Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

‘Nothing.’

‘But you saw… him last night?’ She meant Stalin, of course.

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Satinov shook his head. ‘He’s exhausted.’

‘Did Beria say anything?’

‘No.’

‘I do hate that man. He’s repulsive, Hercules. How can you work with him?’

‘The Revolution needs people like him. He’s our most capable Bolshevik manager, whatever his faults.’

‘He’s a rapist, a criminal.’

‘Tamriko!’ He sighed. ‘Let’s be grateful that I am friendly with him now, of all times.’

‘Oh God!’ So George was in Beria’s hands. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t sleep, Hercules, I’m so anxious. Usually I love my classes but the school is like a hornets’ nest. I look at George’s seat… and Andrei, Vlad, Minka – all absent! And sweet Rosa. I want to cry. The children can’t concentrate either; some are terrified, some are queuing up to denounce their friends. The common room feels… like it did in the thirties. Dr Rimm is up to something…’ She hesitated to share the petty intrigues of the common room with her husband, but she couldn’t stop herself, and out it all came.

‘How very familiar,’ he said afterwards with a thin smile. ‘It’s like the Politburo in miniature.’

‘I miss George bitterly, and he’s not even my son. How are you finding it?’

‘I don’t sleep a lot. For once, Stalin’s schedule suits me.’

‘You were so strong about Vanya…’

‘Listen, Tamriko,’ said Satinov tersely. ‘You must hold the line. Especially at school.’

‘But Mariko is asking for George, and Marlen too.’

‘You must tell them not to. George and his friends will be well treated and home soon. They are simply witnesses. Two children are dead. They have to investigate. Find out what happened. That’s all.’

‘Then why is it so secret?’

‘It’s the way we Bolsheviks do things.’

‘But you’re one of the most powerful men in the country, so why can’t you speak to someone? Find out when George is coming home?’

‘Stalin is dead set against any favouritism.’

And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Tamara thought. ‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘Look, we built Lenin’s state, we won the war. When you chop wood, chips fly.’

Not that damn slogan again! But she nodded submissively.

Satinov stopped. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He kissed her forehead and she watched him enter the Kremlin through the Spassky Gate.

Sometimes, she thought, it’s a lovely thing to be married to an iron hero; sometimes, it’s just too painful for words.

Beria collapsed wheezily by the side of his new girl, his green-grey man-breasts hanging pendulously like a camel’s buttocks. What a session! Then the vertushka , the special Kremlin line, rang. Doesn’t a man get a moment’s peace? he thought, picking it up.

‘Comrade Beria?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Comrade Stalin expects you,’ said the expressionless voice of Poskrebyshev. The line went dead.

It was five past midnight but in Stalin’s world, it was the middle of the day. Beria dressed quickly in his usual garish Georgian shirt and loose jacket but then turned to look one last time at the fourteen-year-old girl lying naked on his bed, the skin of her flat belly a little flushed and creased by his weight.

‘Colonel Nadaraia will drive you home,’ he said softly, sitting beside her for a moment. Thank God he had managed to get his pox cleared up before he found this treasure. But he had to lose weight! Leaping around with a girl this age tired a man out. Memo to Comrade Beria: eat more salad! His hand actually trembled as he stroked her long hair, the satin of her lower back. ‘But first Colonel Nadaraia is going to show you the apartment I’ve chosen for you and your mother.’

‘Oh Lavrenti, thank you! How amazing. Mama will be so happy.’

‘She will,’ he agreed. He knew her mother. She had been his mistress first.

‘You’re pleased with me, aren’t you?’ she asked, frowning sweetly.

‘Yes, yes I am. See you tomorrow.’

I am really very taken with her, he thought as his Packard raced through the Spassky Gate in the Kremlin and round to the Little Corner of the triangular Yellow Palace. Yes, this perfect girl is melting the heart of one of the hardest men in our carniverous era.

Beria took the lift to the second floor, showed his pass to two sets of guards (even he was not exempt) and hurried down the interminable corridors with the blue carpet held in place by brass rings set in the parquet. Two more checkpoints, and finally he was handing in his Nagan pistol to the guards outside Comrade Stalin’s office.

Two man-sized globes stood by the doors. A couple of ministers and several generals were waiting stiffly in the ante-room, grown men holding their papers on their knees like frightened schoolchildren. Quite an appropriate analogy, thought Beria, as schoolchildren were one of things he had come to discuss.

He was no longer so impressed with the Great Stalin though. He had seen Stalin’s dire mistakes in the early weeks of the war, his obstinacy, his panic, the waste of millions of lives; yes, Stalin would not have won the war without his help. Didn’t Stalin realize that he, Beria, and the Organs had held the state together? Beria saw himself not just as a Chekist, but as the most capable statesman in the entire leadership.

The old sot doesn’t appreciate my talents, he thought, although he now thinks himself a genius and never stops boasting!

‘The Master will see you now,’ said Poskrebyshev, the livid red skin on his face wizened as if he had been burnt. The two men did not like each other: Poskrebyshev was a lowly cringing ink-shitter who hated Beria, and blamed him for the execution in 1939 of his beloved young wife after which he continued to serve Stalin loyally. Beria couldn’t tell him, of course, that although he had brought Stalin the evidence that his wife had Trotskyite connections, it was Stalin who had ordered her killing.

As Poskrebyshev, in tunic and britches, escorted him through the short corridor that led to the double doors, Beria asked quietly, ‘Is it a good evening?’ He meant: Is Stalin in a good mood?

‘It’s a beautiful summer’s night,’ replied Poskrebyshev, meaning: Yes he is. ‘He’s going to look at his new uniforms. Here they are!’

Three strapping young men, athletes all, entered the ante-chamber wearing flamboyant cream, braided, golden uniforms that wouldn’t have been out of place in an Offenbach opera. One even had a golden cloak. In their wake shuffled Lerner, the tailor, his nimble white-tipped fingers a-twitch with tape measure and chalk.

‘Very smart,’ chuckled Beria.

‘Stand over there,’ said Poskrebyshev to the youths. He then lifted one of his many phones and said: ‘Comrade Stalin, Lerner’s here. The uniforms.’

Sometimes life was just too absurd, Beria reflected as the double doors opened and Stalin emerged, drawn in the face, his grey hair standing on end as if razor cut. He was wearing a plain tunic with just his marshal’s shoulderboards and a single Order of Lenin.

‘Who are they?’ he asked gruffly, looking at the youths. ‘What are these peacocks doing here?’ The three models saluted. Lerner bowed.

‘The generalissimo’s uniforms for your approval, Comrade Stalin,’ said Poskrebyshev. ‘Lerner’s here to show you the finer details.’

Lerner, who’d started work sewing the Tsar’s uniforms, bowed again.

‘Comrade Stalin is grateful to you, Lerner,’ Stalin said, always polite to ‘service workers’. But to Beria and Poskrebyshev, he snarled: ‘Whose idea was this? Yours, Lavrenti? Well, they’re not right for me. I need something more modest. Lerner, do you want me to look like a doorman or a bandmaster?’ He turned and went back into his office.