I Became Stalin?!

Chapter 38 

As I enjoyed a rare and lively dinner with some of my old revolutionary comrades, I suddenly remembered what had happened a while ago. 

Borosilov, who was now pounding vodka shots and making his head explode, had been unhappy with me back then.

“Koba, do you… need me dead now?”

“What?”

One evening, as we were having dinner, Borosilov looked me in the eye and said that out of the blue. 

The other comrades froze. T

hey all seemed to know about the last letter that Bukharin, who had been purged, had sent to Stalin.

“No… what are you talking about…”

“Just do me a favor and execute me painlessly. Don’t send me to those torturers under that bastard Beria. I may not have been a competent general, but I lived my whole life for the Soviet Union and never thought of sabotage. Koba… please…”

“Come on, Klim, what nonsense are you spouting? Are you drunk?”

Just as Stalin’s nickname was Koba, only Stalin and his close friends called Borosilov Klim. 

That was still in Stalin’s memory somewhere. 

Anyway, I was taken aback by Borosilov’s bombshell.

I could understand him. 

Borosilov was Stalin’s closest friend and he was second in the power hierarchy as the defense minister along with Molotov, the foreign minister. But ever since ‘I’ took over, I had hardly exchanged a word with Borosilov.

He must have been worried about being purged after seeing Kulik, whom he was also close with, being purged during the war, and also because I didn’t even give him a commander or a chief of staff position.

But I had no intention of purging Borosilov. 

Why would I? 

He was not like in real history, running around the front lines like a fool. 

He was personally brave and popular among the people. 

What if I purged him and his son-in-law Joseph Kotin did something like sabotage?

“Are you mad at me for not giving you a command position? Huh?”

“No… that’s not it…”

“Hey, be honest. Think about what you did in the Winter War. Do you have a conscience to look for a position now?”

Borosilov looked sheepish. 

The others seemed relieved by my reaction. 

They thought that even if the secretary-general was inhuman and iron-hearted, he wouldn’t purge his best friend… ‘I’ wasn’t Stalin, but anyway.

“And you did that in the Winter War, right? Who killed all the veterans of the Red Army? Where did those veterans come from again? Or how did they stop the Germans so well? That’s the difference between commanders, admit it.”

“Uh… uh? Uh, yes…”

Once, when Stalin criticized him for his defeat in the Winter War, he threw a roast piglet at him and asked who had killed all the veteran officers and generals of the Red Army.

But now that the Soviet army was fighting a defensive war, it was only natural that Borosilov had nothing to say as they were holding off the Germans who had smashed France and Poland.

“Klim, my old friend. If you were going to be purged, you would have been long ago. And Beria?”

Borosilov flinched at the mention of Beria’s name. 

He had been so cozy with Beria after Stalin’s death that people thought he was a pro-Beria faction. But when Khrushchev came to arrest him, he grabbed Khrushchev and cried his eyes out. 

He seemed to be scared of being purged already.

Actually, those who were worried about being purged usually didn’t get purged. It was those who didn’t know they were going to be purged and acted up who got caught. Like Trotsky or Tukhachevsky…

Borosilov knew how to behave appropriately in that regard. 

He was mediocre enough and quiet enough not to pose a threat, so I just left him alone as an old man.

“Don’t worry too much. I guarantee it.”

“Okay…”

“I still remember robbing banks with you like it was yesterday… When did we get so old? Do you remember when you pushed me out of the way when the guard shot at us?”

“Yeah… hahaha”

Stalin’s memories came back to me one by one from the other side. 

We became close friends after meeting at the first Communist Party congress, and we rose to this position after going through the bank robberies for the Bolshevik Party’s funds led by Lenin, the Civil War, and the Soviet-Polish War.

Especially when Trotsky and his followers criticized Stalin’s strategic actions during the Civil War, Borosilov actively defended him for his old friend Stalin.

What if Stalin had been demoted or exiled by the party then? 

Maybe someone else like Trotsky would have been standing here.

“I wouldn’t worry if I were anyone else, but you. If you really want a position in the military… hmm…”

The problem that Borosilov had caused then was solved by giving him a suitable position. 

It was a brilliant move to assign him the task of creating an elite special force, as he was a poor commander but a competent military politician.

But now I couldn’t see any brilliant moves.

“Father! How could you… how could you… do that to all of my brothers!”

The one who barged in during the dinner with my cronies at the villa was ‘my’ daughter. 

Svetlana Zhugashvili.

Through some channel, this little brat had learned about the reports from the front lines that came to me, especially about my brothers. 

Vasily had been shot down during a penal battalion mission, and Yakov had gone missing during the Smolensk defense.

I didn’t want to spread it around the neighborhood.

I didn’t want people to see me and feel sorry for me.

And Svetlana seemed to think I was a heartless bastard who had purged even her brothers. 

No one could touch her as she glared at me with her swollen red eyes from crying.

Is this absolute power? 

A fifteen-year-old brat who could make a scene in front of the nation’s supreme leader and no one could stop her. 

Even the security guards who were so feared by others were at a loss for what to do.

‘Stalin, you raised your kids wrong.’

My eldest son was fine as a human being, but my second son was the worst of the worst, and my daughter, I saw her in history too, she later badmouthed me behind my back. 

And even the subordinates I loved so much betrayed me.

“Svetlana. Calm down.”

“No, father, you need to come to your senses. You…”

Slap. 

The people’s faces stiffened.

I hated the sight of her snarling at me, so I slapped my daughter, Svetlana, who was screaming at me.

“Are you blaming me for Vasily, that bastard, dying? Do you think there is a family in this Soviet land that hasn’t lost a child, or a father or a husband in this war?”

Do I have to be nice and let that bastard who shot at my comrades and colleagues play around in the safe rear while sucking honey? 

Svetlana seemed shocked.

“Vasily got what he deserved. Yakov may have gone missing, but he died as a soldier fulfilling his duty for the Soviet Union. Why should the secretary-general make a fuss over whether a mere lieutenant is alive or dead? Now get out of here! Guards!”

“Drag her out!”

I shouted at the guards. 

They hesitated, looking at me, then grabbed Svetlana’s arms with disdainful eyes and dragged her away.

It was comical to see the giant guards carefully pulling the small, skinny girl who looked like she could be knocked out by a bear with one punch. But this situation was tragic.

The secretaries looked at me with mixed emotions. 

One was awe.

The Soviet Union had idolized me, Stalin, as a dictator. 

In propaganda, Stalin was always portrayed as an iron politician who shared hardships with the people and made decisions for the state.

Behind that, there had to be sacrifices of the few for the many, and the decisive iron man was seen as a cold-blooded person who had no blood or tears.

But if that cold-blooded person could sacrifice even his most personal aspect for the state and the organization, contempt for cruelty often turned into respect. 

Like ‘me’ now.

I heard that the artillery battalion that included Yakov Dzhugashvili was annihilated by the German air raid on Smolensk. 

The aerial bomb that exploded near the building where they were waiting collapsed the building, and only a few people who were inside were able to escape.

In the midst of everything collapsing, even if it was the secretary-general’s son who was trapped there, it was impossible to dig out and rescue only that place. I received a report, but I said clearly.

“Don’t prioritize rescuing Yakov. First, save the materials and manpower needed for the war, and don’t waste precious time and labor to pull out those who may be alive or dead!”

The soldiers obeyed my order thoroughly. 

And they respected me. 

A great leader who could sacrifice even his own children for the war and the people!

But behind that, there was fear. 

If he sacrificed his children like that, what next? What next? 

Two of his three children died or went missing on the battlefield. 

He slapped and kicked out his last remaining child who was crying.

Then what about them, who were much less important? 

What kind of punishment could he impose? 

My secretaries seemed to be afraid of becoming useless.

In fact, they didn’t need to. 

The paperwork of the supreme leader of the state should never stop, and they were excellent personnel who could assist me.

They were not soldiers like Yakov, nor idiots like Vasily who were better off being thrown away. 

There was no need to sacrifice them unnecessarily.

“I didn’t want to announce it… but this is it. The rumor will spread around the neighborhood.”

“…”

They all fell silent. 

The dinner that was in a good mood became dull as if water had been poured on it. 

I tried to make a joke to make the atmosphere better.

“Hmm, since this happened, how about making a propaganda movie about Yakov’s death? The title is hmm…”

I tried to make a constructive suggestion with a forced laugh, but the senior Bolsheviks seemed to tremble. 

Zhdanov, the head of literary propaganda, took out his notebook and pretended to write something. 

I don’t know if he could write properly because he was shaking so much.

“Koba, you don’t have to do that…”

“No, Klim, what are you talking about… huh?”

Tears flowed from my eyes. 

No, I’m not sad at all. 

Are they Stalin’s children or mine? 

I’m not sad at all, but tears kept flowing.

Clueless Voroshilov kept trying to wipe my tears.

“I’m fine, buddy… Did something get in my eye?”

“…”

Somehow I couldn’t speak. 

Stalin was crying inside me. 

I didn’t know that bastard could cry.

He was the director who created this war that killed and wounded millions, but he was also sad when his children died and got hurt. 

It was nothing but paradoxical.