From NB-Portal : This text is an excerpt from E. Limonov’s book “A Foreigner in Troubled Times”, and this is perhaps the best that Limonov wrote in his “red-brown”, national-Bolshevik period. Here we see an excellent understanding of the nature of Stalin’s Caesarism, which makes it related to the great ancient Eastern kingdoms. It is also remarkable that there is no naive opposition of the “good patriot” Stalin to the “bad cosmopolitan” Trotsky (“patriotic Stalinism” is already somehow boring). The difference between them lies solely in human qualities, which is what this passage is about.
On the Egyptian cut pyramid of the body of the Mausoleum stood Joseph Vissarionovich STALIN – Caesar Dzhugashvili, in a cap, in an overcoat with shoulder straps, and rain fell from the November Moscow sky. The Kremlin wall and the building and building of the Historical Museum – the color of raw horse meat, the Tatar buildings, equipped with additional lighting from the falling snow, seemed redder than usual. The horsemeat looked fresher . Caesar Dzhugashvili smiled with a secretive smile of a man with a lot of mustaches. It was not an overcoat made of solid Tatar felt that warmed him, but warm air flowed through the grate to the boots of the Generalissimo. The heater was installed last summer. The Generalissimo was always cold now. He was aging fast. And in the white snow his troops walked in front of him … In blowing snow out of chimneys, smashing with clubs of steam, the consolidated red banner orchestra of all military branches shook the air between St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Historical Museum.
What was Joseph thinking? Mentally measured out the abyss separating him, Caesar Joseph Stalin, the head of a state that stretched out larger than Rome and the Mongol Empire combined, across half of Europe and half of Asia; from a Georgian boy from the stone city of Gori? Did you see the bowl of milk served to him by his mother in 1885? Crawling from the side of the Historical Museum were armored tank monsters, the famous T-34s that had just won the war. Commanders in helmets stood in the hatches, looked at the Generalissimo, saluted. Or maybe he saw the hand of his father Vissarion Dzhugashvili, a shoemaker, swollen with veins?
Joseph conversed with the Spirit of His true Father, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. The Father of Nations was talking to his Father. He had long been accustomed to conversing with the Spirit, for Caesar himself had long been a Spirit. And they, without haste, exchanged phrases, while the troops passed through the square with a clang and a roar. “Well, Joseph … Z ruined his equals … Well, now blame only yourself, you don’t even have anyone to talk to, only to me inanimate. This is the punishment of the Great Man – until the end of your days you will have no one to talk to. No one understands you, they are afraid and despised, and there is no one for you to open your soul to … “
“Tell me, father, well, is this all that a person can do, and there is no higher, and will not come again?”
“This is everything, Joseph, there is no higher, and no more will come. Cyrus and Darius, Genghis Khan and the first of the Caesars, and Alexander, here are our comrades with you, how to put it, comrades … “
“I’m sad, Ilyich, I’m sick. And more in spirit than in body. Soon we, father Ilyich, will lie together … “
“It’s your own fault, Joseph … Are you singing a Majorian song about the enemy? You do not know.
My enemy is dead.
The earth was deserted and disgusted.
Life has lost its meaning…
“I mean, Joseph, that you yearn for the absence of the biased eyes of the enemy, watching your every step and deed. You need an enemy, but you don’t have an enemy. Why did Trotsky order to be removed? A great enemy should be protected more than a beloved. Trotsky was a beast smaller than you, and he had no ability to govern the state, but he was the last of my apostles, he understood you … You made an irreparable mistake , now suffer … “
“Tell me, are you still pleased with me, father Ilyich?”
“Are you asking for a compliment, Joseph? Satisfied. Satisfied with you. You were unusually capable of Caesar’s hard work. I’m not sure I could do the same as you. I assume that the ability to manage passed to you by inheritance with blood. From Mesopotamia, it must be from the Sumerians, from the city-state half covered with hot sands, where Gilgamesh was king. In fact , stone lions should be carved on the gates of your Kremlin, clawing at the sovereign scepter, and Lavrenty Beria, having removed his pince-nez, should walk in front of you in leather armor and with an Assyrian blue-black beard. The short sword of the NKVD should turn blue in his hands … “
Caesar Joseph grinned, and the commanders of the Katyusha guards mortars, who were driving at that moment across the square, took Caesar’s smile as an encouragement. The next day, Pravda will interpret Caesar’s Mona Lisa grin as his desire to develop mortar and rocket troops. “Do you remember that you wanted to destroy the State, Vladimir Ilyich?”
“Their State, Joseph … The one in which your father was a shoemaker, and my brother was hanged. I wanted to destroy their State. Our State, yours and mine, I wanted to grow powerful and muscular. And you fulfilled my wish…”
“I served you as a faithful heir, Ilyich, admit it, father! None of the crowd of apostles would have coped with the task. Trotsky was a poser. Of course, a brilliant speaker, but the art of management is not identical to the art of oratory … Look how he allowed me to beat him. Being the Commander-in-Chief of the Red Army, he allowed me, some mere Party Secretary, even though I called myself the General Secretary, to remove myself from my post … He left for Alma-Ata, submissive and obedient, like a child who was shouted out: “Get out of class !” And Bukharin, our theoretician! He was not a practitioner. The art of management – the art of shepherding the human flock – is best given to those who herd flocks of sheep on the slopes of the Caucasus or other mountains, isn’t it, Ilyich ? … “
So they talked at the Mausoleum during a blizzard. Ilyich chuckled as he talked with Joseph. Laughed. He smiled with the calm smile of a satisfied Vladimir Ilyich. Having successfully nestled in the place of the old State, the mighty Tree of the Union of Socialist Republics flourished wildly. The state that Genghis Khan dreamed about. Its head touched Berlin, and its roots bathed in Japanese waters. Supernormal Tree. In essence , a miracle had happened, Ilyich knew it. The Union in January 1924 had only one chance – a Caucasian. Brilliant orator Trotsky, brilliant theoretician Bukharin, brilliant Party functionary having turned to stone, they were all stars, captivating the crowd, capable of working in the Party, but Joseph, the only one, had the gift of management. Intellectuals, beautiful orators and brilliant theoreticians would ruin the Tree in a few years. The son of a shoemaker, a seminarian from the hot stone mountains, spoke Russian badly and with an accent, he was not a Marxist theorist, but he inherited in his blood the ferocious art of managing people … “