Space Race

by Deborah Cadbury

  On his return to Moscow, his case was re-opened and his sentence reduced from ten to eight years in the Gulag; but rather than being sent back to the labour camp his skills were to be put to use in a sharaga prison. This was a big improvement as the sharagas, special prisons for technical workers, were run on more humane lines than the manual labour camps. In 1940 he was sent to the Central Design Bureau 29 in Moscow, where he was to work with fellow scientists. For Korolev this was the difference between life and death, as the diet was vastly improved and working hours were from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. After more than a year working on aspects of bomber design, he was moved to Omsk in Siberia and finally to Kazan, some four hundred miles from Moscow. Here he specialized once again in rockets and designed liquid-fuelled rocket boosters for the Pe-2 dive bomber.

  Occasionally there were visits from his wife and daughter, but as the years passed a silence and a distance had grown between them. He was released in August 1944 after six years in prison, a very different man, but still he was not allowed to leave Kazan. The war now required him to stay on and work. He persisted in trying to revive his relationship with his wife. ‘All that happened to me follows me like a shadow, reminding me of the past and sometimes, even against my will, I am remembering things that seem long forgotten,’ he told her in his first letter upon release:

  I can imagine how you must have suffered and what you felt. How many tears have been cried during all this time? I am afraid to look back and remember about it … I called you on Sunday but got no answer. I sent you a telegram; I will be calling on Thursday 24 at 10.00. I am anxious to talk to you and just listen to you dearest. I have not heard your voice for three years now …

  When he finally heard from Ksenia, her letter did not provide the reassurance he was looking for. He replied:

  I’ve got your last letter and I should say that I was shocked with its sad and hopeless words. I am very sad at you calling me your ‘so far, closest friend’…What else do you want my dear, tired and therefore unjust friend?

  Korolev wanted to see his wife but was also afraid to do so, afraid to acknowledge the distance that had grown between them. In prison he had constantly dreamed of the day he would return home, imagining every last detail, the warmth of his wife’s greeting. In November 1944, when he finally obtained permission for a short visit to Moscow to see his family, everything was different. His wife and daughter were not at home. Some pipes had burst and they had gone to stay with his mother.

  He had imagined his return so clearly that he knew the words he was going to say by heart. He knew that when the door opened he ‘would see an unfamiliar little girl who he had not seen for years. She certainly wouldn’t recognize him and would be a little afraid, and when he took her in his arms she wouldn’t like it and try to strain away. When he kissed her she would run to her mother.’ Now, as he made his way to his mother’s apartment, he knew it would all be different.

  As Korolev turned into the courtyard, according to his biographer, Yaroslav Golovanov, ‘his heart was hammering: he had been away for seven years. He walked upstairs to the flat and suddenly winced, his hand recognized the handrail. He had never thought about it, never even recollected the staircase where he had been running up and down in his youth. He didn’t need a handrail back then and was astonished that his palm still moulded itself around the impression of the bark of an old tree. It was a miracle.’

  When he knocked on the door, it was his mother-in-law who opened it. A crowd was there, but not his wife and daughter. He had to wait until his wife had finished work. His daughter recognized him immediately, but his lovely wife was silent, smothering hope.

  Later, to be alone, he and Ksenia walked to a nearby garden square. Korolev noticed that the garden with its trees and shrubs, even the seats, was unchanged. Seven years had passed. Their lives had altered beyond recognition but the park was the same. Why had she never visited him in prison? Glushko’s wife had visited him. Why did silence, full of things unsaid, hang between them now, when they had survived, when, unbelievably, they were together at last? They walked home silently offering each other no more than politeness.

  The coolness of Ksenia’s reaction may not just have been due to their prolonged separation and the uncertainties that had arisen during Korolev’s imprisonment. There is evidence that Korolev had another lover at this stage. Although Yaroslav Golovanov has not published this information, his notebooks reveal that Korolev had a long-standing affair with Glushko’s sister-in-law, Ketovan’ Ivanovna Sarkisova: ‘The affair lasted a long time, from 1933/4–1949/50. It was episodic and she did not have a hope because there was no future in it.’ Intimate letters to ‘Dear Ket’ survive from this period. Korolev took care to let Ketovan’ know when he would be in Moscow and urged her to write frequently: ‘You know that your letters are precious to me.’ He was anxious to catch up with what had happened to former colleagues and asked about the families of those that had been arrested, adding ‘the thought of them does not let me sleep’.

  Many more months were to elapse before Korolev was finally permitted to leave Kazan in August 1945 and was sent to the People’s Commissariat of Armaments in Moscow. He was informed that Soviet rocket technology was being developed and research on the German missiles was now a top priority. He was to fly out to Berlin at once. When Korolev protested at being obliged to leave his family yet again, he was immediately shouted down. ‘You must understand,’ said the Deputy People’s Commissar, ‘the Americans won’t be resting. After the nuclear bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they will continue their work with nuclear arms. And now they have only one enemy – us.’ Wernher von Braun, he explained, was in ‘voluntary captivity’ where he was ‘enthusiastically helping them’. Korolev was assigned the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the Red Army, and his brief was to ‘get to the bottom of the principles of construction of the V-2 and find out everything possible about how to arrange production’. As Korolev turned to go he added, ‘it’s the business of utmost governmental importance. It’s under the personal control of Comrade Stalin.’

  And so it was that on a cold September morning the former enemy of the state, now smartly attired in his new army uniform, took the flight from Moscow to Warsaw and then on to Berlin. Sergei Pavlovich Korolev had clear instructions. He had to catch up with and surpass the achievements of his Western counterpart, Wernher von Braun.

  Within a month of von Braun’s escape to the Western zone, the American War Department had approval for their plan for the German scientists. On 19 July, Operation Overcast was established by the Joint Chiefs of Staff with a view to ‘exploiting German civilian scientists … to assist in shortening the Japanese war’. Just over a week later, Colonel Holgar Toftoy arrived at Witzenhausen where many of the scientists were staying, determined to work with Staver to sign up the top rocket experts. Despite repeated requests to bring over five hundred scientists, as von Braun had recommended, Toftoy only secured approval for one hundred men. He had come up against resistance from politicians and certain army chiefs, who had argued strongly against bringing former Nazis to America. Compromises had been reached but he was conscious that he had little to offer the German team. The money was hardly an incentive, citizenship was far from assured and he only had six-month contracts with which to tempt them.

  The Germans felt that anything less than a three-year contract gave a strong indication that the Americans intended to steal all their accumulated years of knowledge then discard them. Worse still, they bluntly refused to leave their wives and children behind in a country where there was no food and such chaotic law and order as only favoured the survival of the fittest. As negotiations dragged on, Toftoy knew that delay was dangerous. If he could not get the scientists to America soon under Operation Overcast, the Soviets could spirit them away. Only recently there had been an incident which confirmed his fears. Men wearing US army uniforms had turned up at the building where the Germans were housed. They had been very friendly and suggested a trip to the café in
the village, but their US accents had a suspiciously Soviet sound and their offers had been declined.

  With negotiations underway during the summer, Dornberger and von Braun were taken to Britain for a few days as the guests of British intelligence. The British were also hoping to set up a rocket research group and wanted to gather information at first hand. Although they permitted von Braun to return to the Americans, the British refused to part with General Dornberger, claiming he was wanted for war crimes for which hanging was the appropriate punishment. The British were hoping to track down General Kammler for supplying slave labour to Mittelwerk and Camp Dora, but Kammler could not be found. Dornberger would have to stand trial in his place.

  Dornberger was incarcerated in a prison in deepest Wales and left to contemplate his future, which began to look exceedingly doubtful. He was certain that Kammler would never be found. While rumours were rife concerning Kammler’s demise, Dornberger’s own sources learned that the general had met his death in Prague. It was alleged that he had been sheltering in a bunker with about twenty SS officers when six hundred Czech guerrilla fighters had approached. Vastly outnumbered, Kammler was last seen smiling wildly and firing frantically as he led an assault. Major Starck, following him, as ever, gun in hand, decided that this was the hopeless situation for which he had been primed. Without waiting for orders, he shot Kammler in the back of the head.

  Back at Witzenhausen, Toftoy at last had the formal approval from Washington he needed to take 115 of the leading rocket scientists to America. The US army undertook responsibility for dependants left in Germany. Von Braun would be leaving his parents behind as well as his young cousin, Maria von Quistorp. She lived with her parents near Peenemünde and von Braun had often visited when he worked nearby. He went to see Maria again just before he left. Although nothing was said, they were aware of a mutual attraction but, as she was young and von Braun’s future uncertain, they said their goodbyes, both feeling sure that this would not be final. Von Braun had a six-month contract in America. It was the chance of a lifetime. He was going to the New World where he hoped his ideas would be taken seriously. On 7 September 1945, he and the first members of his team departed secretly under escort for Boston harbour.

  The day after Wernher von Braun left Germany, Sergei Korolev arrived in Berlin, charged with the responsibility of building von Braun’s V-2 rocket. His private aim was to build a rocket that would make the V-2 obsolete and he immediately began to investigate the work of the Soviet team. One day he went to see Boris Chertok, who had no idea who Korolev was and how significant he was to become. ‘I rose as a major should to greet a lieutenant-colonel,’ recalled Chertok, who remembers this first meeting distinctly. ‘He looked good in his uniform. It fitted him well … Dark eyes with a jovial sparkle to them were looking at me attentively … He looked tough and thick-set, like a fighter.’ Korolev sank into one of the deep leather armchairs and relaxed as he enquired about the work at the Institute Rabe. He scrutinized a folder Chertok gave him ‘irreverently and disapprovingly’, making it clear he liked neither the German influence nor the German captions. Then he got right to the point. ‘Who is in charge of rocket development and preparations for a launch?’

  Chertok explained that Valentin Glushko at Lehesten was working on engine testing. Glushko’s group were meticulously analysing components from the engines, including the combustion chambers, and making performance calculations. Korolev, however, had already been there. Only later did Chertok reflect that Korolev betrayed nothing of his complicated past, his research with Glushko in the 1930s, the nightmare of his denouncement by Glushko and others, the endless years of imprisonment. Instead he said simply: ‘Yes – I’ve been to Lehesten already. The people there are doing a wonderful job – my old friends among them.’

  It was soon apparent that there was little Chertok could tell Korolev. A few more polite questions followed, the pretty German secretary was noticed, and then Korolev was gone, driving at speed in his trophy car while Chertok was left wondering about the enigmatic stranger who appeared so well informed. At the time, Chertok did not know of Korolev’s imprisonment in the Gulag. Later, when he learned of Korolev’s past, he reflected on seeing Korolev driving off, taking the corner too sharply as he raced down the lane. He realized what a revelation life in Germany must have been for Korolev. ‘He had freedom! How wonderful! He was not yet 40 – but there was so much to do! He had the right to take something from life for himself.’

  And Korolev was in a hurry. He would master the German technology and go beyond it. He acquired a car – an Opel Olympia – and passes that would take him anywhere. The dark Gulag days were behind him; he could go where he liked, stay where he wanted. All of Europe lay in the haze of summer waiting to be discovered. The sense of freedom was exhilarating.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Get dressed. You have one hour’

  In no time Korolev familiarized himself with everything possible about the V-2. In October, the British invited all the Allies to test launches of the V-2 at Cuxhaven on the German North Sea coast. Only three Russian guests were permitted to attend; Glushko was included in the delegation but not Korolev. According to his biographer, Golovanov, Korolev was determined not to miss this opportunity. He offered to pose as the personal driver to one of the senior representatives of the mission, General Sokolov. ‘Why do I need a driver when I’m taking a plane?’ enquired the general incredulously. Korolev would not be stopped. ‘But when you arrive, what then? What sort of general will you be if you don’t have a personal driver? This will undermine your authority in the eyes of our allies.’ It was soon agreed. Korolev could attend as driver, complete with the appropriate uniform.

  In the event, none of them were able to act out their roles convincingly, probably because the general forgot that Korolev was acting as chauffeur. The British sent a car to meet them and the general immediately took the front seat, which was where Korolev, as aide, should have sat. He, the former enemy of the state, was relaxing imperiously on the back seat by himself. And when the car stopped General Sokolov opened the door without waiting for his ‘aide’ to rush around and assist him. If the British noticed any lapses in etiquette they did not reveal it, remaining ‘moderately hospitable and business-like’ throughout. However, they were intrigued at the level of learning among the Soviet ranks. The chauffeur, it appeared, had an air of authority, was well informed and asked more pertinent questions than the general. In fact, he made the English, who were running the show, look a little amateurish. The Americans, who were there in numbers and full of confidence, were disconcerted by the Soviets’ first enquiry as to whether all the V-2s secretly shipped to America had arrived safely – and by the way they practically invited themselves to the US secret rocket testing ground at White Sands! (This may be an apocryphal story, however, since other sources, including one witness, have claimed that an irate Korolev was not permitted to enter and had to content himself with viewing the launch at a distance.)

  Whatever the truth of the matter, as Korolev set about piecing together the V-2 he soon found himself puzzling over design flaws. He was intrigued as to why separate fuel tanks were contained within the rocket rather than using the skin of the fuel tank as the outer part of the rocket body. This would have reduced the weight of the missile. Much as he admired the German achievement, he felt there were many ways to solve a problem and the Germans had not necessarily found the best solution. Their cumbersome fuel tank design diminished the potential range of the V-2. ‘He loved the V-2,’ observed Boris Chertok, ‘but at the same time it was highly irritating for him.’ He was convinced that it was already obsolete technology and it would be possible to go beyond it. Yet he was ordered to study it in minute detail – and, ultimately, it was not his rocket, it was von Braun’s.

  Korolev inspired the young team of Soviet engineers and impressed military leaders with his management skills and vision for the work. He soon began to discuss more ambitious ideas with like-minded colleagues
such as Vasily Pavlovich Mishin. He was particularly interested in ideas for a Soviet rocket that could travel much further than the V-2 – by perhaps as much as four hundred miles. More than ten years Korolev’s junior, Mishin also came from a background troubled by state intervention. His father had been jailed when he was young, allegedly for not informing on someone who made detrimental remarks about Stalin. Like Korolev, he had been brought up by his grandparents. Mishin had soon excelled at aviation and became an acclaimed pilot at a young age. He and Korolev worked on all the myriad problems that arose in trying to produce and launch the V-2, constantly debating how the rocket could be improved: new fuels, larger rocket engines, advances in launch technology – no detail was too much.

  With the shortage of components and materials, it was soon clear that they would only be able to gather materials for the creation of twelve V-2s. It was also becoming apparent to military leaders that a larger and more substantial organization was needed to enable the Soviets to exploit the missile technology fully. In March 1946, the Institute Rabe was subsumed into a much larger new organization headed by General Gaidukov: the Institute Nordhausen. Korolev had made such an impression that he was appointed as Gaidukov’s deputy director and leading engineer. He had several major divisions to run, including the Lehesten plant for rocket engine testing under Glushko, who was rattled to have Korolev appointed above him, as well as divisions for launching, guidance, ballistics, technical design and pilot production. Korolev persuaded Vasily Mishin to act formally as his own deputy with the intention that they would fire a German V-2 successfully and then build a Soviet copy of it, the R-1.