Chapter 13: Molotov's Bittersweet Cock (tale)

Molotov sat, feeling distinctly out of place in the centre of the vast, high-ceilinged chamber, the walls adorned with wooden panels, with surfaces gleaming under the dim glow of the chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling. Ornate, yet austere, they cast a cold, golden light that shone onto the long conference table. The table, a monolithic slab of mahogany, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected Molotov's grim expression back up at him as he sighed carefully, glancing furiously at the surrounding men. 

Molotov found himself praying to Stalin's handsome portrait above as the next wily, spluttering man shuffled forward, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses with a pair of greasy hands. 'Comrade Molotov, reports from the countryside indicate that grain quotas-'

'Ah, quotas, quotas,' Molotov put on his fiercest look, 'The people understand sacrifice! They will learn to eat more efficiently.'

The administrator hesitated. 'But there are reports of widespread famine-'

'Nonsense! Hunger leads to important character growth. Did we not all suffer in the Civil War? And look at how cool we are now!!!'

The next man got to his feet. 'Comrade, the workers in Magnitogorsk are striking due to unsafe-'

'Striking? Impossible! They love their labour. They love it! Increase the propaganda broadcasts, remind them of their duty. If they complain, they are clearly enemies of the people. Arrest a few. Next!'

A third man, sweating, clutched a stack of papers. 'Comrade Molotov, the Americans have tested another hydrogen bomb-'

Molotov laughed. 'Da! Let them waste their resources...their capitalists will soon devour each other like rats in a barrel. Next!'

One by one, they flaunted their dire warnings. And one by one, he swatted them away, his mind fixated on something far more important. A question far harder...Stalin. His strength. His gentle benevolence. His...

Then, the door creaked open. A final man stepped in, a grim look on his face. Unlike the others, he did not stammer. He did not shuffle his feet. He simply took a long breath and spoke in a gruff, low voice.

'Comrade Molotov... I have done as you asked...'

'Come with me,' whispered Molotov, gesturing upstairs as he ignoring the pathetic complaints of the administrators, who seemed to delight in pestering him. Jesus - running a state was hard work! How on earth did Joseph manage to put up with this full time? 

Anyway, Molotov led the man into his bedroom, well, Stalin's bedroom, but he had been keeping it warm for him whilst he was away in London. Somebody had to, right? Collapsing onto the bed, he turned to his only hope, gesturing for him to sit beside him.

'You're from the NKVD? You got my telegram...' asked Molotov hurriedly.

'Da, in the secret police profession, we're pretty good at what we do, comrade Molotov. Not like these diplomat types...'

'First of all, this stays between us. Second, you have news? Of the German??' Molotov implored, gazing intently at the man.

'Net...'

Molotov felt a lurch in his stomach, as if the waterfalls of fate had suddenly frozen solid.

'By net, I mean I have knowledge of the very man, comrade Molotov. My condolences, you see...for this man is no German, but an Austrian, and a very stubborn one at that. But, I have from my best sources, that he has escaped from the (British) tower; though where he is going, I cannot tell you...' 

'Escaped?' gasped Molotov, rolling over beneath the covers in shock. 'But who is he? And why is Stalin...interested in him? You must tell everything you know, my good sir...'

'Yes, yes,' continued the spy, a slight annoyance creeping into his voice at the neurotic interruptions to his very exciting story, 'His name is Adolf Hitler, I believe you two met briefly, back in 1939...?'

Molotov nodded slowly, remembering how Stalin had assigned him to lead negotiations with the Germans back before the war. He had felt so trusted! So...

'And as for comrade Stalin's interest in the man? Well...' grinned the man (whose name was Piotr, in case you were wondering), 'naturally, we can only speculate. But I can, personally of course, sympathise with why Adolf's juicy thighs and tight, little...mustache...may appeal to our glorious and righteous leader...'

'Shut up,' hissed Molotov, causing Piotr to bounce away from him in alarm, falling onto the floor. 'Shut up and do exactly as I tell you, do you hear?'

Piotr nodded, pulling weakly onto the duvet as if to the hoist himself back onto the bed.

'Good. I have another job for you...'

...

Meanwhile, Stalin's thick and luxurious mustache quivered in excitement as he hoisted himself inside the ((still)British) tower. Finally, after days of marching through the lonely forests of Europe, with only his feet and handsome physique for company, he had made it...

'Adolf, I'm coming...' he whispered, praying that one day, he would be able to utter those same words in an entirely new context...

Stalin moved like a shadow through the damp corridors of the tower's interior. The flickering torchlight illuminated his rugged, hardened features, his brow troubled as his sharp eyes scanned the rows of iron-barred cells. Each held nothing but rats and the occasional confused prisoner who moaned at the handsome Russian in an unintelligible tongue. Stalin was used to arousing everyone he met...

But where was Adolf?

Stalin's breath quickened. He checked cell after cell, peering into the darkness, expecting - hoping - to see the unmistakable silhouette of the man he adored in secret. But there was nothing.

And then, in one of the cells, he saw it. The remnants of what might've been a hastily abandoned meal and a single, suspiciously placed mustache hair. Joseph knelt down and picked up the little flicker of the Führer, holding in his veiny hand as if it were the most priceless jewel in the universe, before growling slightly as he pressed it to his Soviet-red lips.

Aroused and disheartened, he saw that the German had slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing but cold stone, a beautiful hair and an emptiness he couldn't name.

And then-

A noise. The sharp clink of a boot heel against the stone floor.

Stalin spun around, reaching for the pistol at his belt.

'Ah,' came the gravelly voice, laced with both amusement and warning. 'Fancy meeting you here.'

A cigar smoldered between chubby fingers. The dim glow illuminated a pair of piercing blue eyes, eyes that had seen war, empire, and far too much brandy. The owner of the voice took a slow, deliberate puff before exhaling, the smoke curling between them like a veil of iron.

(British) Winston Churchill.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Churchill took a step forward, resting one hand in the ostentatious pocket of his overcoat while gesturing vaguely with the (British) cigar in the other, as he exacerbated his ever-present stench of sour milk.

'Now, Joseph, old boy,' he murmured, 'I do believe you've got some explaining to do...'

Stalin smirked, trying to mask his apprehension. He was not afraid. He couldn't be... 'Mister Churchill, always a pleasure. I was simply... retrieving an old acquaintance.'

'Were you now?' Churchill took a step forward, his cane scraping the floor. 'Acquaintance, huh? I know what I saw when I came between you two in Moscow. If I may say, I would've thought a handsome, imposing Russian stunner like yourself could have done better...But enough with the pleasantries...'

A series of heavy footsteps sounded from the hallway as British soldiers exploded in, British guns at the ready. 

Churchill grinned. 'I do hope you'll surrender gracefully. I'd hate to scuff the historic floors with any unpleasantness after our...close relationship during the war...'

There were too many of them. For the first time in his life, Stalin cursed his own arrogance. Feeling sick to his stomach, he slowly raised his hands...

Churchill chuckled, lighting another cigar (from Britain). 'Oh you poor darling thing! If only your Nazi boyfriend could see you now...No matter, let's find you a proper British cell (not like whatever you Russians use), shall we?'