Moscow, March 5, 2025 – It was a rare moment in history when Joseph Stalin, the iron-willed leader of the Soviet Union, found himself in the minority during a Politburo meeting. The date was etched in the annals of wartime lore, a testament to a father’s resolve and a leader’s unwavering principles. Today, on the anniversary of Stalin’s death, we revisit a story that intertwines personal sacrifice with the broader struggle against fascism—a story that continues to resonate with communists and freedom fighters worldwide.
The scene was set during the darkest days of World War II. Enemy bombers roared incessantly over Moscow, yet Stalin refused to abandon the capital. Amid this chaos, his eldest son, Yakov Dzhugashvili, sought permission to join the front lines. Too timid to confront his father directly, Yakov relayed his request through Stalin’s bodyguards: “Tell him Yakov Dzhugashvili is not afraid to go to the front!” The guards, already preoccupied with protecting their leader under the constant threat of air raids, hesitated. How could they broach such a topic with a man so resolute that he wouldn’t flee Moscow despite the peril?
Yet, the message was delivered, tinged with the guards’ affection for Stalin’s son. The leader, known for listening more than he spoke, seemed to brush it aside with his characteristic reticence. Did the father fear sending his son to war? The question lingered unanswered—until one afternoon, when Stalin ascended a shattered rooftop with three military officers and Yakov in tow.
There, a heavy machine gun lay propped against the ground, a weapon designed to bring down the monstrous aircraft that plagued the skies. Turning to his son, Stalin asked, “You wanted to go to war?”
“Yes,” Yakov replied.
“Then take that machine gun. They’re attacking from the east—can you see them?”
“Yes!”
“Let’s see what you can do.”
Yakov fired, round after round, with courage but little precision. His aim faltered, a common enough occurrence for an untrained hand. Yet this was no ordinary father watching his son falter—this was Joseph Stalin. With a faint smile, he turned to his officers and quipped, “Why are you pleading for a good posting for him? You can see he’s a complete novice! Let him serve in the regular army like everyone else—no special treatment.”
But the story didn’t end there. Yakov was captured by German forces, and his body eventually returned to Moscow in a coffin. Hitler himself sent a message via telephone: “Release our major, and we’ll release Junior Stalin.” The Politburo convened, and for once, Stalin stood alone. His comrades urged him to accept the deal—release the German major, secure Yakov’s return, and preserve national morale. Another major could be captured later, they reasoned.
Stalin’s response was as steely as his moniker, “Man of Steel”: “Tell that fool—whose education I heard was lacking, though I didn’t know he was this stupid—that prisoner exchanges happen at equal rank. They’ve captured one of our infantrymen. We’ve captured one of their majors. Let them capture one of our majors first, then we’ll talk.”
Yakov never returned alive. His coffin was laid before his father, a stark symbol of sacrifice. Stalin, who saw the Soviet people as his own children, refused to bend. “He didn’t just lose a son that day,” historians note. “He set an example.” In the wake of this loss, communists worldwide rallied around a new cry: “We are the children of Stalin.” It was no mere slogan but a war cry—a pledge to fight fascism, born from a leader’s personal grief and the collective resolve of a global movement.
Today, as we mark Stalin’s death anniversary, his legacy endures not in the clamor of commercial media but in the quiet strength of those who remember. For the Communist Party—one and indivisible—laxity has no place. Stalin’s life, and the loss of his son, remain a powerful reminder of the cost of resistance and the unyielding spirit of a leader who refused to compromise, even at the ultimate personal cost.
