Yes, in order to begin the Great War. War with the West. The last war, which would finally destroy capitalism. A holy war, whose battle cries would be those so dear to the hearts of his deluded people: crush the universal evil of capitalism, crush its agent, international Jewry!
The Boss’s propaganda insistently proclaimed that America, “Uncle Sam,” was the incarnation of this evil. This was why he sought to provoke a confrontation with the United States. The aged Dictator had resolved to realize the Great Dream with the aid of the Jews.
This was the moment at which he had everything necessary to the achievement of his objective. His troops were stationed in Eastern Europe and in Germany, his battle-hardened army was the most powerful in the world, his capital was protected by a ring of rocket sites, he was expecting from day to day the results of tests on the most powerful weapon in the world (he knew that the Americans were lagging behind), a third of mankind was under his banners, and hundreds of thousands of others sympathized with the conqueror of Hitler.
But all these advantages were temporary. For the time being he was ahead. Tomorrow his half-ruined, half-starved country would inevitably start falling behind.
How could the great predator, who already felt his strength waning and the end approaching, fail to take advantage of this last chance to realize the Great Dream?
IN RUSSIA EVERYTHING IS A SECRET, AND NOTHING IS A MYSTERY
I knew very well that there could be no relevant documents. The screening of Stalin’s archives began on March 5, 1953, the day of his death. “Malenkov G. M., Khrushchev N. S., and Beria L. P.” were instructed “to take steps to ensure that the documents and papers of Comrade Stalin, both current and archival, are put in proper order.” (This secret clause in a decision made at a joint meeting of the Central Committee of the CPSU, the Council of Ministers, and the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet on March 5, 1953, was first published in 1994, forty-one years later, in the journal Istochnik.)
“Steps” were of course taken, “proper order” was established—and this trio would hardly leave behind evidence of the USSR’s intention to launch a world war. But there exists in the USSR, a country where documents were either periodically destroyed or were full of falsifications, an intriguing historical source—the oral testimony of contemporaries. For, as Mme. de Staël, whom we have previously cited, put it: “In Russia everything is a secret, and nothing is a mystery.”
A. Borshchagovsky, who is still among us, told me about a remarkable statement supposedly made by Stalin at a meeting of the Bureau of the Presidium of the Party’s Central Committee in February 1953. Borshchagovsky had heard it from close acquaintances of his (since, alas, deceased) who were present at the meeting: the writer V. Yakovlev, author of several books about Lenin and speechwriter for a number of Party functionaries, and Colonel General D. Dragunsky, a member of the Central Revision Commission of the Central Committee.
In the course of the meeting, Vyshinsky (who had ceased to be public prosecutor in 1940 and had served as Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs from 1940 to 1949 and as Minister from 1949 to 1953) told Stalin about the “enormous” reaction in the West to the impending trial of the doctors. Vyshinsky was openly supported by some members of the Presidium. In reply Stalin savaged Vyshinsky, describing his statement as “Menshevik,” and berated his comrades-in-arms, calling them “blind kittens.” He concluded with this ominous sentence: “We are afraid of no one, and if the imperialist gentlemen feel like going to war there is no more favorable moment for us than the present.”
After which Stalin went off to his dacha, never again to leave it alive.
I have heard various other accounts of Stalin’s departure for his dacha in February 1953. The most interesting of them I heard by chance in the Union of Soviet Writers at the end of the seventies. The story was told by Yuri Zhukov (one of Pravda’s most influential and most “conservative” political commentators and, incidentally, like Dragunsky, a member of the Revision Commission of the Central Committee of the CPSU). Zhukov’s story was as follows: In February 1953 Vyshinsky was present when the Boss received some ambassador or other. The ambassador raised the subject of the anti-Semitic campaign in the USSR, and after he left Vyshinsky complained that the “doctors’ affair” had made difficulties for Soviet diplomacy. Stalin did not reply. But when Vyshinsky had gone, and some of Stalin’s comrades-in-arms came into the office, he suddenly launched into an attack on Vyshinsky, calling his remark “provocative” and mentioning his Menshevik past. Then he turned to his silent comrades and said: “How easy it is for the imperialist gentlemen to intimidate you! We shall obviously have to make it a question of ‘either-or.’ Either we shall liquidate them, or after my death they will liquidate you like blind kittens.” Those present of course began saying that “Comrade Stalin will live many years yet.” He dismissed them with foul language and left for the nearer dacha. This was his last appearance in his office. But—in Zhukov’s words—“a rather anti-Semitic article was sent to Pravda from on high.”
All these stories must obviously have some basis in reality I did, however, find Borshchagovsky’s assertion that some of Stalin’s associates spoke out against him improbable. To the day he died they never dared contradict the Boss. The second story, therefore, seemed more plausible than the first.
But I saw no way whatsoever of checking these stories against actual events. No record of proceedings at meetings of the Bureau of the Presidium were kept at that time. All that happened was that particular members of the Bureau went into Stalin’s office to deal with particular problems—and any such meeting might count as a meeting of the Bureau. Apart from which, as I have already said, no document concerning possible Soviet aggression would have been allowed to survive. It was not until July 1995 that a simple solution occurred to me: I would use once more an objective source which had already proved its value—the visitors’ book from Stalin’s office—to see what had happened in his office in the last February of his life.
It turned out that February 17 was the last day Stalin spent in his office. After that, he never appeared in the Kremlin again. One person whom he did receive that day was the Indian ambassador, Kumar Menon. But Vyshinsky was not present at their meeting. After the ambassador left, Beria, Malenkov, and Bulganin (newly promoted by the Boss) arrived in the office.
We find, however, that on February 7, from 6:00 to 6:45 P.M. the Argentinian ambassador, Bravo, was received in his office, and that Vyshinsky was present. When Vyshinsky left, Stalin’s next visitors were his four closest aides—Malenkov, Beria, Khrushchev, and Bulganin. And the anti-Semitic article previously mentioned—“Simpletons and Scoundrels”—actually appeared in Pravda on the following day. February 7, then, was probably the day on which it all happened. The story, as I see it, is as follows.
It may very well be that the Argentinian ambassador raised the subject of the anti-Semitic campaign and that this was where Vyshinsky made his mistake: once he was alone with the Boss he probably complained that the doctors’ trial created difficulties for Soviet diplomats. The Boss, more likely than not, made no reply. But when his associates arrived, he attacked Vyshinsky and alarmed them by saying: “If the imperialist gentlemen feel like going to war there is no more suitable moment for us than this.”
He probably repeated this thought on subsequent occasions. Then, on February 17, Menon’s visit reminded him of Vyshinsky, and he renewed his attack. This time he also vented his anger on his comrades-in-arms. This was possibly when the words “liquidate the imperialists” were first heard.
After February 17 no visitors to Stalin’s office are recorded. In fact, he never returned to Moscow after that date. Someone has drawn a red line in the margins of the register, as though closing the account.
Visitors would, however, enter his office on March 2. In his absence.
CAESAR! BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH!
March was drawing near.
According to rumor March 5 was the day on which the Jews would be l
oaded onto trucks. And Beria, needless to say, would realize that on March 5, the war which the Boss had in mind would almost be upon them. The second part of the program devised by the Boss would follow at once: the Terror, the great purge, in preparation for war. And that would be the end for all of them.
If Beria wanted to save himself he would have to hurry.
February was drawing to an end, and a sunny March was promised, like that March long ago when the Revolution had just begun, and he had stepped out onto the platform in Petrograd, full of hope … a sunny March. But he would not see it.
March 5 was the day on which he intended to lead the world into the Apocalypse, and to destroy the chosen people. But March 5 was the day on which he would close his eyes forever. It was his turn at last to discover that God does exist.
“And I will deliver my people out of your hands, and you shall know that I am the Lord.”
28
THE LAST SECRET
I still remember that day in March. I remember the voice of Levitan, Moscow Radio’s chief announcer, a menacing voice which people had come to associate with the Boss himself, reading the official bulletin on his illness. The country listened, numb with horror, to news of his white blood-cell count. So he had white blood cells just like the rest of us! Did this mean that death would dare to snatch him from us? People bombarded the newspapers with fantastic suggestions, even offering to give their own lives—what mattered was that he should live.
There is no end to the legends about his death. Even K. Simonov, the writer who was also a member of the establishment, knew nothing for certain. In 1979 he wrote, “A quarter of a century after the event I am still tormented by curiosity as to how he really died.”
Yet even in the Khrushchev period people passed on in whispers the following story: The Boss did not die in the Kremlin, as stated in the official announcement, but at the nearer dacha. On the night of February 28–March 1 Stalin’s guards summoned Beria to the nearer dacha by telephone. They said that “the Boss had not left his rooms for a suspiciously long time.” Beria telephoned Khrushchev and Malenkov, and they went out there. They went into his room together and found him lying unconscious on the floor. But suddenly he stirred—and Khrushchev rushed up to him and began strangling him. The others joined in, and together they choked the tyrant. Beria had all Stalin’s guards shot that same night. When the country was informed that Stalin was ill, he had in fact been dead for some time.
His life began with one mystery, and ended with another.
WITNESSES COME FORWARD
The first testimony from genuine witnesses of Stalin’s death was published in 1989, in D. Volkogonov’s book. On the strength of a conversation with A. Rybin, one of Stalin’s guards, Volkogonov confirms that Stalin died at the nearer dacha. Another member of his bodyguard, Starostin, found Stalin lying on the floor after a stroke.
I knew even then, however, that Volkogonov was wrong about Starostin. I had read Rybin’s unpublished memoirs in the Museum of the Revolution. His manuscript contains some startling pages.
THE BOSS’S INCREDIBLE ORDER
Rybin himself had not served in Stalin’s guard since 1935, but on March 5, 1977, the anniversary of Stalin’s death, he organized a little gathering. Those present included several members of the guard who had been at the nearer dacha around the time when Stalin died. He wrote down whatever these “officers for special missions attached to Stalin” (to give the watchdogs their official title) could tell him about the event. He first recorded matters on which they all agreed:
On the night of February 28–March 1, members of the Politburo watched a film at the Kremlin. After this they were driven to the nearer dacha. Those who joined Stalin there were Beria, Khrushchev, Malenkov, and Bulganin, all of whom remained there until 4:00 A.M. The duty officers on guard that day were M. Starostin and his assistant Tukov. Orlov, the commandant of the dacha, was off duty, and his assistant, Peter Lozgachev, was deputizing for him.
M. Butusova, who looked after the Boss’s linen, was also in the dacha. After the guests had left, Stalin went to bed. He never left his rooms again.
After this introductory note Rybin recorded separately the testimony of Starostin, Tukov, and Lozgachev. Starostin’s statement was the briefest. “At 19:00 the silence in Stalin’s suite began to alarm us. We (Starostin and Tukov) were both afraid to go in without being called.” So they got Lozgachev to go in, and it was he who found Stalin lying on the floor near the table. But it was the recorded statements of Tukov and Lozgachev themselves that startled me. Starostin, it appeared, had omitted a surprising detail. Before going to bed Stalin had given his guards an incredible order. In Tukov’s words: “When the guests left, Stalin told the servants and the commandants ‘I’m going to bed, I shan’t be wanting you, you can go to bed too.’ … Stalin had never given an order like that before.”
So then the Boss, with his obsessive concern for his own security, suddenly for the first time orders his guards to go to bed. In effect, leaving his own suite unguarded. And that very night he suffers a stroke.
The main witness, Lozgachev, who was the first to see him lying on the floor after his stroke, bears out Tukov’s statement. “Stalin said, ‘I’m going to bed, you go to bed as well.’ … I don’t remember Stalin ever giving such an order—‘everybody go to bed’—before.”
I made up my mind to interview Peter Vasilievich Lozgachev.
THE MAIN WITNESS
He proved elusive. I rang him dozens of times. He kept changing his mind and putting off our meeting. He was afraid—they will all be afraid as long as they live. The “secret object” to which they were “attached” (they called themselves “the attached”) had not lost its power over them. But my persistence was rewarded. Lozgachev finally agreed.
At his suggestion we met at a Metro station. Lozgachev was a short, broad-shouldered man, still robust in spite of his age. We sat on a bench with passengers bustling around us. I repeated what I had told him so often before: that his testimony was of great historical importance, that all his colleagues were now dead.… He listened attentively to the familiar words, thought a while, heaved a sigh, and then took me to a small apartment in a new building. I wrote down his statement in the tiny kitchen.
After typing up my text I visited him again and asked him to sign it. This time he was remarkably ready to oblige, put on his thick-lensed glasses, spent a long time reading the text, then signed at the bottom of the pages with a trembling hand.
Before getting around to that last day, Lozgachev told me a great deal about life at the nearer dacha. One episode seemed to me particularly interesting:
Shortly before he died the Boss asked me: “What do you think—will America attack us or not?” I said, “I think they’d be afraid to.” He flared up and said, “Clear out—what are you doing here anyway, I didn’t call you.” The guys said to me afterward: “What did you do to make him so angry today?” … Suddenly there was a call: go to the house. I went over, and his tone had changed completely: “Forget that I shouted at you,” he said, “but just remember this: they will attack us, they’re imperialists, and they certainly will attack us. If we let them. That’s the answer you should give.”
He was getting ready for the Apocalypse.
Lozgachev finally got around to that last night.
I was on duty at the dacha. Orlov, the commandant, had just returned from leave, and was off duty. Those on duty in Stalin’s quarters were the senior “special attachment,” Starostin, his assistant Tukov, I myself, and Matryona Butusova. “The guests,” as the Boss called members of the Politburo, were expected. As usual on such occasions we helped the Boss work out the menu. That night it included three bottles, I think it was, of Madzhari—that’s a young Georgian wine, but the Boss called it “the juice” because of its low alcoholic content.… In the night the Boss called me in and said, “Give us another two bottles of the juice each.” … Who was there that night? His usual guests—Beria, Malenkov, Khrushchev,
and the other one with the beard, Bulganin. Some time later he called me in again: “Bring some more juice.” We took it in and served it. Everything was quiet. There were no complaints. Then at 4:00 A.M.… or a bit later—we brought the guests’ cars around. When the Boss saw his guests off, an “attachment” always saw them off with him, and closed the doors behind them. The “attachment” Khrustalev, when Ivan Vasilievich was closing the doors, saw the Boss, and the Boss said, “Go to bed, all of you, I don’t need anything. I’m going to bed myself. I shan’t need you today.” Khrustalev came and told us, happily: “Well, guys, here’s an order we’ve never been given before,” and he repeated the Boss’s words. It was true, in all the time I worked there that was the only occasion when Stalin said “go to bed.” He usually said, “Want to go to bed?” and looked daggers at you. As if we’d dare! So of course, we were very glad when we got this order, and went off to bed without thinking twice.
“Wait a bit,” I said. “Where does Khrustalev come into it? You didn’t say that this Khrustalev was also at the dacha.” Lozgachev replied, “ ‘Attachment’ Khrustalev was at the dacha only till 10:00 A.M., then he went home to rest. He was relieved by Starostin, Mikhail Gavrilovich.” We see now why Starostin did not tell Rybin about the Boss’s strange order: he simply didn’t know about it.
So then—that night at the nearer dacha only light wine was drunk, no cognac, no particularly strong drink likely to make him ill. The Boss, according to Lozgachev, was “amiable,” whereas, Lozgachev also tells us, when he felt ill “his mood would change, and it was best not to go near him.” But none of that matters much. The important thing is the surprising sentence that Lozgachev heard from the Boss for the first time ever—“go to bed, all of you.”
Stalin Page 71