Origins: The Reich (6 page)

Hoover was a fool who wasted America’s vast potential in a vain attempt to cling to some outdated political dogma of strict meritocracy.  It was a simple message that played well to the crowds, ‘You get what you earn’.  Once upon a time it was absolutely true, but the moment labor became specialized and economies grew into impossibly complex intermingled, interdependent systems, it all changed. 

If one economic pillar such as spending from the lower classes of society, the big national banking institutions, or massive manufacturing firms collapsed, it toppled and took with it the entire economic system.  Therefore, as abstract and flawed as it seemed, the economic philosophy of one prosperous sector of an economy bailing out a faltering one benefits everyone and ultimately leads to greater prosperity for all.

Roosevelt, and eventually his financial backers, understood this new reality and the new President said as much in his acceptance speech.  “Throughout the nation men and women, forgotten in the political philosophy of the Government, look to us here for guidance and for more equitable opportunity to share in the distribution of national wealth…I pledge myself to a New Deal for the American people.  This is more than a political campaign or slogan.  It is a call to arms…”

Hastelloy watched the president’s acceptance speech with great delight.  He knew this nation, with all the potential in the world within its borders, was now moving in the right direction under President Roosevelt’s leadership.  His plan to destroy the Alpha base on Mars once and for all was off to a good start.  

Oleg took a
look at his surroundings and felt a wave of warmth radiate from within on this otherwise freezing cold afternoon.  The icy wind had long since numbed his extremities through the thick gloves, coat and hat he wore, but the inferno of pride burning in his heart was untouched.  It was his family duty to honor this moment in a proper manner.  This gave him cause to defy the thirty-five degree below freezing temperature to stand at the closest corner of the train station’s arrival platform, the premier spot in all of Moscow, to greet the arrival of the revolution’s dearly departed leader; Vladimir Lenin.

Over the last six hours of waiting, many had attempted to dislodge Oleg from his chosen place of tribute, but he would not be moved.  To do otherwise was cowardly and contrary to all that Comrade Lenin stood for during his inspiring life.  For most of his existence, Oleg had chosen the cowardly course of deference and inaction.  Comrade Lenin gave him the courage to admit this about himself and then imparted upon him the resolve to remain strong and unyielding to those seeking dominion over him.  Twenty years ago, he was not so brave. 

All those years ago, Oleg was made to stand with his father and mother among a crowd.  In front of them rose an elevated platform featuring two hanging nooses.  There he looked on with a stomach hollowed out from weeks of starvation as his older brother and a friend stood trial.   The pair dared to poach a deer on the Tsar’s land and would answer for the ‘grave offense’. 

It was one deer; one scrawny buck out of several million that roamed the monarch’s land consisting of a massive estate the royal had not bothered to visit for countless years. The deer was not shot for sport, or any other foolishness.  It was meant to feed a starving family.  This much was said to justify the act in a plea for leniency, but only a peasant’s implied insult to his better was recognized by the courts.  The Tsar’s rigid social hierarchy would be enforced without charity or humanity.

Oleg was only ten at the time, but he never forgave himself for just standing there.  He just watched in deferred silence as they passed judgment and wrapped the noose around the neck of his best friend in the world.  Even when the executioner kicked the stool out from under his brother, his only reaction was to watch his boyhood idol flail about in a losing battle to live. Oleg, his parents, and the entire crowd of hundreds forced to watch did nothing to stop the injustice.

The Tsar’s soldiers would have thwarted any attempt at rescue; Oleg did not fool himself in that regard.  The instant his brother was arrested for the crime his fate was sealed.  Oleg’s most haunting memory of that day was that  he and the others did not feel they had the right to interfere.  Their betters had the right to do it, and the peasants had an obligation to watch it be done because that was the order of things.

Five years later, the people made a bashful attempt at standing up to the Tsarist regime of Nicolas II.  They rallied behind the call of Father Gapon, a very popular Orthodox priest among the working class.  He led a peaceful protest of over one hundred thousand unarmed, striking workers to the Tsar’s seat of power at White Palace.  It was there that they intended to present a petition calling for reforms.

Rather than accept the petition from his subjects, Nicholas II had his soldiers open fire into the unarmed crowd whose only real demand was to be treated as human beings rather than cattle.  Oleg’s father was among the fallen in that Bloody Sunday Massacre of 1905.  Yet again, cowardice governed Oleg’s reaction, or rather inaction.

His abuse of alcohol that followed, his mother’s suicide, and the meaningless passage of a decade did nothing to prod Oleg into action.  It took Comrade Lenin.  The great man emboldened the impoverished, overworked and starving labor class to finally stand up as one and say to the Tsar and his bourgeoisie backers ‘you are not my better just because some rich bitch gave birth to you’.

This great man and his fellow Bolsheviks inspired Oleg to, at last, avenge the wrongs visited upon his family at the hands of the Tsarist regime.  He followed his father’s example and joined a march on Winter Palace.  This time they did not approach the Tsar’s seat of imperial power armed with paper.  They carried guns and wore uniforms of the people’s Red Army, and they took back their dignity.  Oleg recalled that great day with the rare clarity one reserves only for the greatest moments of one’s existence.

Without song or cheer, they poured into the streets and through the Red Arch toward the monstrous palace.  The white and green façade stood three levels tall and stretched nearly a quarter mile from one end to the other.  It was said that the massive structure had nearly two thousand rooms, over a hundred separate staircases and some three hundred thousand square feet of living space.  Now seeing the structure for himself, Oleg believed every word of it.

A man just ahead of him said in a low voice, “Keep your heads down comrades.  They killed ten of our friends earlier as they crossed the courtyard, and they will surely fire upon us as well.”

The large mass of bodies moved into the open and began to run with everyone stooping low and bunching together.  All of them made it to the pedestal of the Alexander Column and huddled behind the base.  Then, without orders, the mass of several hundred men began flowing forward with the weight of numbers behind them.

To his great surprise and relief, the palace guards did nothing except throw down their rifles into a pile and stand there as the onrush overtook them.  The first soldiers to reach the main gateway pulled the doors wide open, allowing the golden light from within to shine out.  Watching the cagey gates of the Tsar’s authoritarian rule pried open sent a triumphant shout throughout the group of men.  Oleg, carried along by the eager wave of men, found himself swept into the right hand entrance that opened into a great vaulted room. 

Beyond that chamber ensued a maze of corridors and staircases. A number of huge packing crates stood about the first vaulted room, which the soldiers fell furiously upon to batter them open.  Once pried apart, they pulled out lavish rugs, curtains, linens, porcelain plates, and glassware.  Each precious piece was worth more than any of them could hope to earn in a lifetime, and it was theirs for the taking.

One soldier strutted around the chamber with a bronze clock perched on his shoulder.  Another found a plume of ostrich feathers and stuck them in his hat.  Oleg managed to get his hands on a set of silver dinnerware before the looting began to gain momentum.

Then a proud and commanding voice cried, “Comrades! Don’t touch anything! Show them that we are not thieves and bandits! This is the property of the People!”

Oleg spun around to find the voice belonged to none other than Leon Trotsky, Commissar of the People’s Red Army.  The man’s narrow frame and equally unimpressive set of glasses gave the deceptive appearance of a weakling, but he was in fact the heart of the revolution’s military planning and preparation.  He had the undying devotion of the men and his words were heeded at once.

Twenty voices began crying out among the maze of corridors, “Stop! Put everything back! Don’t take anything! This is the property of the People!”

Oleg relinquished his booty without a fuss, but others were not so accommodating.  He looked on as many hands dragged the spoilers down.  Tapestries were snatched from those who carried them, and two men took away the bronze clock.  In rough and hasty movements, the things were crammed back into their cases and self-appointed sentinels stood guard. It was all utterly spontaneous as Comrade Trotsky moved on to the more pressing matter of securing the palace grounds and apprehending the residents.

Oleg witnessed a lifetime of wages slip through his fingers, and felt empowered by the experience.  If he ran around and greedily hoarded everything he could get his hands on, then he was no better than the Tsar and the rest of his privileged upper class.  He was a part of something bigger - a movement that belonged to the people, a communal state of shared ownership, responsibility, and privilege.  Looting this palace was akin to stealing from family; every soldier present to a man was dedicated to that ideal, the communist ideals of Vladimir Lenin.

The powerful blast of a train whistle brought Oleg back from his revelry of the past.  The train’s arrival brought with it an unexpected terror.  At his back, Oleg felt a surge of bodies press against him to the point he needed to lean heavily on his cane to prevent himself from toppling off the station platform onto the tracks below.  Everyone wanted to have the first glimpse of Comrade Lenin’s funeral train, but that distinct honor was Oleg’s and his alone.

The locomotive remained obscured from view until the traveling plume of smoke rising over apartment rooftops at long last revealed its source.  A reverent hush fell over the crowd of more than a hundred thousand and remained in place as the coal black engine pulled a solitary ebony car draped in sorrowful black banners into the station. 

Once there, an honor guard led by General Secretary Joseph Stalin himself unloaded the bright red coffin.  They proceeded to carry the casket five miles through the streets of Moscow for the rest of the citizenry to pay their respects to the father of their revolution.

Oleg’s private viewing of Lenin’s final arrival into the capital city lasted only the briefest of moments, but it was his moment.  For the gift of casting aside the yoke of oppression and hardship the Tsar and his privileged elite forced upon his family, Comrade Lenin deserved to have heaven and earth moved in his honor.  Oleg knew his miniscule tribute was wholly inadequate, but it was all he had.  As he watched the still muted crowd melt away to seek shelter from the cold, gentle waves of fear began eating away at the foundation of his state of satisfaction.  What would become of Lenin’s movement now that his visionary guidance was gone?  Who would carry on the ideals of their perfect communal society?

Three days later, Oleg found himself once again braving the bitter cold that the heart of Russia’s winter brought with it.  He stood outside the House of Trade Unions to hear the next generation of leaders speak.  They would honor Lenin and the memory of his life of course, but of more importance, they would provide a glimpse into what was to come.  Who would, or could, usher the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic forward without its founding father for guidance.

Oleg expected that man to be Leon Trotsky.  He was loyal to the ideals of communism, and had full command and support from the People’s Red Army.  Oleg, and nearly everyone he spoke to on the subject of succession, presumed Trotsky to be Lenin’s heir apparent, yet the man was not even present to lay the great man to rest. 

Instead, Joseph Stalin presided as chief mourner and stood privileged to deliver the keynote eulogy of Lenin to the audience of millions gathered in the square or listening on the state sponsored media coverage.

Oleg served under Trotsky’s command for many years during the civil war.  Time after time, he bore witness to the man’s bravery and intellect.  He was inclined to follow Trotsky’s leadership if Lenin’s legacy fell under his charge.

This Joseph Stalin though?  He stood in high enough regard in the party to lead as General Secretary once Lenin fell ill, but somehow Oleg did not trust the man.  His words always spoke to the good of the People, yet everything about him seemed poised to strengthen himself.  As Stalin stepped up to the microphones set up on the elevated stage, everything about him gave an image of strength to the onlooker.  His square face bore sharp lines.  His bushy, yet well-groomed mustache sat thick and full below a large yet oddly distinguished nose.  Even the man’s hairline portrayed a sense of authority with it swept back from his angular forehead to present a dense wall of dark hair.  Oleg felt drawn to that strength even before the man spoke a single word.

“Comrades,” Stalin began with a conversational tone.  “We Communists are people of a special mold, made of special stuff. We are those who form the army of the great proletarian strategist, the army of Comrade Lenin. There is nothing higher than the title of member of the Party whose founder and leader we honor this day.  Membership in this Party of ours is an honor not meant for just anyone. It is for the sons of the working class, the sons of want and struggle, the sons of incredible privation and heroic effort. That is why the Party of the Leninists, the Party of the Communists, is also called the Party of the working class.”

Oleg let loose a mighty yawn as these were the same platitudes recited by all the other speakers before this man.  Oleg was about to tune him out until Stalin did something unexpected.  He turned his back on the crowd that everyone else had focused upon in a transparent effort to win them over for their own gains.  Instead, Stalin shouted his words with raised fists toward the Hall of Trade Unions as if they alone might bring Comrade Lenin back from the dead.

“DEPARTING FROM US, COMRADE LENIN YOU ENJOINED US TO HOLD HIGH AND GUARD THE PURITY OF THE GREAT TITLE OF MEMBER OF THE PARTY. WE VOW TO YOU, COMRADE LENIN, WE SHALL FULFILL YOUR BEHEST WITH HONOR!”

Turning back to the crowd, Stalin continued.  “For twenty-five years Comrade Lenin tended our Party and made it into the strongest and most highly steeled worker’s party in the world. The blows of tsarism and its henchmen, the fury of the bourgeoisie and the landlords, the armed attacks of Kolchak and Denikin, the armed intervention of Britain and France, the lies and slanders of the hundred-mouthed bourgeois press - all these scorpions constantly chastised our Party for a quarter of a century. But our Party stood firm as a rock, leading the working class forward to victory. In fierce battles, our Party forged the unity and solidarity of its ranks.”