Be apart of the revolution
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Join the Revolution
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Never judge the cover by its book
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Late November 1917
After the October Revolution (Nov 1917), Lenin created the Council of People's Commissars (Sovnarkom) — the first Bolshevik government.
Each major state function had a "People's Commissar" (essentially a minister).
The key positions were:
1:Lenin – Chairman of the Council (Premier)
2:Trotsky – Foreign Affairs (later War and Navy)
3:Sverdlov – Party Secretary, overseeing administration
4:Rykov – Internal Affairs
5:Lunacharsky – Education and Enlightenment
Stalin – People's Commissar for Nationalities
However, in this story, Stalin was not focusing on nationalities — he was acting as a practical administrator: managing industry, transport, censorship, security, food, and order and even in some cases military matters.
This was a much broader, more hands-on portfolio than his historical one.
He was handling factories, labor unrest, production and even internal security. Directing railway engineers and coal shipments. Managing press censorship and propaganda. Using detachment deployments to maintain order. Acting as a crisis manager, ensuring continuity and control. This would blend roles from three commissariats which would seem overreaching but Stalin was competent in directing, managing and all wide forms of logistics and the politburo knew this.
Unofficially like a minister without portfolio Lenin had appointed Stalin as People's Commissar for Internal Administration and Economic Reconstruction.(A hybrid position combining the powers of Internal Affairs and Vesenkha.)
This authority gave Stalin the grounds to do as he saw fit to improve upon the ongoing crisis but a many didn't like this. Stalin had become a well known sensation, he wasn't without the people's support like in otl , no , he had power and they thought he didn't deserve it. Unconsciously they still continued to look down on him and considered him a creature of Lenin even as they were all major players.
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Petrograd had not slept since the Revolution, only shifted from one kind of exhaustion to another. The streets seemed cleaner now, the barricades dismantled, but the air still hung thick with vigilance — and hunger.
Reports came in daily, as thick as the snow that piled on Smolny's windowsills. Shipments arriving from the south. Fuel shortages in the Vyborg district.'Vyborg as usual damn that place!'Mutinous rumblings in Kronstadt, whispers of riots still continued to spread. And so I signed orders without pause.Each decision was a stone laid upon another in the slow construction of order.But for every brick I laid there was someone waiting to pull it down. Pull me down.
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Lenin called me into his office that afternoon. The place was way too warm — the stove was roaring, and papers and pamphlets were piled up in messy stacks all over the place.
He looked thinner than usual, but his eyes had that same feverish gleam that never seemed to dim.
"Koba," he began, gesturing for me to sit, "your reports are the only ones that make sense lately. I see you've managed to calm the rail workers."
"Calm for now " I said. "They're working and that's far better than them not and causing trouble."
Lenin nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes. Results of progress are always needed now. Still, some of the comrades are… concerned. They say you've assumed too much and overstepped ."
'Comrades like who? That goat looking parasite called Trotsky.' The bastard immediately came to mind as I looked at him unfazed.
"I do no such thing," I lied and he knew this but it was just political drivel.
"I do what is necessary, and my fellow comrades refuse to properly collaborate with me on certain levels pertaining to the state's matters . They mismanage and fall behind in their efforts to resolve issues arising in their ministries and those issues overflow upon me. I am only cleaning up what they can't," I said with certainty.
"Trotsky says otherwise", he voiced.
"Trotsky likes the sound of his own voice," I rebuked.
Lenin chuckled under his breath at that. Seemingly nodding in agreement.
"True. But we must balance perception, comrade. The Revolution is not yet safe. We must appear unified."
'And I'm not the one to blame, well not yet I thought , but if anything they're the ones that have an issue with me. Well…. It was a two way street but I let my dislike for them be kept to myself and circle opting for a more professional approach instead of always being petty.
"Yes indeed and I would love to see such unity amongst ourselves but I am not always to blame for this", I defended with the lie saying it convincingly.
For a moment, Lenin studied me — the flickering firelight catching the scrutiny of his gaze. Then he nodded. "Very well. Continue your work," he formally dismissed me
"I'll speak with the others but keep me informed of progress as usual. And Koba…"
"Yes?" I turned and answered ,my right hand already reaching for the door.
"Do not underestimate ambition — not yours, not others'. It has a way of rearranging progress."
Was this some form of warning?
Perhaps, perhaps not, but it didn't matter really. Because one day he'll be in the ground and I'll be in that chair. And that day was coming soon.
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The meeting didn't really stay with me long after I left , not really sad to say. But it was it is.
In the hall, Trotsky passed by — wrapped in his heavy coat, a trail of secretaries and officers following. He didn't look at me, not directly, but the curl at the corner of his mouth said enough. He thought me provincial, formally uneducated, a bureaucrat playing statesman. He was wrong.
He had charisma; so did I too but yet I had structure. He could inspire a crowd, I could too even on the same if not a much better caliber.
And revolutions, I reminded myself, were not won only by words — but by systems that worked and endured after the test of time.
—- —— —— ——- ——
That night, I called Makarov and Sverdlov back to my office.
"The food situation in the city's markets," I began, "is worsening. Bread lines grow longer, and complaints louder. If we don't control the flow of supplies now, someone else will — the same black marketeers who served the old regime." I said taking a sip from my glass a mixture of squeezed oranges and water. An old habit of mine.
Sverdlov frowned almost looking surprised. "You want to nationalize food distribution?"
"Centralize," I corrected. "We will form a Commission for City Provisioning. All deliveries, all storage, all rations pass through one body. Mine." I almost smiled looking all too smug.
Makarov spoke. "And the Party committees?"
"They will grumble but it will be done nevertheless they only can throw complaints about."
He looked as though he wanted to refute — but didn't. He knew as well as I did that hunger was the truest measure of power. Feed the people and they would forgive almost anything. Starve them, and even Lenin's speeches would lose their fire.
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Within days, warehouses were inventoried, their ledgers rewritten. Guards posted at every depot. Unauthorized traders were arrested quietly — not shot, not yet. Their goods were confiscated "for redistribution."
The newspapers, newly re-opened under supervision, printed a headline drafted by my hand:
"THE CITY STANDS UNITED IN WORK AND PURPOSE — CHAOS GIVES WAY TO ORDER."
And beneath that, smaller, but deliberate:
"By directive of the People's Commissariat for Internal Administration and Economic Reconstruction."
The title alone drew murmurs in the corridors of Smolny.Trotsky's aides sneered behind closed doors; Rykov grumbled about boundaries; even Sverdlov, loyal as he was, warned that others were watching closely.Let them watch.While they debated resolutions and principles, I was rebuilding the machinery of the state itself , I was providing ready resolutions and resources quicker than they all could.
—- ——- ——- —-
Late one evening, after the lamps had burned low, I found myself again by the window, watching the snow settle on the city's streets.
Petrograd was quiet.Not peaceful — never that — but more orderly.The factories hummed faintly in the distance, the trains moved again, and the people, weary but fed, returned to their routines.The Revolution was surviving.
For now.
I knew this was only the beginning. The chaos was tamed, but the hunger for power — in others, in myself — was not.
And if the Revolution was to be as endeavored, then it needed a hand steady enough to grip the reins, and cold enough not to flinch when blood inevitably slicked them, and smart enough to navigate its treachery. My hands and my hands only were mean for this role, it was not only belief but supernatural intervention. This was the reason I came here in this time in this century.