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"A group of us are going to Kuntsevo to see him."
Volodya asked the key question. "For what purpose?"
"Primarily to find out whether he's alive or dead."
Could he really be dead already, and no one know about it? Volodya wondered. It seemed unlikely. "And if he's alive?"
"I don't know. But whatever happens I'd rather be there to see it than find out later."
Listening devices did not work in moving cars, Volodya knew--the microphone just picked up engine noise--so he was confident he could not be overheard. Nevertheless he felt fearful as he said the unthinkable
. "Could Stalin be overthrown?"
His father answered irritably: "I told you, I don't know."
Volodya was electrified. Such a question demanded a confident negative. Anything else was a yes. His father had admitted the possibility that Stalin could be finished.
Volodya's hopes rose volcanically. "Think what that could be like!" he said joyously. "No more purges! The labor camps will be closed. Young girls will no longer be pulled off the street to be raped by the secret police." He half-expected his father to interrupt, but Grigori just listened with half-closed eyes. Volodya went on: "The stupid phrase 'Trotsky-Fascist spy' will disappear from our language. Army units who find themselves outnumbered and outgunned could retreat, instead of sacrificing themselves uselessly. Decisions will be made rationally, by groups of intelligent men working out what's best for everyone. It's the Communism you dreamed of thirty years ago!"
"Young fool," his father said contemptuously. "The last thing we want at this point is to lose our leader. We're at war and retreating! Our sole aim must be to defend the revolution--whatever it takes. We need Stalin now more than ever."
Volodya felt as if he had been slapped. It was many years since his father had called him a fool.
Was the old man right? Did the Soviet Union need Stalin? The leader had made so many disastrous decisions that Volodya did not see how the country could possibly be worse off with someone else in charge.
They reached their destination. Stalin's home was conventionally called a dacha, but it was not a country cottage. A long, low building with five tall windows each side of a grand entrance, it stood in a pine forest and was painted dull green, as if to hide it. Hundreds of armed troops guarded the gates and the double barbed-wire fence. Grigori pointed to an antiaircraft battery partly concealed by camouflage netting. "I put that there," he said.
The guard at the gate recognized Grigori, but nevertheless asked for their identification documents. Even though Grigori was a general and Volodya a captain in intelligence, they were both patted down for weapons.
Volodya drove up to the door. There were no other cars in front of the house. "We'll wait for the others," his father said.
A few moments later three more ZIS limousines drew up. Volodya recalled that ZIS stood for Zavod Imeni Stalina, Factory Called Stalin. Had the executioners arrived in cars named after their victim?
They all got out, eight middle-aged men in suits and hats, holding in their hands the future of their country. Among them Volodya recognized Foreign Minister Molotov and secret police chief Beria.
"Let's go," said Grigori.
Volodya was astonished. "I'm coming in there with you?"
Grigori reached under his seat and handed Volodya a Tokarev TT-33 pistol. "Put this in your pocket," he said. "If that prick Beria tries to arrest me, you shoot the fucker."
Volodya took it gingerly: the TT-33 had no safety catch. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket--it was about seven inches long--and got out of the car. There were eight rounds, he recalled, in the magazine of the gun.
They all went inside. Volodya feared he would be patted down again, and his gun discovered, but there was no second check.
The house was painted dark colors and poorly lit. An officer showed the group into what looked like a small dining room. Stalin sat there in an armchair.
The most powerful man in the Eastern Hemisphere appeared haggard and depressed. Looking up at the group entering the room he said: "Why have you come?"
Volodya gasped. Clearly he thought they were there either to arrest him or to execute him.
There was a long pause, and Volodya realized the group had not planned what to do. How could they, not even knowing whether Stalin was alive?
But what would they do now? Shoot him? There might never be another chance.
At last Molotov stepped forward. "We're asking you to come back to work," he said.
Volodya had to suppress the urge to protest.
