The New Guard [The Chosen End]
Title: The New Guard
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Characters: Russia, Lenin, Stalin.
Summary: 1924-1933. Lenin dies, and Stalin rises.
Warning: This chapter includes violence involving a real historical figure.
---
Gorki Leninskiye. January, 1924.
“Ivan?”
“I’m--I’m here, sir.”
“For God’s sake, boy, come a bit closer. The last thing a man wants to see in his final hours is his own country lingering at the door.”
“You won’t die.”
“Yes I will. Soon. And there are some things I-- Are those tears?”
“...No.”
“Sit down.”
“Is the bed--?”
“Yes, yes, just sit. Questions, Ivan, always so many questions with you. The chair, the bed, the floor, it doesn’t matter. Now, give me your hand...Ah, still cold. I did try to remedy that, you know.”
“You did. Things are better now, better than they’ve ever been.”
“Better is relative, boy. Remember that.”
“I will.”
“And I suppose that while we’re making a list of things for you to remember, I should mention...”
“Sir?”
“...Hm?”
“Things I need to remember?”
“Oh. Yes, of course...Forgive me, my mind wanders...That--that man Stalin....He is--very powerful...”
“He has to be...if--if something were to happen to you, he’d rally the people, bring them together in their gr--”
“Their grief?”
“Yes...But he won’t, he won’t need to, because you’re going to get better--”
“Ivan. Stop this foolishness. I called you here to listen, not to coddle me.”
“...I’m sorry.”
“Well, stop that too. Russia does not apologize.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen to me, boy. I have...You must know...Comrade Stalin has nearly unlimited authority concentrated in his hands. And I fear that...he will not always be capable of exercising that authority with sufficient caution.”
“You don’t--trust him?”
“That is not what I said.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
+
Moscow. January, 1924.
He'd been standing beside the coffin for hours as his people shuffled around him. They made up a dark, faceless mass: women with their faces buried in handkerchiefs, men with their hats clutched against their hearts, children being led by the hand and told that this was important, even if they were too young to understand.
The hall rang with their footsteps, and Russia might as well have been alone.
The doctors were saying that his boss's heart had failed him. Russia thought, quietly, that it was an apt diagnosis. So much time...he'd spent so much time urging Lenin to recover, to get back on his feet, that he'd forgotten his duties to the man as a nation.
He never even got to thank him.
Russia stared down into the open coffin. Lenin's face was waxy, arranged into a fabricated expression of peace. He'd wasted away in the last months of his life, and his clothing hung off his body, gapped at his wrists. For a single, suffocating moment, Russia wanted to crawl in next to him, shut the lid. He pressed his lips together.
More shuffling feet, more sobbing women. He was jostled and barely felt it.
Then a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Russia looked up.
His new boss's head was bowed respectfully, eyes closed. Only his fingers moved, closed tightly over him.
It was--a gesture of comfort, of course it was, but...it was too tight.
It hurt.
+
Moscow. October, 1927.
“Russia?”
“I’m here, sir.”
“Of course you are. I called you, didn’t I? Well, don’t just stand there.”
“Should I sit?”
“No. I will be brief. Close the door.”
“This is about Kamenev and Trotsky, isn’t it? You don’t need to worry about anything, I’m sure I can still convince them to--”
“Did I say I needed your help?”
“No, but--”
“Did I say I wanted you to interfere?”
“How can I be interfering in my own affairs?”
“Questioning me already? This is hardly a promising start.”
“Sir, I agree with you. The country would be much better served if we concentrated the efforts of the Party here, instead of spreading them all over Europe. Our people deserve our care.”
“Indeed they do...Very well, then. You may go. Oh, and Russia?”
“Yes?”
“Initiative is an admirable trait for a person to have. You are not a person.”
+
Moscow. December, 1927.
A sharp crack rang through the room, and the swift, terrible sweep of Stalin's hand was reflected in the polished wood floor. Russia's fingers moved slowly, disbelieving, to his face. He blinked, rapidly, and his stomach churned around a sudden wash of shame.
He'd been bad. He'd been bad, and he'd deserved--
No. He hadn't.
He must have deserved it, or else why would his boss have--
He'd done nothing wrong. He had only offered an opinion.
Russia's teeth dug into his lower lip and he took a sharp, wet breath. Stalin watched him with unconcealed distaste. He absently massaged the back of his hand.
Bosses were supposed to take care of their nations--to love them like their own children. They were supposed to love their nation more than anybody.
Russia bowed his head and left Stalin's office without another word. He heard his boss give a short, dismissive laugh behind him.
He didn't know what he had expected. They couldn't all be Lenin.
+
Moscow. August, 1930.
“You.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you want? I don’t remember receiving notice for this visit.”
“I didn’t--I didn’t send any.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve tried four times and you’ve refused to see me.”
“I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did, but I couldn’t afford to wait.”
“Is that so?”
“Sir, they’re slaughtering their animals.”
“The peasants? Yes, I know. To avoid the kolkhozy.”
“We’re losing thousands to starvation, and they’d still rather destroy their property than let it be absorbed by the collectives. It’s the kulaks, I know it is, they’re crushing out the spirit of the people, forcing them into this position. They’ve poisoned them against the Party! We--you--someone needs to stop this!”
“You will remove your hands from my desk. Now.”
“I’m--I’m sorry.”
“As you should be. What have I said--so many times--about your role in this...relationship? ”
“I apologize, sir. I shouldn’t have presumed to give you orders.”
“I hope, for your sake, that you will watch your tongue in the future.”
“Yes, I--”
“Get out of my sight.”
+
Moscow. May, 1932.
Grasping.
It wasn't true.
Degenerate.
He knew it wasn't true.
Vicious.
America wasn't--wasn't like that.
Russia flinched in on himself as his boss swung the desk lamp, base-first, into his head. The world went white for a few seconds. He could feel blood soaking through his hair. Newer blood, warmer than the coagulated lumps caked over his face and clothes. He'd hit the ground a half-hour ago. He never had the choice to fight back. He'd tried to shield himself, to raise his arm to protect his face, and found that when confronted with Stalin's rage, he simply...
Couldn't.
He tried to explain that he would always, always, do what Stalin wanted, no matter what his personal feelings might be. If Stalin told him to, he would attack America. If he were given the means, and the order, he would kill America--
It hadn't been enough.
A boot heel caught him across the mouth; one of his teeth loosened with a wet, sucking noise. His mouth filled with blood.
It had never been like this before. Even when his bosses had rejected his ideas and mocked his opinions, they'd never tried to change how he felt.
He--he couldn't hate someone just because he'd been ordered to.
"Hey...I like you."
--thick fingers closed around Russia's throat, choked him--
"It's not that strange for me to drop by just to talk."
--his neck, his neck, he was touching his neck, and he couldn't breathe--oh God, oh God--
"I don't do this with anyone else. Just you."
--he was begging then, screaming, hands flying up to cover his boss's on his throat, gasping and shaking and choking on all that blood--
+
Moscow. September, 1933.
“What will you say to him?”
“What you’ve told me to say.”
“And what I’ve told you to say only reflects your true feelings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely. He is decadent, hostile, disgusting. A threat, insofar as we can ever be threatened.”
“Come here. And look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want no mistakes, Russia. Is that clear? Humor him, converse with him, indulge him in any way, and there will be consequences.”
“I understand.”
“If he makes any advances, cut him down. His country needs us. They’ve seen that their sneering disapproval has done nothing to halt our progress, and now they’ve come back, scrambling to cover their commercial interests. It’s so like them, isn’t it? The market crashes, and suddenly their high morals mean nothing.”
“Hypocrites, all of them. Especially him.”
“Exactly. And your behavior will have no effect whatsoever on the relations between our governments. They have no choice, now, but to recognize us.”
“But...then--Why do I have to say--?”
“It’s more for your benefit than anyone else’s.”
“Oh.”
"I intend to separate you from…unwanted influences. After all, there is nothing you need that I cannot provide, is there?"
"No--of course not."
"You will be safer, when he understands that you are not to be trifled with."
"But he…yes, sir."
“Why, Russia--is that hesitation I see? Perhaps you need to practice again.”
“...Perhaps--perhaps I do.”
+++
--Lenin suffered a stroke in 1922 which forced him into semi-retirement, and Stalin visited him often, serving as his intermediary to the outside world. The two frequently argued, and their relationship deteriorated. Lenin dictated increasingly damning notes about Stalin in what would become his testament, in which he called for Stalin's removal from his position as General Secretary of the Communist Party. Stalin and his allies successfully prevented Lenin's testament from being revealed to the Twelfth Party Congress in April 1923. In the three years following Lenin's death in 1924, Stalin rose to become the supreme leader of the Soviet Union.
--Trotsky, Kamenev, and Zinoviev formed the core of the anti-Stalinist opposition. All three were eventually executed or assassinated.
--In institutionalizing anti-Americanism, Stalin found a potent tool for his developing cult of personality--one which would be adopted to lesser extents by every Soviet leader who followed him. It was not a reaction of hurt or outrage at any American policy, although tensions between the two countries were high, but a simple and effective way to gather the support of the Soviet people around their dictator, and to discourage them from acknowledging or appreciating the American successes and achievements they might wish to emulate at home.
Much later, in 1949, Winston Churchill would observe that "The Kremlin fears the friendship of the West more than its enmity."
If you haven't already, would you consider filling out the TCE poll? It's not very long, I promise. Thank you!
--
I'm including another note, here, because there seems to be some confusion from the comments, and this is something on which we should be very clear: it is not the opinion of Wizard, or myself, that Lenin was a good man, or a good thing to have happen to Russia. However, to the best of our knowledge, Lenin was venerated, officially, by the government, and widely by the common people, during his lifetime and for a long time after his death. We decided that the most apt way to express that veneration in the Hetalia metaphor would be for Russia as an individual to feel a great personal attachment to the man, and to be willing to overlook his faults.
We do our best to show the characters reacting to the events around them the way the real, historical nations, as a whole, tended to react, and there will always be an element of picking and choosing in that process, since no real nation is ever united in a single opinion. 'Lenin is great' seemed to us like a common, widespread opinion in Russia, in the 1920s, however incorrect that opinion might have been. If we are mistaken in the extent to which Lenin was venerated by the Party and the Russian people in that time period, then I apologize for the inaccuracy, but I hope that it's at least clear that there is no failure of understanding on Wizard's part or mine of Lenin's less-than-admirable ideals, goals, and ambitions, or his many actions which proved detrimental to the Russian people.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Characters: Russia, Lenin, Stalin.
Summary: 1924-1933. Lenin dies, and Stalin rises.
Warning: This chapter includes violence involving a real historical figure.
---
Gorki Leninskiye. January, 1924.
“Ivan?”
“I’m--I’m here, sir.”
“For God’s sake, boy, come a bit closer. The last thing a man wants to see in his final hours is his own country lingering at the door.”
“You won’t die.”
“Yes I will. Soon. And there are some things I-- Are those tears?”
“...No.”
“Sit down.”
“Is the bed--?”
“Yes, yes, just sit. Questions, Ivan, always so many questions with you. The chair, the bed, the floor, it doesn’t matter. Now, give me your hand...Ah, still cold. I did try to remedy that, you know.”
“You did. Things are better now, better than they’ve ever been.”
“Better is relative, boy. Remember that.”
“I will.”
“And I suppose that while we’re making a list of things for you to remember, I should mention...”
“Sir?”
“...Hm?”
“Things I need to remember?”
“Oh. Yes, of course...Forgive me, my mind wanders...That--that man Stalin....He is--very powerful...”
“He has to be...if--if something were to happen to you, he’d rally the people, bring them together in their gr--”
“Their grief?”
“Yes...But he won’t, he won’t need to, because you’re going to get better--”
“Ivan. Stop this foolishness. I called you here to listen, not to coddle me.”
“...I’m sorry.”
“Well, stop that too. Russia does not apologize.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen to me, boy. I have...You must know...Comrade Stalin has nearly unlimited authority concentrated in his hands. And I fear that...he will not always be capable of exercising that authority with sufficient caution.”
“You don’t--trust him?”
“That is not what I said.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
+
Moscow. January, 1924.
He'd been standing beside the coffin for hours as his people shuffled around him. They made up a dark, faceless mass: women with their faces buried in handkerchiefs, men with their hats clutched against their hearts, children being led by the hand and told that this was important, even if they were too young to understand.
The hall rang with their footsteps, and Russia might as well have been alone.
The doctors were saying that his boss's heart had failed him. Russia thought, quietly, that it was an apt diagnosis. So much time...he'd spent so much time urging Lenin to recover, to get back on his feet, that he'd forgotten his duties to the man as a nation.
He never even got to thank him.
Russia stared down into the open coffin. Lenin's face was waxy, arranged into a fabricated expression of peace. He'd wasted away in the last months of his life, and his clothing hung off his body, gapped at his wrists. For a single, suffocating moment, Russia wanted to crawl in next to him, shut the lid. He pressed his lips together.
More shuffling feet, more sobbing women. He was jostled and barely felt it.
Then a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Russia looked up.
His new boss's head was bowed respectfully, eyes closed. Only his fingers moved, closed tightly over him.
It was--a gesture of comfort, of course it was, but...it was too tight.
It hurt.
+
Moscow. October, 1927.
“Russia?”
“I’m here, sir.”
“Of course you are. I called you, didn’t I? Well, don’t just stand there.”
“Should I sit?”
“No. I will be brief. Close the door.”
“This is about Kamenev and Trotsky, isn’t it? You don’t need to worry about anything, I’m sure I can still convince them to--”
“Did I say I needed your help?”
“No, but--”
“Did I say I wanted you to interfere?”
“How can I be interfering in my own affairs?”
“Questioning me already? This is hardly a promising start.”
“Sir, I agree with you. The country would be much better served if we concentrated the efforts of the Party here, instead of spreading them all over Europe. Our people deserve our care.”
“Indeed they do...Very well, then. You may go. Oh, and Russia?”
“Yes?”
“Initiative is an admirable trait for a person to have. You are not a person.”
+
Moscow. December, 1927.
A sharp crack rang through the room, and the swift, terrible sweep of Stalin's hand was reflected in the polished wood floor. Russia's fingers moved slowly, disbelieving, to his face. He blinked, rapidly, and his stomach churned around a sudden wash of shame.
He'd been bad. He'd been bad, and he'd deserved--
No. He hadn't.
He must have deserved it, or else why would his boss have--
He'd done nothing wrong. He had only offered an opinion.
Russia's teeth dug into his lower lip and he took a sharp, wet breath. Stalin watched him with unconcealed distaste. He absently massaged the back of his hand.
Bosses were supposed to take care of their nations--to love them like their own children. They were supposed to love their nation more than anybody.
Russia bowed his head and left Stalin's office without another word. He heard his boss give a short, dismissive laugh behind him.
He didn't know what he had expected. They couldn't all be Lenin.
+
Moscow. August, 1930.
“You.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you want? I don’t remember receiving notice for this visit.”
“I didn’t--I didn’t send any.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve tried four times and you’ve refused to see me.”
“I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did, but I couldn’t afford to wait.”
“Is that so?”
“Sir, they’re slaughtering their animals.”
“The peasants? Yes, I know. To avoid the kolkhozy.”
“We’re losing thousands to starvation, and they’d still rather destroy their property than let it be absorbed by the collectives. It’s the kulaks, I know it is, they’re crushing out the spirit of the people, forcing them into this position. They’ve poisoned them against the Party! We--you--someone needs to stop this!”
“You will remove your hands from my desk. Now.”
“I’m--I’m sorry.”
“As you should be. What have I said--so many times--about your role in this...relationship? ”
“I apologize, sir. I shouldn’t have presumed to give you orders.”
“I hope, for your sake, that you will watch your tongue in the future.”
“Yes, I--”
“Get out of my sight.”
+
Moscow. May, 1932.
Grasping.
It wasn't true.
Degenerate.
He knew it wasn't true.
Vicious.
America wasn't--wasn't like that.
Russia flinched in on himself as his boss swung the desk lamp, base-first, into his head. The world went white for a few seconds. He could feel blood soaking through his hair. Newer blood, warmer than the coagulated lumps caked over his face and clothes. He'd hit the ground a half-hour ago. He never had the choice to fight back. He'd tried to shield himself, to raise his arm to protect his face, and found that when confronted with Stalin's rage, he simply...
Couldn't.
He tried to explain that he would always, always, do what Stalin wanted, no matter what his personal feelings might be. If Stalin told him to, he would attack America. If he were given the means, and the order, he would kill America--
It hadn't been enough.
A boot heel caught him across the mouth; one of his teeth loosened with a wet, sucking noise. His mouth filled with blood.
It had never been like this before. Even when his bosses had rejected his ideas and mocked his opinions, they'd never tried to change how he felt.
He--he couldn't hate someone just because he'd been ordered to.
"Hey...I like you."
--thick fingers closed around Russia's throat, choked him--
"It's not that strange for me to drop by just to talk."
--his neck, his neck, he was touching his neck, and he couldn't breathe--oh God, oh God--
"I don't do this with anyone else. Just you."
--he was begging then, screaming, hands flying up to cover his boss's on his throat, gasping and shaking and choking on all that blood--
+
Moscow. September, 1933.
“What will you say to him?”
“What you’ve told me to say.”
“And what I’ve told you to say only reflects your true feelings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely. He is decadent, hostile, disgusting. A threat, insofar as we can ever be threatened.”
“Come here. And look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want no mistakes, Russia. Is that clear? Humor him, converse with him, indulge him in any way, and there will be consequences.”
“I understand.”
“If he makes any advances, cut him down. His country needs us. They’ve seen that their sneering disapproval has done nothing to halt our progress, and now they’ve come back, scrambling to cover their commercial interests. It’s so like them, isn’t it? The market crashes, and suddenly their high morals mean nothing.”
“Hypocrites, all of them. Especially him.”
“Exactly. And your behavior will have no effect whatsoever on the relations between our governments. They have no choice, now, but to recognize us.”
“But...then--Why do I have to say--?”
“It’s more for your benefit than anyone else’s.”
“Oh.”
"I intend to separate you from…unwanted influences. After all, there is nothing you need that I cannot provide, is there?"
"No--of course not."
"You will be safer, when he understands that you are not to be trifled with."
"But he…yes, sir."
“Why, Russia--is that hesitation I see? Perhaps you need to practice again.”
“...Perhaps--perhaps I do.”
+++
--Lenin suffered a stroke in 1922 which forced him into semi-retirement, and Stalin visited him often, serving as his intermediary to the outside world. The two frequently argued, and their relationship deteriorated. Lenin dictated increasingly damning notes about Stalin in what would become his testament, in which he called for Stalin's removal from his position as General Secretary of the Communist Party. Stalin and his allies successfully prevented Lenin's testament from being revealed to the Twelfth Party Congress in April 1923. In the three years following Lenin's death in 1924, Stalin rose to become the supreme leader of the Soviet Union.
--Trotsky, Kamenev, and Zinoviev formed the core of the anti-Stalinist opposition. All three were eventually executed or assassinated.
--In institutionalizing anti-Americanism, Stalin found a potent tool for his developing cult of personality--one which would be adopted to lesser extents by every Soviet leader who followed him. It was not a reaction of hurt or outrage at any American policy, although tensions between the two countries were high, but a simple and effective way to gather the support of the Soviet people around their dictator, and to discourage them from acknowledging or appreciating the American successes and achievements they might wish to emulate at home.
Much later, in 1949, Winston Churchill would observe that "The Kremlin fears the friendship of the West more than its enmity."
If you haven't already, would you consider filling out the TCE poll? It's not very long, I promise. Thank you!
--
I'm including another note, here, because there seems to be some confusion from the comments, and this is something on which we should be very clear: it is not the opinion of Wizard, or myself, that Lenin was a good man, or a good thing to have happen to Russia. However, to the best of our knowledge, Lenin was venerated, officially, by the government, and widely by the common people, during his lifetime and for a long time after his death. We decided that the most apt way to express that veneration in the Hetalia metaphor would be for Russia as an individual to feel a great personal attachment to the man, and to be willing to overlook his faults.
We do our best to show the characters reacting to the events around them the way the real, historical nations, as a whole, tended to react, and there will always be an element of picking and choosing in that process, since no real nation is ever united in a single opinion. 'Lenin is great' seemed to us like a common, widespread opinion in Russia, in the 1920s, however incorrect that opinion might have been. If we are mistaken in the extent to which Lenin was venerated by the Party and the Russian people in that time period, then I apologize for the inaccuracy, but I hope that it's at least clear that there is no failure of understanding on Wizard's part or mine of Lenin's less-than-admirable ideals, goals, and ambitions, or his many actions which proved detrimental to the Russian people.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.