Chapter 92: The Death of Stalin
Joseph Stalin stared at Bruno with wide eyes, and pupils as thin as needles. He had run quite far to escape from this man and his relentless pursuit. And now that the would-be dictator was sitting across from him, he couldn't help but fear that death was behind Bruno, resting his hand on the man's shoulder in approval of what was about to come as if this foreign general sitting before him was an agent of the Grim Reaper.
A drink? Really? Such was not a kindness at this time, nor was it welcome. Having been reduced to such a pitiful state, an offering like this was merely a way for Bruno to boast about his victory to the defeated wretch in front of him, who was about to die.
Nevertheless, Joseph Stalin knew this wasn't an offer he could refuse, and nodded his head silently, resigning himself to his fate as he did so. Bruno, of course, whistled, causing the men standing outside the door to attend to him. They were confused when he asked for a bottle of vodka and two glasses, but fulfilled the recently promoted field marshal's offer, no less.
The first words to be spoken between Bruno and a figure he despised most passionately were actually from Stalin.
"I see the Tsar has appointed you as a Field Marshal of the Russian Army. A well-deserved reward, considering the lengths you have gone to just to see our cause thoroughly dismantled before our eyes. I still can't help but wonder why you despise us so? Are the lives of workers, and the rights they are owed, really so worthless in your eyes, you bourgeoisie scum!?!"
Bruno poured himself a drink, and then one to Stalin. He did not break out into laughter at the man's misconceptions of him, nor did he immediately respond. Instead, he made a toast, drinking vodka in a single go, ensuring the man that it was not poisoned.
"prochnost!"
Stalin was silent when he drank, refusing to accept Bruno's toast. Which itself was a boast of the strength he displayed on the field against the Red Army. Instead, he silently watched the man waiting for him to respond. And when he did, it was indeed a surprising monologue. "You misunderstand me... I don't hate you Marxists because you claim to represent the working class. I mean, I myself am the grandson of a man who was a professional soldier, ennobled for his gallantry on the field of battle and his acts of heroism in defense of the fatherland.
While I am a noble in name, I am, in reality, a soldier. And my family has always paid the workers in our factories a fair wage, capable of supporting themselves and their families. In addition to this, we support political parties with significant contributions that represent the working class who, unlike yourselves, still have respectable and moral values.
No, I hate you and your ilk, because you are all fundamentally anti-human by the very nature of your beliefs. Your ideals would condemn thousands of years of tradition to the dustbins of history for no purpose other than your petty envy.