Chapter 1: Petrograd, September 23, 1917
Vladivostok, 2021
"The Moscow-bound train 001E is scheduled to depart in five minutes! Passengers, please check your destination and train number carefully before boarding..."
I trembled.
Clutching my ticket in my right hand, I read it again, trying to still the pounding of my heart.
The Trans-Siberian Railway—the world's longest railway line—and its terminus, Vladivostok.
I, Lee Si-young, was about to embark on a journey to Saint Petersburg, via Moscow.
***
Originally, I wanted to study history, but I gave in to my parents' insistence and enrolled in the Department of Economics. However, my dismal grades made finding a job unlikely, so I ended up preparing for the civil service exam, leveraging my strong knowledge of history.
But studying something I had no interest in was unbearable. After relentless persuasion, I finally convinced my parents to allow me a three-week trip to Russia.
This had been my dream since childhood: to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway.
Imagine a train crossing the frozen surface of Lake Baikal. Picture the breathtaking sight of traversing the snow-covered taiga, with swirling snowflakes painting the landscape.
However, once I boarded the train, the scenery outside the window proved utterly dull. Moreover, since it was summer vacation, there wasn't much snow to be seen.
There's probably nothing interesting here...
As I sighed, a burly Russian, who seemed to be sharing the same compartment, glanced across and spoke to me with obvious curiosity.
"Hey, you there. Are you Chinese?"
Having studied practical Russian conversation for my trip, I easily brushed off this mild diplomatic insult.
"I'm not Chinese. I'm Korean."
"Oh, sorry. There are a lot of Chinese people on this train, you see."
His quick apology made me think he wasn't a bad person.
The Russian man, who introduced himself as Vladimir, handed me a can of beer, perhaps as an apology. I accepted his gesture and gulped it down in one go.
After all, we'd be traveling together on the train for a week, and there was no point in making things awkward.
With a *glug*, I finished the can, and Vladimir chuckled heartily, seemingly satisfied. The taste was on another level compared to Korean beer.
My Russian was poor, so we mainly spoke in English. Once we discovered our shared interest in history, our conversation flowed easily, creating a friendly atmosphere.
As the empty beer cans piled up, so did our camaraderie.
"So you're saying Stalin's Great Purge was justified? If Stalin made any mistake, it was not killing enough people! If he'd gotten rid of Khrushchev and his ilk, the Soviet Union wouldn't have collapsed..."
The conversation had veered into one of the three topics you should never discuss at a drinking party: politics. Vladimir, tongue-tied from the alcohol, began speaking in a bizarre mixture of Russian and English.
"It was a mistake for a human scum like Stalin to seize power in the first place. It would have been better if Trotsky or someone like him had led the Soviet Union."
I, too, began spitting out curses in my drunken state.
"What? What did you just say?"
Vladimir's already menacing face twisted further.
"Stalin completely saved Russia when it wasn't even a country after the Russian Civil War! Without Stalin, there would have been no Cold War, and there wouldn't be a Russia today! Comparing him to a madman like Trotsky is an insult!"
"Without Trotsky, we wouldn't have won the Red-White Civil War at all! In fact, the Soviet Union collapsed because they abandoned the Theory of Permanent Revolution and adopted Socialism in One Country. If Trotsky had come to power, the Soviet Union might have lasted a little longer."
With a crash, he slammed his empty beer can onto the floor.
Vladimir, flushed with drink, grabbed me by the collar and shouted.
"Do you really think you understand our country so well? Our history? Without a strong leader like Stalin or Putin, Russia wouldn't have survived! It was weaklings like you who brought down the Soviet Union!"
"Hey, you're drunk. Calm down."
I didn't expect him to get so worked up. I was just trying to keep up with him in his drunken state, but the atmosphere turned hostile in an instant.
"Right, you think you're so smart? Huh? Do you think you could do better than Stalin?"
Vladimir muttered something in Russian, glaring at me.
"Then why don't you go and try it, then?"
"What do you mean..."
Before I could finish speaking, Vladimir slammed his beer bottle against my head.
A sharp crack echoed, and I lost consciousness.
***
"Hey, brother! Wake up, we're here!"
"Ah, fuck... My head is killing me..."
"What the hell are you mumbling about, you bastard? We're here, so open your eyes!"
A pain like someone was pounding on my skull made me clutch my head and open my eyes. Where was I? I'd boarded a train to Moscow, and I was definitely arguing with that Russian guy...
Ah, damn it. He hit me over the head with a beer bottle. That son of a bitch. Did he really have to crack me over the head just because we disagreed?
The moment I regained consciousness, a heavy hand shook me by the waist. Was it a station attendant? Did he come to curse me out for drinking beer? I'd heard they usually let it slide.
I spat out a curse as I opened my eyes, and a menacing-looking man was standing before me, glaring. His sharp eyes and unkempt beard were striking, but the first thing I noticed was the foul stench assaulting my nostrils.
Covering my nose, I scanned my surroundings and quickly realized this wasn't the coach I remembered. Long wooden benches arranged neatly. Windows punched into each seat. A modest chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
"What... is this?"
"Hey, pal, what're you staring around for? The train's at the station—get off quick!"
"No, I'm asking where we are..."
"Listen, man, do you not understand? They need to clean the train—get off!"
"I'm asking where we are!"
The man had been glaring at me as if he was ready to kick my ass if I didn't get up immediately, but his expression softened a bit when I started speaking in Russian. Come to think of it, my Russian might be a bit rusty.
His eyes still held a wild glint, but he opened his mouth and answered:
"Did you lose your sense of direction taking the train from Moscow? This is Saint Petersburg... no, wait, it's Petrograd now. We're on the third platform at Petrograd Nikolayev Station, and you're in the Moscow-bound coach of train number 2358."
Petrograd? Not Saint Petersburg? Still bewildered, blinking my eyes in confusion, I clutched my throbbing head and asked the man:
"Um... what... what day is it today?"
"September 23rd."
"Sorry, could you tell me what year it is?"
The man's gaze, now looking at me as if I were a lunatic, swept over my entire body.
"It's 1917. So, can you move aside now, young man?"
His words felt like the runaway consciousness that had been wandering outside my body had finally returned.
Petrograd. September 23rd. 1917...? There was only one conclusion.
Was I currently at the heart of the October Revolution?
That's when it happened.
"Lee Si-young! Lee Si-young, are you there?"
Someone called my name in fluent English. The closed coach door creaked open, and a man rushed toward me, accompanied by the flight attendant.
He was gasping for breath, as if he had run a considerable distance. I didn't know what to say to this man who had suddenly appeared and knew my name. My mind was already crammed with countless thoughts, leaving no room for any more. This is 1917? What on earth is going on?
The man wore a bowler hat, and his face was cleanly shaven, without a single hair out of place. He wasn't bald, either. Though his face looked remarkably youthful, his sturdy build prevented him from appearing childish.
What remained most vividly etched in my memory, however, were his eyes—they shone with pure, fervent longing. He lowered his head, gasping for breath, then abruptly raised it, his unblemished eyes piercing through me as he stared intently at my face.
The man's utterly innocent eyes sent a shiver down my spine for a moment. But in the very next instant, he smiled warmly at me and said:
"Are you Lee Si-young from Joseon? The train arrived a while ago, and we were worried because you hadn't come out."
"Ah... was someone looking for me?"
English. Perfect, fluent English. After hearing accented English with a strong Russian accent all the way from Vladivostok, it was a relief to hear American English for the first time.
Meanwhile, the man who had rushed toward me at my question chuckled as if I'd told a joke.
"Of course! Didn't you come here after contacting Ms. Alexandra Petrovna beforehand? She's desperately looking for you, so I came in her place."
As if something had struck me on the back of the head, I found myself seriously questioning this situation. Was this some kind of hidden camera prank? How could a Russian woman named Alexandra Petrovna have come to find me in Petrograd in 1917? And to think she's actually Russian?
No, wait—was this even Petrograd to begin with? Was this a dream or reality?
I sighed quietly. No matter how much I thought about it, the situation wouldn't become any clearer or better. For now, I decided to trust the person standing before me.
As I stood up, the janitor's scowling face suddenly brightened. I spoke as I rose:
"Let's... let's get out of here first. We should go see Ms. Alexandra first."
"Yes, it seems Ms. Alexandra is very worried because you've come such a long way. Moreover, she's in a position where she needs to hurry to the Far East."
I still couldn't quite grasp the situation.
"Ah, that's beside the point. We haven't even properly introduced ourselves yet. You're Lee Si-young, correct?"
"Yes, that's right. Pleased to meet you."
So my name is still Lee Si-young here. Well, the man earlier asked if I was from Joseon, so there was no need to change it.
He removed his fedora with his left hand and extended his right hand to me. Understanding that this was a request for a handshake, I eagerly grasped his right hand.
He smiled and shook my hand vigorously, perhaps assuming that my awkward grip was due to my being Asian. After a moment, he put his fedora back on with his left hand and began to speak.
"Nice to meet you. I'm John Reed, a journalist from the magazine The Public. You can just call me Jack."
At that moment, I was certain.
This was a dream.