Lottie too cannot stop a nervous giggle now. Oh, she thinks, oh dear God, what if one of those Gestapo had kicked the mattress with his foot? What if he’d sat down to ease his feet? Oh.
Lottie shakes again, this time with Mutti, laughing together.
~ * ~
* * *
April 15, 1945, 1:15 p.m.
Stalin’s office
the Kremlin
Moscow
the americans, thinks stalin, they’re a handsome bunch.
This Harriman, talking so carefully, like a man stepping on floating logs, he’s typical. Angular face, not the Asian roundness of the Soviet peoples. Long hands, a cigarette in his fingers looks like an advertisement. Dapper suit cut to perfection, silk kerchief and tie. Patrician face, sweet-tongued even though it is English and Stalin catches only a few words. The Ambassador has the same softness in his vowels that Roosevelt had.
Harriman has come to assure Stalin that the new man, Truman, will carry out all policies put in place by Roosevelt regarding relations with the Soviet Union and the conduct of the war. Stalin has on his desk a batch of black-bordered Soviet newspapers announcing the President’s passing. The eulogies in these papers are authentically sad. Roosevelt was admired here. He was considered a great friend to Russia.
Stalin glances between the two American officials—Harriman and General Hurley—and his own minister Molotov. Throw in the interpreter plus Stalin himself, and the Communists in this room look like dark, squatty peasants beside these attractive and lanky Westerners. Roosevelt was a good-looking chap too. Stalin is sorry to have him dead. Stalin recalls Roosevelt’s final telegram, written just hours before the man died in his country cottage. The President was compromising and patient to the end. Generous and forgiving. How did a fellow like that ever become a world leader?
Stalin interrupts Harriman’s tiptoeing rhetoric. “Mr. Ambassador, I would like to make a request regarding the passing of President Roosevelt.”
“Yes, Marshal, of course.”
“I should insist that an autopsy be performed. To assure that this great man was not poisoned.”
Harriman chokes a bit on this, he coughs into his hand.
“Marshal Stalin, I promise you the President was not poisoned. The doctors tell me he died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage.”
“Yes. Even so.”
“Of course. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Ambassador.”
For the next half hour Stalin makes the visiting Americans squirm, repeating the charges of a conspiracy going on behind his back between the West and the Nazis. What is the real purpose of those negotiations in Switzerland regarding surrender on the Italian front? Why does it seem the Germans are not fighting as hard in their battles in the West as they do in the East against Stalin’s troops? How can it be that German towns in the Americans’ path are giving up by telephone, of all things? Is there a larger design to these seemingly unconnected events?
Stalin asks Harriman what show of assurance the United States needs in order to be confident that the Soviet Union continues to be a faithful ally? Stalin wants to stem the rising tide of suspicion. What can Stalin do to allay America’s fears that he is growing uncooperative?
Harriman has an answer ready.
“You might consider allowing Minister Molotov to attend the opening ceremonies of the United Nations in San Francisco.”
Molotov now fidgets in his seat. He doesn’t want to go. Clearly, the Minister has no desire to be the lightning rod for all the objections to the Red advances in eastern Europe. There will be a burst of voices, led by the English, of course. But the San Francisco conference will be a wonderful chance to size up the new man, this Truman. So, Molotov will go.
Harriman is appreciative.
The Ambassador points to the newspapers at Stalin’s elbow. Stalin puts a palm on them in sympathy.
Harriman says, “The United States is moved by your country’s show of respect.”
“Your President Roosevelt will be missed.”
“Yes.”
It’s well known that Harriman disagreed with Roosevelt at almost every turn in how to deal with Stalin. The U.S. Ambassador has long advocated strength and obstinacy, just like that Churchill. But not Roosevelt, no. Stalin smiles to himself. Roosevelt picked a good time to wither, at least for the fortunes of world communism. The dying President didn’t have the physical or mental reserves to be firm; it finally killed him just being pliant. Stalin wishes he’d hung on a little longer. He will miss Roosevelt for reasons perhaps unlike anyone else’s in the world.
Stalin says, “Did you see where the Prime Minister adjourned Parliament?”
Harriman nods. “Unprecedented. They met for only eight minutes.”
“Yes. A very high honor. Churchill was a good friend to your President.”
Harriman lets a black-draped moment hang, like the ink curtains around the news headlines. Then the Ambassador worms his way roundabout to a direct question. Stalin knows where the American Ambassador is headed. He wants to know about Berlin. The last city. The man first compliments the size of the Soviet force gathered on the Oder. He appreciates the Marshal’s candid communications with General Eisenhower. He dawdles and dodges. Finally, run out of diplomacy and cover, with Stalin tapping his pipe stem to his lip, Harriman steps into the open: “Marshal, we’ve heard German radio broadcasts warning the citizens of Berlin of a coming Red Army offensive. Can you tell me something about this?”
“Yes,” Stalin says, dismissive in his tone, “there is a Soviet offensive coming. It won’t be for several weeks now, of course. It might or might not be successful, who can tell with these things? There is so much to organize. Our forces are so spread out, you understand. The Nazis are well dug in. They have the advantage of the high ground across from our positions. We’ll see.”
“And what will be the direction of the assault, when it does come?”
Stalin has no problem telling the lie. It is, he thinks, the least of things.
“As I have informed your General Eisenhower, the axis will be southwest, toward Dresden. There is no longer any interest by the Red Army in Berlin. None, Mr. Ambassador.”
Stalin stands to end the meeting.
The American Ambassador and general take their leave. The interpreter slips out without remark. Stalin excuses Molotov, who knows better than to squirm again in the presence of foreign visitors when Stalin gives him an instruction. His office empty, Stalin tosses the newspapers in the rubbish.
~ * ~
* * *
April 16, 1945, 0240 hours
Küstrin bridgehead
Germany
it is time to take berlin.
This is handed to Ilya on a slip of paper. It is a short message directly from General Zhukov. Every soldier in every crater, foxhole, and bunker is given one of these.
the enemy will be crushed along the shortest route to berlin. the capital of fascist germany will be taken and the banner of victory planted over it.
For the last several hours, the whole of Zhukov’s assembled army has been creeping forward, with surprisingly little noise, only creaks, rustles, and low rumbles. The huge strike force steps from behind natural cover and beneath camouflage nets, coming alive minute by minute and smelling the attack. With the army coiling on all sides, Ilya and his platoon hunker in a forward trench; as before, he will be one of the first to run into battle.
Yesterday during a Communist rally, Misha joined the Party, along with about half their platoon. He tried to enlist Ilya too.
“Ilyushka, put up your hand.”
“No.”
“It’s just a stupid oath. They make you sign a card. Why not?”
“Why?”
“Because for one, it’s the best way to keep moving up in rank. And two, what if we’re killed in battle? The Red Army won’t notify your family. The Party’s the only one that does it, and only for members. Do you want to be forgotten?”
�
��Yes.”
Misha refuses to become exasperated with Ilya. When Ilya allowed the German prisoner to knock him down on the Seelow plain, Misha got up, took his rifle, and led the way back to their lines. He made no mention of the incident to Ilya or anyone. When Ilya does not speak for an entire day, or sleeps only one hour before sitting up to watch the stars and sunrise, the little man observes from whatever distance Ilya puts between them. When Ilya does not want to join the Party, Misha pats his large friend the way one would pat a boulder that will not be budged from your field, so you let it stay and till around it.
Ilya is never alone. Misha is always hovering for one cause or another. Ilya is one of seven hundred and fifty thousand men in Zhukov’s concentrated force aimed at Berlin. There are speeches from commissars, inspections from officers, recruits to train, supplies to haul forward. Always there is someone nearby, noise and smell, rattling activity. But he is isolated. He cannot tell if the world has shrunk or the place inside him has grown. But since the murders on the road, and the citadels, the internal and external worlds feel the same size, in balance. He can wander freely in either as he chooses, and stay indefinitely. When he was a boy he went hunting with his uncle Pavel. They tracked a wolf. They found him and shot him in the morning. The wolf did not die. He did not slow, even with a bullet in the neck. The animal dodged them for two days. Pavel and young Ilya slept on the ground, one always on watch, rifle in the lap. They petitioned food from villagers, hikers, and other hunters they passed. Pavel said you did not leave a wounded wolf on the loose. You had to kill him. The wolf was too dangerous to be left alive. Ilya could not figure why until now. The wolf is in great pain. What can the world do to it that will hurt worse? It will feel nothing less. This makes the wolf more powerful than any creature has a right to be. It will not stop until the pain stops, it will try to heal the pain by hurting other things in its path. The wolf hopes in its simple flaming heart that something will kill it. On the third morning this wolf got his wish. He mauled a farmer’s dogs and was blasted by a shotgun when he came for the farmer.
Beside Ilya, Misha smokes like an old frontline hand, cupping the burning end in his palm away from the weather. Ilya has quit the cigarettes. They are too harsh. He has quit vodka too.
Misha takes one long drag, then tears the cigarette in half to stuff his ears. Ilya pulls down his cloth watch cap.
“Five more minutes,” Misha says. He aims the words over his shoulder to the platoon of fifty gathered at their backs. A mixture like oil and water emanates from the men, the fear and rage do not blend, each man feels one or the other, none feels both. They cancel one another out in all the platoon except in Ilya, who feels nothing, and scarred Misha, who Ilya thinks has forgotten his fear and is not man enough to feel rage.
The early-morning air is chilly with drizzle and mist. The quilts in Ilya’s jacket are sodden. On all sides the lines are silent, the only sound is the snapping of banners. Zhukov ordered all Guards’ colors brought forward before the attack. The final meal was thick pea soup with canned pork and hot thermos flasks of tea.
At 0300 hours, three crimson flares pop into the sky. The Seelow plain is bathed in red.
In the next second, like a man emerging from a tunnel into a dazzling day, the world becomes a blaze of light. Every artillery piece arranged behind the troops in the Küstrin bridgehead, every mortar and tank, every bank of Katyusha rockets, opens up. They are lined wheel to wheel, one almost every meter, three columns deep, fifteen thousand guns. The muzzle flashes are so constant, they do not flicker, the light around Ilya is that of noon. He shies from the sudden flash, blinking until he’s used to it.
The ground where the Germans have their frontline positions seems to lose its gravity, rising on bursting bubbles of fire. Squinting to watch, Ilya cannot find one patch of earth the explosions let rest. Beneath his boots the earth trembles, feverish. The noise is earsplitting; the booming artillery is joined by the high thunder of Soviet bombers making for their targets.
The cannonade goes on and on. It extends deep into the German lines, what looks to Ilya like eight to ten kilometers of killing ground. Ten minutes into the barrage a hot wind whips across Ilya’s face, the explosions are so dense, they’ve created their own atmospheric disturbance. Along the Soviet bridgehead, hundreds of Red banners flap enthusiastically in the false breeze.
After thirty minutes of solid bombardment, a searchlight beams a brilliant girder straight up into the night sky. Immediately, hundreds of multicolored flares burst overhead. This is the signal for the infantry to move out of their trenches and advance. The artillery will shift their fire to a rolling curtain ahead of the charging troops.
It turns out to be another signal as well. Across the Küstrin bridgehead, a hundred and fifty giant antiaircraft lights are switched on, aimed straight across the battlefield at the German positions. The idea is not only to illuminate the ground for the forward troops but to sow confusion and panic among the enemy. The Germans who survived the shelling will have to struggle now with being blinded as well as shocked and deafened. The beams warm the back of Ilya’s neck. He steps out of the trench.
The platoon follows at his back. Misha is in his place at Ilya’s elbow. Ilya can feel the little man’s eyes on him. He does not return the look.
Ilya does not run ahead. He takes one muddy tread at a time, finger resting on the trigger of his submachine gun. He jangles with knifes, grenades, another rifle across his back, but there are no targets so soon. There are on all sides of him only soldiers of his army garishly lit from behind, backs and profiles all green and damp like him, every man waiting for the enemy’s response. There hasn’t been a shot fired from the Germans since the attack began. Shells continue to pound and pulse several kilometers ahead. The bootsteps of a hundred thousand men make wet noises in the river-fed mud. Ilya senses the surge he is in, a tiny bit of shell swept in a tidal wave. The anonymity of his own footsteps dilutes him, comforts him.
He walks into an eerie nighttime. Every soldier, every mound of debris and whittled-down tree casts multiple shadows from the searchlights. The shadows are long and all spanning ahead so that Ilya cannot tell what is still and what is moving along the ground; he could walk into a German trench and not see it until he fell in. The explosive force of the rolling bombardment continues to heave dust and smoke into the air. Trees and village huts burn on the rims of the plain, adding their smoke to the clouds from the artillery. Those giant lights to the rear strike this fog wall and turn it into a whiteout. The Germans inside the bank will have Russian soldiers silhouetted against the mist, plastered against the searchlights, throwing many shadows onto the fog; the Reds may as well be waving their arms for attention from enemy gunners.
Misha has calculated the same. He calls a young one in the platoon to him. Ilya recognizes the boy as one sent to the punishment company for cowardice.
“Go back and tell them to cut off those lights. We can’t see a damn thing up here. Tell them that. Find a general.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”The boy gushes, clearly glad to be sent back.
Ilya looks down now to Misha and nods. Misha pats him, again, on the back. We’re still a team, the touch says. On the spongy ground Misha’s shadow cuts as far ahead as Ilya’s.
Ilya sends out his other senses. To the rear, he hears the grumble of support tanks and self-propelled artillery. The searchlights and their generators hum with the angry crawling sound of a hive. Behind the lights, on the east shore of the Oder, the rest of Zhukov’s hundreds of thousands cheer and plunge across the water.
In fifteen minutes from the start of the assault, Ilya’s platoon walks one thousand meters from their trenches. There has been no response from the Germans. Ilya sees no bodies in the smoldering crater pits, his platoon enters the charred relics of bunkers and fortifications to find them empty.
“They’ve figured us out,” Misha says.”They’ve pulled back to their second line of defense.”
The terrible rain of shell
s fell on open land. The Germans wait in the cloud, looking down from the Seelow Heights, in full strength.
The searchlights switch off. An audible groan rises from the ten thousands on all sides. As one man, they come to a halt, blinded by the sudden shift.
In moments the lights flash back on. Ilya imagines the yelling going on in some general’s headquarters. The lights are a bad idea, but they are the bad idea of someone powerful.
He presses ahead, the platoon trailing, Misha on his flank. For the next twenty minutes, the lights go on and off as more irate commanders in the field order them shut down and some offended general argues to keep them burning. Ilya has walked for thirty minutes and heard or seen nothing yet from the enemy. At two thousand meters, with the lights off at the moment and the dust cloud thickening the dark, he stumbles into a drainage ditch. He manages to break his fall before he lands on his chest, but he is soaked and mud-caked from the knees down. Behind him, Misha halts the platoon. In the night, unseen to their right, other men crash down in the slit and curse.
The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Page 41