‘There must be more forces in the sector,’ said Stalin. ‘Find them! Who’s available now? Tonight?’
An aide brought Vasilevsky more papers which he swiftly perused and then reported in his level tone: ‘A moment please.’
Only he and General Zhukov could say this to Stalin, who had shot so many of his generals in ’37 that the survivors were now understandably cautious and jumpy.
When Vasilevsky was ready, he cleared his throat: ‘Cashiered troops and criminal volunteers have been training for the last six months on the Don and are ready for combat. Now you have formally created the Shtrafbats, the staff are working at this very minute to deploy them at the front according to your precise orders.’
‘They’re already on the Don?’ Stalin sounded surprised.
‘They’ve been training at the Budyonny Stud Nine at Vennovsk close to the bridgeheads at the Don Bend.’
‘How many men?’
‘Five thousand.’
‘Better than nothing,’ interjected Satinov. ‘And convicts will fight to the death.’
Stalin nodded. ‘Can they launch a counter-attack? How quickly can they be deployed and with what units? They have artillery and machine-gun battalions? What strength do we have in tanks?’
Vasilevsky looked troubled. ‘We will deploy artillery and machine-gun battalions but we are grossly short of tanks, Comrade Stalin. We have only a hundred T-34s in reserve for the entire sector and—’
‘No tanks? That is treason.’ Stalin’s voice rose an octave, but when he started again, he was his controlled, soft-spoken self. ‘Then throw these criminals into the fray without tanks. Let them give their lives for the Motherland.’
‘We have a few old Betushka tanks for them. We are driving new T-34s straight to the front off the assembly line at Stalingrad,’ said Vasilevsky, ‘but…’
‘I wouldn’t waste new T-34s on these jailbirds,’ advised Beria.
Stalin padded to his chair, sat down, closed his eyes. ‘What to do?’ he said.
‘May I speak?’ It was Satinov, still sitting further down the table. ‘I believe there is another possibility. I recently spent some time down on the Don with Marshal Budyonny. May we call the marshals back in?’
A nod. Satinov sprang up and opened the door, returning with the two marshals. He could tell they both expected punishment. Instead Stalin looked at Satinov: ‘Well, what’s the idea?’
‘Marshal Budyonny, you’re aware that penal forces are training at Stud Nine? How many horses do you have there?’
‘Twenty thousand of my new Budyonny breed,’ replied Budyonny. ‘But these horses are our future. Beauties, trained and bred for the finest cavalry.’
‘The prisoners there have been training as cavalry,’ said Satinov.
‘Correct,’ said Vasilevsky. ‘Since many were Cossack prisoners from the Gulags and the horses were on site, I approved cavalry training. And, since we are now so short of tanks, Comrade Stalin has ordered the formation of new cavalry regiments on all fronts.’
‘I knew the tanks would be a passing craze,’ boomed Budyonny, and Satinov could almost see the vodka oozing out of him. ‘This new-fangled technology never works. They just run out of diesel – unlike my horses.’
Satinov looked at Stalin, who cocked his head as if to say: Tell me more. So Budyonny did. ‘Cavalry is the future, the heart of any army. But my horses are bred and trained to perform as the world’s best. Please, Koba,’ he appealed to Stalin, using his old nickname, ‘they shouldn’t be thrown away on ill-trained prisoners.’
‘How dare you speak such shit to Comrade Stalin!’ hissed Beria.
Everyone waited for Stalin’s reaction.
‘Pah!’ Stalin waved his hand. ‘What a typical Cossack. Comrade Budyonny prefers horses to men. Perhaps one of your horses would have commanded your front better than you? Well, fuck that, now we need your beloved horses!’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin,’ said Budyonny, bowing his head.
Stalin stood up and paced the long room in his soft calf-leather boots. ‘I propose the following: Stavka has lost confidence in Timoshenko’s ability to manage his front. Timoshenko is dismissed.’
Timoshenko saluted and left the office. Stalin kept talking. ‘Gordov will take command of the Stalingrad Front and you, Comrade Satinov, will fly down to Stalingrad and take control. Budyonny, you will fly back to the North Caucasus Front accompanied by Comrade Beria who will shoot anyone who takes one step back. You all leave tonight!’
Budyonny saluted.
‘General Vasilevsky, form your criminals into cavalry battalions for immediate deployment. Who’s in command of these prisoners?’
‘A certain Melishko.’
‘General Melishko?’ Stalin glanced at Beria. ‘He’s still alive? Wasn’t he with you, Lavrenti?’
‘He was,’ replied Beria, who had tortured Melishko personally. He had smashed all his teeth out and still no confession. Very stubborn man, old school. Admirable really.
‘Maybe God preserved him to serve,’ said Stalin thoughtfully. ‘He must have been a good man all along. That’s decided then. Melishko’s First and Second Cavalry Penal Battalions to launch Operation Pluto on the Stalingrad Front.’
‘Orders are already being telegraphed to Penal-Colonel Melishko – that’s his present rank,’ Vasilevsky said.
Stalin stopped pacing and sat behind his desk. ‘Beria, stay behind; the rest of you have your orders; go straight from here to the airport.’
‘Right, Comrade Stalin!’ Satinov and all the others left.
‘Lavrenti,’ said Stalin to Beria, now speaking their native Georgian. ‘Isn’t this the ideal moment for our game of daggers and mirrors?’
‘Yes. Our special operative is ready. His key task is in order, and it’s essential he’s delivered behind enemy lines – even if the Shtrafniki achieve nothing else and not one of them is left alive,’ said Beria.
‘Make sure that happens.’
Stalin stood up and walked out of his office through the antechamber where his bodyguards jumped to their feet, brandishing PPSh sub-machine guns. Four moved in front of him, four followed. It would be so easy for one of them to shoot me in the back of the head, thought Stalin, so easy!
Lighting a cigarette, head down, thinking, he walked through the long deserted corridors of the Kremlin palaces, along a pathway of red carpets over shining parquet, until he reached his apartment. Leaving the guards outside, he closed the door and entered the kitchen where a small but curvaceous teenage girl in a plain blue skirt and white blouse sat alone. She was holding a pencil over an open book.
Svetlana Stalina, red-haired and freckly, jumped to her feet. ‘Papa, you look exhausted!’ She threw herself into his arms and he kissed her forehead.
‘Why aren’t you in bed, girl? It’s after midnight.’
‘I am sixteen, Papa, and I have to do my homework.’
‘It’s good you are working,’ he said. ‘Everyone must work for the Motherland…’
‘Can I feed you, Papa?’
‘My little sparrow can cook! But I’ve eaten.’
‘I heard the Germans are nearing Stalingrad. Can this be true?’
‘Pah! What’s with the questions, Sveta? Who are these panic-mongers you talk to? Papa’s girl doesn’t listen to foolish chatter! Kiss your old peasant papa goodnight and finish your homework.’
After he had gone to his study at the back of the apartment, Svetlana sat down again, and for a moment, she dreamed of the things that all teenage girls dream of. She had never had a boyfriend; no one would touch her. She was Stalin’s child and none of them wanted her. ‘Your friends will want to worm their way into the family because you’re Stalin’s daughter,’ her father had warned. But, on the contrary, all the boys she knew were afraid of her. She was the princess in the Kremlin fortress; the girl in the tower. At the Josef Stalin Communal School 801, she saw her friends meeting boys after lessons, walking around the Patriarchy Pool, even kissing in the Alexandrovsky Gardens right outside the Kremlin. Not her, never her… If only she could fall in love and someone could love her back.