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OConner18

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Jun 8, 2016
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Felix Yusupov, Saint Petersburg, 3rd of January, 1936



"The President is dead."

"Saw that coming."

"What?"

Dmitri Pavlovich smiled. It was somewhere between a wolf's and a shark's. "There are at least 10,000 Bolsheviks out there demanding that all the syndicalists in the Duma band together in some big coalition. There are more every hour. Marshal Wrangel gave me a call asking if I would support him should he 'act to preserve Russian stability'. I would bet Kornilov is planning something too, if I was a betting man. It appears the great syndicalist President is finally dead."

Felix Yusupov's mouth hung open. "It's really that bad? I thought-"

"Don't think Felix. You'll just give yourself a headache," Dmitri said, with only the slightest brushing of condescension in his voice. He stood from the small desk that was offered the Speaker of the Senate and headed for the door. The Speaker's office was small, almost as small as a normal senator's, something Dmitri always complained about. "Come on. We'll be needed in the Senate."

Felix blubbered for a few moments as Dmitri walked past him, aghast, but finally managed to get some words out, "To the senate? Why? They'll all be coming for us Dmitri. The Bolsheviks in the Duma, whichever general takes over, it doesn't matter. We need to flee!"

Dmitri laughed a small laugh, and turned back to Felix, "Old friend, when you convinced me to flee in 1917, you insisted that the Bolsheviks were bound to win and kill us all. But they didn't, did they? Their defeat was inevitable, their revolution a flight of fancy. Yet you insisted we run."

Thinking back, Felix recalled that it was Dmitri who insisted they run all those years ago. I must be miss-remembering it he decided, and didn't say anything about it. "Even disregarding the Bolsheviks, what about Wrangel Kornilov? If they try to launch a coup-"

"Wrangel is more interested in keeping Russia stable than his own power. His call to me is proof of that. And Kornilov is an opportunist, at best. He'll lie low until he gets another chance. Now come on Felix, let's go."

"Another chance?" Felix asked, struggling to keep up with his friend as they walked through the ill-lit halls of the capitol. "Why would he waste this chance?"

"Tsk tsk Felix, you really have no brain, do you?" Dmitri chided, "The President is dead. That means the senate has to elect a new president. The senate is stacked with conservatives and monarchists, along with a bare handful of syndicalists. Not only am I Speaker of the Senate, but I am also an established man of quality, an exceptional businessman, and a loyal patriot of Russia. Who do you think they'll chose?"

As the truth of the matter slowly dawned on him, a smile came over Felix's face. "You're going to be President."

"Exactly," Dmitri smiled as he came to the doors of the Senate, nodding to the guards standing there, "Mark the day Felix. Today is the day we start restoring Russian greatness."

Felix could not hold back a smile as they entered. His oldest friend was going to be the President of Russia. Just imagine the opportunities...
 
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Boris Sokolov, Moscow, January 25th, 1936

"You! Yes you! You look like a hard-working man of the proletariat! Tell me, have you heard of the new regressive policies of the aristocrat President in Saint Petersburg?"

Boris didn't know how to answer. He stood there, his mouth open like a fish, as the protester pushed a pamphlet into his hands.

"Already he has named his collaborator Felix Yusupov Prime Minister, against the wishes of the Duma. He has now introduced legislation to bring back the archaic Okhrana. Join our protest and show him that he has no mandate from the people!"

Boris still had no answer. He must think I'm a complete idiot, he thought. Reluctantly, he reached out and took the pamphlet being offered. "I... don't live in the city. I'm only here to work for the winter..."

"Good! The Menschevik platform includes farming subsidies and land grants to peasant farmers. How would you like to own the land you work on instead of some lord? Join us!" The protester rushed back to the 20,000 or so people gathered in the middle of the square, gesturing for Boris to follow.

The offer was tempting. Boris despised the man who owned the land his family lived on. Every year they had to pay rent for the land, rent for their house, rent for their tools. Every year his older brother had to go to Moscow to find work, just so they could feed themselves. This year he had come down with some flu, and Boris had to take his place.

The protest was ill timed for him. He had to be at the print shop in an hour, and he still had a long way to walk. It looked exciting, but he couldn't afford it. He swiftly turned and started heading for the street that would take him to the print shop where he had found a job hauling paper and machinery around for them.

But he couldn't go that way. A group of nearly 100 men wearing black shirts and carrying rifles had just entered the square from that direction. One of them carried a red flag with a white and black design in the center.

Boris quickly changed direction. They were one of the Combat Brigades, and Boris had heard they were dangerous. But he found the next exit from the square blocked as well. And the next. There were black-shirted Combat Brigades everywhere, fewer in number than the Menscheviks but far better armed and more organized.

He didn't have much of an education, but Boris wasn't a fool either. A confrontation was about to take place, and he would not get caught in the crossfire. As he kept searching for an exit, one of the blackshirts, better dressed than the rest of them, starting shouting at his men, but clearly intended to be heard by the protesters as well.

"Look at what we have here! A horde of Bolsheviks playing in the streets because they're too lazy to do an honest day's work! If you listen carefully, you might be able to hear the clink of French and Jew coins in their pockets!"

The Combat Brigades, which had formed a loose circle around the Menscheviks, and began slowly advancing forward, guns in hand, as their leader continued speaking. Boris tried to slip past but one of the blackshirts shoved him to the ground. "Stay there, Jew-lover," the man said, continuing his advance. Boris decided it might not be the worst idea in the world at that moment, as he saw some in the Menscheviks pulling out revolvers and knives.

Boris was considering making another run for it when a shot rang out, and in a moment all hell broke loose. The two sides surged at one another, and bullets flew. Boris curled up into a ball, clasped his hands over his ears, and tried to look as helpless as possible as people fought around him. Shots and screams filled the air. At some point someone fell on him, and didn't move. At all. Boris closed his eyes, recited a prayer to God, and tried to survive it all.

* * *
Hours later, Boris stumbled into work. Kliment, owner of the print-shop, rushed out upon seeing him. "Where have you been..." He trailed off when he saw the state Boris was in, "Come inside, I'll clean you up and you can explain what happened."

Seated at the desk in Kliment's small office, Boris told him the whole story, and he was sympathetic throughout. Boris had gotten a few nasty bruises, and a gash across his back that didn't go too deep, but as far as they could tell nothing was broken, and there were no serious wounds. Even if there was Boris couldn't afford a doctor.

"I can still work the rest of the day," Boris said, "I might not be as fast as I used to, but I can still work."

"Well I could very well use you," Kliment said, "Two of my apprentices are out today and we just received a massive order from the government. Five hundred recruitment posters for the Okhrana, the President's new police force."

"Huh, one of the protesters mentioned that, before everything happened," Boris said, wondering what had caused the whole battle, "Can I see one?"

"Sure," Kliment said, disappearing briefly and reappearing with a poster in hand. "It's interesting, actually, the Okhrana used to be the Tsar's private police force, before the civil war. This new force keeps the name but look quite different. Seems like they'll be reporting to the President and..."

Kliment continued to talk as Boris looked over the poster. He could not read very well, but as he figured it out, the words made more and more sense to him. He could not let what happened to him today happen to other innocent people. Today he was a farmer, working at a print shop so his family wouldn't starve. But who knew what tomorrow would bring?



Brave Russian Patriots!

baa4606a074203fc5bbe78086c1b002f.jpg


By Order of the President, a New kind of Police Officer will soon take to the Streets!

With these Brave Men, Our Nation will Suffer at the hands of Radicals No More!


Join the Okhrana!

Patriotic Work for Good Pay!

Help bring Order back to the Nation!
 
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"Look at what we have here! A horde of Bolsheviks playing in the streets because they're too lazy to do an honest day's work! If you listen carefully, you might be able to hear the clink of French and Jew coins in their pockets!"
So Capitalists and Syndies coöporating, HERESY!
 
Dmitri will know how to fix this Bolshevik mess.
 
Felix Yusupov, Saint Petersburg, February 2th, 1936

Kerensky was shot in here, Felix thought as he climbed into the presidential limousine after Dmitri. It was probably one of the finest vehicles in Russia, certainly better than the car that drove Felix around back when he was merely a senator. Dmitri was already inside, and Felix sat on the posh leather opposite him.

"Like it?" Dmitri asked, "I had it thoroughly refurbished. A president must travel in style."

"Yes, it is quite nice," Felix said, taking off his coat and placing it in the seat beside him. The limousine began winding it's way through Saint Petersburg's streets, followed by a second car full of the President's bodyguards. Dmitri had upped security considerably. He would not share Kerensky's fate.

"I've written up the first draft of my address for tomorrow. I would like you to have a look at it before the address, know what you think," Dmitri said. Tomorrow would be his first radio address to the nation. Dmitri was fascinated with the potential of the radio, something he often said Kerensky had failed to exploit.

"Of course," Felix said, "But no matter how eloquent you are tomorrow, we'll still face opposition. According to the Constitution only the Duma can fund the Okhrana, and they aren't budging. Alash Orda has refused talks to come back to us, and your insistence on paying back the Brest-Litovsk reparations has gotten us severely in debt to the Central Bank of Russia. We've got no money, no soldiers, and not enough allies in the Duma. The Mensheviks and the more leftist of the Social Revolutionaries have formed a coalition against you, and you're not hugely popular with the Kadets either."

Dmitri hardly seemed to be listening, staring out the window into the cold, snowy city. There was silence between them for a few moments before he said, "I'm going to put Vladimir in charge of the Okhrana. He's about the only one I trust to do it. What do you think Felix?"

Felix was taken aback. There was only one Vladimir Dmitri could be talking about: Vladimir Purischkevich. He had helped Dmitri and Felix the night they killed Rasputin, and remained their staunch ally in the senate since then. He was also a hard-line nationalist, and about the only man in Russia that still held out hope for Tsarist restoration, abandoned by most of the right-wing in favor of the Orthodox Right or the NaResPa.

"A bold choice," Felix said carefully, "But you've already got Mensheviks out on the streets protesting you, and Vladimir has little experience with law enforcement. Maybe a more moderate candidate would appease-"

"I'm not in the business of appeasing people Felix, and I'm not going to let some weakling leftist lead my police force. I need this dissent crushed swiftly, and I need the Duma to respect my authority. As for funding, I'm going to sell off government lands to private landholders. I have can think of a dozen friends of mine who would be willing to chip in, and a few others that will do it to avoid 'unfortunate truths' becoming public knowledge. Should be enough to fund the Okhrana for a few months without the Duma."

"So you're going to sell public land to a few dozen people to circumvent the Duma, and you think you'll be able to get away with it? That's a longshot Dmitri," Felix said.

Dmitri scoffed at him. "Not with the right name. I'm thinking of calling it 'Money for the Motherland', and playing it as a land reform campaign. Trust me Felix, I've been planning something like this for awhile. I've got everything under control."

The limousine pulled up in front of the Senate building, and Dmitri's bodyguards opened the door for them. Felix slipped out of the car, fumbling with his coat, and gingerly stepping into the cold of Russian February. Dmitri made it look completely natural, and came out with a confident smile to greet the press assembled on the steps of the Senate building.

Most were from the New Russian Tribune or the Patriot's First Press, two newspapers founded (and still partly owned) by Dmitri, who had been tipped off to his expected time to arrival and could be trusted to write generous stories about him. The Tribune in particular had the best readership in the country. However, scattered throughout the crowd were journalists from left-wing or independent newspapers, who were best avoided. Dmitri started to walk up the steps and answer a few questions, Felix right behind him, when the president's limousine exploded.

It felt like someone had just taken a mallet to Felix's head as vibrations rocked across the courtyard. He fell face-first on the steps as people started rushing around him. Somebody was screaming. Dmitri? Someone tried to kill Dmitri? Felix thought, pain shooting through his head.

One of the bodyguards picked him up and got him moving toward the Senate building. "What's going on? Where's Dmitri?" Felix mumbled, looking in every direction. People were running everywhere. One woman even seemed to be running toward the explosion. But he didn't see Dmitri! When he put a hand up to his head it came back red.

When he was carried through the front doors of the Senate building he finally saw Dmitri, unharmed by the look of it, surrounded by roughly a dozen bodyguards. "Why didn't you idiots check the car for bombs? If the timing hadn't been better your president would be dead! Felix!" He switched from angry to caring in a moment, "Felix are you alright? There's blood all over your face!"

"Someone just tried to kill us Dmitri!" Felix exclaimed, confused but relived his friend was alive, "Are you sure you've got everything under control?"
 
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Hmmmm, I wonder: Might the bomb be a ploy?
 
Sofia Goldshtein, Saint Petersburg, February 3rd, 1936

"Here it is," Sofia said, slapping the article onto Georgy's desk, "A complete firsthand account of the bombing, and interviews with one of the president's bodyguards and the wife of the president's driver, the only fatality. All there ready to print."

Georgy reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and said, "Where is my tea?"

"Nicolas is getting it," Sofia said quickly, "You'll put this on the front page right? A presidential assassination attempt should make the front page."

"Yes Sofia," Georgy said with resignation, "Obviously, your story goes on the front page. Good job. Get me my tea."

At that very moment Nicolas entered, carrying a cup of hastily made black tea. "Here you go sir," he said, "No need to trouble Sofia for it. Also, we got a call. The Berlin stock market is still sinking. Nothing changed over the weekend."

Georgy took a long, slow sip of tea before addressing him. "The Berlin stocks have been sinking for weeks now. I'm not going to waste paper publishing something everybody already knows. Now go get some real news."

Nicolas nodded and left the office as quickly as his legs would carry him.
The Petersburg Post was a small newspaper, with a small but dedicated readership. It's successes could all be attributed to Georgy's dogged leadership for nearly twenty years. He did not appreciate old news.

"I was actually thinking there might be more to this story," Sofia said after Nicolas left, "An attempt on the new President's life a month after the old one was killed? Seems suspicious, especially since the police are still looking for the guy who shot Kerensky. The guard I interviewed said Bolsheviks were suspected, and that they probably made a mistake in their timing, but I have a feeling there could be something more, a connection between the two attacks."

Georgy took another sip of tea, and looked at her skeptically. "What evidence do you have for your theory?"

"Instinct," Sofia said, "And the fact that there are a number of different groups who could profit from an unstable Russia. Not just the Bolsheviks. The NaResPa could have motive. After all, they keep saying they're the only ones who can keep order. Maybe they organized the attack to gain power. It could be the military, or a foreign government who doesn't want Pavlovich in charge. But the official statement released by the President's office said it was the Bolsheviks without providing any information. Just give me a chance to follow up on some leads!"

Georgy lowered his cup. "You know what this sounds like Sofia? A wild goose chase, and one that will potentially make a lot of very powerful people very angry. You sniff around to much, and you'll end up like Abram Zaslavsky."

Abram Zaslavsky was a Jewish reporter who had written a story about NeResPa that traced their funding to smugglers in Murmansk. He was found a few days later strung up in his house, and his death had been ruled a suicide by the police almost immediately.

"I don't care who I make angry," Sofia said, "In America no reporter would-"

"Don't invoke America again Sofia," Georgy said angrily, "You only spent six months there, and I don't care if the whole damn country is intrepid reporters, Russia isn't America. We can't print anything we want to without it being confirmed by a dozen sources and first hiring a hundred security guards." He paused for a moment and looked at her sympathetically, "I don't want you to get hurt Sofia. You're a damn good reporter, even if you're a..."

"Woman?" Sofia said with a smile.

"I wasn't going to say that," Georgy said defensively, "Look, even if it is NaResPa or another group, I think we can trust the police to do their jobs. We don't have the resources to go up against anyone who organized a bombing and an assassination."

"Well I-" Sofia was about to invoke America again when Nicolas burst in, holding some scribbled notes.

"Georgy, about the Berlin exchange, Algostasien is down nearly 30 points, Krupp is down 40, and many other companies are falling in value as well-"

"You're just summarizing the last few weeks at me Nicolas, I told you that's not news!"

"Sir, this has happened since I last came in..."

A stunned silence filled the room. Slowly, Georgy finished his tea, and turned to Sofia. "I afraid the bombing won't make the front page. Sorry."

 
So the economy is going into the Depression. I wonder how it will affect the President's plans.
 
Boris Sokolov, Moscow, February 12th, 1936

"Name?"

"Boris Sokolov."

"Age?"

"Eighteen." Boris was nervous about that question. You had to be at least eighteen to volunteer, and if they found out he was actually sixteen he would be in trouble.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, and I can sign my name too."

"Do you have experience with local police or the military?"

"No."

"Why do you want to join the Okhrana?"

Boris hesitated. What did they want to hear? "I was caught in a riot a few weeks ago. Mensheviks and NaResPa fighting each other. Seems like the whole country is falling apart. I heard the President on the radio, when he talked about making Russia safe again. I want to help, and this seemed like the best way to do it."

The recruiter smiled, glancing up briefly from the paper he was filling out. They were in a large warehouse with dozens of desks set up, all with recruiters behind them. The rest of the warehouse was filled with long lines of men, most of them young, and most wearing heavy coats to protect against Moscow's winter, which the walls of the warehouse failed utterly to stop. There was constant chatter between the volunteers, although Boris didn't have the courage to join in on it.

"Right, we're nearly done here," the recruiter said, "I just need the names of any immediate family, and if any of your family fought in the Weltkreig or the Civil War I'll need to know about that as well."

"Of course," Boris said nervously, "My mother Olesya and my half-brother Pavel live in a village called Orev, about twenty miles from Moscow. They're my only immediate family that is still alive. But my brother's father fought in the army during the Weltkreig. His name was Pavel too."

"His rank?"

"What? Oh, he was a private."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes, um, my great uncle was in the army during the Japanese war. He was a private too."

The recruiter smiled again. "We don't need him. I assume there is no one else?"

"No," Boris said, lying again, but instantly regretted it. "Yes, actually, I'm sorry. My father died during the Civil War, but..."

The recruiter raised an eyebrow, "Was he a Bolshevik? Is that why you didn't want to tell me?"

"Oh no! Nothing like that!" Boris said quickly, "He was German. Part of the intervention force. Is that bad?"

"Should be no problem," the recruiter reassured him, "I'll need his name and his rank. I assume you know them?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Boris said nervously, "He was a corporal. Adolf Hitler, that was his name. I use my mother's maiden name because they never married..."

There was silence for a few moments as the recruiter finished writing down all the details. "Alright, that's all of that done. Well can't see any reason for you not to join the Okhrana. If you go through those doors there, you'll get a physical evaluation, and if there's no problem there you'll begin training immediately.

Boris thanked the recruiter and headed for the doors, which also had a line in front of them. He was already making a plan. He would send his entire first week's pay back to his family, so they had enough to get by, and hopefully hire a doctor to look into his brother. After that he would send maybe half back every week to make sure-

"You excited? I am."

Boris turned back to see a thick black beard and an enormous grin. They were attached to a man even larger than the grin. And his hair matched the bear in length and thickness. Boris, being short and thin, gulped nervously. "Hello."

"Finally somebody's doing something about the god damned syndies," the man said, "Can't wait to take the fight to them, you know?" When Boris didn't respond, he extended a hand and introduced himself. "The name is Demyan, pleasure to meet you."

Boris took Demyan's hand and shook it, "Boris. Nice to meet you. And to answer your first question, yes, I'm excited. I think things are finally going to start changing, and we're going to be helping."

"And we're going to get paid for it!" Demyan said with gusto. He reached up and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "They're probably going to make me shave my soup-catcher, but that's the price you pay. Regardless, so far I like this president a hell of a lot more than the old one. Been in office a month and a half and already he's doing things!"

Boris agreed, and they chatted idly until Boris was called in for examination, a smile on his face. Not even in the Okhrana yet and he'd already made a friend. Things were going to get better for him, and for Russia.

By the end of the day he'd been assigned a uniform and sent to the barracks for training.