October, 1941
Moscow
The walls vibrated and Stephen knew without seeing them that tanks were moving down a nearby street. He moved to the window, knowing that if they were German he would die here by his own hand rather than be captured. He gasped in astonishment at the line of T-34’s rumbling through the intersection down the block. For three days of anarchy he had stayed inside; now the streets were suddenly filling up with soldiers and civilians, as though they had been hiding underground during a bombing raid. Before long a loudspeaker blasted the word: Stalin had declared a state of siege in Moscow. No one would be permitted to leave the city under penalty of death.
That night Stephen went out. Work had already recommenced on anti-tank barriers and other fortifications. Roadblocks had been erected on all major thoroughfares to prevent anyone from leaving, and a deliberate calm was evident in the faces of those who had returned to fight and die to save Moscow.
He went quickly back to the apartment for fear of being stopped and questioned—he had no plausible excuse for his failure to be in uniform.
The night passed in agony. The confidence that had sustained him vanished. He tasted the bitter fruit of vulnerability. He was growing weak from hunger, but he had no money and he couldn’t risk going out with his phony papers. They had belonged to someone he hadn’t known, a wrestler named Illya Radek from Leningrad.
In the hour before dawn he was lulled into a deep sleep by the sound of rain. He awoke at noon with a renewed sense of purpose: Rachel and Lily would wait for him in Tashkent; for now, he had to find a way to avoid arrest as best he could.
You have to eat, he told himself. They need young men to defend the city. Go and volunteer. Tell them you overslept, that the buses left without you. Tell them anything—they’ll believe it because they need you. Your youth. Your strength.
* * *
By noon he was digging anti-tank trenches and building fortifications. After hearing his story, the soldier in charge, Colonel Kozlov, said he would see about getting him formally inducted into the army. In the meantime, he could work for the colonel in exchange for three meals a day. Kozlov commanded a cavalry division that was temporarily assigned to the city; the first question he had asked Stephen was whether he knew how to ride a horse. Stephen had demonstrated his riding skills, which he told Kozlov he had come by through a friend from Leningrad whose father had operated a stable. At first it was awkward answering to the name Radek, but by the end of the day Stephen had come to enjoy it. You ought to be an actor, he told himself, relishing the strange freedom that came with pretending to be someone else. It was amazing how easy it was to invent a past for his new self, replete with parents, brothers and sisters, and a youth spent in Leningrad, a city he had only heard about from his mother.
After a few days, he left the apartment and began sleeping in a tent Kozlov assigned him. Their division had set up a tent city in a park near the river. They had built a paddock for the horses; the gypsy who kept the stables back home had owned one Arabian, but these horses were far more powerful than any Arabian. Stephen marveled at their graceful lines and the intelligence that shown in their soft sensitive eyes.
A week passed, then two more, and Stephen found that he enjoyed the work and loved being around the horses. In the evening after dinner he would often spend time in the paddock, watching and listening to them. He learned their names, and he saw that their personality traits were as distinctive as any man’s. At times he found their ability to communicate their wishes and moods uncanny.
Lily was always on his mind. Images of her on the great river tormented and thrilled him. He would dwell on his failed attempt until he was on the verge of descending into an insane rage. Then he would see Lily on an imaginary boat, beckoning to him, and his doubts would disappear for a time. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t lost her, that the river waited for him. But his doubts were never vanquished, only suppressed.
He read Pravda, his only source of information, with a skeptical eye. The Germans, the paper claimed, frustrated by the weather, were for the first time in the war forced to fight a standing army with apparently limitless manpower. General Zhukov was meeting them head-on, sacrificing whole divisions to prove to the enemy that the Russians would fight until they were dead, that there would be no surrender.
The sacrifice part is true, Stephen thought, but given the pathetic state of the army, it is more necessity than strategy.
On November 1, Pravda announced that the front was quiet. The German offensive had come to a complete halt at Volokolamsk—they were regrouping, bringing up reinforcements for a final thrust at the capital. But within days the temperature dropped and it began to snow. Endless personnel convoys rolled through Stephen’s camp to the front carrying Siberian troops clad from head to toe in baggy white camouflage suits. The Asians were equipped with sub-machine guns, and Stephen joined the other cavalry men in gawking at these phantoms. After the Siberians came another truck convoy, this one loaded with winter clothing. From Kozlov, Stephen obtained a sheepskin coat, felt boots, thermo-underwear, and a fur cap.
“Stalin’s no fool,” Kozlov observed as Stephen marveled, stroking the thick fur lining of his coat. “You can murder as many people as you want as long as you keep your army warm.”
Stephen didn’t second the Colonel’s remark. His face glowed with the gratitude he felt towards the nameless thousands who had labored to produce these clothes in time for winter; they had saved countless lives, including his own.
“Look at this,” Kozlov pointed at Stephen’s face. “Too bad the photographers aren’t here. You’d be on the front page of Pravda tomorrow morning.”
“Why do you hate them so much?” Stephen asked.
“We Russians would despise our leaders regardless of what they called themselves.”
Stephen thanked Kozlov for the clothes and began to walk away.
“Wait. I want to talk to you.”
Stephen turned back. Kozlov was a thin man of medium height with a ruddy face, soft grey eyes, and a blond moustache that from a distance appeared to be a shadow. Stephen had never seen him smile, but today he looked even more somber than usual.
“Look son, I know what your papers say, but you aren’t from Leningrad and you’re one of the best liars I’ve ever met in my life.”
Stephen met Kozlov’s eyes, but said nothing. What’s there to say—you’re right. Now call the N.K.V.D. and get it over with?
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not about to turn you over to those cocksuckers. But I want you to know this won’t last forever. We’re going to be ordered back to the front. What you do then is up to you. But you better think about it before it’s too late.”
“How long do I have?”
“Could happen any day.”
You have to trust him, Stephen told himself. There’s no one else. If he was going to turn you in, he would have.
“I have to get out of the city.”
“That’s all.”
“Yes.” Stephen paused. Obviously, he had to give Kozlov more than this. “I’m Latvian. I was on the soccer team. I lost my papers when our convoy was attacked just outside of the city. I’m trying to get to Tashkent to meet my girlfriend.”
Kozlov shook his head. “You’re such a good liar I know you’re telling the truth with that story. For your sake, I wish you were lying.”
“I’m not.”
“I can get you out of the city. You’ll ride with me. At some point, you can split off on your own.”
“What about my formal induction?”
“I lost the paperwork.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Kozlov held up his hand. “Not yet. Wait until we get out of the city.”