Be apart of the revolution
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Join the Revolution
———————-
Early December 1917
I had begun to understand something that many of them refused to see — the revolution had already entered its second phase. The storming was over. The speeches, the slogans, the exaltations of liberation — all of that was becoming background noise.
Now came the part they weren't prepared for: governing.
Trotsky's voice harried again through the corridors, the same rapid tone, the same thunderous gestures. He was planning a public address about defending the revolution's purity, about the bourgeois counterrevolutionaries conspiring abroad. Idealistic, loud, dramatic — and utterly detached from the hunger in the workers' quarters and locally.
I sat comfortably in my office, its lamps casting a layer of light across maps and reports.
Sverdlov entered, as he always did, without waiting for permission.
"Lenin has called another council meeting," he said, his tone neutral, though I caught the faintest edge.
"Another?" I looked up, expression unchanging.
"He intends to debate the same questions until winter thaws, it seems."
Sverdlov smirked faintly. "They're calling for a clearer delineation of responsibilities. Some of the commissars are… uneasy about your recent directives."
"Of course the bastards would be"
"Uneasy," I repeated softly, letting the word linger in as I let out a dark chuckle.
"Yes. That's what men call it when they fear someone working while they paraded and talked."
He didn't argue — to his credit, Sverdlov understood efficiency. But the subtext was clear: the others were growing wary. My office handled too much — internal order, supplies, rail lines, even censorship. To them, that made me dangerous.
"Let them speak," I said finally. "And while they do, we'll handle our day to day business."
The council meeting that night was held in one of Smolny's great halls, its high ceiling emphasizing the size of the building.
Lenin sat at the head, sharp-eyed, his pen scratching notes even as he listened. Trotsky, ever theatrical, stood half the time he spoke, pacing as though the floor itself was a stage.
An actor everywhere he goes.
Rykov complained about overlapping authority in the ministries. Dzerzhinsky wanted more resources for internal security, claiming spies and saboteurs were multiplying. And then, inevitably, eyes turned to me.
"Comrade Stalin," Trotsky started, his tone cordial but miserable "perhaps you could explain why detachments under your authority have been conducting arrests without consultation with the commissariat of internal affairs?"
He was smiling — the kind of smile that one showed when they did something mischievous.
I leaned back in my chair, hands rested on my thighs and fingers intertwined. I was calm he couldn't corner me with these theatrics, I knew this.
"Because, Comrade Trotsky, those detachments answer to the needs of the people and its revolution, not the vanity of jurisdiction. The factories were idle, the workers restless, the supply lines paralyzed. Should I have waited for permission while the city starved?"
Murmurs rippled around the table.
Trotsky's smile thinned. "You take much upon yourself, Stalin. These are matters for collective decision, not private initiative."
"Collective indecision has already cost us weeks," I replied. "The people want bread, not updates of our meetings. They will not forgive us if our bureaucracy of process starves them."
Lenin's gaze flickered between us, he was thinking, but then he spoke.
"Enough. Comrade Stalin's measures have brought order to the capital when chaos might have returned. But," he added, looking directly at me, "the Party must remain united in its purpose. Coordination, not rivalry."
I inclined my head slightly — not submission, but acknowledgment , I mean we did talk one on one about this.
Trotsky sat back, silent but annoyed . He knew what that meant: Lenin had, once again, given me latitude under the guise of caution.
—— ——- ———- ———
Later that night, I thought of what Sverdlov had said — that the others were uneasy. Good. Let them fear their own failings and mismanagement more than they feared my ascension.
I pulled a sheet of paper from the side of my desk and drafted a new order:
Directive No. 14 — On Industrial Continuity and Civil Stability:
All local soviets, committees, and commissariats are to report weekly production and ration data to the Office of Internal Administration. Failure to comply will result in direct Party oversight. Press organs are to publish daily updates emphasizing progress, unity, and the people's endurance. Disruptive elements within factories to be reassigned to labor units under military supervision.
A small decree, but it was another stone in the foundation. Bureaucracy could do what bullets could not….it could bind.
I sealed the document and leaned back. The city outside still shook, still doubted. But soon it would move as one, it would move back to its day of proper normalcy with improved infrastructure, improved industry and economy.
And in that development , my authority would become indistinguishable from the Revolution itself.
——- ——- ———- ——-
Snow fell heavy that week, blanketing the city in deceptive quiet. Underneath, however, Petrograd was grinding forward — slow, uneven, but moving.
In the factory districts, the clang of machinery returned in stuttering bursts. Men who only weeks before had marched with rifles were now back at their posts, shoveling coal, hammering steel, mending rails. They still shouted slogans — "Power to the Soviets!" — but now it was half out of habit, half to keep warm.
At Putilov Works, one of the city's great industrial centers , the furnaces burned low, the air heavy with soot and anxiety. I visited unannounced, all wrapped in a dark grey heavy coat, Makarov paced at my side, and two Red Guards forever trailing behind us.
The foreman, a gaunt man named Petrov, met me with visible unease. He had the look of someone caught between reverence and fear.
"Comrade Commissar," he said, "the workers are restless. They say the rations are uneven, that the committees give more to some and less to others."
"No surprise that they would fail in their duties," I replied evenly. "From now on, distribution will fall under my direct inspection. Every kilogram of bread, every bucket of coal, will be accounted for by my office." It was more of an order to him but also Makarov.
His eyes widened. "B- but commissar that will take—"
"Presidence, that and that only", I cut him off.
I turned to Makarov. "Draw up new rosters. Those who show up late, those who argue with the line supervisors — reassign them to loading crews. The ones who work, feed them first and double for their efforts until the rest come to see our reality."
It was harsh yet strategic, and within hours, word spread through the district: Koba had come in person, had spoken directly, had acted.Not only through fear but loyalty. Both motives sharpened efforts.
And with effort came results.
By evening, the furnaces at Putilov roared again — a dull thunder that echoed across the Neva like a pulse of iron.
—— ——— ——— ———- ————-
Back at Smolny, reports began arriving faster than they could be filed.
Factory 27 reports resumed output at 60% capacity. Food depot in Vyborg secured under Party guard. Press committees request additional guidelines on censorship phrasing.
Every note served as a rough yet robust thread in the cloth I was weaving.
Sverdlov then entered, his coat dusted with frost, carrying the latest telegrams.
"Comrade Stalin," he began without fanfare, "some districts report discontent with the new inspection teams. They say it feels like a return of the old system — oversight, punishment, surveillance."
"In these times nothing survives without oversight, its a necessity, let them know this and reassure them that it will eventually change, but for now continue as planned," I snorted ignoring their voices of concern and complaints. They could fuss all they want.
He paused,seemingly weighing my words and nodded . Not wishing to add his own two cents to the matter.
—— ——- ——- ———
Two days later, I sent detachments to inspect the food warehouses by the river. The guards there were cold, half-starved themselves and their rifles held more for appearance than protection.
Inside the facility, rats had eaten through sacks of grain, and clerks still used Tsarist forms — elegant letters on brittle paper. I held one up, studying the ornate handwriting. The same bureaucracy that let the old regime rot from within. I ordered every remaining stockpile inventoried, sealed, and distributed through Party ration centers. The old clerks protested — said there were procedures, signatures required.
"Your signatures are relics," I told them without care for their debates and rebuttals.