Book I - Rebirth of the Soviet Union
The Dark Dacha
January 5, 1936
Stalin sat quietly at his imposing desk, situated in the corner of his long, rectangular and airy private office. The room’s polished wooden floors, red and green carpets and heavy velvet drapes were always kept immaculate and clean. The whole room was a shrine to order, efficiency and cleanliness. Not an object was out of place, and every piece of furniture, every chair, every lamp, every portrait and photograph had been diligently positioned in the perfect place. Everything had its place. But the room was not clinical. It was not without its charm. In fact it was overflowing with character, love and warmth. Pictures of his smiling children hung on the walls. A framed crayon drawing of a farm house sat on its desk. In the bottom left corner, a few words were scrawled by the hand of the Soviet dictator’s daughter, “For my Daddy, with love from Lana.” Svletlana, or Lana as Stalin called “the light of my life” was one of few people the iron fisted man had ever loved.
Stalin glanced at his daughter’s drawing for a moment before the face of his wife, Nadya, caught his eye. He picked up the photograph of her and held it close to his face. It had been well over three years since her death. Nadya, a soft spoken and quiet women, had suffered from debilitating depression. Stalin’s sneering did not help, and during late 1932, her despair, fueled by alcohol and Stalin’s own stress, spiralled out of control. Although she often felt that her husband did not care for her, there were some touching moments of tenderness between the dictator and his wife. In March 1932, when Nadya took an unaccustomed drink that caused her to fall seriously ill, Stalin gently took her to bed. She looked up at him and whispered pathetically, “Oh Joseph, so you love me a little after all.” Just a few months later she killed herself.
Stalin stared mournfully at the photograph. The dark, morbid eyes of his late wife stared back at him, and a chill ran down his spine. He gently placed the photograph face down on his desk and closed his eyes for a moment. His hands began to shake. He clenched his wrists to stop the shaking and took a deep breath. For the next few minutes, he sat there silently, fists clenched and eyes closed, breathing deeply. When he opened his eyes again, he looked around the office. It was beginning to get dark as the sun set over the Red Capital. The dictator was exhausted and his limbs were aching. Instead of retiring to his private apartment in the upper levels of the Yellow Palace (Sovnarkom Building, one of the Kremlin Palaces), Stalin decided to spend the night at his secluded dacha, Zubalavo, hidden within the thick pine forests on the outskirts of Moscow. He put on his coat and hat and left his office. As he walked out into the anteroom, his Private Secretary, Poskrebeyshev, rose from his desk.
“Are you retiring to your private quarters now Comrade?”
“Not tonight Vyachy.” Stalin replied. “I am driving down to Zubalovo. Tell Andrea (the children’s nanny) that there is no need for her to cook me dinner tonight.”
“But Lazar wishes to speak with you Comrade. He said he would come over to your apartment for a drink this evening, like he does most evenings.”
“It’s nothing important Vyachy. He just wants to get away from his wife. Give him a bottle of cognac, then he’ll be satisfied.” Stalin smiled and left the anteroom.
The long hallway leading from his corner office to the grand stairs was deserted. There were no Red Army guardsmen anywhere in the building, as Stalin cherished his privacy. Four NKVD bodyguards waited in a small office by the main entrance of the building. Another two were always stationed in an office opposite Stalin’s private study, out of sight. They were there for emergencies only and were not permitted to enter Stalin’s study unless he was in danger. The four NKVD men stationed by the building’s entrance would only follow Stalin when he left the building. Stalin refused to be followed around by an entourage of soldiers and bodyguards twenty-four hours a day. The NKVD men were only permitted to escort him while he was outside. As he walked past the open door of his bodyguard’s office, Stalin casually called for them.
“I’m going to Zubalovo now comrades.”
“Of course Comrade Stalin,” came the reply. The four NKVD men hurriedly put on their coats and ran after Stalin, who was briskly walking across the Yellow Palace forecourt towards his private garage. Red Army soldiers, Kremlin officials and party members would enthusiastically salute and cry out “Comrade Stalin!” as he walked past. The dictator failed to return the enthusiasm and simply replied with a half-hearted hand gesture or quick nod. The closer he got to the garage the faster he walked. He couldn’t wait to get out of Moscow. As he neared the garage, Yuri, the young garage attendant, carefully drove Stalin’s black Rolls-Royce onto the main Kremlin road so the dictator would not have to wait. Stalin grabbed the keys for the car and hopped in. After thanking Yuri for keeping his beloved Rolls-Royce so clean, Stalin started the engine and hastily drove along the inner Kremlin road to the main gate. The NKVD men followed closely behind in another vehicle. Unless he was going to a formal ceremony or meeting, Stalin always drove himself. It was one of the few pleasures he could enjoy.
Stalin’s modest dacha, Zubalovo, was an austere two story mansion, painted a grim camouflage green with a complex of guesthouses, a Russian bath and a cottage for a library. This was all surrounded by pinewoods, two concentric fences, six checkpoints and at least one hundred NKVD guards. At Zubalovo, Stalin indulged in his natural craving for privacy. No guards or servants stayed within the house (they were confined to the guest houses, out of sight from the main house). Unless friends came over to stay the night, he closed himself in.
By the time Stalin reached his secluded dacha it was dark. The house itself appeared like an impenetrable fortress of solitude and darkness. As the four NKVD guards entered the house and turned on all the lights, Stalin watched silently from the drive. The night air was cold, and a bitter wind swept across the front of the bleak wooden house. After a few moments, the NKVD men appeared at the front door. One of them nodded to Stalin.
“All is clear Comrade. Have a good night.” Stalin thanked them watched them drive away towards the guesthouses. Once they were out of sight, he walked into the house, closing the heavy oak door slowly behind him. He immediately went upstairs, talking the steep staircase slowly as to not slip. He had slipped once before on these horrible little wooden stairs. They really needed to be replaced, but he never got around to organising it. After a quick visit to the lavatory, he retired to his favourite room in the house, a small wood panelled antechamber attached to his bedroom. It was small yet comfortable, with a fireplace and two large sheepskin armchairs. The walls were adorned with cheerful Bolshevik propaganda posters, relics of the now vague revolution and civil war. He lit a fire and poured himself a small cognac. He settled down in one of the armchairs and opened a photograph album filled with small black and white photos of his family at sunny Sochi. As he looked over the memories, a small smile appeared across his face. He let his fingertips gently touch a radiant picture of his Nadya, hoping to feel her smooth warm skin under his cold fingers. As he was doing so, he heard something behind him. It was footsteps he was sure. It was faint, but he knew it was footsteps. His heart skipped a beat and he froze. He couldn’t move. The last thing he felt was the cold barrel of a gun on his right temple. Then nothing. Everything went dark.