A Stalin Family Visitor to Gori

Nov 20, 2010
Paul Bradbury

Bust of Stalin - Kjell_F

The Stalin Museum in his hometown of Gori is an absolute must, but local opinions are no less interesting. A visit by his grandson in 2001

This is the concluding part to The Josef Stalin Museum in Gori, Republic of Georgia, an account of a 2001 visit to this extraordinary museum.

Lightbulb shortage in a once mighty empire

The guide was sorry that we had chosen that particular day to visit, since it was raining hard and thus we would not be able to enjoy the natural light on some of the exhibits. Or any light as it turned out. Though they did their best to preserve the museum as best they could, they had run out of light bulbs in the main exhibition hall and it really was too dark to see anything.

I went round with my torch and, in what was the most bizarre museum tour of my life, she explained every detail lovingly. I determined to return the following week to take photos and she was thrilled that, in her opinion, I not only loved Stalin as she did, but also that I wanted to return. I have never experienced such slavish devotion to a museum exhibit, especially not to one as evil as Stalin - it was eerie.

A visit by Stalin's grandson

We decided to return on May 9, Victory Day, traditionally one of the most important days in the Soviet calendar. In many ways, the victory over Hitler was the defining moment for the Soviet Union; Stalin had conquered the threat of fascism and no matter what he did previously or subsequently, he will always be remembered for that.

The Soviets suffered terribly in the war, with some twenty million dead (of which Stalin’s contribution was not insignificant) but they had emerged victorious. We arrived late for the parade of five hundred veterans, but saw them walking around town later, so proud, so dignified, so hungry, wearing uniforms laden with medals, ill-fitting uniforms that had been a perfect match a few years before. Stalin’s grandson was in town for the festivities, a revered guest.

When we entered the museum there were no guides, rather several policemen in their place, probably due to the demonstration or the illustrious visitor. The museum was shut for another two hours, we were informed by a scruffy looking police chief, his white shirt sticking out of his grey-suited trousers. He had started drinking early that day and the familiar vodka fumes, interspersed with cheap tobacco wafted over to me.

He saw his opportunity to find the money for his next bottle and announced that for a small fee, he could arrange for a tour with him. I was glad that I had had a play on the piano during my previous visit as, in his drunken eagerness to help, he broke the key to the office exhibition, covering up his clumsiness by declaring that this exhibit was closed for the moment.

Keti took photos while I made notes and we were followed everywhere by this wretch - he could smell the money. Eventually, when we were done, Keti paid him the $2.50 he had demanded while I looked the other way as I was not supposed to know about the bribe and we parted company, he no doubt to purchase more vodka, and we to take in more of the town.

We stopped for ice-cream and the old babushka, bent double with arthritis, greeted us warmly in Russian. She was excited that an Englishman had come, excited that Stalin’s grandson had come and excited to tell me how much she too loved Stalin.

“Sheverdnadze doesn't even give us our pensions and we are hungrier now than we ever were during the war. We need another Stalin to restore order and to let us live with dignity and safety as we did before. I sell ice cream all day and I earn one dollar. I have an invalid daughter - how am I supposed to look after her?”