She lunges with straight arms to force the bag to roll along with the rigid legs and torso. She puts her hands in the middle of the bubble. The sac pops with a damp yawn.
What emerges is the most horrifying reek Lottie has ever smelled, beyond anything she could imagine. The air is fetid with stench. The horse’s intestines have spilled out and the pushing woman trips into them when the other women let go and run. Lottie’s knees buckle. She stops herself from collapsing and stumbles backward, both hands rushing the shawl over her mouth and nose. Lottie doesn’t stop until she has left the edge of the plaza. There, she dares to lower the cloth to take a testing breath. She gulps clean air as though she’s emerged from a deep pool of filth. The other women are scattered. Lottie cannot see where they retreated. Where is Mutti?
With a shouted whisper, she calls across the plaza, “Mutti? Mutti?”
Around the square, Lottie hears voices and coughs, strangers in their flats who’ve caught wind of the erupted, rancid gas. “Gott im Himmel! What is that stink? It’s that horse! Sheiss!”
Lottie moves into the ring of fetor. There’s no breeze and the odor hovers. She takes quick, small steps and hunches to stay low. She feels like a buzzard hopping towards the carcass.
She hisses, “Mutti?”
Near the horse the smell threatens to overpower her again. She swallows a retch.
“Mutti, we’ve got to get out of here.”
From one of the windows above the plaza Lottie hears a querulous old biddy say to someone in her flat, “Call the police. Right now! Do something!”
Out of the darkness three of the women hurry forward. They do not speak but grab the severed leg and the bits on waxed paper and stalk off. The fourth woman, the one with guts on her, stays away.
Lottie creeps closer. The horse has rocked back to its original position, it is split open and even more horrible. Mutti lies face up where she has fainted, the knife still in her hand. Lottie’s eyes water. She breathes through a knot of cloth pressed against her mouth.
Lottie jumps beside her mother to shake her shoulder with her free hand. Freya does not rouse. Lottie must use both hands to drag Mutti away where she can awake. She fills her lungs through the cloth, clamps her lips tight, and hooks her fingers under Freya’s armpits. She hauls backward, the knife dribbles from Mutti’s fist.
Lottie tugs her mother to the rim of the plaza, whispering madly at her, “Mutti, wake up! The police are coming! Mutti!”
Freya remains out. Lottie stops and catches her breath. She knows they can’t sit here in the open like this, even in the dark, if the authorities show up. They’ll be stumbled over in a minute. The police will see the dropped knives and cloth bag of meat strips, and they’ll be arrested as looters.
With all the strength she has left, Lottie tugs her mother farther from Savigny Platz along the sidewalk of Grolman Strasse. Only twenty meters from the plaza she runs out of steam. With her last effort, she tows Mutti behind a large metal garbage bin. She removes her mother’s shawl, folding it into a pillow for her mother’s head. With Mutti safe in the shadows, she runs back to the plaza. She does not think to be quiet, just quick.
In seconds she returns with both knives and the cloth bag of meat. She slides down the wall and lifts her muttering mother’s head to cradle it in her lap.”Shhhh, Mutti,” she whispers, stroking the chilly forehead.”Shhhh.”
Police do come. Lottie hears boots, then echoing voices discuss the stench and what to do with the damn horse. Neighbors around the plaza shout down suggestions. Lottie hears the biddy again call out, “Do something!”
Mutti sputters. She will sit up in a moment. Lottie will keep her quiet.
Lottie pushes away from her the bag of spoiled meat. The smell of the garbage is better.
~ * ~
* * *
April 1, 1945. 7:30 p.m.
Conference room adjacent to the office
of Marshal Stalin,
the Kremlin
Moscow
he feels weightless. his boot heels rise off the polished floor, he has to clamp them down, cling to gravity.
But the sense of power rises under him and up come his heels. He clasps his hands behind his back, as though to fold wings, and strides from his office door to his seat at the head of the long, narrow conference table. Stalin is on tiptoes, giddy.
At the head of the gathering he lays his hands over the back of his chair. His teeth grip the stem of his favorite British Dunhill. For this most important of meetings Stalin has dressed in a plain mustard uniform, red stripes down the trouser seams, one decoration on his chest—the red ribbon and gold star of a Hero of the Soviet Union.
The men around the table, men who dare look nowhere but at him until he speaks and sits, are the most important men in the Soviet Union. The most feared. Beria, the NKVD’s chief bastard. Malenkov, Communist Party Secretary. Foreign Minister Molotov. Marshal Bulganin. Ministers Kaganovich, Voznesensky, and Mikoyan. From the army staff, Generals Antonov and Shtemenko. They form the GKO, the seven members of the State Defense Committee.
At the far end of the table, impassive but surely impressed, sit Stalin’s two warriors on the Oder River, rival Nazi-killers. They are the reason for this meeting. They are Marshals Zhukov and Koniev.
Stalin sweeps his gaze over them. Stalin resides on top of them all. The combined power in this room is nothing more than a pedestal for his own. He can make them tear out each other’s throats with a single command. He has to keep Beria from doing it anyway.
Stalin nods to his creations. They return the inclination and mumble greetings. He takes his seat.
Pulling the pipe from his mouth, he points the wet end at Zhukov.
“How are things with the First Byelorussian Front?”
Zhukov reports that preparations in his army are proceeding apace. The roads and earth are drying nicely. The men are eager and ready. Everything is in order.
Stalin asks Koniev how fares his First Ukrainian Front and receives an equally enthusiastic response.
“Good.” Stalin parcels this out in equal portions to both marshals. “Very good.”
Stalin adopts a chatty tone, intending to snatch it away soon enough.
“I have received information that the Allies’ plans are less than ... allied.”
This garners a satisfied chuckle from the room. Beria at Stalin’s left hand has a wet laugh, a chesty snicker.
Stalin continues. “The soyuzniki intend to get to Berlin ahead of the Red Army.”
Stalin does not mention Eisenhower’s message of the previous evening. He indicates General Shtemenko. “Read the telegram.”
The general rises. Stalin thinks the man’s legs must tire from lifting all that honor pinned to his chest. Shtemenko adjusts his spectacles and reads.
The paper in his hand is a report from the Soviet mission to Eisenhower’s headquarters. Shtemenko intones that the mission has learned the details of the Western Allies’ intentions. First, British and American forces that have surrounded the Ruhr pocket will destroy all enemy positions inside. After this is accomplished, the Allies will advance southeast to Leipzig and Dresden.
The general lowers his eyeglasses to the bridge of his nose. He looks up from the report, galvanizing to him the men at the table. “But on the way,” he says, “they intend to take Berlin.”
Stalin grunts, an indignant rumble. Everyone turns to him but he keeps his own eyes on Shtemenko. “Continue.”
The general pushes up his glasses. The report goes on to say that, under the guise of “helping the Red Army,” Western troops commanded by Montgomery will attack north of the Ruhr and drive via the shortest route directly for Berlin.
“According to all the data and information, this plan—to take Berlin before the Soviet army—is regarded at the Anglo-American headquarters as fully realistic. Preparation for its fulfillment is well advanced.”
Shtemenko lowers the paper, removing his glasses. Stalin gives him a sideways nod, the general s
its.
The Soviet mission has done a wonderful job, Stalin thinks. They have gotten hold of Montgomery’s telegram to Eisenhower. Thence by autobahn to Berlin, I hope.
Stalin lays his hands on the tabletop. He is so short, he barely has to lean over to do this. He looks past the men on either side, the idlers, the bureaucrats and bootlicks. He nails his eyes on the two warriors, Zhukov and Koniev.
Zhukov. Began his career in the Czar’s Imperial Dragoons. In 1917 he switched sides to join the Revolution, fought for the Red cause with a fury. He’s always been more Army than Party, very little politics for Zhukov. That’s how he’s survived the purges of all the Czarist chaff in the Red Army. Loyal, imaginative, bold, brutal. He’s risen through the ranks to become the hero of Moscow and Stalingrad. He wants finally to be the conqueror of Berlin.
Koniev, taller and more brusque than Zhukov, stands in his way. They’ve been promoted at the same pace. In many ways their careers have been parallel; Koniev also changed allegiances from the Czar to the revolutionaries, but unlike Zhukov, who joined the Red Army as a private, Koniev became a political commissar. Although he switched to military command twenty years ago, Koniev bears the taint of the former apparatchik, viewed by Zhukov and the soldierly brethren as something less than career military, someone to be wary of.
Stalin has handpicked these two from the kennel of young generals to be his attack hounds. Zhukov and Koniev share many traits: brilliance, Party soundness, an unforgiving hatred of the Nazis. Openly, mercilessly, Stalin pits one against the other. The men have developed, to Stalin’s pleasure, a mutual dislike.
Both marshals sit bolt upright under the stare of the vozhd.
“Well now,” he says, “who is going to take Berlin? We or the little allies?”
Koniev rises first to the bait.
“We will,” the big man claims, “and before the Allies.”
Stalin licks his moustache. He leans even more onto his hands flat on the table.
“So, that’s the sort of fellow you are.”
Koniev has spoken very quickly, Stalin thinks. How will his force capture Berlin from the south? We’ll see just how eager he is. Then we’ll get from Zhukov what we can.
Stalin asks, “How will you be able to organize a proper strike group for it? Your main forces are on your southern flank. Wouldn’t you have to do a lot of regrouping?”
Koniev does not falter in the face of Stalin’s doubt.
“My front will carry out all the necessary measures, Comrade Stalin. We will regroup in time to take Berlin.”
“May I speak?”
It is Zhukov. His tone drips with condescension.
Stalin turns from Koniev. Zhukov does not wait for permission.
“With due respect,” he says, inclining his head to Koniev, “the men of the First Byelorussian Front need no regrouping. They are ready now. We are aimed directly at Berlin. We are the shortest distance from Berlin.”
Zhukov pauses for effect. One hand on the table curls into a fist. He shakes it.
“We will take Berlin.”
Stalin eases his palms from the tabletop. He settles back into his chair. He has gotten what he wants, a declaration of competition from the two vast Red armies on the brink of Germany. He has gotten his race for Berlin.
“Very well. You will both stay in Moscow and prepare your plans with the general staff. I expect them ready within forty-eight hours. Then you can return to the front with everything approved.”
Stalin observes the shock staggering across the brows of both his marshals. He knows the problem he’s handed them. The assault on Berlin was until this meeting planned for early May. Now that Stalin is convinced that Eisenhower is a liar and Montgomery is charging for Berlin, he has decided to move the final offensive up by two weeks.
Koniev faces an immense logistical challenge. His force is spread out all over the south. He’s short of men and supplies and must rush everything he’s got to the Oder. He’ll have a transportation nightmare meeting Stalin’s demand.
Zhukov too is far from ready. His front is badly depleted from the fighting for the citadels, with many divisions at less than half strength. He’ll have to find replacements fast. Those men will be raw. Just as well, Stalin thinks, let them catch the bullets first to protect the better soldiers.
Stalin stands. The meeting is adjourned. The others rise in congregation. Zhukov and Koniev have fallen jaws, they still reel from the command Stalin has laid on them. Forty-eight hours to prepare the impossible.
Stalin is not done turning the screw.
“Marshals Zhukov and Koniev?”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin?”
“I must tell you that we will pay special attention to the starting dates for your operations.”
The two men lower their eyes in acquiescence, then flick glances at each other as though crossing swords. Stalin lays the pipe stem on his tongue and sucks once. The Dunhill is warm in his mitt, it is a fine pipe. He turns on his heels. Again they feel so light.
He steps across the polished floor to his office. The men at his back file out of the conference room without conversation. That’s the way, Stalin thinks. All of you, at each others’ throat.
At his desk he composes the first draft of his response to General Eisenhower. In an hour it is wired to the Allied Supreme Commander.
He informs Eisenhower that the Allied plan to cut the German forces in half by joining with Soviet armies “entirely coincides with the plan of the Soviet High Command.” He agrees the linkup should indeed be in the Leipzig-Dresden area, and the main blow of the Soviet offensive will be in that direction. The date for the Red Army’s launch into Germany from the Oder River is to be “approximately the second half of May.”
In the third paragraph, Stalin sets the hook. Echoing the sentiment of Eisenhower’s message, believing he is simply volleying lie for lie, Stalin writes: The Soviet High Command plans to allot secondary forces in the direction of Berlin.
Berlin has lost its former strategic importance.
~ * ~
* * *
April 5, 1945, 1:15 a.m.
Six kilometers west of Küstrin
Seelow Plain, Germany
“tell him i’ll kill him.”
Misha brings his lips close. He whispers in German.
Ilya holds his face only inches from the enemy. The words he speaks to Misha are pronounced around the shaft of a knife bitten between his teeth. His chest is pressed flat against the enemy’s uniform, nailing the man backward into the dirt wall of the trench. Ilya holds the soldier’s arms spread wide, a violent dance partner. He squeezes his right fist around the man’s wrist until he feels something in the mechanics of the soldier’s arm give way. The enemy fingers go limp, the Luger drops to the ground. Ilya smells cabbage on the man’s breath, thinks he sees fright in the wide-open pupils. Everything is sallow under the light of flares and search beacons.
“Tell him if he makes any sound I’ll kill him.”
Misha brings his lips closer to the trembling ear. The little sergeant’s teeth are nicotine yellow around his hiss.
In Ilya’s arms the soldier’s body loses tension, Ilya almost has to support him. Crumpled at their feet is a dead German, this man’s companion. Farther up the trench is another. Their throats are slit, done by the knife in Ilya’s mouth. The blood from the killings is on his lips. Ilya watches the man’s eyes flutter down to his comrade. The corpse’s fingers are curled, as though in the last moment they reached for something and missed. The living soldier locks his eyes again on Ilya. He draws a laden breath and nods.
Ilya lowers his hands and backs off a step. He puts the knife in his fist, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. The German soldier leaves his arms plastered against the dirt, staying spread-eagled. Misha produces a length of cord. Ilya mimics what he wants the man to do, bring his hands together to be tied. Obeying, the character of the soldier’s breathing swells, becomes a pant.
Misha steps in front of Ilya to bi
nd the prisoner.
Misha recoils, bumping into Ilya.
“Ah, fuck. He’s pissed himself. Look.”
The front of the German’s pants is spotted, and there is sodden soil at his boots. Ilya smells the urine.
Now the soldier thrusts out his hands, blinking, afraid to speak and apologize but eager to be tied by his captors and led away, alive. Misha retreats, keeping his voice low.
The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Page 36