Apricot Jam

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  And so it was all the more deeply insulting to read, some years later, Yeryomenko’s lies of how he had planned the whole Stalingrad operation . . . together with Khrushchev. Zhukov looked him in the eye and asked, “How could you do that?” “Khrushchev asked me to do it,” was the reply.

  After that it was Chuykov, the commander of only one of the Stalingrad armies, who claimed the glory for all three fronts. He also made a jab at Zhukov, now in disgrace, when he wrote in his memoirs that Zhukov had “only confused things.” Zhukov thought his heart would burst—he’d have another attack for certain. He called Khrushchev: How could he allow such lies to be printed? The “Corn King” promised to put in a word for him. (What did Chuykov’s memoirs matter, anyway? Did he, Zhukov, have nothing to say for himself? He pulled out some old army newspaper articles in which he was mentioned and used them to defend himself.)

  After Stalingrad, still working with Vasilevsky, Zhukov confidently set about planning a new battle at Kursk. He took a very risky decision: He would not hurry his offensive. He would not even begin an offensive; he would first give Manstein a week to smash himself against our well-prepared defense in depth (it was almost a reckless decision: What if Manstein should break through?), and only then stun the Germans with our offensive on Oryol.

  It turned out to be yet another strategic masterpiece with the beauty, power, and resounding success of Stalingrad. Zhukov’s powers as a strategist grew even stronger, and he became confident that he could smash Hitler even without the Allies’ Second Front. Now he could actually feel himself guiding this enormous process of retribution and also feel himself a component part of it: the process itself was guiding him. (And he became ever stronger in his arguments with Stalin. He even weaned the Supreme Commander from his habit of post-midnight telephone calls: you can sleep until two in the afternoon, but we have to get to work in the morning.)

  Stalin’s restraint did not last long, however. The process of destroying the forces of the surrounded Paulus dragged on. Stalin was edgy, pushing him to move faster and showering him with insults. After Kursk he would not allow him time to work out encircling operations. He insisted on frontal attacks, hitting the Germans head-on, achieving nothing and allowing them to maintain their fighting capacity. All Stalin wanted was to clear them off Soviet territory as quickly as possible, even if they left fully intact. (Though when they met now, he would shake Zhukov’s hand and even joke with him. After promoting him to marshal, Stalin gave him the Order of Suvorov, First Class, then the gold stars of a Hero of the Soviet Union, three in all. He would transfer Zhukov to every spot where there had been a setback or a delay, and on one occasion, Zhukov, not without a good deal of satisfaction, was able to dismiss that same Golikov, who had once interrogated him, as commander of an army group.)

  After that, we made the leap across the Dnieper and held on to the ground we captured. We rolled southward right to Romania, then Bulgaria. There was the Belorussian operation, where we easily took the Bobruisk pocket. And then another torrent of troops rolled into Poland, across the Vistula and to the Oder.

  Zhukov grew in stature with each operation, and his confidence increased. His very name would now strike terror into the hearts of the Germans when they heard he was coming to their front. Now he could imagine no obstacles he could not overcome. And so on Stalin’s orders he was to take the burned-out ruins of Berlin—something Hitler could not do with Moscow—and take it quickly! They were to take it themselves, with no help from the Allies. Zhukov was to crown his war, and his life, with the Berlin operation.

  Berlin was about halfway between us and the Allies. But the Germans had concentrated all their forces against us, and there was the risk that they might simply fall back before the Allies and let them through. That must not be allowed! The Motherland has demanded that we make the attack, and make it quickly. (Zhukov had absorbed something from Stalin, and now he also wanted to get this done before the May Day holiday. But that didn’t quite work out.) Zhukov was left with no choice but to attack head-on once more, never counting the casualties.

  People will say that we paid a high price for the Berlin operation, with about 300,000 dead. (Perhaps even half a million.) But what about all those who fell earlier in the war? Was anyone counting casualties then? It’s useless to keep on about that now. Of course it was a hard thing to lose fathers, husbands, and sons, yet people staunchly bore these inevitable losses since they all understood that we were writing the most glorious pages in the history of the Soviet people. Those who survive will tell their grandchildren about it, but now we must move forward! (After the war, the Allies, more from envy than anything else, insisted that not only was the Berlin operation unnecessary, so was the whole spring campaign of 1945; Hitler, they claimed, would have surrendered without it and without any more battles. He was already doomed. Yet they were the ones who inflicted an unnecessary bombing on Dresden, an unmilitarized city. They also burned to death about 150,000 people, and they were civilians.)

  Zhukov, in fact, was prepared to keep on waging war. His was like a machine: his grasp of strategy and his steely will demanded new obstacles to grind up. But his whole life suddenly changed, as if he had been a ship sailing along at top speed and then had run aground on a soft and comfortable shoal. Now he was appointed commander-in-chief of Soviet occupation forces in Germany. The sleepless nights spent planning operations were exchanged for long, elaborate, and drunken banquets with the Allies (they couldn’t get enough of the caviar and vodka). He struck up a kind of friendship with Eisenhower. (At one late-night banquet, he performed a Russian dance to show him how it was done.) A flood of decorations moved between the Allies and the Soviets. (He had to wear those huge medals of theirs on his belly.) Now his tasks were more economic than military—disassembling German factories and shipping them to the USSR. And, of course, he had to try to do something to help the German population. We did a lot for them, and our sense of internationalism did not allow us to take revenge. Ulbricht and Pieck the Younger also helped us understand a great deal. (Eight years later, Zhukov was astounded at the inexplicable uprising of Berlin workers: it was we, after all, who had struck down all their Nazi laws and given complete freedom to the anti-Fascist political parties.)

  There was one thing he could take pride in: in June he went back to review the victory parade through Red Square, mounted on a white horse. (Stalin, obviously, wanted to do this himself but was not certain that he could keep his seat on the horse. It was also obvious that he was envious: he seemed to be gritting his teeth. And once, suddenly, he made an exceptional confession to Zhukov: “I am the unhappiest of men. I’m even afraid of my own shadow.” Did he fear an attempt on his life? Zhukov could not believe such frankness.)

  In the summer the ceremonious Potsdam Conference took place (it was in Potsdam because no place could be found for it in Berlin, utterly ravaged by our artillery and bombing). And then there were the worries about how to make the Allies return to Soviet “organs” our Soviet citizens who, again for inexplicable reasons, did not want to return to the Motherland. (How could that be? Either they have some serious crimes in their pasts or they’ve been seduced by the soft life in the West.) It meant making a stern demand that the Allies allow our representatives—professional criminal investigators—to meet with these people. (These were very capable and practical people who had always been a part of our army, but Zhukov’s high rank meant that he had had little contact with them previously. )

  There were many such things to do. Zhukov did them all, but without much energy, almost sleepily. His former inspired ability to discern what the enemy would do and to devise his own plans would never return.

  In any case, it was time to give up this honorary and boring post in Berlin and go home to revamp and strengthen the Soviet Army (no longer called the Red Army) to deal with possible future conflicts and to update it with the latest military technology. Now that the war was over, Stalin would scarcely want to keep his post as the People’s Commiss
ar (now called the Minister) of Defense, and he would give the job to Zhukov. Staying on as Stalin’s first deputy, Zhukov would have control over military affairs in any case.

  But when Zhukov returned from Berlin in 1946, he was stunned by the news that the post of deputy minister of defense was given not to him but to Bulganin, a civilian through and through. As Stalin explained, waving his hand with his smoking pipe as if to indicate his powerlessness to interfere, Bulganin had already structured the staff of the Ministry of Defense with no place for a second deputy.

  Zhukov felt as if he’d been thrown off the back of a galloping horse. Who cares what Bulganin has done in the ministry? What about me . . . ?

  But how could he oppose the Supreme Commander? It couldn’t have been Stalin’s idea. To do that after all the victories they had won, after all the meetings in his own home, after all the work they had shared, the one-on-one dinners! It was that two-faced Bulganin’s doing, of course. (Zhukov had seen similar cunning and dexterity from other members of the Military Council—the ones who managed the political side of the fronts and the armies. They would sit quietly until the main battles were over and only then would they act. Khrushchev was such a person: on the surface he seemed simple and straightforward.)

  The chief of the General Staff was now Vasilevsky, and that was only as it should be. Zhukov was offered the post of commander-in-chief of land forces. That meant he would have no control over the air force and navy; he would have no role in strategic planning and, even more, he would be directly subordinate to Bulganin and without the right to appeal to Stalin (so it was stated in the ministry’s new table of organization).

  Here it was: from a full gallop to flat on the ground. It was painful. Like the time in Tambov Province when he had been knocked from his saddle. And Zhukov was just now turning fifty, at the very peak of his strength and abilities.

  His heart ached for his vanished military past . . .

  But his current sentence to inactivity turned out to be a good deal more involved than he had expected. He still had not foreseen all the troubles in store for him.

  In late 1945, at a Kremlin meeting in which Stalin reproached Zhukov for claiming responsibility for all the victories, Zhukov readily responded that he had never claimed responsibility for all of them. And when in April 1946 he had the bitter experience of Bulganin’s treachery, he still did not realize the extent of his troubles. He lasted only one month as commander-in-chief of land forces. The Supreme Military Council suddenly began reviewing the testimony of Zhukov’s former adjutant (he had now been arrested!) and the chief marshal of the air force, Novikov (also, it emerged, recently arrested!), as well as statements from some other arrested officers. These indicated that Zhukov had supposedly been organizing a military conspiracy. What utter nonsense! Who could ever have invented such a thing? But Rybalko, Rokossovsky, and Vasilevsky stepped forward and spoke up in Zhukov’s defense, for which he was grateful. They convinced Stalin, and Stalin saved him from Beria’s vengeance. Zhukov was merely sent to head the Odessa Military District.

  It was a hard fall, and it was painful; still, it was better than prison.

  To describe in his memoirs, in his own hand, how after all his famous victories and his three Heroes of the Soviet Union (the only person in the country who could claim that!) he was cast aside to command a military district—no, that he could not do. He could never put that down on paper; he would be shamed before history. He would have to gloss over it somehow.

  But that was still not the limit of his troubles. Before two years had passed, General Telegin was arrested. He had been a member of the Military Council with Zhukov at the end of the war. (And, as it came out later, they had knocked out all his teeth after his arrest, and he lost his mind. Novikov was also tortured—and then released.) It was then Zhukov realized that Beria was after him. And it was then that he had his first heart attack.

  Beria and Abakumov suddenly burst into Zhukov’s suburban dacha (a gift from Stalin for saving Moscow, the place where he was now writing his memoirs). They came supposedly to check that the documents in his possession were being kept securely. They rummaged through cases of documents and opened his safe; they discovered some old operational maps that had to be turned in—and this from a commander-in-chief! And then they slapped him with a severe reprimand.

  No, they still hadn’t arrested him: Stalin interceded and saved him! But he was exiled to the Ural Military District, not even on the border and with little strategic importance. This looked very much like Tukhachevsky’s exile to the Central Volga Military District in 1937, though he had been immediately arrested on the train. That was what Zhukov was expecting now. He kept a little suitcase ready, with some underwear and a few toiletries.

  His fame might never have existed. His power might never have existed. He was cast aside, forced into idleness, an agonizing idleness, when he still preserved all of his powers, his will, his mind, his talent, his experience as a strategist.

  There were times when he thought: Might this really be Stalin’s own idea? (Has he not forgiven me for that white horse at the Victory Parade?) But no, it has to be Beria who’s pulled the wool over Stalin’s eyes and slandered me.

  On the other hand, there were anti-Soviet forces in the world that found it useful to create a Cold War climate. And Zhukov was quite useless fighting a Cold War, that was true.

  In those years, however, it never entered his head to sit down and write his memoirs. That would be as much as admitting that his life was over.

  But Stalin never forgot his slandered but faithful commander and hero. In 1952 he admitted him to the party congress and as a candidate member of the Central Committee. He transferred him back to Moscow and was preparing some very important post for him in this new and complex situation that was developing.

  But then, suddenly, he passed away . . .

  May Eternal Memory be his! And the situation became more and more complex. Beria was one of the ruling circle, but he was not alone. Zhukov once again became commander-in-chief of land forces and the first deputy minister of defense.

  Two more months passed, and Zhukov proved to be most useful. He was summoned by Khrushchev and Malenkov: Tomorrow in the Politburo (they had now given it a somewhat softer name, the Presidium), there will be a military issue on the agenda, and you will be called in and will have to arrest Beria immediately! For the moment, only the three of us know about this. Bring two or three trusted generals with you and some adjutants, of course. Make sure you’re armed.

  At the appointed hour, they were sitting in the reception room awaiting their call. (The generals were speculating on why they had been called in. He explained their task only moments before they were to enter the chamber and assigned people with drawn pistols to guard the doors.) He entered, took a few paces and then rushed at Beria! He took him by the elbows and with the strength of a bear jerked him away from the table—Beria might have a button there to summon his guards. And he barked at him: “You’re under arrest!” Got you at last, you bastard. You snake in the grass! (The Politburo just sat there, no one moving a muscle—none of them would have dared interfere.) Then he remembered what they used to do in Tambov when they took a prisoner. He told his adjutant to remove the prisoner’s belt and cut off all his trouser buttons: let him use both hands to hold up his pants. And they took him away. They put him on the floor of a large limousine, tightly rolled up in a carpet and with a gag in his mouth; otherwise, the guards might stop them as they drove out of the Kremlin. Four generals got into the same car, and the sentries only saluted them. They took the son of a bitch into a bunker in the inner courtyard of the military district headquarters; they also brought in some tanks with guns trained on the bunker. (Konev was given the job of running the tribunal.)

  But still, you can’t put this very sweet moment into your memoirs. It’s not appropriate. It does nothing to support the work of the Communist Party. And above all, we are communists.

  After this operation, th
e Collective Leadership again summoned Zhukov to do a real job. It was only then that he became minister of defense, with all the powers that went with the post. He was running the army. And at what a crucial moment: the development of atomic weapons ! (He and Khrushchev made a friendly flight to the Tots Camps in the Urals where a test was being made on the survival potential of our troops, 40,000 of them in the field immediately after an atomic explosion. They were working out a tactical warning strike against NATO.) He was preparing the army for great tasks, even against America, if need be.

  Now he made trips to Geneva for summit meetings with the Allies. (And there he met his old colleague, Eisenhower. Imagine: now he’s the president!)

  And so it happens in life: one trouble follows another, one happiness follows another. He married a second time, to Galina, thirty-one years younger. And another daughter was born, his third and all the more dear since she was still a child. Like a granddaughter . . .

  He had no anger left toward Stalin. All that had happened over these last years he simply erased from his memory. Stalin was a great man. And how well he had worked with him in those final years of the war, how many things they had pondered together, how many decisions they had made.

  But the Twentieth Party Congress shook him: The crimes of Stalin they had uncovered! So many! Absolutely unthinkable!

  At the Twentieth Congress, he became a candidate member of the Politburo.