Simon Montefiore - Red Sky at Noon

‘Stalingrad will be a great struggle,’ said Satinov. ‘Permission to return there as permanent front commissar.’

Stalin thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He swivelled towards Beria. ‘Hitler’s moving more units to the Sixth Army. Is this the result of that little trick with the Shtrafbat defector? Did that go according to plan?’

‘It did,’ replied Beria. ‘The maps were flown to Sixth Army headquarters. We have no idea if they reached Weichs or Hitler himself but the preparations for these troop movements started at once.’

‘It worked?’ Stalin mused, almost to himself. ‘Melishko’s bandits served their Motherland.’ The deaths of Melishko and his Shtrafniki had been worth it, he thought.

‘Comrade Stalin?’ It was Satinov. ‘A small matter. One of the few Shtrafniki who redeemed themselves in that operation was Benya Golden, the writer and—’

‘He’s a Political,’ interjected Beria. ‘Politicals can’t redeem themselves.’

‘Convicted of?’

‘Planning to assassinate you, Comrade Stalin.’

‘Send the bastard back to the Gulags,’ Stalin said wearily. ‘Anything else?’

‘Golden fought hard and was even nominated for the Order of Glory,’ persisted Satinov.

‘Politicals can’t receive medals,’ said Beria.

‘Agreed,’ replied Satinov, ‘but he redeemed himself with deeds of bravery and shed blood.’

Stalin wiped his face with both hands and took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

‘Lavrenti?’ Stalin asked Beria.

Beria threw a triumphant glance at his rival, then winked. ‘This case seems clear,’ he stated, ‘doesn’t it?’

The tram took Svetlana rumbling right past her bodyguard and her chauffeur, both of whom were leaning on the car and smoking outside the House of the Book. Svetlana was exhilarated. I will show them, I will show my father, she thought. I am free of them all! Stepping down from the tram, she walked across the bridge to the House on the Embankment and caught the lift to the seventh floor and let herself into the empty apartment of her cousins, the Alliluyevs.

And there sitting at the kitchen table was Lev Shapiro.

‘My new article will be in tomorrow’s paper,’ he told her, getting up. ‘My editor’s pleased with me. I am his favourite. Stalingrad is going to be the greatest battle of the war, and tomorrow I’m going back there, with papers allowing me access to headquarters with General Chuikov and Satinov.’

‘So you’re leaving in the morning?’ Svetlana felt a little breathless suddenly.

‘Yes. I’ve got to go home and see my children, but also I have an old friend who served in a Shtrafbat, who’s earned his freedom, and I want to visit him in the hospital.’

‘How long have we got here?’

He walked to her and took both her hands. ‘It’s only six,’ he said. ‘At least an hour.’

She sighed. ‘It’s lovely to be with you. I am so relieved you’re OK. I thought maybe my father…’ But he’d taken her in his arms and was kissing her.

‘He just wanted to give you a fright,’ said Lev eventually, ‘and he did. But he has more important things to do.’

‘He’s a Georgian, my Lion, and you’re a married man of forty.’

‘That’s why we’re going to be very careful and maybe not see each other for a while.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Svetlana said reluctantly. ‘But can we keep kissing now?’

After much kissing, Lev smiled at her: ‘After the war, everything’s going to be easier. There’ll be a thaw – that’s what everyone says. But don’t worry, little Lioness.’ He stroked her hair and looked into her eyes. ‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’

‘On reflection,’ Beria announced to Stalin and Satinov in the Little Corner, ‘this case isn’t so simple. Comrade Stalin, may I advise that, in my view, this prisoner deserves your reprieve. I recommend letting Golden work in Moscow.’

Satinov was surprised and had a hard time concealing it, but recovered enough to push his advantage. ‘Comrade Stalin, he wants to teach literature. There is a vacancy at a Moscow school.’

‘Pah.’ Stalin waved his hand and sat back behind his desk. ‘You two agree too much. Is this a conspiracy against the Central Committee?’ A dangerous moment. Beria and Satinov were about to deny this when Poskrebyshev appeared at the door.

‘Comrade Molotov here to report on the visit of Churchill.’

‘Comrade Churchill.’ Stalin grinned. ‘He’s our greatest enemy. I wouldn’t trust that diehard imperialist. Roosevelt plays for high stakes but Churchill, he’d pick my pocket for a kopek, yes a kopek. Now he’s coming to see us.’ He paused, recalling the previous conversation. ‘Give that bastard-writer a job in whatever school you like, Satinov.’

Satinov realized that Stalin did not believe Golden was a terrorist. Perhaps he didn’t believe many of the cases against the thousands, even millions, he had sentenced to Vishka and the Gulag. But they had been sentenced because that was what was necessary to keep the Soviet Union safe. A chilling thought – but this was the Bolshevik way: better to kill ten thousand innocents than spare one enemy.

‘We need good teachers. We can always shoot him later, eh?’ Stalin smiled his tigerish smile, and his yellow eyes glinted. ‘Later? A movie tonight? Jolly Fellows again? At my place? Good.’

Beria and Satinov walked out through the antechamber into the corridor.

‘You supported me?’ said Satinov in Georgian. ‘That’s a first. What’s come over you, Lavrenti Pavlovich?’

‘I wasn’t going to admit any mistakes in there but your friend Golden almost ruined that operation. I was a minute from having him shot like a partridge. But he surprised us: he corrected his mistake and saved my arse.’ Beria smirked. ‘Exceptional case.’

‘Yes,’ said Satinov, ‘it must have been.’

Shortly before midnight, at his home, the Nearby Dacha at Kuntsevo, a plain two-storey mansion painted khaki-green, Stalin was piling his plate with Georgian meat stew. The spices curled through the high-ceiled room as Satinov, Molotov and Mikoyan helped themselves. Seeing that Stalin wanted a word with Beria they stood back and kept their distance. They still had to sit through that damn ridiculous film Jolly Fellows , which they had seen about twenty times here and which they knew by heart. Stalin even hummed through some of the songs. Satinov would sit behind Stalin if he could; this way he might be able to sleep.

‘Josef Vissarionich,’ said Beria, ‘Svetlana played a trick on Klimov this afternoon and vanished for a while. She’s home again now.’

‘She’s seeing the Jew again?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Love has as much to do with boredom as anything else,’ said Stalin softly but inside he was fuming. He thought of the ways he and Beria had removed people, how they relished the ingenuity of the ‘black work’ they did together. One man, one problem, Stalin used to say, no man, no problem. A shot in the back of the head was sometimes too obvious. An injection from a doctor occasionally did the job. Or a faked car crash. Or a home burglary that ended in a massacre. He considered all these options for Shapiro. But he had to be careful. His daughter was involved. Nonetheless, his pride as a Georgian father had been affected, and this insolent hack had disrespected him. Most people feared him but not this Shapiro. What a bungling clumsy fool Svetlana was. He would have to marry her off soon – to a respectable Soviet youngster, Beria’s son Sergo maybe or Yuri Zhdanov or one of Satinov’s boys. But what to do now? ‘Did you check out Shapiro?’