The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] (22 page)

Roosevelt claps his hands. They make a large sound, they are big mitts. Stalin considers, he must have been a beautiful man before his illness, graceful and patrician. The President leans forward, extending a hand to Stalin. The Marshal stands to shake it, signaling that he will go.

“Thank you, Joe, thank you. I’m sure these little sessions of ours do a great deal to keep the big meetings on track. I’ll let Winston know what we’ve discussed. He’ll be pleased. And again, I just want to tell you how much I and my staff are enjoying your hospitality.”

“It is our pleasure and duty, Mr. President.”

“You know,” says Roosevelt. The President seems not to want the conversation to conclude. This is a ritual habit that Stalin has noticed. After proper discussions, Roosevelt enjoys a drink and some chat, almost as a reward for work. He likes a joke or a story, he relaxes as though under a sun when there is idle banter. Stalin pauses while Roosevelt tips the brandy decanter for himself and Bohlen. He lifts his eyebrows at Stalin. Stalin waves the suggestion off.

“You know,” Roosevelt says after his first sip, “on the way over here on the
Quincy,
I made a bet with some of the sailors.”

“Yes?”

“I bet them that your troops would be in Berlin before ours get into Manila.”

This is an incredible thing to say. Stalin cannot believe what he hears. Is the President of the United States handing him Berlin?

What of the American and British armies assembling north of the Ruhr? The million soldiers preparing to breach the Rhine? Are they going to stop shy of the Reich’s capital? No, inconceivable! Berlin is the prize!

Danger signals nick in Stalin’s stomach. This must be a trick. Has smiling Roosevelt turned cunning?

“You believe this, Mr. President? There is very hard fighting going on right now on the Oder line. The Germans are very determined to keep us out.

Roosevelt nods. “The Japanese are pretty determined to hang on to Manila as well.”

“No.” Stalin smooths down his moustache, trying to mask his surprise, his glee at the prospect that this is really happening. His patience has been rewarded. “No, I am certain you will be in Manila first. Berlin will be very tough.”

“Well, we’ll see, Joe. I know your army is tough too. I’ve got faith in my bet.”

Stalin decides to sit and accept an offering of brandy. The President pours. Why would Stalin consider leaving the room when Roosevelt wants to talk like this? This is no time to be a teetotaler.

To be the first to reach Hitler’s bunker? To haul him and his whore out in the street, to try them and their Nazi cohorts in a Soviet court before the world? This would be the crowning and most historic victory in Europe.

Stalin sips an unspoken toast. To Berlin.

Roosevelt eases one arm across the back of the sofa. “Another thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“Yes.”

“Our armies are getting pretty close to each other. I think it’s time you and I authorize them to have direct contact. It’ll help prevent any mistakes or unfortunate incidents. Those things can happen in the absence of clear lines of communication.”

Stalin cannot think of any reason to resist. It would be very bad if an altercation erupted, even accidentally, between U.S. and Red forces. At least not now, before the Soviet Union is ready.

“Mistakes must be minimized, yes. I agree.”

“Fine, fine. Also, I’d like your permission for General Eisenhower to speak directly with your Soviet staff instead of having to go through the Chiefs of Staff in London and Washington, like he’s been doing.”

“I think that is very important. It is an excellent suggestion, Mr. President.”

“Good, good.”

“I will have our two staffs work out the details.”

Stalin lifts his brandy in tribute.

“Na zdrovya.”
In the Russian manner, he drains the glass. He is not a drinker of the quality of Churchill and Roosevelt. But he can perform as well as them when needed, in anything.

“Mr. President, I will take my leave. Thank you for a very fruitful session. I will see you at the plenary meeting this afternoon.”

Stalin lets himself out. Perhaps he has left too precipitously but he had to be alone. In the hall, where other Americans can still see him, he cannot contain it. Walking fast, he balls his fists and holds them before his face as though he has grabbed someone by the lapels and pulled him close. Marshal Stalin mutters, triumphant,
“Da. Da!”

He hurries to his waiting car outside the Livadia Palace. The drive to the Koreiz takes ten minutes. In the rear seat, he beats a soft rhythm on his lap with open hands to bleed off some of his excitement.

If Roosevelt is telling the truth, then the race for Berlin is off. This is a marvel, a blessing of timing. Even though Stalin’s leading forces are only fifty miles from Berlin, they’re in disarray. Koniev and Zhukov have outpaced their supply fines. Determined German bastions remain in their rear, sapping the steam from the advance and blocking supply routes. The Red flanks are too exposed in the north, the front there has lagged almost a hundred miles behind. Some divisions have been ravaged down to four thousand men, less than a quarter their normal size. The weather is atrocious.

Even with all these factors at hand, the current plan is to keep pushing, to follow momentum all the way through Poland, across the Oder, and ram into the German capital. Stalin’s generals are plotting the final dash to Hitler’s doorstep, set to jump off next week. Zhukov in particular insists on pressing the reeling German forces, he believes it is the only way to beat the Western Allies to Berlin. The strategy is known to be premature, costly, even risky. Now it is obsolete. Stalin can wait until he assembles an armed strength that will be unstoppable.

Stalin will not only win Berlin. Roosevelt has granted him the time— which equates to permission—to gather enough force to take and hold Central Europe.

What if Roosevelt’s jest turns out to be a feint? What if, instead of speaking behind Churchill’s back, the President spoke at the Prime Minister’s behest, to lull the Red forces into a lapse so they can make their own move? If Montgomery gets across the Roer River in the next week, what’s to stop him from charging the Rhine and then on to Berlin? Nothing.

Soviet forces can still be mustered quickly enough to outstrip any move Montgomery or Eisenhower makes on Berlin. It would be a bloodbath for the Soviet army. But not the first.

Arriving at the Koreiz villa, Stalin hurries to his office. He tells his secretary to find Zhukov and get him on the line.

Stalin paces the minutes away until his line rings.

“Where are you?” he demands of his top general.

“I’m at Kolpakchi’s headquarters, and all the army commanders of the front are here too.”

“What are you doing?”

“We’re planning the Berlin operation.”

“No, no, you’re wasting your time. We must consolidate on the Oder, then send all the forces you can to Rokossovsky to bring him up on your northern flank.”

Zhukov hesitates.

“What about Berlin?”

“It is postponed.”

“Comrade?”

Stalin puts down the phone.

He looks up over the mantel, to the portrait of Lenin that travels with him. Lenin is depicted in three-quarters profile, gazing ahead like a captain on the prow of a ship in turbulent waters.

“Vladimir Ilyich,” he says to the stern painted face. “They came to see me.”

~ * ~

February 17, 1945, 2120 hours

Posen, Poland

SOMEONE TOSSES ANOTHER LOG ON THE BONFIRE. SPARKS FLEE. THERE’S
enough firelight to see. Ilya casts his eyes over the circle of seventy gathered faces. He recognizes only a dozen, and Misha beside him. These familiar men maintain numb visages; they’ve learned to save their fury for battle. The rest fidget. They look scared or angry.

The political commissar Pushkov stands at the center. Flames crackle around his voice. He welcomes the new men into the penal company. They are replacements; over eighty percent of the company has been cut away since Ilya arrived four weeks ago. The Germans have fought with desperation while backing out of Poland, battling to keep the Russians out of their homeland.

While the commissar speaks, Ilya whispers to Misha.

“Would you look at what they’re giving us to fight with.”

Misha nods. “Peasants.”

“Idiots.”

“Mostly liberated prisoners.”

“Crazy men.”

Misha elbows Ilya. “No crazier than you.”

Ilya digs his own elbow at Misha in playful retaliation, too hard. The little soldier staggers forward into the circle.

The commissar turns.

The politico is tall and hollow cheeked, missing a front tooth. Approaching Misha, who stands caught in the firelight, the commissar directs an open hand at him, as though indicating a curiosity. Ilya swears under his breath at Misha for attracting the commissar’s attention.

“Comrade Misha Bakov,” the commissar announces. The gap in the man’s teeth hisses. He shifts the hand over to Ilya. “Ah, and of course, right behind you, Comrade Ilya Shokhin.”

Pushkov feigns puzzlement. “Isn’t Shokhin normally in front?”

Misha shows no sign of the insult. He snaps to attention and declares, “Yes, Comrade Commissar!”

Pushkov glances to Ilya. Ilya smiles, showing his teeth. I have all of mine, he thinks, you shit.

The commissar walks to within three feet of Misha. Ilya could toss him onto the fire.

Pushkov makes no secret of his disdain for the two of them. He does not like it that any of the penal men, even men as aggressive as Ilya and clever as Misha, leads during battle. They are not officers any longer and Pushkov has reminded them of that. Ilya doesn’t try to collect others around him when the bullets fly, the men simply appear and follow. And Misha just seems to always know more about the battle and objectives than any commissar or officer present. Pushkov doesn’t mind if the two friends survive, but he doesn’t want them to be a distraction to his authority. For Pushkov, the penal company is not the place to show initiative and intelligence. It is only the venue to kill, die if you must, and atone.

Facing the commissar, Misha speaks in a formal tone.

“Please allow me to state for our new comrades that under your excellent tutelage, Comrade Commissar, our penal unit has made great socialist strides.”

The commissar slats his eyes.

“Yes. Thank you, Comrade Bakov.” The commissar says no more. He waits, expecting Misha to retire into the ring of faces. Misha sets one foot behind the other as if to retreat. The commissar walks on, satisfied, putting Ilya and Misha at his back. He strides beside the fire, feet kicking out the hem of his long greatcoat.

Ilya despises this sort of language, the slavish mouthings of an automaton. But this is how one must pretend around the Communists. The commissars have such capricious power. They can actually shoot you on the spot if they think you’re shirking, or reluctant to fight. Best to behave like a proper machine. The words sounded funny coming from crafty little Misha, like a shirt that’s too big for him.

Ilya suppresses a giggle. If a mongrel dog like Pushkov has noticed him, then others, more important ones, have too. Pushkov is not the last word, far from it. Ilya has survived worse than this skinny
apparatchik.