Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

‘To Comrade Vyshinsky,’ Stalin announced. ‘And to our diplomats and our gherkin-growers who supplied our brave forces!’

The leaders guffawed at this and Vyshinsky, still wearing his scabbarded gherkin, joined in with oblivious enthusiasm, unsure what the joke might be.

Stalin was still smiling but he immediately noticed when the State Security Minister, Merkulov, who ran the secret police Organs, tentatively joined the outer edges of the circle.

‘Comrade Merkulov, welcome,’ said Stalin. ‘Haven’t they arrested you yet?’ He winked. It was a running joke.

Merkulov bowed but was hopelessly tongue-tied around Stalin. ‘C-c-congratulations… C-c-comrade Marshal Stalin.’

A silence inside, the hum of crowds and engines outside.

Stalin narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you reporting something?’

‘Yes, but n-n-nothing important… Should I report to Comrade Beria?’

‘Haven’t we shot you yet?’ teased Stalin since it was Merkulov’s ministry that was responsible for chernaya rabota – the black work, his euphemism for blood-letting. Stalin was not shy about that: killing was the quickest, most efficient way to accelerate the progress of history. ‘We must never lose our sense of humour,’ said Stalin with the tigerish grin, ‘eh, Comrade Merkulov?’

Merkulov mopped his brow and tried to laugh, but hurried across to brief his boss, Beria. Satinov had been waiting for just this gap in the conversation. He nodded at Marshal Shako, the stalwart air force commander. But the marshal hesitated. Even brave warriors were nervous around Stalin, and with good reason.

‘Go on,’ Satinov prompted him. The gruff commander saluted.

‘Permission to report! Comrade Marshal Stalin,’ Shako blurted, ‘I propose on behalf of the marshalate of the Soviet armed forces that you be promoted to the rank of generalissimo and receive the gold star of the Hero of the Soviet Union.’

‘No, no.’ Stalin waved this aside with his good arm; the other he kept stiffly by his side. ‘Comrade Stalin doesn’t need it. Comrade Stalin has authority without it. Some title you’ve thought up!’ Stalin, who had started to refer to himself in the third person, cast a black glance at Satinov and Beria. ‘Who cooked up this pantomime?’

‘The people demand it,’ replied Satinov.

Stalin suddenly paled and raised his hand to his forehead. He was having one of those dizzy spells that had become frequent at the end of the war. He stumbled forward and leaned against the wall, but it passed, and he dismissed the concerned frowns of his comrades. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll work another two years then retire.’

‘No, Comrade Stalin, that’s unthinkable!’ cried Beria.

‘I will let Molotov and Satinov run things,’ insisted Stalin.

‘No one could replace you,’ said Molotov urgently. ‘Certainly not me.’

‘Nor me. We need you!’ added Satinov. His comrades, whether in marshal’s stars or Stalinka tunics, repeated this, outdoing each other in enthusiasm. ‘You’re everything to us! Indispensable! Retirement is out of the question!’

Stalin’s honey-coloured eyes scrutinized them, but he said nothing. He pulled a pack of Herzegovina Flor cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘ Bicho! ’

Satinov lit it.

‘Generalissimo?’ murmured Stalin. ‘It makes me sound like a South American dictator. Comrade Stalin doesn’t need it, doesn’t need it at all.’

‘The people demand you accept this rank,’ insisted Satinov.

‘Ten million soldiers insist,’ said Marshal Shako. Marshals Zhukov and Konev, the most famous army commanders, forming a bull-necked human rampart of shoulderboards and medals behind him, nodded gravely.

‘What liberties you take with an old man!’ Stalin said, almost to himself, closing his eyes as he inhaled.

‘We have to do something,’ said Beria. The courtier knows when the king wishes him to disobey, Satinov thought. Stalin was weakening.

‘It’s not good for my health at all,’ said Stalin. ‘As for the gold star, I’ve never commanded in battle.’

‘But I have the gold star, right here,’ said Satinov, drawing a little box out of his pocket. ‘May I present it?’

‘No!’ Stalin held up his hand, the cigarette between the fingers. ‘That, I won’t accept.’

Satinov looked across at the other leaders, Molotov and Beria. What to do? He put it back in his pocket.

‘Fuck it! He’ll accept in the end like he accepted the generalissimo title,’ Beria whispered.

‘We’ll find a way to give it to him,’ Molotov, formal in his dark bourgeois suit, agreed.

Beria stepped closer to Stalin. ‘Josef Vissarionovich,’ said Beria, ‘may I report?’

‘What, even today? Can’t you decide anything without consulting me?’

‘We all wish we could, Comrade Stalin, but it’s something a little out of the ordinary.’

The wily old conspirator inhaled his cigarette wearily. Satinov wondered what it was. It was often better not to know the black work Stalin discussed with Beria. Yet even as the two stepped back slightly, Satinov could still hear some of their conversation.

‘There’s been a strange event on the Kammeny Most. A schoolboy and schoolgirl have been killed. Just thirty minutes ago.’

‘So?’

‘They are both pupils at School 801.’

‘School 801?’ replied Stalin, a degree more interested. ‘The finishing school for little barons? My Vasily and Svetlana were there.’

‘Some of them were in fancy-dress costume, Josef Vissarionovich.’

‘What on earth were they doing?’

‘We’ll find out imminently. We haven’t identified the dead yet but initial reports mention the involvement of the children of “responsible Party workers”.’ Satinov took a quick breath. ‘Responsible workers’ was the euphemism for the leadership.

Stalin focused like a diving hawk. ‘Who?’

‘Some of the parents are in this room. Comrade Satinov, Marshal Shako, Comrade Dorov…’

Stalin shook his head. ‘Fancy dress, you say? We let our guard down during the war. This could be the work of our enemies abroad – or of the children themselves.’ He held up a single finger as straight as a tallow candle. ‘No little princelings are above Soviet justice. Everyone knows how I demoted my Vasily for behaving like a spoilt aristocrat. Solve the case. If it’s murder, heads must roll.’

‘Right, I’ll get to work,’ said Beria, backing away from Stalin and leaving the room.

Satinov felt the hand of fear clutch his heart: what role did his children play in this? What if George or Marlen or Mariko lay dead on the bridge?

But Stalin was strolling back towards him and Satinov saw that he was bristling and bushy-tailed again, a satyr refreshed by the macabre excitement of conspiracy. His eyes twinkled roguishly.

‘How’s your family?’ Stalin asked. Satinov concealed his worries with all the arctic expertise of a veteran of Stalin’s world. There would be time later to find out what happened on the bridge.

JUST BEFORE 7 p.m., Sophia Zeitlin and her husband Constantin Romashkin climbed the steps to the Georgievsky Hall. The dinner to celebrate victory would be her moment to shine and be admired – but that depended on her table placement. The fifteen hundred guests crowded nervously around the table plans on boards outside; a seat near Stalin endowed the lucky ones with an almost visible halo; those seated furthest away could scarcely hide the shadow of disappointment.

‘Darling, that dress will dazzle everyone,’ said Dashka Dorova, kissing Sophia and Constantin. Many were quick to criticize Sophia for un-Bolshevik vulgarity but she knew that Dashka was a real friend who wished her well.