Chapter 6: Can You Keep A Secret?

Vyacheslav Mikhaylovich Molotov would never forget the day he had first met Joseph Stalin...

It had been a typical February morning in Petrograd - as Leningrad was known back then. It was the sort of morning that chills you to the bone, stripping the world of all its simple pleasure with one grey sweep of chilliness. Molotov remembered those mornings vividly; for there were many of them back then, back in his university days where society represented one oppressive blur of abstraction. He had tumbled, kicking and screaming, into a world, some rural Russian town to be specific, of monotonous tyranny, ripped from his mother's womb like a beautiful butterfly plunged into a lake - and Petrograd had called teenage Molotov as if it were the fresh embrace of oxygen. And on that fateful morning, a Tuesday in late 1912, young Molotov had pulled his threadbare jacket over his bony shadows, glanced hesitantly into the mirror, before heading on his way, ready for his first meeting at Petrograd's underground (very secret) Bolshevik headquarters...

See, Molotov had been a Bolshevik since his secondary school days, where a classmate, noticing the spark of triumphalist revolution festering within the small boy, had first introduced him to the philosophy of Vladimir Lenin, reciting wisdom his father, one of Lenin's most trusted confidents, had learnt from the great man as they jogged laps and laps around the school's frozen yard. Molotov had instantly fallen in love with Bolshevism. To be honest, the idea of being a part of any movement made him buzz with excitement. But class warfare specifically? It elicited something within his young heart. From 15, he spent his days in a happy slumber, fantasising about Marxian dialects and the productive power of labour. But it was this day, this Tuesday, in which Molotov would first encounter the true eroticism inherent to being a covert communist revolutionary within Tsarist Russia. And what a day it was!

'Privyet, hello...I am here for the secret meeting...'

Molotov was standing at the door, bursting with apprehension and anticipation. The leaflet had definitely said 'Meet at the Polytechnic Institute, tell nobody', right...?

Silence greeted the young Vyacheslav, a silence so grating he felt his ears vibrate with its still intensity. And then...

'Come in,' whispered a husky, sensual voice. 'The door is unlocked. Come in....'

Molotov reached out, and stepped into the expanse, coming face to face with the man who was to dominate the entire Russian Empire...and Molotov's heart...

Joseph's ragged beauty had always been breathtaking. Molotov clearly recalled the lightheadedness - for he felt it still, every time Stalin looked at him with that piercing stare. But that first time? Having never experienced the terrific thrill of pure lust, Molotov had clutched at his throat in alarm, collapsing onto the rug, stunned.

Now, over 30 years later, Molotov liked to go back to that first conversation. Where it had all began...

'It's ok...I've got you...' Stalin had assured Molotov, concern creeping into his masculine whisper, 'breathe deeply for me...'

'S-sorry-'

'Don't apologise. Apologising will get you nowhere, comrade. It's going to be ok. Close your eyes for me. Now breathe...

'Perfect. Now tell me your name.'

'I-it's Molotov,' he had stuttered,' 'Vyacheslav Molotov.'

'Molotov', Stalin had smiled, 'A nice name...I can already see what a good comrade you're going to be for me.'

And the years had passed, as if in a daze. Stalin had introduced him to his cool friends, Grigorii Zinoviev, Lev Kamenev, Leon Trotsky and, of course, Vladimir Lenin, the man himself. Of course all of them were dead now...

Anyway, in 1917, a mere five years after that breathtaking encounter, revolution had broken out across the Motherland, not once but twice, and Molotov had been there, gay and proud, at Stalin's side. 

Throughout the turmoil of those early years, throughout the destruction of the civil war, throughout the tedious debates about economic policy, throughout the ensuring power struggle and Stalin's rise to the top, Molotov had been there for him. When Lenin had died, which had proved most taxing on Joseph's mental health, Molotov had been the first one he had sought, the only one he felt comfortable enough with to confide in. Of course, Molotov had, in return, confided many things in his beautiful leader. For instance, Joseph was the only man in the world who knew about Molotov's biggest insecurity...his micropenis. And yet there was one thing he had vowed Stalin would never know...

That Molotov loved him deeply. No, he couldn't risk the miraculous friendship they had cultivated with one another, the way Stalin smiled at him, the way he called him his 'comrade'. If Joseph found out, it would ruin everything for Molotov. Everything.

...

We go forward to that late night in early May, 1945, which Molotov was spending in bed, as he tended to do at night. As always, his thoughts were preoccupied with Stalin.... His stern upper lip, his heavily veined hands, his-

The drum of marching boots poorly muffled by carpet punctured the quiet like bullets, breaking Molotov from his happy reverie. He sighed and sat up, wondering whether or not to investigate the source of this disturbance. He was so sleepy...

A few minutes (or was it hours?) passed and he found himself able tune out the constant thudding, allowing it to become another piece of the night's mysterious panorama. Something unknowable, and hence unquestionable. Yawning, he took in the simple details of his room, allowing himself to relax once more...

Back in 1928, when Stalin had assumed uncontested leadership of the Party (plus the best room in the Kremlin), Molotov had begged to be given this room, the one directly opposite the glorious leader. And it was the knowledge that Stalin was so close to him that allowed Molotov to relax. He whispered to himself that it was all under control. 

He smiled as he fell back into his warm bed, wrapping himself in the duvet to shield against the hidden secrets of the night. But there was a sadness that lurked just beneath the surface of his smile...

His room was so close to Stalin's, and yet they were so far apart from one another - as if the narrow corridor separating Stalin from Molotov was in fact an ocean. An ocean that he was sinking in to, absorbed by the treacherous love he had kept hidden for so long. Molotov tried to banish these thoughts from his mind. Hugging his pillow to his chest, he imagined it was Joseph, telling him it was going to be ok, as he had on that happy day back in 1912, and keeping him safe from those strange noises...

...

Meanwhile, in the room across the hall, Stalin and Hitler, entangled lustfully on the floor, were stripped of the time to exchange one last look of longing as they discovered the source of the noises that had troubled Molotov...

The door swung open, revealing Winston Churchill, flanked by at least twenty heavily armed British soldiers. You could they were British because they were sipping Yorkshire tea whilst waving mini Union Jacks. Stalin's blood froze; they looked angry...

'I knew it!', declared Churchill triumphantly, the light illuminating the badly concealed bruise crawling across his face- Joseph's parting gift at their last meeting. 'By the way, I am simply so sorry to interrupt your little-'

'Do you have no shame?' cried the topless Adolf, confused and embarrassed, 'who even are you?

'My love, I told you about him,' whispered Joseph. 'Do you remember?'

The German's deep brown eyes lit up with fear. 'He's going to take me away from you?'

'Addie, look at me. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, ok?

Hitler's eyes softened as he began to giggle. 'What did you call me, Joseph?'

'ENOUGH!' snarled Churchill abruptly, 'Adolf Hitler, you are under arrest on suspicion of starting World War Two. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you...'