That night he was thinking what he would call himself next, and something elegantly simple came to mind. The name would be easily grasped, and rooted in the Russian word that sounded much like his old family name, for he was Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, and Dzhuga meant “Steel” in the old Georgian tongue. So he called himself by the Russian name for that word—“Stalin.”
It was all set to happen as he planned it, except for one small mishap. Three nights before he would set his plan in motion, a man arrived at the gate of the prison, dressed in the dark black garb of the Okhrana. He presented his badge and papers, and was let in through the high metal doors, slowly climbing the stone steps to the warden’s office. In his hand he held an order concerning a certain prisoner.
“Ah,” said Colonel Martynov. “You have come for the Milkman. It’s about time. I wanted to see him dealt with before I, myself, am replaced here. It seems a Captain Galimbatovsky is being sent to take my place, and for a moment I thought you might be him.”
“Not at all,” said the visitor. “But who is this Milkman?”
“Just an alias,” said Martynov. “Tomorrow we will be calling him something else, but you most likely know the man as Koba.”
“Indeed.”
“Well? Is he to be banished as I strongly suggested? The only thing to be done with this rogue is to get him as far from here as possible. Even Yakutsk would be too close. Perhaps Sakhalin or even Kamchatka would be better. I have heard that Colonel Eremin is softening on the man, but that would be a grave mistake. This one is a snake, and if left to his devices, there is no telling what he might end up doing next. He should be dealt with in the harshest possible terms.”
“Have no fear,” said the visitor. “But tell me,” he handed the Colonel a document. “Is this the man in question? I must be certain there is no mistake made here, particularly since you say this man has so many identities.”
Martynov looked at the document, a police report showing the man’s mug shot, face forward and in profile. There was no mistaking him, young, handsome, with wild dark hair, coal black eyes and that stiff mustache. “That is him, the Milkman today, Koba again tomorrow, or Sosa, or something else.”
“Very well, I must see him now to verify this with my own eyes, and then we can conclude this matter. I have a proper writ, which I will present to you after I see this man.”
“Good! At long last. Here is the cell number. I had him removed from the general population and put in isolation today pending this verdict. Go and see him for yourself. The Corporal will show you the way.”
“Very well, Colonel, but understand that the law may proscribe a harder fate than even you might dictate for a man like this. It will be taken care of this hour.”
“Can you assure me that he will not be permitted to stay in the Caucasus for at least five years?”
“Colonel, I can assure you that he will not live in the Caucasus another day…. Ever again.”
The visitor turned, led off by the young Okhrana Corporal, and soon the cold clap of his boots were echoing in the long stony hallway that led to the cell where Stalin slept.
It was not long before the Colonel would receive yet another visitor, this time a troop of armed men, carrying weapons unlike any he had ever seen. They were tall, in jet black uniforms that bore a double eagle insignia, but they were not like any soldiers or security officers he knew. Something about them spoke of fear, and behind them, flanked on either side by two great beasts that he held on iron chains, there were even more soldiers.
In they came, striding right to the central command offices of the prison, as if they knew exactly where to go. When one of his Okhrana guards stepped to block the doorway, two of the dark uniformed men hammered him aside with the butts of their weapons. Then they kicked open the office door, and three men entered.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Martynov. “Who are you? What business have you here?”
None of the Colonel’s questions were answered. The three men walked boldly up to the Colonel, removed his sidearm, searched his desk, and then one turned and nodded to another man by the door.
“This is outrageous!” said Martynov. “Do you realize who I am?”
In came a tall, trim man, in a light grey uniform with a dark outer cape draped over his shoulders, lined with burgundy. His boots were high and black, and his chest bore a single gold medal, again, the double eagle, overlaid with the platinum letter “V.” The two beasts were at his side, snarling and growling at the Colonel, enough to deflate all his indignant anger. He had never seen such a thing! Those were not dogs as he first thought, but wild wolves!
“Yes, Colonel Martynov,” said the man in grey. “I know exactly who you are. Now then… I will be brief. Do not worry, I have no interest in you at all. I am merely here to see to the fate of another—a man you know as Koba.”
“Koba? Then you are with the man I just spoke with?”
Volkov inclined his head. “What man is this?”
“Why… now that you ask, he did not even give his name. But he had a police report identifying Koba.”
“I see… And where is this man now?”
“He’s gone to see the prisoner, Koba, Sosa, Ivanov, call him what you will. They are all the same man.”
“The Milkman,” said Volkov, with a wry smile.
“You heard that too? Good. Then you must be Okhrana. Were you sent from St. Petersburg?”
“No more questions,” said Volkov. “Where is this prisoner, and this other man you say you just spoke with?”
“He was Okhrana too,” said the Colonel. “He said he was here to pronounce the final verdict, and needed to first identify the prisoner. You do not know him? My God… Could he be an accomplice? Might they be planning an escape?”
“Where is he!” Volkov raised his voice, and the two wolves lunged forward, snarling at the Colonel, who staggered back against the wall, terrified.
“The guard will take you!” he pointed, eyes wide with fear.
The prisoner was awakened in the night, squinting up through bleary, sleepless eyes when he heard the footsteps approaching. A long stony corridor led to his cell, which had once been a storage room, and it was lit by a single bare lightbulb, which flickered on and off at times in a most annoying way. Koba sat up, squinting at the figure approaching his iron barred cell door. Then a shadowy form stood there, his face unseen in the darkness. A quiet voice spoke from beyond the metal bars, saying his old family name, a question in the inflexion.
Who was this, he wondered? Was his appeal to the Viceroy finally granted? Yet how did he know his real family name? Was he a friend, an associate sent by his comrades to offer him aid? He should not have answered the man’s question, but as everything he ever said was mostly thought of as a lie, this one would think his real name was nothing more than another alias.
“Yes,” he breathed, wondering who the shadow was that had come to him in the dark of the night. The shadow was death—his own death—in the hand of a man who held a steel pistol, aiming it right at the center of the empty heart that would so blacken the world in decades to come with its insatiable hunger for violence and revenge. The shadow had a name as well, Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov, though now he simply called himself Mironov, an alias, like the many names this Josef Stalin had taken upon himself. He never gave his name to Stalin, and he wasted not another second as he pointed his pistol, squeezed the trigger, and fired.