by Ward Wagher
Moscow, USSR
“And so, Comrade Secretary,” Zhukov continued, “we are on track to kick off the offensive on or about May 1.”
Stalin leaned back in his chair as he looked at the map mounted on a three-legged easel. The markings on the map showed where the Soviet forces would move into Poland with the goal to surround and destroy the German armies. He folded his arms as he considered what he had been told.
“And how confident are you of being able to initiate on May 1, Marshall Zhukov?”
“We are ready now, comrade,” he replied, “everything is in place. We are waiting for the spring rains to cease, and the ground to firm up. If we tried to go cross country now we would sink in a sea of mud.”
“So, then you are really dependent upon the weather?” Stalin asked.
“Yes, comrade. We have designed this to give us a maximum of good weather in case the war stretches longer than we expected. We have an aggressive timetable, and the unexpected needs to be considered.”
Stalin picked up his pipe and waved it around. “The Americans talk about Murphy’s Law. Can we assume that applies here?”
Zhukov chuckled nervously. “I believe it applies everywhere. Our planning, of course, tries to anticipate every possible event, but by definition, Murphy applies to the things we don’t anticipate. We simply have to do the best we can and be prepared to think on our feet.”
Stalin looked over at Beria, who leaned against the wall with his arms folded. “And how goes our maskirovka, Lavrentiy?”
The leader of the NKVD looked nervous. “So far it has not impacted anything in Germany. We are planning a general rail strike beginning next week. Schloss recently turned over control of the Wehrmacht railroad logistics to the Ministry of transportation. We think the strike will thoroughly complicate their efforts when they discover the need to start moving matériel to the East.”
Stalin appointed the stem of his pipe at Beria. “Explain how it has not impacted anything in Germany.”
Beria unfolded his arms and stood straight. “Comrade Secretary, we arranged demonstrations in eight cities in Germany, but the workers involved immediately went back to work. They are afraid of losing their jobs. Several of our agents were also picked up by the SS.”
“And so, they will immediately tell Rainer everything they know, and we will have blown the security for this operation.”
“I think not,” Beria said quickly. “The people we recruited for the job are the true believers in Germany, and sincerely think they are helping the downtrodden proletariat. They are from one of the international Socialist workers' organizations and have no direct links back to us.”
Stalin stood up and walked over to study the map closely. Beria thought he detected a slight twitch in the General Secretary’s eyelid. He wondered if Stalin was having second thoughts about the whole operation. He frankly hoped so. He was confident they would eventually beat the Germans, but he was convinced it would be far bloodier and far more expensive than anyone expected. They still had to face the problem of the current mood of the people in the Soviet Union. He was very aware that things are balanced on a knife edge, and it would take very little to set off an uncontained explosion which might sweep them all from power.
He had quietly assigned a small team to begin work on Plan B and was looking for an appropriate time to propose it to Stalin. The mercurial nature of their leader meant that he would have to work carefully. He wondered if this would be the right time to propose the alternative. There was still time to cancel the invasion.
Stalin turned and studied the Beria carefully. “You have something to say, Lavrentiy?”
Beria was frightened now. The man had an uncanny ability to read people, and he had just done so with his security chief. Beria decided he was committed. Backing away now would only increase Stalin’s suspicion.
“I have been thinking, Comrade Secretary. While we must preserve the revolution at all costs, there might be a way to do so less expensively than total war against the Germans.”
Stalin stared at him for a long moment. Then he twitched his mustache slightly and returned to his chair. He opened his tobacco pouch and begin filling his pipe. Beria sighed internally. This meant that Stalin was prepared to listen to him. He had crossed the first gate successfully; now he had to complete the proposal with his head still attached.
“I have had a small team working on an alternate plan in case circumstances intervened with the Germans. I believe we can announce another five-year plan and convince enough of the people to support it we might reduce tensions somewhat. We can maintain our stockpiles of war materials near the border in case we need to mobilize and strike quickly.”
“And then the Germans will cross the border and destroy or steal our stockpiles. Where would we be then?” Zhukov asked.
“Schloss is not interested in a war with us,” Beria retorted. “He has been busy getting Germany out of every war Hitler started. I think the man is basically a coward.”
“And if Schloss is basically a coward that might work to our advantage, hmmm?” Stalin queried, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“I believe that to be very likely true, Comrade Secretary,” Beria replied. “I believe we might push him pretty hard and therefore gain advantage. But part of my job is to assess risk to the revolution. War always brings uncertainties, and that makes me nervous.”
Stalin lit his pipe and generated clouds of vile smelling smoke. He looked around the room at the others and back at the map again as he thought. He visibly reached a decision.
“Well said, Lavrentiy. You are wise to consider the options as well as the risks. We will think on this. Marshall Zhukov, please continue with your preparations for the offensive. Lavrentiy, you will continue developing your alternatives. We will examine these things again tomorrow. Now, it is time to attend the reception with the Americans. Once again we must play nice with the running dogs of capitalism.”
§ § §
April 7, 1943; 9 PM
Soviet Foreign Ministry
Moscow, USSR
Soviet diplomatic events were somewhat different from the way the rest of the world played the game. While the buffet table was well stocked, and the alcohol flowed freely, the Russians were somewhat stilted in their behavior. Misty thought it was perhaps because of the uncomfortable uniforms and suits they wore. Nevertheless, Misty felt awkward. She had always thought that she could effortlessly carry on a conversation with anyone, but the Russians were a challenge.
The heavy curtains and the ornate trim made the room seem almost oppressive. They loved the intricate filigree of their designs and it showed here. When she caught sight of the Saint Basil’s Cathedral upon their arrival in Red Square, she was impressed at the beauty and the colors. It was also something her Western eye had trouble taking in. There was so much to look at.
She glanced around the room and it noticed the Americans all looked uncomfortable with the exception of Harriman. There was no doubt he was a good conversationalist and he seemed to be keeping Stalin engaged. Among the Russians, Molotov appeared the most outgoing, even friendly. He spent a few minutes in conversation with Misty and seemed even charming.
One of the challenges facing the Americans was that none of the Russian leadership spoke English. When it became known that she spoke Russian acceptably, she was pressed into service as an interpreter. She was easier to understand and translated faster than the Russian interpreters.
She did not enjoy the task, this evening. The Russians considered her a menial employee and the Americans enjoyed seeing her taken down a notch. The look on Harriman’s face showed that he understood, but for this evening, they were all on stage and she had to fulfill her assigned role.
“Good evening. Is it Miss Simpson?”
She turned to face a balding man with bushy eyebrows wearing a pince-nez. She nodded to acknowledge his greeting.
“Yes, Misty Simpson.”
He gave a short bow and leaned forward thrusting his hand forward. �
��Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lavrentiy Beria.”
So, this was the head of the NKVD. While not a lot of information escaped from the Soviet Union, Beria was rumored to have caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. The term as she understood it was liquidation. This mild-mannered man with the dancing eyes was a monster.
“So happy to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand. “This is my first visit to Moscow, and I find it fascinating.”
“I should be happy to give you a tour of the city if that is your desire,” the man said.
At that point, she noticed the coldness in his eyes. This was a dangerous man.
“Thank you for the invitation. We shall have to see how things go this week. Mister Harriman keeps me very busy.”
He gave another short bow. “Indeed. I shall contact Mister Harriman in a few days to see if something might be worked out.”
Nodding again with a smile, he turned and moved away. She shivered as she watched him walk over to the other corner of the room. She decided he had the eyes of a serpent. For him, she concluded, murdering people in train car loads was just part of the job. She tried to remember her ethics classes from Columbia University. Beria was not immoral, but rather he was amoral. On the other hand, she felt like she had just shaken hands with the Devil.
She looked back over at Harriman. She watched as Stalin grasped Harriman’s arm and both men laughed uproariously. The Russian interpreter stood slightly behind them and showed no expression at all. Misty wondered if they both thought whatever was said was funny. This was what fascinated her about diplomacy. It was played on multiple levels and one had to understand both her friends and her enemies. Harriman had warned her that the Soviets were not the friends of the Americans. After meeting Beria, she was convinced.
She walked over to the buffet and added samples of the delicacies to a small plate. One of the stewards walked up with a tray containing flutes of champagne. She smiled at him and took one. She stepped over to the side where she could set down the champagne and focus on the food. She constantly shifted her eyes, taking in the scene. Nearby a stocky bald man studied her. Visibly making up his mind, he marched over to where she stood.
“Madam, I am Nikita Khrushchev.” He offered a quick bow and stretched his hand out to shake.
“And I am Misty Simpson,” she replied in Russian. “Nice to meet you. You are from the Ukraine, are you not?”
He looked surprised at her knowledge. “I am the general secretary of the Communist Party in the Ukraine.”
“It was a long train ride across the Ukraine to Moscow,” she commented.
He laughed boisterously. Yes, Madam, it is a long way across the Ukraine. We call it the breadbasket of Russia. It supplies most of the grains and feedstocks to the country.”
She twisted her head slightly to acknowledge what he said. “I have visited Indiana, in the United States, on several occasions. What I saw of the Ukraine was not unlike that area.”
Khrushchev’s eyes shifted to the right as he took in the other members of Stalin’s entourage. “May I suggest that you be very cautious around Beria. He is a dangerous man.”
She nodded, not sure where he was going. “I am always careful, Comrade Khrushchev.”
Khrushchev nervously glanced to his right again. “Understand that he has desires other than diplomacy. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
He bit his lip and then spoke again. “Nice to meet you, Miss Simpson.”
And then he walked back to his position. A few moments later Misty looked over, and he was gone. It appeared he had slipped out of the room. She pondered the warning that he gave her and wondered what it meant. There was no question Beria was a very dangerous man. He had amply proven that over the previous twenty years. Could it be that he would try to lure her into a compromising position, she wondered? She had always been very careful about that, and so she decided to exercise her normal caution and not worry about it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
April 7, 1943; 8 PM
Reich Chancellor’s Apartments
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany
“That was very, very good,” said Karl Rainer as he settled into one of the sofas in Schloss’s apartment. “It amazes me how well Frau Marsden can cook.”
“We just need to have you over more often,” Schloss said. “I have been remiss in not inviting you sooner.”
“The only problem is that every time we get together he wants to arrest someone,” Peter Schreiber said.
“And you would be the first, Peter,” Rainer retorted.
“And based on some unpleasant experiences, Peter,” said Schloss, “you would not want to spend any time in Karl’s dungeons.”
Following their dinner, Gisela and Renate were in the kitchen with Frau Marsden. Schloss walked over to a side table in the sitting room and poured brandy into three snifters. He handed one to each of his guests and then settled himself in one of the easy chairs. Peter remained standing and leaned against the wall as he swirled the deep maroon liquor in his glass.
“Since we have the kitchen cabinet together,” Schloss continued, “I want to kick some ideas around with you.”
“I think the kitchen cabinet is in the kitchen,” Peter said with a smirk.
Schloss chuckled. “He is probably right, Karl. Given a chance, the women will make our decisions for us.”
“That’s not funny,” Karl interjected. “They probably will.”
Schloss took a sip of the Brandy and felt it burn its way to his stomach. “I am not sure which I like better after an evening meal. Coffee still has its attractions.”
Peter shrugged. “That may be, Hennie, but this is the time of day that Frau Marsden takes the coffee away from you.”
“So, instead, we sit here drinking ourselves senseless,” Rainer said.
“You must be on your way to being senseless since I’m not sitting.”
Rainer made an obscene gesture at Peter, who just laughed.
Schloss cleared his throat to get their attention. He crossed his legs as he thought about where to begin.
“I think we’re all agreed that we will probably be at war again before long. The high command is working hard on plans for this. I think that we can give them a major black eye when they come across the border. My concern is over the long run.”
“You have made it pretty clear, Hennie, that we will not achieve a quick victory against the Russians.”
“Right, Peter. I think it will settle down to a slugging match, and the Russians have more people and potentially more industrial capacity than we do.”
Rainer set his glass down on a side table and folded his arms. “Ribbentrop is convinced they have more industrial capacity. But honestly, Herr Schloss, I don’t have the confidence in him that you do.”
Schloss remembered studying this in one of his college classes back in the former universe. In the late 1930s, the Russians had begun moving their industry towards the Urals in the East, assuming that a war with a Western European power would happen sooner or later. Once the Soviets got their industrial machine in gear, they were formidable, as the Germans in that time learned to their regret.
“It’s not just Ribbentrop, Karl. He gets his research from the same sources as everyone else. I don’t see a lot of inconsistency there.”
“So, what do we do, then?” Peter asked as he moved over and dropped into a chair. “You act as though we have already lost the war.”
“We could very well lose it. We must do everything in our power to avoid that outcome. Guderian is planning to interdict their rail lines. We have one-hundred American bombers which would be well suited to that. All the Russian railroads connect through Moscow. We can bomb the rail centers there intensively, and I think it will slow them down for a while. But, that does not solve the problem.”
Peter glanced over at his brother-in-law. “You’ve been talking about this problem for months. Are you any closer to a s
olution?”
“I suppose we could get lucky and take out Stalin. The Americans did that with Tojo.”
“Yes, and they got Yamamoto instead,” Rainer stated. “I don’t think that was an improvement from their point of view.”
“True,” Schloss mused. “And we would also have to consider the question of whether Stalin’s replacement would be an improvement from our point of view. No, we must break their will if we’re going to win this. I want to make them sorry they decided to cross the border. What are the things the Russian government is most sensitive to?”
“Well, they’re still not feeding themselves,” Peter said. “Their farming system is in shambles. The population is restless, and we think that is why Stalin is pushing for this adventure. And, Ribbentrop thinks they don’t have much in the way of foreign exchange.”
“You are thinking now, Peter,” Schloss grinned. “What are the things we can do, or rather what are the areas where Stalin is the weakest? What can we do to gum things up and make him wish he’d never trifled with us?”
Rainer leaned forward in his chair. “We might try what the English did. They sent teams into Germany to mess up our infrastructure. Remember what they did to the Müngsten bridge?”
“That’s a good thought,” Schloss said. “The question is whether we have any teams good enough to survive across those distances in Russia. That is a very closed society.”
“Maybe I can ask Skorzeny,” Rainer said.
“Do you have someone you trust well enough to send to Judaea to talk to him?” Schloss asked. “I don’t think Ben Gurion would allow him to leave and come help us. The man is too useful to the Jews.”
“Would such a team be Wehrmacht or SS?” Peter asked.
“I suppose it could be either,” Schloss said. “But Guderian has his hands full right now. We can let Karl run with this.”
“You need to be careful about volunteering, Karl,” Peter laughed.
Schloss took another sip of his brandy. “I have also pondered whether our special weapons would be effective in this kind of war.”
