The Bank Robbery
At 10:30 a.m. on the sultry morning of Wednesday, 26 June 1907, in the seething
central square of Tiflis, a dashing mustachioed cavalry captain in boots and
jodhpurs, wielding a big Circassian sabre, performed tricks on horseback, joking
with two pretty, well-dressed Georgian girls who twirled gaudy parasols-while
fingering Mauser pistols hidden in their dresses.
Raffish young men in bright peasant blouses and wide sailor-style trousers
waited on the street corners, cradling secreted revolvers and grenades. At the
louche Tilipuchuri Tavern on the square, a crew of heavily armed gangsters took
over the cellar bar, gaily inviting passers-by to join them for drinks. All of
them were waiting to carry out the first exploit by Josef Djugashvili, aged
twenty-nine, later known as Stalin, to win the attention of the world.
Few outside the gang knew of the plan that day for a criminal terrorist
“spectacular,” but Stalin had worked on it for months. One man who did know the
broad plan was Vladimir Lenin, the leader of the Bolshevik Party, hiding in a
villa in Kuokola, Finland, far to the north. Days earlier, in Berlin, and then
in London, Lenin had secretly met with Stalin to order the big heist, even
though their Social-Democratic Party had just strictly banned all
“expropriations,” the euphemism for bank robberies. But Stalin’s operations,
heists and killings, always conducted with meticulous attention to detail and
secrecy, had made him the “main financier of the Bolshevik Centre.”
The events that day would make headlines all over the globe, literally shake
Tiflis to its foundations, and further shatter the fragmented Social-Democrats
into warring factions: that day would both make Stalin’s career and almost ruin
it-a watershed in his life.
In Yerevan Square, the twenty brigands who formed the core of Stalin’s gang,
known as “the Outfit,” took up positions as their lookouts peered down
Golovinsky Prospect, Tiflis’s elegant main street, past the white Italianate
splendour of the Viceroy’s Palace. They awaited the clatter of a stagecoach and
its squadron of galloping Cossacks. The army captain with the Circassian sabre
caracoled on his horse before dismounting to stroll the fashionable boulevard.
Every street corner was guarded by a Cossack or policeman: the authorities were
ready. Something had been expected since January. The informers and agents of
the Tsar’s secret police, the Okhrana, and his uniformed political police, the
Gendarmes, delivered copious reports about the clandestine plots and feuds of
the gangs of revolutionaries and criminals. In the misty twilight of this
underground, the worlds of bandit and terrorist had merged and it was hard to
tell tricks from truth. But there had been “chatter” about a “spectacular”-as
today’s intelligence experts would put it-for months.
On that dazzling steamy morning, the Oriental colour of Tiflis (now Tbilisi, the
capital of the Republic of Georgia) hardly seemed to belong to the same world as
the Tsar’s capital, St. Petersburg, a thousand miles away. The older streets,
without running water or electricity, wound up the slopes of Mtatsminda, Holy
Mountain, until they were impossibly steep, full of crookedly picturesque houses
weighed down with balconies, entwined with old vines. Tiflis was a big village
where everyone knew everyone else.
Just behind the military headquarters, on genteel Freilinskaya Street, a stone’s
throw from the square, lived Stalin’s wife, a pretty young Georgian dressmaker
named Kato Svanidze, and their newborn son, Yakov. Theirs was a true love match:
despite his black moods, Stalin was devoted to Kato, who admired and shared his
revolutionary fervour. As she sunned herself and the baby on her balcony, her
husband was about to give her, and Tiflis itself, an unholy shock.
This intimate city was the capital of the Caucasus, the Tsar’s wild, mountainous
viceroyalty between the Black and the Caspian Seas, a turbulent region of fierce
and feuding peoples. Golovinsky Prospect seemed Parisian in its elegance. White
neo-classical theatres, a Moorish-style opera house, grand hotels and the
palaces of Georgian princes and Armenian oil barons lined the street, but, as
one passed the military headquarters, Yerevan Square opened up into an Asiatic
potpourri.
Exotically dressed hawkers and stalls offered spicy Georgian lobio beans and hot
khachapuri cheesecake. Water-carriers, street-traders, pickpockets and porters
delivered to or stole from the Armenian and Persian Bazaars, the alleyways of
which more resembled a Levantine souk than a European city. Caravans of camels
and donkeys, loaded with silks and spices from Persia and Turkestan, fruit and
wineskins from the lush Georgian countryside, ambled through the gates of the
Caravanserai. Its young waiters and errand boys served its clientele of guests
and diners, carrying in the bags, unharnessing the camels-and watching the
square. Now we know from the newly opened Georgian archives that Stalin,
Faginlike, used the Caravanserai boys as a prepubescent revolutionary street
intelligence and courier service. Meanwhile in one of the Caravanserai’s
cavernous backrooms, the chief gangsters gave their gunmen a pep talk,
rehearsing the plan one last time. Stalin himself was there that morning.
The two pretty teenage girls with twirling umbrellas and loaded revolvers,
Patsia Goldava and Anneta Sulakvelidze, “brown-haired, svelte, with black eyes
that expressed youth,” casually sashayed across the square to stand outside the
military headquarters, where they flirted with Russian officers, Gendarmes in
smart blue uniforms, and bowlegged Cossacks.
Tiflis was-and still is-a languid town of strollers and boulevardiers who
frequently stop to drink wine at the many open-air taverns: if the showy,
excitable Georgians resemble any other European people, it is the Italians.
Georgians and other Caucasian men, in traditional chokha-their skirted long
coats lined down the chest with bullet pouches-swaggered down the streets,
singing loudly. Georgian women in black headscarves, and the wives of Russian
officers in European fashions, promenaded through the gates of the Pushkin
Gardens, buying ices and sherbet alongside Persians and Armenians, Chechens,
Abkhaz and Mountain Jews, in a fancy-dress jamboree of hats and costumes.
Gangs of street urchins-kintos-furtively scanned the crowds for scams. Teenage
trainee priests, in long white surplices, were escorted by their berobed,
bearded priest-teachers from the pillared white seminary across the street,
where Stalin had almost qualified as a priest nine years earlier. This
un-Slavic, un-Russian and ferociously Caucasian kaleidoscope of East and West
was the world that nurtured Stalin.
Checking the time, the girls Anneta and Patsia parted, taking up new positions
on either side of the square. On Palace Street, the dubious clientele of the
notorious Tilipuchuri Tavern-princes, pimps, informers and pickpockets-were
already drinking Georgian wine and Armenian brandy, not far from the plutocratic
grandeur of Prince Sumbatov’s palace.
Just then David Sagirashvili, another revolutionary who knew Stalin and some of
the gangsters, visited a friend who owned a shop above the tavern and was
invited in by the cheerful brigand at the doorway, Bachua Kupriashvili, who
“immediately offered me a chair and a glass of red wine, according to the
Georgian custom.” David drank the wine and was about to leave when the gunman
suggested “with exquisite politeness” that he stay inside and “sample more
snacks and wine.” David realized that “they were letting people into the
restaurant but would not let them out. Armed individuals stood at the door.”
Spotting the convoy galloping down the boulevard, Patsia Goldava, the slim
brunette on lookout, sped round the corner to the Pushkin Gardens where she
waved her newspaper to Stepko Intskirveli, waiting by the gate.
“We’re off!” he muttered.
Stepko nodded at Anneta Sulakvelidze, who was across the street just outside the
Tilipuchuri, where she made a sign summoning the others from the bar. The gunmen
in the doorway beckoned them. “At a given signal” Sagirashvili saw the brigands
in the tavern put down their drinks, cock their pistols and head out, spreading
across the square-thin, consumptive young men in wide trousers who had barely
eaten for weeks. Some were gangsters, some desperadoes and some, typically for
Georgia, were poverty-stricken princes from roofless, wall-less castles in the
provinces. If their deeds were criminal, they cared nothing for money: they were
devoted to Lenin, the Party and their puppet-master in Tiflis, Stalin.
“The functions of each of us had been planned in advance,” remembered a third
girl in the gang, Alexandra Darakhvelidze, just nineteen, a friend of Anneta,
and already veteran of a spree of heists and shootouts.
The gangsters each covered the square’s policemen-the gorodovoi, known in the
streets as pharaohs. Two gunmen marked the Cossacks outside the City Hall; the
rest made their way to the corner of Velyaminov Street and the Armenian Bazaar,
not far from the State Bank itself. Alexandra Darakhvelidze, in her unpublished
memoirs, recalled guarding one of the street corners with two gunmen.
Now Bachua Kupriashvili, nonchalantly pretending to read a newspaper, spotted in
the distance the cloud of dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves. They were
coming! Bachua rolled up his newspaper, poised … The cavalry captain with
the flashing sabre, who had been promenading the square, now warned passers-by
to stay out of it, but when no one paid any attention he jumped back onto his
fine horse. He was no officer but the ideal of the Georgian beau sabreur and
outlaw, half-knight, half-bandit. This was Kamo, aged twenty-five, boss of the
Outfit and, as Stalin put it, “a master of disguise” who could pass for a rich
prince or a peasant laundrywoman. He moved stiffly, his half-blind left eye
squinting and rolling: one of his own bombs had exploded in his face just weeks
before. He was still recuperating.
Kamo “was completely enthralled” by Stalin, who had converted him to Marxism.
They had grown up together in the violent town of Gori forty-five miles away. He
was a bank robber of ingenious audacity, a Houdini of prison-escapes, a
credulous simpleton-and a half-insane practitioner of psychopathic violence.
Intensely, eerily tranquil with a weird “lustreless face” and a blank gaze, he
was keen to serve his master, often begging Stalin: “Let me kill him for you!”
No deed of macabre horror or courageous flamboyance was beyond him: he later
plunged his hand into a man’s chest and cut out his heart.
Throughout his life, Stalin’s detached magnetism would attract, and win the
devotion of, amoral, unbounded psychopaths. His boyhood henchman Kamo and these
gangsters were the first in a long line. “Those young men followed Stalin
selflessly … Their admiration for him allowed him to impose on them his iron
discipline.” Kamo often visited Stalin’s home, where he had earlier borrowed
Kato’s father’s sabre, explaining that he was “going to play an officer of the
Cossacks.” Even Lenin, that fastidious lawyer, raised as a nobleman, was
fascinated by the daredevil Kamo, whom he called his “Caucasian bandit.” “Kamo,”
mused Stalin in old age, “was a truly amazing person.”
“Captain” Kamo turned his horse towards the boulevard and trotted audaciously
right past the advancing convoy, coming the other way. Once the shooting
started, he boasted, the whole thing “would be over in three minutes.”
The Cossacks galloped into Yerevan Square, two in front, two behind and another
alongside the two carriages. Through the dust, the gangsters could make out that
the stagecoach contained two men in frockcoats-the State Bank’s cashier
Kurdyumov and accountant Golovnya-and two soldiers with rifles cocked, while a
second phaeton was packed with police and soldiers. In the thunder of hooves, it
took just seconds for the carriages and horsemen to cross the square ready to
turn into Sololaki Street, where stood the new State Bank: the statues of lions
and gods over its door represented the surging prosperity of Russian
capitalism.
Bachua lowered his newspaper, giving the sign, then tossed it aside, reaching
for his weapons. The gangsters drew out what they nicknamed their
“apples”-powerful grenades which had been smuggled into Tiflis by the girls
Anneta and Alexandra, hidden inside a big sofa.
The gunmen and the girls stepped forward, pulled the fuses and tossed four
grenades which exploded under the carriages with a deafening noise and an
infernal force that disemboweled horses and tore men to pieces, spattering the
cobbles with innards and blood. The brigands drew their Mauser and Browning
pistols and opened fire on the Cossacks and police around the square who, caught
totally unawares, fell wounded or ran for cover. More than ten bombs exploded.
Witnesses thought they rained from every direction, even the rooftops: it was
later said that Stalin had thrown the first bomb from the roof of Prince
Sumbatov’s mansion.
The bank’s carriages stopped. Screaming passers-by scrambled for cover. Some
thought it was an earthquake: was Holy Mountain falling on to the city? “No one
could tell if the terrible shooting was the boom of cannons or explosion of
bombs,” reported the Georgian newspaper Isari (Arrow). “The sound caused panic
everywhere … almost across the whole city, people started running. Carriages
and carts were galloping away …” Chimneys had toppled from buildings; every
pane of glass was shattered as far as the Viceroy’s Palace.
Kato Svanidze was standing on her nearby balcony tending Stalin’s baby with her
family, “when all of a sudden we heard the sound of bombs,” recalled her sister,
Sashiko. “Terrified, we rushed into the house.” Outside, amid the yellow smoke
and the wild chaos, among the bodies of horses and mutilated limbs of men,
something had gone wrong.
One horse attached to the front carriage twitched, then jerked back to life.
Just as the gangsters ran to seize the moneybags in the back of the carriage,
the horse reared up out of the mayhem and bolted down the hill towards the
Soldiers Bazaar, disappearing with the money that Stalin had promised Lenin for
the Revolution.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Young Stalin
by Simon Sebag Montefiore
Copyright © 2007 by Simon Sebag Montefiore.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Knopf
Copyright © 2007
Simon Sebag Montefiore
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4000-4465-8
