The Source of Greatness

Chapter 80 The Source of Greatness

Night falls slowly in Moscow.

After June, the days in this city become exceptionally long. The sun doesn't set until nine o'clock at night, and before that, it lingers in the western sky for a long time, bathing the entire city in a dark gold. The cobblestone streets of Red Square look like a molten river in that light, the spires of the Kremlin resemble weapons forged in fire, and the red stars appear dim in the white night, like embers about to go out.

Joseph Starling stood by the office window, looking at the darkening sky.

He had been standing there for a long time. Long enough that the cup of tea on the table behind him had gone completely cold, long enough that his secretary, Poskrebyshev, had come in and changed the lamp wick several times, and that the streetlights outside the Kremlin walls had lit up one by one. He didn't move. He was wearing that gray military overcoat, the collar buttoned up tightly, the trousers creased perfectly straight. His face appeared sallow in the twilight, his eyes deep-set, his cheekbones prominent, and a thick beard obscuring the lower half of his face, revealing only a pair of dark brown eyes. Those eyes were dark, as dark as the Volga River in winter, calm on the surface, but with unseen undercurrents surging beneath.

Stalin turned around and walked back to the table.

The table was large enough for two people to lie down side by side. Its surface was gleaming, devoid of documents, a telephone, or any office supplies, except for a desk lamp with a green shade. The lamp was on, but the light was dim, illuminating only a small area of ​​the tabletop. He sat down and placed his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. His hands were very white, unusually white for a Georgian, with neatly trimmed nails and traces of smoke on his index and middle fingers.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

In his mind, the situation at the front lines flashed by like a revolving lantern. Leningrad was besieged; three million people were waiting for food, receiving only a few hundred grams of bread a day, and people were already starving to death. Kiev, the Southwestern Front was surrounded; seven hundred thousand men were trapped east of the Dnieper River. To break out or to retreat, to retreat or to hold out—he had to make every choice.

Smolensk, lost. The German army was less than 300 kilometers from Moscow, and their vanguard could already see the city's skyline.

Three hundred kilometers. In France, that's a day's journey for a tank. In the Soviet Union, it would take a tank three days, an infantryman a week, and a supply convoy half a month. But the German tanks weren't ordinary tanks. Their tanks were fast, their tanks were ruthless, and their tanks moved as fast on Soviet soil as they did in France. Because they had one thing the Soviet Union didn't.

experience.

Stalin opened his eyes and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. It was the renowned Herzen brand, with a paper filter, black tobacco, and a sweet, caramel-like aroma. He put the cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and lit it. The match flashed in the darkness, illuminating his face, which for a fleeting moment resembled a bronze statue illuminated by a torch.

He took a deep breath, the smoke swirling in his lungs before slowly exhaling from his nostrils, turning a grayish-blue in the lamplight.

The door opened. Poskrebyshev entered, his footsteps light and almost silent. He was in his fifties, as thin as a bamboo pole, his face always bearing an expression that teemed with a mixture of respect and fear. He walked to the table, placed a document on it, then stepped back and waited.

Stalin glanced at him, then picked up the document. It was thin, only two pages, with the word "Top Secret" printed on the cover in striking red ink, conveying a sense of age. He opened it, reading page by page. Numbers danced across the paper: how many divisions, how many men, how many tanks, how many planes. Each number weighed on his heart like a stone.

He put the document down and looked up.

Where is Zhukov?

Poskrebyshev immediately replied, "At the Reserve Front headquarters. He returned from Yelinya last night and went to the front again early this morning."

Stalin was silent for a few seconds. He tapped his finger on the table once, very lightly, but in the huge office, the sound was as clear as a pin dropping.

"Call him back," Stalin said. "I want to see him."

Poskrebyshev nodded and turned to leave.

"And another thing," Stalin called after him, "that British special envoy, what was his name again?"

"Lorraine. Marc Lorraine."

"Loran," Starling repeated the name, as if savoring something unfamiliar, "Has he arrived?"

"I've arrived. I arrived the day before yesterday. I'm staying at the embassy. Sir Cripps has arranged for him to see you at three o'clock this afternoon."

Stalin remained silent for a few more seconds. He looked out the window at the deepening night, his fingers tapping absently on the table.

"Let him wait," he said. "I won't see him today."

Poskrebyshev nodded, turned, and left. The door closed softly behind him with a barely audible thud.

Stalin sat alone in his office, smoking and looking out the window.

Night finally fell in Moscow. The Kremlin walls became a black silhouette in the darkness, Red Square became a vast black plain, and the red stars on the spires, those red stars that were dim by day and burned at night, finally lit up, like five embers hanging in the sky.

Stalin looked at the red stars and thought of the October Revolution. Back then, he was in Petrograd, in the Smolny Institute, directing the uprising alongside Lenin. He was thirty-eight then, young, thin, with thick hair and fiery eyes. Now he was sixty-two, his hair white, his teeth loose, suffering from stomach problems, and needing medication to get through those long meetings. But his eyes were still the same—still so dark, so deep, so unfathomable.

He stubbed out his cigarette, 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 Zhukov's. Every river, every city, every railway line was clearly marked. Red arrows extended from the border in three directions: north to Leningrad, in the middle to Moscow, and south to Kiev and the Caucasus. Those arrows were thick and dense, like swords piercing the heart of the Soviet Union, leaving it riddled with holes.

Stalin stared at the arrows, a strange feeling welling up inside him. He thought, perhaps this is loneliness. Standing at the pinnacle of power, watching your country being devoured inch by inch by the enemy, and all you can do is wait. Wait for news from the front lines, wait for the generals to make decisions, wait for the soldiers to use their flesh and blood to hold back the steel. You can't fight yourself, you can't command yourself, you can't die yourself. You can only stand in this enormous office, facing this enormous map, and wait.

He stretched out his hand, his fingers landing on the location of Leningrad.

The city was named after an old comrade-in-arms. Leningrad, Lenin's city. Three million people were waiting for his rescue there, but he couldn't provide it. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. The German army had the city completely surrounded. The only supply line was Lake Ladoga, which was navigable by boat, but winter hadn't arrived yet, the ice hadn't formed, and boats could only sneak through at night, sinking several each time German planes bombed them. Without food, people would starve to death.

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

Kyiv. The mother city of Ukraine. The place where Rus's family was baptized. The third largest city in the Soviet Union. Seven hundred thousand Red Army soldiers were trapped there, waiting for his decision. Zhukov said, "Withdraw! Withdraw the troops! Hold the east bank of the Dnieper! Don't send any more people in!" He himself knew it was time to withdraw. But he couldn't. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. If Kyiv fell, Ukraine fell. If Ukraine fell, there would be no food. Without food, the Soviet Union couldn't continue the war.

His finger moved eastward, landing on the location of Moscow.

Moscow. His heart. His fortress. His final destination. Three hundred kilometers away, German tanks were advancing in this direction. Their vanguard could already see the Kremlin spires. They saw it through binoculars, in photographs, in their dreams. They wanted to take Moscow, to hold a parade in Red Square, to take photos at Lenin's Mausoleum. They thought that if they took Moscow, the Soviet Union would surrender like France.

But they were wrong. Moscow is not Paris. The Soviet Union is not France. It will not run, it will not surrender, it will not let anyone plant its flag over its city.

He withdrew his hand, walked back to the table, and sat down.

The table lamp was still on, but the light was still dim. He took another cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The match flashed in the darkness, illuminating his face. His face was expressionless, only weary, a deep, bone-deep weariness.

He stood up, walked to the coat rack in the corner of the office, and took down his overcoat. The overcoat was gray, thick wool, with a black fur collar. He put it on, walked to the door, and opened it.

The corridor was dark, with only a few wall lamps lit, casting a dim, yellowish light. Poskrebyshev stood in the doorway, a notebook in his hand, waiting for him.

"Back to the villa," Stalin said.

Poskrebyshev nodded and walked ahead. They crossed the corridor, went down the stairs, and exited the Kremlin. A black ZIS sedan was parked at the entrance, its engine already warmed up, white steam billowing from its exhaust pipe. The driver stood beside the door and, seeing Stalin emerge, immediately opened the back door.

Stalin got in, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. The car started and slowly drove out of the Kremlin walls, into the Moscow night.

He lived in a villa in Kuntsevo, not far from the Kremlin, only a ten-minute drive away. The villa was small, two stories high, surrounded by a high wall with barbed wire that was electrified. Two uniformed guards stood at the gate, carrying submachine guns, and stood at attention and saluted when they saw the car lights.

The car drove into the yard and parked at the gate. Stalin got out of the car and went into the villa.

The villa was quiet. There was no sound, no light, only the wall lamp at the end of the corridor was still lit, its dim yellow light like a nearly blind eye. He took off his coat, hung it on the hanger, and went into the study.

The study was much smaller than the office. There was a desk, a few chairs, a bookshelf, and a portrait of Marx hanging on the wall. A desk lamp sat on the desk, its shade green, exactly the same as the one in the office. He sat down, turned on the lamp, and took a document from the drawer.

It was a report from the front, concerning Kiev. The report stated that the situation for the Southwestern Front had reached its most critical point. The German 1st and 2nd Panzer Groups had converged east of Kiev, trapping 700,000 Red Army soldiers in a massive pocket. The pocket was tightening; several kilometers of the defensive line were being breached daily, and thousands were being captured every day. The report's last line read: "Front Headquarters requests permission to break out."

Stalin stared at that line of text for a long time.

He wanted to break out. Of course he wanted to. But he couldn't order a breakout. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't; he couldn't bear the consequences. Kiev had to continue fighting.

He suddenly thought of his son, Yakov. Yakov had been captured by the Germans shortly after the outbreak of war. He had received a letter from the Germans saying that they would return Yakov to him if he released a few German generals. He did not reply. He was the leader of the Soviet Union, not Yakov Dzhugashvili's father. He could not exchange a general for a soldier, nor could he sacrifice the interests of the nation for his son's life.

Where is Yakov now? In a prisoner-of-war camp, perhaps dead, perhaps still alive.

Even someone as powerful as Stalin could only shake his head helplessly.

Outside the window, the night in Kunzewo was quiet. There was no city clamor, no sirens blaring, only the sound of the wind rustling through the birch trees, whispering like secrets. He stood there, looking at the dark night sky, and a strange feeling suddenly welled up inside him. He thought, perhaps this is fate. A person is pushed to the pinnacle of power not to enjoy it, but to bear it. To bear failure, betrayal, loneliness, and all those things he doesn't want to bear but must bear.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down.

He took a sheet of white paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, and picked up a pencil. His hand was steady, and his handwriting was neat, completely different from his usual scribbled notes in meetings. He wrote on the paper: "To the Council of People's Commissars of the USSR, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the CPSU, and the General Staff of the Red Army:

The situation we face is dire. The enemy has advanced to within 300 kilometers of Moscow, Leningrad is besieged, and Kiev is on the verge of collapse. But we will not surrender. The Soviet Union will not surrender. We have the world's largest territory, the largest population, and the richest resources. We have the world's bravest soldiers, the most industrious workers, and the most brilliant scientists. We have the world's most correct politics, the strongest party, and the greatest leader.

He paused here. Looking at the words "the greatest leader," a bitter smile appeared on his lips. He knew he wasn't a great leader. He was just the son of a Georgian shoemaker, a student expelled from seminary, an old Bolshevik who had spent decades fighting in the revolution. He had made mistakes, killed people, made wrong decisions, killed those who shouldn't have been killed, and spared those who shouldn't have been spared. But he had never betrayed the Soviet Union; that was the only thing he could tell himself.

He continued writing: "The enemy can occupy our cities, destroy our factories, and kill our people."

But they can never conquer our souls. Because our souls are not made of steel and concrete, but of faith. Faith cannot be broken, burned, or drowned. Faith will be passed down from generation to generation until our descendants live freely on this land.

He put down his pen and looked at the words.

Faith. Did he believe in faith? He didn't know. He only knew he had to convince others. If even he showed doubt, the Soviet Union was truly finished. So he had to stand here, in this office, before this map, under this lamp, continuing to work, continuing to make decisions, continuing to wait. Waiting for good news from the front, waiting for factories to produce more tanks, waiting for American aid to arrive by sea. Waiting for winter. Waiting for the ice and snow that had driven Napoleon away to save Russia once more. Until then, he could only persevere.

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.