We did have one other big advantage. Antonov, of course, had no radios, and so our units pursuing him could communicate with each other without encoding anything, and this made for better coordination and easier transfer of information. The Antonov men would gallop along, thinking that no one had spotted them, but meanwhile messages were being transmitted through all three regions, revealing where the bandits were, where they were going, and where to send a pursuit force to cut them off.
So we went off in pursuit, trying to trap Antonov’s main body and force him into a major battle, which he was avoiding. Kotovsky’s brigade moved on him from the north, Dmitrienko’s brigade from the west; another detachment of Kononeko’s Cheka forces was added—seven one-and-a-half-ton Fiat armored cars with their own motorized gasoline carriers. Antonov stumbled into the trap laid for him, but he immediately rushed away; changing horses regularly, he traveled 120 or 130 versts a day, retreating into Saratov Province toward the Khopyor; and then he returned. The 14th Brigade, like all the Red cavalry, lagged behind him everywhere. Now only the armored cars were pursuing him. (People told of how an armored car detachment once almost caught Antonov by surprise while he was resting in the village of Yelan. The cars rolled through the village, firing at the bandits from their machine guns. But the Antonov men galloped to the forest, regrouped, and held on, while half our machine guns jammed. Once again, our cavalry was late, and once again the Antonov men withdrew or simply vanished—no one knows.)
Three weeks passed, already halfway to the deadline set by the Council of Commissars, yet Antonov had not been beaten. Cavalry brigades had to feel their way, waiting for news from informants. Both mechanized detachments were waiting for parts and gasoline. An armored train and the armored trolley ran back and forth along the nearby railways, also trying to track down the bandits or intercept them. But they found nothing.
Then came Tukhachevsky’s Secret Order No. 0050, to be read aloud to cavalry squadrons and infantry companies: “Effective dawn, July 1, we begin a mass removal of the bandit element from the general population.” This meant that we were to comb through the villages and pick up any suspicious people. As Zhukov read this to his squadron, he seemed to see Tukhachevsky; he seemed to become him and, perhaps, he even took on his voice and his bearing. He read in his fullest voice: “This removal must not appear to be a chance event; it must show the peasants that the bandit element, along with their families, are being eliminated and that the struggle against Soviet power is hopeless. Carry out the operation with vigor and enthusiasm. Avoid bourgeois sentimentality. Tukhachevsky, Force Commander.”
Zhukov was happy—happy to be under such command. This was how it should be. This was soldiering. Before you can command, you have to know how to obey. And learn to follow orders.
They did remove as many as they were able to scrape up. They shipped them off to concentration camps, and their families as well. But separately.
A few days later, the location of the nucleus of Antonov’s force was discovered once more. It was some distance away, in the Shiryaevo forest on the upper reaches of the Vorona River. (There were reports that the last time Antonov was attacked by our armored cars, he had been wounded in the head.) Fresh troops arrived: Fedko’s cavalry brigade, another Cheka regiment, and one more armored train. All the escape routes from the Shiryaevo forest were completely blocked. But then a powerful thunderstorm blew in, and the commander of the Cheka regiment withdrew his troops from their positions and took them back to the nearest villages for an hour or two. The armored trolley that had been patrolling the seven-verst section from Kirsanov to the Vorona River was shunted aside to let Uborevich’s personal train pass, and then the two collided in the darkness. It was as if Antonov’s men knew precisely where and when there was a gap in the cordon, and they slipped through it while that fierce storm was raging and vanished into the Chutanovo forest.
Antonov’s bandits even had a reply to Order No. 130: they ordered the villagers not to give their names. Now the Red Army men didn’t know what to do: no matter how they smacked the peasants around, the bastards wouldn’t give their names.
Now we were both deaf and blind. Our headquarters found an answer to this as well, though. On July 11, they issued Order No. 171: “Citizens refusing to give their names will be executed on the spot, without trial. Hostages will be executed in villages that do not surrender their weapons. Where caches of weapons are discovered, the oldest working man in the family will be executed without trial.” A family found concealing a bandit or even some of his belongings such as clothing or dishes would have its eldest working man executed without trial. If a bandit’s family fled, their property would be seized and distributed among peasants loyal to Soviet power; any abandoned homes would be burned. The order was signed by Antonov-Ovseenko.
So they won’t give their names? But then the rebels’ families began leaving the villages and going into hiding. To finish the job, the Plenipotentiary Commission of the Central Executive Committee issued a new order: “Any house in which a rebel family has been hiding is to be pulled down or burnt. Those hiding a rebel family in their house will be treated as members of rebel families: the eldest worker in such a family will be executed. Signed, Antonov-Ovseenko.”
Five days later, he issued another order, No. 178, to be proclaimed publicly: “Failure to show resistance to the bandits and failure to pass on information about their whereabouts to the nearest Revolutionary Committee in a timely fashion will be regarded as complicity with the bandits, with all the ensuing consequences. Plenipotentiary Commission of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee, Antonov-Ovseenko.”
They came swarming out as if we’d thrown boiling water on them, as if we were burning out bedbugs!
The precise, cold-blooded army commander issued one more order, a secret one numbered 0116: “The forests in which bandits are hiding are to be cleared with the use of poison gas. Calculations must be precise to ensure that the cloud of asphyxiating gas is thoroughly dispersed through the entire forest so as to destroy everything concealed within it. Tukhachevsky, Force Commander.”
Was that too harsh? No great commander can manage without harsh measures.
~ * ~
2
People believe that it is entirely appropriate and proper to begin writing your memoirs when you turn seventy. What I did, though, was begin seven years early. It’s so quiet here, and I’m of no use to anyone, so what else should I do with myself? One year passes after another, and all I have left is the spare time that has been forced upon me and that drags by so slowly.
No one phones me anymore, and they certainly don’t visit. The world around has gone silent and shut me out. And I may not have enough years left to live out these times.
There are some good reasons why I must write. Let it be for the record. Many others have already rushed to write memoirs; some have even been published. They’re in a hurry because they want to grab a bit of glory for themselves. And of course they want to dump their mistakes on someone else.
That is dishonorable.
But what a job it is! Just sorting through your memories wears you out. Some of the blunders I made tear at my heart even now. But there is also much to be proud of.
Of course, I also have to weigh my words carefully: there are things that can’t be brought up at all. The things that can be brought up have to be said with great caution. I might write something that could blow up in my face later and take away what peace I have left, and take away this marvelous dacha on the bank of the Moskva River.
What a view it has! It’s on a high bank, right among the pine trees— real beauties, with trunks rising toward the sky, some of them two hundred years old. The land slopes from here, and the little road is sandy and covered in pine needles. The bluish river makes a lazy bend. The water, downstream from the Rublyovo Reservoir, is clean, and it’s all within a nature reserve. If you see someone out in a rowboat, you know that it’s one of our people or a neighbor. No one’s doing any
poaching here or causing trouble.
From the back gate there’s a path down to the river. But Galya doesn’t go there, and she certainly won’t let Mashenka, who’s only seven, go without her. And for someone pushing seventy, it’s more pleasant to sit up here on the veranda. These days I have to use a stick just getting around the yard. My hearing’s not what it used to be, either. I don’t pick up the sound of each bird and every rustle in the forest.
The dacha itself is wonderful, though it belongs to the state, and every stick of furniture has an inventory number tacked onto it. I have possession for life. And so when I die, Galya, who’s forty, and our little daughter and my mother-in-law will be moved out immediately. (My first family is gone, and my married daughters have set up on their own.)
I’ve had two heart attacks already (and let’s hope they were only heart attacks). I was laid up for a long time, but then things settled down and now it’s over. It was after the second attack that I took up my memoirs.
It’s the last freedom left to old age: to spend your time thinking, gazing at the river, and writing a few more lines. Otherwise, my head will ache. (I get headaches at times.)
The most boring part is writing about times long past, about the times I was growing up. About the Imperialist War. And even about my younger days in the squadron. What should I say? How did I distinguish myself? The real interest begins from the time the Soviet system got well and truly established. My settled soldier’s life began only in the 1920s, with training in all the many aspects of the cavalry, tactical drills, and, the best thing of all, maneuvers. You are the complete master of your body, the sweep of your saber on horseback, the horse itself. Then, you get your own squadron, then your own regiment. Your own brigade. At last, your own division. (It was Uborevich who gave it to you—he could see you were a soldier.) And you feel yourself even stronger as part of one single great organism—the iron Party. (You had always dreamt of being like that amazing Bolshevik, Blyukher, a working man from Mytishchi who was given, as a joke at first, the name of the famous German general.)
You get absorbed in the study of tactics and, of course, feel yourself much stronger in the practice than in theoretical matters. Then they send you to cavalry staff college for a year, where they make you write a report on the topic: “Basic Factors Influencing the Theory of Military Science.” And here you crumble into little pieces like a dried-out biscuit: “What’s all this mean? What factors? What am I supposed to say? Who can I ask?” (His friend on the course, Kostya Rokossovsky, helped him out. As for his other friend, Yeryomenko, well, he was a total blockhead.)
Then you go on serving with real success as a cavalry commander, a horseman who knows his stuff. The one thing you really want is for your division to become the best in all the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army. People often accuse you of being much too demanding, of being a slave driver, but that’s a good sign; that’s the way military service has to be. Suddenly, you’re promoted from your division to be deputy inspector of all the cavalry, working under Semyon Mikhailovich Budyonny. You’re given the job of writing the training manual for cavalry, and you do it. This is work that makes sense. And who supervised your work? You can hardly believe it: Tukhachevsky himself! That same handsome and smart soldier you once saw in Tambov Province. Now you worked together for two months. (And being such a devoted communist, you’re chosen as secretary of the party Bureau of Inspection of all branches of the military.) You’re forty years old. In the years ahead, of course, you’ll be promoted again and given even more important posts.
When you look around the country, you see how much we’ve achieved: Industry is working at full speed, the collective farms are flourishing; the country is united. What more could you want?
Then come 1937 and 1938. Military service, once such a direct, plain-and-simple matter, now is a treacherous road with twists and turns that take real cunning to navigate. There’s a summons from a fellow named Golikov, the senior political officer of the military district: “Do you have any relatives among those arrested?” “No,” you answer confidently. (Your mother and sister are in a Kaluga village, and they’re all you have.) “Any friends among them?” Now “friend” can’t be as precisely defined as “relative.” Some you know, others you’ve met—does that mean they are “friends”? How can you answer that? “When Uborevich visited your division, he had dinner at your house.” Well, there’s no denying that. (He did a lot more than have dinner! Uborevich was his mentor and patron.) Then there was Kovtyukh, “legendary” until a few months ago, then suddenly “an enemy of the people.” Then they locked up Rokossovsky as well . . . “And did you not change your opinion of him after his arrest?” Well, of course. You’re a communist, so how couldn’t you change your opinion? So, yes, I did change my opinion. “Did you have your daughter baptized in church?” Here the answer is confident: “That’s a piece of slander!” They’ve gone too far with their accusations. (No one ever baptized Era.)
Now all sorts of accusations are being hurled at party meetings. Once again he’s accused of being too harsh (as if this is a flaw in a military commander), of cruelty, of boorish behavior, of failing to show leniency (but how else can you run a military unit?), even of a hostile approach to the training of cadres: that he had held back valuable personnel by refusing them promotion. (That from those same slanderers he’d refused to promote. Then there are those who slander not out of malice but to whitewash themselves in advance.) But here, too, he somehow fought off his attackers.
Then more trouble: a promotion to command a corps. But it’s the Belorussian Military District, where almost every single corps commander has been arrested. So it’s not a step toward advancement, it’s a step toward ruination. Is this how I’m going to be finished off—not in some battle, not from the slash of a saber? Yet there’s no way of refusing.
The only thing that saved him was that at this very moment, the wave of arrests ended. (Only after the Twentieth Party Congress did he learn that in the Belorussian Military District in 1939, they had opened a file on Zhukov.)
Suddenly, there’s an urgent summons to Moscow. Well, this is it, they’re going to arrest me. But no! Someone had advised Stalin, and they were sending him to Khalkhin-Gol for his real baptism of fire. Once again he showed his unflinching will in commanding “at any price!” Without waiting for artillery and infantry, he threw a whole tank division directly at them. Two-thirds of them never made it back, but he gave the Japanese a roasting! Comrade Stalin himself took note of what he had done, particularly by comparison with the Finnish War that had been so badly messed up by incompetent commanders that it seemed an entirely different Red Army was fighting there. Stalin took note of him, and kept him in mind for a long time to come. Stalin received him right after the Finnish War, and he was assigned to command the Kiev Military District—a post of huge importance!
Just six months later, however, and a new order came: Turn over the Kiev District to Kirponos and return to Moscow. But Zhukov had nothing to complain about: now he was to be appointed chief of the General Staff! (And all of it because of Khalkhin-Gol.)
He was sincere when he tried to decline the post: “Comrade Stalin! I’ve never had any staff experience, even in a low-level job.” And now, all at once, the General Staff? He’d never had a bit of military-academic or operational and strategic training in all his forty-five years. How could a simple, honest cavalryman manage the General Staff, particularly now, with so many different branches of troops and new technologies?
Something more made the job frightening: chiefs of the General Staff were being changed every six months. After half a year, Shaposhnikov was replaced by Meretskov; now Meretskov had been sacked and, rumor had it, arrested—so now is it your turn? (The same sort of leapfrog was going on in the Directorate of Operations.)
Never mind, just take the post! And you’ll also be a candidate member of the Central Committee. What trust Stalin had in him!
That meeting with Stalin left a very warm, te
nder impression.
It was precisely here that he saw the biggest obstacle to writing his memoirs. (Maybe he should just give up the whole thing . . . ?) How was he, a general who had had long and close contact with Stalin during the Great War and who had seen his many moods and who had even become his closest deputy, to write about the man who was the head of government, the general secretary of the party, and soon the Supreme Commander of the armed forces? As a veteran of that war, he could scarcely believe how the Supreme Commander had since been dethroned and how a few dimwits were trying to stain his reputation by telling cock-and-bull stories—how he “commanded the front lines by looking at the globe . . .” (It’s true, he did have a large globe in the room next to his office, but there were also maps on the wall, and he would lay out other maps on the desk when he was working. The Supreme Commander would pace from corner to corner, smoking his pipe, and then go to the maps so as to understand clearly the report he was being given or to indicate what he wanted.) Just now they’ve thrown out the biggest windbag of them all, kit and caboodle. And maybe, little by little, they’ll be able to restore proper respect for the Supreme Commander. Still, some irreparable damage was done.
Apricot Jam: And Other Stories Page 26