by Ken Follett
‘Hmm.’ Volodya was pretending to be doubtful, but in truth he found it all too credible. Even Stalin’s greatest admirers – a group that included Volodya’s father, Grigori – did not claim he understood science. And it was all too easy for an autocrat to ignore anything that made him uncomfortable.
‘I’ve told your father,’ Zoya went on. ‘He listens to me, but no one listens to him.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What can I do? I’m going to make a damn good bomb sight for our airmen, and hope for the best.’
Volodya nodded. He liked that attitude. He liked this girl. She was smart and feisty and a joy to look at. He wondered if she would go to a movie with him.
Talk of physics reminded him of Willi Frunze, who had been his friend at the Berlin Boys’ Academy. According to Werner Franck, Willi was a brilliant physicist now studying in England. He might know something about the fission bomb Zoya was so exercised about. And if he was still a Communist he might be willing to tell what he knew. Volodya made a mental note to send a cable to the Red Army Intelligence desk in the London embassy.
His parents came in. Father was in full dress uniform, Mother in a coat and hat. They had been to one of the many interminable ceremonies the army loved: Stalin insisted such rituals continue, despite the German invasion, because they were so good for morale.
They cooed over the twins for a few minutes, but Father looked distracted. He muttered something about a phone call and went immediately to his study. Mother began to make supper.
Volodya talked to the three women in the kitchen, but he was desperate to speak to his father. He thought he could guess the subject of Father’s urgent phone call: the overthrow of Stalin was being either planned or prevented right now, probably here in this building.
After a few minutes he decided to risk the old man’s wrath and interrupt him. He excused himself and went to the study. But his father was just coming out. ‘I have to go to Kuntsevo,’ he said.
Volodya longed to know what was going on. ‘Why?’ he said.
Grigori ignored the question. ‘I’ve called down for my car, but my chauffeur has gone home. You can drive me.’
Volodya was thrilled. He had never been to Stalin’s dacha. Now he was going there at a moment of profound crisis.
‘Come on,’ his father said impatiently.
They shouted goodbyes from the hallway and went out.
Grigori’s car was a black ZIS-101A, a Soviet copy of an American Packard, with three-speed automatic transmission. Its top speed was about eighty miles per hour. Volodya got behind the wheel and pulled away.
He drove through the Arbat, a neighbourhood of craftsmen and intellectuals, and out on to the westward Mozhaisk Highway. ‘Have you been summoned by Comrade Stalin?’ he asked his father.
‘No. Stalin has been incommunicado for two days.’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Did you? It’s supposed to be secret.’
‘You can’t keep something like that secret. What’s happening now?’
‘A group of us are going to Kuntsevo to see him.’
Volodya asked the key question. ‘For what purpose?’
‘Primarily to find out whether he’s alive or dead.’
Could he really be dead already, and no one know about it? Volodya wondered. It seemed unlikely. ‘And if he’s alive?’
‘I don’t know. But whatever happens, I’d rather be there to see it than find out later.’
Listening devices did not work in moving cars, Volodya knew – the microphone just picked up engine noise – so he was confident he could not be overheard. Nevertheless, he felt fearful as he said the unthinkable. ‘Could Stalin be overthrown?’
His father answered irritably: ‘I told you, I don’t know.’
Volodya was electrified. Such a question demanded a confident negative. Anything else was a Yes. His father had admitted the possibility that Stalin could be finished.
Volodya’s hopes rose volcanically. ‘Think what that could be like!’ he said joyously. ‘No more purges! The labour camps will be closed. Young girls will no longer be pulled off the street to be raped by the secret police.’ He half expected his father to interrupt, but Grigori just listened with half-closed eyes. Volodya went on: ‘The stupid phrase “Trotsky-Fascist spy” will disappear from our language. Army units who find themselves outnumbered and outgunned could retreat, instead of sacrificing themselves uselessly. Decisions will be made rationally, by groups of intelligent men working out what’s best for everyone. It’s the Communism you dreamed of thirty years ago!’
‘Young fool,’ his father said contemptuously. ‘The last thing we want at this point is to lose our leader. We’re at war and retreating! Our sole aim must be to defend the revolution – whatever it takes. We need Stalin now more than ever.’
Volodya felt as if he had been slapped. It was many years since his father had called him a fool.
Was the old man right? Did the Soviet Union need Stalin? The leader had made so many disastrous decisions that Volodya did not see how the country could possibly be worse off with someone else in charge.
They reached their destination. Stalin’s home was conventionally called a dacha, but it was not a country cottage. A long, low building with five tall windows each side of a grand entrance, it stood in a pine forest and was painted dull green, as if to hide it. Hundreds of armed troops guarded the gates and the double barbed-wire fence. Grigori pointed to an anti-aircraft battery partly concealed by camouflage netting. ‘I put that there,’ he said.
The guard at the gate recognized Grigori, but nevertheless asked for their identification documents. Even though Grigori was a general and Volodya a captain in Intelligence, they were both patted down for weapons.
Volodya drove up to the door. There were no other cars in front of the house. ‘We’ll wait for the others,’ his father said.
A few moments later three more ZIS limousines drew up. Volodya recalled that ZIS stood for Zavod Imeni Stalina, Factory Called Stalin. Had the executioners arrived in cars named after their victim?
They all got out, eight middle-aged men in suits and hats, holding in their hands the future of their country. Among them Volodya recognized Foreign Minister Molotov and secret-police chief Beria.
‘Let’s go,’ said Grigori.
Volodya was astonished. ‘I’m coming in there with you?’
Grigori reached under his seat and handed Volodya a Tokarev TT-33 pistol. ‘Put this in your pocket,’ he said. ‘If that prick Beria tries to arrest me, you shoot the fucker.’
Volodya took it gingerly: the TT-33 had no safety catch. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket – it was about seven inches long – and got out of the car. There were eight rounds, he recalled, in the magazine of the gun.
They all went inside. Volodya feared he would be patted down again, and his gun discovered, but there was no second check.
The house was painted dark colours and poorly lit. An officer showed the group into what looked like a small dining room. Stalin sat there in an armchair.
The most powerful man in the Eastern Hemisphere appeared haggard and depressed. Looking up at the group entering the room he said: ‘Why have you come?’
Volodya gasped. Clearly he thought they were here either to arrest him or to execute him.
There was a long pause, and Volodya realized the group had not planned what to do. How could they, not even knowing whether Stalin was alive?
But what would they do now? Shoot him? There might never be another chance.
At last Molotov stepped forward. ‘We’re asking you to come back to work,’ he said.
Volodya had to suppress the urge to protest.
But Stalin shook his head. ‘Can I live up to people’s hopes? Can I lead the country to victory?’
Volodya was flabbergasted. Would he really refuse?
Stalin added: ‘There may be better candidates.’
He was giving them a second chance to fire h
im!
Another member of the group spoke up, and Volodya recognized Marshal Voroshilov. ‘There’s none more worthy,’ he said.
How did that help? This was hardly the time for naked sycophancy.
Then his father joined in, saying: ‘That’s right!’
Were they not going to let Stalin go? How could they be so stupid?
Molotov was the first to say something sensible. ‘We propose to form a war cabinet called the State Defence Committee, a kind of ultra-politburo with a very small membership and sweeping powers.’
Stalin quickly interposed: ‘Who will be its head?’
‘You, Comrade Stalin!’
Volodya wanted to shout: ‘No!’
There was another long silence.
At last Stalin spoke. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now, who else shall we have on the committee?’
Beria stepped forward and began to propose the members.
It was all over, Volodya realized, feeling dizzy with frustration and disappointment. They had lost their chance. They could have deposed a tyrant, but they had lacked the nerve. Like the children of a violent father, they feared they could not manage without him.
In fact, it was worse than that, he saw with growing despondency. Perhaps Stalin really had had a breakdown – it had certainly seemed real – but he had also made a brilliant political move. All the men who might replace him were here in this room. At the moment when his catastrophically poor judgement had been exposed for all to see, he had forced his rivals to come out and beg him to be their leader again. He had drawn a line under his appalling mistake and given himself a new start.
Stalin was not just back.
He was stronger than ever.
(xi)
Who would have the courage to make a public protest about what was going on at Akelberg? Carla and Frieda had seen it with their own eyes, and they had Ilse König as a witness, but now they needed an advocate. There were no elected representatives any more: all Reichstag deputies were Nazis. There were no real journalists, either; just scribbling sycophants. The judges were all Nazi appointees subservient to the government. Carla had never before realized how much she had been protected by politicians, newspapermen and lawyers. Without them, she saw now, the government could do anything it liked, even kill people.
Who could they turn to? Frieda’s admirer Heinrich von Kessel had a friend who was a Catholic priest. ‘Peter was the cleverest boy in my class,’ he told them. ‘But he wasn’t the most popular. A bit upright and stiff-necked. I think he’ll listen to us, though.’
Carla thought it was worth a try. Her Protestant pastor had been sympathetic, until the Gestapo terrified him into silence. Perhaps the same would happen again. But she did not know what else to do.
Heinrich took Carla, Frieda and Ilse to Peter’s church in Schöneberg early on a Sunday morning in July. Heinrich was handsome in a black suit; the girls all wore their nurses’ uniforms, symbols of trustworthiness. They entered by a side door and went to a small, dusty room with a few old chairs and a large wardrobe. They found Father Peter alone, praying. He must have heard them come in, but he remained on his knees for a minute before getting up and turning to greet them.
Peter was tall and thin, with regular features and a neat haircut. He was twenty-seven, Carla calculated, if he was Heinrich’s contemporary. He frowned at them, not troubling to conceal his irritation at being disturbed. ‘I am preparing myself for Mass,’ he said severely. ‘I am pleased to see you in church, Heinrich, but you must leave me now. I will see you afterwards.’
‘This is a spiritual emergency, Peter,’ said Heinrich. ‘Sit down, we have something important to tell you.’
‘It could hardly be more important than Mass.’
‘Yes, it could, Peter, believe me. In five minutes’ time you will agree.’
‘Very well.’
‘This is my girlfriend, Frieda Franck.’
Carla was surprised. Was Frieda his girlfriend now?
Frieda said: ‘I had a younger brother who was born with spina bifida. Earlier this year he was transferred to a hospital at Akelberg in Bavaria for special treatment. Shortly afterwards we got a letter saying he had died of appendicitis.’
She turned to Carla, who took up the tale. ‘My maid had a son born brain-damaged. He, too, was transferred to Akelberg. The maid got an identical letter on the same day.’
Peter spread his hands in a so-what gesture. ‘I have heard this kind of thing before. It’s anti-government propaganda. The Church does not interfere in politics.’
What rubbish that was, Carla thought. The Church was up to its neck in politics. But she let it pass. ‘My maid’s son did not have an appendix,’ she went on. ‘He had had it removed two years earlier.’
‘Please,’ said Peter. ‘What does this prove?’
Carla felt discouraged. Peter was obviously biased against them.
Heinrich said: ‘Wait, Peter. You haven’t heard it all. Ilse here worked at the hospital in Akelberg.’
Peter looked at her expectantly.
‘I was raised Catholic, Father,’ Ilse said.
Carla had not known that.
‘I’m not a good Catholic,’ Ilse went on.
‘God is good, not us, my daughter,’ said Peter piously.
Ilse said: ‘But I knew that what I was doing was a sin. Yet I did it, because they told me to, and I was frightened.’ She began to cry.
‘What did you do?’
‘I killed people. Oh, Father, will God forgive me?’
The priest stared at the young nurse. He could not dismiss this as propaganda: he was looking at a soul in torment. He went pale.
The others were silent. Carla held her breath.
Ilse said: ‘The handicapped people are brought to the hospital in grey buses. They don’t have special treatment. We give them an injection, and they die. Then we cremate them.’ She looked up at Peter. ‘Will I ever be forgiven for what I have done?’
He opened his mouth to speak. His words caught in his throat, and he coughed. At last he said quietly: ‘How many?’
‘Usually four. Buses, I mean. There are about twenty-five patients in a bus.’
‘A hundred people?’
‘Yes. Every week.’
Peter’s proud composure had vanished. His face was pale grey, and his mouth hung open. ‘A hundred handicapped people a week?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘What sort of handicap?’
‘All sorts, mental and physical. Some senile old people, some deformed babies, men and women, paralysed or retarded or just helpless.’
He had to keep repeating it. ‘And the staff of the hospital kill them all?’
Ilse sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I knew it was wrong.’
Carla watched Peter. His supercilious air had gone. It was a remarkable transformation. After years of hearing the prosperous Catholics of this sylvan suburb confess their little sins, he had suddenly been confronted with raw evil. And he was shocked to his core.
But what would he do?
Peter stood up. He took Ilse by the hands and raised her from her seat. ‘Come back to the church,’ he said. ‘Confess to your priest. God will forgive you. This much I know.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
He released her hands and looked at Heinrich. ‘It may not be so simple for the rest of us,’ he said.
Then he turned his back on them and knelt to pray again.
Carla looked at Heinrich, who shrugged. They got up and left the little room, Carla with her arm around the weeping Ilse.
Carla said: ‘We’ll stay for the service. Perhaps he’ll speak to us again afterwards.’
The four of them walked into the nave of the church. Ilse stopped crying and became calmer. Frieda held Heinrich’s arm. They took seats among the gathering congregation, prosperous men and plump women and restless children in their best clothes. People such as these would never kill the handicapped, Carla thought. Yet their governmen
t did, on their behalf. How had this happened?
She did not know what to expect of Father Peter. Clearly he had believed what they had told him, in the end. He had wanted to dismiss them as politically motivated, but Ilse’s sincerity had convinced him. He had been horrified. But he had not made any promises, except that God would forgive Ilse.
Carla looked around the church. The decoration was more colourful than what she was used to in Protestant churches. There were more statues and paintings, more marble and gilding and banners and candles. Protestants and Catholics had fought wars about such trivia, she recalled. How strange it seemed, in a world where children could be murdered, that anyone should care about candles.
The service began. The priests entered in their robes, Father Peter the tallest among them. Carla could not read anything in his facial expression except stern piety.
She sat indifferent through the hymns and prayers. She had prayed for her father, and two hours later had found him cruelly beaten and dying on the floor of their home. She missed him every day, sometimes every hour. Praying had not saved him, nor would it protect those deemed useless by the government. Action was needed, not words.
Thinking of her father brought her brother, Erik, to mind. He was somewhere in Russia. He had written a letter home, jubilantly celebrating the rapid progress of the invasion, and angrily refusing to believe that Walter had been murdered by the Gestapo. Their father had obviously been released unharmed by the Gestapo and then attacked in the street by criminals or Communists or Jews, he asserted. He was living in a fantasy, beyond the reach of reason.
Was the same true of Father Peter?
Peter mounted the pulpit. Carla had not known he was due to preach a sermon. She wondered what he would say. Would he be inspired by what he had heard this morning? Would he speak of something irrelevant, the virtue of modesty or the sin of envy? Or would he close his eyes and devoutly thank God for the German army’s continuing victories in Russia?
He stood tall in the pulpit and swept the church with a gaze that might have been arrogant, or proud, or defiant.
‘The fifth commandment says: “Thou shalt not kill”.’
Carla met Heinrich’s eye. What was Peter going to say?
