Speech

Chapter 104 Speech

Moscow, the Kremlin.

Stalin stood by the office window, looking at the gray sky outside. The snow had stopped. The clouds hung low, like a faded old cotton cloth, enveloping the entire city.

He stood motionless for over an hour. On the table lay the battle report Zhukov had just delivered. The report was brief: "The Germans did not launch a ground offensive today. They only conducted intermittent artillery bombardments of our forward positions. Our defenses remain intact." Intact. He repeated the word to himself.

The complete meaning is that it has not yet been breached, and not being breached means that it can still hold on.

Poskrebyshev entered the room quietly. He placed a freshly brewed cup of tea on the corner of the table, then stepped back and stood there without saying a word.

"Tomorrow's speech." Stalin didn't turn around.

Poskrebyshev took a few sheets of paper from his briefcase and placed them next to the saucer. "They've been reprinted according to your revisions from yesterday."

Stalin turned around, walked to the table, picked up the papers, and stood and read them. His gaze lingered on a few lines of text for a long time. Then he picked up a red pencil from the table, changed a few words, and put the papers down again.

"How's the weather tomorrow?" he asked.

Poskrebyshev opened his notebook. "The weather bureau reports: tomorrow will be cloudy, with a northerly wind of force 3 to 4, and a temperature of minus ten."

A second time.

"It's minus twelve degrees Celsius. The soldiers have to stand for long periods of time in the cold."

"All military units have been notified that personnel participating in the parade will be issued cotton hats and gloves. The leaders on the reviewing stand have also been provided with thick overcoats."

Stalin nodded and looked out the window again.

Poskrebyshev did not leave.

He waited a moment, then said softly, "Comrade Stalin, there's one more thing. The city defense command reported that German reconnaissance planes appeared over Red Square again this morning. They probably already know there's a parade tomorrow."

Stalin turned around and looked at Poskrebyshev.

"Let them see," he said. "Once they see it, they'll know we didn't run away, and they'll know they can't break in."

He walked back to the table, sat down, took the report out of the drawer, and read it again. "Tell Zhukov that all frontline troops will be on high alert during tomorrow's parade. The Germans might attack while we are holding the parade. If they attack, fight back."

Poskrebyshev jotted it down in his notebook. He saluted and turned to leave.

"And one more thing," Stalin called after him. "Place that Frenchman on the viewing platform. Not in the front, not too conspicuous."

Poskrebyshev paused, taken aback. "Loran?"

"Yes. Let him see it. After he sees it, write it down. Send it to Churchill and de Gaulle, so that the whole world knows that Moscow is holding a military parade."

November 6, Moscow, British Embassy.

Loran sat at the table with the white invitation spread out in front of him. He turned the invitation over, and there was nothing on the back.

A blank sheet of paper with a large red star—it's so simple it doesn't look like an invitation, but more like an order.

He stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast and gray, without the sun. He stood by the window, waiting. Waiting for what? He didn't know; perhaps he was waiting for the war to end, or perhaps he was waiting for those historical details he couldn't remember to surface in his mind.

He remembered some stories.

"On November 7, 1941, a military parade was held in Red Square, Moscow. The vanguard of the German Army Group Center was less than 11 kilometers from the center of Moscow. Stalin delivered a speech at Lenin's Mausoleum. The troops marched directly from Red Square to the front lines."

He turned around, walked back to the table, put the invitation away, and placed it in the drawer. Then he took out the half-finished tactics manual and turned to the last page. It contained the principles of anti-tank gun dispersion, the spacing of foxholes, and ambush tactics at the edge of swamps. He looked at it for a long time, then closed it and set it aside.

He walked out of the room and downstairs.

Carl recovered from his illness. The knight said that he had developed the illness from being frightened, but he pretended not to be afraid.

He's standing at the door now, holding a cup of tea in his hand.

Are you leaving?

"Let's go for a walk."

Carl nodded comically.

Lorraine walked out onto the street. There were few people on the street, and it was windy and cold. He turned up the collar of his coat and put his hands in his pockets.

He had two passes in his pocket; he checked them to make sure they were both there. He walked west along the main street for about twenty minutes until he reached Red Square.

Red Square was under martial law. Armed guards stood at the entrance, a rope stretched across the entrance. Lorraine showed his pass; the guard glanced at it, saluted, and stepped aside to let him in. He entered the square and stood beside Lenin's Mausoleum. Lenin's Mausoleum was a square, gray stone building. Two sentries stood at the entrance, wearing overcoats and cotton caps, rifles tucked into their arms, motionless.

The square was deserted, not a soul in sight. Only the wind swirled the remaining snow across the cobblestones. He stood there, gazing at the square, thinking of tomorrow. Tomorrow, this place would be filled with soldiers, tanks, and artillery. Thirty thousand men. They would wear overcoats and cotton caps, rifles slung over their shoulders, and march past Lenin's Mausoleum, out of Red Square, into the streets of Moscow, then onto trucks and head west.

He stood there for a long time. Then he turned around, walked out of Red Square, and walked back along the main street.

November 6, west of Moscow, the position of the 3rd Battalion of the Soviet 5th Army.

Kolokoltsev leaned against the trench wall, his overcoat wrapped tightly around him. It was already dark, and the surroundings were quiet as they prepared for battle. Only the wind howled from the west. He listened with his eyes closed to the sound of artillery fire, but there was still no movement. They were conserving ammunition; tomorrow was November 7th, the anniversary of the October Revolution, and Moscow would have a military parade.

Zhukov said on the phone, "You should also listen to the radio broadcast during the parade tomorrow, and hear Comrade Stalin's speech."

He didn't know if the radio could receive a signal. His radio had long since broken down and couldn't receive any messages. But the company headquarters and the regimental headquarters could receive them; the company headquarters was only three kilometers away from him, and the regimental headquarters was less than ten kilometers away. He would hear it, and his soldiers would hear it too, hearing Stalin speak on Red Square.

"Captain."

He opened his eyes. Sergei was squatting beside him, holding a bowl of hot soup. The soup was gray, with a few rotten vegetable leaves and a small piece of meat in it. He handed the bowl to Kolokolitsev, who took it and drank a sip.

"The military parade will be held tomorrow," Sergei said.

"I know."

"Do you think the German army might launch an attack during the military parade?"

Kolokolitsev thought for a moment. "It's very possible. They know we have a parade tomorrow; their planes are in Red Square every day."

They flew overhead, knowing Stalin was on Red Square, and that would be the perfect opportunity to attack during the parade.

Sergei was silent for a few seconds. "Then what do we do?"

"Hold on. Fight back."

He returned the bowl to Sergei, stood up, and walked along the trench. Reaching the observation hole, he crouched down and raised the binoculars.

There was nothing to the west. Only darkness. He put down his binoculars and took the notebook out of his pocket.

The cover was black, the edges were frayed. He opened it, and inside were numbers written: November 1st, thirty-seven dead.

On November 2nd, 22 people were killed in action. On November 3rd, 19 people were killed in action. On November 4th, 11 people were killed in action. On November 5th, 6 people were killed in action. The numbers were decreasing, not because the fighting was getting easier, but because there were fewer people, and fewer people were willing to die.

He squatted there and waited all night.

November 7, 4:00 AM, Moscow, Kremlin.

Stalin wore an overcoat and a hat, looking like an ordinary old Soviet man. He stood in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection. His face was tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, high cheekbones, and lips pressed into a thin line.

He turned and walked out of the office. The corridor was quiet, with only the sound of his own footsteps.

He walked down the stairs and out of the building. Several black cars were parked in the Kremlin courtyard, their windows covered in frost. Poskrebyshev stood beside one of the cars, holding a briefcase, his neck hunched, his face red with cold.

"Comrade Stalin."

Stalin nodded and got into the car. The car started and drove towards Red Square.

Moscow was quiet before dawn. There were no pedestrians, no cars, only snow on the streets. They drove through the Kremlin walls and into Red Square. Stalin got out of the car and walked up to Lenin's Mausoleum. A red carpet had been laid on top of the mausoleum, and the iron railings were icy cold. He stood there, looking out at Red Square. The square was empty; not a soul was in sight.

At eight o'clock in the morning, Red Square was packed with people.

Neat, orderly ranks—infantry, artillery, tank crews, cavalry. Stretching from Lenin's Mausoleum to the History Museum, and from the History Museum to the bridge over the Moscow River. Thirty thousand men, thirty thousand faces, thirty thousand eyes, thirty thousand beating hearts. They wore overcoats and cotton caps, rifles slung over their shoulders, cannons pointed to the sky, and tank tracks rolled across the cobblestones of Red Square.

Loran stood on the reviewing stand. His position was to the side of Lenin's Mausoleum, not too far forward, not too far back, allowing him to see both Stalin and the marching contingent, but not too conspicuous. He didn't know why he had been assigned this position; perhaps it was Stalin's idea, perhaps Zhukov's, or perhaps the secretary had simply written down a name randomly when assigning seats. It was all pretty much the same.

He stood on the reviewing stand, watching the soldiers. Their faces were young, eighteen or nineteen, with just-grown fuzz on their lips. Their eyes were bright; he'd seen that kind of light in Mozhaisk, in Kolokoltsev's camp, on the faces of the soldiers lying prone in the snow waiting for the tanks to charge. Those eyes didn't look forward; they looked inward.

What's inside? Is it a home or a mother?

He heard footsteps. Thirty thousand people marched at once, their boots striking the stone slabs with a thunderous, deep, muffled sound, rising from the ground.

The sensation traveled to his feet, climbed up his bones, up to his chest, up to his throat, and Loran swallowed hard.

Stalin stood atop Lenin's Mausoleum, watching the soldiers walk past him. His lips moved, but the loudspeaker wasn't on. He was reciting silently.

Nine o'clock in the morning. The loudspeaker blared.

Stalin's voice came through the loudspeaker.

"Comrades, today marks the twenty-fourth anniversary of the October Revolution. At this solemn time, we are holding a military parade here. The German fascists are besieging our city. They want to occupy Moscow and enslave our nation. But they will not succeed."

His voice grew louder and louder.

Loran stood on the reviewing stand, listening to that voice. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that voice; he'd heard it on the radio, read it in the newspaper. But those were all separated by paper and radio waves. Now, he stood on Red Square, on the reviewing stand, less than fifty meters from Stalin, listening to him speak.

"We are waging a war of liberation. It is not the German invaders who can fight for as long as they want, but us who can fight for as long as we want. Our rear is stronger than the Germans', and our will is stronger than theirs. Victory will surely belong to us."

Stalin finished speaking. He put down his notes, stood there, and watched the soldiers walk past him. His face was expressionless, only weary. But his eyes were bright, very bright.

Loran stood there, listening to the voice, and a word came to mind.

"Turning point".

He knew that this parade was one of the turning points in the entire war and greatly boosted morale.

A leader who did not flee, an army that did not collapse, a nation that did not surrender. These things cannot be defeated.

As Loran watched, he clenched his fists.

Kolokolitsev crouched in the trench, wearing headphones.

He listened to the voice and watched the soldiers walk past him.

They crouched behind the trench wall, the radios being issued by regimental headquarters—old-fashioned ones with dim indicator lights. Several soldiers stood around them, huddled in the cold wind, listening to Stalin speak.

Kolokolitsev looked at the soldiers. They were thin, dirty, and exhausted. Their overcoats were covered in mud, and their boots were torn and wrapped with strips of cloth.

Their faces were purple from the cold, their lips were chapped, and they had dark circles under their eyes. They were all very quiet, listening to Stalin speak, listening to that voice that came from a great distance.

"Victory will surely belong to us."

Stalin finished speaking. The radio stopped. The national anthem, "The Internationale," came through the loudspeaker. (Kolokoltsev)

He stood up, and the soldiers who had been gathered around the radio also stood up.

Sergei crouched in the trench, listening to the sound.

He didn't stand up, because he couldn't. A piece of his leg had been grazed off by shrapnel. He half-squatted against the trench wall, the national anthem still playing, the Internationale. He listened, his lips moving, but no sound came out. He didn't need to sing it aloud; he could sing it in his heart.

The national anthem stopped, and the announcer's voice came from the radio. Kolokoltsev took off his headphones and handed them back to the company commander.

He walked behind the peephole, squatted down, and raised the binoculars. To the west, at the edge of the woods, several black dots appeared on the greyish-white snow.

"Sergei, prepare the anti-tank guns."

"clear."

The soldiers were not disappointed when they saw the tanks appear; on the contrary, they were even more spirited. They knew that after the speech, 30,000 comrades would be thrown into the battlefield as the start of the counterattack.