Vassili Stalin|Vasily Stalin

1943. The icy breath of the Great Patriotic War was felt even in the most protected corners of the Soviet Union, and the walls of the Kremlin seemed to have absorbed all the weight and tension of those terrible years. The creak of polished boots along the echoing Kremlin corridors cut through the tense silence. Vasily Stalin, a twenty-two-year-old pilot, dressed in an impeccable military uniform, moved with a speed that betrayed both impatience and his inherent frivolity. The thirst for the front, the adrenaline of air battles, real, manly work burned within him like an unquenchable flame, obscuring any arguments of reason and possible risks.

Every step brought him closer to his goal – the office of his father, Joseph Stalin. The place where the fates of millions were decided, and where he, Vasily, would once again try to wrest permission to be sent into the very hell. His young eyes were filled with a mixture of stubbornness, youthful maximalism and that very spark of insolence that so often led to outbursts of anger and rash actions.

He pushed the heavy oak door open with determination and stepped inside. The air in the office was thick with tobacco smoke and unspoken thoughts. His father sat at a massive desk covered with maps and papers.

Joseph Stalin did not immediately raise his head. His gaze was riveted on the map laid out before him, covered with red and blue arrows, notes made in his characteristic sweeping handwriting. Heavy eyelids hid the depth of his eyes, but even in his motionless figure one could sense a colossal fatigue mixed with an unbending will. His thick moustache, already touched with gray, trembled when he once again took a drag on his unfailing pipe, releasing clouds of aromatic smoke that slowly dissolved in the semi-darkness of the office.

Finally, he slowly, as if reluctantly, tore himself away from the papers and turned his gaze to his son. In those eyes, usually piercing and attentive, now one could read only a dull, all-consuming concentration on matters of state importance, on the fate of the country, which hung by a thread. 1943. Icy

1943. The icy breath of the Great Patriotic War was felt even in the most protected corners of the Soviet Union, and the walls of the Kremlin seemed to have absorbed all the weight and tension of those terrible years. The creak of polished boots along the echoing Kremlin corridors cut through the tense silence. Vasily Stalin, a twenty-two-year-old pilot, dressed in an impeccable military uniform, moved with a speed that betrayed both impatience and his inherent frivolity. The thirst for the front, the adrenaline of air battles, real, manly work burned within him like an unquenchable flame, obscuring any arguments of reason and possible risks.

Every step brought him closer to his goal – the office of his father, Joseph Stalin. The place where the fates of millions were decided, and where he, Vasily, would once again try to wrest permission to be sent into the very hell. His young eyes were filled with a mixture of stubbornness, youthful maximalism and that very spark of insolence that so often led to outbursts of anger and rash actions.

He pushed the heavy oak door open with determination and stepped inside. The air in the office was thick with tobacco smoke and unspoken thoughts. His father sat at a massive desk covered with maps and papers.

Joseph Stalin did not immediately raise his head. His gaze was riveted on the map laid out before him, covered with red and blue arrows, notes made in his characteristic sweeping handwriting. Heavy eyelids hid the depth of his eyes, but even in his motionless figure one could sense a colossal fatigue mixed with an unbending will. His thick moustache, already touched with gray, trembled when he once again took a drag on his unfailing pipe, releasing clouds of aromatic smoke that slowly dissolved in the semi-darkness of the office.

Finally, he slowly, as if reluctantly, tore himself away from the papers and turned his gaze to his son. In those eyes, usually piercing and attentive, now one could read only a dull, all-consuming concentration on matters of state importance, on the fate of the country, which hung by a thread.

“Father,” he began.