Red Sky at Noon (The Moscow Trilogy)

by Simon Sebag Montefiore

  ‘Only a Cossack could sweet-talk a horse like I did with that German horse,’ boasted Prishchepa, ‘and only a Cossack of the Don could steal it right under their noses.’

  ‘Shut up, magpie,’ said Garanzha.

  ‘Brothers, now we have to decide what to do,’ said Panka. ‘Decisions are like the carp in the Don!’

  ‘Slippery and full of bones,’ explained Prishchepa.

  ‘You decide, Sergeant Panka,’ suggested Benya.

  ‘I shall, with pleasure,’ said Panka. ‘It will be good to see the Don. I can smell it. Our mother river, our darling gentle Don.’

  ‘Even if we might drown in it,’ said Benya.

  ‘Well, yes,’ agreed Panka affably. ‘But it’s always sunny on the Don.’

  V

  They were riding towards the front line. Panka was in the lead followed by Benya with Prishchepa and Spider Garanzha bringing up the rear. The cannons fired relentlessly and each blast shook the air and made their eyes ache; the roar of tank engines ground forward, planes flew low overhead and, around them, black smoke was blanketing the blue sky. In Benya’s nostrils, on his clothes even, hung the reek of cordite and burning diesel.

  They rode down a hillock and across a plain and down its banks, and there it was. The Don. It seemed an age since they had crossed the great river seven days earlier, and Benya felt he had lived a lifetime since then. As they rode towards it, the water, fringed with foam, seemed to steam as smoke rolled over the sheening shallows, and the grass of the chalky cliff on the far bank gleamed an emerald green. They rode along the beach where old nets and a Cossack fisherman’s rowboat lay abandoned. Further up, a dead Russian soldier was being picked at by greedy seagulls, his brainpan open, empty, bone-white. In the river, a half-submerged ferry lay empty, a direct hit. The seagulls, grown fat and truculent on the decay of war, swooped over them with a shrieking keow, sometimes so close Benya felt the wind of their wings.

  They said little, knowing that if they were unlucky, they would simply be hit by a blast of shrapnel and know nothing more. If they even located the Russian front lines, they might well be shot down by trigger-happy outposts. They just had to be lucky – but Panka had decided the beach of the Don was the best way to approach, partly because the pickets would be able to see them clearly. There would be less chance of mistakes.

  As they rode, the horses became increasingly tense, skittering, fretting and dancing, or champing and refusing to go forward. Benya held Socks on a tight rein, and talked to her: ‘I’m here with you, girl,’ he said. A volley of artillery, apparently fired by the Russians though it was hard to tell, made him jump and Socks reared. Benya gripped her with his legs and leaned over her mane and soothed her. She went on.

  ‘Who goes there? Identify yourself or we shoot!’ There it was, a voice from a position right ahead, a concrete bunker overlooking the beach.

  ‘Sergeant Pantaleimon Churelko and three men, Second Cavalry Shtrafbat.’

  ‘Never heard of you,’ said the voice. ‘Which Shtrafbat?’

  ‘Second Cavalry Shtrafbat,’ said Panka. ‘We have intelligence materials for the general.’

  ‘We still haven’t heard of you!’ said the voice.

  ‘Are you crazy riding along the beach? We might have shot you!’ said another.

  ‘We still might shoot you, motherfuckers!’ said the first, harsher voice. ‘Take off your weapons and throw them down! Tether your horses! And walk up the bank towards us with your hands up!’

  They dismounted and, as they set off, Benya looked back at Silver Socks. He wondered if he would see her again.

  ‘Walk slowly! No tricks! No fast moves or we’ll shoot!’

  Moments later, they were in a small blockhouse overlooking the river. Four soldiers, teenagers in uniform, were searching them.

  ‘Welcome back, friends,’ said the gentler one. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Volodya, keep your bread till we know who they are,’ the harsher soldier said. ‘We’ve called the Organs, and the Special Section’s waiting for you. I’ll take you there now. Keep low.’

  ‘What about our horses and weapons?’ said Prishchepa.

  ‘Just worry about keeping your head with the Chekists,’ said the harsh boy. ‘That’s my advice to you.’ He levelled his rifle at them. ‘You go first. Head down and run!’ They crouched down and ran to the next stronghold and then on to the next. Finally they reached a larger bunker dug into the side of the hill. Outside the bunker there was an officer waiting for them with four of his men, Chekists from the Special Section, all wielding Papashas. ‘You’re back,’ said Senior Lieutenant Mogilchuk.

  ‘Oh thank God, you know us! You know who we are!’ cried Benya. He had once been interrogated by Mogilchuk, but now the sight of him was as reassuring as that of a parent claiming a lost child.

  The Cossacks hugged each other. ‘We made it, brothers,’ they said. Prishchepa was weeping.

  ‘Enough now, men!’ said Mogilchuk. ‘Yes, I know who you are, Shtrafniki. We didn’t think we’d see you Dead Ones again. We don’t know where you’ve been. We have to check you out. How long have you been out of sight? A week? More than enough time to become German agents.’ He gestured towards a nearby cottage. ‘You’re under arrest. Take a seat in there,’ he said. ‘We’ll question you separately. Answer our questions frankly and all will be well. And don’t even think about lying. Lie and it will be worse for you, understand? The Camps will be the least of it. Proceed!’

  It was not a warm welcome but it was what they’d expected, Benya told himself.

  Mogilchuk took him into a small room. ‘Let’s start with names and units and then we’ll find out if you’re collaborators and traitors. Shtrafniki, eh? We’ve hardly had any of you Smertniki back. All dead, we thought.’ He wrote some notes, which he handed to an assistant. ‘A single hole in your stories and you’ll all be shorter by a head!’

  ‘Permission to speak, senior lieutenant?’ Benya said. Mogilchuk nodded. ‘I have here intelligence materials taken from a traitor we assassinated, as stated in the orders of our original mission. I believe these top-secret maps need to be seen urgently by the general at once. They were stolen and handed over to the Germans by this traitor. We also took part in the assassination of the traitor Mandryka five days ago. We hope that these will earn us our redemption.’

  ‘Give me these materials,’ said Mogilchuk.

  ‘I wish it to be stated in my notes that these were handed to you by the Shtrafniki Golden, Churelko, Prishchepa and Garanzha.’

  ‘Don’t get above yourself, prisoner,’ replied Mogilchuk. ‘I’ll decide what goes into your service record. Hand over these papers or I’ll beat them out of you.’

  Twenty minutes later, a more senior Chekist with a squint, a Colonel Spassky, was perusing the maps and the notebook, and listening to Benya’s story. He seemed more impressed. ‘All right.’ He nodded, sighing loudly, clicking his tongue. ‘I think you’ve done well. We need to check up on you but your part in the Mandryka operation is confirmed by Comrade Elmor. We’ve already reported this incident to our superiors.’

  Benya was returned to his small room, before being called back again for a third time to see an army general named Chernyshev who received him with the divisional commissar and Spassky.

  ‘Well, Shtrafnik,’ said Spassky briskly but with a kind blink of his eye, ‘you might just have earned your redemption. We know you’ve been through a lot. Good work. We’re just waiting to hear from our superiors. There’s a general based in Stalingrad who knows about the traitors Mandryka and Kapto and it happens he’s in this sector. He’s coming across to sign off on you.’ He called in Mogilchuk: ‘Their stories check out. I think they’re clean.’

  General Chernyshev stood up and shook Benya’s hand. ‘I would be happy to recommend them for redemption. Draw up the documents, comrades, and I’ll sign it. Give them a proper meal, a hundred grammes of vodka and a wash. And for God’s sake, get the lice off them!’

  B
enya was so relieved and overjoyed he could hardly speak. Smiling to himself, he followed Mogilchuk back to the cottage where he found the others. After bolting down kasha and black bread and goat’s cheese, and even some fresh tomatoes, as much as they could, and a hundred grammes of vodka, they looked at one another, feeling human.

  ‘Will we be signed off as Shtrafniki so we can join a regular unit?’ asked Prishchepa.

  ‘I think so,’ said Benya. They had said it: Happy to recommend them for redemption. ‘Yes, yes, we will.’

  There were mattresses on the floor, and Garanzha and Panka were both fast asleep. Benya lay down and savoured the way sleep was creeping up on him. They had been through a great deal, and now it was over, all over.

  VI

  Feeling sick, Svetlana picked up the wad of papers that her father had thrown down.

  ‘You see what these are? They’re telephone transcripts of your conversations with your so-called lover!’ Stalin grabbed the papers out of her hands and started to read, his hands actually shaking: ‘“Svetlana Stalina: Hello, Lion, I long to kiss you, I can smell you, I can feel your lips on me, Lev, and I want more …” How can you say such things? You disgust me,’ he shouted. ‘“Shapiro: Darling Lioness, is it you? I can only just hear your voice. I can feel you in my arms. We’re going to meet again in that apartment. I am not going to waste time just talking, I am going to kiss your hair and your sweet freckles and hold your hand and …”’

  Stalin threw down the papers again as Svetlana started to sob.

  ‘Do you recognize these words? Lioness? What is this? Don’t you know who you are? Filth! Where did you learn such things? Oh, I know! From your idiotic brother! He’s spending a week in the guardhouse. Now give me all his letters. Hand them over! No doubt you have them hidden away somewhere in here. Your Shapiro’s not even a writer. He’s a hack! He’s not what you think he is, I can tell you that! We’re checking him out.’

  ‘But I love him,’ cried Svetlana.

  ‘Love!? LOVE?’ yelled Stalin, spitting the word with hatred.

  Svetlana tilted her chin at him defiantly. ‘Yes. Love! I love him!’

  Stalin’s lips turned white and he slapped her twice across the face. He spun around to the nanny. ‘Just think how low she’s sunk. Don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry about? There’s a war going on – oh yes, we’re fighting for our existence, and she’s busy fucking!’

  ‘No, no, no, it’s not like that!’ the nanny tried to explain, wringing her hands.

  ‘It’s not?’ said Stalin, sounding slightly calmer. He turned back to his daughter. ‘You fool! Don’t you know who Lev Shapiro is? He’s forty years old and he’s got women all around him, and he’s fucking all of them. You’re nothing to him. Take a look at yourself! You’re plain as a plank! Who’d want you?’

  VII

  ‘Get up, Golden!’ Mogilchuk was back. The Cossacks stirred from their mattresses.

  ‘Do we come?’ asked Garanzha.

  ‘You wait here, Cossack,’ said Mogilchuk. ‘Golden, you come with me. Look at you! A week’s beard and food all over you. First wash your face.’

  Benya did as he was told; then he walked with Mogilchuk back to the command post.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Mogilchuk continued. ‘General Petrov is senior enough to sign off on your entire case for all four of you.’

  Benya swallowed hard, experiencing the panic of happiness. Could he really be safe? Fabiana came to him suddenly, quite real, right there. He prayed she was alive and safe. He owed her so much, and now she was a secret, so deep, so incriminating, that he warned himself never to think of her – until he was clear. He had slept with the enemy; no one must ever know.

  He was shown into an empty room and sat at a table and rested his face in his hands. Happy to recommend them for redemption. Happy to recommend them for redemption. These joyful words were echoing in his ears.

  ‘General Petrov!’ said Mogilchuk, saluting.

  Benya stood up, his heart beating. He had survived Kolyma and the Shtrafbat and seven days behind enemy lines. Now he would be rewarded.

  ‘Remember me, Benya Golden?’

  He’d recognize that voice anywhere, the bulk and the laminated skin like glossy chocolate, and the sausagey fingers aglint with rings, all enveloped in his eau de cologne that was based on cloves. This was no front-line general, no ‘Petrov’ either; ‘General Petrov’ was Bogdan ‘the Bull’ Kobylov, Deputy People’s Commissar for the Interior and Commissar-General of State Security (Second Degree), who had interrogated him once in Lubianka Prison three years earlier. You don’t forget anyone you meet in hell, and a man never forgets his torturer: it is an intimate relationship.

  ‘A lot can happen in three years, eh, Golden?’ said Kobylov as soon as they were alone. ‘I remember you well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Benya, not knowing what to say.

  ‘I don’t often get thanked by the men I beat with my truncheons, but that’s kind of you,’ Kobylov boomed jovially and mellifluously. ‘But time is short so let’s get down to business.’

  Benya prayed that Kobylov would sign off on the redemptions. He had the power; he was Beria’s special henchman. When Beria had been summoned to Moscow in 1938, he’d brought his own men from Georgia, led by Kobylov.

  ‘I’ve examined your materials,’ said Kobylov in his clotted accent. ‘I’m impressed that you have recovered these top-secret documents and even more astonished that you personally claim to have liquidated the traitor Kapto.’

  ‘We, my fellow Shtrafniki and I, also played a key role in the liquidation of the traitor Mandryka,’ Benya pointed out.

  ‘A key role? Don’t over-egg the pudding, Golden. But I am only concerned with Kapto. Let me ask, firstly, what time precisely did you shoot Kapto and take these documents?’

  Benya blinked. He wasn’t at all sure.

  ‘Think, Golden.’

  ‘Maybe … ten a.m.’

  Kobylov looked at his watch: it was now 5 p.m.

  ‘Why are you asking—’

  ‘Don’t rile me today, Golden. Unless you want a smack? I thought not. How long did it take you to ride from there to our front line here?’

  Benya tried to think: ‘Not long. We came slowly. We didn’t know where our lines were. Maybe a couple of hours.’

  ‘Did you speak to Kapto before you shot him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just killed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you pick up such ruthlessness? From the brigands in the Camps? From Jaba? You didn’t know how to kill a fly when we last met. You could join us in the Cheka!’ A joke. Kobylov switched off the smile. ‘The materials were to be collected by officers of the Intelligence Section of the German Sixth Army. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Kapto was accompanied by two officers.’

  ‘Ah yes, you were efficient enough to bring their papers. Captain von Manteuffel and Lieutenant Kreutzer. You killed them too, right?’

  ‘Yes, the Cossack Garanzha killed them.’

  ‘Very good, Golden. Did either of them speak before they were killed?’

  ‘I wasn’t there. I was with Kapto …’

  ‘Do you have any idea who’s coming to collect them? From the Sixth Army?’

  Now Benya was worried. Where were all these questions going? He thought quickly. ‘Could it be Schwarzer? No, Schwerin? That’s it.’

  ‘Colonel Gerhard von Schwerin. Very good. When was Schwerin due to collect the maps and Kapto? Think hard, Golden. Did any of them say anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Hang on, yes, whilst Prishchepa was stealing the horse, the German captain called out that Schwerin would come … sometime later – perhaps in the night.’

  Kobylov gave him his hairdresser’s smile and he sat back, lit a Belomorkanal cigarette and gave it to Benya before lighting his own. Benya watched the Bull inhale his slowly, closing his eyes under black eyebrows
, thick as grubs, and blowing the blue smoke into Benya’s face. A long silence. Then suddenly he banged his fist on the table. Benya jumped.

  ‘You have fucked up an intelligence operation sanctioned at the highest fucking level by the Instantsiya. Yes, the Instantsiya! The highest! You’re not in line for redemption, Prisoner Golden. Your recruitment into the Shtrafbat was against regulations. We’re investigating this and if you survive this conversation, you’ll be returned to the gold mines of Madyak-7.’

  Benya felt cold suddenly. Cold and sick. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.

  ‘But you won’t even get that far. Your death penalty is hereby reinstated owing to your treasonable actions on the Don steppe. Prepare yourself, Prisoner Golden, for the Eight Grammes, you and your three donkey-fucking villagers!’

  Benya bent double, sure he was going to vomit. How could this have happened? He was going to die!

  But Kobylov was still speaking. ‘Wait! Pinch yourself! You’re still alive and I’m still talking to you. What does that signify?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand.’ Benya was shivering, red specks whirling behind his eyes.

  Kobylov spoke very quietly now: ‘Every word I tell you is secret, you understand. You were not meant to kill Kapto. He was one of our agents, trained for months for this task. You were not meant to reclaim the maps. They are the creation of our counter-intelligence services.’

  ‘But Kapto was a traitor,’ Benya protested. ‘He was in the Camps with me. He looked after me but I learned later he was an invert. There was a little girl …’

  ‘A child? No surprise there. He was in the Gulags for child rape and murder.’

  ‘But he was a paediatrician …’

  ‘A doctor?’ Kobylov grinned. ‘No, no, he was never a doctor. He studied to be a vet, but he didn’t even qualify to treat dogs. The doctoring was all lies. But he had connections to Mandryka and nationalist White elements which made him perfect.’