Warning

Chapter 96 Warning

The lights in the Kremlin corridors were dimmer than usual.

It was already late at night, and the color outside the window was a dark red.

Stalin wasn't asleep. He sat in his office with a glass of cold tea in front of him. His secretary had brought it an hour earlier, but he hadn't drunk it. Several telegrams lay on the table, the top one from Zhukov at the Reserve Front headquarters.

The telegram was short, containing only a few lines: "Mozhaisk fell this afternoon. The 5th and 31st Armies are retreating toward Narofominsk. The 10th Armored Division has suffered more than half its losses, but the 2nd Armored Division has entered the city. The German vanguard is expected to reach the western suburbs of Moscow within three days."

Three days.

Stalin stared at the two words for a long time. He tapped his fingers on the table a few times. Then he picked up his special red pencil and drew a circle around Moscow on the map. The circle wasn't big, but it was thick, and a piece of the pencil lead was broken off. He slowly picked it up, threw it into the ashtray, then stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, several soldiers patrolled the Kremlin courtyard. Their boots clicked and clacked on the cobblestones. In the distance, the Moscow River gleamed dimly in the moonlight. He turned and pressed the bell on the table. The door opened, and Poskrebyshev entered, carrying a notebook.

"Call Molotov, Beria, Voroshilov, and Shaposhnikov. Now," Stalin said.

Poskrebyshev jotted it down in his notebook, saluted, and turned to leave. Stalin sat alone at the table.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was expressionless, only weary. He took a drag, and smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating in the lamplight.

He recalled 1918. That year he was forty years old, in Tsaritsyn, in southern Russia. The German army had invaded, and the Red Army had retreated. During the retreat, he rode a horse from Tsaritsyn to Moscow, covering more than a thousand kilometers. Along the way, he encountered refugees, deserters, and stragglers. Someone asked him, "Comrade Stalin, can we hold out?" He said, "Yes." Because at that time he was young and energetic, but now he was old and had a new understanding of things.

He was sixty-two years old, his hair was white, his teeth were loose, and he suffered from stomach problems. He stood in the same spot again, listening to the same cannon fire, watching the same flashes of light. The difference was, this time he had no way out.

The door opened. Molotov walked in, his steps light. He was wearing a dark gray suit, his tie was perfectly tied, and his hair was neatly combed.

"Comrade Stalin," he said.

Stalin nodded and gestured to the sofa beside him. Molotov sat down, placed his briefcase on his lap, unzipped it, but didn't take out any documents; he was waiting.

Beria was the second to enter. He was dressed in black civilian clothes, the collar buttoned up tightly, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. His face was thin, his cheekbones high, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He entered almost silently. He sat down next to Molotov, his hands on his knees, motionless, his eyes fixed on Stalin.

Voroshilov was the third to enter. He was wearing a military uniform with four stars on his epaulets; he was a marshal.

"Excuse me, Comrade Stalin. There's a traffic jam." His voice was loud and sounded particularly jarring in the quiet room.

Stalin glanced at him, while Voroshilov sat down next to Beria and unbuttoned his coat.

Shaposhnikov was the last to enter. He was sixty years old, with completely white hair and a deeply wrinkled face. He wore a military uniform with three stars on his epaulets, indicating he was a general. He walked slowly, his left leg slightly injured from an old wound. He walked up to Stalin, saluted, and then sat down next to Voroshilov.

Stalin looked at them. Five men, five of the men he trusted most.

"Mozhaisk is lost," Stalin said. "The German vanguard will be on the western outskirts of Moscow within three days."

What are your thoughts?

No one speaks.

Stalin picked up the telegram from the table and tossed it into the middle. It tumbled a few times in the air before landing flat on the table, text facing up. It was in Zhukov's handwriting, very messy, but every word was legible.

Molotov was the first to speak.

"Comrade Stalin, we need to inform the Allies. Britain and the United States should know that Moscow may not hold. If they know that Moscow is going to fall, they may reconsider their aid to the Soviet Union."

Stalin looked at him. "Tell them what? Tell them we're running?"

Molotov did not answer.

"We're not running away," Stalin said. "Moscow won't fall. Who told you Moscow was going to fall?"

No one speaks.

Voroshilov cleared his throat. He was the People's Commissar of Defense, in charge of the army.

"Comrade Stalin, our troops have suffered heavy losses. The 5th and 31st Armies have been decimated. The 24th and 43rd Armies are still encircled in the Vyazma direction. The troops transferred from the Far East are still on their way and will not arrive for at least two weeks. We only have the 2nd Army, along with some militia and military academy cadets. In total, we have less than 100,000 men. The Germans have three armored groups, more than a dozen armored divisions, and hundreds of thousands of men."

Stalin looked at him. "Are you telling me we can't hold out?"

Voroshilov lowered his head. "I'm telling you, we need more troops, and we need to move them faster."

Stalin stood up and walked to the map.

"Moscow is not Paris, Warsaw, or Copenhagen, not those cities taken by the Germans. Moscow is different."

He turned around and looked at the people.

"If the Germans take the capitals of other countries, they will surrender to them, but after they take Moscow, will the Soviets surrender? No."

He walked back to the table and sat down.

"Because the Soviets are not French, we have inexhaustible energy."

Beria spoke. He was the People's Commissar for Internal Affairs, in charge of intelligence and the secret police.

"Comrade Stalin, the situation in Moscow is very dangerous. German reconnaissance planes can now fly over the city. Their spies are also active in the city. We need to increase security. All important facilities, such as the Kremlin and Red Square, need protection. Also," he looked up at Stalin, "you need to move to a safe place."

Stalin looked at him. "Where to move to?"

Beria thought for a moment. "Kuybyshev. It's the backup capital, with a prepared command post, so it's relatively safe for now."

Stalin fell into a brief silence.

"I will not leave," Stalin said. "If Moscow is here, I am here; if Moscow is lost, I am lost."

Beria lowered his head. "But Comrade Stalin—"

"I told you, I'm not leaving."

The room fell silent. Shaposhnikov hadn't spoken. He was the Chief of the General Staff, in charge of military affairs. He knew it was his turn to speak. He cleared his throat.

"Comrade Stalin, Comrade Zhukov suggested establishing three lines of defense in the western suburbs of Moscow. The first line would be in Narofominsk, the second in Podolsk, and the third west of Moscow. Each line of defense would require troops, fortifications, and weapons. What we lack most right now is time. The Germans can arrive within three days, but our troops cannot."

95

Stalin looked at him. "How much time do you need?"

Shaposhnikov thought for a moment. "One week. At least one week. Within a week, the troops transferred from the Far East will arrive. Within a week, the Moscow militia will complete their training. Within a week, we can prepare the defensive line."

"I'll give you a week," Stalin said, "but the Germans won't give me a week. So you'll have to do a week's worth of work in two days."

Shaposhnikov nodded. He made a note of it in his notebook.

Stalin stood up.

"Pass on my orders," he said. "Moscow will be under martial law starting tomorrow. All factories, government offices, and schools will be put into wartime operation. Everyone who can take up arms will be incorporated into the militia. All food, fuel, and medicine will be rationed. All cars, carriages, and bicycles will be requisitioned, and all unstable elements will be transferred to the rear."

Beria wrote it down in his notebook.

"And another thing," Stalin turned to them, "tell Zhukov to come to Moscow. I want to hear his report in person."

Voroshilov nodded.

"Meeting adjourned," Stalin said.

The four men stood up, saluted, and turned to leave. Stalin was left alone in the room. He walked to the map and looked at the red arrows. The arrows were still extending eastward, moving very quickly.

He took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke swirling in his lungs before exhaling through his nostrils.

All the generals have arrived. The soldiers have arrived too. Moscow is waiting for them.

He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked out of the room.

In the corridor, the secretaries had already begun their work. They all lowered their heads when they saw him. He walked past them without looking at them. He went to the adjacent conference room, pushed open the door, and went inside. There were already a dozen or so people seated inside, all People's Commissars and high-ranking generals. They all stood up when they saw him enter.

He waved for them to sit down. He walked to the head of the long table, placed his hands on the edge, and looked at them.

"Gentlemen," he said, "Mozhaisk has fallen. The Germans will be on the western outskirts of Moscow within three days. We must hold Moscow."

He looked at the pale faces of those people.

"Everyone who can hold a gun should hold a gun. Everyone who can dig a trench should dig a trench. Everyone who owns a car should give it up. Everyone who has food should give it up. Anyone who disobeys orders will be punished as a traitor."

He straightened up and looked at his watch. Five in the morning.

"From this moment forward, every single person, every single minute, must be dedicated to defense. There will be no rest, no holidays, no exceptions. Anyone who slacks off, runs away, or surrenders will be executed, and his entire family will also be executed."

Molotov was the first to raise his head. As the People's Commissar for Foreign Affairs and second in the Politburo, no one was surprised when he spoke. His voice was soft, but in the quiet room, every word was clearly audible.

"Comrade Stalin, I have a question."

Stalin looked at him. "Ask."

"You just said that everyone who can handle a gun should handle a gun. How many people in Moscow can handle a gun?"

Voroshilov took over the conversation. As the People's Commissar of Defense, these figures were in his mind, and he said directly: "Moscow currently has 1.5 million residents. Excluding the elderly, women, children, and the sick, there are about 500,000 who can carry guns. Of these 500,000, 200,000 are workers and are already in the militia. The remaining 300,000 need to be registered, organized, and trained. It will take at least a week before they can be deployed for combat."

Stalin looked at him. "A week. The Germans can get here in three days. After three days, what about these 300,000 men? Beat them up with our fists?"

Voroshilov did not answer.

Shaposhnikov spoke. He was the Chief of the General Staff; he spoke slowly and in a low voice, as if reading a report. "Comrade Stalin, we still have stockpiles in our arsenals. We have 150,000 rifles, 3,000 machine guns, and 800 mortars. These weapons can be issued to the militia. We also have enough bullets and shells for a while. But the problem is, the militia are untrained. They don't know how to aim, how to hide, or how to coordinate. Sending them to the battlefield is tantamount to sending them to their deaths."

Stalin tapped his finger on the edge of the table. "Sending them to their deaths is better than not sending them at all. Sending them to their deaths will hold off the Germans for a day; if we don't send them, the Germans will arrive in a day. In a day, we can bring in a division. A division can hold out for another day. Day after day, a week will pass. A week later, the troops from the Far East will arrive."

Beria spoke. He was the People's Commissar for Internal Affairs, and his voice was low, as if squeezed from his throat. "Comrade Stalin, besides the militia problem, there is also the problem of order. There is panic in Moscow. After news of the fall of Mozhaisk spread, people began to flee the city, civilians and officials alike. Last night, the Ministry of Internal Affairs intercepted a group of people at the train station, all cadres from various ministries, with their families and luggage, trying to flee east. We detained them, confiscated their tickets and documents, but there will be more and more like them. If we don't take measures, Moscow will become a ghost town within a week."

Stalin's eyes narrowed. "Arrest him, lock him up, and post posters of him everywhere."

Beria nodded. "I've already given the order. But I feel that simply arresting isn't enough. We need a more forceful measure. For example, declare martial law in Moscow, establish a Defense Committee, and concentrate all power in one institution. This institution will be directly responsible to you, with the authority to mobilize all troops, police, militia, and civilian resources. Anyone who disobeys orders can be executed on the spot."

A low murmur arose around the table. Some nodded, some frowned, and some remained expressionless.

Molotov spoke up. "Comrade Beria, do you mean to establish an organization similar to a wartime Supreme Command?"

Beria looked at him. "No. Not like that. It is. Comrade Stalin will be the chairman, and you, Voroshilov, Shaposhnikov, and I will be the commissioners. All People's Commissariat, all military districts, factories, and transportation departments will be under the leadership of this body. Orders will be issued directly, without any intermediaries, and anyone who fails to execute them will be court-martialed."

Molotov remained silent for a few seconds.

"I agree," Voroshilov said.

"I agree," Shaposhnikov said.

"I agree," Molotov said.

Stalin looked at them and thought for a moment.

"The National Defense Committee," he repeated. "It is established. I am the chairman, Molotov the vice-chairman, and Voroshilov, Beria, and Shaposhnikov the members. The order is issued today. All newspapers must publish it. From tomorrow, Moscow will be on wartime alert until the end of the war. Anyone who disobeys orders will be charged with treason."