Red Sky at Noon (The Moscow Trilogy)

by Simon Sebag Montefiore

  The new arrival saluted. ‘Mein Führer, Colonel von Schwerin, Intelligence, Sixth Army, reporting.’

  Across the table, Hitler was leaning forwards on his elbows. He was wearing a sandy-coloured double-breasted jacket with a dark tie, his Iron Cross was on his chest, and a scarlet swastika band was on his right arm.

  ‘Welcome, colonel,’ said Hitler. ‘Your flight to Vinnitsa was easy, I hope?’

  ‘Very quick, mein Führer. General Paulus sends his regards.’

  Hitler nodded. ‘What have you got for us?’

  ‘Tactical plans for this sector from Soviet headquarters that I believe may impact on Operation Fischreiher. Hence I’ve rushed them here as soon as I had analysed them.’

  There was a beat of silence.

  ‘First of all, how reliable is the provenance?’ asked Halder, who was next to Hitler. ‘Have they been missed?’

  ‘The documents belonged to a Soviet staff officer killed when our planes strafed his car. Kapto, a medical officer in a penal battalion, attended the scene and procured the documents which the Soviet General Staff believed were destroyed in the fire. Kapto, a long-standing anti-Soviet agitator, then defected to our side. He was a childhood friend of another defector and anti-Soviet agitator Mandryka, who set up a Schuma auxiliary police unit. This Kapto had been serving a sentence for anti-Soviet agitation in the Kolyma Camps. This is the first factor that encourages us to treat this material as legitimate. Kapto was interviewed by my colleague Captain von Manteuffel, who made the first inspection of the materials and was convinced of their importance and authenticity. Sadly, yesterday partisans attacked and killed them.’

  ‘But they left the maps?’ asked Halder.

  ‘Yes, Generaloberst.’

  ‘Why didn’t they take them?’

  ‘Doesn’t that suggest that they wanted us to have them?’ asked Weichs.

  ‘I have considered this at length,’ said Schwerin. ‘First the provenance: the anti-Soviet credentials of Mandryka and Kapto are flawless and long-standing, confirmed by other assets. If this was a Soviet intelligence operation, they would never have sent partisans to kill Kapto and my fellow officers as that would have undermined the credibility of the documents. So in my opinion, the attack strengthens the case for believing this is genuine. I also believe personally that the partisan attack was not by Soviet partisans but by Ukrainian nationalist elements at large in the sector who were unaware of the documents and circumstances.’

  Hitler was fidgeting, his fingers tapping on the green baize table. Halder held up his hand to signal that this was too much information: could Schwerin hurry up and give his judgement?

  ‘Yes … yes, my conclusion!’ answered Schwerin. ‘I have consulted with Abwehr colleagues. We conclude these battle plans are authentic and significant.’

  Hitler, smiling, impatient, even excited, tapped both forefingers on the table again: ‘Well, colonel, cut to the quick. What do they say?’

  Schwerin opened his briefcase and drew out a package of maps, selecting one, which he unfolded. Hitler rested his chin in his right hand as he looked at its arrows and Cryllic lettering.

  ‘This is a complex series of plans by Soviet headquarters for different scenarios created by the advance of Army Group A in Operation Edelweiss and Army Group B towards Stalingrad in Operation Fischreiher—’ Schwerin continued.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Halder. ‘And you regarded this as of such importance that you wished to tell the Führer yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s so important about it?’

  ‘I am all ears,’ said Hitler, smirking, and the generals laughed.

  ‘The maps suggest that it is unlikely Stalin ever considered Stalingrad to be in peril—’

  ‘Well, he’s in for a big surprise then!’ said Hitler. More laughter.

  ‘If I may continue, mein Führer? These plans suggest that, if we advance on Stalingrad, Stalin will resist vigorously. But only up to a point. He’s learned the lessons of our blitzkrieg. One of these scenarios is for an orderly withdrawal from the city. Rather than bleed his forces and risk encirclement, he may defend a new line that we believe is being prepared to the east. After the encirclements of Kiev and Kharkov, he cannot afford to lose more of his diminishing reserves.’

  ‘Just one of several scenarios?’ asked Hitler.

  ‘Yes, mein Führer.’

  ‘Do any of these plans envisage defending Stalingrad at any cost?’

  ‘Not specifically. This is the most detailed plan and—’

  Halder interrupted him again: ‘That makes no sense, no sense at all. They’re fighting for every inch and I’ve been reading about Stalin’s command of Stalingrad, then called Tsaritsyn, during the Civil War in 1918. Then, as now, he built up vast reserves to throw at our flanks where we are over-committed. The city is the symbol of his name, of his prestige. He will never let it fall! It is we who will be bled, we who risk encirclement. Mein Führer—’

  Hitler cut him off hoarsely with a slicing gesture of his hand. ‘As usual, Generaloberst Halder is frightened of ghosts. You vastly overestimate Stalin’s reserves and capabilities. He’s scarcely managed any such complex operations so far. All along I’ve expected the Russians to withdraw behind the Volga and ultimately the Urals. It’s the Russian way: fight with the insane, bestial bravery of the Untermenschen, then headlong retreat and mass surrender. Here you have it, gentlemen. Here’s the proof provided by Colonel von Schwerin and the maps of this man, Kapto. Wasn’t I right in Poland, in France? My instincts were right to divide Army Group South into A and B, and correct now to take Stalingrad at once, whatever the cost. Here are my orders. Move the Fourth Panzer Army, and more air cover and bombers, directly to Army Group B. Generaloberst von Weichs: you are to advance on Stalingrad. It will be ours within four weeks.’

  ‘I must protest, mein Führer,’ said Halder, face flushed and anxious. ‘I wish to register my view that this is a mistake. A fatal mistake.’

  Hitler ignored him. ‘Fine report, Colonel von Schwerin, and while you’re here, enjoy a good meal, a sauna and, if you wish before you fly back to the Sixth Army, a dip in my swimming pool – although I must admit I haven’t had a swim yet myself.’

  Smiling, Hitler offered his hand across the table and von Schwerin shook it.

  III

  It was just before three o’clock, and Svetlana Stalina and Martha Peshkova were walking out of the Josef Stalin Commune School 801. On the street outside, Moscow was faded in its glories: battered, grey, with shrapnel scars on the building opposite.

  The eyes of all the parents and teachers were on the two girls, School Director Kapitolina Medvedeva almost bowing as they passed, but Svetlana was used to being the emperor’s daughter. Nannies, bodyguards and mothers were picking up the children outside the gates. There were no fathers; all the leaders were at the war. There was Hercules Satinov’s wife, Tamara, the English teacher at the school, walking out with her little daughter. Svetlana waved: she knew them well from family holidays on the Black Sea.

  ‘He knows!’ whispered Svetlana.

  ‘Oh my God, what did he say?’ replied Martha.

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. What did he say?’

  Svetlana just shook her head: ‘I’ve never seen my father like that. He slapped me. He tore up the letters.’

  ‘What did Lev say?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘But he must be coming back soon?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Svetlana.

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’

  Svetlana remembered her promise to Nanny. ‘No, never again.’

  Maybe that’s for the best, thought Martha. ‘Your father … Be careful, Svetochka.’

  They had reached the street corner where her bodyguard, Klimov, was waiting with the Packard.

  As the girls kissed each other goodbye, Svetlana glanced at her watch and enjoyed the sensation of power, the fa
ct that she had control of her life. Amid this perpetual surveillance and her father’s relentless supervision, she was still her compact self, her own kingdom. Only she ruled her heart.

  ‘Svetlana!’ Klimov was holding open the car door.

  ‘I’d like to walk a bit … I’d like to wander around the House of the Book.’

  ‘I’d prefer you in the car,’ said Klimov.

  ‘Drive behind, if you like?’

  The black Packard purred slowly behind her as she set off along Ostozhenka, then past the university and the Kremlin and up Gorky Street towards her favourite bookshop. Waving at Klimov, dear Klimov the kind Chekist who wanted to help her, who wanted her to know love, she skipped inside where she found herself surrounded by the familiar ramparts of shelves, and the sweet smell of book leather and yellow paper and glue. Her eyes scanned the shelves for something to take home, a new American novel perhaps? A new history book! Books were so romantic, she thought, book-lovers all over the world – London, New York and Moscow – were linked in a web of sensibility and freedom.

  She only hesitated for a moment and then she walked straight through the shop to the back where the metal lift brought up the books from the storeroom downstairs, and where there were piles of books in their boxes, not yet unpacked. She pressed the button for the lift, which shook and groaned but nothing happened. Swearing to herself a little, Svetlana ran down the steps. It was cooler down there. The tang of book glue and new paper made her nose twitch. In the basement, a young man with big ears was unpacking a box of her father’s speeches and this amused her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said in a southern accent, Stavropol maybe, ‘but you’re not allowed down here.’

  She smiled at him winningly.

  ‘No, really, I’ll get sacked.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘Not if I tell them not to …’

  ‘Who are you? Hey, you! Please go back upstairs.’

  But she could see the light now from the loading door. ‘It will be quicker to get out this way!’ she called and ran down the ramp and out into the brightness. Then she turned up the side street, peeking into Gorky Street where she could see Klimov leaning on the car, smoking a cigarette, and jumped on a tram.

  She was free. Not for long. But free.

  IV

  Benya opened his eyes. The bandages and the cast around his hip and right thigh were reassuringly tight. He enjoyed the float of the morphine, its timeless haze. He was propped up so he could see the entire room.

  Everything was drab and washed-out in the ward. All around him were steel beds, brown sheets, soiled blankets and the smells of carbolic acid, disinfectant, the hot fug of strange bodies, the fruity sugariness of putrefaction and the acrid urine of the living. The boy two beds down had died; they hadn’t got round to removing him yet. Then the morphine bore Benya away again: here he was visiting his parents, and grooming Silver Socks, next he was swooping through roiling skies on to the steppes where he saw Tonya and Kapto and the little girl. He woke up, sickened, with the rust of blood in his mouth.

  He heard the hiss of whispering down the ward, and noticed a retinue of nurses and doctors and a general close by, three beds away. High and buzzed, nothing could dent the rapture of being free and redeemed – but as always the panic of disappointed joy struck. Things had gone wrong before. To make it back to Russian lines and then be sentenced to death unless he went back – he had almost collapsed. But he had done his part. He had not seen Kobylov again, a boon in itself, and Mogilchuk had delivered the news of his deliverance. And now? Now he was alive.

  The general was getting closer, speaking to each patient, the doctor commenting and the anaemic voices of flimsy men responding. Sharp questions to project urgency and care. ‘How are you feeling? What unit? Where did you serve? Stalingrad Front?’ Then another note, the moving-on-we-have-ten-wards-to-get-through tone: ‘Your service to the Motherland is appreciated. Good luck in your recovery. Long live Stalin!’

  They were at the next-door bed and then it was Benya’s turn. He already knew the questions by heart and was tempted to call out the answers in one insolent blurt to save time when he heard the general speak. ‘Leave us a moment, comrades, I know this one. Yes, thanks, nurse, I’ll pull up a chair.’ The accent was so Georgian. Benya was suddenly very much awake.

  ‘Benya Golden,’ said Colonel General Hercules Satinov, older but still lean and trim, a man to whom power seemed as natural as angst to a Jewish writer. Once, in another almost forgotten life, at a beautiful woman’s house, Benya had seen Satinov dance the lezginka, the waist in his Stalinka tunic tight and wasp-like, the footwork in his boots impressively fleet. A vanished life.

  Benya, so exuberant one second earlier, shrank in the icy presence of Stalin’s comrade-in-arms. What had they in store for him this time?

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I was feeling good …’ Benya said. The past tense, too honest.

  ‘Until you saw me?’ replied Satinov. ‘Again.’

  The last time Benya had seen Satinov was when he presided over his sentencing to death, then the reprieve – to twenty-five years in Gehenna.

  ‘A coincidence, I am sure.’

  ‘You still believe in those, Golden?’

  ‘I want to.’

  Satinov looked searchingly at Benya. ‘I am the Stavka representative on the Stalingrad Front,’ he said. ‘My front. When possible, I visit the wounded.’ A pause. ‘Your case came straight to me. I had your wounds checked; when you were asleep, I arranged for the Kremlin Clinic to send a doctor to examine you. Signing your redemption, in this particular case, I had to be certain.’ Benya knew Satinov was referring to the Sashenka Case, because he too had known Sashenka.

  ‘Understood,’ said Benya. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You were nominated for the only medal available to Shtrafniki: Order of Glory Third Class.’

  Benya shook himself. ‘Really?’ He’d never won a prize, even at school.

  ‘Of course it’s impossible for a Political.’

  Benya had seen Satinov’s hawkish face on countless banners and newspapers; he had even passed through a town named Satinovgrad on his way to the Don. Now, in the flesh, this presence took him back: Satinov had been the close friend of Sashenka, the love of Benya’s life, and yet Stalin had assigned Satinov to ‘curate’ the case and oversee her destruction. A test; a very Stalinist one. Family, sentiment, friendship were the trappings of bourgeois sentimentality, and Stalin liked to say ‘A Bolshevik has no family but the Party’. Satinov had presided coolly over the trials and the sentences. Had he played a murky part in the whole case, had he denounced his friends, even Sashenka? Had he been particularly severe in order to save his own skin? If Sashenka was alive, Satinov would know. What things he must know …

  An adjutant was whispering something in the great man’s ear.

  ‘Golden, you’re drifting away. Listen to me. If you are allowed to reside in Moscow, what would you like to do?’

  ‘Teach literature.’

  ‘At a school?’

  ‘Yes. And if it isn’t possible, I’ll do anything, sweep floors, build tanks, or become a barman or …’

  ‘Your chatter gets you into trouble. Stop talking, Golden.’

  Satinov stood up. He didn’t say goodbye, just a slight dip of the head. But this was extraordinary: no one helped returning Zeks and yet here was Satinov doing exactly that. Benya felt hopeful again. Satinov’s entourage of doctors, adjutants and bodyguards reassembled and escorted him into the next ward.

  A shadow fell over him and Benya looked up.

  ‘Granpa!’

  Benya jumped. Two men, tamed by their standard-issue hospital blouses and fraying long johns, were standing next to the bed.

  ‘You should go back to your ward,’ said the nursing sister, a battleaxe with the face of a puff adder. ‘Go on, I say! Or I’ll report you to the Party committee.’

  ‘Right, sister, one minute … please!’

  Benya
could see there was something about the way Prishchepa said it, the pirate’s smile he gave, the tousle of his flaxen thatch, that made her melt.

  ‘One minute, then, Speedy, and not a minute more!’

  ‘You see? She even knows my name,’ said Prishchepa, who had a dressing on his shoulder.

  ‘Behave yourself, Speedy,’ she said sternly as she waddled out.

  Prishchepa sat himself on the edge of the bed. ‘Who was that bigshot?’ he asked.

  ‘Some apparatchik.’

  ‘What’s he want? Appointing you Inspector of Cavalry?’ Panka had appeared, his face and chest sunburnt, his grey hair longer, the whiskers shaggier. He leant on crutches, a cast on his shattered leg.

  ‘Nothing. Maybe less than nothing.’

  ‘I think Granpa Golden would be better as Inspector of Marksmen,’ said Prishchepa with a wink.

  Benya sighed. ‘I was never much of a rider and I wasn’t much better as a shot.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down,’ replied Panka, his tiny foxy eyes bright. ‘You turned out to be a better shot than you thought. God bless you, boy.’

  What kind of topsy-turvy world was it where you could only save the lives of your friends by shooting them? Benya thought. But Stalin’s decree was specific: Shtrafniki could only be redeemed by sacrificing their own blood and so Benya had given his friends the wounds they needed to win redemption.

  Perhaps it was the relief of knowing that Satinov had secured his redemption or perhaps it was just the morphine wearing off a little – he needed some more; where was that nurse? – but quite suddenly he felt a jolt of stunning grief and he was choking. The sadness rocked him, the sense of loss pounding through him: Fabiana was dead. He pictured her dipping her hand into the honeycomb, scooping it out and eating it like a bear. Love, he thought, is all about the details – a dictionary of visions, moments, sounds that have no names, no words necessary. Love is always selfishness at its most delicious – but with Fabiana, there was no time for selfishness. Sometimes the very shortness of an affair, he decided, grants it an immaculate purity that passes directly into legend – and nothing afterwards can ever equal it. But their mere hours together were lived in a rougher, higher realm; they never said ‘I love you’ to each other; they were just the ‘bandits in love’, and that said it all. From the start, they were galloping, fleeing, fighting to escape death and, ultimately, to survive each other – and the miracle was that they had managed that, at least for a while. Should he have told her that he loved her? Would that have comforted her? Such trifles would have been somehow futile and irrelevant beside the immensity of the courageous sacrifices she made for him. ‘Are you out there somewhere, darling ally, brave, brave friend?’ he called to her quietly. ‘Are you there, secret dreamer of the lagoon, mia adorata? I kiss you! I kiss you!’