Chapter 13: Proof of God

After the Akashi schooling incident, the Tsar’s trust in me grew by the day.

As for what privilege I got to enjoy in return.

“Hohoho, Misha. You’re welcome to come in too, if you like.”

“No thank you, Your Majesty. I’m happy just sitting here.”

“Tsk, tsk. I’ve told you, you needn’t call me Your Majesty when it’s just the two of us.”

“But someone might come in, and we never know who.”

“Who would dare walk into the Tsar’s bathroom uninvited? The servants outside are supposed to announce everyone in advance.”

An all-access pass to come and go from the Tsar’s bathroom as I pleased, that’s what.

It should go without saying, but the Tsar’s bathroom is nothing like the bathroom people picture.

Rather than just a lone toilet sitting there, it had a tub big enough to swim laps in, a pull-up bar installed specially for the exercise-mad Nicholas II, and several wide chairs set out for lounging.

To sum it up, it would be no exaggeration to call it a private space with its own swimming pool, spa, lounge, and a separate toilet room.

Of course, a bathroom is still a bathroom, an extremely private place, and aside from the Tsar’s immediate family, I was the only person allowed in and out at will.

Though really, since the Tsar was forever organizing his thoughts in the bathroom, he’d had no choice but to grant me bathroom privileges just to keep our alibi straight in advance.

“In any case, unlike the Princesses, I’m someone with a duty to keep the bathroom clean. If people came looking for Your Majesty on urgent business and found me just playing around, I think it might look a bit strange.”

“Our Misha is so very thoughtful.”

With Nicholas II personally patting my head as a bonus service.

“Your Majesty. Did you bring something this time too?”

“Of course. From the domestic reports that came up to me this past week, I’ve picked out the ones our Misha might find interesting.”

“Wow, thank you!”

“Hohoho, I’m the one who should be saying thank you.”

The Tsar produced a stack of more than ten pages from inside his robe and held it out.

As always, I sat with my back against the marble wall and skimmed the contents, turning the papers one page at a time.

Since the Akashi incident, the Tsar had been handing over the reports that came up to him, in their entirety, once a week like this.

The idea being that I should simply point out whatever caught my interest, whatever looked fishy; it didn’t have to be specific, just whatever I felt.

Why hide it?

Truth is, I’d already used Seong-jun’s knowledge a few times to flag small bits of information useful to the Tsar.

-If trust keeps stacking up like this, there won’t even be room left for Rasputin to get a foot in the door.

Quiet. I’m concentrating.

The Ministry of Internal Affairs’ daily reports, the Ministry of Finance’s tax revenue trends, updates on the provincial Governors-General, railway accidents, strikes, student demonstrations, religious disputes… quite the pile.

In one corner of my head, Seong-jun turned the pages along with me, scanning down.

Nothing looked particularly off today either.

Little assists like these are all well and good, but I’ve been thinking it’s about time to land one big one….

-Wait. Something’s wrong.

Seong-jun’s voice suddenly rang out loud through my skull.

What’s gotten into him now?

-What month is it? April, right?

I turned around so the Tsar wouldn’t think anything odd and gave a slight nod.

-That’s weird. Something big absolutely has to blow up right around now. Early April 1903… is my memory off? No. It’s definitely 1903.

Wondering what on earth had him in such a flap, I dug back through my memory, and the word “Kishinev” surfaced, sharp and clear.

The Kishinev pogrom.

An incident that could be literally rendered as the Great Kishinev Persecution, it was a massive catastrophe around Easter in which dozens of Jews were killed and hundreds injured.

Hundreds of houses burned to the ground, and the story was reported not just in Russia but far abroad, kicking up an enormous storm.

Jewish press across Europe and America rose up, condemnations of Russia poured in, and even the Tsar was left utterly humiliated, in what one could call a historic disgrace.

But he’s right, it is strange. An incident of that scale should be in the report, no question.

-So look for it. I keep wondering if I’m misremembering, but this is not the kind of thing you misremember.

Pretending to review everything from the beginning, I went back through the papers one page at a time.

Let’s see, the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ daily report.

One page, two pages, three, and dozens of petty complaints slid past on the turning paper.

And then, toward the back, under this month’s new incidents, a short two-line entry caught my eye.

Kishinev region, local peasant grievances voiced over economic exploitation by Jews.

Concluded as a minor disturbance; measures completed by provincial authorities.

…There it is. Two lines, no more, no less.

“Hmmm….”

-That’s it?

Dozens of people dead, and it’s a “minor disturbance”.

They flat-out steamrolled this one, no doubt about it.

To think they’d handle a report going up to the Tsar himself this way.

I’d say it’s the product of a fantastic three-way collaboration between the Interior Ministry rank-and-file dodging responsibility, the antisemitism soaked through Russian society as a whole, and the sheer incompetence of failing to calculate the incident’s fallout abroad.

The moment this report gets read and waved through without a second thought, the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs becomes the international community’s punching bag for a full six months, starting one month from now.

And the Tsar gets branded “the tyrant who condoned the slaughter of Jews”.

“Your Majesty.”

Once I’d sorted the plan in my head and opened my mouth, the Tsar’s voice came from beyond the wall behind me.

“Oho, what is it? Did you find something strange?”

“This… something about it seems a bit off.”

“Which part?”

When I came around with the paper, the Tsar climbed out of the tub and toweled himself dry.

I planted my finger on the two lines I’d just found.

“This part. It says the peasants had grievances about economic exploitation by Jews.”

“Yes, so it does.”

“But isn’t the next sentence a little strange? It says it ended as a minor disturbance.”

“…What’s strange about that, Misha?”

Since I already knew the outcome, finding fault was just a matter of slapping on a plausible reason.

“My Professor told me once. That the feelings Russians have toward Jews are very bad. That they’ve been building up for so long that once they erupt, they don’t settle down easily.”

“…The Chief Procurator said that?”

“Yes. So this doesn’t quite make sense to me. If feelings are already bad and something happened to set them off, there’s no way it would end as something minor, is there? But here it goes as far as writing ‘the peasants rose up’ and then says ‘it ended as a minor disturbance’, so…. the two sentences don’t seem to fit together.”

“…….”

“Of course, it’s only what I think, Your Majesty.”

Discontent explodes against the Jews, who are already so despised in Russia, and it ends with nothing more than a light rap on the head?

Honestly, wouldn’t anyone find that strange?

The Tsar’s blue eyes stayed fixed on the two lines for a long while, and then he slowly nodded.

“…It will have to be investigated.”

“Yes.”

“Misha. Rest here a while longer before you come out. I’ll go first.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The Tsar scooped up the stack of documents and hurried out of the bathroom.

This one is on a whole different level from the piddling advice I’ve handled so far.

With antisemitism running rampant in Russia, plenty of Russians would think, so what if a few Jews got killed, but that’s not the point.

The report the Ministry of Internal Affairs sent up to the Tsar differed from the facts.

And I, of all people, was the one who caught it.

Honestly, even I couldn’t gauge how big a shockwave this would send through the imperial household.

Next to the fact that a report meant for the Tsar had been watered down, the question of the Jews’ treatment would amount to nothing but trifling gossip.

* * *

“Your Majesty. I came the moment I received your order.”

It was that night when Okhrana section chief Yakov Sazonov entered the study.

Having lately become a true believer in the Tsar, he showed not a trace of displeasure even at the emergency summons.

“Yakov. I need you to investigate one thing. Among this week’s reports from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, there’s an item concerning the Jews of Kishinev.”

“Yes.”

“It came up as having been concluded as a minor disturbance, but to my eye the wording itself doesn’t hang together. Confirm the actual conditions on the ground yourself and have it on my desk by tomorrow.”

“…Your Majesty has caught something again, I see.”

Yakov raised not a single word of objection and withdrew at once.

“I will handle it with all possible speed!”

“I’m counting on you.”

After Yakov withdrew, the Tsar stood at the study window for a long time.

The fact that the child had caught an incident he himself had nearly skimmed past without a second thought made his heart pound harder with every hour that passed.

The next afternoon.

When Yakov stepped back into the study with his face drained white, the Tsar could guess the situation from his expression alone.

“…Speak.”

“Your Majesty. The actual scale of the incident on the ground is completely different from the Interior Ministry’s report.”

“How different?”

“Dozens of dead, hundreds of injured, and hundreds of houses confirmed set ablaze. The gap between the first telegram the ministry received and the watered-down second report is far too large.”

“Good heavens…….”

Dozens of people died, and they tried to bury it?

What kind of Moron did those people take him for?

“What is more serious is the reaction abroad. From immediately after the incident, Jewish figures in America and Europe had already tipped off their own countries’ press. Within days the papers in Paris, London, and New York are expected to sink their teeth into this, and there is a very high likelihood of protest statements erupting from the various governments.”

“And what happened on the ministry’s side?”

“It has been confirmed that the working-level staff minimized the incident’s severity in their report. It appears the customary judgment was at work, namely that given domestic sentiment, Jewish matters are better quietly buried than blown up. Only, in this case, no calculation whatsoever was made for the fallout abroad.”

The Tsar slowly sank into his chair.

What if Mikhail hadn’t caught this yesterday?

The picture drew itself in his mind.

A morning of foreign papers plastered with articles condemning Russia; staring at foreign newspapers plastered with abuse of him, he would have raged, far too late, “Why was I not properly informed?”

The image was so vivid that for a moment cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Section Chief Yakov.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Can it still be salvaged, even now?”

“Tomorrow morning, officially announce the incident’s true scale through the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and proceed by dispatching an investigation commission to the provincial authorities. The mere fact that Your Majesty grasped the situation, however belatedly, and took immediate measures should allow it to be dressed up to some degree.”

True enough, with something like this the Emperor need only respond quickly, and the blame can easily be pinned on the local officials by cutting off the tail.

“…Very well. Proceed that way.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Just before withdrawing, Yakov bowed once more at the waist.

“Your Majesty. If I may be so bold, had this matter not been caught in advance, the blow the Empire would have suffered would have been of another order entirely from the recent Akashi affair.”

“…….”

“Truly, Your Majesty’s insight is astonishing! Never again will any disloyal wretch dare to deceive Your Majesty!”

The Tsar did not answer.

After Yakov closed the door behind him, a prayer of thanks slipped from the Tsar’s lips before he knew it.

“…So God does exist after all.”

It wasn’t said for anyone in particular to hear.

But the moment he spoke the words, one conviction bloomed clear and bright in the Tsar’s chest.

Why, of course He does.

God must have looked kindly upon Russia and upon himself, Russia’s Tsar, and sent him the gift called Misha.

His own son, who had no right of succession yet was loyal to him beyond anyone, and possessed of an intuition far surpassing that of grown men.

That child’s very existence must be the proof that God exists in this world.

The faith of Nicholas II, who bent everything in the world to his own favor, was growing firmer by the day.

* * *

The same hour, the Iskra editorial office in Clerkenwell, London.

It was late at night, just after the editorial office meeting had ended, when Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, Lenin, tore open the envelope.

Lately the air inside the editorial board had been growing murkier by the day.

The editorial control held by Plekhanov, godfather of the Russian socialist movement; the rift with the Martov faction; the funding problems back home; and even the debate over moving Iskra itself from London to another city.

Amid this chaos, Vladimir had been waiting for the prescription that would soothe his wounded heart for the first time in a long while.

And today, without fail, that prescription arrived from Russia.

The initial M.

Inside the thick envelope was, once again, a contributed article for Iskra.

As he opened the first page, a smile spread across Vladimir’s lips before he knew it.

This manuscript was every bit the equal of the last.

Logic that overturned, in a single stroke, the received wisdom on class differentiation within the peasant commune.

The statistics cited as evidence were primary sources obtainable only inside Russia.

The mere fact that such a person lay hidden in faraway Russia was, once again, a comfort in itself.

Just as he was about to set the manuscript down on the desk, his fingertips caught something still left inside the envelope.

“…What’s this? Was there another sheet?”

On the second envelope that slid out, these words were written.

To Comrade Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov.

Vladimir’s eyebrows quivered.

It was the first time M had sent him a personal letter apart from the contributed articles.

He steadied his breath and carefully tore open the envelope.

-To Comrade Ilyich. I write, if I may be so bold, regarding what has lately been unfolding within the editorial board. Despite your opposition, it appears highly likely that the motion to move Iskra from London to another city will pass.

At the very first sentence, Lenin’s hand froze for a moment.

“How could he….”

Wasn’t this a matter shared among only a select few, even within the Iskra editorial board?

It had never appeared in any published piece or pamphlet, nor had it been included in the directives sent down to the organizations at home.

And yet M, somewhere in Russia, knew it as a matter of course.

-I expect the initiative rests with Comrade Georgy Valentinovich Plekhanov. He will want to bring Iskra under his own sphere of influence. And I judge it likely that the editorial board members of the Martov faction will fall in line with Comrade Plekhanov’s course.

Vladimir leaned slowly back against his chair.

The analysis in the letter was so accurate that it hardly felt real.

Someone in faraway Petersburg was tracing, in such fine detail, the fractures running through the very heart of London.

Had he not seen it with his own eyes, it was a feat no one would believe.

-But this does not mean your defeat. Even should you lose the initiative within the editorial board, I hope you will see that it opens a new road before you.

If Iskra passes into Comrade Plekhanov’s sphere of influence, you will instead gain the freedom to build an organization entirely your own. So long as you remain bound beneath the editorial board, that consensus machine, your theory cannot advance at your speed.

But with an independent organization of your own, you will be able to build your party at your speed.

From one comrade in Russia who cheers for Comrade Ilyich. M.

Lenin’s trembling fingertips gripped the paper tight.

“So this was the real point.”

All the preceding analysis had been groundwork, laid to make this final paragraph persuasive.

Whoever wrote this hadn’t merely seen through the internal dynamics of the Iskra editorial board.

He had read Lenin’s own character and direction, and even the ambition he had nursed only in his heart.

The desire to found a party of his own; the true feeling, long harbored, that the shackle called editorial consensus had grown too heavy to bear.

Even the anguish of wondering, night after night, how much longer he must bow his head to Plekhanov’s authority.

All of it, M had laid out cleanly on a single sheet of paper, conclusion included.

This is not your defeat, Comrade, but your opportunity.

Letter in hand, Lenin, that ardent atheist, found himself convinced once more.

If God existed, would such a godsend ever come to the man bent on finishing off the Orthodox Church and the tsarist monarchy?

M must be a red inevitability, brought forth by society itself to reform that walking contradiction called Russia.

His own existence and M’s were the ultimate proof that God does not exist in this world.

“M… before long, I will surely come to meet you.”

For the first time in truly ages, Lenin’s heart boiled over.

Like the fever of an adolescent boy falling in love.