model farms on each of the large estates… under the control of the Agricultural Laborers’ Deputies and for the public account.

6. The immediate amalgamation of all banks in the country into a single national bank, control over which shall be exercised by the Soviet of Workers’ Deputies.

7. Our immediate task is not to “introduce” socialism, but only to bring social production and distribution of products at once under the control of the Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. The present General Strike represents a substantial step forward in that direction.

8. Party tasks:
(a) Immediate summoning of a Party congress.
(b) Alteration of the Party program, mainly on the question of imperialism, on the question of our attitude towards the state and our demand for a “commune state”, and amendment of our antiquated minimum program.
(c) A new name for the Party

9. A new International. Instead of ” Social Democrats”, whose official leaders throughout the world have betrayed socialism … we must call ourselves a Communist Party."

Lenin proclaiming the Nine-Point Programme, May 1919

Lenin's words met with cheers. "Up with the people!", they declared. "Down with repression! Lenin! Lenin! Lenin!" Their cries echoed up and down the Nevsky Prospekt and all across the capital. Suddenly it all made sense. The machine had oppressed their ancestors; now it fell to them to free themselves. If "Auntie Xenia" (as she was scornfully dubbed) couldn't serve the people, she had to go. Then something more astounding happened: the soldiers threw down their rifles. "Long live the people!", they declared. Their captain, a man named Nevmetzov, removed his cap and approached Lenin. "Sir, under the orders I have you ought to be arrested and shot. No one could deny that this is treasonous talk and that everyone here is guilty. Yet..." The captain blushed like a schoolgirl and grinned sheepishly. "I am a Russian too and my wife and children have all gone hungry. Fuck it." The captain turned to his soldiers. "Men- you did not hear a thing, do you understand!"

"He's right, you know", whispered another. Lenin grinned. "Valiant soldiers, for this I must thank you. You have saved my life, perhaps, and I promise to do everything within my power to aid you. Now, there is something I need from you." The captain leaned in closer.

***

The Okhrana should have arrested Grigory Zinoviev a long time ago. Born to Jewish parents in Ukraine, he'd sold his soul to Karl Marx at eighteen, and cast his lot with the Bolsheviks when the schism of 1903 came. Like his master, Zinoviev fled to Switzerland in summer 1914, but unlike Lenin, he returned to Russia as soon as possible. His Commentaries On The French Revolution, published in August 1918, became one of the classic communist texts. It offered a strictly Bolshevik interpretation of history, criticising Julius Martov as heavily as Paul Deschanel while emphasising (and sometimes inventing from thin air) similarities between Sorel and Lenin. That Zinoviev could concentrate on writing, not dodging the law, exemplifies the failure of Lvov's single-minded focus on Mensheviks, and had Zinoviev been a less firm Lenin man he might well have taken an unplanned writing sabbatical in Siberia. At the Toulon Conference, Zinoviev discussed the "revolutionary potential" of unions with Sorel and agreed to take charge of organising the Rodina's unions when the day came.

Now, after five years apart, Zinoviev had an appointment with the master.

Zinoviev had been on the move these past few days. Petrograd had many inauspicious safe-houses where a revolutionary could spend the night and get a hot meal. Many were merely the home of a sympathetic professor or activist, but it was this simplicity which made them so hard for the Okhrana to track. Lenin ordered Captain Zinoviev's men to wear red armbands and comb the city for Zinoviev. When a patrol found him a little after five PM, the revolutionary was initially suspicious of pleas that "I come from comrade Lenin", and one man had to go back and find Lenin while another stayed with Zinoviev. As soon as the two revolutionaries set eyes on one another, years of distance melted and the two shared a Russian bear hug. "Let us retire to my flat", Zinoviev said. "The Okhrana won't find us for one night."

As befitted a man living in fear of the government, Zinoviev lived with no roommates and minimal possessions. A dusty bookshelf housed worn copies of Tolstoy and Chekov, a Russian dictionary, a Talmud, and an encyclopedia; a faded map of the empire's 1914 borders hung above the bed. The only other furnishing were a cabinet, sink, and table."None of my works?", Lenin asked with a smirk.

"You may rest assured, Comrade Vladimir Ilyich, that my copy of Stand With the Majority has been reserved in the library of the University of Siberia. But come. We may be Bolshevik traitors but we are still good Russians. Here is the proof." He retrieved a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "To the confusion of Auntie Xenia." Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov knocked it back.

***

Grigory Zinoviev: Lenin's right-hand man and co-founder of the Petrograd Soviet

Several drinks and twelve hours later, the revolutionaries had a plan. Zinoviev would contact his fellow union leaders with Lenin's nine-point programme and have them announce it to the masses. This would provide a starting point from which to attack the Tsarist regime, a positive solution as opposed to wanton destruction. Similarly, Pravda (controlled by the Bolsheviks) would publish Lenin's speech with ample commentary. Calls would be made for worker's and soldier's councils to overthrow the Tsarina's regime, after which the Bolsheviks would assume power.

The publication of the Nine-Point Programme the next day caused a stir. Pravda wasn't circulated in the same way as legal newspapers, while the empire's communication lines were in military hands, so Lenin's words took time to cross the empire. In Petrograd, though, hastily written handbills and word of mouth ensured that everyone knew who Lenin was and what he stood for. 5 May 1919 was Lenin's day as he addressed crowd after crowd. Late that day, he and the leaders of the Petrograd unions congregated at a defunct theatre under the protection of the self-styled Petrograd Autonomous Company; two hundred men who'd mutinied and refused to obey "illegitimate orders" without "consent from the workers". The first meeting of the Petrograd Soviet (7) saw all the city's union leaders agree to the Nine-Point Programme. The revolutionaries now had something to unite the people around, and the strikers finally had an answer to their problems. Imagine the answer to all that suffering and confusion boiled down to nine simple ideas! "I would have summoned the garrison that moment", recalled the only Okhrana spy present (who'd turned up largely by accident- the large crowd intrigued him), "had it not been for the soldiers councils. I doubt a single soldier in Petrograd would've fired on Lenin." The spy retreated to the Tauride Palace convinced that Petrograd would be lost within days if not hours.

And where the capital went, the rest of Russia was never far behind...

All this confirmed the belief that the monarchy was in mortal danger. Xenia cancelled the emergency session of the Duma on the grounds that losing so many elites could destroy the regime at this crucial hour, but summoned Lvov and the Council of Ministers back to the Winter Palace for a late-night meeting. Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, who as the Tsarina’s husband could speak freely, said that if if the streets weren’t cleared in twenty-four hours there would be another September Revolution. That word brought an eerie quiet. Everyone knew what the word Sentabyr- сентябрь- meant: the monarchy looking death in the eye, two centuries of tradition and glory trampled beneath muddy boots and red banners. And this time, there was no successor waiting in the wings. General Lavr Kornilov, commander of the Petrograd garrison, turned pale and bit his cheek. “Your Excellency”, he stammered, as if revealing a fatal diagnosis, “it may well be worse than that. If we cannot get these Bolshevists under control, not only might there be another September Revolution, there might be another 15 April. We would be decapitated.” Everyone fought nausea, the rumble from outside making the silence in the room all the more terrible. “Barring further instructions from Your Excellency, I will direct my men to continue their resistance.”

“Da.” Xenia touched her husband’s shoulder and spoke to him not as an empress to court favourite, but as a scared wife to her helpless husband. “Alexander, we should flee. If we cannot hold the city, you and I will both die and that would be the…” The words hung in the air. The end of the monarchy. (8) Who would have imagined it in 1914? “General Kornilov, I entrust the defence of the capital to you. Prime Minister Lvov… I say this as a recommendation, a suggestion, not an order. Do you understand?” Lvov nodded his big head, his mane turned silver by stress. “I feel it would be best if you remained in the capital. You are a liberal man by any account and better versed in politics than I.” Xenia picked up a pen and paper. “Speaking as your empress, I, Tsarina Xenia, delegate full power to strive for a negotiated settlement to end the chaos on the following broad terms: an end to all violence and the General Strike, no modification of our current institutions, and the suspension of martial law within ten days of peace.” She handed Lvov a paper with that written on it. “Now, my husband and I must decamp. I do not consider Tsarskoe Selo safe.”

“After all”, said her husband, “it would be a bad omen. Terrible things have happened to Romanovs fleeing Petrograd for Tsarskoe Selo! It could be our Varennes!”

It would have been funny if it were a joke.

An entire battalion of Imperial Guards, hitherto kept in reserve, escorted Xenia, Grand Duke Alexander, and their twelve-year-old son Vasilly (the other sons were in the military) to Pskov. The town was near enough to the capital for the imperial party to reach it or return to Petrograd easily, while far enough away that events in the capital wouldn’t pose a mortal danger. Besides, if worse came to worst, the imperial party could slip across the border with the United Baltic Duchy. Decamping at midnight with minimal luggage, the imperial party arrived at a requisitioned country estate shortly after two AM. Guards were posted all along the perimeter and the butler was subservient to a seasoned Okhrana agent. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that despite a hearty meal and the telephone being taken off the hook, no one slept a wink.

We shall never know what Xenia’s thoughts were that night. In three days, the regime which her brother had founded at the cost of his life and which she genuinely believed to be Russia’s only salvation had fallen. The Russian Army might’ve been tin soldiers for all the good they’d done so far; her lack of confidence in the men on the perimeter is understandable. The 165 miles between her and the capital seemed insignificant. Surely, it was only a matter of time before the revolutionaries arrived, before they butchered the guards and lined her family against a wall? And that was just her. Could the monarchy survive another violent turnover of power? Would the revolutionaries be able to exploit her death to abolish the throne? Such questions were more than enough to keep the last Romanov monarch awake as the second of May became the third.

Unbeknownst to Xenia, though the Romanov monarchy had but days to live, it would not be the red-flag-waving mob who destroyed it. Rather, it was a man whom the empress trusted- and who fiercely opposed communism- who destroyed two centuries of Russian tradition…

Comments?

The Church of the Saviour on Blood
Note the key error here! Martov has nothing to do with this-- but if it’s leftist, it must be Martovist in TTL’s eyes!
Requisition revolutionairre was heavily based off of OTL's New Economic Policy
One wonders where this came from (Here, soviethistory.msu.edu)
Second leader of the Petrograd Soviet in OTL
Taken from the OTL April Theses, found on Wikipedia, and modified.
A different beast from OTL's but still dangerous
Actually, it wouldn't, but that’s neither here nor there in the Petrograd bunker.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · May 30, 2021

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Republican Coup

"My participation in the Russian Civil War has received much attention. Indeed, future historians will likely- and I do not speak with inflated pride, there are many who would concur here- but they will likely judge me the Alexander of that conflict. Moreso than most, I fought for God and the House of Romanov because this was personal to me. Only I could claim such personal losses at the hands of the revolutionaries. I was fighting to avenge my wife."
-Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, in a 1930 interview with a British reporter

"Regicide is the unforgivable sin! Europe had best sleep with one eye open, for who knows who the next monarch to fall will be? The Horde from the East may rise again soon..."
-Kaiser Wilhelm II upon hearing of the Republican Coup

Asking for an audience with the Prime Minister in the midst of such a crisis, Alexander Kerensky mused, was like asking for half an hour alone with God. Judging by the pleading and bribery he’d had to go through, a minute of Georgi Lvov’s time was worth more than pieces of gold. That he was only a lowly member of the Duma- and damned near a socialist at that- couldn’t have boosted his chances. Yet, here he was, sipping tea in Lvov’s antechamber while the sounds of battle raged outside. Two guards stood at the door to Lvov’s office; two more the doors through which he’d come. Kerensky’s jacket was rumpled from more pokes and prods in sensitive areas than any doctor had ever given him. Surely, half an hour with God would’ve required less security?

“Mr Kerensky, you may come in now.” He followed the attractive secretary to Lvov’s office. She pushed the ornate bell. “Come!” He walked in and sat down.

“Aah, Mr Kerensky.” The enormous beard masking the bottom half of Georgi Lvov’s face couldn’t hide the grey bags under his eyes and the creases of stress and worry. The Prime Minister’s suit was rumpled and he smelled of coffee and cigars. A hunted, crazed look lingered in his wide eyes. “What can I do for you? I do hope this is as important as I have been led to believe.” If you don’t make this quick, Kerensky translated, I’ll throw you out of my office. No, the audience with God would definitely have been easier.

“Prime Minister Lvov, the recent turn of events concerns me as much as you. The past four days have not been… have not been ones I’d repeat if given the chance.” Venturing out of his dacha had been an adventure even with bodyguards. “From what I hear, though, events may finally be starting to simmer down. You would know better than I.”

“Why, yes.” Lvov spoke slowly, as though fearful to admit as much. “Yes, Defence Minister Kornilov has told me his men are finally making headway against this damned insurrection. It is only a start- he himself admits as much- but the fact that you were able to come here today speaks volumes. Twenty-four hours ago…” Lvov shook his head. “But you are not here to congratulate me, are you? Speak your mind, then, and do it quickly for God’s sake.”

“Yes, sir. It is like this. Now that we have regained some control over the mob, Prime Minister, I believe we ought to display magnanimity.”

“Magnanimity?” Lvov raised an eyebrow, and suddenly Kerensky knew all that time and effort had been a waste. He had to try, though. “Yes, sir. Surely, neither you nor Defence Minister Kornilov wish to see a massacre on the streets. If we can bring this damned mob to heel through words, many lives will be saved.”

Lvov broke the silence. “Nyet. We cannot, Mr Kerensky, and I will tell you why. Backing down now would be a concession. Granting these revolutionaries the right to speak as equals with the Prime Minister would legitimise them. It would say that although they have broken the law, we continue to respect them. That they may say to myself and Her Imperial Majesty, ‘Now I know that we have committed treason and rebellion against yourselves, but that does not matter. We can have peace whenever we so choose.’ No. Treason and rebellion cannot and will not be tolerated.”

Kerensky glanced at his watch- 11:14 AM. He still had sixteen minutes left; what was there to lose? “And what, Prime Minister, will the consequences be otherwise? What will happen if we continue to sit on the mob, never turning an ear to their grievances? I am no expert, sir, but this seems like a recipe for endless revolution. Julius Martov will return (1) one day, and the people will listen to him. Why not emulate, say, Bismarck? He appealed to the workers, gave them what they wanted within the system, and-”

“Good day, Mr. Kerensky.” Lvov stood up. “I have far too much to concern myself with to listen to talk- from a man closer to the socialists than to me, no less- of negotiation with traitors.” He picked up the telephone. “Would you be so kind as to see Mr Kerensky out? Thank you.”

“Prime Minister.” Kerensky spat the title out like a vile curse, fighting to keep his anger down. “I hope that you are right. But if it turns out that you are wrong and I am right…” He shook his head. “You cannot say you have not been warned, sir.”

“A good job that’s a moot point, isn’t it?” Lvov’s secretary entered the room, escorted by two burly guards. A cry of ‘Down with the Tsarina!’ followed by the sound of a smashing bottle wafted in from outside. “Good day.” Prime Minister Georgi Lvov went back to work.

Conspirator number one: Alexander Kerensky

* * *

“You are proposing treason.”

“What is your alternative, Alexander Ivanovich?” Alexander Guchkov shifted his weight uncomfortably. “That’s rather what I thought.” Kerensky smiled. “I have no doubt in my mind that the Prime Minister will not listen to reason. He might well have been a liberal in the era of Napoleon or of Metternich, but in this day and age he is of the same ilk as Nicholas.”

“Da.” Admitting as much made the War Minister visibly uncomfortable. “But how can you be so sure the mob will listen to you?” The suspicion in Guchkov’s eyes made clear what he was really asking.

“No, Alexander Ivanovich, to answer the question at hand I am not in secret discussions with whomever orchestrated this mess. In fact, I hate their guts as much as the good Prime Minister. However, I have a history of being on the left, nyet?” Kerensky had belonged to the moderate wing of the banned Socialist Revolutionary Party before the September Revolution, when his political instincts drove him to become an independent. “If the people will listen to anyone, surely it is a man who has been both a revolutionary and a loyalist at different times? Who else can claim to have one foot in both worlds?”

“Alexander Fyodorvich”, Guchkov said slowly, “under no circumstances will I have any hand in bringing Julius Martov and his ilk back to this country! I could give you a mile-long litany of grievances against this government but I would take Lvov over the rabble any day.”

“Do not worry, Alexander Ivanovich. What I propose is to remove Lvov by force and negotiate with the mob. If we can’t sit them down and work out our differences, revolution will hang over our heads like the sword of Damocles until eventually…” Kerensky brought his hand down in a chopping motion. “We can spill a little blood and break a few laws now, or we can end up like Paul Deschanel and Louis Marin.” Both men knew it was nothing short of a miracle that Russia had escaped France’s fate.

“And what of the Tsarina, and of her husband? Surely they will not accept our simply moving against the Prime Minister? Unless…” A horrified look crossed Guchkov’s face. “You cannot be thinking… not that?”

Kerensky smiled. “Now that you mention it, yes. I daresay the Martovists would have a harder time against the Russian Republic than against Auntie Xenia.”

“Auntie Xenia? Alexander Fyodorvich Kerensky, how dare you? I am a patriot…”

“So am I.” Kerensky raised a hand, speaking softly. “I am a Russian patriot too. I partook in politics during the Great War and supported the monarchy both in September 1916 and April 1918. This is not something from which I derive pleasure, believe me. But I fail to see an alternative. Georgi Lvov will end up inciting the mob to torch his office, even if he doesn’t know that yet. Stability can only come at the price of a republic. Besides”- Kerensky smiled cooly- “now that you are in on this, Alexander Ivanovich, I cannot have you discussing it elsewhere. Not committing would have… consequences.” The nuance wasn’t lost on Guchkov.

“I hate this”, muttered the War Minister. “Against my better judgement, I acknowledge your point. Very well, then- I accept. Who else is with us?”

“Enough people to ensure success- Defence Minister Kornilov is one. If we can capture the Prime Minister, arrest the Tsarina and her family, and broadcast our achievement to the people, we will have peace within a week, else you can call me Pridurok. (2) And of course, you would become the first War Minister of the Russian Republic.” Alexander Guchkov nodded wordlessly. What choice did he have? Nonetheless, he had a very bad feeling about this...

Conspirator number two: Alexander Guchkov

* * *

The coup plotters met only once before pulling the trigger. Alexander Kerensky invited Alexander Guchkov, Pavel Milyukov, and Lavr Kornilov to his dacha on the night of 7 May. The situation in the capital had calmed down enough for travel to be more or less safe, but street battles continued day and night. Other cities were even more chaotic as they lacked the security measures Petrograd enjoyed as the capital. Kornilov, as Defence Minister, was responsible for the physical seizure of power. He’d given orders that day for the guards at the Winter and Tauride Palaces to be transferred into the fracas and replaced with hand-picked units which he knew to be loyal to him personally. Fortunately, he said, no one had questioned this. At the appropriate time, Kornilov would lead a suitable number of men into the Tauride Palace and arrest Lvov. This would be done at night to minimise fuss and catch the Prime Minister off his guard. Shortly before this, the Defence Ministry would issue orders to the Baltic Fleet to put to sea to avoid capture by the mob; this would prevent them from interfering with the coup. Shortly before dawn, troops would seize a radio station, and Kerensky could then proclaim the Russian Republic over the air. The most delicate bit, Kornilov said, would be arresting the Tsarina and her family. Xenia continued to hide in Pskov, and issuing orders to ‘secure’ her estate there would blow everyone’s cover. There was tremendous risk involved, Kornilov said, and he couldn’t promise success, but he agreed this was best for the country. Events would commence in 24 hours.

8 May 1919 began fairly normally. Fighting continued in the major cities and no one went to work, but that had become almost normal. Georgi Lvov had learned to function in a dysfunctional world. His morning was preoccupied with news of a failed attempt by striking Siberian oil workers to shut down production (the refinery was now under military occupation and the strikers in prison). The crimson tide of rioters was neither advancing nor receding, and the capital’s communications with the rest of the empire remained secure. Given that a week of violence hadn’t toppled the regime, Lvov was cautiously optimistic. He’d ridden out the worst of the storm, he told himself, and time and lead would suppress the rest.

The Prime Minister wasn’t unduly concerned when the Defence Minister telephoned.

Unlike Alexander Kerensky, Georgi Lvov had always respected Lavr Kornilov and knew he was a man to be reckoned with. Not only didn’t he mind giving him half an hour of his time, he assumed Kornilov knew what he was doing. The Defence Minister explained that the crisis had grown worse over the past few hours. “Revolutionaries”- he made sure to use the most charged word possible- had occupied two of the exits from the capital and needed to be eliminated immediately. However, the only available units were the Tauride Palace guards. They would be dispatched to clear the exits and replaced by fresh units half an hour later. Blind to Kornilov’s ulterior motive and assuming that if the Defence Minister said it it had to be true, Lvov consented. The guards moved out immediately to fight non-existent rebels on the other end of the capital.

The Prime Minister had just signed his own death warrant.

Half an hour later, at 2:30 PM, the new guards arrived. These were men of the 79th Rifle Division specially chosen for their loyalty to Kornilov (he’d once done the commander a good turn). Some of the men occupied the palace’s fearsome defences. Sandbagged machine-gun nests, twelve-feet-high rows of electrified barbed wire, and even fierce dogs on chains could keep any mob out… or loyalist infantrymen attempting a counter-coup. Meanwhile, another group of guards occupied key locations in the Tauride Palace. Soldiers occupied the offices of Duma delegates and the body’s meeting hall, detaining workmen and secretaries. The general strike and rioting had caused massive security increases, and seeing groups of armed men patrolling the hallways wasn’t unusual in the slightest. The workers were told there was an “emergency”, and that security mandated a “hold-in-place.” As always, a uniform and a gun worked wonders. Georgi Lvov heard the new men moving about but thought nothing of it. When a handsome captain led a platoon into his waiting room and asked the secretary very politely if he could speak with the Prime Minister, she agreed.

Twenty armed men entered Georgi Lvov’s office with intent to kill, rendering all that formidable security moot.

Lavr Kornilov had specifically ordered Lvov’s death after discussing it with his fellow plotters. Keeping the Prime Minister alive ran the risk of his escaping and rallying opposition to the coup, which could lead to civil war. Any convenient statement such as a resignation on grounds of ill-health could be forged and no one would be any the wiser. Removing him from the board, in addition to paralysing the monarchists, would help create a clean break. Thus, the last action the Prime Minister ever performed was standing up from his desk and extending a hand to the captain. A volley of fire killed him instantly, and his bloodied corpse fell to the ground. The screaming secretary met a similar fate moments later. Georgi Lvov was fifty-eight years old, and had been the last Prime Minister of the Russian Empire for two and a half years.

Meanwhile, the coup plotters moved against other targets in the capital. Kornilov’s deception ensured relative obscurity but there were still those who needed taking out. Like any politician, Georgi Lvov had a circle of devoted followers who would never accept a regime which had forcibly moved him from power. Then there were ardent monarchists who would fight to the death for the throne, even if they disliked Xenia. If these men were able to rally to the opposition Russia would be faced with civil war. With Petrograd in chaos, the units selected for the dirty work were able to hide in plain sight, often trading fire with rioters as they approached their targets. Amongst those marked for death was Nicholas II’s senile ex-Interior Minister Alexander Protopopov, as well as key figures in the All-Russian Zemstvo Union- the charity organisation had taken on a new political dimension and was a key power base of Lvov’s. Men of the 79th Division, indistinguishable from normal soldiers but for their insignia, knocked on doors with forged arrest warrants and executed their prisoners; the autopsies attributed the deaths to ‘mob violence’. Kornilov wasn’t a bloodthirsty man though, and limited the scope of the assassinations. Ironically, Alexander Dubrovnin had made his task easier. Many of the diehard reactionaries who loathed Xenia’s regime but would’ve fought to save her from a republic were in prison or executed after 15 April. This was fortunate, as aside from the 79th Division the plotters had relatively few guns and hunting down hundreds of reactionary noblemen would’ve been beyond them.

There would be time to sort out the wheat from the chaff… provided everything went smoothly today.

Lavr Kornilov had spent the past hour pacing his office like a caged animal. Not just his career but his life was at stake. What he was planning was nothing short of treason and he could expect a blindfold and a cigarette if he failed. Issuing the orders for the Baltic Fleet to put to sea gave him a pleasant distraction, but after that there was only cigarette after cigarette. Kornilov stared fearfully at the door, waiting for loyalists to burst in and arrest him for treason. When the telephone pierced the silence, it might’ve been a gunshot. His heart was climbing into his mouth as he answered. “Defence Minister Kornilov? I speak to you from the former Prime Minister’s office.” Suddenly, he felt like the condemned man who’s just received a wire from the governor. Kornilov ordered the two bodies covertly removed from the Tauride Palace and dumped in the Nevsky River before telephoning Alexander Kerensky.

Conspirator number three: Lavr Kornilov

* * *

The most delicate part of the coup d’etat still had to take place. Since a fast car could reach Pskov from the capital in three and a half hours, Tsarina Xenia might know what had transpired by sundown. Kornilov initially wanted to go in without pretence. Xenia couldn’t be deceived; the guards at her estate answered to her alone and any attempt by Kornilov to order them would raise her suspicions. The plotters would have to enter her estate with guns blazing, but they’d have to take great care. If anybody on the estate escaped, they’d have an airtight case against Kornilov for treason. Since dead men told no tales, Kornilov ordered the unit tasked with seizing the estate to take no prisoners. Everyone- from the tsarina to the lowliest servant- had to die. His fellow plotters overruled him though. The guards would resist a massacre and while they might lose, they’d buy time for the tsarina to flee and raise the banner. As Kornilov himself admitted, even a single witness to Xenia’s murder escaping could unravel the whole plot. Instead, Alexander Guchkov proposed, the plotters should deceive the tsarina. If they could persuade her to return to Petrograd- perhaps with a forged plea from Lvov- they could then take her and her family prisoner without bloodshed. As the most senior member of the government among the conspirators, Guchkov believed himself best suited for this.
This was the plan enacted on 8 May; Guchkov and a squad of bodyguards (all of whom were fully in on the plot) were halfway to Pskov as Georgi Lvov breathed his last.
The Foreign Minister reached Pskov at seven PM as the north Russian sun slipped beneath the fur trees. Relatively little unrest had taken place in Pskov- one reason Xenia had chosen to flee there- and the streets were quiet as Guchkov’s car rolled through. He reached the Tsarina’s estate twenty minutes later and was stopped by the guards. “I have a telegram from the German minister in Petrograd”, he lied. “He has conversed with Prime Minister Lvov and must speak with Her Imperial Majesty immediately.” Guchkov branded a folded-up piece of paper, and his raised eyebrows reminded the guard who was the Foreign Minister and who was just a lowly sergeant. The Tsarina walked out a few minutes later. “Is it truly urgent, Alexander Ivanovich?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.” Guchkov repeated the lie about the German minister. “He wishes for you to return to the capital as soon as possible to converse with himself and Prime Minister Lvov.”

Xenia sighed. “What of the situation in the capital? Have the rioters been quelled yet?”

“Largely, Your Imperial Majesty. In fact, Prime Minister Lvov, with whom I conversed before setting out, specifically declared it safe for you to return.” Guchkov gestured to his bodyguards. “As you can see, we will not travel alone. But it is already late, Your Excellency, and the drive to the capital will take at least three hours. It cannot wait until tomorrow, Your Imperial Majesty, lest we encounter trouble on the road. Night-time is safest because it’s quiet; during the day the situation might change.” Xenia frowned thoughtfully. Come on, woman, come on! If he couldn’t take Xenia out within a few hours, she’d get word of Georgi Lvov’s fate and that would be that.
“Well… very well.” Guchkov hoped his shoulders didn’t sag with relief too visibly. “Give me half an hour to get my things packed then you and I can set off.”
“You and I, Your Imperial Majesty? You do not wish to bring your husband and son?”

“Nyet. They have no need to return and I would not like to unduly endanger them.” Damn. Not being able to take the Grand Duke ensured he’d find out what happened eventually, while Prince Vassily was a potential future threat. Asking the Tsarina to take them would look too suspicious. “They can stay here with my bodyguards.”
Guchkov had to fight to suppress his grin. “Your bodyguards?” Perhaps this would work after all.

“Why, they will remain here, of course! You have your own security, Alexander Ivanovich, my family can stay with the men I trust. I will see you, then, in half an hour.”

* * *

When Guchkov’s armoured car stopped abruptly a little after ten PM, the driver diagnosed it as engine trouble. “What a pity”, said the Tsarina. “How far are we from the capital?”

“Another hour, Your Imperial Majesty, if God is kind.” The Russian Empire’s rural roads were nothing to boast about, while armoured cars sacrificed speed for security. “That’s after I get this… useless motor running.” He might’ve been part of an attempt on her life, but the driver wasn’t about to curse in front of his monarch. Guchkov laughed nervously. “Bit of a bastard, isn’t it?”, he said to the driver.

“Da, da. I say, Your Imperial Majesty, Foreign Minister, might I humbly make a request?” Xenia nodded. “I need to get under her with my toolkit to analyse the problem, but there might be something of an odour. Perhaps Your Imperial Majesty would be more comfortable waiting outside?” The driver eyed Guchkov for a fraction of a second. Everything was going according to plan.

“Da.” The Tsarina shrugged. “It is not raining, is it?”

“Nyet.” Guchkov nodded to the guard holding the car door. “I say, Your Imperial Majesty, perhaps you would like to walk a few paces and escape the odour?” Xenia nodded. It was a warm night by Russian standards. Guchkov’s breath hung in the air momentarily like a silver cloud, but he was warm enough. They were ages from even the smallest village and there were no other cars for miles. Only the chirping of insects and guttural curses of the driver broke the silence. Guchkov’s heart hung in his mouth. Do it, you fool! It is now or never! It was all down to him- no one else could pull the trigger. If he didn’t kill Xenia, the coup would unravel and he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. The only saving grace would be that that would be a measure of days. Kornilov managed to do it with Lvov, why can’t you do it here? Or perhaps Kornilov had failed in Petrograd, and at any minute loyalists would approach en route for Pskov to ensure the monarch’s safety- in which case he was doomed regardless of whether or not he killed the tsarina. Guchkov couldn’t help glancing nervously over his shoulder, as if the cavalry troop was only a hundred yards away.

“I do hope the ambassador will not think us rude.” Xenia politely covered an enormous yawn. “Even if we reach the capital before midnight I simply cannot see him till tomorrow. We ought to have waited till dawn.”

"Quite, Your Imperial Majesty.” You scumbag. Here was an innocent woman with a husband and children. What crime had she committed except being born to the wrong parents? She simply wanted to get on with her night and wake up tomorrow, no different from anybody else. And you want to plug her, you bastard. You want to leave a widower and seven motherless children in your wake. Having neither a spouse nor children, Guchkov didn’t know what that truly meant. He felt a strange power over this woman, like a lion who’s brought down its prey but not delivered the killing stroke. She has only as long to live as it takes me to make up my mind. Whether Tsarina Xenia’s life, from her youngest years as a child through school, marriage, family, and coronation, ended on this warm Russian night, without warning or mercy was, he realised, entirely up to Alexander Ivanovich Guchkov.

That evil knowledge felt good.

Guchkov’s pistol was tucked under the folds of his jacket- he’d filled it before setting out. Idly moving to face the Tsarina’s back, he retrieved it and flicked the safety catch. I’m sorry, Xenia.

The bullet which entered Xenia’s brain killed her before she hit the ground. Fragments of skull and brain and droplets of blood spattered against Guchkov’s suit. A red stain engulfed the Tsarina’s blue-grey dress and the dirt road. “God damn it”, muttered Guchkov, stepping aside so as not to get blood on his boot. He sighed. “Forgive me.” Not even he knew if he was addressing God, the late empress, or both. “Oi! Give me a hand with…” Guchkov couldn’t bring himself to describe Xenia’s body as "the mess". The driver walked over with a can of petrol. “Let’s take her to the woods, sir. Less noticeable that way.”

“Da. You… you take care of it. Here, have my lighter.” Guchkov walked back to the armoured car and collapsed in his seat, staring at the empty spot across from him. As orange flames shot into the black sky, Guchkov picked up a loose hair. It was all that remained of Tsarina Xenia Alexandrovna.

* * *

The security around the Tauride Palace made what came before look pathetic. Airplanes circled overhead, artillery was positioned on the palace grounds, and armoured cars patrolled the perimeter. Soldiers and cavalry combed through the crowd. It was no exaggeration to say that Alexander Kerensky wouldn’t have wanted to assault the palace with anything less than a well-equipped brigade. Given that you lied and tricked your way here, regardless of the Tsarina's formidable security, how much good will that really do you? Kerensky shook his head. It was a bit late for cold feet now. “Are we ready, gentlemen?” Alexander Guchkov to his left, and Lavr Kornilov to his right nodded. “Off we go, then.”

The wave of cheers surprised Kerensky and the sight of so many people momentarily scared him. Large congregations of workingmen and Russian officials, the past week had taught him, did not mix well. “Long live the new government!” “Down with Lvov!” reassured him. Kerensky knew that their relative obscurity protected the four plotters. Georgi Lvov and Xenia were hated for their failure to deliver to the people and heavy-handedness; Kerensky and Guchkov had clean slates in the public eye. Only Kornilov had a negative past with the public for deploying armed men against the innocent Petrograd proletarians, but he’d redeemed himself the previous evening with a directive to the entire Russian military. Prime Minister Georgi Lvov had resigned and an interim government would be formed as soon as possible. He’d then issued a further statement to the Petrograd garrison to stop fighting, and that representatives of the new government would address the people at nine AM the next day. Kerensky’s watch made it out to be 8:59. The people would get their new government, but it wouldn’t be the one they expected.

“Workers and soldiers of Petrograd! The sacrifices the people have made in property and blood are over. The killing is over. The consequences of the war, need and suffering, will burden us for many years. The hour of attempted compromise has passed. Our suggestions regarding an understanding were sabotaged, we personally were mocked and ignored. The enemies of the working class, the real, inner enemies who are responsible for the fate which has befallen the Motherland, have been defeated. They were the reactionaries, who upheld their demands until yesterday, as obstinate as they fought the struggle against substantial reform of the State. Reform of the constitution, a noble step though it was, did not suffice. The Prime Ministership of Georgi Lvov and reign of the so-called Tsarina Xenia Alexandrovna Romanova, brought about the same stagnation as ever. Noble in intent though the reforms of the late Mikhail Alexandrovich Romanov were, they conspicuously failed to solve the fundamental questions plaguing the Motherland because they did not address the root causes thereof. The fact remains that for too long, the nobility, the industrialists, and yes, the monarchy have been pitted against the interests of the workers and soldiers.

“Recent events have brought the conflicts of the past year to a climax. I will not attempt to deny that excesses of violence and of lawlessness were committed by the people during the mass General Strike across the empire, nor do I approve of such actions. However, in stark contrast to the reactionaries, I acknowledge them as expressions of popular will. As the anger of the people simmers like water, it is only natural that the steam from it would burn the hand of the one foolish enough to ignore it. I call upon the workers and soldiers of Petrograd to lay down their arms, and for their leaders to peacefully petition for redress of grievances. I pledge to you that the new government shall not be deaf to the concerns of the people, as the so-called liberal regimes of Mikhail Alexandrovich Romanov and Xenia Alexandrovna Romanova, in alliance with Georgi Lvov, were. This government shall march in step with the people, giving due weight to their concerns and to the concerns of socialist parties.

“The enemies of the people are finished forever. As of today, the eighth of May in the year nineteen-nineteen, I do hereby declare to the world, that they would acknowledge it, to the workers and soldiers of Russia, that they would rejoice in it, and to the enemies of the people, that they would fear it, that the Russian people have stood up. We, the Russian people, by our own inherent authority and the right of self-governance and of self-determination in all matters, do hereby renounce the rule of the so-called Tsarina, of all obligations to her person and to the imperial throne, and do declare the institutions of the monarchy and nobility null and void.

“The so-called Tsarina and her family have been placed under arrest. The people have won over all of them, in every field. Georgi Lvov has handed over the office of Prime Minister to myself, and I shall form a new government consisting of workers of all parties, centred around the men besides me. This new government may not be interrupted, in their work to preserve peace and to care for work and bread. Workers and soldiers, be aware of the historic importance of this day: exorbitant things have happened. Great and incalculable tasks are waiting for us. Everything for the people. Everything by the people. Nothing may happen to the dishonor of the Labour Movement. Be united, faithful and conscientious. The old and rotten, the monarchy has collapsed. The new may live. Long live the Russian Republic!” (4)

Comments?

No he won’t. See the Duck Bay conference.
The Russian for “jackass”.
One of the Brest-Litovsk negotiators, amongst other things, ITTL
About half of the credit here belongs to Phillip Scheidemann.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Jun 6, 2021

Chapter Fifty: The Aftermath

"Few recognised it at the time but nonetheless, it seems obvious in retrospect. Lavr Kornilov and Vladimir Lenin had no place in the same political programme. Their differences were so profound in every respect- their ideologies polar opposites- that a fallout was bound to occur. Throughout the forthcoming fight for survival the tension between its two competing halves would greatly undermine the Russian Republic..."
-Vladimir Voinovich, Russian War and Institutions (2001)

"They must hate me greatly! What else but pure, unbridled hate could get the Bolsheviks and the liberal nobles to agree on anything? And these allies shall be punished together, make no mistake of that!"
-Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, Xenia's widower

"We must all hang together, or we shall surely hang separately."
-Benjamin Franklin

The Russian Republic started life atop a pin. When Alexander Kerensky had addressed the people at nine AM, on 9 May 1919, the country seemed on the verge of a socialist revolution. Tsarina Xenia Romanova had failed to address an eight-day general strike, while Vladimir Lenin’s Nine-Point Programme offered a nucleus for a leftist regime. Kerensky was a leftist who sympathised with the strikers but feared communism. The problem wasn’t the general strike, much less the grievances of the people, but rather Lenin. The question was not whether the monarchy would fall, but whether it would be a moderate republic or a Leninist state which replaced it.

Provisional President Kerensky appeared to have won the race.

The Russian Republic had to immediately convince the workers of Petrograd that it, not Lenin, best represented their interests. Failure would mean the mob which had ransacked the capital for the past week would turn on them, ending not just their careers but their lives. The general commanding Petrograd had already taken a major step in that direction. Lavr Kornilov (1) had ordered a cease-fire with the protestors on the evening of May 8, after receiving confirmation that Xenia and Georgi Lvov (2) were both dead. No one thought to disobey what looked like a perfectly legitimate order (not realising what their superior had been involved in), and an eerie quiet had descended over Petrograd on the morning of the ninth. While Kerensky was proclaiming the republic, protestors visited their families for the first time in days; soldiers discussed the Nine-Point Programme amongst themselves. The news of what Kerensky had done cut through the capital that morning like a shockwave. Anger at Xenia and Georgi Lvov had fuelled the general strike, and many felt that this obscure Kerensky, at the very least, couldn’t be worse. The Nine-Point Programme had spread like wildfire in only three days, teaching the people of the capital what a future without the monarchy might look like. Blind to ideological differences between Lenin and Kerensky, they ignored their newfound status as traitors and embraced Kerensky in the hopes that he might offer what Lenin had promised.

The Bolshevik leader was no ally of the Russian Republic but nonetheless his words brought it time to survive.

Meanwhile, the plotters secured the remaining troops in the capital. Free of the need to operate undercover, Kornilov called on the Petrograd garrison- as well as the naval units in harbour- to “congregate under the banner of and obey all orders deriving from the authority of the Russian Republic.” War Minister Guchkov issued an order a few hours later legitimising soldier’s councils. Soldiers, he said, were another type of workingman and entitled to the new Republic’s protections. Guchkov offered to meet with any “legitimate representative” of soldier’s councils. There was a risk that newly boldened councils might try and seize power for themselves, but Guchkov gambled that they’d gratefully serve the regime- after all, it was providing what they’d always wanted. By the end of 9 May, the different military units in the capital had taken an oath of loyalty to Provisional President Kerensky, and he’d recognised their right to form councils.

Getting the civilians on-side would be trickier.

Vladimir Lenin had ended five days of chaos. After issuing his Nine-Point Programme hours after reaching the capital, he’d met with his ally Grigory Zinoviev. The two had agreed to spread Lenin’s manifesto and formed a worker’s group, what Zinoviev called “a union of unions.” The Petrograd Soviet (3) was designed to unite the strikers of the capital around Lenin’s vision, and hopefully to encompass the people of the entire empire. However, its power rested not with Lenin and Zinoviev, but with individual union leaders. One or two men might represent the dockworkers of the Neva River, another might stand for street-sweepers. These men, hailing from varying backgrounds, had been elected by their peers to represent them in the first days of the General Strike, and had been won over by the Nine-Point Programme. The average politically ignorant striker in the street would’ve said on 9 May that Leninism was about letting workers like him run the country and decide their own fates. Lenin and Zinoviev papered over the abolition of private property and government control over all aspects of life because it wouldn’t sell. Thus, Kerensky’s promise to “march in step with the people” seemed as good as anything Lenin offered.

The people now had two revolutionary governments competing for their support.

Vladimir Lenin was livid at Kerensky for stealing his thunder. Though the Nine-Point Programme painstakingly conceded that a parliamentary republic might be an appropriate first stage in the revolution, Lenin privately admitted he’d just thrown that in as an expedient. “It is hardly any good having Xenia’s ashes scattered in a forest”, he fumed, “if it is not the people who did the deed!” Watching the General Strike break out had induced dreams of red banners toppling the monarchy. Proclaiming the Nine-Point Programme to that crowd in the capital was supposed to be the start of a long march which would end with a red star over the Motherland. He was going to redeem himself after the failure of 1905, succeed where Julius Martov had failed in September 1916, and prove his supporters at Duck Bay and Toulon right- as well as join Georges Sorel in the ranks of great Marxist revolutionaries.

And now Alexander Kerensky had jumped the gun.

Lenin’s first instinct was to flee. That the crowd curiously proceeding to the Tauride Palace was moving peacefully and not being set upon by soldiers was interesting but not necessarily concerning. If the city garrison had formed a massive soldier’s council and refused to fire on civilians, that could be the spark needed to turn the General Strike into a full revolution. Xenia or Lvov offering a cease-fire would’ve drained the energy and strife Lenin needed, but might’ve offered opportunities yet. But the pamphlets announcing a change of government painted a dreadful picture. The pamphlet made no mention of the Tsarina, who at the height of such a crisis ought to have taken the lead. Announcing that this new government sat “with Her Majesty’s blessing” or something similar would’ve sent a powerful message that though Lvov might be down, the monarch was by no means out. Xenia hadn’t failed to do this because she was busy playing chess and eating scones. Furthermore, the name “Alexander Kerensky” meant something to Lenin. Alexander Kerensky saw the same political chessboard as Lenin. Despite their wildly divergent political careers, both shared some traits. Both had been childhood friends who’d entered leftist politics and criticised the excesses of the Romanov system to the man in the street. Yet the similarities stopped there. Whereas Lenin had sworn his life to Marx at twenty-three, Kerensky had entered politics via law. Lenin wanted to burn down the system; Kerensky wanted to make it “equitable”. Nothing good, Lenin was sure, could come out of having such a man ordering troops about atop a government.

Lenin was reading a report from a union leader an hour later with Zinoviev when a ruckus erupted outside. He went to tell the sentry from the Petrograd Autonomous Company (4) to tell the crowd to shut up so he could focuss, but two words stopped him in his tracks. “Russian Republic!” What? “Long Live the Russian Republic! Long Live Provisional President Kerensky!”

Both Lenin and Zinoviev knew what to do. Their plans had been undermined and they feared for their lives. Fleeing would surely unravel the Petrograd Soviet, leave the Bolsheviks defenceless against accusations of cowardice, and wreck Lenin’s career. Coming back from one failed revolution was impressive; coming back from two would be impossible. Nicholas II or Ivan the Terrible, if faced with a similar predicament, would’ve acted no differently. After telling the sentry to admit no one, Grigory Zinoviev retrieved a bottle of vodka. Before they could drown their sorrows, there came a knock on the door. Panic took over. Was Kerensky sending hitmen? Surely he’d want to nip two potential threats to his regime in the bud.

“Come with me”, said Zinoviev. He pulled up a floorboard to reveal a secret cellar. “Must make the Okhrana welcome, eh?” Lenin had just pondered what a good grave it’d make when the knock came again. “It is me, Comrades!” It was the sentry from the Petrograd Autonomous Company. “I have a message from none other than Alexander Kerensky, delivered by a government agent.”

“How the hell does he know where we live?” fumed Lenin. That was a threat if ever he’d seen one and clearly Zinoviev’s house was no longer safe. The sentry handed Lenin a piece of paper with Kerensky’s signature on the bottom. Lenin smiled- that was his childhood friend’s writing, all right. Whatever this was, it was legitimate.

“He wishes to meet with you, Comrades.” Lenin took a moment to let that sink in. Then he reached for the vodka bottle again.

* * *

Lenin and Zinoviev debated Kerensky’s offer the next day. Lenin had no intention of meeting him and argued that they were already in danger remaining in the capital. If there was one thing a lifetime in revolutionary politics had taught him, it was that you couldn’t trust anybody. You certainly didn’t want to enter a rival’s stronghold if you couldn’t win a shoot-out, and Lenin knew that nothing less than a rifle division could conquer the Tauride Palace. Luring the revolutionaries into his fortress with a hand-signed note and quickly filling them with lead would be ideal for Kerensky. Decapitating the Petrograd Soviet would make his regime the only viable alternative to the monarchy; adopting the Nine-Point Programme would win the people to his side. Like all revolutionaries, Kerensky had left his scruples at the door, so why wouldn’t he try such a thing? Lenin’s mind was too Machivaellian to imagine anything less.

Grigory Zinoviev saw things differently and urged Lenin to go. Kerensky, he pointed out, was a politician dressed up as a revolutionary. He was a cautious man who preferred making allies to foes. The Petrograd Soviet was a potential future threat, true (an admission that he and Lenin were planning to overthrow the Republic), but they also aided Kerensky’s regime. Assassinating Lenin would expose Kerensky as a reactionary and cost him popular support, without which his regime would collapse.“That might be so, Grigory Yevseyvich”, Lenin retorted, “but it will not do me much good if I am not there to witness it! You speak with the man yourself if you so choose.”

It wasn’t immediately apparent, but this was the greatest blunder of Lenin’s career.

Escorted by the men of the Georgievsky Unionised Company- a unit operating under a soldier’s council named after the neighbourhood from which its men all hailed- Zinoviev entered the Tauride Palace at dawn on 11 May. Though the violence had been over for two days, the palace was as heavily defended as ever. It was, Zinoviev remarked later, like entering a battleship through the bilge. Soldiers of the 79th Rifle Division (4) patted Zinoviev down while their attack dogs snarled at him. Artillery pieces, barbed wire, and sandbagged machine-guns evoked a Great War pillbox. A shiver shot up Zinoviev’s spine as he realised Lenin may have been right. If Kerensky wanted to take out half the leadership of the Petrograd Soviet, now would be an ideal time to do it.

“You’re clear.” A captain jerked his thumb, his breath reeking of tobacco. “I will escort you to the Provisional President’s office.” The gates to the fortress opened.

They could protect the Tauride Palace from outside invaders, but can they protect it from further intrigue?

* * *

“The Provisional President will see you now”, Kerensky’s secretary purred. Zinoviev’s eyes followed her as she strolled from her desk to Kerensky’s door. Even the guards were clearly fighting to keep their eyes straight forward. She rapped on the knocker. Seconds drifted by, and Zinoviev smiled awkwardly at her. She threw her long black hair over her shoulder and he adjusted his tie. Ten seconds had elapsed.

“Come!” Zinoviev walked in, the secretary closing the door behind him.

"Aah, Grigory Yevseyvich! Come in, come in, and have a seat.” Alexander Kerensky grinned from behind his republican throne. The silver placard on his desk read ‘Provisional President of the Russian Republic’, not ‘Prime Minister of the Russian Empire’, and portraits of long-deceased Romanovs were replaced by images of Kerensky on fishing trips, but other than that the office was no different to when Georgi Lvov had ruled. Zinoviev stepped over a peculiar dark stain on the carpet (6) and sat down.

“Cigar, old chap?”

“Nyet, nyet. Bad for the lungs, sir.” Kerensky shrugged and lit up. “Quite a nice office you have here, sir.”

“Indeed it is, Grigory Yevseyvich, indeed it is. Inherited it directly from the ancien regime. As Napoleon sat in the Tuileries, so I sit here. Some have accused me of being a stickler for offices, but I say that the position from which one speaks matters a great deal.” (6) He smiled. “And isn’t it a marvellous position? I have all the safety in the world and the power to finally mend this poor, broken Rodina of ours- to say nothing of that lovely Natasha.” Both men grinned. “But this is not our purpose here today. We have made great strides in the last few days. When I told the crowd that the old and rotten had collapsed, I was not exaggerating, you know. Our two groups have the chance to make a new path ahead for the Motherland but we must act fast.” The Provisional President blew a smoke ring. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you how grave the threat from the monarchists is?”

“Of course not, sir. We would be in a far better place if Xenia had never married. Her twenty-five children are all potential usurpers!” Zinoviev leaned in closer. “May one ask what’s happened to them, sir?”

Kerensky smiled. “Not twenty-five, Grigory Yevseyvich, though you are not far wrong. As to your question… the answer is, unfortunately, that I have no idea. Her husband, the so-called Grand Duke, is still in Pskov with their youngest son. He is the greatest threat by far. Her daughter and granddaughter are, in fact, in our custody. Provided they behave, no harm will come to them.” Zinoviev frowned. Surely, executing a few reactionaries would set an example? “The other sons are all in the military. War Minister Guchkov has issued orders for their arrest and trial, but I could not tell you if this has been carried out. I doubt whether he could, for that matter.”

"What you are saying, sir, is that we are just one city against the rest of the empire.”

Ages passed before Kerensky smiled sourly. “Ye-es. I suppose one could say that, Grigory Yevseyvich.” His tone of voice told Zinoviev he’d touched a nerve. “Thus making it all the more important that we succeed. Now, this is where- and I say this with all due respect- this is where I wish I could have conversed with Vladimir Lenin.”

“He fears for his safety”, Zinoviev said. “He believes that you would eliminate him given the chance and reduce the threat from your left.”

"Interesting.” Kerensky’s pose suggested thoughtfulness. “And do you believe that this was my intent? Had I offered you a cup of tea in lieu of a cigar, you would have been well to follow Lenin’s advice!” The Provisional President laughed far too loudly. “But regardless, perhaps you can answer my queries. We have our differences, of course, but what is the main thing uniting us?”

“That if the monarchists catch us, we will die together?”

“Precisely. Thus, it seems to me that the best thing we can do is hold together for the moment. I have absolute confidence in our ability to force a revolution if we are united. If, however, the Petrograd Soviet moves against the government of the Russian Republic-”

“-or if you attempt to crush the working people in the streets, and if your War Minister or General Kornilov turn on the Soviet-”

“then the only winners live in Pskov.” Kerensky pretended Zinoviev hadn’t cut him off, eyeing him with a grudging respect. “As I say, Grigory Yevseyvich, our differences are profound. Nonetheless, my goal is compromise. I didn’t get where I am today without being able to compromise!”

“Very fair”, Zinoviev said. “May I propose the following, then? You agree to the Nine-Point Programme as the basis for restructuring the Russian state, and promise to let the Petrograd Soviet extend its reach across the country once we have won the war.”

“Extend its reach across the country?” Kerensky frowned. “Explain.”

“As a sort of union of unions, sir. By this I mean that its place ought to be enshrined in the Constitution and all workers and soldiers should have representation therein.”
Kerensky frowned. “We… we shall see. When we have won the war, and the time comes to draft a constitution for our new republic, the soviets will absolutely receive due representation.” The Provisional President got a faraway look in his eye. “It will be marvellous, you know. History has found a special place for men such as us.” He stood up and smiled awkwardly. “Can you keep a secret, Grigory Yevseyvich?”

“Da.” Where was all this leading?

“I am glad to be meeting with you, as opposed to Vladimir Lenin. Compromise, Grigory Yevseyvich, is my end goal, and I daresay you are more palatable to it than your ally.”

“I beg your pardon, sir? Comrade Lenin and I are allies. We stand with the majority.”

“I know that. But I have also read his Nine-Point Programme, and suffice it to say there are some things which… concern me.” Kerensky was no fool- Zinoviev gave him that. But where was all this leading? “Sir, you may rest assured that everything in the Nine-Point Programme has my full approval. We coauthored it in my flat.” And he took all the credit, the scoundrel.

Kerensky stroked his chin. “You are a real Bolshevik, are you not? You’ve spent so long running from the Romanovs that you’ve forgotten something: one can have an ally in the government.”

“With all due respect, Provisional President Kerensky, please tell me where this is leading! If you are attempting to drive a wedge between myself and Comrade Lenin, know that that will not happen.” Zinoviev’s throat tightened. If word of this leaked out and Lenin doubted his loyalty, his political career would end at the bottom of the Neva River with weights tied to his feet and his clothes on the shore. But how will he find out, you fool? Zinoviev shook his head. Things could always go wrong. “Sir, I say this to you with the utmost respect: while we share a common enemy in the Romanovs and will fight them as one, there is little else in common between us. Comrade Lenin and I will always fight on behalf of the people. You can-” Telling Kerensky that he could stand with the majority or die with the minority might be perceived as a threat and Zinoviev didn’t want to die. “You can rest assured of that, sir.”

“I understand, Grigory Yevseyvich. I will leave you with two points. First, know that once the war is won, if the Petrograd Soviet- or, indeed, future Soviets across the whole country- attempt to usurp power from the Russian Republic I will show no quarter. Yourself, Comrade Lenin, and anybody else who moves against the republic will meet a swift end. The Rodina has seen too much turmoil for me to tolerate more.” A wolf in sheep’s clothing. That’s what you are. You pretend to be a liberal but underneath you are no less reactionary than Xenia.

“And the second thing. If you cooperate with the Russian Republic after the war, I will be your greatest ally. Even if Vladimir Lenin attempts something and you side with me, we will be comrades. I do not hate revolutionaries, you understand- I am one! But there is a time to burn and a time to build, and that time will come when the Romanovs are expelled from the country. When the time to build comes, I hope you will set down your gun and help build a republic the workers can be proud to call their own.”

“We will see, sir.” Had he believed in God, Zinoviev would’ve asked Him how to explain this to Lenin. “One war at a time, Provisional President Kerensky?”

“Agreed.” The two men clasped hands. “Best of luck, Grigory Yevseyvich. I hope our next meeting will be as comrades shaking hands over the ashes of the old and rotten.”
Zinoviev left Kerensky’s office, his mind racing. He was too preoccupied with the unsightly Provisional President to notice Natasha fixing her hair in the mirror. What did the Provisional President want from him? How could he explain this to Lenin? And what did it all mean?

* * *

It was fortunate that Kerensky had his left flank secure because the monarchist threat was only growing. Though the revolutionaries had burned Xenia’s body to be on the safe side, it didn’t take long to discern her fate. When news of the proclamation of the Russian Republic reached Pskov six hours after the fact, Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich staggered as if from a blow. His wife was gone. His twelve-year-old son was motherless. Alexander turned grief into fuel, and his personal hatred of the revolutionaries made him a unique force amongst the monarchists. Entrusting his son Vasilly to the captain of his guard, Alexander left Pskov for Veliky Novgorod first thing on the eleventh. His joke of a week ago that it was bad luck for Romanovs to flee there suddenly became bitter. Nonetheless, its proximity to the capital made it the best place to lash out against the Republicans. The guards welcomed Alexander Mikhailovich and attempted to hail him as Tsar, but he refused. That title, he said, belonged to his oldest daughter (8), and it was in her name he served.

Alexander’s main interest was in subjugating Petrograd as soon as possible. He believed the current situation was nothing more than a scaled-up version of September 1916. Then, urban unrest across the empire had weakened the monarchy and Petrograd had leapt into revolt, but as soon as the capital was secure things quietened down. Strangling both the Republicans and Petrograd Soviet in the cradle, “quarantining the virus of red revolution” (as Alexander put it) would prevent the regime from falling. Thus, he asked the commander how soon he could mount a strike on the capital. The commander replied that prospects were bleak. While Veliky Novgorod was largely secure, the garrison was neither well-equipped enough to march on Petrograd nor strong enough to conquer it. The most he could do, he said, was dispatch patrols to nearby towns and take control of roads and railways to deny them to the enemy. Alexander asked him what he was bloody waiting for before dictating a telegram to all the cities of the empire. He was alive and stronger than ever, he said, and so was the Romanov dynasty. Tsarina Xenia had given her life to stop the revolutionaries, and it fell to him, to “Tsarina Irina” (9), and to the Russian people to fulfill her dying wish.

His was the last chance to save his empire, people, and way of life. Victory meant saving the Tsarist throne, avenging his wife, and preserving the House of Romanov. Failure meant chaos and revolution. All this hung on the shoulders of Alexander Mikhailovich Romanov.

The last best hope of Russian monarchism: the Grand Duke Mikhailovich

Comments?

Hey, he happily served the Provisional Government in our world!
Her right-hand man; read the preceding chapter.
Substantially different to our world’s.
A unit led by a soldier’s council which agreed to act as Lenin’s bodyguards.
The one which pulled off the coup in the preceding chapter.
See the last chapter… this is foreshadowing….
Yes, this is inaccurate, but Kerensky gets the point across.
Whom he didn’t realise was in revolutionary captivity.
The aforementioned daughter. Most people hadn’t ever heard of her, let alone knew that she was in prison.

Spamavalanche · Jun 6, 2021

so what do you guys think can be improved about the Infobox

Screenshot 2021-06-07 at 07-42-26 Wikipedia Military Box Editor.png

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Jun 13, 2021

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Jun 14, 2021

Chapter Fifty-One: The Brusilov Offensive

"God damn it, how hard can this be? Two-thirds of the Motherland against the Central Volga! We will win in weeks!"
-General Andrey Andreevich Razivoich exhorting his men to repulse the Republican offensive and advance on Moscow

"We will turn these suburbs to ashes before we surrender them! Every patch of ground you capture is one where the machinations of the Okhrana cannot reach!"
-Alexei Brusilov

"Good Lord. We liberated the life out of this town! Imagine what we could do with proper supplies."
-Republican troops commenting on the destruction after finally entering Tver.

History, the old saying goes, is ninety percent geography and ten percent common sense. If that's so, the Russian Civil War began quite logically. The Republicans controlled much of the heartland. Moscow and the other Central Volga cities were the closest Russia had to an industrial belt, making them susceptible to Lenin's rhetoric. Once these cities linked up, they controlled the country's heartland and were too big to crush.

The ground separating the Central Volga from Petrograd quickly became a focus point. As it stood at the beginning of June, the Tsarists controlled a corridor over 250 miles wide from Archangel to the western border. Former Eastern Front supremo Alexei Brusilov, commander of the Central Volga People’s Army, envisioned a sweep northwest to link up with Kerensky in Petrograd, allured by the prospect of connecting the capital to the heartland. Besides, conquering Pskov and Veliky Novgorod would cut the Tsarists in Archangel off from the western frontier, depriving them of possible German support. An offensive northwest would enjoy one of the best highways in Russia, spanning from Petrograd to Moscow, making it logistically feasible.

Nor were the Tsarists blind to the possibilities the region offered. From his safe headquarters in Archangel, Alexander conferred with Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, who’d initially been supreme commander of the Russian army before being transferred to the Caucasus theatre. The Grand Duke had conducted this latter command well and had been standing on enemy soil when the fighting ended. He blamed the September Revolution for destroying his dreams of marching on Constantinople, and was a cousin of the murdered empress. In addition to his title, this Grand Duke shared her widower’s loathing of revolutionaries. This war was personal for him too. Grand Duke Nicholas had roughly seventy-five thousand men at his disposal, who had to safeguard Karelia, prevent further unrest in Tsarist-controlled cities, and police the rail lines in addition to fighting. At a meeting with Grand Duke Alexander and his firstborn son Prince Andrei on 2 June, Xenia’s widower proposed a siege of Petrograd. Isolating the capital would trap Kerensky and Lenin inside, which would prevent them from raising support elsewhere and limit the spread of their propaganda. Even if they escaped, the symbolism of the Republic cut off from its capital would be powerful.

Before they could attack, though, the Republicans beat them to it.

Having the most to lose forced the Republicans to act first. General Brusilov knew that if he waited too long, despite Kornilov’s success to the north, the Tsarists would be able to besiege Petrograd. He didn’t feel ready- the Central Volga People’s Army lacked the artillery and logistics he’d enjoyed during the Great War- but time was with the enemy. Since geography and a lack of operational telephone and telegraph lines divided him from Kerensky, Brusilov was left to be his own master in planning, and decided that the nearly half-million men at his disposal enabled him to attack on a 250-kilometre front. Being a student of military history and a Great War veteran had taught Brusilov to structure his offensive with logistics in mind. The road and rail complexes of Tver and Rzhev would both be invaluable in keeping his men supplied- no mean feat in a roadless steppe half the size of Western Europe. Brusilov also believed in preparation and was determined not to repeat the mistake of sending thousands to die in Galician hills. Militias formed during the General Strike underwent brief basic training outside Moscow prior to the offensive. They cursed their commander for it but it was essential. Being good enough to clash with police in the city streets, Great War veterans impressed on their charges, meant nothing against Tsarist troops. Stockpiling equipment for the coming offensive meant that recruits had to fire blanks during target practice and drill with wooden boards, but it was better than nothing. By the start of June, Brusilov could rest assured that his new recruits were at least half-trained. Reviewing one newly formed rifle brigade shortly before the fighting, Brusilov quipped that “at least we know the Tsarists will have had no more training. What would have been a sick joke against the Germans may suffice against our own countrymen. What that says about the successors of Kutuzov and Bagration I do not know!”

He was about to find out how he measured up.

Republican troops prepare to advance the day before the Brusilov Offensive

The Brusilov Offensive commenced on 4 June 1919 with a terrific artillery barrage. Unlike the wild and prolonged barrages of the Great War, the Republican commander took his cues from the German stormtroopers in Danubia. Brusilov’s bombardment lasted for only a few hours but targeted the Tsarists with surgical precision. Despite being the preliminary target, Tsarist artillery managed to return fire, and an orange glow appeared in the sky long before sunrise. The Tsarists, though, hadn’t spent the past few days making cavalry and aerial patrols, making their counter-battery fire sporadic. One exchange of orders illustrates this. When a battery of 122-milimetre guns outside the tiny hamlet of Turnigovo came under fire, its commander sent a courier asking for instructions to the rear. When he returned an hour later with, “You must be an idiot- return fire! And why did you not send a coded signal?”, his comrades and guns were nothing more than a smoking crater.

Once Republican troops began advancing, it became clear that some of Brusilov’s fears were unfounded. Machine-guns were powerful but could only reach so far. Barbed wire could only stretch for so long before it ran out. Russia’s industrial capacity being reduced by the Treaty of Konigsberg and divided by civil war left far fewer of these to go round than during the Great War. With Brusilov’s surgical barrage having damaged Tsarist defences, Republican troops found themselves attacking helpless infantry on the steppe. Two powerful columns pushed out, separate enough to achieve different objectives yet close enough for mutual support. The small Republican gunboat fleet sailed up the Volga to provide covering fire for the men as they crossed. After a week’s fighting, the bridges in the theatre were secure. Bullets, beans, and battalions streamed over the Volga to exploit the breakthrough made on the first day.

The initial stages of the Brusilov Offensive (as both sides quickly dubbed it) exceeded all expectations. To the northwest, stunned Tsarist troops proved unable to hold the crossings over the Volga, while the Republican gunboats made it dangerous to venture too close to the riverbank. Republican troops captured Koshelevo, halfway to Tver, ten days into the fighting. While their infantry plodded down the main road, cavalry protected the flanks and patrolled supply lines. The Tsarists exploited their mounted soldiers to the full, using their mobility to slip behind enemy lines and slice at their supply columns. Many cavalry clashes ensued on the steppe behind the ‘front lines’, but it wasn’t enough to save the defenders. The Tsarist commander, General Andrey Andreevich Razivoich, elected to fall back. If Brusilov’s thrust could lose its focus in a siege, that would buy time for reinforcements to arrive. Razivoich ordered women, children, and the elderly to evacuate Tver; boys were conscripted into ditch-digging units, men into militias. Tsarist troops fell back, under orders not to waste time, blood, and ammunition defending the approaches to Tver. Under Razivoich’s orders, they demolished roads and farms as they retreated, leaving the Republicans nothing to exploit.

Geography worked to the Tsarists’ advantage. The Volga River divides Tver into northern and southern halves; the southern is the larger of the two. Six roads- four on the north, two on the south- connect the town to the rest of the empire. He opted to hold the south-bank suburb of Gorokhova, where the eastern road turned south to loop around the town’s perimeter. Prolonging that town’s resistance, even if it fell eventually, would force the Republicans to extend their line and waste valuable resources crushing it. Thus, he condemned a rifle brigade to an unfortunate death. Meanwhile, Raziovich exploited the meandering Volga River, which at its narrowest point is less than 300 yards wide. He placed floating mines at this narrowest point, next to the suburb of Iyenovo, and directed his artillery to shell Republican scouts late on the night of the 22nd. The Konstantin and Sentabyr Revolutsyia were dispatched to eliminate the threat at eight PM. At 8:16, the leading Konstantin erupted in flames. A fireball hurled shards of metal and warm bodies onto both banks and sprayed water all over the Sentabyr Revolutsyia. Survivors tried to climb aboard the surviving gunboat, but moments later it fell prey to bombardment. With the bright sunset obscuring his vision, the captain of the Sentabyr Revolutsyia decided the best option was retreat. Maneuvering a ship through a 300-metre wide bend while under attack was no mean feat, and the captain made a fatal error. Eleven and a half minutes after her comrade’s destruction, the Sentabyr Revolutsyia struck another floating mine; Tsarist troops captured the dozen survivors.

At a cost of two land mines and a few artillery shells, General Raziovich had greatly reduced the enemy’s ability to use the river.

General Brusilov recognised the need to keep moving. If he couldn’t supply and transport his men on the river, they would just have to walk. Rather than attempting to capture Gorokhova, Republican troops looped around it. While one company attacked the town’s hastily prepared defences to tie down the garrison, a second disappeared into the woods to the south. Tsarist scratch forces exploited a local village and lake to hold them up for much of the day, but by the late afternoon Republican cavalry had emerged three miles west of Gorokhova. Once the two companies joined hands, the writing was on the wall. Though the trapped Tsarist colonel vowed to fight “to the last man and the last bullet”, too many of his men defected that night. Early on the morning of 26 June, even as the Republicans were building an ersatz road around the siege perimeter, he raised the white flag.

Andrey Raziovich’s plan hadn’t brought anywhere near the time needed and the fall of Tver seemed increasingly possible.

Republican troops now began, in Brusilov’s own words, “nibbling on the edges.” Rather than becoming bogged down in Tver a la Verdun, Dunkirk, or St. Polten, Brusilov wanted to encircle the city. It had worked in miniature at Gorokhova- why not here? Thus, rather than advancing west on the south bank, the Central Volga People’s Army expanded the scale of its efforts. Gunboats outfitted with minesweeping chains shelled Tsarist troops on the north bank while Republican cavalry penetrated inland on the south. Despite valiant resistance by individual Tsarists, the Republicans had the edge. When Brusilov’s men took Iyenevo on the 29th, they floated effigies of Nicholas II, Tsar Michael, and Tsarina Xenia down the river to catch leftover landmines. Grainy black-and-white footage has preserved this to the present day.

Brusilov later compared the siege of Tver to an amputation. “One could not simply launch in and begin slicing at will”, his grisly metaphor went. “Surgical precision was needed. My command had to cut roads as a surgeon cuts tendons, take care not to strain this or that unit as one would take care not to unduly strain a muscle. And of course, laying the groundwork for a siege is as bloody as any amputation ever performed.”

Brusilov and Raziovich wrestled for two weeks in the suburbs of Tver as the Republican tried to slip the noose around his foe. Sandbags and barbed-wire strands sprawled around their foxhole turned many Tsarist platoons into roadblocks; machine-guns sometimes needed hours to destroy. All the while, trains arrived with supplies and reinforcements and returned west carrying civilians. The limited range of Russian artillery and caution about sending in the gunboats again gave the western bridges over the Volga a valuable stay of execution, but only delayed the inevitable.

Sixty thousand Tsarist troops were bottled up in Tver on 14 July 1919.

Meanwhile, the second thrust of the Brusilov Offensive had developed to the west. Like Tver, Rzhev sat atop one of the major highways out of the capital and was a significant rail yard. Two hundred kilometres of steppe broken only by one of Russia’s better roads separated it from the empire’s second city. This made it a natural jumping-off point for an offensive against Moscow and the Tsarists had been stockpiling forces there since the war began.

Now they would be forced to play defence.

The drive towards Rzhev began at eleven PM on 3 June 1919 with an intense six-hour barrage of the Tsarist positions west of Moscow to punish Novoportovskoye and Dorokhovo for being useful road and rail junctions under the Tsarist banner. 122-mm shells crashed out of the night sky to illuminate the shaking steppe. Civilians awoke to find the earth shaking and their hometowns ablaze. The lucky ones fled into the woods; the less fortunate were buried alive as their homes were tossed about like sticks. Panicked Tsarist troops searched for their commanders and sprinted to their positions. Sometimes they found both; other times there was nothing more than a smoking crater.

Brusilov sent his main units forward at five AM. Twenty understrength rifle divisions and ten cavalry divisions with a leavening of armoured cars attacked along a sixty-five kilometre front. Just as at Tver, the Republican blow winded the enemy, and one of Brusilov’s deputies entered a pacified Novoportovskoye twelve hours after his artillery had made the town tremble. Broken Tsarist units traded miles of steppe and minor villages for the chance to live another day. One Tsarist division, on orders from the commander in Tver, sacrificed itself to impede the enemy advance. Brusilov’s front was divided by a sizable lake traversable only via a two-mile-wide miniature isthmus. This retreating division occupied the landbridge on the eighth and began shelling the Republican flanks. Brusilov was initially unconcerned- what was one bloody division worth?- but the division was tying down thousands of his men, and the shelling reduced the supplies reaching his forces at the centre. He thus transferred front-line strength to reduce the pocket.

Military historians agree that this decision was what kept Rzhev in Tsarist hands.

Brusilov over-reacted to the threat. A single division with a few guns wasn’t going to break out and freely roam around his rear while the shelling wasn’t impeding supply efforts tremendously. Yet the spectre of thousands of enemy soldiers at the centre of his line scared the Republican commander, and he used a hammer needed elsewhere to crush a snail. Many of the armoured cars which had stiffened his advance were diverted to crush the pocket, along with a good helping of cannon-fodder. The attack went in at nine AM on the tenth, and though the Tsarists fought well the end-game was never in doubt. Morale died with the commanding general when his tent was strafed (12), and by dusk the defenders of the isthmus were either dead or captured. Republican troops happily pilfered supplies from their enemies, and Brusilov ordered the units involved to return to the front the next day.

The Tsarist commander in Rzhev, meanwhile, breathed a sigh of relief. It had cost him a division, but he’d slowed the Republican push on his city. Shakhovskaya to the north and Mozhaisk to the south had held out against infantry-only attacks made throughout the day. Late in the afternoon of the tenth, he dispatched reserves to the two towns, and the eleventh proved a quiet day. Tsarist units which had spent the past few days falling back made the most of their breather. Battalions and companies were reorganised, wounds dressed, and earthworks dug. Men enjoyed the luxury of a hot meal and midday nap without bullets whistling through the walls.

The defenders of the isthmus had died so that the approaches to Rzhev might live.

Shakhovskaya and Mozhaisk started 12 June with the same wake-up call as Novoportovskoye and Dorokhovo. However, they enjoyed advantages the previous towns hadn’t. Many of the Republican attackers had spent the previous day on the march from the isthmus and so weren’t well-rested or supplied. In contrast, many of the defenders were reservists fresh from Rzhev whose bountiful supplies more than made up for their lack of experience. Earthworks dug the previous day came in handy as Tsarist artillery returned fire from a safe position. Despite losing many lives, the defenders of both towns held out. Weary Republican troops fell back at dusk, doing their best to ignore cries of “God Save the Tsar!”

Brusilov wasn’t giving up so easily. If he couldn’t subdue the obstacles to Rzhev, he’d just have to circumvent them. Transferring troops from Tver took three days (which the Tsarists used to further reinforce), but by the night of 15 June he had a further ten divisions on hand. Rather than subduing Shakhovskaya and Mozhaisk, Brusilov decided to bypass them. Cavalry and armoured cars would engage the Tsarists on the steppe and open the road to Rzhev while second-rate infantry would reduce the two towns. To the north, Republican forces thrusted south of Shakhovskaya. For all the work the Tsarists had put into them, the defences were oriented eastward to stop another head-on assault. Cavalry and light infantry chased one another around to little effect; a collision five miles behind the line proved indecisive. Dispatching rapid units behind a fortified position was one thing; building strength behind that position so as to be able to ignore it was another. Both sides had stalemated the other- which, seeing as how Brusilov had to move forward and his foe didn’t, worked against him.

Things were different in the south. Mozhaisk was smaller and less well-defended, and when Brusilov thrust to its south the garrison was caught off-guard. Victory gleamed in the old Georgian’s eyes as he read reports that morning. The defenders of Mozhaisk were shortening their flanks, pulling forces into the town itself in preparation for a siege. His forces wasted no time and blew south. If entering Mozhaisk was asking too much, Brusilov was damned sure the enemy would get nothing out of it except a butcher’s bill. By sunset on 16 June, Republican scouts were miles behind the surrounded village when they came upon a road sign which made them stop in their tracks.

Brusilov had unflatteringly compared himself to Kutuzov and Bagration. Now he had a chance to prove himself their equal on the battlefield of Borodino.

The Brusilov Offensive was beginning to worry the Tsarist government. They saw the same map as Brusilov in Moscow and Kerensky in Petrograd, and were determined not to lose Rzhev and Tver. At dawn on 17 June, Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich arrived in Rzhev, accompanied by his bodyguards. The city was militarised and on-edge, with soldiers on every block. Propaganda posters cried ‘God Save the Tsar’ and exhorted readers to ‘report seditious activities against God and the Russian Empire during this heightened crisis.’ Grey clouds hung in the sky and the smell of cordite wafted from the east. Hungry Rzhevers stared at the de facto regent’s crisp uniform and clean-shaven cheeks, and ring of steel. Why, they pondered, did this polished gentleman need all this security if the people loved him? The Grand Duke ignored the proles and made for the commander’s headquarters. “Aah, Your Excellency”, the general said. “We’ve been waiting for you. It is an honour.”

“You may dispense with the pleasantries, General”. The Grand Duke’s voice was a low growl. Anyone or anything which impeded his revenge against the revolutionaries who’d killed his wife was evil. “I am here to put you back on schedule.” In walked a handsome beared officer whose military cap disguised his baldness. “May I present your replacement?”

“Replacement?” The general turned white and glared at the other officer. “And who might you be?” It was as polite a way the Grand Duke had ever heard of telling someone where to go and what to do when he got there. If the polished replacement noticed it, he was too polite to say so.

“God Save the Tsar!” Anton Denikin gave his predecessor a crisp salute and a predatory grin. “Take me to the map room.”

Denikin lost little time getting to grips with Brusilov. Though he was critical of his predecessor’s performance, Denikin acknowledged he’d done some things right. The situation to the north at Shakhovskaya was perfectly stable; reports indicated that Mozhaysk’s garrison could withstand a substantial siege. If he could eliminate the Republican column south of Mozhaysk, he told the Grand Duke, the Brusilov Offensive would be contained. “Lose no time”, Alexander told him, “lest we end up having this discussion outside Smolensk!” Denikin had a fair amount of materiel with which to accomplish this. Three rifle divisions assembled at Rzhev before the Brusilov Offensive to drive on Moscow had been conserved; Denikin decided to commit them. Four hours after Denikin sat down in his new office, these fresh units had left their barracks and were marching to battle. Denikin knew what a risk he was taking. Success might stop the Republicans in their tracks; failure would leave the garrison of Rzhev dead and the city gates open, and would place Grand Duke Alexander in grave personal danger- to say nothing of shooting his career stone dead.

Denikin was a Tsarist patriot though, and took the risk for the sake of all he believed in.

The two combatants at Second Borodino, Anton Denikin and Alexei Brusilov

Considering the hopes pinned on this counterattack, the rest of 17 June was anticlimactic. Republican troops continued advancing west, their Tsarist foes neither stopping them nor falling over themselves to get away. The encircled defenders of Mozhaisk continued putting lead in the air, as hesitant to break out as their foes were to break in. Unusually for Russian armies (normally quite lax about such matters), Denikin had thought ahead and hadn’t informed his field units about the coming reinforcements or even the change of command. If their radio operators knew what was going on, Brusilov’s did too. Thus, the encounter between advance scouts from the rifle divisions and the embattled Tsarist rearguard didn’t go as smoothly as planned. Both mistook the other for Republicans and clashed for fifteen minutes, during which friendly fire claimed seventeen lives until a captain heard one of his opposite numbers yell, “Down with you Kerenskyites- God Save the Tsar!” Horrified, the captain threw up his hands and yelled “God Save the Tsar!” Turning to his own troops, he yelled “cease fire you fools! They’re loyalists- they’re all loyalists!” That mishap out of the way, both set about profusely apologising and burying their dead before reinforcing their current position. Commanders discussed Denikin’s instructions for the next day’s operations and dispatched a carrier pigeon for Mozhaisk. Had that bird been shot down or simply gotten tired, Denikin’s offensive would’ve failed, casting him into disgrace and possibly altering the entire Russian Civil War.

The fate of nations hung on a plump-breasted spotted pigeon named Ivan the Speckled.

Anton Denikin was too excited to sleep much that night. Despite valiant service in Manchuria, Galicia, and Bessarabia, he’d never felt appreciated by the system. Answering not to an incompetent staff officer but a Grand Duke, and with the fate not just of a campaign but an empire and way of life in the balance (or so it seemed to him, at least) changed everything. After reviewing the plans one last time, Denikin downed a cup of coffee shortly before midnight and began praying a Russian Orthodox Rosary. When he arose from his knees, it was a few minutes past midnight on 18 June 1919.

Three fresh divisions- with associated artillery and supplies- made a considerable difference. Contact with never-before-seen battalions halted a brief Republican effort to continue the previous day’s chase. Companies turned into brigades on the map square, and brigades turned into divisions. These Tsarist units weren’t well-supplied or trained by Western standards, but the Russian Civil War had a lower bar. By ten AM, Brusilov in Moscow was receiving unwelcome telephone calls from the front. By noon, Republican troops had lost a mile in some places; by three PM what was left of the last day’s conquests were written off. Stripping units from Mozhaisk was limited by Brusilov’s fear that the Tsarists would break out of the perimeter; time and distance precluded bringing men in from the stalemate at Shakhovskaya. Though he wasn’t superstitious, the Republican commander had to have worried when he realised where his armies were making a stand for the night.

He was going to end up commanding one-half of the Second Battle of Borodino.

Anton Denikin had a cunning plan. The previous day’s advances had left his forces approximately eight miles from Mozhaisk. To his left (the enemy’s right) lay a wide tributary of the Moskva River. Denikin was determined to use this layout not just to defeat his foe, but to take them off the map. Early in the morning of the eighteenth, taking a page from Brusilov’s book, he dispatched cavalry and armoured cars from his right towards Mozhaisk. The besieged garrison was reaching the end of its rope and couldn’t be expected to do much alone, but nonetheless it followed the orders delivered by Ivan the Speckled and began hammering away at the perimeter. It looked like the garrison was attempting a sortie with help from outside, and the Republicans rushed forces to the presumed breakout point. However, Denikin had something else in mind. His armoured cars and cavalry engaged the Republican reinforcements less than a mile to the west of the town, but began withdrawing after only a few minutes of combat just as the Mozhaisk garrison quietened down. The Republicans assumed they’d defeated the sortie attempt and decided to chase the Tsarist column. Denikin’s subordinate began a slow withdrawal, making sure the enemy never engaged him and stopped his movement yet not disappearing from his sight. As the cavalry and armoured cars reached the old Napoleonic battlefield at ten AM, the three fresh rifle divisions began an assault in the centre of the line. Uchkoza (the name sounds better to Russian ears) had fallen early in the morning- it was en route to the fake sortie- and was occupied by the three rifle divisions. Now, all but a scratch garrison headed for the small town of Borodino proper, where they joined the cavalry and armoured cars. Faced with over ten thousand fresh enemies, the Republicans began a rapid yet orderly retreat. In their eagerness to flee, they hardly noticed they were going west, towards the Tsarist lines, not east towards their own. In any case, they told themselves, they had units on their far right (the Tsarists’ left) which could help. As they approached a south-flowing branch of the Moskva River and heard Republican war-cries across only fifty yards of water, they believed the day was won. A moment later, though, it all came crashing down- literally. The Republican soldiers on the other side of the river collapsed in agony, and Tsarist riflemen stood over the corpses. It didn’t take them long to realise those were enemy troops on the other bank and to open fire. The Tsarist pursuers crashed into the Republican rear, trapping them between a hostile army on one hand and fifty yards of water with enemy riflemen.

It was a trap.

The only difference between the carnage of 1812 and the carnage of 1919 were the uniforms

Although no precise casualty figures exist, Irish military historian Robert FitzGerald’s The Great War for Civilisation has proposed eleven thousand Republicans killed and three times that number wounded or captured in the encirclement on 18 June 1919, out of a total sixty-five thousand casualties in total for the Rzhev campaign. No one has seriously challenged these statistics since.

The Second Battle of Borodino was a resolute Tsarist victory that ended any hope of the Republicans taking Rzhev. Late that night, the Tsarists entered Mozhaisk to cheers from the beleaguered garrison. Grand Duke Alexander presented Anton Denikin with his “sincere complements” and the Cross of St. George for his “extreme competence and valour.” The general who Denikin had replaced, meanwhile, drowned his embarrassment in a glass or three of vodka. Though the fighting at Tver would end in that city’s encirclement by Republicans, the next two weeks were a triumphal time for Rzhev’s Tsarists. Not until 17 July did Brusilov cobble an adequate force together to halt the foe at the last major road and rail junction west of Moscow. The road to the Republican metropolis seemed tantalisingly open, and with it an end to the war…

Alexei Brusilov worried that the failure of his offensive would cost him his job. He was more than grateful that Kerensky was separated from him by hostile armies and hundreds of miles; had he been on-the-spot in Moscow, Brusilov believed, the Provisional President would’ve sacked him. However, days lengthened into weeks and still no replacement arrived. It gradually sunk into Brusilov that the command was still his, and he began taking stock of what he could do.

The failed Brusilov Offensive had severely weakened his forces. Many of his best men- including much of his cavalry and armoured cars- had been killed or captured at Second Borodino. Rzhev was over a hundred miles away, while the Tsarists trapped in Tver weren’t ready to surrender yet. Tver became a rest area for exhausted units and a training ground for fresh ones; a place to hone one’s combat skills without risking annihilation. Ultimately, hunger and a lack of supplies felled the Tsarists, and the town fell in early October. This one success aside, the Republican situation was grim. His dreams of slicing northwest were dashed, and there was no telling when the enemy would attack. The absence of instructions from Kerensky left Brusilov to his own devices. Wisely, the Republican commander opted to defend and rebuild. August 1919 saw daily skirmishes which altered the front line a few miles one way or the other, but neither side pushed forward. Brusilov didn’t understand why but wasn’t complaining, and he used the time to remake the Central Volga People’s Army.

The failure of the Brusilov Offensive set the tone for the Russian Civil War. Brusilov's comment that "the question is who can reach the bottom slowest" sums up both sides' technological and tactical prowess. United Russia during the Great War had 'mastered' human wave attacks and cavalry charges; men had waited for their comrades to die so they could steal their rifles. Dividing the country didn't help matters. Part of the reason fighting had moved so slowly was that neither side had much hitting power; a well-supplied machine-gun could hold the enemy up for hours because no one had the artillery to take it out. Of course, few machine-gun posts enjoyed such good supplies; more common was for them to fire only sporadically to save bullets. Cavalry, which five years ago had bit the dust in Poland, resurfaced. Much like the French Civil War, the fighting in Russia was of lower intensity than in the Great War, not that that made it any less terrible for the poor souls caught in it...

Strategically, the Brusilov Offensive had been a failure for both sides. Though Second Borodino was a resounding tactical victory for the Tsarists, it decided nothing. Brusilov and his new subordinate had proven they couldn't advance northwest; the Tsarists knew they couldn't conquer the Central Volga. The theatre would heat up again in 1920, but for now, both sides looked elsewhere.

There was no telling who would win the Russian Civil War, but it was pitifully clear who would lose it: the poor, drafted peasant, ordered to lay down his life at Shakhovskaya or Mozhaisk, Rzhev or Tver, for men he barely knew and to whom he meant nothing. That wouldn't change regardless of who won.

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Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Jun 20, 2021

Chapter Fifty-Two: Of Emperors And Presidents

"Just as the Republicans were divided in the Civil War, so too were the Tsarists. Just as Alexander Kerensky vied for power with Lenin, so too were the Tsarists beset. Andrei, the so-called Tsar, had no more say over events than a common private soldier. It was his father, the Grand Duke Mikhailovich, who pulled the strings, yet his leadership left something to be desired..."
-Excerpt from Robert FitzGerald's The Great War for Civilisation (1998)

"Peace, peace? I'll tell that so-and-so what peace means. Peace under my banner, with the traitors who murdered my wife under my boot. That, boy, is the only definition of peace in Russia!"
-Grand Duke Mikhailovich to Tsar Andrei after learning of Kiril Vladimirovich's peace offer

"If my sole remembered accomplishment a century from now is that I made Russia in my own image, as a liberal democracy of Christian values, of decency, and of tolerance... it will not be what I set out to do, but nonetheless an honour I shall accept. I only hope the current leadership in Petrograd heeds my message."
-Woodrow Wilson, shortly before his death.

"This is a unique moment of destiny for Germany, greater even than when the Archduke Ferdinand went to his death. We now have the chance not just to push back the Russian bear but to destroy it forever!"
-Kaiser Wilhelm II

The past few years had not been kind to the Romanov Dynasty. War and turmoil had whittled down the ranks over the quarter century since Nicholas II took power. Out of Alexander III's six children, only two were alive and one was disgraced in exile. Alexander had died in infancy; his brother George had fallen off a motorcycle in 1899. Nicholas had ceded the throne to his brother Michael after losing the Great War, and lived under his cousin Wilhelm's auspices. The former Tsar's son Alexei had fallen from a window, his wife was dead, and he was estranged from his daughters. Reactionaries had murdered Michael in revenge for implementing a liberal constitution, leaving his illegitimate schoolboy son Georgi behind. The throne passed to his sister Xenia, who failed to prevent the May Day General Strike. Alexander Kerensky's Republican Coup grabbed power over her dead body. Nicholas had no desire to retake power (and was constitutionally forbidden from trying), and his surviving sister Olga didn't fancy risking her neck. This presented a slight problem: all of Alexander III's children were either dead or disbarred.

At its darkest moment, the House of Romanov was left vacant.

Xenia's husband, the Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, seemed the obvious successor. Being a close confidante of Nicholas II before the Great War had taught him much about statecraft, while being the Tsarina's husband for the past year had ingratiated him with Russia's elites. Besides, this war was personal for Mikhailovich. His failure to defend the woman he loved left him all the more determined not to let the revolutionaries get away with it. "I say this to the Judas Iscariots who murdered their God-given empress. You have not just committed a grave sin against God and against Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality, but against my own person. Perhaps the Heavenly Father will find it in His heart to forgive you; I will not." Accompanied by his youngest son Vassili, with whom he and Xenia had fled to Pskov days before the Republican Coup, the Grand Duke made for Veliky Novgorod on 9 May. Accompanied by bodyguards, the two Romanovs loaded into an armoured car and blazed up the dirt road, not stopping once and firing warning shots at cars and horse-carts moving too slowly. As soon as he arrived, Mikhailovich addressed the Russian people. The Republican Coup, he said, was

"a sham attempt to forge an illegitimate regime, one bereft of the goodwill of the Russian people. Those men who, yesterday, raised the banner against the House of Romanov, crossed the Rubicon. Alexander Fyodorovich Kerensky, Pavel Nikolayevich Milyukov, Lavr Georgevich Kornilov, and all those who have affiliated themselves with this are outside the law. As per the Constitution of 1918, the punishment for treason is death. All the subjects of the Russian state, in the name of God, are entrusted with a duty to punish these traitors should the opportunity arise. The simplest means of this, subjects, is to declare your fealty to and take up arms in the name of the House of Romanov. God stands on the side of the state which has served Him loyally since my illustrious ancestor Peter the Great two centuries previous. All Russians are under a moral obligation to oppose these Godless usurpers. To do otherwise is to betray your late Imperial mother, Xenia, who for a year nurtured and protected this nation." (At this point, Mikhailovich began crying; his tears made good propaganda but were quite genuine.)

"Now, many will object. Perhaps, one will say, the people had a right to rebel! After all, conditions for the average workingman remain poor! We work long hours in the factories and fields, one might say, while you noblemen live on the high hog. This, surely, is a vile injustice! To this, I reply: Your conditions are doubtless harsh. I do not deny this, nor that great disparities exist in this nation. But that does not excuse treason and regicide! A son does not murder his father because he is not fed properly; he takes to the streets and works. It would be fallacious to pretend that the Rodina was a perfect place before the war, but it would be equally so to place the blame at the feet of the Imperial Family. Though the Constitution most certainly legitimises protests and labour action- even on so broad a scale as to interfere with economic activity- looting and rioting can not be condoned, much less treason. To those who have tarred themselves over the past ten days by affiliating with this criminality, I say this: Repent. Denounce the Martovist rabble-rousing of Lenin and of the so-called Soviets and soldier's councils. Let the Petrograd criminals know that their days are numbered, and return to the streets in defence of something greater than your economic position: all that is good and true in the Motherland. Do this and this nation will have peace and glory for a century.

I now call upon all loyal soldiers. Raise the banner of this dynasty, reject the illegitimate 'councils', and join the swift crushing of these treasonous cells. Let every officer for whom his oath to the Tsar and Constitution means a pact not just with the above but with the God Who made him prove his loyalty. Ignore all treasonous directives from the former War Minister, who by his conduct has forefitted his office, and let him obey all orders from his superiors, whose authority derives ultimately from the crown worn by my late wife. As of this moment, then, the Motherland finds herself embroiled in a civil war against anarchy and treason. The question I posit is: will you fight on the side of treason, socialist atheism, and modernism, or on that of Truth and Tradition, divine justice, Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality? God Save the Tsar!"

People rallied to Mikhailovich's banner. Vladivostok, seven hours ahead of the capital, had operated in its own world since the General Strike began. Fishermen and dockworkers kept plying their trades there, as oblivious to the state of martial law as to the Nine-Point Programme. The garrison was too busy counting its blessings at being deployed to a quiet zone to rise up against the revolt, while the time lag prevented keeping the Pacific city properly in touch with events. The same held true in Khabarovsk, Irkutsk, Omsk, Novosibirsk, and Krasnoyarsk. Siberian peasants were too busy trying to eke out a living from the barren landscape to pick up their guns, while the soldiers running the Trans-Siberian Railway remained loyal. A swathe of steppe from Voronezh through the North Caucasus also declared for the regime, as did Arkhangelsk.

Ukraine, Central Asia, and the southern Caucasus remained nominally under imperial control, but that was only because nationalist protests had yet to escalate to full revolution. The empire’s monarchies loathed the Tsar because he was Russian, not because he was an autocrat. Independence, not equality under Kerensky, was the end goal.

Meanwhile, the Tsarists had been clumsily coalescing. Their clumsiness in doing so, however, illustrates how out-of-touch they could be with the common people.

As the late Tsarina’s husband and a confidante of Nicholas II, Mikhailovich considered himself entitled to the crown. Xenia’s sister Olga had zero interest in ruling (she sat out the civil war in Sweden), leaving the Grand Duke the closest male Romanov to the throne. Being the first to raise the banner in Veliky Novgorod enhanced his legitimacy. Mikhailovich’s daughter, trapped in Republican-held Petrograd, was unable to interfere, as were his four sons in the military. His twelve-year-old son Vassily was too busy grieving for his mother to care. That left Prince Andrei Alexandrovich. Mikhailovich’s twenty-two-year-old son was a handsome cavalry captain who’d been stationed in Smolensk when revolution broke out. After the Republican Coup, War Minister Guchkov had issued orders for Andrei’s arrest and execution, but the prince had saved himself with a gallant address to his men. He shamed them for their lack of loyalty not just to the Romanov Dynasty but him personally. “If you wish to side with traitors against your commanding officer, the man who fought by your side and shared your hardships in the Polish trenches, so be it.” He threw his sidearm at the men’s feet and smiled. Ashamed, his men begged his forgiveness and pledged to follow him. Historians credit the prince with winning Smolensk for the Tsarists- he claimed the achievement for the rest of his life.

When the Smolensk garrison hailed him as Tsar on 12 May, Prince Andrei gratefully accepted.

Tsar Andrei: a joke of an emperor

* * *

Mikhailovich wasn’t having this. He loved his son and knew what the Constitution said, but the throne was his. Part of this was a desire to have the empire in good hands- twenty-two was a bit young to command a faction in a nationwide civil war- but more had to do with a simple desire for power. Summoning his son to Veliky Novgorod on the eighteenth, Mikahlovich lectured Andrei like he had when the boy was five. This was no time, he said, for division. “The Romanov crown must not be contested in this hour, son. I know it must pain you, but the throne cannot be yours. Allies both domestic and foreign know me and will respect me; this is no time for a novice.” Andrei retorted that the Constitution gave him the throne as the oldest son of the preceding monarch. His father leapt to his feet, ready to holler at Andrei like a misbehaving child, but the prince stopped him. “You claim, Father, to defend the Constitution against the Kerenskyites. Surely the people might take it amiss if you betrayed it?”

“Explain what you mean”, Mikhailovich growled.

“Well, father, this could serve as a propaganda victory for us if we play it right. We can tell the people that although you desire the throne and would like to avenge Moth...the late Empress Xenia, you place your fealty to the Constitution first, since the Constitution is what keeps Russia stable.”

“Cobblers!” Mikhailovich pounded the desk. “I remember when my flaming brother in law- the foolish one, that is, not Nicky- promulgated that thing. Good God, what a waste of an emperor- and look what a mess it’s gotten us into now, eh? I do not base my right to rule on a constitution worth nothing but empty words- I base it on the right of my ancestors derived from God for the past two centuries!”

Andrei gulped. His father could be a volcano at times. But what had he to lose? “When I say that I ought to have the throne, father, that isn’t to say I would shut you out. Far from it in fact. All I mean is that I might serve as a better face on the regime. The Prime Minister and I could negotiate and speak; you could advise and direct. And of course, father, I would be… filial as I listened to your advice.” He’d won. Mikhailovich stroked his beard, a faraway look in his eye.

“What about your brothers and sister?” That was a damn good question and Andrei didn’t hesitate to say so. “If I had to guess, father, I would say…” A lump formed in Andrei’s throat. He’d never been that close to any of them- they’d been raised in different bedrooms by different nannies- but the idea of the revolutionaries getting their hands on them sickened him. “Irinia is the one I worry about.” His older sister had been in Petrograd with her husband when it all began. Odds were she was dead. “And of course, Vassily is here with us.” Andrei made a mental note to talk to the kid, whom he still loved despite the ten-year gap. “That leaves Fyodor, Nikita, Dimitri, and Rostislav.” All were in the military, whereabouts unknown.

“Nothing we can do about that now”. Mikhailovich pounded Andrei’s back. “Come. If you are to assume the title of power, you must meet the right people.” Tsar and ruler walked off.

* * *

The dispute between father and son was so peaceful precisely because nothing major was at stake. Andrei got the crown; Mikhailovich the power. When Tsar Andrei addressed the Russian people on 6 June, glorifying God and the Constitution, Mikhailovich stood beside him. He issued an open letter supporting his son’s position on the throne and got Xenia’s sister Olga to follow suit. In exchange for all this, Andrei followed his father’s directives. However, a new and far more hostile threat to the throne emerged that summer. His bid for the throne, however comical it seems in retrospect, threatened Romanov unity and boosted Republican propaganda.
Grand Duke Kiril Vladimirovich had been born in 1878 and was a cousin of the Tsar. Like Mikhailovich, he’d enjoyed Nicholas’ favour and attained the rank of admiral in 1916, but his rank was merely honourary- severe burns from the Russo-Japanese War left him physically weak. Instead, he became Captain of the Imperial Naval Guard; not a position bestowed lightly. Men answering to the Grand Duke fought against both the September Revolutionaries and 15 April plotters. The May Day General Strike saw Kiril on holiday with his German in-laws. Leaving the wife and kids in Hesse, he rushed back to the Motherland, reaching Petrograd the day before the Republican Coup. Recognising the danger in a revolutionary city, Kiril didn't even bother staying the night. He disguised himself as an Orthodox priest and, escorted by several Okhrana men, made for Arkhangelsk. (His disguise was apparently excellent; his diary records not one but two instances of having to refuse to hear someone's confession). Kiril supported Andrei's regime hoping he could control the boy, but Mikhailovich elbowed him aside. The Grand Duke slipped into a depression that summer. His family was safe in Hesse (he'd sent word not to return home) but he missed them terribly. His cousin's husband was thwarting his bid for power, and his homeland was ablaze. Kiril was a loyal Romanov and a Russian patriot, but he saw how much the civil war was damaging his homeland and like everyone- possibly excepting Vladimir Lenin- wanted peace. However, Kiril was unique in one key respect. Whereas Kerensky, Lenin, or Mikhailovich defined ‘peace’ as the surrender or conquest of the enemy, he believed in compromise. He was acutely aware that the only reason Kerensky had launched the Republican Coup was to forestall Lenin’s proclamation of a socialist republic and believed the Republican leader might be willing to submit to the monarchy- provided his own power was respected, of course- to fight the real enemy, the Marxists. Since Mikhailovich would never legitimise his wife’s murder by negotiating with the enemy, Kiril believed only one man could prevent civil war without end.

As July 1919 dragged on, Kiril laid plans which seem shockingly naive to modern eyes. Ideally, his diary records, he could “persuade Mikhailovich to step down of his own accord.” Provided the Grand Duke agreed not to interfere with his son’s “free running of the war”, he wouldn’t even need to die. Andrei was to be left on the throne as Kiril’s puppet rather than Mikhailovich’s. Once he’d made peace with Kerensky in the emperor’s name, Kiril told himself, he could retire peacefully. The Grand Duke’s attempt to emulate the Republican Coup ignored the fact that plotting was a nasty business. The plotters had not persuaded Xenia to step down; they’d lured her away from her bodyguards, pumped her full of lead, and burned the body with a lighter and timber.

Grand Duke Kiril was about to throw his life and reputation away on a last-ditch attempt to halt the cataclysm.

As a naval town, Arkhangelsk was brimming with Imperial Naval Guardsmen who were loyal to their commander’s person. Few thought it amiss when, in a repeat of Lavr Kornilov’s “changing of the guard” outside the Tauride Palace, they were moved to the city centre outside the town hall-turned-Imperial Palace.

* * *

Grand Duke Kiril Vladimirovich (1876-1919) threw his life away to stop the war

Heart in mouth, Grand Duke Kiril Vladimirovich stepped into Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich’s office. It wasn’t much to boast about; everything in Arkhangelsk was smaller and shabbier than its counterpart in the capital. If this goes well, I will be back before the leaves fall from the trees. Best not to dwell on what could happen if he failed. Kiril’s bodyguards followed him in. If he wanted to, he could scream “Open fire!”. That would kill one Grand Duke but would guarantee the other a slow and painful execution. If I die, it will be all for nothing. Only I can save the Motherland. The thought didn’t do much for his nerves. “Your Excellency! Thank you for granting me the pleasure of this audience.”

“My pleasure. Though the war has me swamped with work, I can take time easily enough for you. You aren’t just a patriot, Kiril Vladimirovich, but a friend. And within these four walls, I am Alexander Mikhailovich. One grand duke to another.” Kiril stared at the man. Silver bags hung under Mikhailovich’s bloodshot eyes. Fresh creases were etched into his skin and grey streaks coursed through his hair.

“The war has aged you, hasn’t it?”

Mikhailovich frowned. “Of course it has aged me. Only four months ago we were at peace across the whole empire and… and the late Empress Xenia was alive.” His voice wobbled. “Damn that Guchkov to hell and back!”

As Mikhailovich pounded the desk, the words died on Kiril’s tongue. “Well, sir…” He would have to do this the hard way. “I do not claim to understand your frustration, sir. My wife and children are, praise God, safe in Hesse. I can only imagine the strain this must take on both yourself and Tsar Andrei.” That’s right. Keep him talking. Make him think you’re no threat.

Mikhailovich’s chuckle was as cold as Arkhangelsk. “Andrei is just a boy, really. By God, I remember when he was only so high!” He set his hand to his thigh. “And now, that boy is Tsar of all the Russias! I cannot say I ever imagined that.” Mikhailovich licked his lips. “He isn’t ready, either, which is why I need to be on hand. It was me who had to light a fire under General Denikin to see results outside Moscow (1) and me who had to get the ambassadors under one roof. Everybody knows it without admitting as much, but the real ruler is sitting in this office. And God, it is a lot.”

“One can imagine.” Sympathy dripped from Kiril’s silver tongue. “You might not like the notion, but have you considered, ah, spreading the burden? You are a valuable asset to the House of Romanov, Alexander Mikhailovich, but you’re not invincible. He who defends everything defends nothing.”
“I’ll thank you not to quote Frederick the Great! Don’t need any damned Germans offering their wise advice. And what do you mean, ‘spreading the burden’?”
Kiril’s stomach twisted. “As it stands, as you said yourself, you have to put up with the diplomats and get the general’s hides in gear. Tsar Andrei is too young, and so it all falls on you. No one- especially not a grieving man- should have to do all that. Let me talk to the Tsar and perhaps he’d be willing to take me on as an adviser.”
Mikhailovich stared at Kiril like a scientist examining a specimen. Seconds became hours. Oh God, he thought, I’ve failed. Any moment now, the guards would rush in and that would be it. The bullet had already been fired. “Perhaps… perhaps I should go.”

“No, wait”, Mikhailovich said. “If my son wishes to talk to a fellow Romanov, that is his right. I shall fetch him.”

* * *

“What have you there, sire?”

Tsar Andrei I dried his eyes. It wasn’t regal to be caught crying but he couldn’t help it. “Letter from the front, sir. My brother Fyodor has…” He gulped. “Some damned Bolshevik. I- the Goddamned Tsar of all the Russias- could not protect my brother and now he is gone!” Andrei stared at a map. Somewhere, on one of those red pins outside Volgodonsk, his brother had given his life. A rogue artillery shell, Intelligence had reported, not even aimed at his tent. (2) And just like that, his brother Fyodor was dead. “This war has taken so much from me. Irinia is a captive, Fyodor is dead, my father a recluse, and the others are so flaming lonely.” Andrei’s youngest brother remained in Arkhangelsk but the others all had cushy jobs well behind the front. Only Fyodor had wanted to fight… and look where that had got him. Andrei stared with bloodshot eyes. The Great War had been a game to him, as a dashing eighteen-year-old cavalry officer. He’d smelled cordite a few times but had never been in real danger. Now… now he felt the sting his people had suffered for years. Five months after the revolutionaries murdered Mother, there was no end in sight. Petrograd remained under siege, Brusilov held out in the Central Volga, and the Republican drive into the North Caucasus had cost him his brother. Xenia’s face came floating back. Despite being raised by nurses, Andrei had always loved her. She’d only been forty-four when she died but had looked younger. When, on that last Easter Sunday in the Winter Palace, they’d parted ways for the last time, had either of them known what was about to happen? Had he known that a month later, her body would be nothing but ashes in a forest and he’d be fighting to save the empire? Of course not. And now, Fyodor is in heaven with you, one hopes. Andrei crossed himself. Fyodor had gone to the grave for the same reason Andrei wore the crown; to avenge their mother. But would she want all her sons dead? Millions of Fyodors would survive if the war ended tomorrow; millions of families would be spared weeping their eyes out over a lost loved one. And even if Kerensky and Lenin hung tomorrow, it wouldn’t bring Mother back from the dead. You are Tsar of all the Russias, Andrei reminded himself. The Constitution gave him and him alone the power to make war and peace. Do it for Fyodor, he told himself. Do it for Mother. It wasn’t a betrayal but a safeguard.

“Kiril Vladimirovich”, he said, “I have an enormous request to ask of you, in my late brother’s memory.”

* * *

“He fucking did what?” Grand Duke Mikhailovich leapt from his chair, terrifying the messenger, who repeated the bad news. “Of course he did! Of course he fucking did!” Mikhailovich called Kiril Vladimirovich every name imaginable, hands shaking. “I let that man into my confidence! I let him come to Arkhangelsk and talk to my son- my living son, that is! What a damned fool I was.” It would have been so easy to plug him, too. Send the guards in and it would all be over. Well, it will all be over soon. Enough is enough. Breathing heavily, Mikhailovich dismissed the messenger and picked up the telephone. It was a secure line to the new Minister of the Interior, whose tasks including running the rump Okhrana.

“Grand Duke Mikhailovich!” Pyotr Krasnov left every syllable crisp and polished. The Grand Duke explained the situation to him.

“Are you… certain, sir?”, Krasnov asked five minutes later. “This is an… irreversible step, nyet? And doing it publicly might well…”

“Of course I am bloody sure! Wherever he is, have your Okhrana take him out! Treason is treason, nyet? Now will you do it, or shall I find someone who can handle the post while you take up the governorate-general of Siberian prison camp number twenty-two?” Krasnov’s doubts vanished remarkably quickly, and Mikhailovich threw down the telephone. “The things I must do to get people to listen!” His blood raced and his teeth were clenched. As he sipped vodka, he reflected that perhaps he’d been a bit harsh. He had to take his frustrations out somehow, though. Xenia’s image floated before him. I am sorry, my love, Mikhailovich thought. I did not intend for it to be this way! Memory tore at Mikhailovich’s heart. The woman he loved was dead, his daughter, grandchildren, and son-in-law (the last one was no great loss) were in enemy captivity, and his second son was gone. And now, Kiril Vladimirovich, the man he’d trusted as an adviser to Andrei, had betrayed not just him, but Xenia’s legacy and the whole Romanov Dynasty. What was I thinking, trusting him with my son? My son…

Mikhailovich rose abruptly and made for Andrei’s quarters. The Tsar of all the Russias was in more trouble than he would know what to do with...

* * *

Assassinating Grand Duke Kiril Vladimirovich was the easy part. The quixotic Romanov had been “discussing a mutually agreeable end to hostilities” while “on holiday” in Lucerne with a low-ranking Republican diplomat (the less important the man sent, the greater Kerensky’s plausible deniability). Though Switzerland, like the entire world, recognised the Tsarists, Kiril avoided the Russian embassy- the last thing he needed was for one of his fellow countrymen to spot him chatting with a traitor abroad and report home. The Okhrana hit team thus caught him eating steak in a restaurant and conversing in Russian with another gentleman. Unlike the clientele, they were actually able to follow the conversation, and it was every bit as bad as Mikhailovich had feared. Phrases like “further liberalisation of the Monarchy”, “general election”, and “Prime Minister Kerensky” made them want to spit their filet mignonnes out. All three men waited till Kiril was done and shadowed his taxi back to the hotel. It was close to midnight and there were few streetlights. Kiril was less than a hundred yards away when a bullet lodged in his back. Still disguised as posh restaurant-goers, the three Okhrana men stepped out from the shadows and cut his throat before dashing to avoid the police. Kiril Vladimirovich was forty-three years old. He’d managed to talk his way into power for a few months but had still paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. The assassins slipped across the Italian border three days later and were able to spend Christmas 1919 in Petrograd.

He couldn't conceal the diplomatic fallout forever.

Filling Kiril's niche would be harder than emptying it. Ignoring Kiril’s absence would confirm that he’d been bumped off. Mikhailovich had to acknowledge he’d killed Kiril but present the story his way, else the Republican propagandists would have a field day. He looked forward to making the speech as much as he looked forward to a root canal, but letting the people think for themselves was worse. Thus, the Grand Duke swallowed his pride and a stiff drink before ascending the podium.

“People of the Russian Empire! I do wish most sincerely that this step was not necessary. Yet, I am forced to admit that our house is not as pure as had been hoped. For His Excellency the Tsar and I are guilty of error. Ever since this war began, we included amongst our confidantes a man who harboured no love nor fealty for the Russian cause. Kiril Vladimirovich Romanov, formerly a Grand Duke, has betrayed this house and his noble standing by engaging with the enemy! While in Switzerland, ostensibly for personal reasons, Kiril Vladimirovich initiated contacts on his own initiative with representatives of Alexander Kerensky and his treasonous bloc! Fortunately, the Ministry of the Interior was attuned to this threat. Operatives of the state police apprehended him in Lucerne, attempting to deliver him to Arkhangelsk for trial as per the Constitution. However, Kiril Vladimirovich attempted to fight back and was, consequently, killed.” How many murders were hidden behind that simple phrase, ‘shot while resisting arrest’? One more to add to the pile.

“Let me, speaking on behalf of the Russian Empire, make something unequivocally clear. The so-called ‘peace proposals’ which Kiril Vladimirovich attempted to initiate were never legitimate. Tsar Andrei in no way considers himself bound by them, nor will this government consider negotiations with an illegitimate rebel force in occupation of the Central Volga. The only circumstances in which we would so much as consider a dialogue with the foe would be to negotiate humanitarian surrender terms for men consigned to defeat. Alexander Kerensky’s clique began this war; we shall finish it. Clemency will be shown to those who repent of their treason before the battle ends; after our victory will be too late. I advise all the Russian people, in the name of God and of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality, to make a wiser decision than Kiril Vladimirovich. Good day.”

* * *

Honesty did Mikhailovich few favours. Russians read his admission that he'd killed Kiril not as punishment for treason but jostling for power. Part of this was because they viewed the war the same way as Tsar Andrei. Regardless of whether they lived in Tsarist or Republican territory, the war had been a catastrophe for nearly everyone. Millions of 'Fyodors' had stopped shells or bullets; millions more had died of the Kansas flu. (3) Seven months after walking out on May Day, people had lost their revolutionary fervour. Many were sympathetic to the Republicans because they didn't want to see the secret police back and investigating what they'd been up to during the general strike. The Romanov Dynasty was no longer halfway between heaven and earth; its claim on the average Russian's loyalty was no better than Kerensky's. Andrei couldn't claim to be the "imperial father" when Mikhailovich did all the talking. Michael II had enjoyed the benefit of the doubt as he promised liberal reforms, but Xenia's reign had brought only cosmetic changes. They'd mocked her as "Auntie Xenia" when the Okhrana wasn't looking; they had even less respect for her son, who couldn't even make a speech without his father by his side. The one thing this Andrei chap had going for him, it seemed, was that he wanted peace. Yet at the same time, few truly hated the Tsarists. Russia without the Romanovs was like Catholicism without the Pope- the two went hand in hand. The people knew they'd face fresh challenges regardless of who won, but at least they wouldn't face war and hunger. Mikhailovich thus appeared not as a noble defender of the state against treason but as a warmonger denying the people what they most wanted.

Like any good politician, Kerensky was willing to tell the people the opposite of whatever his foe said. The scene in the half-deserted capital made May Day look calm, but Kerensky's courage in mounting a podium only boosted his stature. Spreading his arms out at the city's defences, the Provisional President acknowledged Tsarist power but declared that "the Russian people have not yet begun to fight!" He then issued a peace offer of his own. Andrei would cede power to the Republic and end the monarchy, after which he would hold a general election and release all political prisoners- even those who'd tried to kill Michael on 15 April! Kerensky also promised to respect the Russian Orthodox Church and hinted that he'd protect the economic stature of the nobility (even if their titles had to go). Most intriguing of all, "upon our victory the borders of Russia shall be subject to review by the populations concerned, with due process provided for national self-determination." Taking this as a guarantee of independence upon victory, the empire's minorities tilted towards the Republicans. Tsar Andrei's father certainly wasn't promising that. "Russia," Kerensky declared, "must be made safe for democracy."

This phrase persuaded a certain American to open a crucial lifeline for the Republicans.

* * *

My English is perfectly fine, Alexander Kerensky told himself. "Nothing at fault with it, nothing." He spoke aloud to prove it to himself. "It is... oh. razvaluha!" (4) His English teacher wagged his finger in his mind's eye. "Points deducted for accent, boy!" The Russian Provisional President laughed. He'd feared the schoolmaster's rod then and dreamt of release in adulthood; now he feared the Tsarist noose and dreamt of childish innocence. One couldn't win. "I think we'd best have a translator on hand just in case." Kerensky barked into the phone, and moments later, there came a knock at the door. "Come!"

Natasha, his secretary and English translator-cum-tutor, led the distinguished guest in. "Sir, may I introduce the Provisional President of the Russian Republic?"

"Spasibo." Southern American accented-Russian was as far from Kerensky's mother tongue as his English was from New York. Natasha translated, "It is an honour to meet with you, Mr. President."

"The honour, sir, is all mine. I say, cigar?"

The American shook his head. "No, no. It's bad for the lungs, and I'm already just this close to looking my Maker in the eye. No need to push myself over the edge." Kerensky nodded sympathetically. His esteemed guest looked like a skeleton in a suit. His yellow flesh clung to his skull like it was painted on; his suit seemed about to fall off. In other circumstances, Kerensky would've given the man a few rubles and sent him to the nearest Orthodox charity kitchen. Now, he was pleading for his life with him. The American began hacking his lungs out, and Natasha fetched a drink. Hands shaking, he took a sip and closed his eyes. "That's... better", he rasped. "I... I want to say thank you, Provisional President, for this. I... I will not be around much longer. Politically, I am a cooked goose." Natasha frowned, before telling Kerensky that politically, his guest was mertvetsky- a dead man. The American mustered a smile. "Not a saying you Russians know, eh? Never mind." Both men chuckled apologetically. "That is as may be. After I have gone, how will they remember me? I want them to be remembered as a man who helped, as you said, make Russia safe for democracy." A laugh became a coughing fit. "First Russia, then the world!" A light cut through the infirmity in the American's eyes as Kerensky laughed heartily.

"And for that, my good sir, I am most thankful! Now then, to business. What help can you provide beyond words?" Kerensky hoped his desperation wasn't too obvious. Without American arms and supplies his force would get nowhere. The Tsarist guns rattling miles off reminded him of the consequences of that.

"Well, officially none. The damned Constitution forbids me, as a private citizen, from negotiating with a foreign power. Since the United States lacks diplomatic relations with the United States, you could not even set up a purchasing commission in Washington or New York. Of course, I'd be a damned fool if I let that happen. Both the United States Government and I personally, we have a... a history with such groups." If Kerensky's English had been better, he might've noticed what his guest snuck into his second coughing fit.

"But can you help us?" Eyes wide, Kerensky leaned forward. "I understand your predicament, sir, but you told us you could be of assistance. If that's not so, sir... I will always negotiate, but I will never abandon the best interests of the Russian Republic. If our dealings cease to be in the Republic's interest..." He hoped he'd gotten the message across without offending his guest.

"Not to worry, Provisional President, I understand what you are saying. Believe me, my policy towards the United States is the exact same even with that damnfool greybeard Santa Claus (5) running things. The truth is that a liberal, democratic Russia remains in the best interest of my country. Europe continues to be a land of emperors on one hand and frothing radicals on the other. A sliver of sanity would go a long way indeed. And fortunately, indeed I can help. Having been at war less than two years ago, my country has plenty of military equipment floating about. You understand how these things go. One moment, the armies in Mexico (6) required everything imaginable- guns, ammunition, supplies- and the American people had to tolerate taxes and intrusions to give them that. The next, we are allegedly at peace. The Army has demobilised fully and sent those supposedly essential supplies to rust. Rather than let that happen, I will put those supplies to good cause." The American paused to hack his lungs out. "I'm a wealthy man, even if I cannot buy my power or my health back. All I can do is purchase these surplus arms and sell them, not to the Russian Republic, but to its Provisional President. This is, at least nominally, a private transaction. It's no different from as though we were neighbours and your house caught fire. The Constitution doesn't prevent my selling you my garden hose to quench the flames!" Both men laughed, but Kerensky quickly sobered.

"Sir, you must not think me ungrateful. You are providing a lifeline for the Russian Republic. Yet... we are a poor country. The Tsarist sovlochi managed to squander most of our financial reserves in the years before the war. We pay our men in scrip and promises, and inflation is rife. The only saving grace is that the enemy is even worse off. How can we-"

The American cut him off. "You needn't worry, Provisional President Kerensky. It is not the United States Government, nor the banks of the United States, which you are paying. They are as merciless to their debtors as possible... which does not, regrettably, mean those debtors always pay in full!" His face clouded, and he said something in English Natasha didn't bother translating. "But regardless, you are paying me personally. While we can arrange a price later on, suffice it to say that the Russian Republic may extend its payment for as long as needed. And besides, it will not be long before I am gone. If the contents of the Russian Republic's treasury cannot reach me in the next life, what use are they?" He winked, and Kerensky's shoulders sagged.

"Your generosity is commendable, sir." The Provisional President had never been terribly devout, but he realised now that God did, in fact, move in mysterious ways. He barely knew this American, didn't- if he was being honest- speak his language, and had next to nothing in common with him. His guest could've remained at home in Virginia to die in bed, but had risked a journey to imperilled Petrograd to save him, asking only for nominal payment. If that wasn't the hand of God, what was? Natasha helped his visitor up. "We will be in touch then, sir?"

"Da." That was a Russian word not even the strongest Virginia tongue could botch. Woodrow Wilson smiled gauntly.

* * *

Germany spent the first week of May 1919 basking in schadenfreude. The Great War had made them mortal enemies of the Romanovs and their satellites existed at Russian expense; watching their foe struggle was both gratifying and relieving. German ambassador Wilhelm von Mirbach remained in Petrograd, where he processed refugee applications but refrained from comment. Germany refrained from publicly gloating because it didn't want to encourage the socialists. Though the economy was nowhere near as bad as in Russia, inflation born of the national debt was eating into paycheques. If the price of fanning the flames in Petrograd was seeing them spread to Berlin, Germany wanted no part of it. Chancellor Ernst von Heydebrand's Conservative government, in any case, wasn't sympathetic to the labour movement.

Hugo Haase's Social Democratic Party didn't consider itself bound by the Chancellor's example. (7) On 4 May 1919, he issued a statement that "the Social Democratic Party of the German Empire, in accordance with the principles of worker's democracy and of socialism, wholeheartedly supports the struggle of the Russian proletariat against Romanov reaction..." Kaiser Wilhelm II's initial reaction was heartfelt and unprintable. A German party leader advocating socialist revolution against a monarchy, he raged, verged on treason! After the Kaiserina calmed him down, Wilhelm telephoned the Chancellor. Von Heydebrand agreed that the SPD statement was unacceptable and proposed dismissing Haase. He obviously had an ulterior motive- sacking one of his political rivals would do the Conservative Party wonders- which the Kaiser was quick to point out. Nonetheless, the next day Foreign Secretary Arthur von Zimmerman issued a statement to the press contradicting Haase. The German Empire, he said, "while not blind to the legitimate grievances faced by the Russian people, fully supported the efforts by the Russian authorities to maintain order in their urban areas, and to keep the fabric of state properly intact." Frederich Ebert, who'd broken away from the SPD after the disastrous 1917 election (8), voiced his support for the official line on the seventh. Since his National Labour Party (NA) controlled only a handful of seats, his words had little hard power, but many approved nonetheless.

Things were turned upside down the next day.

The Republican Coup changed the entire equation. Alexander Kerensky, though he wore a socialist aesthetic, was a career politician and liberal. He believed the question was not whether the Romanovs would fall but who would replace him. Murdering Tsarina Xenia and Prime Minister Georgi Lvov was meant to ensure that a liberal republic, not a Marxist one, succeeded the dynasty. On the surface, the new Russian Republic didn't seem like much of a threat. Though the Central Volga rapidly declared for Kerensky, Petrograd remained isolated and Kerensky seemed the weaker of the two bears in the ring. A division of Sturmtruppen could've conquered the city and strangled the Republicans in their grave.

The arguments for intervening were strong. Both parts of the new regime appeared revolutionary. A former self-proclaimed Socialist Revolutionary chaired Kerensky's faction, considered in Berlin to be the least bad. One of the most conservative men in the Republic, War Minister Alexander Guchkov, had committed regicide against Tsarina Xenia. The further to the left one went, the worse it got. The one saving grace was that Julius Martov- who'd masterminded the September Revolution (9)- didn't appear involved, but Lenin and Zinoviev seemed radical enough. Lenin's Nine-Point Programme sent a chill down every conservative's spine. The Kaiser saw no way to compromise with such a regime. Germany already faced a revolutionary regime to its west- another one would be a strategic nightmare. Groups such as the Pan-German Association called for intervention, and small militia units privately crossed the border. Up to twenty thousand Germans fought in the Zaristisches Freikorps (Tsarist Free Corps), a unit of German far-right volunteers under the Romanov banner.. As the Brusilov Offensive unfolded, the Kaiser and Chief of the General Staff von Falkenhayn (10) pushed for intervention. Germany, they pointed out, already had troops in the Belarusian People's Republic and United Baltic Duchy. With the exception of Republican Petrograd, these units bordered Tsarist territory, not Republican. Having them cross the border as an expeditionary force would be simple, cheap, and- judging by the ineptness outside Moscow- efficient. They'd done it in Danubia; why couldn't they do it here? Von Falkenhayn began drawing up a contingency for intervention. Case Konstantin called for German troops in Lithuania, Livonia (the Baltic Duchy), and Belarus, operating with Tsarist consent, to proceed to Smolensk and use it as a base of operations.

Unfortunately for the Romanovs, the case against intervention was strong too. For a start, there was no guarantee that the Russian Republic's first move would be to invade Germany in concert with revolutionary France. Russia, the doves pointed out, was weak and war-torn. Poor harvests had produced food shortages, the armies were woefully under-equipped, and the people had just proven themselves deeply unhappy with their lot in life. Frederich Ebert pointed out that, like the French revolutionaries, the Russians wouldn't be able to fulfill their promises. Georges Sorel had spoken of remaking France; Requisition revolutionnaire had made a hash of the economy. Even as Paris spoke of liberation for the working classes, the communist French had yet to invade. The same thing would inevitably happen in Russia, as the new Republic realised its place in the world. Besides, Ebert pointed out, were Brusilov's clumsy armies that great a threat anyhow? Chancellor Heydebrand wanted to intervene but his advisers said otherwise. Germany, they pointed out, still owed tens of millions in Great War debt. Losing French reparations threw salt on the financial wound. That was before one factored in disability payments to veterans, garrisoning the Eastern satellites and subsidising their governments when need be (these puppets were not run efficiently by any stretch of the imagination), running its patchwork empire in Mittelafrika, occupying half of Belgium and much of France, trying and failing to build a railroad across the Sahara, modernising the High Seas Fleet, and fighting a war in Danubia. Inflation was up and support for the government down. If von Heydebrand added millions more in debt and people started receiving telegrams regretting to inform them they were now widows and orphans, his government would fall. The General Staff had issues with intervention too. In their haste to construct Case Konstantin, the General Staff had overlooked a few things. For a start, how would the German expeditionary force supply itself? The Tsarist armies weren't up to it, and in any case, Germany and Russia used different equipment. Whereas in Danubia, supplies had travelled a few hundred miles from Berlin over Austrian and Bohemian railroads, here the men would have to spend days on dirt roads and narrow-track rail. Furthermore, would the Tsarists even let them in? A mutual enemy in the Republicans didn't eradicate a Great War's worth of bad blood. Accepting German help would make the Tsar look like Berlin's stooge, which would destabilise his regime, which could create a quagmire where he sat atop the throne thanks only to his patrons in Berlin. Neither side wanted that. A war in Russia, the General Staff pointed out, would not be as quick and easy as the Danubian intervention because Hungary was a fraction of the size of Russia. Perhaps the Germans could occupy Petrograd with their existing Eastern divisions, but they could neither conquer the Central Volga nor win hearts and minds. Germany's commitment would inevitably increase, as the men at the front called for just one more batch of reinforcements. Before too long, the doves predicted, the country would end up remobilising and focussing all its energy on crushing the Republicans. No one wanted a second Great War. Lastly, there was a humanitarian issue at stake. A quick end to the civil war- regardless of who won- meant that the Russian people could get on with their lives after five tumultuous years. Cynics turned the argument on its head- that by prolonging the fighting they could keep Russia down.

Ultimately, the Chancellor proposed a compromise. Though he wanted to intervene, he recognised his government couldn't afford it. That said, there were opportunities to be had. Prolonging the fighting and weakening the two bears would help secure Germany's eastern flank. Von Heydebrand presented a "Preventative Plan for the East" to the Reichstag on 20 June. The conscript class of 1919 would be sent to northern France, freeing up the experienced soldiers there to strengthen the Eastern defences. Oskar von Hutier's Sturmtruppen would be sent to Belarus and the Baltic Duchy for 'security' and placed on high alert, while Foreign Office would condemn the "chaos and sedition in Russia". Meanwhile, surplus Great War equipment would start mysteriously appearing in Smolensk and Pskov. However, there would be no invasion of Russia. Kaiser Wilhelm grudgingly approved, and the first arms shipment left Kongisberg on 1 July, as the Russian ambassador shook Foreign Minister Zimmermann's hand.

For a moment, it looked as though Germany had settled on a Russia policy... but only for a moment.

The assassination of Kiril Vladimirovich in Switzerland was deeply embarassing for Germany because Kiril had done nothing amoral. Ending the civil war would be a blessing for the Russian people and would lessen the danger to Germany's east. With the Tsarists having proven themselves determined to fight to the last drop of blood, many began pondering why Germany was supporting them. Hugo Haase, of course, had always wanted to see the Bolsheviks on top, but even those within Overton's Window became more sympathetic to the Republicans. A "moderate, American-style" Russian Republic, Frederich Ebert commented, "would at the very least be a breath of fresh air. Perhaps it could provide the stability the region is in such desparate need of."

Ebert's comment was somewhat premature because he conflated Mikhailovich's political blunder with a military setback. In fact, despite being pushed back in the North Caucasus and facing severe unrest amongst the empire's minorities, the Tsarists were growing stronger. With Brusilov having given up on offensives out of the Central Volga, the Petrograd-Moscow corridor seemed to offer fresh opportunities.

Regardless of what Woodrow Wilson or Kaiser Wilhelm II wanted, it would be the Russians themselves who decided the outcome. One thing was certain: the country was going to be a lot emptier once 'peace' came...

Comments?

See chapter 51
That's how Lavr Kornilov died IOTL
Nothing Spanish about it ITTL
Google says that's a Russian swear word-- I'll take its word for it.
Charles Evans Hughes had a flowing white beard
For new readers: TTL has a Second Mexican War
Chapter 26 explains in full, but ITTL the Social Democrats are Haase's party not Ebert's.
Again, see chapter 26
TTL has an odd fixation with Martov because of this...
Since Verdun actually worked ITTL, Falkenhayn remains Chief of the General Staff. Hindenburg and Ludendorff aren't as prominent.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Aug 11, 2021

Chapter Fifty-Three: The Siege of Petrograd

"By God, they will try. They will grind us down, shell us, reduce us to rats in rubble. We are worthless, it is true. Russia will keep spinning on without us, when we inevitably catch a bullet, or shell, or simply fall over dead. In such a hellscape, that day will come soon. But at this moment, here and now, we are alive. And we will not cease fighting. (1 December)"

"Petrograd is no longer a town. By day it is an enormous cloud of burning, blinding smoke; it is a vast furnace lit by the reflection of the flames. And when night arrives, one of those scorching, howling, bleeding nights, the dogs plunge into the Neva and swim desperately to the other bank. The nights of Petrograd are a hell for them. Animals flee this fell; the hardest stones cannot bear it for long; only men endure. (10 January)"
-Diary excerpts from a Republican soldier in Petrograd.

It was time to expand the Russian Civil War.

The quasi-failure of the Brusilov Offensive elated the Tsarists. Though Tver remained cut off, the Republican advance northwest was no more. Anton Denikin had proved himself, while it seemed as though Alexei Brusilov’s brilliance was exaggerated. Grand Duke Alexander, his firstborn son Prince Andrei, and General Yudenich gathered at Veliky Novgorod on 29 June to plot a course forward. Russia’s climate dictated that campaigns halt with winter, meaning the campaign season was half over. Whatever the Tsarists did, then, had to be finished in three months lest General Mud and General Winter intervene. Yudenich argued for attacking Moscow. The Central Volga People’s Army, he said, had been crippled at Second Borodino and wouldn’t be able to defend itself. Though the Republicans controlled over two hundred thousand square miles, including many of Russia’s greatest cities, they were still surrounded. Denikin could attack from the west, Yudenich argued, while he could attack from the north and another general come in from Siberia. Trapped between three enemy armies, the Republicans would surely surrender and the war would be won. Grand Duke Alexander wasn’t certain. While the strategy seemed sound, it would take too long. If fighting for Tver and the approaches to Rzhev had consumed a month and a half, trying to conquer the entire Central Volga might take a whole year. Besides, this would entail capturing large and potentially hostile cities; garrisoning them would use up scarce manpower. Grand Duke Alexander argued instead for a siege of Petrograd. The Republican capital was isolated from the rest of the rebel holdings and small enough that it could easily be conquered in three months. As a political target, he said, taking the enemy capital and hopefully capturing Kerensky was surely better than conquering Moscow. Prince Andrei agreed, and General Yudenich reluctantly consented. Petrograd it would be.

This was the greatest blunder of the Russian Civil War.

Republican intelligence was sub-optimal but nonetheless they knew an attack was imminent. Just as the Central Volga People’s Army reported reduced pressure from the foe, Lavr Kornilov experienced “heightened tensions at the front” (as his diary records). Trenches and machine-guns couldn’t stop scout planes from penetrating deep into Tsarist territory and noticing unusually heavy rail traffic northwest. And of course, in a war where both sides spoke the same language and even wore similar uniforms, spies penetrated both sides like sieves. Republican agents in Veliky Novgorod and Pskov saw thousands of Tsarists passing northwest; Tsarist agents in Petrograd reported on the state of the capital’s defences. The coup de grace came on 16 July, when a clerk in Petrograd’s docks was arrested for espionage. Cracking under interrogation and fearful for his life, he told his captors everything. Yes, he admitted, he was in the pay of General Yudenich, who was planning a march on the capital! Yes, there were over a dozen divisions en route! It was all true- just let me live!

Lavr Kornilov ordered the body chucked in the freezing Neva River and the city’s defences strengthened.

Unaware that their agent had been captured and cover blown, the Tsarists continued preparing their attack. Anton Denikin was tapped to lead the siege but ultimately turned down. This wasn’t, Prince Andrei explained, because he had fallen from grace, but rather because he was too sorely needed where he was. If the Central Volga kicked off again, having a solid man at the front would go a long way to repairing the damage. Denikin wasn’t thrilled but consented. Grand Duke Nicholas tapped his comrade from the Caucasus front to lead the siege- Nikolai Yudenich. An avowed monarchist and hero of the Caucasus front (inasmuch as, unlike his counterparts in the East, he’d fought the enemy to a stalemate till the Treaty of Konigsberg), Yudenich was considered highly capable and ferociously loyal.

He faced a worthy opponent.

Lavr Kornilov had been to the People’s Army of Petrograd what Mikhail Tukachevsky was to the Central Volga People’s Army. Being a career officer had taught Kornilov what made good troops and the Petrograd garrison was nowhere near that standard. Kornilov strove to fix his force not just for the sake of liberal ideals or his own career, but his life. As Tukachevsky had in Moscow, Kornilov spent the summer putting eager volunteers through their paces. Petrovskoye, on the outskirts of the capital, became a military training ground. Soldiers cut down trees and built barracks and fences themselves before spending sixty days there. Grizzled drill sergeants screamed themselves hoarse, reminding their charges that the Tsarists took no prisoners (like much else they said, this was a lie but it motivated the men), so if they wanted to survive they’d best stop being lazy. This terrified civilian volunteers who’d dreamt of adventure and irritated Great War veterans who’d seen it all before. Though Kornilov wasn’t directly involved, he didn’t complain when Provisional President Kerensky informed him that “sympathetic foreign supporters” had provided the Petrograd garrison with sufficient rifles for everybody… a strange number of which were Browning M1917s. Having got the hang of American rifles, the Petrograd Worker’s Army got down to business. They became more aggressive on the front lines, going from mere ‘active patrolling’ to launching serious incursions and artillery duels. “This is an impressive force you have here, General Kornilov”, remarked Defence Minister Alexander Guchkov at a mid-August parade.

“Sir, while that is most gratifying it is not you who shall be the final judge, but that swine General Yudenich. One hopes he will agree with your assessment.”

It was time to find out.

Yudenich had learnt much from the Republican siege of Tver. As Brusilov had tried to do at that city, the Tsarist general aimed to sever the capital’s road connections one by one. The drive to the Livionian border complicated this by adding sizeable towns which needed conquering. Yudenich’s plan was to cut these off slowly with two attacks: one from the east, the other from the west. Not only would this help Tsarist troops move faster, it would force the Republicans to divide their strength. Eventually, Yudenich told himself, he could reduce the Republican perimeter to just the city itself, which could be stared at will.

He was eager to begin.

Operation PYOTR VELIKY (Peter the Great) commenced at dawn on 1 August 1919. Forty Tsarist divisions of varying quality (some 350,000 men) slammed against the Petrograd perimeter, with artillery lighting the skies above. To the east, the first day’s target was Priozeronye on Lake Ladoga. Advancing down the northernmost highway to the capital, Tsarist troops shoved their way into the village shortly before nine AM. The Republican colonel in charge of Priozeronye was under orders not to waste time defending the town and pulled back. A similar story repeated itself several miles to the west in the afternoon, with the result that Tsarist troops conquered five miles that day. However, the Republican retreat was orderly and preplanned. That night, a Republican battalion occupied the town of Shlisselberg at the northern extremity of the front, while another retreated to the fortified island of Oreshek. As had happened elsewhere, they used artillery placed there for this exact purpose to hamper Tsarist moves, confident that the foe wouldn’t be able to amphibiously eliminate them. The bulk of the Republican strength in the region, though, crossed the Neva River, blowing the bridge up as they went. Kornilov had ordered that no supplies be kept on the right bank of the Neva for this exact reason. Now, the Petrograd Worker’s Army occupied a river line with all the supplies needed to hold it.

It would fall to Yudenich’s men to force a crossing the next day.

PYOTR VELIKY had met with better success in the west as it rolled over the very territory its namesake had conquered from the Finns. The region was less built-up than to the east and there was no Neva River the enemy could flee behind. The only town of much consequence was Kingisepp, which before the war had connected the capital to its Baltic provinces. With the Baltic now a largely irrelevant foreign nation, Kingisepp had dried up since 1916. Thus, Yudenich elected to bypass it. Cavalry raids and artillery strikes could sever communications with Petrograd without paying the price of conquest. Light infantry struck north to plant bombs or lob grenades at the railway line before retiring; Tsarist sympathisers were more than willing to give them a hand. The goal wasn’t to occupy and use the railway but to leave it in too poor condition for the Republicans. Of course, this wasn’t what the latter had imagined. Kornilov had anticipated the Tsarists either besieging Kingisepp or taking it by storm. Aside from a brief artillery barrage which miserably failed to destroy the town’s bridge over the local stream, the Tsarists made no move at the town on the first day. While Kornilov was glad not to have to worry about his position there, he was frustrated that he couldn’t counterattack. Pulling troops from Kingisepp’s sizeable garrison might repulse the foe but would leave the town defenceless against encroachment. Bitterly commenting that he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t, Kornilov issued a directive late in the day for the western forces to “continue your present path of resistance, seeking to deny at every opportunity the territory which you contest to the foe.”

The second day saw new developments in both East and West. Though it pained him, Yudenich admitted that the retreat across the Neva had been a good idea. In the absence of a naval presence, his men would have only one way to cross the river- take stolen fishing-boats across while artillery whizzed overhead and pray. He was faced with a dilemma. The retreat across the river hadn’t been along the whole front- only the easternmost sector. Numerous Republican units continued to hold positions along the east bank of the Neva. Not only would eliminating them now serve as a quick way to beat the foe and thus raise morale, but if left unattended they might become real threats to Yudenich’s rear once his forces crossed. However, he had no idea how orderly the Republicans on the west bank were. If he forced a crossing today, bugger the casualties, he might strike weak units still rebuilding. Giving the enemy a day or two of peace would make the crossing that much harder when he did it- because he’d have to eventually.

Orders thus went out in the small hours of 2 August for the sector’s artillery to pound the far bank of the Neva River. This didn’t have the results Yudenich had hoped for. Having withdrawn to the west bank late last evening, the Republicans had spent nearly twelve hours in their new positions when the shells started falling. Rather than unpacking their equipment and sitting down for a badly needed meal, they were resting in fresh trenches guarded by night watchmen. Their supply dumps and supporting artillery were located several miles behind the river specifically to prevent their being blasted to smithereens. Thus, when Yudenich’s men began traversing the river they found fierce opposition. Soldiers of the Petrograd Worker’s Army equipped with the aforementioned American rifles shot at overcrowded boats and picked off foolish swimmers one by one. Building a pontoon bridge was impossible, not only for lack of materials but because engineers standing still for more than a few seconds were likely to get mown down. After an hour, Yudenich halted the bombardment to conserve shells and sent his two Sikorsky bombers into the air. 220-pound bombs crashed on the defenders, blowing steel, earth, and flesh everywhere. Republican artillery did their best to counterattack but the bombers flew too high. Ironically enough, it wasn’t enemy action but engine trouble which repulsed the bombers. Black smoke started coming out of one’s engine, forcing it to retreat east. The other pilot decided it was lonely at the top and withdrew. For all the harm tactical bombing had done to the foe, the Tsarists still had to get across in the face of firm opposition. After the bombers withdrew, they attempted to do just that. Men waded across sandbars and crossed in commandeered fishing-boats. This was a logistical nightmare, and Yudenich faced much heat for failing to provide adequate support for his men. When one was gingerly wading across a sandbar, up to one’s waist or shoulders in water, one had no chance of spotting the gun trained on him. Overcrowded and slow fishing-boats were target practice for Republican snipers. Those few Tsarists who managed to cross the river found themselves fighting for their lives and pulled back after half an hour; few survived the second river-crossing.

Lavr Kornilov’s professionalism, the courage of his fighting men, and their strangely-acquired American guns had won the day.

Republican troops prepare to shell approaching Tsarists (the gun is of Russian, not American, make)

Things were more fluid in the west. It pained Kornilov to admit it, but he had too much to defend. Tsarist troops could attack along the road and rail line wherever they so chose. Keeping the lines safe would cost too much but abandoning them wasn’t feasible. Retreat- even a localised one- would open up his flanks. Kornilov still believed Yudenich’s goal was Kingisepp, and ceding the roads around the town seemed a poor way to prepare to defend it. The need to prevent a Tsarist breakthrough closer to the capital precluded sending reserves. Yudenich was slowly waking up to the possibilities in the west. If he couldn’t force a crossing of the Neva, why not try something where his foe was overextended? Late in the evening of 2 August, he cabled forward headquarters at Luga. He wanted two fresh rifle divisions at the far left of the front immediately. The men enjoyed a nice long night march, their stomachs rumbling and legs aching. Reaching their positions at four AM on 3 September, the reservists settled down for a long nap.

It was to be a busy day tomorrow.

Instead of another ill-prepared attempt at crossing the Neva, Yudenich turned his fury on Schlisselberg. The Republican garrison had expected an attack since the first day of fighting and forcibly evicted civilians before the shooting started, the besieged had ample supplies. A quiet day to dig earthworks hadn’t hurt either. Yet, there was being militarily prepared for attack and being psychologically prepared. The Schlisselberg garrison had spent the past two days sitting in fixed defences listening to the war; their Tsarist opponents had spent the past two days fighting it. Many had just escaped the Neva River by the skin of their teeth twenty-four hours ago. Cries of “for the Republic!” and “down with the Tsar!” only reminded them of their comrades floating in the freezing river surrounded by a pool of blood.

Their eagerness to fight made all the difference.

Aided by the Tsarist artillery which had pounded the far bank the preceding day (as well as the undamaged bomber), the attackers pushed forward. A couple machine-guns would’ve turned Schlisselberg into a Great War-style fortress, but the Republicans still held their own Their metal superiority countered the Tsarist elan and foiled Yudenich’s hopes for the sector. Instead of a quick victory to secure his flank and raise morale, Yudenich found a quagmire in Schlisselberg. He unofficially wrote off the units sent to capture the town, assuming that they’d be in no shape to fight even if they succeeded. Events proved him right; when the tiny town succumbed after a week the Tsarist brigade which held the rubble was down to one-quarter strength. Grand Duke Nicholas rebuked Yudenich for this, and the whole episode raised fears in both minds that if the Republicans defended a small outpost this well, what would they do for the enormous capital? Of course, Yudenich bitterly pointed out, all the while Schlisselberg had distracted him the foe had reinforced his bank of the Neva. Crossing it again would be a bastard…

Yudenich had more luck in the west. When freshly arrived reserves struck west of Kingisepp, they quickly broke through.The battalion commander unfortunate enough to have taken the brunt telephoned Petrograd at ten AM that they’d best dispatch reinforcements quickly, but there would be no need for ambulances as the only breathing man in the battalion was uninjured- himself. Zakhonye and Komarovka- with a combined population in the hundreds- fell within hours.

Livonian border guards had been under standing orders from Riga not to let anyone cross, even wounded needing treatment, since the war began. Russians attempting to cross the border should be given orders to halt, then a warning that if they didn’t cease the guards would shoot, then cordite. Previously, guards had been willing to look the other way at deserters, escaped prisoners, wounded, and refugees sneaking into the United Baltic Duchy, but they toughened up today. Border guards stopped Republicans whose desperation to get away and Tsarists whose overeagerness chasing them had led them where they didn’t belong. One patrol squad descended on two cavalry squadrons duking it out in the woods; reinforcements soon arrived and broke the fight up. Both commanders apologised profusely to the Livonian border guards and agreed to be disarmed. Travelling together, the two commanding officers remarked on how daft this was. Wouldn’t they much rather be at home- the Republican hailed from Petrograd, the Tsarist from a tiny village in the North Caucasus- with the wife and kids? Was it all really worth it?

Then the Livonian guards shoved them across the border and they went back to killing each other.

The Tsarist advance continued throughout the wet and windy week. Yudenich played on Kornilov’s fear of losing Kingisepp by not going for the town. Tsarist troops advanced due north, forcing the garrison to extend its flank. Unlike their compatriots to the east, this Tsarist force had no problem crossing the local river and reached the Baltic Sea after three days. Their advances left Kingisepp at the tip of a “peninsula”, surrounded by enemy territory on three sides. Kornilov now faced a dilemma. He’d failed in his initial goal- keeping the roads west of Petrograd in Republican hands- and now had to wonder if it was worth holding on. Committing reserves might stabilise his flanks but would prevent those units from being used elsewhere. When Kornilov brought this before War Minister Guchkov, his superior said it was Kornilov’s decision. Ultimately, the commander opted to pull back. The only valuable thing about Kingisepp was that it lay en route to Petrograd, and wasting men’s lives to hold it would be amoral and foolish.

Though they were disappointed at having to retreat, the Kingisepp garrison had done well. They’d served as a lynchpin of the western sector for several days and, though they didn’t realise it, threatened Yudenich. Fear of an expensive break-in battle forced the Tsarist commander to extend his front and waste time. Since the garrison had pulled out intact, they could fight another day.

Yudenich’s pursuit gained steam as August went on. As the cool Baltic breeze battled the summer heat, his men advanced along parallel roads (one on the coastline, the other several miles inland). Kornilov didn’t want to risk an all-or-nothing defence and so kept retreating until they reached the next fortified towns. Sosnovy Bor- captured in the first days of the war- was a sizeable harbour while Cheremyniko was a road junction. Unlike at Kingisepp, Kornilov couldn’t retreat. With only thirty miles of steppe and gentle hills separating him from Petrograd, the Republican general’s back was to the wall. In his Order of the Day for 20 August, he declared that “the capital of the Republic is but a stone’s throw from the line you now occupy. Your wives and children, as well as the institutions of State and Provisional President Kerensky, are all on the line. Your failure means their death.” With those encouraging words ringing in their ears, the People’s Army of Petrograd took to the trenches. Their resistance became almost desperate as every day they were reminded of how much they had to lose. Supplies from the Petrograd armoury reached them daily- this close to the capital, Russia’s rail lines were actually quite decent. Tsarist artillery pounded the supply lines by day; labour details repaired them by night. As August turned to September, the pressure subsided enough for Kornilov to relax. Whatever else went wrong, the enemy wasn’t going to blow through his left flank.

It was a good job too because plenty of other things were going afoul.

Yudenich had postponed crossing the Neva but hadn’t given up. Through commandeering civilian boats and having the carpenters in his ranks build their own (one advantage of fighting in northern Russia was ample timber), he’d assembled a haphazard crossing fleet. Unfortunately, enemy possession of the coastline prevented transferring gunboats to the fight, but Yudenich hoped artillery and aircraft could compensate. “It had better”, he remarked, “because I am scraping the damn barrel and it would be a rotten shame if those traitors made me waste time and men!” Russia didn’t have infinite resources and Yudenich couldn’t afford to use up equipment at will. When Grand Duke Nicholas mentioned this to Prince Andrei, the prospective Tsar shrugged. “Nikolai Nikolayevich will do what he will. If I did not have faith in him he would not be there! And if, after the big push, I no longer have faith in him, he will no longer be there either!” Much like Denikin outside Rzhev, Yudenich knew his career depended on his success outside Petrograd.

He was as determined to survive as the men smelling cordite and spraying lead.

Yudenich’s second crossing of the Neva began on 1 September 1919. Much as before, thousands of shells crashed on the Republican positions across the river. While field pieces chewed up the Republican gunners, Yudenich’s tactical bombers buzzed overhead, fighter escorts in tow, to pound supply depots in the rear. Kornilov’s artillery returned fire, but despite inflicting heavy losses on their opposite numbers was out of its depth. After two hours (23), the infantry began crossing. With Lake Lagoda to his right, Yudenich had a fairly large body of water at his disposal containing nothing more serious than the odd floating mine. He’d used this as a safe haven for building and storing crossing vessels. Their crews had practiced in the calm lake waters for several weeks beforehand. Forgoing a night’s sleep, they’d left the safe haven at four AM, sailing past the ruins of Schlisselberg en route to the crossing-points. Three hours later, with the barrage providing cover, they were ready to ferry men across. Unlike before, every platoon had a boat (even if it was bloody crowded and slow), while the Tsarists had done a much better job weakening the Republican forward positions. Nearly everyone made it across the river and pushed westward. Several hours of fighting exhausted the first wave of defenders and enabled the Tsarists to keep moving. Yudenich’s men advanced six miles by dusk; impressive considering the opposition they faced.

As enemy troops advanced along the banks of the Neva, Lavr Kornilov was forced to admit he’d lost. Yudenich had out-thought him in the west and out-muscled him in the east. Though his men would continue to resist valiantly in the suburbs, he knew they were fighting a losing battle. That night, he met with Provisional President Kerensky and War Minister Kornilov (but specifically excluded Lenin and Zinoviev). It was time, he said, to start evacuating civilians. Women and children couldn’t fight and would only use up the city’s rations. Government ministers were too valuable to be captured. Kornilov had no idea where they could go- he supposed they could travel around Scandinavia for Murmansk- or how they could get there, just that the Republican capital was no longer safe.

Despite his best efforts Petrograd now faced a Tsarist siege.

If the Republican regime seriously thought they could exclude the Petrograd Soviet, they were dreaming. Much ink has been spilled over the past century pondering this, but the question is academic. Lenin and Zinoviev heard just as much gunfire as Kerensky and while neither were military men, both knew the capital was doomed. On 3 September, Lenin read an official order to the Petrograd Soviet to the people. “The hour has come, people of Petrograd, to fight not just for political causes but for your very being. Enraged by your refusal to submit to bourgeois and feudal authority, the foe has opted to crush you here and now. Only the sweat on your brow can repulse him!” The unions of the Soviet were warned not to rely on the “Republican regime for defence of (their) rights. A militarised people’s campaign at all levels of society is needed.” To this end, Lenin exhorted the citizens of Petrograd to arm themselves “under their own authority.” Those last four words were key- while Lenin wasn’t explicitly calling on the people to reject Kornilov’s authority, he was tacitly telling them not to obey the Republic if it couldn’t provide for them. The people listened to the hero of the Nine-Point Programme, and on 5 September, just as Yudenich’s men were entering Ryzhiki (only eight miles from the city centre), the Petrograd Soviet issued a “Decree of a State of Militarisation”. Signed by representatives of all the capital’s unions, it declared the city to be under siege and under “popular justice”. Men took it upon themselves to patrol the streets in the name of their unions. Shopkeepers, fearing assault, boarded up their windows and locked their doors, while the capital’s gentry (who’d been in poverty and prison since May) hoped for liberation.

Everyone knew what was coming. The spectre of the Romanovs quelling the revolt and putting them all to the sword hung over the capital. Ignoring orders from Kerensky, many tried to flee. Fishermen trying to flee into the Baltic Sea for Finland were stopped by patrol boats. Walking north out of the city though miles of tundra was not for the fainthearted, but with the defences facing south it was easy to avoid detection. Sympathetic Finnish border guards often let people through illegally. Refugees crowded into camps run by the Finnish government. Though Helsinki’s actions were charitable, they were woefully unprepared. Russian escapees often found themselves sleeping on Finnish Army cots, sleeping bags, or simply on the grassiest bit of tundra they could find. Rations were none too plentiful; the country wasn’t about to make its own people go short so that refugees could eat well. Disease spread like wildfire, with many dying of cholera and the Kansas flu. Herbert Hoover’s American Relief Association, along with the Red Cross and Catholic organisations, did their best to help but could only do so much. Eventually, President Matti Passivuori had enough. His Christian conscience told him to aid the refugees however he could, but his advisers told him something different. There was neither enough food nor space for thousands of refugees. So-called refugee camps in the southeast were really nothing more than open-air prisons, hopelessly overcrowded and unsanitary. If something didn’t change soon, his advisers warned him, trouble would break out as Russians went looking for food. Besides, it was almost certain that some of the ‘refugees’ were in fact Russian agents. Finland had been part of Russia for a century and independent for three years; everyone in Helsinki knew that both Republicans and Tsarists wouldn’t mind re-annexing their country. Being allowed to venture to the border at their leisure, have a look at the defences, and then enter the country was every spy’s dream. For the sake of national security, Finland had to close the door. His conscience panging, Passivuori ordered the border guards to start turning people away on 1 November. Many Russians broke down and wept when told the door to the promised land was locked and bolted. Some sympathetic border guards smuggled people through while others managed to sneak in through the long northern frontier, but these were the exceptions rather than the rule.

Yudenich tightened the ring. On the seventeenth, he sent a self-congratulatory telegram to Grand Duke Nicholas, informing him that Petrograd had been “hermetically isolated” from the rest of Russia. Within two or three weeks, Yudenich predicted, his optimism running ahead of the maps and charts before him, Petrograd could be reduced to a “subsidiary theatre in Northern Russia requiring a relatively minimal commitment of resources.” A glance at a map explains Yudenich’s optimism. Tsarist trenches formed a hundred-mile perimeter around the capital. All the towns on the outskirts of Petrograd for which so much blood had been spilled- Sosnovy Bor, Cheremykino, and others- lay under his control. Once his men brought this final hammer down, Russia’s capital city would be his. Yet, Yudenich reckoned without the tenacity of the People’s Army of Petrograd. Lavr Kornilov may not have been Caesar, but his men were fighting to defend their home city. They’d had weeks to fortify and stockpile supplies. Added together, that meant that the last push would be no mean feat. Grand Duke Nicholas was clearly aware of this, as his cautious reply to Yudenich indicated. “Do not attempt to breach the Republican perimeter at this time”, he wrote. “A break-in battle would entail unnecessary casualties and expenditure of supplies difficult to replace.”

Lavr Kornilov was determined to resist. As his diary, recovered after the siege, attests, he briefly considered defecting but dropped the idea. Kornilov loathed Bolshevism and wanted nothing more than to stab Lenin in the back, but he’d burned all his bridges. If the Tsarists caught him, he’d hang for treason. Knowing he was fighting for his life just like the men around him galvanised the Republican general. As he saw it, his task was to remain on defence. His supply situation was a long way from perfect but it was enough to see him through several months. The capital’s arms factories could continue furnishing him until they ran out of raw materials (after which, the general freely admitted, “the supply situation might well become untenable”). Ideally, he told War Minister Guchkov, the enemy would wear out faster. Ideally.

Provisional President Kerensky believed otherwise. A glance at a map showed how isolated they were. The closest Republican forces in the Central Volga might’ve been on the far side of the moon. “We tried that already, damn it”, Kerensky snapped at an aide who proposed that Brusilov advance to relieve Petrograd. “The bodies are still cooling off outside Rzhev!” With enemies at the gate and his supplies trickling away, Kerensky fell into despondency. The Revolution had failed. Once Tsarist troops entered the capital, he’d be shot like a common criminal, and with him the Republic would die. Score one for Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality. Part of him was enraged at the Bolshevik leaders for fleeing, but another part of him understood why. Petrograd was a sinking ship and it made sense to take to the lifeboats. But as the captain, Kerensky couldn’t leave. Honour compelled him to risk his life for the Russian Republic just as the men in the field did. Yet, the Provisional President spent his eighteen-hour days behind a desk, not in a factory. He had doctors and nurses on hand, ate three meals a day, and slept in a bombproof shelter.

The people of the Republic weren’t so fortunate.

"Besieged Petrograd", one woman remembered years later, "was a fine approximation of hell. What the people went through that winter must've convinced many they'd stumbled across a land where God did not reign for how could He have tolerated this? But then, many found out they were wrong. Though Petrograd was but an approximation of hell, it might have been tailor-made to send people to the real thing." The climate was a greater foe than the Tsarists. Autumn rains drenched Petrograd in a foretaste of the dreaded winter. General Mud and General Winter, which had saved Russians in countless wars, turned on the people of Petrograd. The mercury dropped to freezing and kept sinking. Sleet and hail pounded the capital; snow blanketed ruins. Day followed day. Shells and raindrops fell from an iron-grey sky. The streets reeked of cordite and the stench of death. After a while, people stopped noticing the rumble of guns. Like the screeching of tyres and honking of horns before the war, it became background noise. You learned to tell when an incoming shell would land half a mile away and when it would land fifty feet away. The sounds were completely different- and of course, one would destroy your home, maim your wife and children, and bury you alive, wishing you were dead, with no one to hear you scream. The other would do that to a different poor sod. Every day, the people of Petrograd saw war. One might be walking to one’s factory when suddenly the cry came. “Make way! Make way!” And then along came the victims. Women and children pulling stretchers full of groaning men, eyes gouged out, innards dripping to the floor, half-dead. Stretcher-bearers collapsed in the street from carrying corpse after corpse. The doctors, the government said, would treat them, but did they? Dropping from fatigue, they stumbled over, saw in hand. If hacking off a limb might save the poor bastard, they did so and left him to bite on a rag from the pain. If not, they shook their head. A surgical knife could put a man out of his misery just as well as a gun without wasting precious bullets. Blood mingled with bile. Hunger bit the capital as December deepened. September's food stockpiles were for one month, not three. Attempts to make the rations stretch abandoned many. Officially, 'labourers' received fifteen hundred calories a day, soldiers two thousand, and everyone else seven hundred. In practice, it was every man for himself. Raw rat and sparrow were delicacies because they were meat- shoe leather was near enough. And of course, there were plenty of corpses lying about. Petrograd was a breeding ground for the Kansas flu, which may have claimed twenty thousand lives during the siege. Facemasks offered a modicum of protection- plus, chewing on them helped one forget hunger. More traditional diseases of the besieged, such as smallpox, typhoid, and cholera, were on full display, fuelled by malnutrition. Incinerating corpses en masse for hygiene's sake lessened the spread of illness but sent ash clouds spiralling above the sky. It seemed somehow fitting for such a place. Conscripted civilians fell down at their posts, never to rise again. Men in the trenches- the best-fed in the city- happily defected in exchange for hot kasha. Russian Orthodox Christmas- 6 January 1920- saw a group of nuns giving the last of their oats away murdered; soldiers massacred a hundred people in retaliation. Eventually, people had enough. Whatever punishments the Tsarists had in mind for Petrograd wouldn't include starvation.

Exhausted Republican defenders prepare to give themselves up, January 1920

Petrograd surrendered on 21 January 1920.

Tsarist troops were taken aback by what they saw- one (unusually literate) officer commented that it put Dante to shame. "This is the real inferno and we made it." The devastation shamed the damage done by the May Day General Strike. Had all those times they pulled the lanyard, every time they turned away an American supply ship, caused this? How could they live with themselves? Some tried to track down the capital's surviving priests for absolution; others committed suicide. The people and soldiers had nothing left to say to one another. No words could express what the people of Petrograd felt for their conquerors. What do you say to a man who's put you through hell and who holds power of life and death over you? The Tsarists had the closest thing to a proper apology, though: food. They weren't especially well-provisioned but no Christian could refuse to feed men such as these- not least when they were Russians just like him. Men who'd been willing to kill over raw rat showed no mercy when it came to a freshly baked loaf. Mobs trampled Tsarists in haste to get at their rations; the men fought back. Tsarist-occupied Petrograd was a place where, as one woman remarked, "gold was only worth its weight in oats". Nonetheless, the capital slowly recovered under Tsarist rule. Grand Duke Mikhailovich understood that brutalising Russia’s greatest city was bad optics and did his best to avert starvation. Besides, what sort of Imperial father lets his children starve? That's for socialist traitors!

The flip side to this was harsh persecution of Republican sympathisers. Posters declared that Alexander Kerensky was worth a million rubles dead, a million and a half alive. Lenin, Zinoviev, and the rest of the Republicans and Soviets were worth half. Three weeks after occupying the capital, the Tsarists declared possession of Republican propaganda a capital crime. Petrograders had until 1 March to hand their copies of Stand With the Majority, Die With the Minority in or else face dire punishment. This order backfired by highlighting how much 'subversive literature' people had on hand. Though distributing rations had helped make amends, people still blamed the Tsarists for the horrors of the siege. Witnessing this outburst of support for the Republicans disguised as compliance made the Tsarists uneasy, and time-honoured fashion, they used the Jews for catharsis. Yudenich accepted a proposal from Anton Denikin to root out "Jewish Republican agents", and before too long synagogues started catching fire. Black Hundreds who'd survived the purges of summer 1918 suddenly found gainful employment. Jewish backlash became fodder for antisemitic propaganda, and before too long the rabbi of Petrograd was just as reviled as Kerensky. Jews and Gentile opponents fled; others weathered the storm in hiding.

The ruins of an observation post in front of a bombed-out, domed cathedral

Conquering Petrograd was ostensibly a triumph for the Tsarists. They'd taken the capital, secured the Baltic Fleet, and smashed both the Republican regime and Petrograd Soviet. Like Brusilov, Lavr Kornilov had been defeated. When the Tsar entered the capital on 15 February, his first stop was the seat of Romanov power for two centuries. The shell of the Winter Palace still stood and, miraculously, the Romanov throne was inact. The Tsar perched atop it for the first time in his reign for some first-class propaganda shots. "My illustrious predecessor Peter the Great, for whom this operation was named, conquered this city ten score years ago. Now, I shall add my name to the rolls of its history. Let my presence amidst the survivors of this city- who nobly withstood a ferocious battering in defence of the Motherland- illustrate the point. As Napoleon failed to destroy the Romanov Dynasty in 1812, and as the German clique failed five years ago, so too shall these traitors fail. God Save the Tsar!" Ignorant as he was of the sufferings inflicted by the siege, the man in the street likely fell for this. In fact, the conquest of Petrograd was a mixed blessing. The factories and ports were too badly damaged to be useable. Destroying the road and rail connections to the rest of Russia had been militarily necessary but made feeding the populace a challenge. Once again, Herbert Hoover's American Relief Association and the Red Cross eased the burden on both occupier and occupied, but they also got a firsthand look at the damage done. The stories which spread in spring 1920 did the Tsar's reputation few favours. Yudenich had committed the Tsar's best troops- including most of the Brusilov Offensive veterans- to Petrograd, pulling them away from the Ukraine or North Caucasus, or simply reaping the harvest. Many historians argue that those troops might've won the war in those places in autumn 1919 if they'd left Kerensky to wither on the vine.

Spring 1920 came. Grass grew over ruins and flesh grew over bones. The temperature rose and illness subsided. As the people of Petrograd began piecing their lives together again, they must've looked forward to peace. Yudenich was a cruel ruler but he gave them food and warmth... or rather, he let Herbert Hoover feed them. Their respite was about to come to an end though, as a new power prepared to enter the war...

Kaiser Wilhelm the Tenth · Aug 11, 2021

Place In the Sun Russian Civil War #1.jpg

This is another bad map which (sort of) depicts the situation at the end of the last chapter. I'll likely post one or more other maps depicting events as they develop....

Place In the Sun: What If Italy Joined the Central Powers? (1.0)

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