Update 4/26/16: I just watched a German movie “Look Who’s Back” based on the novel of the same name. The English translation is a bestseller. It’s similar in idea to my novel. 

This is my upcoming novel with a mock-up cover.


True to the prophecy of the Russian poet Mayakovsky, “Lenin lived/ Lenin lives/ Lenin will live,” Vladimir Ilyich comes back to life in his Red Square Mausoleum. He gets a second chance to fight for the poor, destroy the rich, and gain power for himself.  Unhappy with Putin’s Russia, he comes to America and runs for the office of President, Constitution be damned. On his way toward taking over America, he becomes an overnight sensation thanks to his novelty, his maverick status and his support from poor Russian and rich American aficionados. Women love him, and the rest of the voters are split equally between hysterical adoration and well-grounded hate. Some want Constitutional amendment, and some want him dead again. The Russian Mafia and politicians strive to control him while a love-crazed physician wants a revenge for her scorned advances.



An excerpt:

Chapter 1

The evening of January 21, 1924, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, was busy dying. He kept sinking into the bog of unconsciousness, filling up his mouth and nose with corrosive muck the color of the Soviet flag. Eventually, he would resurface, but each time he remained under longer and longer, and each time the burning would get more intense.

A squad of his closest comrades, a platoon of doctors, a company of nurses, and a battalion of Latvian guards surrounded his bed in concentric circles. He was the stone, and they were the ripples. He was the summit, and they were the hills. He was the sun, and they were the comets.

The comrades read him The Manifesto of the Communist Party, though they could hardly get past “A spectre is haunting Europe—the spectre of communism” because of spasms in their throats, and because their tears turned the pages back into the paper pulp where it came from.
The doctors and nurses injected him, massaged him, fed him pills and tinctures, and measured his temperature.

The guards confessed in dramatic whispers, albeit with a Latvian accent, their willingness to sacrifice their collective life for him. As a bonus, they ground their teeth and clutched their rifles so their knuckles turned the same color as their mortal enemies: the Whites.
Nothing helped. The bullets of Fanya Kaplan, a Social Revolutionary terrorist, had brought three strokes in rapid succession to Lenin’s formerly handsome, well-built, and invincible body.

The shooter, that hysterical maiden, fancied herself a modern day Charlotte Corday, dreamed of martyrdom, a concept as outdated as smelling salts for her kind. There was nothing wrong with shooting or blowing up a few overly oppressive bourgeois leaders—in moderation, of course.  But killing Lenin?  A catastrophe! Workers and peasants all over the planet needed him, the light of the world. The poet Mayakovksy said, “He carried a billion and a half people in his skull.”

Who would dare to shatter this magnificent skull and spill this multitude?

Yet that was exactly what the terrorist did. Now, Lenin had no choice but to leave the workers and peasants alone in the dark, and move into nothingness.
The chief of his secret police, “Iron Felix” Dzerzhinsky, had the terrorist shot, of course, but in this he showed his customary lack of vision. He should have come up with something more original than a bullet to the back of the head, more suitable for the twentieth century. Tearing her apart with two armored cars would have been cutting-edge, innovative and visually striking. On the other hand, the West would probably have not approved.

“What are my chances?” Lenin asked the chief doctor when he regained consciousness for a brief moment.

The doctor bent towards him. His worried beard, anxious mouth and concerned eyes hovered a few centimeters above Lenin’s face. “We are doing the best we can, Comrade Lenin.”
“Do you understand Russian, doctor?”

The doctor’s lips began to twitch even harder. “I’m an ethnic Russian, Comrade.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you understand conversational Russian, doctor?”

“Yes, Comrade Lenin. I do.”

“So, answer my question. What are my chances for survival?”

“Your chances for survival are poor, Comrade Lenin, but we are doing the best we can. Please don’t call Comrade Dzerzhinsky.”

Lenin was about to say that Felix Dzerzhinsky was the most humane secret policeman in the world, and that he personally served every prisoner hot tea with honey before executing them, but lost consciousness again.