Stalin, who had been at meetings with the American President and British Prime Minister all day, wore the new fawn uniform of a generalissimo with gold shoulderboards and just one medal. Satinov could tell the meetings of the Potsdam Conference had gone well. There was a breezy swagger about him and he had recovered some of his energy.
‘
‘Thank you, Josef Vissarionovich,’ replied Satinov, thinking that Berlin was a long way to fly for some
A new line-up, he thought, his experienced mind analysing what it conveyed. Genrikh Dorov was not a good sign: he never came to Stalin’s dinners, being more of a retainer than a leader. Stalin deployed him as an attack dog, his presence denoting a witchhunt or an investigation that would have tragic consequences. He thought of Dashka instantly – what must it be like being married to the Uncooked Chicken? He nodded at him in greeting, and Genrikh grinned back at him with menacing geniality. The Dorov children had been arrested too, Satinov thought, but that wasn’t why Genrikh was there. He was already slavishly devoted to Stalin, whether his children were in jail or not. No, he was there as a scarecrow. To frighten someone. To frighten me.
‘I hope the flight was easy. I hate flying myself. I prefer the train,’ said Stalin. ‘But I wanted to look at you in the eyes.’
Satinov’s six-year-old daughter Mariko was in prison with his eighteen-year-old son George, and Stalin wished to look him in the eyes to check that he was still loyal. It was a rite of passage, and he, Satinov, was not alone. President Kalinin’s wife was in prison; Poskrebyshev’s pretty young wife Bronka had vanished altogether, probably dead. Stalin was telling him that family was a privilege just as living was a privilege, and that both were at the mercy of the Party. And the Party was Stalin. It was an odd system but it was the Bolshevik way, and Satinov was accustomed to it.
They sat down to table, with Satinov on Stalin’s right and Beria on his left.
‘Have you seen the palace where we’re holding the conference?’ asked Stalin.
‘I have,’ replied Satinov, picturing Mariko, screaming, being prised off her mother by brutal warders.
‘It’s meagre compared with our palaces,’ mused Stalin. ‘The tsars really knew how to build.’
‘They did,’ agreed Satinov, hearing Tamriko screaming at him, ‘They’ve taken Mariko! She’s six, Hercules. Get her released!’ Satinov composed himself, knowing his face must reveal nothing but reverence and fondness for Stalin.
Yet the night seemed endless. He knew, at some point, there would be a clue for him about Mariko and George, providing Stalin was satisfied that he had learned his lesson and harboured no resentment. Soon enough too, he would find out why Genrikh Dorov was here. Such games had perhaps been necessary before the war, but, he wondered, were they necessary now?
‘So is everything well in Moscow?’ asked Stalin.
‘Nothing can be decided without you, but Comrade Molotov and the rest of us are doing our best.’
‘You’ve got to decide things without me,’ said Stalin. ‘I’m tired.’
‘But we need you, Comrade Stalin!’ cried Beria.
‘The Soviet Union needs your genius, comrade generalissimo,’ added Dorov.
Stalin waved this away, and his yellow eyes returned to Satinov. ‘So Tamriko is well?’
‘Very well,’ answered Satinov. My wife is distraught, he thought. Our little Mariko is in prison, on your orders, and you look at me knowing this. ‘Everyone at home is so proud to see you here at Potsdam, the man who won the war, who led us to Berlin.’
‘Yet Tsar Alexander made it all the way to Paris in 1814,’ said Stalin. ‘Comrade Dorov and I have been discussing you.’
‘Me?’ Satinov swallowed. This was the warning.
Stalin let the silence draw out. Satinov thought of Tamriko and his children, he thought of Dashka, and he thought: Shoot me, but free my children. Leave Tamara alone.
At last Stalin gave him his satyr’s grin. ‘Don’t worry, Hercules! The Central Committee thinks you and Beria should be promoted to marshal.’
Satinov’s first and absurd concern was whether his new rank would impress Dashka. It shouldn’t impress her – but he knew it would. He flicked a glance at her husband, who looked away.
‘It’s an honour and of course I always obey the Party. But I’m not a soldier.’
‘Nor is Beria. Far from it!’ A disdainful look at Beria. ‘But, Hercules, you’re a colonel general already,’ replied Stalin.
‘But I don’t have anything like your military knowledge—’
‘Or your strategic genius!’ interjected Beria.
‘I’ve never commanded so much as a platoon,’ insisted Satinov. ‘The generals will resent it.’
‘That’s just the point,’ answered Stalin. ‘We’ve voted on it and it’s decided.’
