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Frenzy of a Scumbag
Frenzy of a Scumbag
Frenzy of a Scumbag
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Frenzy of a Scumbag

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This colossal shit did not have to happen!

In world history, this particular murderous escapade is usually called either "the October Revolution," "the October coup,” or especially cynically in relation to "the workers of the world" – “the Great Proletarian Revolution.”

We are talking here about the German operation undertaken to foist a puppet government onto Russia, in order to force Russia out of the war. We might call this process “coercion in the name of peace.”

There is nothing worse than the past which was not comprehended completely. Because this past stays in our present and, unnoticed, seeps into our future, poisoning everything around.

This book will be a great revelation. The bombshell for the approaching centennial anniversary of this disgrace. The Apocrypha. I have deliberately chosen to avoid canonical accounts of those events, including memoirs: Soviet memoirs that are outright lies, or foreign memoirs that deliberately omit certain facts so as to fog over the authors' ugly role in the whole business.

So, genre is the political thriller, with all its requisite red herrings, shootouts, car chases, and sex. The main casts of characters are Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky, Yakov Sverdlov, Pinkhas Rutenberg, Graf von Mirbach and American journalists John Reed and Louise Bryant etc.

And then there is Mikhail Tereshchenko. The golden boy. The dandy. The jurist. The man of industry. Heir to one of the largest fortunes in Russia. Owner of the prestigious Sirin Press, and of the largest blue diamond in the world. The largest steam yacht as well.

As fate would have it, he becomes the Minister of Finance, and later the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Provisional Government, the first democratic government after a thousand years of monarchy. But then he crosses paths with the German candidate to rule Russia: Ulyanov-Lenin.

But underneath all the twists and turns of the politics and plot lies a deeply human story of love and hate, friendship and betrayal. The keyword here is Honor.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 3, 2015
ISBN9781519919625
Frenzy of a Scumbag

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    Frenzy of a Scumbag - Yefim Galperin

    To my sons

    Frenzy of a Scumbag

    A political thriller, written by Yefim Galperin

    Design by Alex Minz.

    Nesting dolls design by A. Abakumov.

    Editors: Y. Sokolovsky, Dr. W. Greene, A.Drucker.

    Illustrations:

    The Bolsheviks: Leo Trotsky, Vladimir Lenin, Josef Stalin as friends.

    Artist Vladimir Motchalov. 1997.

    The July Crisis photographer Viktor Bulla. 1917.

    Portrait of Mikhail Tereshchenko artist Aleksander Golovin, 1910.

    (Museum House-mail Malmo Sweden. Porträtt av Michail Ivanovitj Terestjenko)

    U.S.Copyright Office Pau 3-710-038 on 12/26/2013

    WGAWEST Registry #1698356 1/23/2014

    © Yefim Galperin 2015

    Introduction

    This colossal shit did not have to happen.

    And then none of it would have happened – not the Second World War, not Communist China nor Japan, not the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Berlin Wall, not McCarthyism. Not the millions dead.

    Granted, there might have been some other crap with its own consequences coming down the line anyway.

    But not this particular brand of fuck up, that for almost a hundred years tremendously impacts the life of mankind.

    In world history, this particular murderous escapade is usually called either the October Revolution, the October coup, or especially cynically in relation to the workers of the worldthe Great Proletarian Revolution.

    We are talking here about the German operation undertaken to foist a puppet government onto Russia, in order to force Russia out of the war. We might call this process coercion in the name of peace.

    There is nothing worse than the past which was not comprehended completely. Because this past stays in our present and, unnoticed, seeps into our future, poisoning everything around.

    This book is the Apocrypha. I have deliberately chosen to avoid canonical accounts of those events, including memoirs: Soviet memoirs that are outright lies, or foreign memoirs that deliberately omit certain facts so as to fog over the authors’ ugly role in the whole business.

    Using Joel Carmichael’s method – filling in some gaps, deciphering what makes sense in the official history and what doesn’t – I am taking it upon myself to tear down the longstanding myth that the Soviet state was born out of the will of the people, or even some part of the people. I’m daring to imagine the real course of events.

    Given that not every reader is familiar with the history, I am including a "Guide time" (characters, places, and events).

    Also – given that contemporary readers tend to be glued to a screen and perceive reality more through electronic media than the written word, I have chosen to craft this text as a screenplay with flashbacks¹ and flashforwards.² I hope my readers will understand these shots, these dynamic changes of episodes and locations, these voyages to the past and the future without the standard Tolstoyevskian descriptions of nature, or the twitching eyebrows of a neurotic protagonist.

    I decided on a particular genre, the political thriller, with all its requisite red herrings, shootouts, chases, and sex. But underneath all the twists and turns of the politics and plot lies a deeply human story of love and hate, friendship and betrayal. The keyword here is honor.

    The main cast of characters are Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky, Yakov Sverdlov, Pinkhas Rutenberg, Graf von Mirbach and American journalists John Reed and Louise Bryant.

    And then there is Mikhail Tereshchenko. The golden boy. The dandy. The jurist. The man of industry. Heir to one of the largest fortunes in Russia. Owner of the prestigious Sirin Press, and of the largest blue diamond in the world. The largest steam yacht as well.

    As fate would have it, at the age of 30 he becomes the Minister of Finance, and later the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Provisional Government, the first democratic government after a thousand years of monarchy. But then he crosses paths with the German candidate to rule Russia: Ulyanov-Lenin.

    Yes, oh yes. Here we see, under a magnifying glass, a process of bringing to power the scoundrel. It is so typical of the dozens and hundreds of coups that happened and keep happening to be afterwards proudly called revolutions. All that they need – the presence of these three components – a concerned powerful force outside the country, occasion, and a rotten human being, are present. It is interesting that out of that pile of dubious candidates that the Germans pulled out, dusted off, and scrubbed clean, Lenin was their final choice.

    And so Lenin and his cohorts would set out to rule the country handed over to them. And rule it in such a way as to make both Russia and Germany weep and mourn. Not to speak of the rest of the world, even today, still contending with the legacy left by Lenin and his followers.

    Everything’s confused and there is no one to say,

    As things grow colder,

    Everything’s confused, it is sweet to repeat:

    Russia, Lethe, Lorelei...

    Osip Mandelstam, July 1917

    Russian poet.

    There lived a worthwhile Crocodile.

    Along the boulevard he strolled, agile,

    Smoked cigarettes with a smile,

    Spoke German with lofty style,

    Croc, Croc, Herr-r-r Cro-co-dile!

    Korney Chukovsky. July 1917.

    Russian poet.

    July 5 (18 New style),³ 1917.

    Saint Petersburg (Petrograd).

    A square on the corner of Sadovaya Street and Nevsky Prospekt.

    A sunny day. The  ratta-tata of machine guns. Hundreds of people dash about to escape the bullets. Women, children, soldiers. Falling bodies.

    This scene was captured in a snapshot by Russian photographer Viktor Bulla, and in the future will be featured in textbooks and articles about events in Russia in 1917.

    In Soviet historiography, it has the official title, "Slaughter at the Peaceful Demonstration of Workers and Soldiers, July 4 (July 17 New style), 1917."

    But the more authentic caption should be this: "July Crisis.Attempted Government Coup. Bloody Provocation by the Bolsheviks, July 5(18 New style), 1917."

    From a rooftop overlooking the square, two machine gunners with their Maksims rain down round after round of bullets.

    Blood, screams, thrashing, tumbling bodies.

    A cocaine grin spreading across his face, one of the gunners glances back at his boss – a slim, dapper man. The Hauptmann. This is not his nickname, but the rank of captain in the German army. Of course, now he is in civilian clothes. A summer beige silk suit with a vest. White shirt with a tie. A hat.

    The gunner puts his eye back to the sight and, smirking, lets off a few more long rounds.

    Neither he nor his sidekick sees the Hauptmann raising his Parabellum to shoot them in the back of the head. He disappears behind an attic window.

    Two hours later, a brand-new fifty horsepower 1912 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost rolls up to the building where the shooting took place. Out steps Tereshchenko.⁶ With him is his adjutant, Lieutenant Chistyakov.

    The chief of police pulls himself to attention. He salutes. Together the group climbs the stairs to the attic and onto the roof.

    From here they can get a view of the entire square – the ambulances, the wagons, the collection of the dead and wounded.

    On the roof the forensic experts from the district attorney’s office are processing the crime scene, examining the gunners’ bodies. With them, a thickset man wearing a pince-nez. This is Pinkhas (aka Pyotr) Rutenberg.

    This was their firing position, explains the police chief. Apparently someone from the crowd – maybe it was the Cossacks themselves – managed to take out both the gunners.

    Don’t talk nonsense, colonel! Rutenberg interrupts. It’s impossible to reach here from down there. And according to the medical examiner, both gunners were shot from behind. A ballistics expert has confirmed that.

    Yes. The bullets were fired from a German Parabellum, Rutenberg’s expert chimes in.

    Same story on that roof, says Rutenberg, pointing to a neighboring building. Two gunners shot in the back of the head.

    Tereshchenko surveys the scene; the whole time, Rutenberg is scrutinizing him, a rather exotic bird to be found on the rooftops of Petrograd. Someone right off the cover of a fashion magazine. An elegant suit of light-colored English wool. Impeccable creases in the trousers, fine leather shoes, and the little grey curl of hair falling onto the forehead. A lady killer. His tone of speech is sympathetic, patronizing, with a light touch of irony. He surveys the scene of this tragedy with the curiosity of a mere bystander.

    He notices Rutenberg’s gaze, and introduces himself: Mikhail Ivanovich Tereshchenko, foreign minister in the Provisional Government.

    Ah. I read about you a month ago, says Rutenberg. ‘Both the youngest and the only wealthy minister in an entire government of ministers – capitalists.’

    Where’d they write that? Tereshchenko wonders.

    "The New York Time.’ A philanthropist! Son of a simple peasant. Made a fortune in sugar production. Owner of the largest steam yacht and the largest blue diamond in the world...’"

    Tereshchenko, wincing, interrupts the flow of Rutenberg’s diatribe: They tell me roughly one hundred people were killed. And the wounded?

    For a government minister, you are poorly informed, grins Rutenberg. There were 216 killed and 812 wounded. Children, women, the elderly. There might have been fewer if the police had taken immediate action.

    That’s enough! intervenes the police chief. It was sheer panic. You can’t imagine how a crowd under fire behaves.

    You’re telling me that I can’t imagine how a crowd under fire behaves? Rutenberg fires back. Fuck you!

    Rutenberg walks over to the attic window. He peers at the marks on the frame.

    Who is he? Tereshchenko asks the police chief in a half-voice.

    A friend of Kerensky’s. Rutenberg, answers the police chief, equally quietly. "Just arrived from America three days ago, and suddenly he’s the deputy commandant of the city. His Party alias was Martyn. The same guy who was with Father Gapon when the crowd was fired on, back on January 9, 1905. And he’s the one who strangled the priest afterwards! Did some time at Kresty (The crosses) prison. I was green back then, on security detail."

    The police chief suddenly loses his composure. "Pinkhas, too bad I didn’t stab you in the cell in Kresty back in ‘05!" he shouts out to Rutenberg, recalling the infamous prison.

    Rutenberg, his steps rattling the tin roofing, walks up to the police chief and adjusts his glasses. He peers into the chief’s face: Bah! Sergeant-Major! Seems as if you managed a nice little career for yourself! But we’ve met at a very convenient place. It is all the easier to toss you off this roof.

    The police chief gingerly moves a bit farther away from the roof’s еdge.

    That’s right, Sergeant-Major. Keep your distance! Rutenberg says with a wicked smile.

    I’m not a sergeant, I’m a colonel!

    "To our Mister Minister you may be a colonel. But to me you are a piece of shit. Ah, I remember how you shouted. ‘That kike dared raise a hand against an Orthodox priest!’ You’re still just a sergeant. Rutenberg goes on to explain to Tereshchenko. Really, you never know what fate has in store. He was on guard in prison, I was in shackles, and he tried to shank me. The other guards pulled him away. But now, I can’t really throw him off the roof. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité after all. Rutenberg lets the slogan of the French revolution roll off his tongue with sarcasm so thick it could fill a jar.

    Overrunning our country, you are, you mangy Jews! shouts the police chief, not a safe distance from the edge.

    Well, you’re a mangy Russian. Which in general is more dangerous for Russia!

    It seems to me you’re a little crude, Tereshchenko says in reproach. You could have framed your objections in a more civilized way.

    You say this to me, a man who traveled half the world to be here in the hopes of seeing a new Russia?! All I see is dirt, blood, and chaos. There’s no government here, says Rutenberg.

    What? We have... We are the government.

    Oh, stop! If it weren’t for the Cossacks, the Bolsheviks would be calling the shots. In the best case, you ministers would be behind bars; in the worst, you’d be lying dead against a wall, or in a ditch, shoeless and unburdened of your fancy suits by a gang of piss-drunk military sailors. And here you’re blathering on about the police force, about the government. Russia doesn’t have either.

    Down below, in a square still filled with the dead and the wounded, groans and cries can be heard. Scurry stretcher-bearers. Loud roar of ambulances.

    Saint Petersburg. The Theater Bouffe.

    Evening.

    It’s the event of the season! The premiere of the operetta by Imre Kalman. The Hungarian title Csardas Princess has been changed for patriotic reasons to the neutral-sounding Silva.

    The music thunders. Arias sound out. The hall is packed. Inveterate theatergoers are excited. Not only are there famous opera singers in the performance, but – in an innovative first for Russian theater – the stage extends into the auditorium as a catwalk, and some of the opera occurs in the spectators’ midst.

    Here is the famous cancan. Provocative. Infamous.

    The female dancers extend their legs, soaring high in the air, literally right in front of the spectators’ faces. Among these girls is the comedic headliner in a frock coat and top hat, with a cane. Twisting his legs into amazing pretzels, booming out: We cannot live without women in this world. No, no! The May sun, love rises, in our women!

    The audience – men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns – stand up and applaud.

    Intermission. Oohs, aahs! Lively conversations in the lobby and heaping spreads of food. And everybody with glasses of champagne. Oh, yes! Lets not forget! Imagine another innovation in the theatrical life of the country, where, because of the war, prohibition⁹ is in effect – there is champagne for sale during the show. The refrain of We cannot live without women in this world. No, no! literally dissolves in the air.

    Through the foyer, glass of champagne in hand and two bodyguards at his side, strolls Lenin.¹⁰ In a frock coat, no less.

    They happen on Rutenberg. He has his own glass of champagne in hand.

    Oh! Who is this I see? Pinkhas Rutenberg! Lenin says, feigning surprise. Himself, in the flesh!

    Sorry, says Rutenberg, squinting and adjusting his spectacles. It can’t be you, Mister Ulyanov?! Here?

    Well, I love operettas!

    Of course you do. That’s your style! How many of them have you directed and produced in your life? The Bolsheviks, the Mensheviks, the little anti-Party groups... I’ll admit, you are a great expert at composing librettos. But recently you’ve taken a great interest in bloodier plots, it seems. And your range has increased considerably, terrifyingly. Better to stay put in Zurich with your little sect. But no...

    Shut the fuck up! Everybody knows you’re an arrogant scum. Come on! You! Having arrived to Russia! And not for us, but for Kerensky. Why?! You, the longtime, faithful old comrade! ‘Mr. Revolution!’ Lenin says.

    "Ulyanov, you know that I had dealings with Azef.¹¹ I thought he was the lowest of the low. Turns out that he wasn’t! All these boy scribblers are busting a gut: ‘Lenin said this, Lenin said that!’ How much are you paying them? But oh, yes, you’ve spawned a whole ream of your own little tabloids... About thirty Pravdas (Truths)... And where does all that money come from, Ulyanov? A rich widow? A merry one?" Rutenberg says dryly, humming a tune from the operetta The Merry Widow by Michel Legrand. But even Madame Armand didn’t have that kind of money!

    Lenin’s fists are clenched, his jaw twitching. Both bodyguards, seeing that the boss is losing control, make a threatening move toward Rutenberg.

    Watch it, citizens! Rutenberg warns.

    Comrades, Lenin corrects.

    Maybe to you they’re ‘comrades,’ Ulyanov, but to me they’re all just pieces of shit! Rutenberg advances on the bodyguards. "In the first place, pissants, I did my time in the prison Kresty. So I can look out for myself. In the second place, my argument with your kingpin is theoretical and intellectual. Op-e-ret-ta! And in the third place, as of yesterday, I am the deputy commandant of the capital and its environs. I can summon the detachment of Cossacks on duty. Is this clear?!"

    Lenin abruptly leads his thugs out of harm’s way.

    What Rutenberg does not see is that a short man with a mustache on a pock-marked face and a shriveled left hand wearing a shabby worn pea coat and a cap has made his way through the crowd to talk with Lenin.

    It is Stalin.¹² Watching wolf-like for anyone at his back, he whispers something in Lenin’s ear. Then the whole group disappears into the crowd.

    Meanwhile, Tereshchenko with his common-law wife Margot,¹³ and Tereshchenko’s sister Pelageya float up to Rutenberg, all with champagne flutes in hand.

    So, you like operettas, too, Mister Rutenberg! Girls, let me introduce you. This is Margot. And this is my sister Pelagaia. This is Pyotr Moiseevich Rutenberg. We met each other this morning on the roof.

    My God, Mister Minister! Rutenberg smiles Truly, when the Lord gives, He gives generously! Dear ladies, I am honored to make your acquaintance.

    Pelageya, do you remember 1905? ‘Bloody Sunday’?¹⁴ Tereshchenko asks. "This is the legendary Pinkhas, who strangled the provocateur priest Gapon."

    Oh, are you really so merciless? Pelagaia gasps coquettishly.

    No, I’m so fair and just, says Rutenberg, smiling. Therefore I like operetta. Because the characters are so simple and sincere.

    By the way, I’ve just been to a council of ministers, says Tereshchenko. "That’s why I was late for the first act. Mr. Rutenberg, we were much taken by your point of view. After hearing Aleksinsky’s report, the government has decided to arrest Ulyanov-Lenin and his entire central committee. The charge will be espionage on behalf of Germany.

    Ah, Mister Minister, it’s unfortunate that you did not inform me of this a mere ten minutes ago!

    What? Why?

    Because I was just now talking with this Ulyanov. He also likes operetta. Alas! I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of him.

    6 July (19 New style), 1917.

    Saint Petersburg.

    Car factory Russian Renault. Factory yard and gatehouse.

    Early morning.

    Birdsong. The yard is deserted. But no, not quite. There are lookouts near the gates, along the fence, and even in the trees. Stalin is running the show. He makes an exacting inspection of all the posts then walks through into the yard, and, unsure, plants himself on the edge of a stool at the entryway to the main building. He does it humbly with the feeling that at any moment he can be expelled because he is a nobody.

    Inside are Lenin, Trotsky,¹⁵ Zinoviev,¹⁶ Kamenev,¹⁷ Sverdlov,¹⁸ and Ordzhonokidze.¹⁹

    Near a window, a little away from all, off in a corner, sits Joffe.²⁰

    All of these characters played a part in the story, or alas, in the history – or History, written with a capital H. Therefore, this requires some commentary.

    Commentary:

    Vladimir Lenin (Ulyanov). Arrived in Russia three months before the present scene, after an absence of nine years. He travelled from Germany to Russia in a sealed railroad car. Chairman of the Executive Committee of the Bolshevik Party.

    Leon Trotsky (Bronshtein). Came to Russia from the U.S. two months before the present scene, after an absence of eleven years. Since June 1917, he has been the informal leader of the Organization of United Social Democrats,’ called ‘Mezhraiontsy’.²¹ Cooperates with the Bolshevik Party.

    Lev Kamenev (Rozenfeld). Returned three months ago from exile in Siberia. Member of the Executive Committee of the Bolshevik Party.

    Yakov Sverdlov (Gaukhman). Back in the capital for four months after exile in Siberia. At this time he first met Lenin. Member of the Executive Committee of the Bolshevik Party.

    Adolph Joffe. Back in the capital for four months after exile in Siberia. Chief Executive Officer of the Organization of the United Social Democrats, called ‘Mezhrayontsi’. Cooperates with the Bolsheviks.

    Grigol (Sergo) Ordzhonokidze. Back in the capital for four months, after exile in Siberia. Member of the Executive Committee of the Bolshevik Party.

    Ioseph Stalin (Dzhugashvili). Back in the capital for four months, after exile in Siberia. Hired as one of bodyguard squads’ capos for Bolshevik functionaries.

    Those cadet bastards! They broke in! Lenin explodes. "We have to take a stand! The Kschessinska mansion is our staff headquarters!"

    We can give up the staff office, says Joffe quietly, pouring tea from a thermos into his glass. Would you like some tea, Vladimir Ilyich?

    Yes, just a splash... and if Joffe says ‘give it up,’ we’ll give it up. Nice mansion, but…

    I’m afraid we’ve lost this particular chess game, sighs Trotsky. Whoever was handling the navy men was an idiot. We need to regroup, rethink! Reading from a newspaper, he continues:

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