Winter of the World

Volodya felt as if he had been slapped. It was many years since his father had called him a fool.

Was the old man right? Did the Soviet Union need Stalin? The leader had made so many disastrous decisions that Volodya did not see how the country could possibly be worse off with someone else in charge.

They reached their destination. Stalin’s home was conventionally called a dacha, but it was not a country cottage. A long, low building with five tall windows each side of a grand entrance, it stood in a pine forest and was painted dull green, as if to hide it. Hundreds of armed troops guarded the gates and the double barbed-wire fence. Grigori pointed to an anti-aircraft battery partly concealed by camouflage netting. ‘I put that there,’ he said.

The guard at the gate recognized Grigori, but nevertheless asked for their identification documents. Even though Grigori was a general and Volodya a captain in Intelligence, they were both patted down for weapons.

Volodya drove up to the door. There were no other cars in front of the house. ‘We’ll wait for the others,’ his father said.

A few moments later three more ZIS limousines drew up. Volodya recalled that ZIS stood for Zavod Imeni Stalina, Factory Called Stalin. Had the executioners arrived in cars named after their victim?

They all got out, eight middle-aged men in suits and hats, holding in their hands the future of their country. Among them Volodya recognized Foreign Minister Molotov and secret-police chief Beria.

‘Let’s go,’ said Grigori.

Volodya was astonished. ‘I’m coming in there with you?’

Grigori reached under his seat and handed Volodya a Tokarev TT-33 pistol. ‘Put this in your pocket,’ he said. ‘If that prick Beria tries to arrest me, you shoot the fucker.’

Volodya took it gingerly: the TT-33 had no safety catch. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket – it was about seven inches long – and got out of the car. There were eight rounds, he recalled, in the magazine of the gun.

They all went inside. Volodya feared he would be patted down again, and his gun discovered, but there was no second check.

The house was painted dark colours and poorly lit. An officer showed the group into what looked like a small dining room. Stalin sat there in an armchair.

The most powerful man in the Eastern Hemisphere appeared haggard and depressed. Looking up at the group entering the room he said: ‘Why have you come?’

Volodya gasped. Clearly he thought they were here either to arrest him or to execute him.

There was a long pause, and Volodya realized the group had not planned what to do. How could they, not even knowing whether Stalin was alive?

But what would they do now? Shoot him? There might never be another chance.

At last Molotov stepped forward. ‘We’re asking you to come back to work,’ he said.

Volodya had to suppress the urge to protest.

But Stalin shook his head. ‘Can I live up to people’s hopes? Can I lead the country to victory?’

Volodya was flabbergasted. Would he really refuse?

Stalin added: ‘There may be better candidates.’

He was giving them a second chance to fire him!

Another member of the group spoke up, and Volodya recognized Marshal Voroshilov. ‘There’s none more worthy,’ he said.

How did that help? This was hardly the time for naked sycophancy.

Then his father joined in, saying: ‘That’s right!’

Were they not going to let Stalin go? How could they be so stupid?

Molotov was the first to say something sensible. ‘We propose to form a war cabinet called the State Defence Committee, a kind of ultra-politburo with a very small membership and sweeping powers.’

Stalin quickly interposed: ‘Who will be its head?’

‘You, Comrade Stalin!’

Volodya wanted to shout: ‘No!’

There was another long silence.

At last Stalin spoke. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now, who else shall we have on the committee?’

Beria stepped forward and began to propose the members.

It was all over, Volodya realized, feeling dizzy with frustration and disappointment. They had lost their chance. They could have deposed a tyrant, but they had lacked the nerve. Like the children of a violent father, they feared they could not manage without him.

In fact, it was worse than that, he saw with growing despondency. Perhaps Stalin really had had a breakdown – it had certainly seemed real – but he had also made a brilliant political move. All the men who might replace him were here in this room. At the moment when his catastrophically poor judgement had been exposed for all to see, he had forced his rivals to come out and beg him to be their leader again. He had drawn a line under his appalling mistake and given himself a new start.

Stalin was not just back.

He was stronger than ever.

(xi)