Your own mental capacity you demonstrated at your trials. Stalin had sat in a closed-off section of the gallery, watching them through a wire screen and smiling to himself. What orators they once were! How forceful they had once seemed! That they should come to this! Pathetic washouts!
His understanding of human nature and his sober good sense had always been Stalin’s strengths. He understood those he saw with his own eyes. But he also understood people whom he had not seen for himself. When things were difficult in 1931–32 and the country was without food and clothing, one good push from outside might have toppled us, or so it seemed. The Party gave the command: Sound the alarm; there is a danger of intervention! But Stalin himself had never believed a word of it, because he had just as clear a picture of those other, Western windbags.
There was no way of measuring what it had cost, in health and strength and stamina, to cleanse the Party and the country of their enemies, to cleanse Leninism, that infallible doctrine to which Stalin had never been false: He was doing precisely what Lenin had envisaged, only somewhat less drastically and without unnecessary fuss.
So much effort! And yet things were never quiet; there was never a time when no one stood in the way. One minute it would be Tukhachevsky popping up to say that but for Stalin he would have taken Warsaw. Then Frunze stepped out of line, and the censor nodded. Or some trashy yarn pictured Stalin as a dead man upright on a mountain, and once again those idiots failed to spot it. Then the Ukraine let the crop rot in the fields; the Kuban opened fire from sawn-off shotguns. Ivanovo—yes, Ivanovo!—went on strike. . . .
Never once did Stalin lose his self-control. Not after the mistake he had made with Trotsky. He knew that the mills of history grind slow, but they never stop turning. No need for a noisy show of indignation; all those who were jealous of him would go away, die, be trodden into the dung heap. (Sorely wounded as Stalin was by those writers, he did not seek revenge, not for that; to do so would not have taught a lesson. He waited for another opportunity; there would always be an opportunity.)
And sure enough, everyone who in the Civil War had commanded so much as a battalion, so much as a company in units that were not loyal to Stalin, every last man of them went, disappeared. Delegates to the Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Congresses, as though answering a roll call, departed to a place from which no votes are cast, no speeches made. Mutinous Leningrad, that dangerous place, was twice purged. Even friends like Sergo had to be sacrificed. Even such diligent helpers as Yagoda and Yezhov had to be taken out afterward. And in time the long arm reached Trotsky and split his skull open.
With no major enemy aboveground, he had surely earned a breathing space? Finland poisoned it. Marking time on the Karelian Isthmus, he had felt disgraced in the eyes of Hitler, who was strolling through France with his walking stick. An indelible blot on the military genius’s reputation! Those Finns, that hostile nation of double-dyed bourgeois, ought to be deported, down to the smallest child, to the sands of the Karakum, and he himself would sit at the phone and keep the tally: so many shot and buried, so many still to go.
Disasters rained on him thick and fast. Hitler tricked him and invaded, a lovely alliance wrecked out of sheer stupidity! His lips had trembled at the microphone as he blurted out the words involuntarily, “Brothers and sisters”; there was no wiping them from the record now. But those brothers and sisters had fled like sheep; no one had been ready to fight to the death, although they had been given clear orders to do just that. Why didn’t they stand and fight? Why had they not immediately stood and fought? . . . It was hurtful.
Then there was the evacuation to Kuibyshev, to the empty air-raid shelters. He had always been master of the situation; he had never once weakened . . . except that one time, when he had succumbed to panic, quite needlessly. He had paced his rooms for a week, had telephoned again and again: Has Moscow surrendered yet? No, it hasn’t surrendered. It seemed incredible that the Germans would be halted! But our boys stopped them! Heroes, of course. Heroes. But many had to be taken out; it would be no victory if the rumor got around that the Commander in Chief had temporarily left the city. (This explained the photographs taken of a small parade on November 7.)
Meanwhile, Berlin radio was washing all that dirty linen—the murders of Lenin, Frunze, Dzherzhinsky, Kuibyshev, Gorky—why stop there! The old enemy, Churchill, who looked fat enough for a Georgian pork pot roast, flew in to smoke a couple of cigars in the Kremlin and gloat. The Ukrainians proved treacherous. (In 1944 he had dreamed of resettling the whole Ukrainian population in Siberia, but there were too many of them to replace.) There were other traitors: the Lithuanians, the Estonians, the Tatars, the Cossacks, the Kalmyks, the Chechens, the Ingush, the Latvians, yes, even the Revolution’s sturdiest prop, the Latvians. Even his own kin, the Georgians, who were safe from mobilization—he couldn’t help suspecting that even they would welcome Hitler. The only ones who remained loyal to their Father were the Russians and the Jews.
So even the “national question” became a joke at his expense in those trying years.
But those misfortunes, too, were in the past, thank God. Stalin had recovered a lot of ground by outwitting Churchill and the holier-than-thou Roosevelt. Since the twenties he had scored no success to compare with his triumph over that pair of fools. Answering their letters or returning to his quarters after a meeting at Yalta, he couldn’t help laughing at them. These statesmen, who thought themselves so clever, were more stupid than babes in arms. They would keep asking what things would be like after the war. Well, just send us your planes, send us your canned food, and when the time comes, we’ll see. Toss them a word, the idlest passing thought, and they would jump for joy and rush to get it down on paper. Feign an excess of loving kindness, and they would be twice as soft. He had got from them—free, gratis, for nothing—Poland, Saxony, Thuringia, the Vlasovites, the Krasnovites, the Kurile Islands, Sakhalin, Port Arthur, half of Korea. He had run rings around them on the Danube and in the Balkans. The “smallholders’ ” leaders triumphed in the elections and went straight to jail. Mikolajczyk was quickly toppled; Beneš’s heart gave out, as did Jan Masaryk’s; Cardinal Mindszenty confessed to his misdeeds; Dimitrov was admitted to the Kremlin heart clinic and there renounced his nonsensical plan for a Balkan federation.
All Soviet citizens returning home after living in Europe were sent to the camps. All prisoners who had served only one ten-year sentence were sent back to serve another.
In a word, things seemed to be coming right at last.
But when even the Siberian taiga no longer rustled with hints of an alternative socialism, the black dragon Tito crept into the open and blocked all roads ahead.
Stalin, like some legendary hero, was exhausting his strength, hacking away at the endlessly proliferating heads of the hydra. . . .
HOW COULD HE have let himself be misled? Failed to discern the scorpion soul of the man! He, the great expert on human psychology! In 1936 they had Tito by the throat! And they had let him get away! . . . Ay . . . ay . . . ay . . . ay . . . ay!
Stalin groaned, swung his legs off the couch, and clutched his balding head. Vain regrets rankled in his bosom. He had toppled mountains, and he had tripped over a dunghill.
Iosif had tripped over Josip.
That Kerensky was still living out his days somewhere or other did not trouble Stalin at all. Nicholas II or Kolchak could return from the grave; Stalin had no personal animosity toward any of these: They were honest enemies who did not turn themselves inside out to offer some new, improved socialism of their own.
A better Socialism! Different from Stalin’s! The pipsqueak! Socialism without Stalin was no different from fascism!
Not that Tito would get anywhere. Nothing could come of his efforts. As an old horse-doctor who has slit open any number of bellies, chopped off innumerable extremities in smoky peasant huts, looks at a lady medic in the making, come to do her practical work in spotless white, that was how Stal
in looked at Tito.
But Tito made play with long-forgotten slogans from the early days of the Revolution: “workers’ control,” “land for the peasants.” . . . Soap bubbles to fascinate idiots.
Lenin’s Collected Works had gone through three revised editions, the works of the Founding Fathers through two. All those who had raised awkward questions, all who had been mentioned in obsolete footnotes, all who had thought of building Socialism differently had long ago fallen asleep. And now, when it was clear that there was no other way, and that not only Socialism but Communism would long ago have been constructed
—if it were not for grandees who got too big for their boots, lying reports, soulless bureaucrats, indifference to the public good, slackness in organizational and explanatory work among the masses, lack of direction in the indoctrination of Party members, deliberate delays in construction;
—if it were not for stoppages and absenteeism in industry, the production of substandard goods, poor planning, reluctance to adopt new technology, the nonperformance of scientific research institutes, the inadequate training of young specialists, the reluctance of young people to take jobs out in the wilds, sabotage by prisoners, loss of grain in the fields, the embezzlements by bookkeepers, pilfering at depots, thieving stockroom and shop managers, predatory truckers. . . .
—if it were not for complacent local authorities! excessively tolerant and venal militiamen! criminal misuse of the housing stock! brazen black-marketing! greedy housewives! spoiled children! trolley-car gossips! nitpicking writers! cock-eyed filmmakers! . . .
When everyone could see that Communism was on the right road and not far from completion, that cretin Tito and his Talmudist Kardelj reared their ugly heads and declared that this was not the way to build Communism!
At this point Stalin realized that he was talking aloud, chopping the air; that his heart was beating furiously, his eyes were clouding, and an unpleasant urge to twitch had crept into his limbs.
He took a deep breath. Stroked his face and his mustache. Took another deep breath. He must not let it all get him down.
Ah, yes, he had to see Abakumov. He was about to rise, but his eyes had cleared, and he spotted a little black-and-red booklet, published in a cheap mass edition, on his telephone table. He reached for it in pleasurable anticipation, propped himself up on his cushions, and lay back for a few minutes more.
It was an advance copy of a work to be published in millions of copies in ten European languages, Renaud de Jouvenel’s Tito: Traitor in Chief. (It was a happy circumstance that the author could approach the dispute impartially, being an objective Frenchman, and what was more, with an aristocratic “de” to his name.) Stalin had read the book carefully some days earlier (and indeed had given advice when it was being written), but he was always reluctant to part with an enjoyable book. It would help so many millions of people to see through that vainglorious, conceited, cruel, cowardly, loathsome, hypocritical, villainous tyrant! That vile traitor! That hopeless blockhead! Even the Western Communists had lost their bearings, didn’t know whom to believe. Even that old fool André Marty would have to be expelled from the Party for defending Tito.
He paged through the book. There it was! Let nobody make a hero of Tito: On two occasions he had wanted, like the coward he was, to surrender to the Germans, but Arso Jovanovic, his chief of staff, had forced him to go on being commander in chief! Noble Arso! Murdered. And what about Petricevic? “Murdered simply because he loved Stalin.” Noble Petricevic! The best people were always killed by somebody else; it fell to Stalin to finish off the worst.
It was all there—how Tito was probably a British spy, how vain he was about his underpants with a royal monogram, his physical ugliness, his resemblance to Göring, all those diamond rings on his fingers, his chestful of medals and decorations (what pathetic vanity in a man unendowed with strategic genius).
An objective, an ideologically sound book. Perhaps Tito was also sexually inadequate? That ought to be mentioned.
“The Yugoslav Communist Party is in the power of murderers and spies.” “Tito was only able to take over the leadership because Béla Kun and Traicho Kostov vouched for him.”
Kostov! Stalin felt a pang. The blood rushed furiously to his head; he stamped his foot; he kicked out violently, booting Traicho in the face, bloodying his ugly mug! Stalin’s gray eyelids trembled with satisfaction that justice had been done.
That damned Kostov! That filthy swine!
Extraordinary how transparent the machinations of these scoundrels became in retrospect! They were all Trotskyists, but how cleverly they had disguised themselves! Kun at least had been polished off in ’37, but it was only ten days since Kostov had stood before a Socialist court and reviled it. Stalin had managed so many trials successfully, compelled so many enemies to trample on themselves, and then the Kostov trial had gone disastrously wrong. It was a disgrace, with the whole world watching! The cunning of the man! To deceive experienced interrogators, grovel at their feet, then take it all back in open court! In the presence of foreign journalists! Where was his sense of decency? His Communist conscience? His proletarian solidarity? Appealing to the imperialists! All right, so you’re not guilty, but die anyway, for the good of Communism!
Stalin flung the book away. No, he must not lie down! Battle called.
He rose. Straightened up, but not all the way. Unlocked (and locked behind him) the other door, not the one at which Poskryobyshev had knocked. His soft boots shuffled almost silently along a narrow, low-ceilinged, crooked hallway, also windowless. He went past the secret entrance to his underground driveway and stopped at a two-way mirror, through which he could see the waiting room.
He looked. Abakumov was already there. Sitting with a big notebook in his hand, looking strained, wondering when he would be summoned. Stepping more firmly, no longer shuffling, Stalin went into his bedroom, which was also low-ceilinged, cramped, windowless, and air-conditioned. Under the oak paneling there was armor plating, and only then stone wall.
With a little key that he carried in his waistband, Stalin unlocked the metal lid of a decanter, poured himself a glass of his favorite cordial, drank it, and locked the decanter again.
He went over to the mirror. The eyes that had outstared Western premiers gazed back at him, stern and incorruptible. He looked austere, simple, soldierly. He rang for his Georgian orderly, to get dressed.
Even to a henchman he would present himself as he would appear in the eyes of history.
His iron will. . . . His inflexible will.
Never for a moment, never for a moment, must he cease to be . . . a mountain eagle.
* * *
* Okhranka: A slang term for the tsarist secret police, charged with monitoring the activities of Russian revolutionaries at home and abroad.
Chapter 21
Give Us Back the Death Penalty!
HARDLY ANYONE DARED CALL HIM SASHA to his face or even to think of him by that name. It had to be Aleksandr Nikolaevich. “Poskryobyshev rang” meant “The Boss rang.” “Poskryobyshev has ordered” meant “The Boss has ordered.” Poskryobyshev had lasted more than fifteen years as head of Stalin’s personal secretariat. It was a long time, and anyone who did not know him well might marvel that his head had not rolled. His secret was simple: He was at heart an officer’s servant, and he had entrenched himself in his job by acting accordingly. Even when he was made a lieutenant general, a member of the Central Committee, and head of the Special Department for Surveillance of Members of the Central Committee, he was incapable of imagining himself as less of a nonentity in comparison with the Boss. “To your native village, Soplyaki” (“Wimps’ home”), the Boss would say, and he would clink glasses with a complacent giggle. Stalin’s nose for such things never let him down, and in Poskryobyshev he scented neither doubt nor contumacy.
But in his dealings with his juniors, this homely, balding courtier acquired enormous importance. When he spoke to underlings over the telephone, his voice was the fa
intest whisper; you had to ram your head into the receiver to hear anything. You could occasionally share a little joke with him on matters of no moment, but ask how things were in there today? Your tongue would go on strike.
On this occasion Poskryobyshev told Abakumov:
“Iosif Vissarionovich is working. He may not want to see you. He gave orders for you to wait.”
Relieving Abakumov of his briefcase (it had to be handed over before you went in to the Man), Poskryobyshev escorted him into the waiting room and went away.
Abakumov had not ventured to ask what he most wanted to know: what sort of mood the Boss was in today. He was left alone in the waiting room, his heart pounding.
This large, powerfully built, and strong-willed man, whenever he found himself there, felt faint with dread, just like any ordinary citizen at the height of the Terror listening in the night hours for footsteps on the stairs. His ears became ice cold, then filled with blood and became red hot, and whenever this happened, Abakumov feared that his continually burning ears would arouse the Boss’s suspicion. The least little thing made Stalin suspicious. He did not, for instance, like people to put their hands into inside pockets in his presence. So Abakumov transferred to his breast pocket the two fountain pens he had ready to take notes.
Beria was the channel for day-to-day management of State Security, and it was from him that Abakumov generally received his instructions. But once a month the Autocrat liked to sample in the flesh the man to whom he entrusted the defense of the world’s most advanced social order.
Those interviews, an hour at a time, were the heavy price which Abakumov paid for all his power, all his high-and-mightiness. He lived, he enjoyed life, only from one interview to the next. When the appointed time came, his heart died within him; his ears turned to ice; he handed over his briefcase not knowing whether he would ever get it back; he bowed his bull head at Stalin’s office door, uncertain whether he would be able to raise it in an hour’s time.
In the First Circle Page 19
