Sashenka

Lavrenti Beria knew he did not suit the full blue and red uniform of Commissar-General, first degree, of State Security. His legs were too short for the pleated trousers and boots, his shoulders too broad, his neck too thick, but he had to wear the ridiculous rig sometimes. His black Buick with the darkened windows drove him through the Spassky Gates into the Kremlin, turned into Trinity Square, and halted with a skid at the Sovnarkom Building. Security in the Little Corner, as Stalin’s office was known, was very tight. The Guards Section answered only to Stalin himself, so that even the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs needed to show his pass and surrender his sidearm.

Beria had been in Moscow for only ten months, so he was still new enough to enjoy his position—but keenly aware that he had to fight to keep it. He was confident that he could handle any degree of responsibility—he was indefatigable, he could work without sleep.

Holding his leather satchel, Beria passed through the first security barrier into the office of Alexander Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s chief of staff. Here he surrendered his Mauser. A bald dwarf with the face of a baboon and livid, almost burned skin, Poskrebyshev recorded his arrival in the Master’s appointment book. He greeted Beria respectfully, a sign of Stalin’s favor.

“Go right in! The Master’s ready—and in a thoughtful mood.” Poskrebyshev offered this service to important visitors: a forecast of Stalin’s state of mind.

The first door opened and a group of military commanders and intellectual types came out, holding drawing boards. Beria thought he saw tanks and guns on these. The soldiers and designers glanced at him and Beria saw them blanch: yes, he was the pitiless sword of the Revolution. They had to fear him. If they didn’t, he was not doing his job.

When they were gone, Beria passed through the last security checkpoint. The young men in blue saluted.

The room was empty. Beria knew that the Master was now thinking about the European situation. Madrid, the capital of the Spanish Republic, had just fallen—and that removed any obstacle to dialogue with the Hitlerite Germans. Britain and France had caved in to Hitler at Munich, and momentous changes were now on the Master’s mind. That was the reason for the case against the former diplomats at the Foreign Commissariat—it was a signal to Berlin that Soviet policy was changing.

Poskrebyshev shut the door behind him.

Beria waited by the door of a large, high rectangular office with many windows. A huge table covered in green baize stood in the center. Portraits of Lenin and Marx hung on one side, and (an addition that anticipated the coming war) those of Field Marshals Kutuzov and Suvorov on the other. Lenin’s death mask was illuminated by a green-shaded lamp to remind visitors that this was the holy of holies.

At the far end, behind a large empty desk, a small door, almost invisible in the wood paneling, opened and Stalin came in, carrying a steaming glass in a silver holder. Beria was always impressed with the Master’s mixture of animal grace, peasant swagger and thoughtful intellect. A great statesman required all three.

“Lavrenti, gamajoba!” said Stalin in Georgian. Alone, they could talk Georgian. When Russians were present, Stalin did not like to talk in his native tongue because he was a Russian leader and Georgia was a minor province of the Russian Empire; “a parochial marsh,” he had once called it. But when they were alone together, it was fine.

Stalin gave Beria his tigerish smile. “Ah, the new uniform. Not bad, not bad at all. Sit down. How’s Nina?”

“Very well, thank you, Comrade Stalin. She sends her regards.” Beria knew that Stalin liked his blond wife, Nina.

“And your son, little Sergo?”

“Settling into school. He still remembers when you tucked him up in bed when he was very small.”

“I read him his bedtime story too. Svetlana’s very happy he’s now in Moscow. Does Nina like that nobleman’s house I chose for you? Did she get the Georgian jams I sent over? You’re a specially trusted responsible worker, you need some space. You need special conditions.”

“Thank you and the Central Committee for your trust, the house and the dacha. Nina’s delighted!”

“But she can thank me for the jam herself!” They laughed.

“Believe me, Josef Vissarionovich,” Beria respectfully used Stalin’s name and patronymic, “she’s writing you a letter.”

“No need. Sit down.”

Beria sat at the green baize table and unzipped his case, pulling out papers. Stalin sat at the head of the table, stirring his tea. He squeezed a slice of lemon into it.

“Right, what have you got for me?”

“We’ve a lot to get through, Comrade Stalin. The case at the Foreign Commissariat is progressing well and there are German, Polish, French and Japanese spies among the old diplomats.”

“Who’s working it?”

“Kobylov and Palitsyn.”

“We know Kobylov. He’s a bull in a china shop but a good operative. He takes his silk gloves off. Palitsyn’s a good worker?”