Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

The morning on Kamenny Island was colder than the day before.

Fresh snow had accumulated on the branches outside the villa, and when the wind blew from the river fork, the windowpanes would emit a faint sound.

The heating inside the house was still running strong; the steam rising from the tea in the living room and the thick carpet on the floor made one temporarily forget what kind of winter this city was experiencing.

Emi stood by the window, clutching the floor plan of the Winter Palace exhibition halls, looking at it again and again.

She had already circled several main exhibition halls on it and written a few English words in pencil on the side.

But her mind was clearly not entirely on the map; her eyes kept drifting toward the door, as if the Winter Palace would suddenly vanish from their itinerary if she let her guard down for even a moment.

”Satsuki-chan,” she finally could not help but whisper, ”will we really be able to see the Rembrandt today?”

Chizuru was adjusting the collar of Satsuki’s coat.

Hearing this, her movements did not stop, though she did glance up at her.

”Miss Emi, today is not a simple visit.”

”I know,” Emi said, hugging the atlas tighter. Her voice dropped a little, but she could not hide her anticipation. ”But it is still the Winter Palace.”

Satsuki stood before the mirror, watching as Chizuru smoothed out the scarf from beneath her coat collar.

The dark wool coat made her skin look even fairer.

Her attire today still resembled that of a young girl brought to visit a museum by her father; at least from her appearance, there was no hint that she was about to attend a municipal meeting.

”Of course you can see the Rembrandt,” Satsuki said. ”It is just that if Mr. Sobchak and Mr. Chubais talk for too long, you will probably have to listen to the adults discuss ports and food supplies while pining for those paintings through the crack of the door.”

Emi’s expression immediately crumbled.

”That is too cruel...”

”So you should pray that they say fewer pleasantries today,” Satsuki said, ”and leave us more time to actually look at the paintings.”

Just then, Fujita walked in from outside.

He first bowed to Shuichi, then looked at Satsuki.

”Eldest Miss, the motorcade is ready. However, we just received a notification from the Soviet side that the route to enter the Winter Palace has been adjusted.”

Shuichi was sitting on the sofa buttoning his gloves; hearing this, his movements slowed.

Satsuki turned around from the mirror.

”The reason?”

”The snow near the originally planned side entrance has not been cleared, making it inconvenient for vehicles to pass, so the route has been changed to the passage on the square side.”

Fujita’s tone showed no obvious change, but since he had come in specifically to report this, it meant that this matter was no longer just a traffic issue.

Emi’s hands tightened around the atlas.

Satsuki did not speak immediately.

She knew this city would fall into chaos.

Not just Leningrad, the entire Soviet Union was now standing on the eve of collapse.

Material shortages, loose power structures, old institutions unwilling to step down, new figures eager to reach out for control, and ordinary people caught in the middle.

A single rumor was enough to make everyone act according to their own fears.

Therefore, the route being changed was not surprising.

What was truly worth watching was whether Sobchak could keep this modified route safe.

”The lead car should move five minutes early,” Satsuki said. ”The rear cars should close in; do not let any unrelated vehicles cut in. The main car must not stop in a position without an exit.”

Fujita bowed his head.

”Understood.”

Shuichi looked up at her.

”Still going?”

”Of course,” Satsuki said, picking up her gloves and slowly putting them on. ”We came to Leningrad precisely to see its true face.”

Shuichi looked at her for a moment and did not ask anything more.

He trusted his daughter’s judgment.

When the motorcade left Kamenny Island, the sky was still gray and white.

After crossing the bridge, the quiet of the villa district was left behind.

The Volga drove into the city center, and pedestrians, trams, and roadsides stained by slush gradually appeared outside the car window.

Leningrad still looked beautiful during the day; the pale yellow and light green building facades stretched out along both sides of the street.

The only flaw was the people huddled in queues under the porticos.

But today’s beauty was colder than yesterday’s.

When the motorcade passed the second intersection, Fujita glanced at the rearview mirror from the passenger seat.

”Eldest Miss.”

Satsuki did not shift her gaze from outside the window.

”Speak.”

”That gray van appeared once near the bridgehead earlier. Now it is behind us to the right again.”

Satsuki looked in the direction he indicated.

The car window was frosted over, making it impossible to see the people inside, only a blurry silhouette.

It was not parked particularly close, nor was it obviously following the motorcade, but its position was too much of a coincidence.

”Anything else?”

”The two intersections ahead were not cleared in advance. There are a few people on the side of the road who have been watching the motorcade, holding rolled-up items. The Soviet guards are there, but they are very lax.”

Fujita paused.

”I suggest canceling today’s meeting, or at least changing the route.”

Emi instinctively looked at Satsuki.

Satsuki was still looking out the window; a young man by the roadside was standing next to a newsstand, his eyes tracking the Volga.

His expression was not fierce; it looked more like he was waiting for a signal.

”Canceling now would be equivalent to confirming to them that this route is viable,” Satsuki said. ”Continue.”

Fujita glanced at her through the rearview mirror.

”What if there is a collision?”

”Handle it according to the foreign guest protection protocol. Do not strike first, do not let them touch the car doors, and above all, do not give the other side a complete picture.”

Hearing the last sentence, Fujita’s eyes darkened slightly.

”Understood.”

Shuichi sat beside Satsuki, his cane resting horizontally on his lap.

He did not interrupt, only turning his gaze forward.

In the distance, the pale green walls and white colonnades of the Winter Palace were already visible.

It was still unrealistically beautiful under the gray sky, like an imperial relic carefully preserved.

Emi leaned toward the car window.

”Ah, how beautiful.”

Satsuki looked at her.

This girl had been organizing technical summaries until 1:30 AM last night and still had dark circles under her eyes, but she forgot all about it the moment she saw the Winter Palace.

”Do not run around when we get inside.”

”I will not run around!”

”Last time at the Moscow museum, you squatted in front of the telegraph machine and would not leave.”

”That was different...”

But in front of that dignified facade, a small group of people had already gathered.

The number was not large.

At most seventy or eighty.

If this were a real riot, this number of people would not even count for much, but their position was very subtle—exactly where vehicles would most easily slow down before entering the side gate.

The front row consisted of a few people in factory cotton-padded coats, holding cardboard signs; beside them were young people wearing black coats and old military boots, holding rolled-up banners; further back were some seemingly ordinary passersby, but one could see the corner of a camera peeking out from under their coats.

As soon as the motorcade approached, voices rose from the crowd.

”The Japanese!” ”It is them!” ”The Japanese are here!”

The first to shout was not one of the youths, but a middle-aged man.

He was dressed like a worker, his voice low.

”Don’t decide for us!”

Following his lead, several workers behind him also shouted.

”There are still people in the factories!”

”We need to survive too!”

More and more workers began to shout.

These words were not rehearsed; they were even a bit chaotic.

But precisely because of the chaos, they sounded more like voices squeezed out of real life.

Immediately afterward, another kind of voice rose up, overwhelming the first.

”Foreign capital, get out!”

”Don’t sell out Russia!”

”The Winter Palace is not a reception room for capitalists!”

The two types of voices mixed together; the snowy ground in front of the Winter Palace suddenly seemed to have a black line burned into it by something.

Leaflets were scattered.

White paper tumbled in the wind, and a few sheets stuck to the lower edge of the car window.

Through the glass, Satsuki saw the words on them; the ink was thick and the handwriting crooked.

Sobchak is putting a price tag on Leningrad

Satsuki’s gaze paused on that line for a moment.

Yesterday in the living room on Kamenny Island, Chubais had spoken of price and responsibility.

Here, the price had become a sell-out.

This meant the information had indeed leaked, and from more than one place.

The workers knew about the enterprise reform, the nationalist youths knew about the Winter Palace, the gray merchants knew the motorcade’s route, and the guards just happened to be half a beat slow.

Had the Soviet Union at this time already become as leaky as a sieve, unable to even handle such basic confidentiality work.

The youths’ voices became increasingly shrill.

They pushed toward the front row, and someone took a step toward the motorcade.

Then, a black glass bottle flew out from the crowd.

Bang.

The bottle smashed against the side window of the main car.

Black ink exploded outside the protective glass and ran down the window pane, like a crushed eye.

Emi shrank her shoulders, a short gasp stuck in her throat.

Shuichi’s hand went up at the exact moment the bottle hit, shielding Satsuki.

Satsuki maintained her posture with her hands folded on her lap, her face expressionless.

She glanced at her father’s hand, then looked up at the window again.

A young man took advantage of the chaos to rush out of the crowd, lunging toward the door of the main car.

He was not holding a knife, and certainly not a gun, but a roll of cloth strips.

The cloth strip was torn open at one corner by the wind, revealing several Russian letters written in red paint.

Fujita’s men moved very quickly.

Two figures in dark coats intercepted him from the front side, immediately grabbing his shoulders and wrists and pinning him to the open space in front of the car.

”Stop!” the young man immediately shouted.

”The Japanese are beating Soviet workers! Imperialists!”

The sound of camera shutters rang out almost simultaneously.