Shadow of the Old Continent (8)
Even after Yujin Kim left, Maxim Litvinov couldn't bring himself to leave Joseph Stalin, who sat there silently smoking.
"…Is that bastard insane?"
"He doesn't seem to be in his right mind. Perhaps it's because he's a soldier. Not someone the General Secretary needs to concern himself with."
Litvinov, sweating in the middle of winter, tried to brush it off—but how could anyone forget something like that? Tell yourself not to think about an elephant, and all you see is an elephant in your mind.
"Commissar."
"Yes, Comrade General Secretary."
"If we were to, say… throw all Koreans living in the Maritime Province into Siberia, what diplomatic repercussions would we face?"
"…Comrade General Secretary?"
"I'm asking whether, as he claims, we would truly suffer losses."
There was no way the General Secretary lacked the ability to calculate that himself. Then was this a way of shifting responsibility?
But Litvinov wasn't shameless enough to lie to an old comrade pressing him like this.
"…The Korean Provisional Government holds considerable recognition among Koreans, and Yevgeny Kim himself enjoys widespread support. If imperialists flood the press with propaganda and criticize our relocation policy—"
"And then?"
"Koreans still lack firm faith in socialism, and the majority are peasants with strong reactionary tendencies. It is… difficult to deny the possibility that his outrageous claim could become reality."
Stalin simply blinked, as if it were expected.
"Is that all?"
"When imperialist powers, led by the United States, attempt to intervene, they may use it as justification. They could greatly exaggerate the situation to portray us as untrustworthy."
"So, his words are not entirely wrong."
"My apologies, Comrade General Secretary! My inadequacy has brought harm to the Party!"
"You've done your duty, Commissar. I will not hold you responsible. Focus on your other work."
After dismissing him, Stalin repeatedly replayed the earlier conversation in his mind.
That insolent, almost insane man.
Of course, neither Stalin nor the Foreign Ministry officials were fools who believed such crude threats would achieve anything. But it wasn't unreasonable to expect that an individual facing an entire nation might show a moment of hesitation.
Yet that man, as if backing or lack thereof had nothing to do with him, had turned around and pressured Stalin himself.
He couldn't get angry.
*"Then the Koreans will realize—only their own people can be trusted. The only one truly reliable is General Kim Yujin!
If sending a few Koreans in the Maritime Province to Siberia can unite all Koreans, isn't that a profitable trade? Go ahead. Even if I abandon them, make it so they can never abandon me."*
Even if I abandon them, they must never abandon me.
The moment he heard those words, Stalin felt as though he had been shot.
Was it anger? No.
It was as if a bullet of language had pierced his core—sharp, suffocating, almost driving him mad.
This was exhilaration.
This was an answer.
Stalin, who had spent his life believing he lived for revolution, socialism, and the Soviet Union, realized in that instant—
That was the ideal he had been seeking.
In his youth, he had indulged in women, but at some point, they ceased to interest him.
Was it because he had grown old and weak? No. That was only a trivial reason. Having tasted the far more intoxicating stimulus called power, women were no longer his priority.
And now, Stalin had found the supreme form of power.
The father of all.
The father of workers, peasants—the father of the people.
The eternal father of revolution… greater than Marx or Lenin, the benevolent guardian of foolish masses!
Unilateral worship. Unilateral affection. Unilateral praise. Yes—this was it. Not a cog within a great organization, but the one who stands above a great organization that exists solely to glorify him.
His body, which he had thought no longer stirred, tightened on its own. His heart, once cold, pounded like a locomotive. He felt like grabbing that insolent Oriental by the wrist and dancing a Cossack dance together.
And so, the iron beast sleeping within one man's heart awakened.
***
My heart—feels like it's going to explode.
Escorted to my room, I gulped down cold water in huge swigs.
Damn it… am I going to get angina at this rate? I'm almost forty—if I drop dead like this, that'd be infuriating.
I can't believe I went that far in front of Stalin. I must be insane. Damn it. Maybe I burned up all my patience dealing with Hitler.
No… no. This time, it was justified.
Think about it. Unlike Hitler, Stalin was in a position where he desperately needed better relations with the United States and foreign investment. No matter how reckless he was, he wouldn't dare dispose of me while I was traveling with Edsel Ford.
And unlike that German mustache who wanted my goodwill, this Slavic mustache was openly acting like a blackmailer. You don't negotiate with terrorists. You crush them so they never try anything again.
If you're a soldier of the Republic of Korea, you'd better understand brinkmanship—the edge-of-the-cliff strategy. When facing an overwhelmingly stronger opponent, there are only a few options available to the weak—and this was one of them.
Honestly, it's a miserable situation—me having to pull this kind of bluff against the Soviet Union, and the Koreans being dragged into this mess like helpless cards in a game.
But what can I do? The moment I bend and show compromise, those communists will try to swallow everything whole. Showing kindness to people who genuinely believe "revolution justifies everything" is a disaster waiting to happen.
And true to their nature—bullying the weak, fearing the strong—their attitude toward me changed completely the very next day.
"Welcome, Comrade! The Red Army greets Comrade Kim!"
"Where is Minister Litvinov? I heard we would be discussing minority issues."
"Haha. New orders have come down. From now on, instead of the Foreign Ministry, the Red Army will be accompanying you."
After that… nothing really happened.
Joseph Stalin never showed himself again, and as if our conversation had never happened, all talk of the Koreans in the Maritime Province and the provisional government completely disappeared.
Instead, I spent my time riding horses and hunting with Mikhail Tukhachevsky, enduring Moscow's brutal winter, eating borscht as red as socialism itself, and chatting idly about military and political matters while waiting for Edsel's business to conclude.
That was it? Really? I had been bracing myself for some massive confrontation—and this was the end?
I met Stalin again much later, at a farewell banquet the day before our departure.
"I've been quite busy and couldn't spare much time. It would have been even better if you had toured the Union more thoroughly."
"Thanks to your consideration, I've seen quite a lot."
Oh, I saw plenty. Visions of gulags flashed before my eyes, along with Koreans digging dirt in Central Asia.
Perhaps there was a subtle edge in my words, because Stalin lightly stroked his mustache.
"Though there were some misunderstandings between us, I believe our previous conversation helped clear them up. While you are in the United States—the stronghold of capitalism—I view it positively that we can cooperate on a larger scale when it comes to liberating the Korean people from imperialism."
What? "Large-scale cooperation"? Not mutual blackmail?
If I translate that loosely: "You're a tough bastard. Let's just work together."
"I may not be deeply familiar with the situation in Korea, but I understand that socialists and nationalists have already joined hands to resist Japanese oppression. If you and the Soviet Union cooperate, wouldn't liberation come much faster?"
"Indeed. It seems a ray of light is shining on the future of the Far East. In that spirit, let us celebrate your visit with a drink."
"To our cause!"
"To our cause!!"
The great Stalin backed down a step!
Unbelievable—this is a miracle. "The man who forced Stalin to yield"—damn, that gives me chills.
"Then, Comrade General Secretary, what insights do you have regarding the Korean issue…?"
"From a realistic standpoint, as you pointed out earlier, it would be difficult to immediately send the Red Army marching on Gyeongseong."
"Haha… well, that's only natural."
"As the homeland of socialism, we have a duty to support Korean socialists. We will not oppose the provisional government you are backing, but we cannot limit ourselves based on your wishes when it comes to aiding Koreans outside of it."
That's fair. In fact, the key point is: they won't touch the provisional government.
Of course, if they start bringing in figures like Park Heon-young or Kim Il-sung and stir trouble by establishing some autonomous Korean region in the Maritime Province, I'd be in trouble—but does Stalin really have a reason to bet on Koreans? If it were me, I'd invest more in the Chinese Communist Party.
"Of course. Isn't the Soviet Union the beacon for minority peoples? There are so many Koreans who need your help."
"Heh heh. I'm glad we've reached a mutual understanding. I was briefly concerned you might object to this as well."
"Hahaha! Not at all! I'm grateful for such a bold decision!"
As long as we ended with an agreement not to tear each other apart, that was enough. Korea simply wasn't big enough for us to risk our lives fighting over it.
But I made a critical mistake.
Drunk on the feeling of victory, I forgot—just for a moment—how persistent and vicious Stalin truly was.
The price for that mistake… was horrifying.
"Ugh—!!"
"Hah. Americans really are weak."
"Collapsed after drinking just this much! Get up! Hero of Amiens!"
"Comrade, pull yourself together. Now that you've vomited out all the remnants of capitalism, you can fill yourself with the true essence of socialism!"
"N-no—!"
These lunatics! They're not even human! Since when is the essence of socialism alcohol?! Even the embalmed Vladimir Lenin would smash his glass coffin and run away!
Edsel and I paid dearly for forgetting we were in Russia—we were drowned in alcohol to the brink of death.
I'm never coming back to Moscow again.
***
We returned to Berlin.
Edsel would continue negotiations in Germany before heading to Britain, while I planned to follow my family, who had gone to Greece—every European's dream destination—via warm Italy.
…Though I might skip Italy this time.
But the Berlin I stepped into now was completely different from the one I had left.
"Heil!"
"Heil!!"
"Heil Hitler!!"
What the hell happened while I was gone that things changed this much—
"Lieutenant Colonel Yujin Kim?"
"Mr. Martin Bormann, isn't it? It's been months."
"Adolf Hitler, the newly appointed Chancellor of Germany, wishes to meet you. Do you have time?"
"So… he's become Chancellor."
Late 1932, just before the year turned.
At last, with the support of conservatives, Hitler was appointed Chancellor of the Weimar Republic, amid thunderous cheers and applause.
And so, the Weimar Republic chose its own suicide.
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