There sat Vasily, at the large table with his sister, Svetlana, and a handful of people important to his father, already on his fourth glass of cognac. Desperation clung to him—a futile attempt to excuse or make sense of his old man’s death. No, no, it was hard for him to grasp: Joseph was truly gone. Forever.

He couldn’t comprehend how or why. He only wanted someone to blame—anyone. But why did he even care? He had no idea. Their relationship had never been good, not with everything that had happened. From the weight of the family name to the cold smacks and scoldings he used to endure, nothing ever felt warm between them. Yet, it was still his father. It was the Soviet Union’s leader, for God’s sake. Everyone was expected to weep and mourn.

Vasily drowned in his own thoughts, deaf to the words of those around him. “Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath. The alcohol had begun its familiar ascent, clouding his mind and temper. In a surge of frustration, he slammed his fist on the table, sending plates rattling and plunging the table into an uneasy silence. Svetlana fixed him with a long, disapproving glare, as though willing him to control himself. It was humiliating, to say the least.

“Cerebral hemorrhage? Pah!” The words dripped with venom, his brow furrowed and his lips curled into a bitter frown. He was more than upset—he was seething. “That’s bullshit! It’s foul play! It’s the doctor’s fault, for— for…” His voice faltered as he struggled to find the words. “All of you worked against him…”

This was bound to be a disaster, but it was Vasily. An outburst was almost inevitable—so much so that even Khrushchev had anticipated trouble from his presence. Yet, no one could deny him his right to attend his own father’s funeral.