So emotional
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Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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Few people could make my father smile, except for my cousin Kato. I remember the day she married Yakov, it was the only time in my life I saw father openly weep.
Excerpt from Svetlana Stalina's interview with the BBC in 1997, at her Dacha in Gori, Georgian SSR.
March 5, 1921
Great Port of Saint Petersburg
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
Mikhail Nikolaevich Tukhachevsky stood at the edge of the port, boots crunching softly against the frozen slush, and looked across the ice toward Kronstadt. The fortress lay low and squat on the horizon, its silhouettes half-swallowed by mist and snow, like an unfinished sketch. He had arrived in Petrograd only that morning, summoned abruptly and placed in command of the newly reconstituted Seventh Army. The city smelled of coal smoke, rotting ice, and fear—an atmosphere he knew well and, in some perverse way, found clarifying.
Beside him stood Mikheil Jugashvili.
This, then, was the man.
Tukhachevsky had expected someone larger—someone who filled space, who radiated menace by posture alone. Instead he saw a compact Georgian, narrow-shouldered, slightly hunched against the cold, with an eyepatch cutting starkly across his face. The missing eye lent him asymmetry, not grandeur. He looked less like a conqueror than a peasant who had wandered too close to history and refused to leave.
Tukhachevsky felt an immediate, sharp disappointment.
Jugashvili broke the silence first.
"How soon will you begin the assault?" he asked, tone casual, as if inquiring about the weather.
Tukhachevsky did not look at him at once. He kept his gaze fixed on the ice, on the white expanse that would soon be churned into a massacre.
"Perhaps in a few days," he said. "I want artillery positioned properly. Reconnaissance. Psychological pressure. The fortress must feel itself tightening before the first shell lands."
Jugashvili nodded, hands tucked into his coat. "What's the plan so far?" he asked. "You've got one, right?"
Tukhachevsky finally turned to him. He studied the man the way he studied maps—looking for weaknesses, for lines of force. "I do," he said. "Trotsky spoke of you. He says you and your brother have a talent for… improvisation. He also says you are recklessly brave."
A corner of Jugashvili's mouth twitched upward. "Let me guess," Tukhachevsky continued. "You want to lead part of the assault."
Jugashvili chuckled—not nervously, not apologetically, but with the careless amusement of someone already resigned to the outcome. "Damn right," he said. "Grief does strange things to a man."
"Grief?" Tukhachevsky asked, mildly curious.
Jugashvili glanced back toward the city, toward Petrograd's jagged skyline. "You heard what happened in this city," he said. "The massacres. Especially September '18. After Lenin was shot."
Tukhachevsky shook his head. "I've been on campaign almost continuously since the war started," he replied. "Kazan, the Volga, the Urals. Whites, Greens, bandits, deserters. When you're ordering people to their deaths every day, it all starts to blur. Then again, someone like you must understand that too right?"
Jugashvili nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "My wife was shot that day," he said. "An SR. The bullet was meant for me. It missed."
He said it plainly, without emphasis.
"What followed," Jugashvili continued, "was efficient. I had the assassin's family brought in. I killed them in front of him. Then I emptied Kresty Prison. Everyone—men, women, children. I didn't just order it. I participated. I find it keeps morale… honest."
He turned slightly, just enough that Tukhachevsky could see the single eye studying him.
"You saw the Winter Palace on your way here, didn't you?" Jugashvili added. "That red on the steps isn't paint."
There was no boast in his voice. No tremor. No defensiveness.
Tukhachevsky felt a brief, involuntary chill—not from the cold, but from the precision of it. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A short, sharp sound that vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
"You know," Tukhachevsky said, "I was disappointed when I first saw you. I expected a monster—something theatrical. Something crude."
Jugashvili raised an eyebrow.
"But now," Tukhachevsky went on, "I understand why this city still functions. Most Chekists I've met hide behind abstractions—the revolution, the bourgeoisie, historical necessity. You don't bother. You kill for personal reasons and simply note when they coincide with Party needs."
Jugashvili shrugged. "Alignment is everything."
"Indeed," Tukhachevsky said.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind cutting across the ice.
"I'll allow you to lead the assault," Tukhachevsky said at last. "Your Cheka units will participate as well."
Jugashvili nodded, unsurprised. "Fine by me," he said.
"You will take heavy losses," Tukhachevsky added, almost kindly.
"Everyone does," Jugashvili replied.
"I assume," Tukhachevsky continued, "you'll want to comment on my plan."
Jugashvili smiled again—small, sharp, unreadable. "If you want," he said.
Tukhachevsky finally fully turned to look at him, already rearranging formations in his mind, already seeing the ice shatter under artillery fire. For the first time since arriving, he felt a flicker of anticipation. "So then, Hero of Petrograd, enlighten me."
"You'll need this."
Jugashvili's voice cut through the wind. Tukhachevsky turned and saw him extend a folded sheet of paper, held between two fingers as casually as a cigarette.
He took it, unfolding it against the cold. The paper revealed a carefully drawn map—dense with markings, annotations in a tight, angular hand, arrows and shaded zones layered over the familiar outline of Kotlin Island.
"A map," Tukhachevsky said. "Kronstadt, I assume."
"Correct." Jugashvili nodded. "A handful of Bolsheviks managed to escape the island. We also captured several sailors attempting to blend into the city. They were… cooperative." A pause. "Eventually."
Tukhachevsky scanned the map more closely. Ammunition depots. Barracks. Supply stores. Infirmaries. Artillery emplacements. Even sleeping quarters were marked.
"I recommend immediate bombardment," Jugashvili continued, unprompted. "Do we have aircraft? Heavy artillery?"
"Sixty-four planes," Tukhachevsky replied. "Sergeev himself is overseeing the air operations."
Jugashvili whistled, impressed. "That serious, huh?" He let out a short laugh. "Good. Have copies made. Give them to the pilots. Bomb these locations first." He tapped the map with a gloved finger. "Hit the barracks, the supply depots. Keep them awake. Keep them hungry. The ice has them trapped—those battleships can't maneuver. If you hit the right spots, you might even sink a few."
Tukhachevsky folded the map slowly, carefully. For a moment, he felt… off-balance.
"This is unexpected," he said.
Jugashvili glanced at him. "What is?"
"I expected something cruder," Tukhachevsky admitted. "More reckless. Trotsky told me about your plan during Yudenich's assault—about you and Stalin. I imagined you'd suggest provoking the sailors into charging across the ice, then shelling it beneath them. Or leading a frontal rush yourself. This," he gestured to the map, "is methodical."
Jugashvili shrugged. "I adapt."
"So it seems." Tukhachevsky nodded, genuinely impressed despite himself.
"How many men do you plan to use?" Jugashvili asked.
"Fifteen thousand," Tukhachevsky replied. "Split into northern and southern groups."
Jugashvili didn't hesitate. "You'll get massacred."
Tukhachevsky raised an eyebrow.
"You need multiple axes of attack," Jugashvili continued calmly. "Overwhelming force. Two-to-one at minimum, preferably three-to-one. There are ten thousand people on the island now. If the civilians join in, make that twelve. Soften them longer. And—" he tilted his head slightly, "—do you have chemical weapons?"
Tukhachevsky paused. "Chloropicrin. Leftover stock."
"What does it do?"
"Makes men cough, vomit, cry. Disorients."
Jugashvili nodded approvingly. "Good. Use it on the infirmaries and barracks. Let them choke in their sleep."
For the first time, Tukhachevsky felt something like hesitation—not moral revulsion, but intellectual friction. He had ordered massacres before. He had accepted losses without blinking. But this was… intimate.
"What a waste," he said suddenly.
Jugashvili frowned. "Sorry?"
"You," Tukhachevsky said, pointing at him. "If I'd had someone like you under my command earlier—if you'd been there instead of Budyonny—perhaps Warsaw would have fallen. Perhaps we'd already be marching west. If you'd been in the army instead of the Cheka, maybe your wife would still be alive."
The air between them hardened instantly.
Jugashvili's remaining eye darkened, murderous for a fraction of a second—then cooled.
"Tukhachevsky," he said quietly. "Has anyone ever told you that you don't know when to shut up?"
"I didn't mean to offend," Tukhachevsky replied evenly. "I was praising you. Your talents are wasted in the Cheka."
Jugashvili stared at him. "Do you think anyone else would have saved Petrograd the way my brother and I did?"
Tukhachevsky considered it. He exhaled, then chuckled softly.
"No," he admitted. "I misspoke."
"I'll overlook it," Jugashvili said. "But tread carefully when you speak of my family."
"As you say. Again—no offense intended."
Jugashvili nodded once. "Now. As I was saying. Two thrusts won't be enough. Add a third from the east. Spread their defenses thin. After bombardment, they'll break quickly. Of course, you'll need a fourth assault as well."
"A fourth? From where?" Tukhachevsky asked.
Jugashvili smiled faintly. "From the west. That's the one I'll lead."
Tukhachevsky frowned. "The ice is thinner there. I won't waste men."
"You won't," Jugashvili agreed. "Give me a thousand. We strike at night, after the main assaults begin. Surprise them. Force them to redeploy. You'll win."
Tukhachevsky weighed it—timelines, reserves, losses. The plan began to cohere.
"Very well," he said at last. "You can lead your mad little assault."
"How soon can bombardment begin?"
"I can put everything in order today, it can start tomorrow."
"And the assault?"
"I can delay a week, no more."
"Enough time," Jugashvili said. "To put my affairs in order."
"You sound ready to die."
"I'll be disappointed if I survive."
"That would be a waste."
"Perhaps," Jugashvili replied. "But if I do die, maybe I'll see my wife again." A brief, humorless chuckle. "Though I doubt God would let me."
He turned and walked back toward the city.
Tukhachevsky watched him go, feeling an unexpected flicker of pity. He thought of his own wife, Maria Ignatyeva. Of the blood on the train floor.
"Foolish woman," he muttered to himself—then sighed, shaking his head, already turning back toward the coming battle.
March 10, 1921
The former American embassy, now the headquarters of the ARA
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
I sat across from Elsa, sipping my tea and poking at what passed for lunch. We hadn't said much since one of the staffers brought the food in. There wasn't much to say—she'd already briefed me on aid distribution. The numbers were acceptable. Food was arriving. Starvation was low. My Cheka boys, for once, were behaving themselves. Minimal extortion. Minimal theft. A small miracle.
The silence, however, was unbearable. It didn't help that the windows rattled every few minutes from the artillery barrage. Each distant boom felt like punctuation, as if the city itself was editing our conversation.
"If you want," I said lightly, "I can close the window. If the noise is bothering you."
"Don't bother," she replied, not looking at me. Her jaw was tight. Her scowl had become a permanent fixture.
I nodded, took another sip.
"Is this about the factory workers I shot?"
Silence. Her expression hardened further.
"I did try to negotiate," I continued conversationally. "Like you suggested. I met with them. I handed out winter gear. Increased fuel where I could."
"And then you machine-gunned them down the next day," she said flatly.
"Only after the strikes spread," I replied. "Let this be a lesson: give an inch, they take a mile."
She stared at me like I'd just tracked mud across a cathedral floor.
"They were freezing," she said. "They wanted clothes. Heat."
"Fuel that doesn't exist," I replied. "Clothes that are scarce."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Our enemies', obviously," I said, waving a hand. "The Whites. Reactionaries. They're the ones who dragged this country into war. Frankly, people should be grateful we feed them at all."
Her fingers tightened around her teacup.
"You threatened to murder the sailors from Kronstadt," she said. "Didn't you fight alongside them? Weren't they your comrades?"
"They're traitors now," I shrugged. "If I don't deal with them, someone else will. And probably with less finesse. Lenin won't live forever. If I'm seen as soft when he dies, I'll be purged. Me. My mother. My children. So yes—it's a calculated affair. Kill men I once fought with, or let my hesitation get my family killed."
She didn't respond. Just watched me with an expression that hovered between pity, disgust, and something close to fear.
"If you don't want to eat with me anymore," I added, "we can keep this professional. You send an intermediary. I won't be offended." I paused, then sighed. "Though it would be a shame. You're the only woman in this city—aside from Reed's wife—who isn't either terrified of me, related to me, or contractually obligated to nod at everything I say."
She took a slow sip of her tea.
"You are a monster," she said calmly. "But the fact that you listened to me—even briefly—means you aren't entirely unreasonable."
"I'm glad you have faith in me," I smiled.
"Faith would be overstating it."
"Fair." I shrugged. "In any case, this is probably the last time we'll eat together."
Her eyes lifted. "Why?"
"You mentioned Kronstadt." I gestured toward the window as another distant explosion rolled through the air. "That bombardment? My idea. Chemical weapons too. Incendiaries. Tukhachevsky approved it. I'll be leading part of the assault."
She stiffened.
"I'll probably die," I continued pleasantly. "It's March. The ice is thinning. The sailors will fight to the last. Either I take a bullet, or I drown. Moscow wants this finished."
"You sound like you want to die," she said quietly.
"I do," I replied. "Ever since Maria." I exhaled. "Life feels… empty. Walking streets we walked together. Sleeping in our room. Listening to Caruso." My voice faltered. I stopped, frowned, and lightly slapped my cheek. "Pathetic."
She looked at me, something soft flickering beneath her revulsion.
"You sound like you lost your soul when you lost her."
"I probably did," I shrugged. "I wasn't always this cruel. I was getting there—but she was the one who noticed. She told me I was becoming a monster. I sometimes wonder if it was better she died when she did—so she wouldn't have to see what I became."
"Or maybe you should have died," Elsa said, then gasped softly, as if she hadn't meant to say it.
I laughed.
"No, you're right. I should have. Fate's a capricious bitch."
I stood, straightened my coat.
"That's why I like you," I added. "You speak your mind. Just like her. And I hate you for it. And myself. I'm starting to feel things I shouldn't." I shook my head. "It pisses me off honestly, it makes me think I'm betraying her."
I went to the door and opened it, then paused and looked back at her.
"But if I survive," I said lightly, "I wouldn't mind lunch sometime. No war. No logistics. Just Caruso." I felt so much shame saying it, yet I felt relief.
She opened her mouth.
"Don't bother," I smiled. "We both know I'm probably going to die."
I stepped into the hall.
"Take care of yourself Miss Elsa."
March 11, 1921
Fittinghoff house
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
I stood at the door of the building, I had my uniform on, rifle strapped at my back, pistol strapped at my side. Around me were guards, a mix of Cheka and red army men. And in front of me at the entrance was my family. My mom keke, my nephew Yakov; my children, my pride and joy Iosif, Kato, Besarion, Aleksander, Aleksandra; my sister in law Nadezhda, and her baby, my nephew Vasily.
The assault was to begin tonight, the sun was already setting and I would head to the port soon. Most likely to my certain death. Yet I felt no fear, no apprehension, I felt peaceful. Soon this would end, this life would be over and I would finally die and reunite with her. I'd even taken confession from a priest and taken communion earlier this morning, mostly to calm my mother's nerves but also in a vain hope that perhaps I'd be reunited in heaven with her. But I wasn't naive, where I was going, she wouldn't be there. But even that was better, at least then I'd finally pay for all the terrible things I'd done. Someone like me didn't deserve to have a loving family, a warm bed to sleep in, a high position.
I walked up to my mom, hugging her tightly. "I love you mom." I said in Georgian. "You're the best mom anyone could ask for, never tell yourself you failed me or Joe."
She uttered the lords prayer in Georgian, making the sign of the cross on me. "You should have gone to America, or become a priest. Or gone to America and been a priest there."
"You and I both know I'm in too deep." I replied calmly.
"Its never too late," She said, "In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace."
"Ephesians." I said, "Looks like seminary paid off after all." I smiled as I shrugged. She sobbed a little, I just hugged her, patting her back and holding her. Once she finally calmed I let her go. "I promise I'll come back." I said, kissing her forehead. Another lie, one of many I'd told her in this life, but better a sweet lie than the truth.
I went to Yakov next, hugging him tightly, still speaking in Georgian. "No matter what happens, you're my son in everything but blood, always, I raised you, I helped change your diapers, I clothed and fed you. If anything happens, you're the man of the house, you take care of them all, Iosif, Kato, Besarion, Aleksander, Aleksandra."
"Dad, what are you saying, you'll be fine." I grit my teeth as Yakov said that, taking a breath and hugging him even tighter.
"Your real father, Stalin," I replied. "He's a harsh man. But he cares in his own way, he isn't one for affection like I am though. He prefers actions, not words. Just remember that, and take care of Kato specially, you know she cares a lot about you."
I pulled away, ruffling his hair and smiling, even at 14 he looked so much like his father at his age, only his eyes were kind, his mothers eyes, Kato's.
Next was Iosif, my firstborn, my brother's namesake, my pride and joy. "I love you so much." I said as I hugged him, "Make sure you help Yakov out and help take care of your siblings if anything happens."
"Are you going to fight again?"
"I am little comrade."
"Can I come with you?" His eyes seemed so innocent when he asked me, only 11 years old, soon to be 12, yet he was the most daring of my kids, even bolder than Yakov. I hugged him tighter, recalling the time a few months ago I taught him to shoot my pistol my having him shoot at old bottles, his face lighting up as he hit his first bottle. For a moment I wondered if he would become a monster like I was, perhaps, but I had contingencies, I had a letter in my desk, for if I died with instructions for Joe on how to raise my kids, and I specifically told him to never let any of my kids into the Cheka, only the army or party if they wanted. Joe was a son of a bitch, but even he would hopefully listen to me when it came to that, he owed me that much.
"No," I said, forcing the word out and holding the tears in place through sheer spite. "Where I'm going, children can't go. But I trust you'll take care of Yakov and the others if anything happens to me."
I smiled, ruffled his hair like this was any other afternoon, like I wasn't mentally drafting my own obituary.
Once I let him go, my oldest daughter stepped forward—Kato. My little insurance policy. She would turn eleven in a few weeks, and she looked too much like her namesake. Stalin's dead wife. My former sister-in-law. A walking reminder of ghosts that still ruled this family.
I knelt and wrapped her in a tight embrace.
"I love you so much, my little princess," I said in Georgian.
"W-where are you g-g-going?" she asked, her Georgian breaking and stuttering the way it always did. It still killed me that there was nothing I could do about it. Speech therapists probably existed somewhere. Paris, maybe. Certainly not here.
"I'm going to fight some bad people," I said gently.
"Is th-th-that why there's pl-pl-planes in the sk-sky?"
I glanced up. Bombers were returning from Kronstadt, looping back around for another run. Of all my children, she noticed them first. Always had. She had wooden plane figurines, crude sketches, books scavenged from anywhere we could find them. When she talked about planes, the stutter vanished, like fear itself fled her vocabulary.
"Could I r-ride one?" she asked, eyes bright. "I've only r-r-read about them."
"One day," I said, ruffling her hair. "I promise."
I lingered longer than I should have, imagining futures that would never exist—her walking down the aisle beside Yakov, Stalin weeping as his dead wife seemed to return from the grave, smiling in the same wedding dress his wife wore. A perfect political fantasy. I would have been untouchable. I could have survived anything if I had gotten that far, if I had the will to live.
Instead, I hugged her tightly one last time and let her go.
Aleksander was next. Eight years old. Nine in June. He already had a book tucked under his arm.
"Is that a history book?" I asked, crouching and ruffling his hair.
"It is!" he said eagerly. "It's about the Cossacks. Uncle Stalin gave it to me. Remember?"
"I remember," I said. "Didn't you want another book for your birthday?"
He nodded furiously. "One about Peter the Great. Uncle Stalin said he'd find one in Moscow."
I smiled. Of all people, Joe playing the doting uncle. My manipulations had worked. My family would be safe. That was all that mattered.
"When I come back," I lied smoothly, "we'll go to the library together. I'll get you every book you want."
"Thank you!" He hugged me hard.
I hugged him back harder, biting down on the truth.
Then came Besarion. Five years old. Quiet. Always quiet now. Of all my children, Maria's death had hollowed him out the most. He rarely spoke anymore, except when praying with Mama. I knelt and wrapped him in my arms, feeling how small he was, how fragile.
No words. Just a hug.
Aleksandra came next, barely old enough to understand anything. More Nadezhda's daughter than Maria's. She clung to me, warm and trusting. I held her too, wishing fiercely that she would forget my face.
When it was over, I straightened and looked at them all.
"I love you," I said in Georgian. "I'll be back soon."
Another lie.
I turned to my men, switching to Russian. "Let's go."
We boarded the truck waiting at the curb. The engine roared to life, and we pulled away—toward the harbor, toward the ice, toward the battle. Back to unleashing horror upon innocents fighting for what thought was right.
Excerpt from Svetlana Stalina's interview with the BBC in 1997, at her Dacha in Gori, Georgian SSR.
March 5, 1921
Great Port of Saint Petersburg
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
Mikhail Nikolaevich Tukhachevsky stood at the edge of the port, boots crunching softly against the frozen slush, and looked across the ice toward Kronstadt. The fortress lay low and squat on the horizon, its silhouettes half-swallowed by mist and snow, like an unfinished sketch. He had arrived in Petrograd only that morning, summoned abruptly and placed in command of the newly reconstituted Seventh Army. The city smelled of coal smoke, rotting ice, and fear—an atmosphere he knew well and, in some perverse way, found clarifying.
Beside him stood Mikheil Jugashvili.
This, then, was the man.
Tukhachevsky had expected someone larger—someone who filled space, who radiated menace by posture alone. Instead he saw a compact Georgian, narrow-shouldered, slightly hunched against the cold, with an eyepatch cutting starkly across his face. The missing eye lent him asymmetry, not grandeur. He looked less like a conqueror than a peasant who had wandered too close to history and refused to leave.
Tukhachevsky felt an immediate, sharp disappointment.
Jugashvili broke the silence first.
"How soon will you begin the assault?" he asked, tone casual, as if inquiring about the weather.
Tukhachevsky did not look at him at once. He kept his gaze fixed on the ice, on the white expanse that would soon be churned into a massacre.
"Perhaps in a few days," he said. "I want artillery positioned properly. Reconnaissance. Psychological pressure. The fortress must feel itself tightening before the first shell lands."
Jugashvili nodded, hands tucked into his coat. "What's the plan so far?" he asked. "You've got one, right?"
Tukhachevsky finally turned to him. He studied the man the way he studied maps—looking for weaknesses, for lines of force. "I do," he said. "Trotsky spoke of you. He says you and your brother have a talent for… improvisation. He also says you are recklessly brave."
A corner of Jugashvili's mouth twitched upward. "Let me guess," Tukhachevsky continued. "You want to lead part of the assault."
Jugashvili chuckled—not nervously, not apologetically, but with the careless amusement of someone already resigned to the outcome. "Damn right," he said. "Grief does strange things to a man."
"Grief?" Tukhachevsky asked, mildly curious.
Jugashvili glanced back toward the city, toward Petrograd's jagged skyline. "You heard what happened in this city," he said. "The massacres. Especially September '18. After Lenin was shot."
Tukhachevsky shook his head. "I've been on campaign almost continuously since the war started," he replied. "Kazan, the Volga, the Urals. Whites, Greens, bandits, deserters. When you're ordering people to their deaths every day, it all starts to blur. Then again, someone like you must understand that too right?"
Jugashvili nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "My wife was shot that day," he said. "An SR. The bullet was meant for me. It missed."
He said it plainly, without emphasis.
"What followed," Jugashvili continued, "was efficient. I had the assassin's family brought in. I killed them in front of him. Then I emptied Kresty Prison. Everyone—men, women, children. I didn't just order it. I participated. I find it keeps morale… honest."
He turned slightly, just enough that Tukhachevsky could see the single eye studying him.
"You saw the Winter Palace on your way here, didn't you?" Jugashvili added. "That red on the steps isn't paint."
There was no boast in his voice. No tremor. No defensiveness.
Tukhachevsky felt a brief, involuntary chill—not from the cold, but from the precision of it. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A short, sharp sound that vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
"You know," Tukhachevsky said, "I was disappointed when I first saw you. I expected a monster—something theatrical. Something crude."
Jugashvili raised an eyebrow.
"But now," Tukhachevsky went on, "I understand why this city still functions. Most Chekists I've met hide behind abstractions—the revolution, the bourgeoisie, historical necessity. You don't bother. You kill for personal reasons and simply note when they coincide with Party needs."
Jugashvili shrugged. "Alignment is everything."
"Indeed," Tukhachevsky said.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind cutting across the ice.
"I'll allow you to lead the assault," Tukhachevsky said at last. "Your Cheka units will participate as well."
Jugashvili nodded, unsurprised. "Fine by me," he said.
"You will take heavy losses," Tukhachevsky added, almost kindly.
"Everyone does," Jugashvili replied.
"I assume," Tukhachevsky continued, "you'll want to comment on my plan."
Jugashvili smiled again—small, sharp, unreadable. "If you want," he said.
Tukhachevsky finally fully turned to look at him, already rearranging formations in his mind, already seeing the ice shatter under artillery fire. For the first time since arriving, he felt a flicker of anticipation. "So then, Hero of Petrograd, enlighten me."
"You'll need this."
Jugashvili's voice cut through the wind. Tukhachevsky turned and saw him extend a folded sheet of paper, held between two fingers as casually as a cigarette.
He took it, unfolding it against the cold. The paper revealed a carefully drawn map—dense with markings, annotations in a tight, angular hand, arrows and shaded zones layered over the familiar outline of Kotlin Island.
"A map," Tukhachevsky said. "Kronstadt, I assume."
"Correct." Jugashvili nodded. "A handful of Bolsheviks managed to escape the island. We also captured several sailors attempting to blend into the city. They were… cooperative." A pause. "Eventually."
Tukhachevsky scanned the map more closely. Ammunition depots. Barracks. Supply stores. Infirmaries. Artillery emplacements. Even sleeping quarters were marked.
"I recommend immediate bombardment," Jugashvili continued, unprompted. "Do we have aircraft? Heavy artillery?"
"Sixty-four planes," Tukhachevsky replied. "Sergeev himself is overseeing the air operations."
Jugashvili whistled, impressed. "That serious, huh?" He let out a short laugh. "Good. Have copies made. Give them to the pilots. Bomb these locations first." He tapped the map with a gloved finger. "Hit the barracks, the supply depots. Keep them awake. Keep them hungry. The ice has them trapped—those battleships can't maneuver. If you hit the right spots, you might even sink a few."
Tukhachevsky folded the map slowly, carefully. For a moment, he felt… off-balance.
"This is unexpected," he said.
Jugashvili glanced at him. "What is?"
"I expected something cruder," Tukhachevsky admitted. "More reckless. Trotsky told me about your plan during Yudenich's assault—about you and Stalin. I imagined you'd suggest provoking the sailors into charging across the ice, then shelling it beneath them. Or leading a frontal rush yourself. This," he gestured to the map, "is methodical."
Jugashvili shrugged. "I adapt."
"So it seems." Tukhachevsky nodded, genuinely impressed despite himself.
"How many men do you plan to use?" Jugashvili asked.
"Fifteen thousand," Tukhachevsky replied. "Split into northern and southern groups."
Jugashvili didn't hesitate. "You'll get massacred."
Tukhachevsky raised an eyebrow.
"You need multiple axes of attack," Jugashvili continued calmly. "Overwhelming force. Two-to-one at minimum, preferably three-to-one. There are ten thousand people on the island now. If the civilians join in, make that twelve. Soften them longer. And—" he tilted his head slightly, "—do you have chemical weapons?"
Tukhachevsky paused. "Chloropicrin. Leftover stock."
"What does it do?"
"Makes men cough, vomit, cry. Disorients."
Jugashvili nodded approvingly. "Good. Use it on the infirmaries and barracks. Let them choke in their sleep."
For the first time, Tukhachevsky felt something like hesitation—not moral revulsion, but intellectual friction. He had ordered massacres before. He had accepted losses without blinking. But this was… intimate.
"What a waste," he said suddenly.
Jugashvili frowned. "Sorry?"
"You," Tukhachevsky said, pointing at him. "If I'd had someone like you under my command earlier—if you'd been there instead of Budyonny—perhaps Warsaw would have fallen. Perhaps we'd already be marching west. If you'd been in the army instead of the Cheka, maybe your wife would still be alive."
The air between them hardened instantly.
Jugashvili's remaining eye darkened, murderous for a fraction of a second—then cooled.
"Tukhachevsky," he said quietly. "Has anyone ever told you that you don't know when to shut up?"
"I didn't mean to offend," Tukhachevsky replied evenly. "I was praising you. Your talents are wasted in the Cheka."
Jugashvili stared at him. "Do you think anyone else would have saved Petrograd the way my brother and I did?"
Tukhachevsky considered it. He exhaled, then chuckled softly.
"No," he admitted. "I misspoke."
"I'll overlook it," Jugashvili said. "But tread carefully when you speak of my family."
"As you say. Again—no offense intended."
Jugashvili nodded once. "Now. As I was saying. Two thrusts won't be enough. Add a third from the east. Spread their defenses thin. After bombardment, they'll break quickly. Of course, you'll need a fourth assault as well."
"A fourth? From where?" Tukhachevsky asked.
Jugashvili smiled faintly. "From the west. That's the one I'll lead."
Tukhachevsky frowned. "The ice is thinner there. I won't waste men."
"You won't," Jugashvili agreed. "Give me a thousand. We strike at night, after the main assaults begin. Surprise them. Force them to redeploy. You'll win."
Tukhachevsky weighed it—timelines, reserves, losses. The plan began to cohere.
"Very well," he said at last. "You can lead your mad little assault."
"How soon can bombardment begin?"
"I can put everything in order today, it can start tomorrow."
"And the assault?"
"I can delay a week, no more."
"Enough time," Jugashvili said. "To put my affairs in order."
"You sound ready to die."
"I'll be disappointed if I survive."
"That would be a waste."
"Perhaps," Jugashvili replied. "But if I do die, maybe I'll see my wife again." A brief, humorless chuckle. "Though I doubt God would let me."
He turned and walked back toward the city.
Tukhachevsky watched him go, feeling an unexpected flicker of pity. He thought of his own wife, Maria Ignatyeva. Of the blood on the train floor.
"Foolish woman," he muttered to himself—then sighed, shaking his head, already turning back toward the coming battle.
March 10, 1921
The former American embassy, now the headquarters of the ARA
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
I sat across from Elsa, sipping my tea and poking at what passed for lunch. We hadn't said much since one of the staffers brought the food in. There wasn't much to say—she'd already briefed me on aid distribution. The numbers were acceptable. Food was arriving. Starvation was low. My Cheka boys, for once, were behaving themselves. Minimal extortion. Minimal theft. A small miracle.
The silence, however, was unbearable. It didn't help that the windows rattled every few minutes from the artillery barrage. Each distant boom felt like punctuation, as if the city itself was editing our conversation.
"If you want," I said lightly, "I can close the window. If the noise is bothering you."
"Don't bother," she replied, not looking at me. Her jaw was tight. Her scowl had become a permanent fixture.
I nodded, took another sip.
"Is this about the factory workers I shot?"
Silence. Her expression hardened further.
"I did try to negotiate," I continued conversationally. "Like you suggested. I met with them. I handed out winter gear. Increased fuel where I could."
"And then you machine-gunned them down the next day," she said flatly.
"Only after the strikes spread," I replied. "Let this be a lesson: give an inch, they take a mile."
She stared at me like I'd just tracked mud across a cathedral floor.
"They were freezing," she said. "They wanted clothes. Heat."
"Fuel that doesn't exist," I replied. "Clothes that are scarce."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Our enemies', obviously," I said, waving a hand. "The Whites. Reactionaries. They're the ones who dragged this country into war. Frankly, people should be grateful we feed them at all."
Her fingers tightened around her teacup.
"You threatened to murder the sailors from Kronstadt," she said. "Didn't you fight alongside them? Weren't they your comrades?"
"They're traitors now," I shrugged. "If I don't deal with them, someone else will. And probably with less finesse. Lenin won't live forever. If I'm seen as soft when he dies, I'll be purged. Me. My mother. My children. So yes—it's a calculated affair. Kill men I once fought with, or let my hesitation get my family killed."
She didn't respond. Just watched me with an expression that hovered between pity, disgust, and something close to fear.
"If you don't want to eat with me anymore," I added, "we can keep this professional. You send an intermediary. I won't be offended." I paused, then sighed. "Though it would be a shame. You're the only woman in this city—aside from Reed's wife—who isn't either terrified of me, related to me, or contractually obligated to nod at everything I say."
She took a slow sip of her tea.
"You are a monster," she said calmly. "But the fact that you listened to me—even briefly—means you aren't entirely unreasonable."
"I'm glad you have faith in me," I smiled.
"Faith would be overstating it."
"Fair." I shrugged. "In any case, this is probably the last time we'll eat together."
Her eyes lifted. "Why?"
"You mentioned Kronstadt." I gestured toward the window as another distant explosion rolled through the air. "That bombardment? My idea. Chemical weapons too. Incendiaries. Tukhachevsky approved it. I'll be leading part of the assault."
She stiffened.
"I'll probably die," I continued pleasantly. "It's March. The ice is thinning. The sailors will fight to the last. Either I take a bullet, or I drown. Moscow wants this finished."
"You sound like you want to die," she said quietly.
"I do," I replied. "Ever since Maria." I exhaled. "Life feels… empty. Walking streets we walked together. Sleeping in our room. Listening to Caruso." My voice faltered. I stopped, frowned, and lightly slapped my cheek. "Pathetic."
She looked at me, something soft flickering beneath her revulsion.
"You sound like you lost your soul when you lost her."
"I probably did," I shrugged. "I wasn't always this cruel. I was getting there—but she was the one who noticed. She told me I was becoming a monster. I sometimes wonder if it was better she died when she did—so she wouldn't have to see what I became."
"Or maybe you should have died," Elsa said, then gasped softly, as if she hadn't meant to say it.
I laughed.
"No, you're right. I should have. Fate's a capricious bitch."
I stood, straightened my coat.
"That's why I like you," I added. "You speak your mind. Just like her. And I hate you for it. And myself. I'm starting to feel things I shouldn't." I shook my head. "It pisses me off honestly, it makes me think I'm betraying her."
I went to the door and opened it, then paused and looked back at her.
"But if I survive," I said lightly, "I wouldn't mind lunch sometime. No war. No logistics. Just Caruso." I felt so much shame saying it, yet I felt relief.
She opened her mouth.
"Don't bother," I smiled. "We both know I'm probably going to die."
I stepped into the hall.
"Take care of yourself Miss Elsa."
March 11, 1921
Fittinghoff house
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
I stood at the door of the building, I had my uniform on, rifle strapped at my back, pistol strapped at my side. Around me were guards, a mix of Cheka and red army men. And in front of me at the entrance was my family. My mom keke, my nephew Yakov; my children, my pride and joy Iosif, Kato, Besarion, Aleksander, Aleksandra; my sister in law Nadezhda, and her baby, my nephew Vasily.
The assault was to begin tonight, the sun was already setting and I would head to the port soon. Most likely to my certain death. Yet I felt no fear, no apprehension, I felt peaceful. Soon this would end, this life would be over and I would finally die and reunite with her. I'd even taken confession from a priest and taken communion earlier this morning, mostly to calm my mother's nerves but also in a vain hope that perhaps I'd be reunited in heaven with her. But I wasn't naive, where I was going, she wouldn't be there. But even that was better, at least then I'd finally pay for all the terrible things I'd done. Someone like me didn't deserve to have a loving family, a warm bed to sleep in, a high position.
I walked up to my mom, hugging her tightly. "I love you mom." I said in Georgian. "You're the best mom anyone could ask for, never tell yourself you failed me or Joe."
She uttered the lords prayer in Georgian, making the sign of the cross on me. "You should have gone to America, or become a priest. Or gone to America and been a priest there."
"You and I both know I'm in too deep." I replied calmly.
"Its never too late," She said, "In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace."
"Ephesians." I said, "Looks like seminary paid off after all." I smiled as I shrugged. She sobbed a little, I just hugged her, patting her back and holding her. Once she finally calmed I let her go. "I promise I'll come back." I said, kissing her forehead. Another lie, one of many I'd told her in this life, but better a sweet lie than the truth.
I went to Yakov next, hugging him tightly, still speaking in Georgian. "No matter what happens, you're my son in everything but blood, always, I raised you, I helped change your diapers, I clothed and fed you. If anything happens, you're the man of the house, you take care of them all, Iosif, Kato, Besarion, Aleksander, Aleksandra."
"Dad, what are you saying, you'll be fine." I grit my teeth as Yakov said that, taking a breath and hugging him even tighter.
"Your real father, Stalin," I replied. "He's a harsh man. But he cares in his own way, he isn't one for affection like I am though. He prefers actions, not words. Just remember that, and take care of Kato specially, you know she cares a lot about you."
I pulled away, ruffling his hair and smiling, even at 14 he looked so much like his father at his age, only his eyes were kind, his mothers eyes, Kato's.
Next was Iosif, my firstborn, my brother's namesake, my pride and joy. "I love you so much." I said as I hugged him, "Make sure you help Yakov out and help take care of your siblings if anything happens."
"Are you going to fight again?"
"I am little comrade."
"Can I come with you?" His eyes seemed so innocent when he asked me, only 11 years old, soon to be 12, yet he was the most daring of my kids, even bolder than Yakov. I hugged him tighter, recalling the time a few months ago I taught him to shoot my pistol my having him shoot at old bottles, his face lighting up as he hit his first bottle. For a moment I wondered if he would become a monster like I was, perhaps, but I had contingencies, I had a letter in my desk, for if I died with instructions for Joe on how to raise my kids, and I specifically told him to never let any of my kids into the Cheka, only the army or party if they wanted. Joe was a son of a bitch, but even he would hopefully listen to me when it came to that, he owed me that much.
"No," I said, forcing the word out and holding the tears in place through sheer spite. "Where I'm going, children can't go. But I trust you'll take care of Yakov and the others if anything happens to me."
I smiled, ruffled his hair like this was any other afternoon, like I wasn't mentally drafting my own obituary.
Once I let him go, my oldest daughter stepped forward—Kato. My little insurance policy. She would turn eleven in a few weeks, and she looked too much like her namesake. Stalin's dead wife. My former sister-in-law. A walking reminder of ghosts that still ruled this family.
I knelt and wrapped her in a tight embrace.
"I love you so much, my little princess," I said in Georgian.
"W-where are you g-g-going?" she asked, her Georgian breaking and stuttering the way it always did. It still killed me that there was nothing I could do about it. Speech therapists probably existed somewhere. Paris, maybe. Certainly not here.
"I'm going to fight some bad people," I said gently.
"Is th-th-that why there's pl-pl-planes in the sk-sky?"
I glanced up. Bombers were returning from Kronstadt, looping back around for another run. Of all my children, she noticed them first. Always had. She had wooden plane figurines, crude sketches, books scavenged from anywhere we could find them. When she talked about planes, the stutter vanished, like fear itself fled her vocabulary.
"Could I r-ride one?" she asked, eyes bright. "I've only r-r-read about them."
"One day," I said, ruffling her hair. "I promise."
I lingered longer than I should have, imagining futures that would never exist—her walking down the aisle beside Yakov, Stalin weeping as his dead wife seemed to return from the grave, smiling in the same wedding dress his wife wore. A perfect political fantasy. I would have been untouchable. I could have survived anything if I had gotten that far, if I had the will to live.
Instead, I hugged her tightly one last time and let her go.
Aleksander was next. Eight years old. Nine in June. He already had a book tucked under his arm.
"Is that a history book?" I asked, crouching and ruffling his hair.
"It is!" he said eagerly. "It's about the Cossacks. Uncle Stalin gave it to me. Remember?"
"I remember," I said. "Didn't you want another book for your birthday?"
He nodded furiously. "One about Peter the Great. Uncle Stalin said he'd find one in Moscow."
I smiled. Of all people, Joe playing the doting uncle. My manipulations had worked. My family would be safe. That was all that mattered.
"When I come back," I lied smoothly, "we'll go to the library together. I'll get you every book you want."
"Thank you!" He hugged me hard.
I hugged him back harder, biting down on the truth.
Then came Besarion. Five years old. Quiet. Always quiet now. Of all my children, Maria's death had hollowed him out the most. He rarely spoke anymore, except when praying with Mama. I knelt and wrapped him in my arms, feeling how small he was, how fragile.
No words. Just a hug.
Aleksandra came next, barely old enough to understand anything. More Nadezhda's daughter than Maria's. She clung to me, warm and trusting. I held her too, wishing fiercely that she would forget my face.
When it was over, I straightened and looked at them all.
"I love you," I said in Georgian. "I'll be back soon."
Another lie.
I turned to my men, switching to Russian. "Let's go."
We boarded the truck waiting at the curb. The engine roared to life, and we pulled away—toward the harbor, toward the ice, toward the battle. Back to unleashing horror upon innocents fighting for what thought was right.
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