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“Beria,” Molotov said softly. So. The Mingrelian wanted to go where the Georgian had blazed the trail, did he? With cold political horse sense behind his judgment, Molotov didn’t think Beria could get away with it for long. The Soviet Union had had one ruler from the Caucasus, and that was plenty for a long time. But horse sense, unfortunately, said nothing about Molotov’s personal chances for escape.
And here came the guard again. He shoved papers between the bars of the window set into the door. A cheap pen followed the papers. “Sign here. Don’t take all day about it, either, not if you know what’s good for you.”
“I will remember your face and learn your name,” Molotov said. The guard walked off again, laughing.
Molotov read the papers. According to them, he had resigned as General Secretary because of failing health. They maintained he looked forward to retirement in some place with a warm climate-perhaps the Caucasus, so Beria could make sure he didn’t get into mischief, perhaps the hell in which, as a good Marxist-Leninist, he wasn’t supposed to believe.
If he signed those papers, how long would Beria let him live? He had the idea he was still breathing for no other reason than to put his name on the requisite lines. But if he didn’t, what would Lavrenti Pavlovich do to him? Did he want to find out? Did he have the nerve to find out?
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than killing him. So he told himself, at any rate. A few minutes later, the guard opened the door. He was big and beefy. So were his three pals. When he checked the papers, he scowled. “You forget how to write?” he demanded, his voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.
“No,” Molotov said. It was the last coherent sound he made for the next several minutes. The goons set on him with a gusto that showed they enjoyed their work. They also showed a certain amount of skill, inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of actual damage. The one who wrapped Molotov’s fingers around a pencil in a particular way and then squeezed his hand had especially nasty talents along those lines. Molotov howled like a dog baying at the moon.
After a bit, the guard shoved the papers in front of his face again. “Remember your name yet, old man?” Yes leapt into Molotov’s throat. But then he thought, If I yield, I am likely to die. He made himself shake his head. The guard sighed, as if at a bad run of cards. The beating went on.
Feigning unconsciousness came easy for Molotov, though lying still when one of the bastards kicked him in the ribs was anything but. Grumbling, the guards stamped out of the cell. But they would be back. Molotov knew too well they would be back. Maybe the next round of torment would break him. Maybe they wouldn’t bother with another round. Maybe they would just kill him and get it over with.
He gathered his strength, such as it was. He’d sent a lot of men to executions without wondering what went through their minds while they awaited death. What went through his mind was surprisingly banal: he didn’t want things to end this way. But no one, now, cared what he wanted.
Sooner than he’d expected, the door opened again. He braced himself, not that that would do any good. Only one NKVD man this time, with a silenced pistol in his hand. It is the end, Molotov thought. Then the fellow spoke: “Comrade General Secretary?” His Russian had a rhythmic Polish accent.
And, suddenly, hope lived in Molotov’s narrow, heaving chest. “Nussboym,” he said, pleased and proud he’d remembered the name. He spoke with desperate urgency: “Get me out of here and you can name your own price.”
David Nussboym nodded. “Come along, then,” he said. “Keep your head down-make yourself hard to recognize. If anyone does figure out who you are, look abused.”
“It will not be hard.” Molotov heaved himself to his feet. Nussboym aimed the pistol at him. He shambled out of the cell, looking down at the cheap linoleum of the floor as he’d been ordered.
A few men passed them in the halls, but a guard leading a prisoner excited no special comment. Molotov was nearing the doorway and realizing Nussboym would have to shoot the guards there when something outside emitted a rumbling roar and the door came crashing in. One of the guards cursed and grabbed for his pistol. A burst of machine-gun fire cut him down.
An immensely amplified voice bellowed: “Surrender in there! Resistance is hopeless! The Red Army has this prison surrounded! Come out with your hands up!”
Molotov wasted no time whatever in obeying. Only later did he wonder if the tank machine-gunner might have shot him down for rushing forward so quickly. David Nussboym threw down his pistol and followed a heartbeat later.
A Red Army infantry lieutenant with a clipboard stood behind the tank. The fellow looked too young to shave, let alone serve the Soviet Union. “Give me your name, old-timer, and make it snappy,” he barked.
“Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov,” Molotov said in tones like a Murmansk winter. “Now give me yours.”
The lieutenant visibly started to call him a liar, but then took another look. He stiffened, as if suddenly afflicted with rigor mortis. Then he bawled for a superior. In something under fifteen minutes, Molotov was whisked into the presence of Marshal Zhukov back at the Kremlin. “Well, well,” Zhukov said. “So Beria didn’t do you in, eh?”
“No, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Molotov answered. “I remain at the helm, as you see, and not badly the worse for wear. And tell me, where is Lavrenti Pavlovich now?”
“Deceased,” Zhukov answered. “Your office carpet will need changing; it has stains on it.” The Red Army officer didn’t say anything for a while. Molotov didn’t care for the way Zhukov was studying him. If he had an unfortunate accident about now, who would stop Zhukov from seizing the reins of the Soviet Union? No one at all, Molotov thought bleakly. Zhukov lit a cigarette, inhaled, coughed a couple of times, and said, “Well, well, good to have you back.”
Molotov breathed again, and didn’t even notice how his ribs twinged. He’d known the habit of subordination was deeply ingrained in Zhukov, but he hadn’t known how deeply. Maybe Zhukov himself hadn’t known, either, not till the test came. “Good to be back,” Molotov said, no more emotionally than he said anything else. He raised an eyebrow. “And how did you become involved in the drama?”
“Beria announced your indisposition over Radio Moscow this morning,” Zhukov answered. “He also announced mine. Mine would have been fatal, except that my bodyguards shot faster and straighter than his assassins. I suspect he had a puppet waiting to take over the Army, but the rank and file are fond of me, even if some officers and apparatchiks aren’t. And, while the NKVD is strong, the Red Army is stronger. I have made very sure of this. We suppress the Chekists everywhere.”
“Good,” Molotov said. Beria had aimed to kill Zhukov at once, but had been willing to keep Molotov himself alive for a while. That spoke volumes about whom the NKVD chief had thought more dangerous. The way things had turned out proved he’d had a point. Molotov chose not to dwell on it. He sa
id, “The NKVD man who came out with me-his name is Nussboym-deserves reward, not punishment. He got me out of my cell. Without him, Beria’s men might have liquidated me even with Red Army troops filling Dzerzhinsky Square.”
“So they might have,” Zhukov said-wistfully? Molotov chose not to dwell on that, either. Zhukov went on, “I leave it to you to tend to that, then, Comrade General Secretary. Meanwhile, we have retaken the Radio Moscow transmitter and announced that all is well, but you might want to think about broadcasting a message yourself, to show that you are well and in control.”
“Yes, I will do that,” Molotov agreed at once. Chloroform? Beatings? He shrugged them off. That he hadn’t eaten since before Beria’s thugs seized him? He shrugged that off, too. “Take me to a broadcast studio.” Only after he was on his way did he realize he hadn’t asked about his wife. He shrugged once more. That could wait, too.
As she set a boiled brisket of beef on the table, Bertha Anielewicz said, “I wonder what really happened in Moscow the other day.”
“So do I,” Mordechai Anielewicz answered, picking up the serving fork and carving knife. While he cut portions for his wife, his children, and himself, he went on, “I ran into Ludmila this morning. She doesn’t know any more than we do, but she was almost dancing in the street to hear that Beria’s dead.”
“She ought to know,” Bertha said.
“That’s what I thought,” Mordechai agreed. “She said the only thing she was really sorry about was that Molotov didn’t go with him.”
“Can’t have everything,” his wife said. “The way things are, sometimes you can’t have anything.”
“And isn’t that the truth?” After a moment’s gloom, Anielewicz brightened. “David Nussboym ended up in the NKVD, remember. He ought to be sinking like a stone about now. Nu, can you tell that that breaks my heart?”
“Oh, of course,” Bertha answered. “Twenty years ago, he would have sunk you like a stone, too, if we hadn’t beaten him to the punch.”
