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But Stalin shook his head. "Can I live up to people's hopes? Can I lead the country to victory?"
Volodya was flabbergasted. Would he really refuse?
Stalin added: "There may be better candidates."
He was giving them a second chance to fire him!
Another member of the group spoke up, and Volodya recognized Marshal Voroshilov. "There's none more worthy," he said.
How did that help? This was hardly the time for naked flattery.
Then his father joined in, saying: "That's right!"
Were they not going to let Stalin go? How could they be so stupid?
Molotov was the first to say something sensible. "We propose to form a war cabinet called the State Defense Committee, a kind of ultra-politburo with a very small membership and sweeping powers."
Stalin quickly interposed: "Who will be its head?"
"You, Comrade Stalin!"
Volodya wanted to shout No!
There was another long silence.
At last Stalin spoke. "Very well," he said. "Now, who else shall we have on the committee?"
Beria stepped forward and began to propose the members.
It was all over, Volodya realized, feeling dizzy with frustration and disappointment. They had lost their chance. They could have deposed a tyrant, but they had lacked the nerve. Like the children of a violent father, they feared they could not manage without him.
In fact it was worse than that, he saw with growing despondency. Perhaps Stalin really had had a breakdown--it had certainly seemed real--but he had also made a brilliant political move. All the men who might replace him were here in this room. At the moment when his catastrophically poor judgment had been exposed for all to see, he had forced his rivals to come out and beg him to be their leader again. He had drawn a line under his appalling mistake and given himself a new start.
Stalin was not just back.
He was stronger than ever.
xi
Who would have the courage to make a public protest about what was going on at Akelberg? Carla and Frieda had seen it with their own eyes, and they had Ilse Konig as a witness, but now they needed an advocate. There were no elected representatives anymore: all Reichstag deputies were Nazis. There were no real journalists, either, just scribbling sycophants. The judges were all Nazi appointees subservient to the government. Carla had never before realized how much she had been protected by politicians, newspapermen, and lawyers. Without them, she saw now, the government could do anything it liked, even kill people.
Who could they turn to? Frieda's admirer Heinrich von Kessel had a friend who was a Catholic priest. "Peter was the cleverest boy in my class," he told them. "But he wasn't the most popular. A bit upright and stiff-necked. I think he'll listen to us, though."
Carla thought it was worth a try. Her Protestant pastor had been sympathetic, until the Gestapo terrified him into silence. Perhaps the same would happen again. But she did not know what else to do.
Heinrich took Carla, Frieda, and Ilse to Peter's church in Schoneberg early on a Sunday morning in July. Heinrich was handsome in a black suit; the girls all wore their nurses' uniforms, symbols of trustworthiness. They entered by a side door and went into a small, dusty room with a few old chairs and a large wardrobe. They found Father Peter alone, praying. He must have heard them come in, but he remained on his knees for a minute before getting up and turning to greet them.
Peter was tall and thin, with regular features and a neat haircut. He was twenty-seven, Carla calculated, if he was Heinrich's contemporary. He frowned at them, not troubling to conceal his irritation at being disturbed. "I am preparing myself for Mass," he said severely. "I am pleased to see you in church, Heinrich, but you must leave me now. I will see you afterward."
"This is a spiritual emergency, Peter," said Heinrich. "Sit down, we have something important to tell you."
"It could hardly be more important than Mass."
"Yes, it could, Peter, believe me. In five minutes' time you will agree."
"Very well."
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