The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1026 A Day in the Life of Dzhugashvili

At 6:30 a.m., Moscow was already fully light. Dzhugashvili, only 35 years old, pushed open the window of his Political Security Directorate (PSD) office. A chilly spring breeze, carrying the smell of coal smoke from the industrial area, rushed in. Downstairs, the vendors at the Central Market were already busy at work—these "individual vendors" and the PSD officers were probably the most industrious people in the city.

He picked up the still-smelling copy of *Red Star* newspaper from the table. The headline read: "Ural silver mines break historical production records." Breadcrumbs clung to the edges of the newspaper—the secretary on duty last night had clearly been eating a late-night snack while organizing documents.

A commotion came from outside the window. He peeked out and saw several peasant women at the market entrance pouring baskets of potatoes into a scale. Next to the golden stacks hung a wooden sign that read "1 ruble/kg, no purchase limit." The peasant women selling potatoes all came from the countryside outside Moscow. After the People's Will party seized power, it divided the land that originally belonged to nobles and landowners equally among every peasant household. Apart from the 20% that was handed over to the state, the rest of the agricultural products they produced could be disposed of by them.

Although Dzhugashvili had reservations about this lack of planning in agricultural production, it was a valuable lesson from Red France, and the veteran members of the People's Will Supreme Council were very interested in the French experience.
Unlike the abundance of agricultural products in the market, long queues of female workers had formed in front of the iron bars of the state-run textile stores, their eyes fixed on the few remaining British woolens, oriental silks, and inferior cotton fabrics produced in Russia in the shop windows.

This country's light industrial production is always unsatisfactory!
The phone on the desk suddenly rang.

“Comrade Director,” came the driver Ivan’s hoarse voice from the other end of the phone, “the car is ready. The Supreme Council meeting starts at nine o’clock, but Comrade Ulyanov requests that you go to the General Staff Headquarters at seven-thirty first.”

Dzhugashvili hung up the phone and picked up the folder marked "Top Secret" on the table. Inside was the latest "Report on the State of National Economy and Defense Preparedness," the edges of the pages still bearing the marks of the typewriter rollers. He quickly scanned the cold, hard data:
Ural mining area: After adopting the new drilling rigs from the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, the monthly silver production exceeded 18 tons;
Kharkiv Steel Plant: Special steel production increased by 40% compared to the same period last year;

Volga Automobile Plant: The first batch of 200 Volga-1 trucks successfully rolled off the production line;
The report concluded with a line of hastily written red handwriting: "The supply of light industrial products remains tight; it is recommended to prioritize the allocation to the military industry."

He closed the file and took out his sidearm from the drawer. The grip of the M1895 revolver was engraved with the words "For the Trial of the Proletariat"—a trophy he had acquired during the Second Caucasian Campaign in 1905.

As Dzhugashvili walked toward the jeep parked downstairs, Andriy, a Ukrainian guard, gave him a crisp military salute. The young man from Dnipropetrovsk's eyes practically overflowed with anticipation.

“Comrade Director,” Andrei said in a low voice, his Ukrainian accent thick, “my sister wrote to me last night. Bread rations in Kyiv have been reduced again, and the black market price has risen to five rubles a kilogram.”

Kyiv is located on the left bank of the Dnieper River, very close to the German-occupied zone (referring to the territory annexed by Germany). The rule of the People's Will Russia in that area is very unstable, and there are many Ukrainian "local armed groups" in the surrounding area.

Dzhugashvili noticed that Andrei's hands were trembling slightly—the young man had witnessed the German-backed "Ukrainian Self-Defense Forces" executing three farmers smuggling flour outside Kyiv during his last vacation home.

"Soon, soldier." Dzhugashvili patted his epaulets, his murmured promise dissipating in the Moscow morning breeze.

After getting into the jeep, he opened another document that had just been delivered: a briefing on the situation on the southwestern border. The report detailed the atrocities committed by the German-backed "Ukrainian Self-Defense Forces" in the Kyiv region: On April 15, German military advisors ordered the execution of 50 "suspected family members of partisans"; on April 16, grain ships on the Dnieper River were intercepted, and 200 tons of wheat were dumped into the river; on April 17, three professors from Kyiv University were shot dead by the Ukrainian Self-Defense Forces at their home on the outskirts of Kyiv—because they worked for the People's Will party-controlled Russia!
“Go to the General Staff first,” Dzhugashvili told the driver, “and then go to the Supreme Council.”

As the jeeps drove past the Dynamo Arms Factory, a fleet of newly rolled-out T-14 tanks rumbled out of the gates. Young tank crews sang on the turrets, and red flags symbolizing victory were wrapped around the gun barrels.

The General Staff's conference room was filled with smoke. Major General Kamenev, the operations chief, was pointing with a pointer at a terrain model of the Caucasus region on a sand table.

“Comrade Nikolai Ivanovich Ratel’s 11th Army has arrived in Grozny,” Kamenev’s voice was hoarse, “but the German-backed Black Eagle mercenary group has blown up three bridges over the Terek River.”

Dzhugashvili noticed the small red flags planted on the sand table—those represented confirmed German firing positions. The red flags were densely distributed around the Baku oil fields, clearly indicating that the Germans were determined to hold that area at all costs.

"Where are our armored trains?" Dzhugashvili asked.

"It was sabotaged by the guerrillas," the staff officer handed over a telegram. "The Caucasus Mountain Brigade reports that Tsar Nicholas II's guards were spotted on the Georgian border last night."

Suddenly, a piercing telephone ring sounded on the wall. Kamenev grabbed the receiver, his face gradually darkening.

“Confirmed,” he said, hanging up the phone. “The German 8th Army has begun moving westward. Their heavy artillery is already loaded onto trains. The comrades in Ulyanovgrad can finally catch their breath.”

A relaxed sigh of relief filled the conference room. Dzhugashvili walked to the window and looked out at the Kremlin in the distance. Bathed in the morning sun, the red five-pointed star shone brightly.

When Dzhugashvili entered the Supreme Council meeting room, the debate was already heated. Ulyanov was tapping a map of the Caucasus region with a red pencil, the tip of which had broken. "The British have confirmed sinking four American aircraft carriers," Ulyanov's voice was like sandpaper scraping, "The Americans' undeclared war has suffered a crushing defeat, and now the Germans have no time to look eastward!"

Dzhugashvili placed the intelligence file on the table: "Comrade Ulyanov, according to the latest information from the overseas intelligence office, it can be confirmed that the United States lost two aircraft carriers, but the British still won the Battle of the Faroe Islands - currently, the remnants of the American fleet are retreating towards the American mainland."

Plekhanov suddenly coughed violently, and the old man's trembling hand hovered above the spittoon for a moment. When he looked up, Dzhugashvili noticed a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Have the Germans started transferring troops from the Eastern Front?" Plekhanov gasped. "Our French comrades have already invaded imperialist Belgium!"

Dzhugashvili said, "Our 'Swallow' reports that the German 8th Army is moving westward, and the Germans' priority is the British Navy, Red France, and lastly us."

Ambassador Max frowned: "The French Supreme Revolutionary Council hopes you can transport a shipment of oil from Murmansk to Brest; the revolutionary red tanks need fuel."

“But we don’t have much oil either!” sighed the elderly women’s committee member, Chasulich. “We only have the Urals as our oil base right now. If only we could retake Baku.”

Dzhugashvili silently unfolded his aerial photographs. Beside the oil pipeline in the Baku oil field, a troop of Cossack cavalry bearing the Tsar's banner patrolled. The oil from there would be transported via pipeline through Armenia and Turkey to Germany, becoming fuel for the German war machine.

The air in the meeting room grew heavy. Ambassador Max tapped his knuckles heavily on the wooden table, appearing extremely anxious.

“Besides oil, Paris needs you to launch an offensive on the Eastern Front!” His French accent grew even heavier with anxiety. “The Germans are transferring troops from the Eastern Front to Belgium, and now is the perfect time to break through the Emperor’s Line!”

Ulyanov took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his temples. His gaze, behind the lenses, swept over the huge map of Eastern Europe on the wall—the "Wilhelm II Line," marked in blue pencil, stretched like a venomous snake from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. Behind the line, the defensive positions of 100 German divisions were scattered like stars.

“Comrade Max,” Ulyanov’s voice held a rare hesitation, “our intelligence indicates that the Germans have deployed over 5000 artillery pieces and a million troops on the Eastern Front. A direct assault on such a line would require at least…”

"We'll have to sacrifice the lives of two million workers and peasants," Plekhanov suddenly interjected. "And we also need goods and technology from outside. Once war breaks out with Germany, Russia's foreign trade will be completely blocked. This will cause a major problem with our supply of light industrial goods."

There was an awkward silence.

Dzhugashvili noticed that Chasulich's fingers were unconsciously rubbing the patch on her cuff—as a member of the Supreme Council, the old woman's life was indeed extremely simple, but the patch on her clothes was a clear indication of how scarce light industrial goods were in Russia. And light industrial goods were the price the People's Will government paid in exchange for agricultural products from farmers.
“I have a proposal,” Dzhugashvili’s voice broke the silence. He walked to the map and drew a sharp arrow at the southern end with a pencil. “The Caucasus. The Baku oil field supplies 15 barrels of oil to Germany every day. What if we cut off this lifeline…”

Chasulich jumped to his feet: "Are you crazy? That would trigger a full-scale German attack!"

“Exactly.” A slight smile appeared on Dzhugashvili’s lips. His pencil continued to move, drawing winding blue lines across the Ukrainian plain. “The Dnieper River and the Pripyat marshes are our natural defenses. Let the Germans launch the offensive, wear down their armored forces in the marshes, and then…”

Ulyanov stared at the "Emperor's Line" on the map for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed the phone: "Get the General Staff on! I need Comrade Kamenev to come to the Kremlin immediately."

Before Chasulich could say anything more, Ulyanov laughed and said, "This is the only thing we can do right now, and we must do. If Germany really defeats Red France, we will be the next target!"

Plekhanov coughed again. His trembling hand pulled a yellowed photograph from his pocket—a group photo from the 1882 Baku oil field strike. In the photo, a young Plekhanov stood at the front of the striking workers, holding a sign that read, "Oil belongs to the people."

“Remember,” the old man said hoarsely, “the blood of our comrades still flows beside the oil wells in Baku.”

The vote passed with 12 votes in favor and 2 against. As the secretary began drafting the order, Dzhugashvili looked out the window—a convoy of T-14 tanks was rumbling across Red Square, the red ribbons wrapped around their gun barrels fluttering in the wind.

He suddenly felt a sense of disorientation, as if he saw tanks flying red flags—tanks larger and more powerful than the T-14—rushing like a torrent towards the ruins of Berlin.
(End of this chapter)