Chapter 42: Young
"You look surprised?"
Half reclining on the sofa, Lenin no longer resembled a dying patient.
He poured his own water, lifted the cup with steady fingers, and examined the documents beneath the light of a half burned oil lamp as though he had returned to the height of his strength. For a fleeting moment, it was as if illness had retreated and the man who had once shaken an empire now sat here exactly as before.
Stalin rubbed his eyes, unable to believe what he was seeing. Only after confirming that this was reality did he lower the hand behind his back and make a subtle gesture.
His secretary understood at once and hurried out of the hall to fetch a doctor.
Lenin, however, seemed entirely unconcerned.
"How is the New Economic Policy progressing? The one I told you to continue."
He slowly shifted his gaze away from the meeting approval document submitted by the Foreign Affairs Committee.
Seeing that Stalin still had not answered, Lenin clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction, patted the cushion beside him, and said, "Come sit, Joseph."
In front of Lenin, Stalin lowered his head like a chastened student. He slipped the pipe from his overcoat and held it behind his back before stepping forward respectfully.
"Mentor Lenin."
"You are very surprised that I have woken up." Lenin's tone was calm, almost amused. "Tell me. What has happened in the time since I stopped working?"
His sharp eyes caught the pipe Stalin had tried to hide. A moment later, he reached for tobacco with the stubbornness of an old revolutionary who had never learned to obey doctors.
"Mentor, you mustn't smoke." Stalin immediately took a half step forward. "I will call a doctor at once. The fact that you can move freely at all, this is already a miracle granted to the Soviet."
Lenin's left hand, thin and pale from illness, pressed down on Stalin's shoulder and stopped him.
He lit the tobacco anyway.
The harsh smoke hit him immediately.
Cough, cough, cough...
The irritation tore through his lungs, and the man who had long given up smoking bent forward in a fit of violent coughing.
Stalin's expression changed at once. When he saw the trace of blood at the corner of Lenin's mouth, he instinctively wanted to move closer, but Lenin only smiled with weary indifference.
"It seems my mother was right after all. Smoking is not a good thing." His breathing was unsteady, but his eyes remained clear. "Joseph, you should learn to quit as well. And put away those priestly ideas of yours. Enough with heaven, enough with miracles."
Stalin lowered his head.
The eyes that usually held calculations, suspicion, and the cold arithmetic of power now reddened with tears from a much older past.
Emotion was a weakness for any politician. Yet when one stood face to face with the looming death of a man like Lenin, a mentor who had fought beside them through revolution and civil war, even the hardest heart could not remain untouched.
"We did not have God's help when we seized Moscow," Lenin said softly. "But I do understand one thing now. Death is following me."
He paused, then looked at his own hand as if even he could not fully comprehend what had happened.
"I do not understand why I can stand today. But everything in this world has a material basis. I will not live long enough to discover it. After I die, you may investigate it for me."
Then his gaze lifted again.
"The German representative wants to see me. Let him come."
Stalin clearly did not want official business to devour what might be the old man's final lucid hours.
"Mentor Lenin, you should not concern yourself with work anymore," he said in a low voice. "Your family, your wife..."
Lenin shook his head before he could finish.
"Would it not be more meaningful to die serving the Soviet than to die in the tears of family?"
Stalin knew that tone. Once Lenin had decided, no argument would move him.
At last, he bowed his head and gave in.
"I will arrange it immediately."
...
At the same time, deep into the night, the German consulate in Saint Petersburg remained brightly lit.
In his office, Jörg sat alone beneath the yellow glow of the lamp. The ashtray by his left hand was already overflowing with cigarette butts, and the thick Russian dictionary on the desk had been stained dark by nicotine and his own fingertips.
Ethan stepped forward and placed a photograph on the desk.
"Sir, I have made contact with the target as instructed. These are the photographs."
Though Trotsky himself did not appear in the picture, anyone with eyes could recognize the heavily guarded sanatorium in the background. That alone was enough to become a political explosive if it reached the wrong hands.
Jörg picked up the photograph, examined it briefly, then asked without looking up, "What did he say to you?"
Ethan answered in a measured voice.
"He asked for our position. He implied that if necessary, he could provide us with a certain degree of assistance. The rest of the conversation was spent distancing himself from the Berlin riots and from the Trotskyist role in them."
Jörg gave a faint nod.
Exactly as expected.
A man increasingly isolated within the political struggle would seize any opportunity that might restore legitimacy. Trotsky had not been speaking merely as an individual. He had been speaking as someone desperate to remain necessary.
"You did well, Ethan."
Jörg set the photo down and leaned back slightly.
"But later, you will have to suffer a little inconvenience. I will temporarily have you accused of unauthorized contact with a political figure."
Ethan did not react.
"There will be no punishment. Once we get what we want and return to Germany, I will report your merit and restore everything in full."
At that, Ethan finally saluted.
"It is my honor to serve you, sir."
He turned and left.
The moment the door closed, it opened again.
Lia rushed in, still breathing hard from running upstairs, a telephone receiver clutched in her hand.
"Mr. Roman, a call from Moscow."
Moscow?
Jörg's eyes sharpened instantly.
Could it be that the meeting request had been approved?
That made no sense.
By all reasonable calculation, Lenin should have been bedridden beyond the ability to receive anyone. Jörg had made the request precisely because he expected a refusal. Once that refusal came, he intended to use it as leverage and press Soviet Russia harder at the negotiating table.
But if Lenin had agreed...
For a moment, an unsettling thought flashed through his mind.
A stand in?
Someone arranged to play the role?
Yet before he could finish sorting through the possibilities, Lia, mistaking his silence for inattention, held the receiver closer.
"Mr. Roman, the call."
Jörg took it from her hand.
A grave, emotionless voice came through the line.
"Is this Mr. Jörg von Roman, special diplomatic representative from Germany? Mentor Lenin has approved your request for a meeting."
Jörg's mind, which had remained steady through negotiations and political traps alike, stalled for the first time in days.
He asked at once, carefully stressing every word, "Are you certain that Comrade Lenin himself has approved my request?"
"Yes."
"When am I to come?"
There was no pause on the other end.
"Immediately."
Jörg's grip tightened around the receiver.
"Immediately?"
This time there was no reply.
The line simply ended.
Before he could even lower the receiver, hurried footsteps echoed from downstairs.
He stepped out of the office and looked down into the main hall.
A dozen Soviet soldiers armed with rifles had already taken positions at every corner of the building. Their presence was not theatrical. It was complete, disciplined, and unmistakably coercive.
The German security detail reacted at once, drawing pistols and spreading into a defensive posture.
A middle aged Soviet officer stepped forward from the center of the formation. The major's insignia on his epaulets caught the light as he looked around the hall and called out in a loud voice:
"Is Mr. Roman here?"
"I am."
The officer's gaze lifted toward Jörg. When he saw how young the German envoy was, his expression shifted briefly, almost disbelievingly, before he looked toward the others for confirmation. Once he received it, he spoke again.
"Please come with us at once. You need not prepare anything. A special express train is waiting at Saint Petersburg Station."
Jörg descended the stairs without haste.
As the German guards moved to accompany him, the Soviet soldiers raised their rifles as one.
The major remained expressionless.
"Only one person is authorized for this meeting. No one else may attend."
He let the words hang for a moment before continuing.
"If you accept, board the train. If you do not, decide now. I will report your refusal to Moscow immediately."
Ethan's hand tightened on his pistol.
"Sir, this..."
Jörg gave him a brief glance, then signaled the guards to stand down.
"If they have invited us, refusing would only make us look weak." He adjusted his gloves, then looked back at the major with complete calm. "Please lead the way, Major."
.....
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