Chapter 15: The Russian Civil War - Sleeping with the Enemy (Part 1)
Sleep eludes me. Even days later, the memories of that day refuse to fade.
Cavalrymen collapsing before the machine guns. Infantry charging desperately, their lives extinguished by bullets no larger than a finger joint.
Do I even deserve to be here? I, who devised an operation that slaughtered thousands of enemies, can I really sit here so comfortably?
I ordered people to be killed. I planned their deaths.
I didn't pull the trigger myself, but the responsibility ultimately rests with me.
Having spent that night wide awake, my condition the next day was far from normal.
"Tsk tsk. It seems the shock from that day still hasn't faded. Your mental fortitude is weaker than I thought, Comrade Siyoung."
Though there was a playful tone in Trotsky's words, his demeanor remained heavy.
"I've seen men like you before. You're not abnormal. In fact, anyone who kills a person without any moral qualms is simply insane. Don't you agree?"
Trotsky was right. Anyone who kills someone and doesn't develop PTSD isn't human—they're a machine.
And I wanted to be a human, not a machine.
"In any case, given your current state, you should take a break from the Minority Affairs Committee for now. I'll speak to Comrade Stalin. Jugashvili has participated in several battles, so I believe he'll understand your situation."
I nodded weakly.
It had been several weeks since the battles in Southern Russia ended and I returned to Petrograd, but my PTSD symptoms showed no sign of abating.
The All-Russian Soviet recognized Trotsky and my achievements in assassinating Lavr Kornilov and nearly annihilating the Rebel Army, awarding us medals.
Yet my heart remained heavy.
Wasn't this clinking piece of metal a price for the blood of thousands I'd shed in Yekaterinodar?
Perhaps because my expression remained listless as I stared at the medal, either annoyed or pitied by it, Trotsky sighed and spoke.
"Comrade Siyoung, I think staying here like this will break you. Constantly dwelling on your mistakes at home is harmful to your mental health."
"Then what do you propose, Comrade Trotsky?"
"Hmm... Ah!"
Trotsky clapped his hands as if struck by a sudden idea and began rummaging through the pile of documents on his desk.
"If you stay in Petrograd, your mind will deteriorate. You need mental rest and healing, and I have just the assignment for you—a perfect opportunity."
"...Is such a thing even possible, Comrade Trotsky?"
Trotsky's confident expression stood in stark contrast to my skeptical look.
"Of course. We were just lacking someone to 'deal with' this matter. The agents on the ground will be delighted to have you."
"What exactly is this about, Comrade Trotsky?"
"Oh, it's nothing much. Just supporting a family."
"Huh...?"
Seeing my puzzled expression, Trotsky gave me a sly grin, as if he was keeping something to himself.
"You'll understand once you get there. Then you'll see the wisdom in my words."
That very day, Trotsky stamped his seal on the reassignment order, leaving me utterly bewildered.
Only later did I learn that Stalin had been the most vehement opponent of my reassignment.
February 18, 1917. Tyumen, Tobolsk, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic.
"Comrade Siyeong Lee? Comrade Siyeong Lee, are you here?"
"Ah, I'm Lee Si-young."
"Salute! This is a salute to Comrade Siyeong Lee, the hero of Petrograd and Yekaterinodar! It's an honor to welcome you to Tobolsk!"
"That damned Yekaterinodar, Yekaterinodar..."
Now, just hearing the name of that city filled me with disgust.
Noticing my disheveled state from my fitful sleep on the train, the soldier quickly got to the point.
"Please follow me. The train station is quite far from the city center, so we'll need to take a car. It'll take a little while."
"Why send me to such a place...? Well, I see. Lead the way."
The car departed from the train station, chugging through a muddy, barely passable road. Outside, nothing but dense Russian forest stretched as far as the eye could see, with only a few crumbling barns scattered here and there as the only signs of human habitation.
Am I heading to some white kingdom on a hill?
"Where exactly am I going?" I asked, my patience wearing thin, a hint of irritation creeping into my voice. "What am I supposed to do when I get there?"
"Comrade Lee, you'll simply rest and relax. You can converse with the 'Targets' and make yourself comfortable. We'll handle the surveillance. The Petrograd Soviet received a special directive after hearing how exhausted you were following the Battle of Yekaterinodar."
Trotsky. Even in this mess, he still bothers to look after me.
In this chaotic era of the Russian Revolution, is it even a little comforting to know someone is looking out for me?
"Then what about these 'targets' you're talking about? Are they dangerous? If you need to monitor them, doesn't that mean I'm in danger too?"
"Comrade Lee, rest assured. They won't resort to violence against us. We're only monitoring them to prevent escape or rescue attempts. The likelihood of violence is extremely low, so please don't worry."
"Well, that's a relief."
The words "escape" and "rescue" gave me pause, but I dismissed my concerns, assuming they were just ordinary political prisoners.
After all, with Trotsky watching my back, they wouldn't deliberately put me in danger. It's probably just a way of telling me to cool off in some backwater town for a while.
The car continued for another few dozen minutes before finally arriving at a place with signs of human life.
I got out in front of a large white mansion.
"This was once the residence of the Siberian Governor-General," my guide explained. "Now it's occupied by the Bolsheviks and serves as both a residence and surveillance space for our 'Targets.' Please, come inside."
Stepping inside with extreme caution, I checked to ensure the pistol in my coat was still there. Ever since my nightmare experience in Yekaterinodar, I felt uneasy without a gun on me.
The door opened easily. I glanced around furtively, checking for any signs of people.
Well-maintained chandeliers, fireplaces, and carpets... There were clear signs of human habitation.
"Nastya! Who's here?"
"I'll go check!"
Inside the building, I heard the voices of a middle-aged woman and another woman who sounded to be around my age. Instinctively, my hand went to my pistol.
Soon, footsteps approached, and I aimed the gun in the direction of the sound.
"Kyaa!"
"Nastya! What's wrong?"
I slowly lowered the pistol. Beyond it stood a beautiful Russian woman in a white dress. Her face seemed familiar, as if I'd seen her somewhere before.
One by one, other "targets" emerged from the depths of the room.
Starting with the woman called Nastya, there were three other women who appeared to be her sisters, a boy who seemed to be her younger brother, a woman who looked to be their mother, and then...
There was a man who seemed to be their father, a face so familiar it was unsettling.
"Comrade Lee! What's the meaning of pointing your gun at them like that?!"
The soldier beside me, who had belatedly grasped the situation, shouted at me.
Feeling embarrassed, I tucked the pistol back into my coat.
No, I thought they were the "target," so I assumed they were political prisoners...
"Comrade Lee, I formally introduce you to the Romanov family."
After the soldier's introduction, the seven-member family greeted me one by one.
"Hello, I am Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov."
"...Hello. I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova."
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Maria Nikolaevna Romanova."
"Nice to meet you. I am Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanova."
"I am Olga Nikolaevna Romanova. It's a sincere pleasure to meet you."
"I am Alexandra Petrovna Romanova. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"...I am Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov. It's a pleasure to meet you as well."
"Uh... I am Lee Si-young from the Far East. I've been ordered to live with you all here. I'm not sure how long I'll be staying, but I look forward to working with you."
Trotsky... that bastard is truly insane.
Where else would you find someone willing to treat PTSD alongside the Romanov Imperial Family?
This is awkward.
The Romanov Imperial Family, especially the family of Nicholas II, is well-known in Korea due to their tragic fate. They were described as a considerate and close-knit family.
And as someone who isn't exactly a guardian or companion, but occupies a rather ambiguous position within this close-knit family, it's no surprise that I'm struggling to fit in.
At this rate, instead of treating my PTSD, I'm worried my childhood trauma might resurface...
"Brother Siyoung! Is it true you really fought in Yekaterinodar?"
It was Alexei who approached me so casually.
If you search for Alexei online, you'll find plenty of photos of him in military uniforms. But he didn't wear those because he actually commanded troops; it was just cosplay.
He was a true military enthusiast, the kind who played war games every day and even had a replica of the *Mosin-Nagant* rifle. He always wanted to play with me, but I always refused.
I'd actually experienced real war.
"We fought. After the battle, my mind was so broken that I was transferred here."
"How was it?"
"How was it? Have you ever seen someone die right in front of you?"
Alexei shook his head.
He was almost twelve, not quite old enough to be considered an adult, but just the age to be starting middle school in Korea. He was still so cute.
"Then you wouldn't understand even if I told you. Seeing hundreds, thousands of people die right in front of you, you realize that war is something you should never fight, even if you die trying to stop it."
Alexei's expression hardened. Had I said something too harsh to this middle school kid?
"I used to enjoy military-themed things back in the day, but that was just a hobby. It's hard to maintain any interest after actually seeing people die."
Even I used to get excited about my first battle. My heart would race with anticipation.
That battle would probably be recorded in history books as a single line, but just being present at such a historic event thrilled me.
But the romanticism I, as a future person, held was shattered to pieces by the relentless chatter of machine guns.
I'd seen countless trench warfare scenes in movies and games, but seeing it for real for the first time felt like a bullet had pierced my mind, shattering my illusions.
"...So, Brother Siyoung, you won't go to battle anymore?"
"Well, if the country calls me, I'll have no choice but to go. But I don't want to volunteer myself."
Alexei spoke with a somber expression.
"You're the one who's lucky," Alexei said. "I want to leave, but I can't. You could leave, but you won't. I... I also wanted to fight with my own hands someday. But now that chance is gone forever."
I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it.
The way Alexei spoke, he seemed far too mature for a thirteen-year-old.
Thinking back, had I ever seen the Romanov Imperial Family as a group of individual humans? Hadn't I just felt a pang of regret that they were dead—no, "lost"—and viewed them as mere trophies?
Had I ever considered the feelings of Alexei Romanov, the Russian crown prince born with hemophilia?
I felt my heart tear apart with a strange ripping sound.
Somehow, I was beginning to understand Trotsky's decision to send me here.