Chapter 38: Politics and Diplomacy
The ferry docked.
As the vessel settled against the pier, Jörg finally got his first clear look at Soviet Russia.
It was poorer than he had expected.
As a newly established regime, it lacked not only prosperity but polish, and even this important port looked half abandoned. Despite being one of Soviet Russia's principal maritime gateways, the entire harbor resembled a neglected provincial dock left to decay under wind, frost, and official indifference.
A few scattered fishing boats rocked against the piers, their owners watching the new arrivals with blunt, undisguised curiosity.
Several patched warships lay farther out, their hulls scarred and weatherworn, obvious remnants inherited from the Tsarist era. As for the cargo ships in the surrounding harbor, nearly all of them flew the German flag. Isolated by the West, Soviet Russia's only true partner remained Germany, another state still bound and humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles.
Standing at the rail, Jörg looked down at the country before him and found that it did not resemble the Soviet Russia of his impressions at all.
No one looking at this place now would imagine that one day it would become one of the poles of a global confrontation, a colossal industrial power capable of facing the world head on. At present, it was still what it fundamentally had been for generations: an agricultural country with weak industry, thin infrastructure, and an economy still hanging from the backbone of grain.
He drew his coat tighter and stepped off the ferry.
Because of the confidential nature of the military talks, and because Moscow itself was already entering the early stages of political turbulence, the Soviet reception was understated to the point of austerity. In truth, it was probably not a matter of choice. They simply had no energy to devote to ceremony.
Two diplomatic staff members in thick Caucasian sweaters and heavy overcoats stood beside an imported Mercedes-Benz. Near them waited a truck filled with Soviet soldiers assigned to escort duty.
The moment they saw the German delegation disembark, one of the two men stepped forward and extended a hand in heavily accented but serviceable German.
"You must be Mr. Jörg. You are even younger than I imagined."
He gave a brief nod of introduction.
"My name is Vadim Radov. I am the diplomatic liaison assigned to this mission. And this is Mr. Sidorov, from the Army Logistics Department."
The second man, a broad middle aged figure with a large beard and steady eyes, extended his hand as well.
"Welcome to Soviet Russia, Comrade Jörg."
There was a faint smile on his face, though his tone remained measured.
"The Rapallo Treaty of 1922 made us friends. Although there have been many unpleasant incidents since then, I believe Germany and Soviet Russia still share common interests, and perhaps even a common direction."
Jörg removed his leather glove and clasped the man's hand firmly.
"And I came precisely to remove those misunderstandings."
He held Sidorov's gaze for a moment longer before continuing.
"And if I remember correctly, it was once said that communism means Soviet power plus national electrification."
A faint glimmer passed through his eyes.
"I came to eliminate barriers, and through mutual benefit, help bring electrification to Soviet Russia."
Sidorov chuckled, clearly surprised.
"Comrade Lenin's famous line."
He gave Jörg another, more searching look.
"It seems you have studied our country rather carefully, Comrade Jörg."
Then he gestured toward the waiting cars.
"I hope that remains true. Please, get in. Comrade Chicherin is waiting for you at Smolny."
Jörg entered the rear seat of the first car with Lia beside him. Morr and Biffar were placed in the second.
The streets of Saint Petersburg slid past the windows one by one.
Even after several years of revolution, bread did not grow from slogans alone. A new regime could replace flags, ministries, and titles, but it could not magically rebuild a nation gutted by war, civil strife, and collapse.
There were almost no civilian cars on the road. Most of the vehicles were buses, trucks, or military transports. The shelves in the shops they passed were sparse, with only a few goods visible, mostly bread and vodka, some even bearing Lenin's portrait on the label. Farther away, beyond rows of worn buildings and winter smoke, one could just make out the black plumes rising from the industrial district.
Lia looked out of the window and spoke softly.
"It feels a little like Munich more than ten years ago."
Jörg nodded.
"Yes."
He watched a line of laborers disappear into the fog ahead.
"A change of regime does not rebuild a country overnight. Everything still has to be made again."
The car began to slow.
His eyes were drawn upward to the building ahead.
It was an elegant three story structure, one inherited from the Tsarist period, and even now it retained a dignity that the revolution had not managed to erase. Guards stood rigid on both sides of the approach. As the car passed each post, the soldiers turned their heads left in perfect sequence and saluted.
At the top of the oval spire, the old white, blue, and red flag was gone. In its place, the red banner of the new state moved in the wind.
Smolny.
Once the headquarters of the Bolshevik Military Revolutionary Committee, a place where "All Power to the Soviets" had echoed through the halls, it remained one of Soviet Russia's political nerve centers. The Foreign Affairs Committee still maintained offices here. The army had a liaison office here. The city government of Saint Petersburg operated from here as well.
If Moscow was the first center of power, Smolny was certainly the second.
When the car door opened, Radov stepped out first and gave a courteous gesture.
"Please follow me, Mr. Jörg. Comrade Chicherin is waiting for you in his office on the second floor."
At that very moment, inside Smolny, the man in question sat in silence in the diplomatic office along the inner corridor of the second floor.
Chicherin was a well mannered middle aged man with glasses, one hand propped against his temple as a deep voice crackled through the telephone receiver in front of him.
"Comrade Chicherin, I repeat, we will not accept any form of apology."
The voice was calm, but there was iron beneath it.
"The trouble caused by Trotsky and his followers is not our responsibility. Present-day Soviet Russia will not pay for a band of counterrevolutionaries."
Chicherin did not respond immediately.
Instead, he kept his eyes on the oil portrait of Lenin hanging on the wall and asked quietly,
"Comrade Stalin… how is Comrade Lenin's health?"
There was a brief silence on the line.
When Stalin answered again, his deep voice carried an oddly controlled sadness.
"The doctors say the mentor may not last until February."
Chicherin closed his eyes for a moment and let out a low breath.
"I understand," he said at last. "I will proceed as you instruct."
He hung up the phone.
The office fell still at once. Only the faint smell of tobacco and cold air remained.
Resting his head against one hand, Chicherin sat in silence and continued to think.
As a Bolshevik, and even more as a former Russian aristocrat who spoke six languages and understood Europe far better than many of his comrades, he possessed a particularly sharp political instinct.
If Lenin had still been in sound health, and if the assassination attempt had never happened, then the unrest in Germany caused by Trotsky's faction could have been handled more flexibly. Germany's demand for an apology might even have been accepted, because at that time it would still have been a matter internal to the wider revolutionary camp.
But that was no longer the situation.
At this moment, the Bolshevik Party was being divided, openly or quietly, into two broad currents. If Stalin, now effectively taking over much of the machinery of government, issued an apology on this issue, it would be read not as prudence but as weakness. Worse, it would be interpreted as an unstable stance in the struggle that was clearly taking shape.
And so, they had to harden their position.
Even at the cost of offending Germany.
Even at the cost of freezing a relationship that had only recently begun to thaw.
He lit a cigarette with weary fingers.
"Diplomacy never escapes politics," he murmured to the empty room. "Or rather, diplomacy changes the moment domestic power changes hands."
The smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling.
His eyes, melancholy and intelligent, no longer held the bright fervor of a man entering the field. Instead, they held the sorrow of someone who could already see the coming power struggle and knew how ugly it would become.
Then came a knock at the door.
The sorrow vanished as if sealed away. He adjusted his glasses, and by the time he spoke again, the weary thinker had become once more the polished statesman who had helped pull Soviet Russia out of isolation and into international recognition.
"Come in."
The door opened.
His secretary stepped inside and lowered his voice.
"Comrade Chicherin, the German delegation has arrived. I have already had them shown to the conference room."
He paused.
"Please come with me."
Chicherin rose at once and gave a small nod.
"Then let us go."
.....
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