In Search of the Real-Life Prototype of Bulgakov’s Woland

And no, it wasn’t Stalin — or was he?

Bulgakov. Image from https://pikabu.ru/story/mikhail_bulgakov__lyubimyiy_antisovetskiy_pisatel_stalina_10242885

At a book club meeting, while discussing The Master and Margarita, I was asked what seemed like a simple question, but it was my reaction that surprised me.

“Some people say Stalin was the prototype for Woland, others say for Pontius Pilate, but what is your opinion?”

Simple question, considering that earlier I posted in the book club’s chat the links to the four lectures on Bulgakov by Marietta Chudakova. She believed that Stalin served as the prototype for Woland. She was quite convincing, and I shared her theory with the group, taking her scholarly opinion as a fact and silencing the doubts I nevertheless had at the back of my mind.

I do not consider myself a literary critic or sophisticated intellectual, and I wasn’t thinking about Stalin at all when I read the novel. Although, of course, I took into account the times and conditions in which Bulgakov wrote the novel. I also knew about his conflicts with the authorities and that Stalin personally influenced Bulgakov’s fate.

Despite all, something still didn’t add up. And that question hit a nerve. I could barely contain my frustration.

Was it because I didn’t feel well, lost my notes on The Master and Margarita, or couldn’t answer the question right away? Or because I was afraid that this question would lead to what I hate the most during some of the discussions: the “what if’s” or looking for hidden senses that take us so far away from the real meaning and beauty of the text that the discussion transforms into a collective rape and dismemberment of the book. (Not in this particular book club, though, thank God.)

Now I know that the cause of my frustration was a mistake I didn’t want to admit, the failure to further my research, to understand and formulate my own opinion. Back then, I quickly googled the issue, and an idea came to mind: it has something to do with cowardice. It runs through the entire novel like a red thread, and who is the biggest coward if not the procurator: “…cowardice was undoubtedly one of the most terrible vices. Thus spoke Yeshua Ha-Nozri. No, philosopher, I disagree with you: it is the most terrible vice!”

“Pilate,” I answered, and saw the surprise in the eyes of the person who asked the question.

Oh, how ashamed I felt. If cowardice is the most terrible vice, ignorance is certainly the second.

That night, I went to bed promising myself to prepare more thoroughly for book clubs and not say stupid things. I almost fell asleep when an answer to one of my questions popped into my head.

“Of course! It’s so simple!”

I, trying to understand whether Stalin was or wasn’t the prototype for Woland or Pilate, looked for direct similarities in manners, habits, and, most importantly, in their actions. But what if (here I go with “what if’s” too) such a comparison is metaphorical, unnecessary, or even wrong? What if the characters and their behavior serve as suggestions, directions for solving Bulgakov’s main issues: liberation from persecution, permission to leave the country, and the opportunity to work? Rather, in Bulgakov’s opinion, the similarity between Stalin, Woland, and Pilate is in the decision they all had to take: to show mercy and justice, or not.

What if both characters were meant to convey the same idea: Pilate could have saved Yeshua, but he quailed, while the Devil, who doesn’t have to, acted justly.

Perhaps these characters were attempts to influence Stalin’s decision, to show that there are exceptions and that mercy is an indicator of the strength and greatness of a person, especially a ruler.

I wrote these ideas down on my phone and tried to fall asleep. Pleased with myself, I imagined how, in the morning, I would write my opinion, my final answer in the book club chat.

I almost fell asleep when suddenly the light in the room turned on. I opened my eyes and saw Woland in person. In the guise of August Diehl, of course. He stood in the middle of my tiny office/bedroom.

I put on my glasses and looked at the time. It was exactly three in the morning — the beginning of the Devil’s hour.

“How punctual”, I thought and glanced at him again.

He looked gorgeous in his elegant dark red suit with brown lapels, wearing a hat. He was holding his famous cane with a black poodle-shaped knob.

What can I say, I, too, looked irresistible in my gray pajamas with a Christmas motif: a huge moose head with Christmas lights on the shirt and tiny Santa heads on the pants. My hair looked no less chic: it stuck out in different directions, the bun had slipped to the side and resembled a ruined crow’s nest. Thick, at least two sizes bigger, multicolored wool socks completed my unforgettably stylish look.

While I was lying there thinking how ridiculous I looked, he tried to find a place to sit down. He glanced at the only chair, piled high with unfolded laundry and bedcover on top, then took a step towards my bed.

“In bed with the Devil — what a cliché!. Thank you, but no.”

I pulled my leg out from under the blanket to block the space on the bed. Several dozen little Santa eyes disapprovingly looked at Woland.

Instinctively, he pulled back from such beauty and looked at the chair again.

Leaning his cane against the table, he lifted the bedspread and put it on the bed. Then, magically, the clothes from the chair folded up and hid in the closet. He looked at the small white rug lying on the chair.

“I knitted it myself,” I muttered.

He sat down, took off his hat, and was about to put it on the table, but changed his mind. The folding magic failed to work on a pair of socks, which, for some reason, were lying on my desk.

“These socks are clean, I wore them once, but for a pedicure and they are probably in cream, but they need to be washed separately, because…”

Suddenly, a terribly loud noise interrupted my absurd explanation. It was the cane that, in Chekhov’s style, fell to the floor.

“Ježiš Marja, co to tam kurva děláš?” (Jesus Maria, what the fuck are you doing there?) I recognized the voice of the neighbor downstairs.

At the mention of Jesus and Mary, Woland looked at the icon hanging on the wall and smiled.

We spent the rest of the time in silence. We’d seen each other and spoken so often in my life and at my job that words were unnecessary.

I woke up in the morning, eager to start writing. After the shower, sitting on the bed, brushing my hair, I noticed the socks still lying on the table, untouched by the magic. I took a picture.

“Hmm… Was I dreaming, or did it really happen?”

The answer was not long in coming.

Before starting to write my reply, I googled the prototypes again. To the same question, (Was Stalin the prototype for Woland or Pilate?) the answer was: neither for one nor for the other.

“William Christian Bullitt Jr. an American diplomat, journalist, and novelist, was the prototype for Woland,” categorically, in large, bold print, it stated on every page I opened. “His Spring Festival at the Spaso House was so ridiculously lavish and extravagant that it was featured in this classic novel as “The Great Ball at Satan’s.”

“Oh, here we go…” I recognized his sense of humor.

All of my theories immediately fell to pieces, and I remembered why I never liked the “what if’s” and the pointless assumptions about the mysterious senses hidden by the authors.

“Thank you for the lesson,” I thought.

Remembering my past, I asked: “Speaking of humor, was it you who advised my future husband to read The Master and Margarita aloud to impress me when the TV broke, and there was nothing else to do? Was it you who broke the TV? Very funny. I married that psychopath.”

The answer appeared on one of the pages: “It was necessary…”

“I know, I know, you’re part of that power which eternally wills evil and eternally works good,” I mumbled, throwing the socks into the washing machine.

March 5, 2026

Prague