It is a lesson that young Svetlana Stalin knows all too well.
* * *
Svetlana once enjoyed Christmas Day a great deal.
Her mother has been dead for thirteen years. Natasha Alliluyeva simply went to bed one night and did not come down for breakfast in the morning. A maid found her alone in her bedroom, dead from a pistol shot. A suicide note was visible on the nightstand.4
Natasha was twenty-three years younger than Stalin, a second wife to replace the one who had died from typhus. Due to the dictator’s long-standing proclivity for brutal rape, Natasha incredibly may have been his illegitimate daughter.
“The devil knows whose daughter you are—maybe mine,” Stalin once sadistically taunted her.
The suicide was Natasha Alliluyeva’s final protest against the Soviet leader’s nonstop cruelty and philandering, the bitter end to fourteen years of abuse and neglect.
When her mother died, the five-year-old Svetlana knew nothing about her father’s monstrous behavior. All she knew was that her mother was suddenly and mysteriously taken from her in the night. It would be years before she’d come to understand her father’s evil disposition, and begin to distance herself from his foul temper and hard drinking.
Yet Joseph Stalin was devoted to Svetlana. “He was a very simple man, very rude, very cruel,” she will remember years later. “There was nothing in him that was complicated. He loved me and wanted me to be with him.”
Four years after Natasha’s suicide, the Soviet dictator received a most curious party invitation.5 The year was 1935. Stalin was invited to a Christmas gala at the British embassy in Moscow. Although he did not believe in Christmas, Stalin saw an opportunity for Svetlana—and maybe even for himself.
Clearly, Stalin could not attend a Christmas party. The Russian people would never have understood. Atheism was the established philosophy in the Soviet Union.
Yet Stalin had celebrated Christmas as a boy, back home in Georgia. Even though his tyrannical alcoholic father often beat him so severely that he urinated blood, young Joseph had a loving mother, and knew the joy and warmth that came with the Christmas season.
Christmas remained important to Stalin as he became a young man. From age fifteen to nineteen, he studied for the priesthood. He had always been rebellious and was only at the seminary because his parents forced him to attend. But still, he remained loyal to the church until the seminary raised its fees and Stalin turned his back on his faith.
That cold night in 1935, Stalin sent Svetlana across the river to the British embassy in his place, perhaps thinking that nothing more might come of it than just a unique holiday experience for his precious daughter.
When she returned, Svetlana gushed about the presents and the wonderful decorations, in particular the stately Christmas tree.
It was the image of the tree that got to Stalin.
Svetlana’s description thawed his frozen heart. If the British could experience such a magical celebration, why couldn’t the Soviet people? Of course, celebrating Christmas was still out of the question. But the ruthless dictator also realized that he could manipulate such a holiday to his advantage.
So even though the date was fast approaching, Stalin decreed that January 1 would mark a new annual celebration throughout the Soviet empire. The people would not honor the birth of the baby Jesus. The only religion in the Soviet Union was communism, and Stalin himself had demonstrated this, in 1931, by ordering that the Christ the Savior Cathedral, a towering monument to Christianity right in the heart of Moscow, be blown to bits.
No, the Russians would not celebrate the birth of Christ. Never. Instead they would celebrate the great moments of Soviet Russia’s twenty-seven-year-old history.
Stalin arranged to have one of his top henchmen, Pavel Postyshev, publish a letter in the state newspaper, Pravda. Such a letter changing Soviet state policy would never have been printed without Stalin’s direct approval. To do so would have been a crime punishable by death. So Postyshev, who just two years earlier had engineered a man-made famine to ensure the death of hundreds of thousands in Ukraine, clearly spoke for the Soviet dictator. In his letter, Postyshev spoke of a new Soviet holiday. Instead of Santa Claus, a white-bearded figure named Ded Moroz (Grandfather Frost) would travel across the Soviet Union in a sleigh pulled by three horses, delivering presents on New Year’s Day. Instead of the Christ child, a youngster named New Year’s Boy would be pivotal to the celebration.
And of course there was the tree. No longer would the holiday tree be seen as “religious dope” and a “savage custom,” as it had been known throughout the Soviet Union. “It is time to put an end to this wrongful condemnation of the tree,” Stalin ordered by proxy, thanks to Postyshev’s letter to Pravda. “Children’s New Year trees should be everywhere—in schools, orphanages, young pioneer clubs, cinemas, and theaters!”
Thus a holiday was born.6
Soviet toy factories began producing red stars to serve as tree toppers, along with New Year’s garlands and figurines of Grandfather Frost and New Year’s Boy. The Kremlin even opened its doors to Soviet children so that they might celebrate the Yolka, “fir tree.”
* * *
The elaborate staging of a contrived holiday had little effect on Svetlana. Soon, she was completely alienated from her father. The rupture came after she fell in love for the first time in her life, with Alexei Kapler, a Jewish writer and filmmaker twenty-two years her senior—almost exactly the same age gap as that between Joseph Stalin and the suicidal Natasha.
But there will be no marriage between Svetlana and Alexei. Joseph Stalin is determined to be the one and only man in Svetlana’s life. On this snowy Christmas Day in 1944, Alexei Kapler now resides five thousand miles away, in the harsh subzero temperatures and round-the-clock darkness of a snow-covered labor camp in Siberia, sent there for “anti-Soviet agitation.”
Alexei Kapler would spend ten years in a gulag for the crime of loving Joseph Stalin’s daughter.
Merry Christmas, Svetlana.
* * *
Christmas Day is coming to a close. Stalin finishes his thank-you notes and then turns his attention to reading dispatches from the Battle of the Bulge. He suspects that Adolf Hitler is preoccupied with the Western Front, and perhaps thinks that the Soviet army is using the winter weather to regroup and refortify.
If that is the case, Hitler is wrong. Even at this very minute, the Soviets are hitting the Germans hard in Czechoslovakia and Hungary. And once these nations are wrested from Hitler’s grasp, Stalin has every intention of pushing north into the heart of Berlin—planning to get there before the American and British dash, so that he can have all the glory.
If all goes according to Stalin’s plan, Eastern Europe will soon be under the control of the Soviet Union. Stalin’s troops are not liberating people from the Nazis, they are enslaving them.
With the Americans and British bogged down in eastern France, Joseph Stalin orders his armies to step up their attacks in order to expand his global empire.
The race is on.
12
THIRD ARMY HEADQUARTERS
LUXEMBOURG CITY, LUXEMBOURG
DECEMBER 26, 1944
2:00 P.M.
George S. Patton is tired of breaking his promises. The air in his palatial headquarters, which serves as an old-folks’ home in peacetime, is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the clack of typewriters. Junior officers and enlisted subordinates make sure to keep their distance from the volatile general as they range in and out of the command post, not wanting to incur the wrath of a clearly exhausted Patton. When a message arrives from Dwight Eisenhower, stating that he “is very anxious that I put every effort on securing Bastogne,” Patton nearly explodes.
“What the hell does he think I’ve been doing for the last week?” Patton will write in his diary, careful, after all his trouble, not to criticize his boss in front of the headquarters staff.
But privately Patton seethes at Eisenhower’s poor ta
ctical choices. The Seventeenth Airborne, Eleventh Armored, and Eighty-Seventh Infantry divisions have all been moved one hundred miles back to the French city of Reims as reserves, just in case the German breakthrough goes even deeper into the American lines. “We should attack,” he complains to his staff. Patton could sorely use the additional firepower those units would bring to the relief of Bastogne. Instead, they sit in the patient defensive mode that Patton deplores.
“We should attack.”
The general broods and studies maps of the front lines. Patton’s tank crews are spread out over a thirty-mile-wide front, locked in a stalemate with their German opposites. They are gaining little ground and losing too many men and tanks as they battle for each and every inch of Belgian soil. A German ambush in the hamlet of Chaumont cost Patton eleven Shermans and almost a hundred men. The Fourth Armored also lost scores of tanks in a night attack that advanced their position just a quarter mile.
Even worse is that as soon as the Third Army passes through a town and reclaims it for the Allies, German paratroopers follow right behind. Thanks to intercepted radio messages, they know that the Americans plan to remain constantly on the attack. Thus they move in and take back the towns as soon as the Americans leave.
Dead Americans now lie frozen in the fields outside Bastogne, their faces turned the color of “claret,” in Patton’s own description, from the blood pooling after death. In his journal, Patton keeps a detailed tally of Allied and German casualties, and knows that Germans are dying in far greater numbers.
But casualties tell only part of the story. The German lines are holding fast. Patton and the Third Army are stuck, and Tony McAuliffe and the 101st Airborne are now enduring yet another day in the violent hellhole of Bastogne. The dirty streets are choked with rubble, and small fires caused by artillery shells are left to burn. The only place a man can feel safe from the constant shelling is hunkered underground in a cellar, where he is at least partially protected from falling debris—thus Tony McAuliffe’s decision to relocate his command post to the Belgian barracks. But while there is temporary safety in these bunkers, the tradeoff is the thick, asphyxiating smell of unwashed bodies and clouds of cigarette smoke. And because the soldiers and three thousand civilians that now share Bastogne are reluctant to leave their cellars for any reason, there is also the scent of an aromatic compound known as phenol, or carbolic acid, which is sprinkled on the floors to cover the scent of human excrement and urine.
Elsewhere in Bastogne, American wounded lie atop squalid litters inside an old garage turned into a make-shift field hospital. They cannot help but hear the rasp of the bone saw as army surgeons cut away the destroyed arms and legs of their fellow paratroopers.
The wounded at an aid station on the road leading to the small town of Neufchâteau were helpless to defend themselves when German bombers droned overhead early on Christmas morning. Outside, the nighttime sky was shot through with stars. The weather was beautiful, clear and cold. The wounded could not move. Some were in a drug-induced stupor to halt their pain and others were struggling to sleep. They could hear the sound of Junkers JU-88 long before the bombers were over their targets. After long months on the front lines, they knew how to judge whether a falling bomb was far away or close enough to kill them.
These bombs were very close.
The bomb that struck the field hospital was not a direct hit, but the explosion was so severe that the roof collapsed on top of the wounded men. The building soon caught fire, burning many of the bodies beyond recognition. But most of these were already dead by then, buried under the crushing weight of thousands of toppled bricks.
* * *
George S. Patton relishes war. He finds it glorious, and thinks there is no finer test of a man’s courage. He accepts the fact that horrible death can happen to any man, at any time.
Yet he is not immune to human suffering, and the Battle of the Bulge is taking a hard toll on him. It is within his power to ease the pain and hardship of those embattled men of the 101st Airborne. His failure to do so haunts him.
It has been a week since the meeting with Eisenhower in Verdun. Patton is too keyed up to sleep more than a few hours every night. He is drained and dog-tired. His face is burned bright red from the windblast of too many hours in his open-air jeep. The lines around his blue eyes have become deep fissures. “I saw a tired, aging man,” notes a Red Cross volunteer who caught a glimpse of Patton at a Christmas Eve church service. “A sorrowful, solitary man, a lonely man, with veiled eyes behind which there was going on a torment of brooding and depression.”
Patton cannot rest. He is failing. “A clear cold Christmas,” he wrote in his journal yesterday. “Lovely weather for killing Germans—which seems a bit queer, seeing whose birthday it is … I left early this morning to try to visit all the divisions in contact with the enemy. All were very cheerful. I am not, because we are not going fast enough.”
There was no Christmas truce, as sometimes occurred during the First World War. So after arranging for every man in his army to have a turkey dinner—cold sandwiches for the soldiers at the front, a hot meal for those behind the lines—he left early in the morning to visit every one of his combat divisions.
It was a long day, and Patton was not uplifted by what he saw. The only good news came the next morning, when reports that a new sort of artillery fuse was being used effectively against the German strongpoint in the town of Echternach. We “actually killed seven hundred of them,” he wrote offhandedly in his journal.
Now he spends the twenty-sixth, Boxing Day,1 having heard that some of his tanks are within a half dozen miles of Bastogne. But today, as with yesterday and the day before, victory hardly seems likely. Reports filtering back to his headquarters state that his tank divisions continue to take heavy casualties.
Making matters worse—far worse—is that rather than helping Patton by pushing his own army south toward Bastogne, British field marshal Bernard Law Montgomery refuses to attack. He says his army is not ready. And instead of encouraging Patton’s audacious plan to relieve the 101st, Montgomery is deepening their professional rivalry by predicting that Patton and the Third Army will fail.
When Montgomery goes so far as actually to insist to Eisenhower that Patton return to Metz, claiming that Patton’s army is too small to take Bastogne, Patton severs all pretense of friendship with his British counterpart. He calls the idea of a retreat to Metz “disgusting.”
But Montgomery’s behavior only adds to the pressure on Patton, because a simple look at the current battlefield situation map shows that one thing is becoming ever clearer: no one can save the Battered Bastards of Bastogne except for Patton and his Third Army. In fact, no one else is even making the effort.
No one.
* * *
That same day, the phone in Patton’s headquarters rings. Maj. Hugh Gaffey, commanding the Fourth Armored, is on the other end, requesting permission to launch a high-risk attack into Bastogne immediately.
Patton does not hesitate. “I told him to try it,” he will write in his journal tonight. With that order, the Fourth Armored Division begins fighting their way toward Tony McAuliffe and the trapped men of the 101st Airborne.
* * *
Lt. Col. Creighton “Abe” Abrams commands the spearhead Thirty-Seventh Tank Battalion of the Fourth Armored Division. He chews on a long unlit cigar so enormous that his men compare it to the barrel of a gun. Abrams is thirty years old, a lantern-jawed Massachusetts native who graduated from West Point just eight years ago. Some day he will be chief of staff of the army, a four-star general so famous they will name a type of tank after him.
But right now, Abrams is just a bold young tank commander who is making plans to disobey a direct order.
Perched atop a hill just a few miles away from Bastogne, Abrams sits tall in the turret hatch of his Sherman tank, nicknamed Thunderbolt VII. He has already had six Shermans shot out from under him—all named Thunderbolt. In September he was awarded the Distinguished
Service Cross for courage under fire. Abrams’s men love him, because he is a lax disciplinarian away from the battlefield and knows there is a time and place for fun. But when it comes time to fight, they also know they are expected to do precisely as their commanding officer orders.
A long line of Shermans snakes down the narrow and rutted country road behind Abrams. These tanks also have names: Cobra King, Deuces Wild, Betty, Destruction, and so on.
Abrams has been tasked with capturing the heavily fortified town of Sibret, which lies three miles to the northwest. But his unit is down to just twenty Sherman tanks, and his infantry is short 230 men. Abrams does not like the Sibret scenario, even though that is the plan that his commanding general, George Patton, has just approved.
Lieutenant Colonel Creighton Abrams at his desk in Germany
Scanning the horizon with his high-powered binoculars, Abrams watches hundreds of C-47 cargo planes dropping supplies to the besieged men of Bastogne. Parachutes laden with ammo and food blossom against the leaden sky, but at the same time German antiaircraft fire is shooting down many of the slow-moving, twin-engine supply planes. They spiral to the earth, soon to explode, the pilots consigned to a fiery and instant death.
The sight of this humanitarian airdrop, paired with the knowledge that American soldiers have been suffering and dying inside Bastogne for more than a week, fills Abrams with a sense of urgency. Why attack Sibret? The town is heavily defended, and capturing it will not bring Patton’s army closer to Bastogne. Why not bypass Sibret and go directly to McAuliffe’s aid?
Abrams ponders that question as he continues to survey the battlefield.
He sees the men of the 101st crouched in their snowy foxholes. He also knows that hundreds of hidden Germans are waiting to destroy any rescuing force.
But Lieutenant Colonel Abrams is convinced he and his men can get through.
Killing Patton: The Strange Death of World War II's Most Audacious General Page 14
