One Imperial Ruble

Volodya

April 23, 1879. I have just turned nine. That night, I sat on a wooden outside my house. Mosquitoes bit my whole body, even my trousers, and thick shirt. They would be cruel in East Russia, but I was too busy to pay attention.

A slight tap on the shoulder made me jump and turn. I am faster than a snake bite. I know all about them. They are not mosquitoes. They do not bite unless they are irritated.

"What are you doing, Vladimir Ulyanov?"

It was my older brother, Alexander, or simply Sasha, my idol, shining in his high school uniform with its shiny brass buttons, each with a two-headed eagle. He never called me by my nickname, Volodya. Only with my full name. Even adding our last name sometimes.

"I'm playing a game. You wouldn't like it. It's boring for the big boys."

I had played this game since I was six or seven years old. He needed nothing but paper, a pencil, and a rubber. I didn't even need a partner. I drew maps and put them in war zones. They are not real, modern countries like Austro-Hungarian or German empires, but ancient countries: Assyria, Babylon, Israel, Macedonia, Burgundia, and so on. Then the nations fought each other. They form alliances. Large armies — cavalry, guns, wagons, freight trains, field hospitals — crossed the border. I never threw dice and things like that. I did not leave anything out of luck. I was a perfect ruler, no doubt. No, not a ruler. The emperor was like a tsar. I was a leader. The alliance I loved right now would always win. Redesigned maps. Co-operatives changed. I would like another alliance next time. I was a generous and just leader.

Only when I was completely trapped and unable to make a decision, did I throw the Imperial silver ruble on the face of our Tsar Alexander II, the ruble Sasha gave me by chance.

"Can I join?" asked my brother.

I scratched my chin so that Sasha could not see how much I had swallowed.

"Absolutely."

What else can I say?

That game was a disaster. Sasha wanted his alliance to succeed. I argued. I thought I was convincing, capable of speaking, but Sasha insisted on winning. That was a rebellion. Chaos. Then Sasha left, I quickly re-drawn the maps, and let my ally win.

A few months later, I invited my younger sister Olga to come and play. It was a difficult January day in Simbirsk. The flames danced in the fireplace like drunken farmers.

This game went much better. He too wanted to win. I could easily have succeeded because I was in control of the maps, but that would be much easier.

"My country is the land of workers and farmers. Your country is the land of the capitalists. Who does Olga want to win? The exploited or the exploiters? The oppressed or the oppressed? The rich or the poor?"

"Poor people," he whispered.

When he came out crying, I pulled out a new piece of paper. I was running out of words in my home country. I had to invent some. I loved America, but the United States had already been taken over. I wanted to come up with a word that means “union”. Soviet - council - was a good name, too, but nothing interesting had both names come to mind.

I stretched out my hands to the fire. The flames were now like horsemen, chasing the fleeing tsar and his servants.

I stroked my beardless chin. I come up with an interesting word sometimes. I had time. Games aside, time is always on the rebels' side.

Then the flames form a picture of a man hanging in the middle of the city square, surrounded by a wall of the Emperor's soldiers. The man was Sasha without a doubt.

I got up and ran to the next room. I had to warn my brother. Sure, I would save him. But when I was running fast, I was slowing down. I was not dreaming; my muscles simply refused to listen. Chaos. Rebellion. Transformation. I was not an opposition person, of course. So I threw in my lucky ruble. Tails.

I went back to the table. Flames - that was nothing. A luxurious plane that means nothing. A fairy tale of old women. I picked up a new piece of paper and started drawing.

Vladimir

May 5, 1887. I am seventeen years old. Today they hanged my brother, Alexander - whom we call Sasha - in an attempt to assassinate the emperor. My brother was twenty-one years old. She won a gold medal in college animal science. He begged for mercy, at my mother's insistence, but the tsar hanged him nonetheless. When a person is hanged, the jugular veins and carotid arteries close, and blood flow to the brain decreases. He heard nothing.

I am sitting at a table in my home in Simbirsk with my brother Dmitri and my sisters Maria and Olga. The evening drags on us like a stone's throw away. Swiss paraffin lamp provides more shadows than light. The Swiss are proud. The quintessential bourgeois.

The children look at me. I just told them the news. My mother is in St. I'm an older brother now. I don't know what to say. I should have said, something like this: "There is another way. No more fear. No more murder." That would look good in history books.

"I'm scared, Volodya," said Maria, my little sister, taking my hand. On her lap is a doll wearing a red and gold Russian dress. Nine-year-old Maria has her hair curled up like the hair of her doll.

"Who has to pay for my brother's death?" I say. I release my hand. "The whole tsar family. That's it. It's a wise idea. They should be shot."

Death by shooting is painful. The bullets tear the body apart, and death may not come immediately. They should suffer.

Maria begins to cry. I can see the tears coming to Dmitri's eyes. She is thirteen years old, so she should know better. I can't stand the tears in men. Women though, but they do not know better. I should have slapped Dmitri. I have heard rumors that my mother's father was a Jew. It seems that Dmitri has some Jewish characteristics.

"It is impossible to have a change without a group of shooters," I said.

Now, Dmitri is also crying a lot. I got up and walked out of the room with the door closed behind me. I lean against a large wooden chest, my fingers digging silver Imperial ruble. Sasha and I played the four-hand piano. It is unlikely that you will win playing the piano, but we also played chess. He always won.

"Sasha," I cried quietly. "I love you."

No one will ever see my tears.

Vladimir Ulyanov

It's April 22, 1930. I'm in my 60's today. As you get older, the festivals multiply like worms in the spring.

I sit at the head of the table with my wife Nadia, my wife Inessa, and my secretary Vera. Yesterday, we celebrated Vera's 25th birthday. I would invite a lot of people. Even the previous tsar would come, but I like a strong family circle.

Vera picks up her champagne flute. He lives under the watercolor of German artist Adolf Schicklgruber. Nadia brings all sorts of garbage to our trip.

"To Vladimir Ilyich," Vera said. "The best lawyer in the whole of the Russian Democratic Republic."

Oh, the exaggeration of youth. Maybe I’m the second-best. Who can measure such things? Not that we are running fame competitions between lawyers.

I nodded. We all raise our flutes. Vera and I have not had sex for nearly seven years now, since she married that Georgian priest Joseph Dzhugashvili, but she still looks sexy in her Bullocks Wilshire evening dress. The priest is in business at the Vatican now, thank God. Sometimes he behaves like a highway robber and his bitter mustache looks ridiculous.

Nadia takes my hand. Inessa puts the palm of her hand on my left knee. I can't see it under the table, but I'm sure Vera wants to touch me too.

Yesterday my brother Alexander called. He could return from exile after the king's overthrow in 1917, but he chose to remain in his Manhattan apartment.

"Wouldn't it be funny if they hung me back in 1887?" he said. "Have you become a fan, Vladimir?"

Do you feel sick? He asks this question every year.

Yes, I was very angry at the time, but I managed to control my temper. Who knows what I would be like? It is important to know who I am. I am a millionaire. I served as governor of our district for eight years. I used to be Duma's deputy. I've traveled all over the world. I had sex with women all over Europe. I have never embraced Marxism. I go to church on Sundays and preach the same way.

I close my eyes and imagine my little one, standing on top of an armored car, making a heated speech, urging the crowd to overthrow the Kerensky government. Joseph is at my side. I would even choose a different name for myself. Probably after one of Russia's largest rivers. Something like Obin, Lenin, or Amuro. What a joke. How dangerous it is. What kind of blood do you have?

I lowered my flute on the table, put my hands on my wife and wife's knees, and stretched out my leg under the table to touch Vera's foot. Happiness is when you are satisfied with what you have, but do not close your eyes when you get the chance.

But I feel the luck of the Imperial ruble burning in my pocket.