The Scarlet Generation

by Christopher Nicole

  He went down to the secret inner courtyard of the prison complex, a prison within a prison. Here there were 12 sound-proofed cells. Once entered, one was entirely cut-off from the outside world, except insofar as the gaolers might enlighten one. In the centre of the quadrangle formed by the cells there was an open air exercise area. Here the prisoners were exercised, one at a time; as their cells had no windows, they had no means of knowing who was sharing their confinement with them. But they did know that the exercise area was actually open to the sky, even if that sky, peeping coyly between the high, windowless walls on either side, was at once small and far away. Only for half an hour in each day in summer was the sun visible in that sky; the inmates would beg their guards to allow their exercise period to be at noon. But in the depths of winter it did not matter; they were better off in their warm and comfortable cells.

  Because the cells were warm, and comfortable. Beria nodded to the duty guard, who unlocked the door of Number Seven. He looked at a bed, a table and two chairs, a toilet and washbasin, even a book case, well filled. This was because the people down here were not being prepared either for trial or execution, or for exile to the living death of the gulags. They were here because the world supposed them dead. They were here to be resurrected, as and when he considered it appropriate. To be effective at that time they needed to be in the best of health. It amused him to think that when Stalin finally got tired of trying to persuade Priscilla Bolugayevska-Cromb to be his mistress, he might require her to be liquidated. There was, in fact, nothing else that he would dare do with her. Then she would be given to him. To disappear, as and when he chose. He thought he might enjoy that.

  But then, he enjoyed having Sonia down here. She sat at her table, reading a book. She looked up at his entry, but neither rose nor spoke. She had this unnerving habit of treating him, and indeed everyone inside Lubyanka, as her inferiors, regardless of the fact that they, certainly he, could snuff her out of existence with a snap of his fingers. But a woman who had survived Colonel Michaelis of the Okhrana, and then Radislav the butcher, and then Trotsky the terror, would presume that she knew everything a man could do to a woman, with the comforting reflection that she was alive where they were all dead. But surely she had also to be aware that he could do far worse things to her than merely rest a gun muzzle on the nape of her neck. Perhaps she thought her age protected her from his lust. He was surprised at himself, but he still found her attractive. But that was because of who and what she was more than any physical beauty she might have retained. And who and what she would be, one day. “Were you and Joseph Cromb ever lovers?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Nearly.” And then frowned. “He’s not dead?”

  Beria smiled in turn. “Nearly. Stalin issued his death warrant, but that fool Ligachev got killed first. Jennie is desolated.”

  “No doubt she has been desolated before.” Sonia had nothing going for Jennie, who no doubt at all had led her into this trap, or had certainly not warned her it was going to be sprung.

  “Oh, indeed. To lose two husbands violently is traumatic. But at least she knows that this husband died gallantly, if ineptly.”

  “And Joseph?”

  “Is in hospital. He was badly wounded, but he will recover. Does that thought please you?”

  “Very much. Will I be allowed to see him?”

  “I cannot say. But I have more important news for you. Do you know what happened to your daughter, Anna?”

  Sonia’s features stiffened. “She died, in 1923. She was murdered with her brother. My son. They were murdered by Andrei Gosykin, Jennie’s first husband.”

  “Yours is a tangled family,” Beria said sympathetically. “However, Anna did not die, in 1923. She disappeared.”

  “She disappeared, as you say. And was never heard of again.”

  “Which is not the same thing as being dead, as you should know. Suppose I told you that she was, and is, alive?” Now Sonia did stand up, involuntarily.

  “It is true,” Beria said. “I do not know what happened to her after her brother was murdered. But I do know that she finished up in Germany, married to a German named Holzbach, who happens to be a colonel in the Waffen SS.” Sonia sat down again; she was breathless. “This information was contained in Ligachev’s private papers. It was certainly known to his son.”

  “And Jennie?”

  “That I cannot say. Did she give any indication of it when you met?”

  Sonia shook her head. “We only had time for a brief lunch before I was arrested. Where is my daughter now?”

  “We know that Holzbach is in command of the SS in Brest-Litovsk. It was he who liquidated Group One. Possibly his wife is with him.”

  “You are saying that my daughter is a Nazi?”

  “Her husband certainly is. That is rather amusing, don’t you think? Your daughter, a Jewess, married to a senior officer in the SS? A man who is going places, so they say.”

  “But...” Sonia bit her lip.

  “Oh, indeed, the Nazis are obviously unaware of her ancestry. Even her immediate ancestry. According to Feodor Ligachev’s notes she is blonde and beautiful, very Aryan in appearance,”

  “Yes,” Sonia muttered. “She took after her father.”

  “So, you see, it is an interesting situation. Would you like your daughter to be sent to a concentration camp? We understand life there can be quite severe.”

  “Of course I do not wish her harmed,” Sonia said. “Please...” Again she bit her lip.

  Beria smiled. “Do you know, I never expected to hear you say please, to me. Perhaps to anyone.”

  “I am asking for the life of my daughter.”

  “Even if she is a Nazi? Even if she would certainly have you shot, were you ever to meet? At least in Germany.”

  “She is my only living blood relative,” Sonia said.

  “And these things are important. Well, I shall not send Ligachev’s dossier to the Germans. Unless I have to. And one must hope that I never have to.”

  They gazed at each other. “I am sixty-six years old,” Sonia said.

  “I assure you that you look much younger,” Beria said.

  “I have news of your husband,” Stalin said.

  Priscilla turned, sharply. She had been looking out of the window, watching the snowflakes clouding down. Apart from the fact that she was not free, she was living very comfortably in a splendidly appointed apartment. She had books, she could write letters — not that there was any hope of posting them. The only thing she lacked, physically, was a radio, and thus news of the world outside the Kremlin. And Stalin waited for her surrender.

  Such a situation would have been incredible in London or New York, or any civilised Western country, where there was freedom of speech and thought, and more important, an investigative media. But this was Russia, where attitudes were still rooted in the Middle Ages, where despots still ruled, and did as they wished, caused people to disappear as they wished; and yet were restrained by their wishes. She had no doubt that she was constantly watched. She had not troubled to discover which of the mirrors were one-way, which of the fittings were bugged. If Stalin wanted to see, and hear, her most private moments there was nothing she could do to prevent it. But he still dreamed that one day she would come to him. “And of your son,” he said. “Good news.”

  “They are in Moscow?”

  “No. In war time it is very difficult to bring families together. But they are both alive and well. Up to a point, at any rate. I am afraid Joseph has been badly wounded...”

  He had taken her by surprise. “My God! I must go to him! You must let me go to him...”

  “Calm yourself. There is no need to be concerned. He was hit by a bullet.”

  “How can he have been hit by a bullet? He is not a combatant.” She pointed at Stalin. “You had him shot.”

  “Had I had him shot, my dear Princess, he would be dead. He wished to see for himself conditions in our front line. So I agreed that he could go to Stalingrad, with
Ivan Ligachev to look after him. One would have thought that Ligachev could keep him out of trouble. So what happens? Ligachev gets himself shot. And killed.”

  Priscilla was not the least bit interested in Ivan Ligachev, a man she had never met. “Will Joseph be all right?”

  “I am told he will recover with proper care and attention. And proper instructions to his doctors, of course, that he should be given priority treatment. That he should not be neglected.”

  They stared at each other. “You are the foulest bastard who ever walked this earth,” Priscilla said.

  He pointed his finger towards her. “One day you will try my patience too far.”

  “I look forward to it,” she said contemptuously.

  His cheeks were suffused, but his voice remained even. “I have also news of your son. He is alive and well, and serving with the partisans in the Pripet. Would you not like to see your son again?”

  “Only if I can do so with honour.”

  “What do you want?” His voice was almost a wail. “Are you not living in the most luxurious surroundings? Do you not have movies to watch and books to read? Have you not servants waiting on you, hand and foot? Do you not eat the best food and drink the best wine? What more can you want?”

  “Apart from my freedom, I have what I want, Comrade Chairman. My honour. Nothing else is of the least importance.”

  He turned away from her and stamped to the door. She found she was holding her breath, because she had no idea what he was going to do next, whether he would carry out any of his threats. At the door he checked, and turned again. “Suppose I told you that I intend to leave this office and give orders that your husband is to be executed? What would you say to that?”

  “I would say that you cannot have my husband executed, Premier Stalin, because your government gave him a safe conduct to come to Russia. You can, of course, have him murdered. You are good at having people murdered. But be sure the world will find you out.” He slammed the door behind him, and Priscilla could allow herself to fall across her bed. Oddly, she had no desire to weep, even if she might just have sealed Joseph’s death warrant. But she felt utterly exhausted.

  The snow, clouding down, lying feet thick in places, gave even Stalingrad a beauty, as long as one could forget what the snow was hiding. But the Russian soldiers were happy; they knew the beast was mortally wounded. Now it was only a matter of waiting for it to lie down. The counter-offensive, mounted north and south of the city, had met with little opposition from the satellite forces protecting the Sixth Army’s wings. These Rumanians, Hungarians and Italians, even less than the Germans, were not equipped for survival, much less combat, in sub-zero temperatures, and they lacked the ideological fanaticism of their German masters. They had crumbled away into defeat and surrender. Paulus had been surrounded.

  Yet he fought on, commanded to do so by Hitler, buoyed by the promise of supply by air, by the knowledge that Germany’s greatest general, Manstein, was leading a relief force. But even Manstein had been unable to break through the encircling Russian Fronts, and the Luftwaffe had been unable to supply a tenth of what the Sixth Army needed, in food and munitions, to survive. And still they fought on. “One day,” Chuikov said, “my people will discover that no one has fired at them for twenty-four hours. Then they will advance, and they will find that there is not a single German left alive. Is that not a great tragedy? Those men were a splendid fighting force, and they have been allowed to rot.” He grinned at Joseph, and then at the faces of the officers seated round the mess table, securely and warm underground. “So, let us drink to Christmas and victory. I think we may get drunk tonight, Comrade American.”

  The chunky little soldier had grown on Joseph day by day. As had the men of Stalingrad. He had not of course been allowed to return across the river to the actual fighting; he had not recovered sufficiently from his wound to do that, as yet, even supposing Chuikov, who had assumed a personal responsibility for him, would have permitted it. His only downside was that he had heard not a word from Priscilla.

  Chuikov assured him that his letter had been sent. And undoubtedly he was being optimistic in expecting a reply in such a place and at such a time. At least he could feel sure she was safe. And it had been, nonetheless, an enthralling two months. Which was now soon to end.

  Meanwhile, toasts. He had become used to the Russian way of spending an evening drinking endless toasts. But tonight he had some of his own. “I give you a multiple toast,” he offered, swaying to and fro. “Eisenhower and Montgomery, Torch and El Alamein.”

  There was a moment’s silence from the gathering of officers, then Chuikov gave a great shout of laughter. “And why not? They are at least fighting. Now, Comrade American, if they had fought those battles and won those victories in France instead of the desert, it might have mattered.”

  “That’ll follow!” Joseph asserted.

  “We shall see.” Chuikov blinked at the little man who had just entered the officers’ mess. “Who the devil are you?”

  The newcomer was wearing a belted overcoat and a fur hat rather than uniform, and carried a briefcase. “I am Commissar Bruitzov,” he announced.

  “Come to see the end of the show, eh? Here, have a drink.”

  “I will not drink, thank you, Comrade General.”

  Chuikov leaned forward to peer at him. “Are you a Russian?”

  “Well, of course I am a Russian.”

  “And you do not drink? At Christmas? You are a spy! He is a spy!” he bellowed. “Hang him!”

  The officers staggered to their feet. “And you are drunk,” Bruitzov said. “You are all drunk,” he added, disparagingly.

  “It is the curse of the Russian army. Of Russia itself. I did not say I do not drink. I said I will not drink now. I have an urgent despatch for you, General.”

  Chuikov waved his hand to postpone the hanging, at least for the moment. “Give it to me, Comrade Commissar.” Bruitzov tapped his briefcase. “In private.”

  “Then it can wait.”

  “It is most urgent that I give it to you now.”

  “Do you think he means to assassinate me?” Chuikov asked at large. “If he does, don’t forget to hang him.”

  His subordinates shouted their enthusiasm for that idea, as the General followed Bruitzov from the room. “Will he not report you all to the high command?” Joseph asked Colonel Limski, Chuikov’s adjutant.

  “He can report us to whoever he wishes,” Limski said, pouring vodka. “The days of the commissars are done, my friend. It is the army and the people who rule Russia now. For that, we can thank the Fritzes, eh?”

  Joseph wondered if he was right.

  When Chuikov returned, he looked relatively sober. But, then, it was always difficult to be sure when the General was actually drunk. “Where is our friend, Comrade General?” Limski inquired.

  “Looking for a ride back to Moscow,” Chuikov said. Limski looked at Joseph, raising his eyebrows. “How drunk are you, Comrade American?” Chuikov asked.

  “No more drunk than you, Comrade General.”

  “Then come outside.”

  It was Joseph’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Do you mean to assassinate me, Comrade General?”

  Chuikov led him into the office adjoining the mess hall. “Why does Comrade Stalin hate you?”

  Joseph shrugged. “Because I escaped from the gulag, I suppose. And then told the world what it was like.”

  “Then why did you come back to Russia?”

  “It is my homeland. I wished to help it. To help you. To win your war. I have a safe conduct, signed by Commissar Ligachev.”

  Chuikov snorted. “Who is now dead! When last you came to Russia you had a safe conduct, signed by Commissar Trotsky. Did that protect you?” Joseph rubbed the back of his head. He needed to think, and it was difficult with the vodka clouding his brain. “That man was sent here to kill you,” Chuikov said.

  “Just like that?”

  “That is how things happen in Russia,
Comrade American. A tap on the arm, and one is never seen again.”

  “Then why have you sent him back to Moscow?”

  Chuikov grinned. “Because I am not having any friend of mine murdered, even by order of the state. You are my friend, Comrade American. I like you!”

  “Will this not bring you a lot of trouble?”

  “Not while we are winning. Not while I am winning. And I am doing that. Afterwards...Well, as I have said before, I believe there will be a new dawning in Russia. But for the time being, I strongly recommend that you stay with my headquarters. That is the only way I can guarantee your life. You wish to stay, in any event, do you not?”

  “I do, yes. But I will have to square it with my superiors. Am I allowed to tell them why?”

  Chuikov shrugged. “They will not believe you. They will think you are shell-shocked, or suffering from paranoia. It is a common Russian disease. But you and I will advance together, to victory, eh?”

  Five weeks later, on 2 February 1943, Paulus surrendered what was left of his Sixth Army. The Battle of Stalingrad was over, and the German Army had suffered the greatest defeat in its history.

  *

  Anna von Holzbach looked up from the paper she had been given to read. “Do you expect me to believe this, Major von Buelow?”

  “As it is true, yes, Frau von Holzbach,” Buelow said. “Do you deny any of the charges?”

  Anna snorted. “Of course I do. They are utterly false!”

  “My dear Frau von Holzbach, the comings and goings from this apartment have been recorded by the concierge. He has admitted, in fact, aiding and abetting you in carrying on these clandestine visits. He records that you were ‘entertaining’ a gentleman friend just after new year last year, on the night your husband returned from the Russian Front, and telephoned you a warning so that your guest could make his escape by the fire-stairs. Can you really hope to deny that this happened?”