The Absolute Advantage of the Soviet Union

Chapter 79 The Absolute Advantage of the Soviet Union

The train arrived in Moscow in the evening.

Loran was awakened by a piercing train whistle. He was leaning against the corner of his compartment, his overcoat wrapped around himself as a blanket, his suitcase clutched to his chest as a pillow. The sound of the wheels rolling over the rails suddenly became sparse, as if the train was slowing down. He opened his eyes and saw that the view outside the window was no longer an endless forest and wasteland, but rather houses beginning to appear—wooden, brick, tall, short, huddled together, scattered everywhere. The houses grew denser and closer together.

Then he saw Moscow.

Not the whole city, just its edge. Factory chimneys, warehouse red walls, railway switches, signal lights. Night was falling, and a final, dark red glow lingered on the western horizon, like a gaping wound separating sky and earth. In that light, Moscow's silhouette resembled a colossal beast lurking in the darkness.

The train glided into the station with a long sigh, and then came to a stop.

Loran stood up and stretched his stiff legs. For two days and two nights, he had barely left his compartment. It wasn't that he didn't want to go out; it was that Korolev had told him not to get off the train unnecessarily. He had heeded that advice. In another country, obeying their rules is the most basic rule of survival. He picked up his suitcase, left the compartment, and walked down the corridor towards the train door. The carriage was quiet; most passengers had already disembarked. Only a few men in military uniforms were still slowly packing their belongings, as if stalling for time.

He jumped off the train and stood on the platform.

The train stations in Moscow are different from those in Murmansk. They are bigger, taller, and more magnificent. The domes are painted with revolutionary themes: workers, peasants, and soldiers, waving red flags and carrying rifles, looking down at the crowds coming and going from the frames of the paintings. The pillars are white, so thick that several people couldn't wrap their arms around them, and the capitals are carved with ears of wheat and gears, sickles and hammers. The floors are marble, black and white checkered, worn smooth and shiny by countless feet, reflecting people's shadows.

The platform was packed with people.

Lorraine stood there, watching all of this, her hand gripping the handle of the suitcase.

A man in a dark suit walked towards him. The man was in his forties, not very tall, slightly overweight, and wore a polite but distant smile typical of the British. He stopped in front of Lorraine.

"Mr. Lorraine?" he asked in English, with a lukewarm accent, as if he had a mouthful of water in his mouth.

"Yes."

"I am Archie Clarke Carr, First Secretary at the British Embassy. Sir Cripps sent me to meet you. The car is outside."

Lorraine followed him toward the exit. Karl walked ahead of him, unhurriedly, as if taking a stroll. Unlike Korolev, who cleared a path through the crowd with his shoulders and elbows, he waited, waiting for the crowd to part on its own. His patience was almost frustrating, but Lorraine didn't urge him. He knew that in the Soviet Union, being impatient was useless, because everyone was impatient, restless, and eager to raise their arms and fight the Germans.

They exited the station and got into a black sedan. It was newer than the one in Murmansk; the leather seats weren't cracked, and the engine sounded much smoother. Karl sat in the driver's seat, and Loran in the back.

"Let's go to the embassy first," Carl said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Sir Cripps is waiting for you. You'll stay at the embassy tonight, and then go see the person he needs to see tomorrow."

"Mr. Carl," Loran said.

"exist."

How did the Soviets view this war?

Carl glanced at him in the rearview mirror. There was something in those eyes that Lorraine couldn't quite put his finger on—not wariness, not evasion, but a more weary kind of look, as if to say, "I've been asked this a thousand times already."

"They were afraid, but also expectant," Karl said. "The Germans were too strong. They had more tanks, more planes, and more skilled soldiers. How long could they hold off steel with their flesh and blood? Nobody knew."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "What does Sir Cripps think?"

Karl thought for a moment. "The lord said the Soviets have two advantages. One is winter, and the other is land. Winter will come, but land cannot be moved. The Germans can occupy Moscow, Leningrad, and Stalingrad, but they cannot occupy the whole Soviet Union. The Soviet Union is too big, too big for any army to swallow. As long as the Soviets do not surrender, the Germans will be worn down by winter and distance, just like Napoleon."

The car drove into a quiet street. Tall trees lined both sides of the street, their leaves already beginning to turn yellow, shimmering golden in the afterglow of the setting sun. At the end of the street stood a gray-white four-story building with Corinthian columns on its exterior, the capitals carved with honeysuckle patterns. A Union Jack hung at the entrance, fluttering gently in the evening breeze.

We've arrived at the embassy.

Carl parked the car and turned off the engine. He turned to look at Lorraine.

"Sir Cripps is waiting for you on the second floor. His office is at the end of the corridor."

Lorraine picked up his suitcase and got out of the car. He stood in front of the embassy and took a deep breath. There was a faint scent in the air, like linden blossoms, sweet and cloying, completely different from London. He walked up the steps and pushed open the door.

The corridor was quiet. The carpet was deep red and made no sound when stepped on. A portrait of King George VI hung on the wall, wearing glasses and with a gentle expression, like a good-natured high school teacher. Lorraine walked past the portraits, past a series of closed doors, and reached the end of the corridor.

He knocked on the door.

"Come in." A voice came from inside, old and hoarse, with the arrogance unique to old-fashioned imperialists.

Loran pushed open the door and went inside.

Sir Stafford Cripps sat behind his desk, a document in his hand, reading. He was in his sixties, with gray hair and deep, knife-cut wrinkles on his face. He wore a dark grey suit, his tie impeccably tied, and his shirt collar was pristine white, as if just picked up from the dry cleaners. He looked up at Lorraine, his grey-blue eyes showing no curiosity, no enthusiasm, only a professional, businesslike indifference.

"Mr. Lorraine," he said, putting down the documents, "sit down."

Lorraine sat down opposite him and placed the suitcase at his feet.

Kripps looked at him for a few seconds. "Churchill sent me a telegram. He said you were his best eyes in North Africa. He said you knew how to fight and how to read people. He also said you understood Rommel and had met De Gaulle."

He paused.

"Now you're going to see Stalin. This is different from Europe. The Soviet Union is terrifyingly great."

Loran did not speak.

Kripps stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Lorin. Outside, twilight was deepening in Moscow; the sky changed from gray-blue to deep blue, and then to black. In the distance, the Kremlin spires loomed in the twilight, the red star gleaming crimson on their peaks.

“Stalin,” Cripps said softly, “is a difficult man to see. Not because he’s busy, but because he doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t trust the British, he doesn’t trust the Americans, he doesn’t trust his own generals, he doesn’t trust his own Politburo members. He only trusts himself. If you want to see him, you have to wait. Wait for his secretary to notify you, wait for his guards to check you, wait for him to want to see you, before you can see him.”

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"But you have one advantage."

"What advantages?"

"You come from North Africa. You defeated Rommel there. Stalin knew who Rommel was. He also knew that someone who could defeat Rommel was no ordinary person."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "Sir, what is the current situation in the Soviet Union?"

Kripps returned to the table, took a map from the drawer, and spread it out. It was a military map of western Soviet Union, covered with red and blue markings. Red represented German troops, and blue represented Soviet troops. Red arrows extended from the border in three directions: north towards Leningrad, in the middle towards Moscow, and south towards Kiev and the Caucasus. The blue defensive line retreated step by step under the onslaught of the red arrows, like a torn net.

"It's terrible," Kripps said. "Very terrible. The Germans have taken Minsk and Smolensk, less than 300 kilometers from Moscow. Leningrad is besieged, and the city's three million people are only receiving a few hundred grams of bread a day; people are already starving to death. It's even worse in Kiev; the Southwestern Front is surrounded, and 700,000 men are trapped east of the Dnieper River, with food and ammunition running out."

His finger moved across the map.

"The Soviets lost more than two million troops, tens of thousands of tanks, and thousands of aircraft. Belarus was lost, Ukraine was lost, and the Baltic states were lost. The Germans are now standing less than 300 kilometers from Moscow, and they can see the Kremlin spires through their binoculars."

He looked up at Loran.

"This is the current situation in the Soviet Union."

A few seconds of silence fell over the room. Loran stared at the map, at the dense array of red arrows, and a strange feeling welled up inside him. He thought of Agella, of Rommel, of the tanks abandoned in the desert. Back then, he thought the war was over. Now he knew the war had only just begun.

"Sir," Lorraine said, "will Stalin surrender?"

Kripps shook his head. "No. The Soviets were different from others. They could lose a hundred times, but if they won just once, they were done. The Germans could win a hundred times, but if they lost just once, they were done. That's the Soviet Union. That's why Hitler couldn't defeat them."

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Lorraine.

"Tomorrow, I'll take you to see someone. His name is Zhukov, he's a general, and now a member of the Supreme Command. He'll tell you how the Soviets plan to fight this war. Then, when Stalin wants to see you, you'll go see him."

Loran nodded. He stood up and picked up his suitcase.

"Karl will take you to your room." Kripps didn't turn around. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be busy."

Lorraine left his office and walked back down the corridor. The corridor was quiet; only the sound of his own footsteps was swallowed by the carpet. He reached the top of the stairs, where Carl stood, holding a key.

"Your room is on the third floor," Carl said, "at the end of the hallway, on your left."

Lorraine took the keys and went upstairs. The third floor was quieter than the second; the doors on both sides of the corridor were closed, and no light leaked out from the cracks. He walked to the end of the corridor, opened the door, and went inside.

The room wasn't large. There was a bed, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe. The window was large, facing directly towards the Kremlin. Through the glass, he could see the faint outlines of the spires in the night, and the dark red star atop one of them. He stood by the window, gazing at it for a long time.

Then he turned over, took off his coat, and lay down on the bed. The mattress was so soft that he sank into it. He closed his eyes, but his mind wouldn't quiet down. Zhukov, Stalin, Kripps's words, the red arrows on the map—everything swirled in his head like a flock of birds that couldn't find their way out.

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. The pillow smelled faintly of laundry detergent, clean yet unfamiliar, reminding him of London, of his dormitory in Carlton Gardens, and of the Russian vocabulary list handed to him at the door. He wondered what they were doing now. Was De Gaulle still staring blankly at the map in that office? Was Churchill still smoking a cigar at the window of 10 Downing Street? Was Leclerc still counting the captured German tanks in Agairla?

He closed his eyes and slowly sank into darkness.

The next morning, Loran was awakened by a knock on the door. He opened his eyes and saw sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains, casting a golden beam of light on the wall. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, walked to the door, and opened it.

Carl stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a cup of tea and a few slices of black bread on it.

"Sir Cripps says you should leave at nine o'clock." Karl handed him the tray. "General Zhukov is waiting for you at the People's Commissariat of Defense building."

Lorraine took the tray and nodded. He closed the door, walked back to the bedside, and sat down. The tea was hot and strong, with a bitter, herbal taste. The dark bread was hard, crunching as if he were chewing a handful of flour mixed with sand. He ate slowly, drank slowly, stuffing the last piece of bread into his mouth and swallowing the last sip of tea.

Then he stood up, got dressed, and left the room.

Karl was waiting for him downstairs. They left the embassy and got into the black sedan. Karl started the engine, and the car slowly drove out of the street and into the morning traffic of Moscow.

Mornings in Moscow are different from those in London. London mornings are gray and damp, like a mushy rag that can't be wrung out. Moscow mornings are bright and dry, with the sun shining from the east, bathing the entire city in a white glow. The streets are busier with pedestrians, trams, and military vehicles. Soldiers march past in formation, rifles slung across their shoulders, their boots clicking rhythmically on the cobblestones. Children run by with their schoolbags on their backs, their clear laughter echoing in the air. Elderly people bask in the sun in the park, their eyes half-closed, as if dozing.

The car drove for about twenty minutes before stopping in front of a huge gray building. The building was very tall, at least ten stories high, with several rows of thick stone pillars standing on the front, the capitals of the Soviet Union carved on them. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, wearing gray overcoats and cotton caps with ear flaps, their rifles tucked into their arms, their bayonets gleaming white in the sunlight.

Carl turned off the engine and turned his head.

"The People's Commissariat of Defense building. General Zhukov's office is on the fourth floor. You can go up there yourself; he will send someone to meet you."

Lorraine opened the car door and got out. He stood in front of the building, looking up at the red flag fluttering in the wind. The flag was made of silk, new and shiny, like a burning fire in the sunlight. He took a deep breath and walked up the steps.

The soldiers at the entrance checked his identification three times before waving him through. He walked into the building, through a wide corridor, and to the elevator. The elevator was old, with iron railings, and clattered loudly as it operated, like it was panting. He went up to the fourth floor, stepped out of the elevator, and saw a young man in military uniform waiting in the corridor.

"Mr. Loran?" the young man asked in English, with a heavy Russian accent.

"Yes."

"plz follow me."

The young man walked ahead of him, his pace quick. The corridor was long, lined with closed doors bearing brass plaques inscribed with Russian characters, none of which Loran recognized. They reached the end of the corridor and stopped before a heavy oak door. The young man knocked.

"Come in." A voice came from inside, deep and hoarse, with a rough quality unique to people on the battlefield.

The young man pushed open the door and stepped aside. Loran went inside.

Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov stood behind his desk, looking at a map. He was short, with broad shoulders, a square face, and a faint scar on his chin. His hair was dark brown, cut very short, almost touching his scalp. His eyes were gray, bright, as if polished by something. He wore a dark green military uniform, the collar open, revealing a wrinkled shirt underneath, the four stars on his epaulets gleaming a dull gold under the light.

He looked up at Loran.

Those eyes reminded Loran of Rommel. Equally bright, equally cold, equally calculating. But the difference was that Rommel's eyes held fire, while Zhukov's held ice.

"Mr. Loran." Zhukov extended his hand.

Loran grasped it. The hand was rough, with large knuckles and thick calluses on the palm. It gripped him tightly, as if trying to crush his bones.

"Sit down." Zhukov gestured to the chair in front of the table and sat down opposite him.

Loran sat down and placed his suitcase at his feet. Zhukov looked at him for a few seconds, then picked up a document from the table, opened it, glanced at it, and closed it again.

"Churchill sent me a telegram," Zhukov said, his voice low and flat, like an unsharpened knife. "He said you were his best eyes in North Africa. He said you knew how to fight and how to read people."

He added, "You've seen Rommel, you've seen De Gaulle, you've seen those who could rise again in dire straits."

He paused.

"Now, you are to see us."

""

Loran didn't speak. He looked at Zhukov's face, waiting for him to continue.

Zhukov stood up and walked to the map hanging on the wall. It was a military map of western Soviet Union, larger and more detailed than Kripps's. The location of every division, every railway line, every bridge, and every river was clearly marked. Red arrows extended from the border in three directions, almost covering the entire map.

"Look," Zhukov said, pointing to the location of Smolensk on the map. "The Germans are here. Less than 300 kilometers from Moscow. Their vanguard, the 2nd and 3rd Panzer Groups, are advancing towards Moscow. Their infantry are following behind, marching 30 kilometers a day, and they'll be there soon."

His finger moved north, landing on the location of Leningrad.

"Leningrad is besieged. The Finns are to the north and the Germans to the south, completely surrounding the city. There are three million people in the city, and they only have enough food for two months. If supplies don't get in, they will starve to death."

His finger moved south, landing on the location of Kyiv.

"Kiev is in a worse situation. The Southwestern Front is surrounded, with 700,000 men trapped east of the Dnieper River. Our reinforcements can't get in, and their supplies can't be delivered. If Kiev falls, the whole of Ukraine falls. If Ukraine falls, we'll run out of food. Without food, we can't continue the fight."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"This is the situation we face. The Germans are strong, we are weak. The Germans are fast, we are slow. The Germans are smart, we are stupid. But there is one thing they are not as good as us."

Lorraine waited for him to continue.

Zhukov walked back to the table, placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and brought his face close to Loran's.

"There aren't enough of them."

His voice suddenly became very soft, as if he was afraid of being overheard by someone.

"The Germans have over ten million people, we have nearly two hundred million. The Germans have over a hundred divisions, we have over two hundred. The Germans have better tanks than us, but we have more tanks than them. The Germans have faster planes than us, but we have more planes than them. They can win once, they can win ten times, they can win a hundred times. But if we can win just once, we've already won."

He straightened up and walked back to the map.

"That's our strategy. Not to win by fighting, but to win by wearing them down. Wear them down until their tanks run out of fuel, until their soldiers are exhausted, until their generals start arguing. Then, we'll launch a counter-offensive."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "General, how long do you think this will take?"

Zhukov didn't answer immediately. He looked at the map, at the red arrows, at the blue defensive lines, for a long time.

"A year," he said. "Maybe two years. Maybe longer. But no matter how long it takes, we'll stick with it."

Because we have no other choice but to keep going.

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"This is the Soviet Union. This is what we want to tell you. Maybe you think the Germans aren't all that great, but you can go to the battlefield and see for yourself. The German army in the European theater is just a drop in the ocean. The Soviet Union is now facing the most ferocious attack in human history."

"General," Loran said, "what can I do for you?"

Zhukov stared at him for a long time. Then he smiled. It was a strange smile, like a crack appearing in a block of ice on his war-hardened face.

"Live," Zhukov said. "Live, see, remember. Then go back and tell Churchill, tell de Gaulle, tell everyone who is still fighting that the Soviet Union has not surrendered. The Soviet Union will not surrender. The Soviet Union will continue to fight, alongside all the nations of the world that are still fighting. If the Soviet Union is defeated, then no one in the Soviet Union will survive, not even children."

He reached out his hand. Lorraine grasped it. That hand was still so rough, so strong, so tight.

"Take care, Mr. Loran," Zhukov said. "Moscow is not London. There is no fog here, only snow. No tea, only vodka. No gentlemen, only soldiers."

Loran released his grip, picked up the suitcase, and turned to walk towards the door.

"Loran," Zhukov called out to him.

Lorraine turned around.

Zhukov stood before the map, his back to him. Light from the window streamed in from behind, casting his shadow on the map, on the red arrows, like a black mountain.

Zhukov said in a low voice, "Remember who you are. You are just a witness from Europe, nothing more."

Loran nodded, pushed open the door, and went out.

The corridor was quiet. The young officer was still standing in the doorway, waiting for him. Loran glanced at him; the young man said nothing, only nodded, and turned to walk ahead.

They walked down the long corridor, past the closed doors, past the Russian inscriptions on the bronze plaques. Loran couldn't read a single word, but he knew what was written on those doors. Names, names of great importance in the Soviet Red Army. Those men were in this building, before maps, by telephones, behind typewriters, fighting with all their might for a war they didn't know they could win.

He walked out of the building and stood on the steps. The sunlight was blinding, and he squinted at the blinding white sky. Carl's car was still parked at the entrance, and Carl was leaning against the door, reading a newspaper. Seeing Lorraine come out, he folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket.

"How is it?" Carl asked.

Loran thought for a moment. "They can win."

Karl glanced at him but didn't ask why. He opened the car door, and Loran got in. The car started and slowly drove out of the courtyard of the People's Commissariat of Defense building, merging into the traffic of Moscow.

He closed his eyes.

The sound of the wheels rolling over the road was rhythmic, a buzzing sound, like a lullaby. He slowly relaxed to that sound, but his mind was still on Zhukov's words.

"There aren't enough of them."

It wasn't that there weren't enough troops, but that they weren't ruthless enough. The Germans treated war as an art; the Soviets treated war as survival. Art can be lost, but survival cannot. That's the difference. That's why the Soviets won.

The car stopped in front of the embassy. Loran opened the car door and got out. He stood on the steps, looking at the vast expanse of white sky, and took a deep breath. The air still carried the scent of linden blossoms—sweet, cloying, just like yesterday.

He walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and entered the corridor.

Sir Cripps stood at the top of the stairs, holding a telegram in his hand.

"Mr. Lorraine," he said, "Stalin wants to see you. Tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock, at the Kremlin."