Red Sky at Noon (The Moscow Trilogy)

  I knew her once, he thought, aware that tears were running down his cheeks. I knew her somehow forever. But for us, forever was too short.

  V

  Poskrebyshev, a drear gnome in a general’s uniform, stood at the door of the Little Corner. ‘Satinov’s here,’ he announced.

  Stalin beckoned, and Poskrebyshev stepped aside and Satinov entered.

  Satinov’s Packard had raced from the hospital to the Kremlin and then round to the Little Corner in the triangular yellow Senate. He did try to visit the wounded from the Stalingrad Front when he could but he acknowledged to himself that this visit had been connected to Benya Golden. He had played a role in the Sashenka Case against Benya Golden and now he wanted to ensure he was treated justly. But he had not had the heart to tell him a terrible truth: his redemption was not final. There were millions of prisoners in the Camps whose names Stalin had never seen – but they were not Politicals; nor were they Politicals convicted in cases known personally to Stalin. If he, Satinov, concealed the pardoning of a Political, a writer known to Stalin, the Leader could destroy him with it. He had seen comrades shot for just such a legerdemain. No, he must ask Stalin directly, although it was likely Beria would advise against it. Beria was not just the master of the security forces and the Gulags but he was also jealous and wary of Stalin’s affection for Satinov, which was why he had not wasted much time on poor Benya Golden who would probably be heading straight back to Kolyma.

  Satinov entered the room and saluted. Little seemed to have changed. Beria was back at the table. Further down, Vasilevsky had been joined by General Georgi Zhukov, with his prehensile jaw and tauric shoulders.

  ‘Permission to report from the Stalingrad Front,’ said Satinov.

  Stalin raised his hand in approval.

  ‘We are fortifying Stalingrad. The Germans are reinforcing Army Group B and the Sixth Army specifically. We hear from the Southern Front that they are even now, as of this morning, moving panzer units out of the front line, probably for transfer to our sector. They’re already racing across the steppe.’

  ‘How close are they to the city?’

  ‘Units have already reached the outskirts,’ replied Vasilevsky.

  ‘How are the generals on your front?’

  ‘Chuikov’s bunker is right by the river and he will fight to the last. He’s a tough one. I commend his harshness, Comrade Stalin, but Gordov lacks resolve,’ Satinov continued.

  ‘Gordov regularly talks aloud of abandoning Stalingrad,’ piped up Beria.

  Stalin cast cold eyes at Satinov. ‘True?’

  ‘He lacks confidence.’

  ‘But will Stalingrad hold? Will we be able to cling on to the Volga no matter what?’ asked Stalin. ‘Tell me honestly as one Bolshevik to another.’

  Everyone looked at him and waited. Satinov did not rush to answer but considered the honest answer which an old Bolshevik expected from a comrade.

  ‘Yes,’ said Satinov finally. ‘I know we will hold Stalingrad.’

  ‘Good, bicho,’ said Stalin. ‘Tell him to fuck off and punch him in the gob if he says it again.’

  ‘Or give him to me,’ added Beria.

  ‘We’ll let Satinov deal with Gordov first,’ answered Stalin, standing up and walking towards the generals, who were leaning over the maps.

  Vasilevsky and Zhukov straightened up and stiffened as Stalin approached.

  ‘We have ourselves the battle we wanted,’ he said. ‘Hitler has taken the bait but it will cost us much blood to hold the city. We must draw in the Germans without destroying ourselves. The only people in Russia who know of this are in this room. After many reverses, the golden hour is here. Good luck,’ and he offered his hand first to Vasilevsky and then Zhukov. Satinov and Beria glanced at each other, unsure what exactly the Leader had cooked up with the two generals. Stalin had never shaken hands with anyone like this. ‘Make your preparations, comrades,’ he said as the two generals saluted and left.

  ‘Stalingrad will be a great struggle,’ said Satinov. ‘Permission to return there as permanent front commissar.’

  Stalin thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He swivelled towards Beria. ‘Hitler’s moving more units to the Sixth Army. Is this the result of that little trick with the Shtrafbat defector? Did that go according to plan?’

  ‘It did,’ replied Beria. ‘The maps were flown to Sixth Army headquarters. We have no idea if they reached Weichs or Hitler himself but the preparations for these troop movements started at once.’

  ‘It worked?’ Stalin mused, almost to himself. ‘Melishko’s bandits served their Motherland.’ The deaths of Melishko and his Shtrafniki had been worth it, he thought.

  ‘Comrade Stalin?’ It was Satinov. ‘A small matter. One of the few Shtrafniki who redeemed themselves in that operation was Benya Golden, the writer and—’

  ‘He’s a Political,’ interjected Beria. ‘Politicals can’t redeem themselves.’

  ‘Convicted of?’

  ‘Planning to assassinate you, Comrade Stalin.’

  ‘Send the bastard back to the Gulags,’ Stalin said wearily. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Golden fought hard and was even nominated for the Order of Glory,’ persisted Satinov.

  ‘Politicals can’t receive medals,’ said Beria.

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Satinov, ‘but he redeemed himself with deeds of bravery and shed blood.’

  Stalin wiped his face with both hands and took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  ‘Lavrenti?’ Stalin asked Beria.

  Beria threw a triumphant glance at his rival, then winked. ‘This case seems clear,’ he stated, ‘doesn’t it?’

  VI

  The tram took Svetlana rumbling right past her bodyguard and her chauffeur, both of whom were leaning on the car and smoking outside the House of the Book. Svetlana was exhilarated. I will show them, I will show my father, she thought. I am free of them all! Stepping down from the tram, she walked across the bridge to the House on the Embankment and caught the lift to the seventh floor and let herself into the empty apartment of her cousins, the Alliluyevs.

  And there sitting at the kitchen table was Lev Shapiro.

  ‘My new article will be in tomorrow’s paper,’ he told her, getting up. ‘My editor’s pleased with me. I am his favourite. Stalingrad is going to be the greatest battle of the war, and tomorrow I’m going back there, with papers allowing me access to headquarters with General Chuikov and Satinov.’

  ‘So you’re leaving in the morning?’ Svetlana felt a little breathless suddenly.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to go home and see my children, but also I have an old friend who served in a Shtrafbat, who’s earned his freedom, and I want to visit him in the hospital.’

  ‘How long have we got here?’

  He walked to her and took both her hands. ‘It’s only six,’ he said. ‘At least an hour.’

  She sighed. ‘It’s lovely to be with you. I am so relieved you’re OK. I thought maybe my father …’ But he’d taken her in his arms and was kissing her.

  ‘He just wanted to give you a fright,’ said Lev eventually, ‘and he did. But he has more important things to do.’

  ‘He’s a Georgian, my Lion, and you’re a married man of forty.’

  ‘That’s why we’re going to be very careful and maybe not see each other for a while.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Svetlana said reluctantly. ‘But can we keep kissing now?’

  After much kissing, Lev smiled at her: ‘After the war, everything’s going to be easier. There’ll be a thaw – that’s what everyone says. But don’t worry, little Lioness.’ He stroked her hair and looked into her eyes. ‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’

  VII

  ‘On reflection,’ Beria announced to Stalin and Satinov in the Little Corner, ‘this case isn’t so simple. Comrade Stalin, may I advise that, in my view, this prisoner deserves your reprieve. I recommend let
ting Golden work in Moscow.’

  Satinov was surprised and had a hard time concealing it, but recovered enough to push his advantage. ‘Comrade Stalin, he wants to teach literature. There is a vacancy at a Moscow school.’

  ‘Pah.’ Stalin waved his hand and sat back behind his desk. ‘You two agree too much. Is this a conspiracy against the Central Committee?’ A dangerous moment. Beria and Satinov were about to deny this when Poskrebyshev appeared at the door.

  ‘Comrade Molotov here to report on the visit of Churchill.’

  ‘Comrade Churchill.’ Stalin grinned. ‘He’s our greatest enemy. I wouldn’t trust that diehard imperialist. Roosevelt plays for high stakes but Churchill, he’d pick my pocket for a kopek, yes a kopek. Now he’s coming to see us.’ He paused, recalling the previous conversation. ‘Give that bastard-writer a job in whatever school you like, Satinov.’

  Satinov realized that Stalin did not believe Golden was a terrorist. Perhaps he didn’t believe many of the cases against the thousands, even millions, he had sentenced to Vishka and the Gulag. But they had been sentenced because that was what was necessary to keep the Soviet Union safe. A chilling thought – but this was the Bolshevik way: better to kill ten thousand innocents than spare one enemy.

  ‘We need good teachers. We can always shoot him later, eh?’ Stalin smiled his tigerish smile, and his yellow eyes glinted. ‘Later? A movie tonight? Jolly Fellows again? At my place? Good.’

  Beria and Satinov walked out through the antechamber into the corridor.

  ‘You supported me?’ said Satinov in Georgian. ‘That’s a first. What’s come over you, Lavrenti Pavlovich?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to admit any mistakes in there but your friend Golden almost ruined that operation. I was a minute from having him shot like a partridge. But he surprised us: he corrected his mistake and saved my arse.’ Beria smirked. ‘Exceptional case.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Satinov, ‘it must have been.’

  Shortly before midnight, at his home, the Nearby Dacha at Kuntsevo, a plain two-storey mansion painted khaki-green, Stalin was piling his plate with Georgian meat stew. The spices curled through the high-ceiled room as Satinov, Molotov and Mikoyan helped themselves. Seeing that Stalin wanted a word with Beria they stood back and kept their distance. They still had to sit through that damn ridiculous film Jolly Fellows, which they had seen about twenty times here and which they knew by heart. Stalin even hummed through some of the songs. Satinov would sit behind Stalin if he could; this way he might be able to sleep.

  ‘Josef Vissarionich,’ said Beria, ‘Svetlana played a trick on Klimov this afternoon and vanished for a while. She’s home again now.’

  ‘She’s seeing the Jew again?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Love has as much to do with boredom as anything else,’ said Stalin softly but inside he was fuming. He thought of the ways he and Beria had removed people, how they relished the ingenuity of the ‘black work’ they did together. One man, one problem, Stalin used to say, no man, no problem. A shot in the back of the head was sometimes too obvious. An injection from a doctor occasionally did the job. Or a faked car crash. Or a home burglary that ended in a massacre. He considered all these options for Shapiro. But he had to be careful. His daughter was involved. Nonetheless, his pride as a Georgian father had been affected, and this insolent hack had disrespected him. Most people feared him but not this Shapiro. What a bungling clumsy fool Svetlana was. He would have to marry her off soon – to a respectable Soviet youngster, Beria’s son Sergo maybe or Yuri Zhdanov or one of Satinov’s boys. But what to do now? ‘Did you check out Shapiro?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘A British secret agent?’

  ‘Quite possibly. American, more likely. He has a taste for American literature. What would you like me to arrange?’

  VIII

  The clocks on each ward of the hospital chimed midnight, the end of the tenth day of Benya’s war, and he had a visitor.

  ‘You’re my only friend who knows I am even here,’ said Benya.

  ‘Or even alive!’ added Lev Shapiro. ‘What are you going to do? Any idea?’

  ‘I’ve had a visit tonight from a schoolmistress who offered me a job.’

  ‘So you are becoming a teacher? That was quick.’

  ‘I had big help.’

  ‘Impressive, my dear. But tell me, how did you survive out there, in the Camps?’

  Benya sighed. ‘I lived each minute and each day as it came. I sought joy in the smallest things. I looked at the stars and the moon and thought that those I love might be looking at them too. Moon magic.’ He looked at Shapiro searchingly: ‘You’re in love, Lev. With someone you shouldn’t be.’

  ‘You know all that? Just by looking at me?’

  ‘We Galitzianers can see through each other and I know how dangerous it is. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘How did you guess now?’ asked Shapiro. ‘I just met her this afternoon, secretly of course. Oh, she’s so sweet, but very clever.’

  ‘Who is it? Let’s think. Who’s the most unsuitable wife in Moscow for you to choose? Molotov’s wife?’

  ‘Oh, she’s no one’s wife. She’s someone’s daughter.’ Lev leaned forward to whisper.

  Benya held up both hands. ‘Don’t tell me her name. I don’t want to know. No names! That’s what we learned in the Zone. My name is Nothing, my surname is Nobody. Just tell me the story! Oh, I love an intrigue. How did it start?’

  ‘Well,’ said Shapiro, ‘one day I got a letter from a fan …’

  As he came down the steps of the Central Military Hospital, still chuckling to himself about his conversation with Benya, who so understood the excitement of a love affair, Lev Shapiro stopped.

  In the foyer a general and some men, with NKVD tabs, were waiting. Lev knew immediately they were there for him, and what was going to happen. He was either going away, far away, for a long time, or he would die that night in a cell under the Lubianka. He would probably never see Svetlana or his wife or his children again. He had miscalculated everything.

  Patting the pockets of his jacket, he acted as if he had left something behind. ‘Oh no, hell, I left my case upstairs …’ he said, turning back up the steps, trying to move calmly, not to run, to sprint, to scream.

  As soon as he was on the next landing, he asked a nurse, ‘Is there another staircase?’

  ‘Yes, straight down the corridor.’

  He walked fast, faster; now he was running to the other staircase, down the steps and before he reached the bottom, he crouched down and … there they were, more NKVD uniforms. He turned and raced up the steps. Now he was pouring sweat, his heart was throbbing, and he was feeling nauseous. Oh my God, how could I have been so foolish? he shouted to himself. But what could he do? There was nowhere to run. He could try to get back to his home to see his wife and children and say goodbye, but they would be waiting for him there. Running would just make this worse. Besides, they had covered both staircases and lifts.

  He found himself walking up the stairs towards Benya’s ward with a feeling of freefalling through a void. He felt guilty about his family. If he was shot, his wife might be told ‘Prisoner Shapiro has been sentenced to twenty-five years – without right of correspondence’, which usually meant someone had received the Eight Grammes. Or they might be told ‘Article 158. Twenty years’ and they would guess he was just about alive, if he survived the journey to Kolyma, if he didn’t die of exhaustion. Either way, he might be gone forever.

  If only he could get a letter to Svetlana … but there was so little time …

  He peered down the long corridor and there they were: the Chekists were walking right towards him, looking into each ward. He spun round and it was too late: they held his arms.

  ‘Lev Shapiro?’ asked the general.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come with me. We’ve got a car outside. Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No,’ said Shapiro.

  ‘I am General Vlasik, Chief of Se
curity for the Head of the Soviet Government. You understand what this means?’

  Shapiro nodded. ‘It might mean any number of terrible things.’

  ‘Prepare for all of them,’ said Vlasik.

  Epilogue

  I

  ‘Dear friends, beloved romantics, wistful dreamers!’ said the new teacher of literature, Benya Golden, to his class at the Josef Stalin Commune School 801. Limping into the classroom with the help of his flamboyant walking-stick, he jumped on to the wooden platform at the front.

  He had their attention immediately.

  After the arrogant bombast of Dr Rimm, the senile babblings of Dr Noodelman, the droning sincerity of Director Medvedeva, they could see this one was a different species altogether. There were rumours about his past, his sins, his war – but no one knew anything and they never would. And conversely, Benya was enjoying a new life, teaching Pushkin, Tolstoy, Gorky, the classics.

  It was winter in Moscow, December ’42, and at Stalingrad in the south, now clad in snow, fettered in ice, Stalin had sprung his giant trap and the Russians were strangling the German Sixth Army. Benya had found a little apartment so he could walk to work, and although on his first day in the school common room he had experienced the hostility of Dr Rimm, who smelled his flawed past, he had the support of Director Medvedeva, who was proud to recruit such a distinguished teacher of literature. Of course she had made enquiries with the Central Committee, Education Department, which was curated by Comrade Satinov, and with the Organs, and all had signed off on her appointment of Benya Golden.