Red Sky at Noon

I

Unshaven and weary but bursting with the images and phrases he wanted to use in his articles, Lev Shapiro was in the hospital train heading back to Moscow, his typewriter in its case over his shoulder. He was walking up through the wagons: some were old ones from Tsarist passenger trains with soft seats worn smooth by generations; others had old hard seats; some were from cattle cars – all were full of wounded. The walking wounded sat on the seats but every inch of the floor was crammed with broken men, some lying on bare wooden planks in the cattle cars, groaning with the lurching of the train; others were lucky enough to be on stretchers. Some smiled at him as he stepped over them; and he noticed a couple who were so still, so grey they were probably already dead. And all around him came the sound of groaning, of men crying for the doctor, or their mothers or for God. Shapiro was accustomed to such things but it was still hard to hear. Always the reporter and observer, his notebook was out.

‘What sector were you in?’ he asked a man with bandages over one eye who was well enough to sit up on a wooden seat. ‘I want to tell your story.’ To a Tartar boy from Kazan, who had lost his arm: ‘What section were you in, what happened?’ He crouched beside the men, taking notes, and they could see that he had been with the troops and suffered with them and they were happy to talk to him. They wanted their stories to be known. He walked on, thinking about the battle and then his secret, Svetlana… If they knew who his sweetheart was, would they believe it?

He looked around him at the wounded from the battle of the Don Bend which had ended so badly. First the Germans had been on the attack. Then the Russians had counter-attacked in all sectors, fighting heroically. At one point, he had even witnessed a small squadron of Shtrafniki cavalry break through an Italian sector. But Hitler had brought up reinforcements – Germans, Italians, Hungarians, Romanians – and thrown them all at the Russians. At Izbushensky, a thousand Italian cavalry had smashed through Soviet infantry who turned and ran; at Kalach, the last Russian forces of the 62^nd Army had been broken. Now the Germans could advance – they were already crossing the Don on great pontoons and pushing on to the outskirts of Stalingrad.

Lev had been ordered to report to his editor in Moscow and had hitched a lift back on the train. He was excited because he would get the chance to see Svetlana – his little Lioness! The bleak Kremlin with its forbidding red battlements, her terrifying father who lived only for himself and the state, her mother who had preferred death to her children, her pathetic, vicious brother who was both crushed and overpromoted – this was her world. Lev was fascinated by her. As a man, he found her so fresh, so youthful; and as a writer, well, what writer would not want to know all about her? She was at the centre of history.

He shrugged. Women liked him for some reason, and he knew she did too, with all the solemn passion of her age. Hell, the women in Moscow liked him at least partly because they loved movies; every young actress wanted a part and he was the scriptwriter – ‘Lyovka sweetie, Lev darling, won’t you write me a beautiful part in your new project, Stalin at Finland Station. Or how about the empress in your Peter the Great, Part Two?’

‘Of course,’ he would answer, ‘shall we meet at the Aragvi for dinner – I’ll book a private room – or a cocktail at the bar in the Metropole Hotel?’ Well, of course he was married and he’d been married a long time – but any stray bullet at the front could kill him tomorrow. Who could blame him for enjoying himself?

But Svetlana was different. She brought out his best qualities – he was the finest man he could be with her. He was her teacher: she wanted to learn about writing and literature. And though she was so young, she didn’t bore him like most teenagers he’d met. She was an old soul, and no wonder. He wanted to protect her, to make her feel cherished, to boost her confidence. In some ways this was a crazy, quixotic affair, a reckless adventure that gave him a thrill, but the war had opened society up and afterwards there would be more freedom. He mocked himself as a knight, a loving friend for the loneliest girl in Russia, and Svetlana truly was a damsel in distress, a sensitive girl living in a wilderness of fear, neglect and boredom. It is my mission, he thought, to rescue her. Oh, he loved their calls, and her letters were so romantic. And when they had kissed and held each other, her touch was so sparky, so forthright… How she had blossomed in just these short days. He would see her tonight if he could. Then he had to get his editor to send him back to Stalingrad to report on the coming struggle. If Stalingrad fell to the Germans, where would the Russian retreat end?

Then he heard a voice he recognized.

‘Lev! Is it you?’ He looked around at the damaged men in the wooden seats and on the floor as the train steamed northwards. ‘Lev, what are you doing here?’ He was stepping over the wounded, careful where he put his boots. ‘Shapiro! It’s me!’

‘Christ! Can it be—?’ And it was – it was Benya Golden, lying in a filthy uniform on the floor, pale and older, so much older. He had only been gone two or three years but the man in front of him seemed to have aged a hundred. He and Benya had been members of the same worldly, rather privileged milieu of writers, actors and jazzmen. The novelists Babel and Ehrenburg, the actor Mikhoels, the jazz singers Utesov and Rosner, the film actresses Valentina Serova and Sophia Zeitlin – these were the friends they had in common. But they also shared the jealousies all writers can’t resist – he had called Golden’s book ‘overrated, a bit childish’, while Golden had sneered at Shapiro’s script: ‘stiff, formal, I could do better’. But then Golden had been arrested, vanished off the face of the earth, and Lev had presumed he had been shot.

Lev stretched over the two boys lying between them, one of them unconscious, the other with no legs, and crouched on the planks next to him. The men shook hands, and Lev leaned down and kissed his cheeks thrice, all ancient jealousies forgotten in the familiarity of a long-lost friend, newly found. He glanced down at Benya’s dressings.

‘Hit in the leg and hip,’ said Benya. ‘I won’t be able to walk for a while. But I think I’ll live.’

He was a shrunken sunburnt shell of a man; only his blue eyes were the same, Lev thought. When he offered cheese and bread, Benya wolfed it down with a swig of vodka and some water from his canteen.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’

‘Gospitalnaya Ploshad.’ Hospital Square. The main military hospital in the centre of Moscow.

Lev whistled. ‘You were lucky,’ he said.

‘More than you know.’

Lev did know but everyone was listening in the carriage and they had to be careful. ‘You were… out of Moscow for a while?’

‘Innocents abroad,’ said Benya and, used to talking in riddles with his friends, Lev got it immediately: The Innocents Abroad was by Mark Twain who had said: ‘Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ So he had been in the Gulags; Lev had heard all the stories of that netherworld. But how had Benya got out? He was a Political yet somehow he had joined a Shtrafbat.

‘You were there, weren’t you, in that mad cavalry charge? I was covering it. The commander was a heroic guy… let me see… Melishko?’

Benya nodded but Lev saw the sadness in his face.

‘He didn’t make it?’

‘Not many of us did but… we broke through the Italian lines.’

‘And you were on horseback? I never had you down as a Cossack athlete.’

Benya smiled weakly. ‘I was better than I expected.’

‘Did you…?’ Shapiro raised his eyebrows and Benya guessed what he was asking. Had he been redeemed or was he still a Smertnik?

‘Don’t you despise religion?’ replied Benya. ‘How can those fools believe extra Christum nulla salus.’ Shapiro got it: ‘outside Christ, no salvation’. Benya meant that he had found salvation in the redemption of his own Soviet Christ; in Stalin. He had redeemed himself by shedding blood. He was free.

‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’ Lev could see Benya was struggling to stay awake.

‘I haven’t thought…’ Then he whispered, ‘Teacher. I want to teach… Yes…’ And his eyes closed.

‘That cavalry charge seems an age ago, but it was only eight days,’ said Lev. ‘So you had a pretty easy war, eh? Eight days and you’re invalided out.’

But Benya was already sleeping as Lev, his eyes full of tears, leaned over and embraced him.

II

It was a short flight, just fifteen minutes.

The Junker 52 landed on the heavily guarded airfield amidst the dark pine woods, and the officer who’d climbed out on his own, carrying a leather briefcase, jumped straight into the open-topped staff car that drove up to the plane. He didn’t talk en route but rehearsed his arguments, over and over again. This was not the first time he had reported but he felt it was the most important and he wanted to get every detail right. As the car drove into the woods, he noticed the anti-aircraft guns, tank traps, concrete fortifications. They approached the first checkpoint, then the second and third. Each time his papers were inspected carefully. Security was tight; they drove swiftly along the road past twenty or so single-storey log huts, overshadowed by the hulking concrete ramparts which were the visible parts of the bunker complex, towards a large wooden hut, heavily guarded. He had been here once before, and enjoyed having his hair cut at the barber’s and soaking in the sauna. But this time his attendance was different and all the more urgent.

Entering the adjoining hut, he showed his papers for the fourth time and surrendered his handgun. He could see there were other officers from different fronts and a minister waiting, and he sat down with them in the anteroom, twice getting up to check his appearance in the mirror. Finally he was called and he walked into the low-roofed wooden hut where he could just see the backs of the men leaning over the maps on the table and hear the famous husky, guttural voice.

‘They’re falling apart,’ he was saying in a jovial tone. ‘Faster than last year. Like a house of cards. They’re close to collapse. The big decision is what resources to assign to Army Group B and Stalingrad. Army Group A is sweeping all before it. You know, gentlemen, what my instinct tells me, but this new intelligence may help us decide. Let’s hear what he has to say. Is he here?’

‘Colonel von Schwerin?’ said the Chief of Staff Generaloberst Halder. Schwerin noticed the two Iron Crosses won in the Great War.

Schwerin coughed a little self-consciously. ‘I’m here.’ The air was sweltering in the hut.

‘Welcome to Führerhauptquartier Werwolf, Colonel von Schwerin,’ said Halder. ‘Step forward next to Generaloberst von Weichs…’

The wall of backs in field grey opened up for him. Keitel and Jodl gave him a brisk nod, and the bespectacled Weichs, commander of Army Group B, his ultimate superior, shook his hand and made space on his right around the map table.

The new arrival saluted. ‘Mein Führer, Colonel von Schwerin, Intelligence, Sixth Army, reporting.’

Across the table, Hitler was leaning forwards on his elbows. He was wearing a sandy-coloured double-breasted jacket with a dark tie, his Iron Cross was on his chest, and a scarlet swastika band was on his right arm.

‘Welcome, colonel,’ said Hitler. ‘Your flight to Vinnitsa was easy, I hope?’

‘Very quick, mein Führer. General Paulus sends his regards.’

Hitler nodded. ‘What have you got for us?’

‘Tactical plans for this sector from Soviet headquarters that I believe may impact on Operation Fischreiher. Hence I’ve rushed them here as soon as I had analysed them.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘First of all, how reliable is the provenance?’ asked Halder, who was next to Hitler. ‘Have they been missed?’

‘The documents belonged to a Soviet staff officer killed when our planes strafed his car. Kapto, a medical officer in a penal battalion, attended the scene and procured the documents which the Soviet General Staff believed were destroyed in the fire. Kapto, a long-standing anti-Soviet agitator, then defected to our side. He was a childhood friend of another defector and anti-Soviet agitator Mandryka, who set up a Schuma auxiliary police unit. This Kapto had been serving a sentence for anti-Soviet agitation in the Kolyma Camps. This is the first factor that encourages us to treat this material as legitimate. Kapto was interviewed by my colleague Captain von Manteuffel, who made the first inspection of the materials and was convinced of their importance and authenticity. Sadly, yesterday partisans attacked and killed them.’

‘But they left the maps?’ asked Halder.

‘Yes, Generaloberst.’

‘Why didn’t they take them?’

‘Doesn’t that suggest that they wanted us to have them?’ asked Weichs.

‘I have considered this at length,’ said Schwerin. ‘First the provenance: the anti-Soviet credentials of Mandryka and Kapto are flawless and long-standing, confirmed by other assets. If this was a Soviet intelligence operation, they would never have sent partisans to kill Kapto and my fellow officers as that would have undermined the credibility of the documents. So in my opinion, the attack strengthens the case for believing this is genuine. I also believe personally that the partisan attack was not by Soviet partisans but by Ukrainian nationalist elements at large in the sector who were unaware of the documents and circumstances.’

Hitler was fidgeting, his fingers tapping on the green baize table. Halder held up his hand to signal that this was too much information: could Schwerin hurry up and give his judgement?

‘Yes… yes, my conclusion!’ answered Schwerin. ‘I have consulted with Abwehr colleagues. We conclude these battle plans are authentic and significant.’

Hitler, smiling, impatient, even excited, tapped both forefingers on the table again: ‘Well, colonel, cut to the quick. What do they say?’

Schwerin opened his briefcase and drew out a package of maps, selecting one, which he unfolded. Hitler rested his chin in his right hand as he looked at its arrows and Cryllic lettering.

‘This is a complex series of plans by Soviet headquarters for different scenarios created by the advance of Army Group A in Operation Edelweiss and Army Group B towards Stalingrad in Operation Fischreiher—’ Schwerin continued.

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Halder. ‘And you regarded this as of such importance that you wished to tell the Führer yourself.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s so important about it?’

‘I am all ears,’ said Hitler, smirking, and the generals laughed.

‘The maps suggest that it is unlikely Stalin ever considered Stalingrad to be in peril—’

‘Well, he’s in for a big surprise then!’ said Hitler. More laughter.

‘If I may continue, mein Führer? These plans suggest that, if we advance on Stalingrad, Stalin will resist vigorously. But only up to a point. He’s learned the lessons of our blitzkrieg. One of these scenarios is for an orderly withdrawal from the city. Rather than bleed his forces and risk encirclement, he may defend a new line that we believe is being prepared to the east. After the encirclements of Kiev and Kharkov, he cannot afford to lose more of his diminishing reserves.’

‘Just one of several scenarios?’ asked Hitler.

‘Yes, mein Führer.’

‘Do any of these plans envisage defending Stalingrad at any cost?’

‘Not specifically. This is the most detailed plan and—’

Halder interrupted him again: ‘That makes no sense, no sense at all. They’re fighting for every inch and I’ve been reading about Stalin’s command of Stalingrad, then called Tsaritsyn, during the Civil War in 1918. Then, as now, he built up vast reserves to throw at our flanks where we are over-committed. The city is the symbol of his name, of his prestige. He will never let it fall! It is we who will be bled, we who risk encirclement. Mein Führer—’

Hitler cut him off hoarsely with a slicing gesture of his hand. ‘As usual, Generaloberst Halder is frightened of ghosts. You vastly overestimate Stalin’s reserves and capabilities. He’s scarcely managed any such complex operations so far. All along I’ve expected the Russians to withdraw behind the Volga and ultimately the Urals. It’s the Russian way: fight with the insane, bestial bravery of the Untermenschen, then headlong retreat and mass surrender. Here you have it, gentlemen. Here’s the proof provided by Colonel von Schwerin and the maps of this man, Kapto. Wasn’t I right in Poland, in France? My instincts were right to divide Army Group South into A and B, and correct now to take Stalingrad at once, whatever the cost. Here are my orders. Move the Fourth Panzer Army, and more air cover and bombers, directly to Army Group B. Generaloberst von Weichs: you are to advance on Stalingrad. It will be ours within four weeks.’

‘I must protest, mein Führer,’ said Halder, face flushed and anxious. ‘I wish to register my view that this is a mistake. A fatal mistake.’

Hitler ignored him. ‘Fine report, Colonel von Schwerin, and while you’re here, enjoy a good meal, a sauna and, if you wish before you fly back to the Sixth Army, a dip in my swimming pool – although I must admit I haven’t had a swim yet myself.’

Smiling, Hitler offered his hand across the table and von Schwerin shook it.

III

It was just before three o’clock, and Svetlana Stalina and Martha Peshkova were walking out of the Josef Stalin Commune School 801. On the street outside, Moscow was faded in its glories: battered, grey, with shrapnel scars on the building opposite.

The eyes of all the parents and teachers were on the two girls, School Director Kapitolina Medvedeva almost bowing as they passed, but Svetlana was used to being the emperor’s daughter. Nannies, bodyguards and mothers were picking up the children outside the gates. There were no fathers; all the leaders were at the war. There was Hercules Satinov’s wife, Tamara, the English teacher at the school, walking out with her little daughter. Svetlana waved: she knew them well from family holidays on the Black Sea.

‘He knows!’ whispered Svetlana.

‘Oh my God, what did he say?’ replied Martha.

‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

‘Of course not. What did he say?’

Svetlana just shook her head: ‘I’ve never seen my father like that. He slapped me. He tore up the letters.’

‘What did Lev say?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘But he must be coming back soon?’

‘Maybe,’ said Svetlana.

‘Are you going to see him again?’

Svetlana remembered her promise to Nanny. ‘No, never again.’

Maybe that’s for the best, thought Martha. ‘Your father… Be careful, Svetochka.’

They had reached the street corner where her bodyguard, Klimov, was waiting with the Packard.

As the girls kissed each other goodbye, Svetlana glanced at her watch and enjoyed the sensation of power, the fact that she had control of her life. Amid this perpetual surveillance and her father’s relentless supervision, she was still her compact self, her own kingdom. Only she ruled her heart.

‘Svetlana!’ Klimov was holding open the car door.

‘I’d like to walk a bit… I’d like to wander around the House of the Book.’

‘I’d prefer you in the car,’ said Klimov.

‘Drive behind, if you like?’

The black Packard purred slowly behind her as she set off along Ostozhenka, then past the university and the Kremlin and up Gorky Street towards her favourite bookshop. Waving at Klimov, dear Klimov the kind Chekist who wanted to help her, who wanted her to know love, she skipped inside where she found herself surrounded by the familiar ramparts of shelves, and the sweet smell of book leather and yellow paper and glue. Her eyes scanned the shelves for something to take home, a new American novel perhaps? A new history book! Books were so romantic, she thought, book-lovers all over the world – London, New York and Moscow – were linked in a web of sensibility and freedom.

She only hesitated for a moment and then she walked straight through the shop to the back where the metal lift brought up the books from the storeroom downstairs, and where there were piles of books in their boxes, not yet unpacked. She pressed the button for the lift, which shook and groaned but nothing happened. Swearing to herself a little, Svetlana ran down the steps. It was cooler down there. The tang of book glue and new paper made her nose twitch. In the basement, a young man with big ears was unpacking a box of her father’s speeches and this amused her.

‘Excuse me,’ he said in a southern accent, Stavropol maybe, ‘but you’re not allowed down here.’

She smiled at him winningly.

‘No, really, I’ll get sacked.’

‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘Not if I tell them not to…’

‘Who are you? Hey, you! Please go back upstairs.’

But she could see the light now from the loading door. ‘It will be quicker to get out this way!’ she called and ran down the ramp and out into the brightness. Then she turned up the side street, peeking into Gorky Street where she could see Klimov leaning on the car, smoking a cigarette, and jumped on a tram.

She was free. Not for long. But free.

IV

Benya opened his eyes. The bandages and the cast around his hip and right thigh were reassuringly tight. He enjoyed the float of the morphine, its timeless haze. He was propped up so he could see the entire room.

Everything was drab and washed-out in the ward. All around him were steel beds, brown sheets, soiled blankets and the smells of carbolic acid, disinfectant, the hot fug of strange bodies, the fruity sugariness of putrefaction and the acrid urine of the living. The boy two beds down had died; they hadn’t got round to removing him yet. Then the morphine bore Benya away again: here he was visiting his parents, and grooming Silver Socks, next he was swooping through roiling skies on to the steppes where he saw Tonya and Kapto and the little girl. He woke up, sickened, with the rust of blood in his mouth.

He heard the hiss of whispering down the ward, and noticed a retinue of nurses and doctors and a general close by, three beds away. High and buzzed, nothing could dent the rapture of being free and redeemed – but as always the panic of disappointed joy struck. Things had gone wrong before. To make it back to Russian lines and then be sentenced to death unless he went back – he had almost collapsed. But he had done his part. He had not seen Kobylov again, a boon in itself, and Mogilchuk had delivered the news of his deliverance. And now? Now he was alive.

The general was getting closer, speaking to each patient, the doctor commenting and the anaemic voices of flimsy men responding. Sharp questions to project urgency and care. ‘How are you feeling? What unit? Where did you serve? Stalingrad Front?’ Then another note, the moving-on-we-have-ten-wards-to-get-through tone: ‘Your service to the Motherland is appreciated. Good luck in your recovery. Long live Stalin!’

They were at the next-door bed and then it was Benya’s turn. He already knew the questions by heart and was tempted to call out the answers in one insolent blurt to save time when he heard the general speak. ‘Leave us a moment, comrades, I know this one. Yes, thanks, nurse, I’ll pull up a chair.’ The accent was so Georgian. Benya was suddenly very much awake.

‘Benya Golden,’ said Colonel General Hercules Satinov, older but still lean and trim, a man to whom power seemed as natural as angst to a Jewish writer. Once, in another almost forgotten life, at a beautiful woman’s house, Benya had seen Satinov dance the lezginka, the waist in his Stalinka tunic tight and wasp-like, the footwork in his boots impressively fleet. A vanished life.

Benya, so exuberant one second earlier, shrank in the icy presence of Stalin’s comrade-in-arms. What had they in store for him this time?

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I was feeling good…’ Benya said. The past tense, too honest.

‘Until you saw me?’ replied Satinov. ‘Again.’

The last time Benya had seen Satinov was when he presided over his sentencing to death, then the reprieve – to twenty-five years in Gehenna.

‘A coincidence, I am sure.’

‘You still believe in those, Golden?’

‘I want to.’

Satinov looked searchingly at Benya. ‘I am the Stavka representative on the Stalingrad Front,’ he said. ‘My front. When possible, I visit the wounded.’ A pause. ‘Your case came straight to me. I had your wounds checked; when you were asleep, I arranged for the Kremlin Clinic to send a doctor to examine you. Signing your redemption, in this particular case, I had to be certain.’ Benya knew Satinov was referring to the Sashenka Case, because he too had known Sashenka.

‘Understood,’ said Benya. ‘Thank you.’

‘You were nominated for the only medal available to Shtrafniki: Order of Glory Third Class.’

Benya shook himself. ‘Really?’ He’d never won a prize, even at school.

‘Of course it’s impossible for a Political.’

Benya had seen Satinov’s hawkish face on countless banners and newspapers; he had even passed through a town named Satinovgrad on his way to the Don. Now, in the flesh, this presence took him back: Satinov had been the close friend of Sashenka, the love of Benya’s life, and yet Stalin had assigned Satinov to ‘curate’ the case and oversee her destruction. A test; a very Stalinist one. Family, sentiment, friendship were the trappings of bourgeois sentimentality, and Stalin liked to say ‘A Bolshevik has no family but the Party’. Satinov had presided coolly over the trials and the sentences. Had he played a murky part in the whole case, had he denounced his friends, even Sashenka? Had he been particularly severe in order to save his own skin? If Sashenka was alive, Satinov would know. What things he must know…

An adjutant was whispering something in the great man’s ear.

‘Golden, you’re drifting away. Listen to me. If you are allowed to reside in Moscow, what would you like to do?’

‘Teach literature.’

‘At a school?’

‘Yes. And if it isn’t possible, I’ll do anything, sweep floors, build tanks, or become a barman or…’

‘Your chatter gets you into trouble. Stop talking, Golden.’

Satinov stood up. He didn’t say goodbye, just a slight dip of the head. But this was extraordinary: no one helped returning Zeks and yet here was Satinov doing exactly that. Benya felt hopeful again. Satinov’s entourage of doctors, adjutants and bodyguards reassembled and escorted him into the next ward.

A shadow fell over him and Benya looked up.

‘Granpa!’

Benya jumped. Two men, tamed by their standard-issue hospital blouses and fraying long johns, were standing next to the bed.

‘You should go back to your ward,’ said the nursing sister, a battleaxe with the face of a puff adder. ‘Go on, I say! Or I’ll report you to the Party committee.’

‘Right, sister, one minute… please!’

Benya could see there was something about the way Prishchepa said it, the pirate’s smile he gave, the tousle of his flaxen thatch, that made her melt.

‘One minute, then, Speedy, and not a minute more!’

‘You see? She even knows my name,’ said Prishchepa, who had a dressing on his shoulder.

‘Behave yourself, Speedy,’ she said sternly as she waddled out.

Prishchepa sat himself on the edge of the bed. ‘Who was that bigshot?’ he asked.

‘Some apparatchik.’

‘What’s he want? Appointing you Inspector of Cavalry?’ Panka had appeared, his face and chest sunburnt, his grey hair longer, the whiskers shaggier. He leant on crutches, a cast on his shattered leg.

‘Nothing. Maybe less than nothing.’

‘I think Granpa Golden would be better as Inspector of Marksmen,’ said Prishchepa with a wink.

Benya sighed. ‘I was never much of a rider and I wasn’t much better as a shot.’

‘Don’t do yourself down,’ replied Panka, his tiny foxy eyes bright. ‘You turned out to be a better shot than you thought. God bless you, boy.’

What kind of topsy-turvy world was it where you could only save the lives of your friends by shooting them? Benya thought. But Stalin’s decree was specific: Shtrafniki could only be redeemed by sacrificing their own blood and so Benya had given his friends the wounds they needed to win redemption.

Perhaps it was the relief of knowing that Satinov had secured his redemption or perhaps it was just the morphine wearing off a little – he needed some more; where was that nurse? – but quite suddenly he felt a jolt of stunning grief and he was choking. The sadness rocked him, the sense of loss pounding through him: Fabiana was dead. He pictured her dipping her hand into the honeycomb, scooping it out and eating it like a bear. Love, he thought, is all about the details – a dictionary of visions, moments, sounds that have no names, no words necessary. Love is always selfishness at its most delicious – but with Fabiana, there was no time for selfishness. Sometimes the very shortness of an affair, he decided, grants it an immaculate purity that passes directly into legend – and nothing afterwards can ever equal it. But their mere hours together were lived in a rougher, higher realm; they never said ‘I love you’ to each other; they were just the ‘bandits in love’, and that said it all. From the start, they were galloping, fleeing, fighting to escape death and, ultimately, to survive each other – and the miracle was that they had managed that, at least for a while. Should he have told her that he loved her? Would that have comforted her? Such trifles would have been somehow futile and irrelevant beside the immensity of the courageous sacrifices she made for him. ‘Are you out there somewhere, darling ally, brave, brave friend?’ he called to her quietly. ‘Are you there, secret dreamer of the lagoon, mia adorata? I kiss you! I kiss you!’

I knew her once, he thought, aware that tears were running down his cheeks. I knew her somehow forever. But for us, forever was too short.

V

Poskrebyshev, a drear gnome in a general’s uniform, stood at the door of the Little Corner. ‘Satinov’s here,’ he announced.

Stalin beckoned, and Poskrebyshev stepped aside and Satinov entered.

Satinov’s Packard had raced from the hospital to the Kremlin and then round to the Little Corner in the triangular yellow Senate. He did try to visit the wounded from the Stalingrad Front when he could but he acknowledged to himself that this visit had been connected to Benya Golden. He had played a role in the Sashenka Case against Benya Golden and now he wanted to ensure he was treated justly. But he had not had the heart to tell him a terrible truth: his redemption was not final. There were millions of prisoners in the Camps whose names Stalin had never seen – but they were not Politicals; nor were they Politicals convicted in cases known personally to Stalin. If he, Satinov, concealed the pardoning of a Political, a writer known to Stalin, the Leader could destroy him with it. He had seen comrades shot for just such a legerdemain. No, he must ask Stalin directly, although it was likely Beria would advise against it. Beria was not just the master of the security forces and the Gulags but he was also jealous and wary of Stalin’s affection for Satinov, which was why he had not wasted much time on poor Benya Golden who would probably be heading straight back to Kolyma.

Satinov entered the room and saluted. Little seemed to have changed. Beria was back at the table. Further down, Vasilevsky had been joined by General Georgi Zhukov, with his prehensile jaw and tauric shoulders.

‘Permission to report from the Stalingrad Front,’ said Satinov.

Stalin raised his hand in approval.

‘We are fortifying Stalingrad. The Germans are reinforcing Army Group B and the Sixth Army specifically. We hear from the Southern Front that they are even now, as of this morning, moving panzer units out of the front line, probably for transfer to our sector. They’re already racing across the steppe.’

‘How close are they to the city?’

‘Units have already reached the outskirts,’ replied Vasilevsky.

‘How are the generals on your front?’

‘Chuikov’s bunker is right by the river and he will fight to the last. He’s a tough one. I commend his harshness, Comrade Stalin, but Gordov lacks resolve,’ Satinov continued.

‘Gordov regularly talks aloud of abandoning Stalingrad,’ piped up Beria.

Stalin cast cold eyes at Satinov. ‘True?’

‘He lacks confidence.’

‘But will Stalingrad hold? Will we be able to cling on to the Volga no matter what?’ asked Stalin. ‘Tell me honestly as one Bolshevik to another.’

Everyone looked at him and waited. Satinov did not rush to answer but considered the honest answer which an old Bolshevik expected from a comrade.

‘Yes,’ said Satinov finally. ‘I know we will hold Stalingrad.’

‘Good, bicho,’ said Stalin. ‘Tell him to fuck off and punch him in the gob if he says it again.’

‘Or give him to me,’ added Beria.

‘We’ll let Satinov deal with Gordov first,’ answered Stalin, standing up and walking towards the generals, who were leaning over the maps.

Vasilevsky and Zhukov straightened up and stiffened as Stalin approached.

‘We have ourselves the battle we wanted,’ he said. ‘Hitler has taken the bait but it will cost us much blood to hold the city. We must draw in the Germans without destroying ourselves. The only people in Russia who know of this are in this room. After many reverses, the golden hour is here. Good luck,’ and he offered his hand first to Vasilevsky and then Zhukov. Satinov and Beria glanced at each other, unsure what exactly the Leader had cooked up with the two generals. Stalin had never shaken hands with anyone like this. ‘Make your preparations, comrades,’ he said as the two generals saluted and left.

‘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?’

VI

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.’

VII

‘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?’

‘We did.’

‘A British secret agent?’

‘Quite possibly. American, more likely. He has a taste for American literature. What would you like me to arrange?’

VIII

The clocks on each ward of the hospital chimed midnight, the end of the tenth day of Benya’s war, and he had a visitor.

‘You’re my only friend who knows I am even here,’ said Benya.

‘Or even alive!’ added Lev Shapiro. ‘What are you going to do? Any idea?’

‘I’ve had a visit tonight from a schoolmistress who offered me a job.’

‘So you are becoming a teacher? That was quick.’

‘I had big help.’

‘Impressive, my dear. But tell me, how did you survive out there, in the Camps?’

Benya sighed. ‘I lived each minute and each day as it came. I sought joy in the smallest things. I looked at the stars and the moon and thought that those I love might be looking at them too. Moon magic.’ He looked at Shapiro searchingly: ‘You’re in love, Lev. With someone you shouldn’t be.’

‘You know all that? Just by looking at me?’

‘We Galitzianers can see through each other and I know how dangerous it is. Believe me, I know.’

‘How did you guess now?’ asked Shapiro. ‘I just met her this afternoon, secretly of course. Oh, she’s so sweet, but very clever.’

‘Who is it? Let’s think. Who’s the most unsuitable wife in Moscow for you to choose? Molotov’s wife?’

‘Oh, she’s no one’s wife. She’s someone’s daughter.’ Lev leaned forward to whisper.

Benya held up both hands. ‘Don’t tell me her name. I don’t want to know. No names! That’s what we learned in the Zone. My name is Nothing, my surname is Nobody. Just tell me the story! Oh, I love an intrigue. How did it start?’

‘Well,’ said Shapiro, ‘one day I got a letter from a fan…’

As he came down the steps of the Central Military Hospital, still chuckling to himself about his conversation with Benya, who so understood the excitement of a love affair, Lev Shapiro stopped.

In the foyer a general and some men, with NKVD tabs, were waiting. Lev knew immediately they were there for him, and what was going to happen. He was either going away, far away, for a long time, or he would die that night in a cell under the Lubianka. He would probably never see Svetlana or his wife or his children again. He had miscalculated everything.

Patting the pockets of his jacket, he acted as if he had left something behind. ‘Oh no, hell, I left my case upstairs…’ he said, turning back up the steps, trying to move calmly, not to run, to sprint, to scream.

As soon as he was on the next landing, he asked a nurse, ‘Is there another staircase?’

‘Yes, straight down the corridor.’

He walked fast, faster; now he was running to the other staircase, down the steps and before he reached the bottom, he crouched down and… there they were, more NKVD uniforms. He turned and raced up the steps. Now he was pouring sweat, his heart was throbbing, and he was feeling nauseous. Oh my God, how could I have been so foolish? he shouted to himself. But what could he do? There was nowhere to run. He could try to get back to his home to see his wife and children and say goodbye, but they would be waiting for him there. Running would just make this worse. Besides, they had covered both staircases and lifts.

He found himself walking up the stairs towards Benya’s ward with a feeling of freefalling through a void. He felt guilty about his family. If he was shot, his wife might be told ‘Prisoner Shapiro has been sentenced to twenty-five years – without right of correspondence’, which usually meant someone had received the Eight Grammes. Or they might be told ‘Article 158. Twenty years’ and they would guess he was just about alive, if he survived the journey to Kolyma, if he didn’t die of exhaustion. Either way, he might be gone forever.

If only he could get a letter to Svetlana… but there was so little time…

He peered down the long corridor and there they were: the Chekists were walking right towards him, looking into each ward. He spun round and it was too late: they held his arms.

‘Lev Shapiro?’ asked the general.

‘Yes.’

‘Come with me. We’ve got a car outside. Do you know who I am?’

‘No,’ said Shapiro.

‘I am General Vlasik, Chief of Security for the Head of the Soviet Government. You understand what this means?’

Shapiro nodded. ‘It might mean any number of terrible things.’

‘Prepare for all of them,’ said Vlasik.