Molotov did not relish the thought of giving de Gaulle what amounted to an ultimatum. Ambassador Andrey Vyshinsky would be responsible for actually dealing with the tall and absurd-looking Frenchman. Despite his fear of failure, Molotov could almost smile at the thought of Comrade Andrey confronting that arrogant bastard Charles de Gaulle.
Stalin was not finished. “Comrade Beria.”
Beria almost jumped. “Yes, Comrade Stalin?”
“For you we have a special assignment. Let us suppose that the French are either so stupid that they reject our offer, or, as is most likely, try to defer making a decision until the last possible moment. Should that occur, we cannot be inactive. We must make life miserable for the Allies as well as the government de Gaulle is trying to form. Don’t you agree?”
Molotov noted a bead of sweat forming on Beria’s forehead as his head bobbed quick agreement. How, he wondered, could the second most feared man in the Soviet Union be so mortally afraid of the first? Simple, he answered himself: everyone in Russia lived each day in gut-wrenching fear of that one man with his stinking pipe.
“Comrade Beria,” Stalin continued. “I want you to make every effort to stir up trouble in France. We have a sizable Communist Party there, and I am certain they would be happy to cause work stoppages, barricade streets, protest the war, and do anything else to show that de Gaulle’s hold on the French people is less than solid.”
Beria smiled tightly. It would be a fairly easy task. He would call for the French Communist Party to rise in protest against the alliance with Germany and the war with Russia. He was confident they would respond. Perhaps, he thought quickly, he could develop a guerrilla war between the French people and the Allies as they arrogantly rode across France in their long lines of trucks and trains. Perhaps he could carry it over into Italy, where the Italian Communist Party had been fighting the Nazis.
Beria glanced quickly at Molotov, whose face, as usual, showed nothing. Beria envied Molotov’s ability to apparently live without fear in a country dominated by Stalin.
“Comrade Stalin,” he answered solemnly, “it will be done. The French people will rise in support of the people’s revolution.”
Suslov checked again to see that his tank was hidden from the prying eyes of the American planes. They were east of the city of Brunswick, and it was nearly dawn and not time to be caught on the road by American fighters and bombers. He did not know which he hated most, the stubby P-47 Thunderbolt or the newer, sharklike P-51 Mustang, or even the B-17 and B-24 bombers, which had been known to dump their lethal and immense loads on the unwary. The tank crews had familiarized themselves with silhouettes of the planes, but it really mattered little. Each plane could be devastating, particularly since the fighters had figured out that tanks were vulnerable to their rockets and ceased wasting machine-gun fire on them.
Most disturbing to Suslov and the others was the fact that there seemed to be so damned many of the American planes in the air lately. They had been used as protection from Nazi planes by the Soviet air arm, and this was no longer the case; thus, the need to hide during the day and to travel only at night. A tank column in the open during the day would surely attract American planes like flowers draw bees.
The political officers had tried to downplay Russian tankers’ concerns by saying that the Russian airplanes were pounding the hell out of American staging areas and supply depots, and, when that task was completed, they would return to sweep the skies of the remaining Yanks.
Suslov and his crew had listened solemnly to these comments during the periodic lectures and exhortations, but even Latsis had agreed that they would have much preferred to see more of their planes overhead and fewer lectures when they made their attacks on the stubborn American defenses. No one said any of this to the political officers. Anything other than enthusiastic support for their drivel would result in being sent to a penal battalion, which was the same thing as a death sentence. Those troops led the way during suicide charges or were sent to clear minefields with their feet. Whatever doubts anyone had were kept to themselves.
At least, Suslov thought as he rearranged a tree branch over the turret, they were getting some precious time to rest and refit. As a result of almost continuous combat, the battalion had been bled down to only seven operational tanks. Not all the others had been destroyed by the Americans. Several had been left behind because of mechanical problems. Fuel, while not overly plentiful, was not yet a concern and there was the promise of reinforcements. Word had it that at least a dozen fresh tanks and crews would be arriving within a day or so. In the meantime, it was an opportunity to catch a little rest and do some maintenance on the remaining tanks.
Suslov almost didn’t hear Martynov, his gunner, come up behind him. “Pavel, if you were trying to scare me, you almost succeeded. Do you have any cigarettes?”
Martynov handed him a Lucky Strike. They were starting to liberate American cigarettes from prisoners and bodies. Suslov would have preferred a Camel but took the Lucky. Anything was better then the paper-wrapped shit that passed for cigarettes in the Soviet Union.
“Sergei, there is something I want you to see.”
Suslov was about to make a witty remark when he saw the look on Martynov’s face. He was almost distraught. “What is it, Pavel?” he asked with genuine concern.
Martynov shook his head as if it was difficult to speak. “Just come. Please.”
Suslov walked with him across a field toward a farmhouse and barn. Beyond it he could see the tops of a row of trees. As he walked the field, he looked nervously skyward in case an American fighter appeared. He did not think it likely that anyone would waste ammunition on two people walking, but one could never be certain. They were not that far from the front, only a handful of miles, and they could hear the rumble of artillery in the west and the sound of bombings in other directions. It was not the time for a carefree hike.
Martynov directed him to walk around the farm buildings to where he could see the row of trees. Suslov stopped suddenly and gasped. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
There were about ten trees, large and lush with fresh spring growth and with strong limbs. Each limb was festooned with the naked bodies of dead women and young girls hanging by their necks. He wanted to puke. Behind him he heard Martynov weeping. There had to be at least fifty bodies swaying in a macabre dance to the tune of the gentle breeze.
He willed himself to walk among them. They were of all ages, from the very young to the withered and shockingly old. Some had been mutilated before being hanged, with their breasts cut off and bellies slashed open so that their entrails hung down toward the ground. A couple had had their eyes gouged out. Except for blackened faces caused by the slow strangulation they’d endured by hanging, they had not yet begun to bloat or discolor. They hadn’t been hanging there all that long.
“Who was here before us?”
Ivan Latsis arrived and stood beside him. He was grinning at the sight. “I believe they were Siberians. I’ve heard about these Hitler Christmas Trees, but I’ve never seen one before.”
Suslov had also heard of this particular atrocity. Some Red Army soldiers, almost always the Asian savages from places such as Siberia, had picked up the habit of murdering their victims after they were through with them and leaving them as macabre decorations on trees. A brigade of Siberians had passed through the day before, as his tank battalion had been taken out of line. This must have been the Siberians’ previous encampment.
“God help us,” muttered Suslov.