The Soviet rocket was created to promote peace.
POSTER SLOGAN
Simon Jashi couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw his wife standing before him in the old barracks. He blinked, as if he needed to make sure it wasn’t Stasia’s ghost. She had changed. Her shoulders were stooped; she seemed smaller than before, as if her sister’s misfortune, the separation from her children, the absence of a married life had caused her to shrink. Her calves, once hard as steel, were less muscular; her back was no longer as strong and straight as before; there was no colour in her lips, and the lines around her mouth were very marked. He tried to hug her, but the embrace proved more difficult, more artificial, than anticipated. He had forgotten what it felt like to feel.
‘This is absolutely ridiculous!’ Simon told his wife, once she had apprised him of her scheme. ‘In case it hasn’t got through to you yet: we’re in the middle of a world war, Stasia! What, you think I’m going to get him some sort of fake authorisation? Like hell I will! We’re the Red Army, not a bunch of amateurs. If we lose, we’re all done for, don’t you understand? We’ll all become slaves; we’ll lose everything we have, not just our freedom — the future, our country, our home.’
‘I’d rather be a slave and know that my son is alive than a free woman with a dead son,’ she cried, somewhat theatrically.
‘Stasia, listen to me! Kostya is in the Navy. He’s a sailor through and through. It’s what he wanted. He’s a grown man. He’s serving his country. Even if that were not the case, nobody posts a capable sailor somewhere strategically unimportant like the Black Sea. It won’t be long before all young men are conscripted. It’ll happen in Georgia, too. Don’t kid yourself: this isn’t going to be over any time soon. We have to do everything we can to make sure we win this war.’
‘He’s not a grown man, he’s not …’ Stasia kept shaking her head, as if the only thing her husband had said that she had understood was the bit about Kostya’s age.
‘He’ll get through. He’ll fight. He won’t allow himself to be enslaved; he’s a model of courage and loyalty. You should have seen him, at his graduation parade, when he —’
‘You don’t understand. You’re the one who doesn’t understand all this, Simon, not me.’
Stasia drew on her filterless cigarette and flapped away the smoke.
‘You have to leave the city right away, Stasia. We’re doing our best, but Moscow may have to be evacuated. You must go back to Tbilisi while you still can.’
Simon made another attempt to take Stasia in his arms. This time it was slightly more successful. As she allowed herself to be embraced by her husband, Stasia wondered why she didn’t worry about him as much as she did about her son. The thought made her feel ashamed, and she wriggled away.
The Red Lieutenant kept talking to her; he tried to change her mind, tried to encourage her to return home, but Stasia kept repeating that she had to see Kostya at least once before she would leave. She had to try, at least once, to speak to him. But Kostya was already at Lake Ladoga; he and his fellow marines had been assigned to safeguard supplies coming in via military road number 101 — the road that would later go down in history as the Road of Life.
Stasia stayed in Moscow.
Stasia stayed in the barracks and cooked potato soup for the soldiers in the barracks kitchen.
*
The Germans’ triumphal progress that summer seemed almost unreal. The success of Operation Barbarossa confirmed Hitler in his belief that he would soon defeat the Kremlin. Army Group Centre began to advance on Moscow. In the autumn of 1941, the Red Army regrouped and planned counter-attacks. Under General Zhukov, seventy new divisions were set up. All deserters and mutineers were to be shot on the spot. The autumn mud that made the roads impassable did Moscow and the entire Red Army a great favour. The Wehrmacht’s advance was delayed by weeks, and fuel, munitions, supplies of every kind, in particular winter clothing for the German soldiers, got stuck en route.
Workers’ regiments were already on standby in the various municipal districts. And as Stasia continued to hope for a meeting with her son, Andro Eristavi received his call-up papers for military service. The majority of Georgian soldiers called up in the winter of 1941 were sent to defend the Western Front, and ended up in Kerch in Crimea.
*
Since her sister’s departure, Christine had shown impressive discipline. As if she had been waiting all along to be left on her own with two adolescents, she came back from her shadow world of cherry liqueurs and opera arias to grubby, careworn reality. She drew up daily plans for their family of three, assigning the chores: there was housework to be done, food coupons to be redeemed, donations to be collected.
While Andro worked as a volunteer at the post office, Kitty helped Christine collect lint and bandages for the front, and together they planted vegetables in the garden; the food rations didn’t stretch nearly far enough. The war seemed to have given Christine a new purpose in life. Andro and Kitty went about inseparably entwined, like Siamese twins; they winked at and pinched each other, and were constantly challenging each other, as they so loved to do: whoever gets to the next crossroads first, whoever gets to the front door first, whoever plants more vegetables, whoever collects the most donations.
‘For our soldiers! Donations for our soldiers! They need warm winter clothing, socks, underwear, shirts. Everything welcome!’
Kitty had caught the flu, so Andro was standing alone beside his big box outside the teahouse, calling on people, with a friendly smile and a loud voice, to donate for the front. All of a sudden a fine gentleman was standing before him, extending his hand.
‘You have my respect, young man! Such enthusiasm! That’s what I call true loyalty to your homeland. Many young people your age just laze about and think of nothing but fun. They don’t know what it means to be at war, but you — I take my hat off to you!’ He made an affected little bow, then took a donation, wrapped in newspaper, from his briefcase and laid it carefully in Andro’s box.
The gentleman had the air of a foreigner, although he spoke flawless Georgian; he wore a perfectly tailored pinstriped suit and a strangely shaped hat with dark green trim. He introduced himself as David.
‘That should be enough for the time being,’ he said. He took an interest in the carvings Andro had with him, and held forth at length about trends in modern art. But the art he talked about was European, and he named names Andro didn’t know, impressing him all the more. The fine gentleman must have seemed to Andro like a being from another planet.
‘Yes, there are many interesting things in this world; unfortunately, we don’t hear much about them here, do we, Andro?’ said the gentleman, concluding his monologue; and Andro was flabbergasted, because he had not yet told the fine gentleman his name.
Before Andro could ask how he knew it, the stranger placed a matchbox on top of Andro’s carton and went on his way without saying goodbye. Andro picked up the matchbox and examined it. Finally, on the back, he found what he was looking for: an address, scrawled in tiny letters.
Andro felt like a real man of mystery. For three days he walked around with the matchbox in his pocket and didn’t even tell Kitty about this remarkable encounter. He imagined all kinds of adventures the fine gentleman might be caught up in. He wondered what such an urbane, sophisticated man could want from him, and how on earth he knew him. After three days he could no longer suppress his curiosity and set off to the address he had been given.
A winding staircase led up to the little attic apartment. There he was received by the gentleman, now wearing a dark blue suit and holding a glass of brandy, a drink Andro had only ever encountered in books.
‘You’re a fine young man. You combine many useful qualities: you have tact, curiosity, and good manners, too; you strive for something greater, and you’re loyal. But, alas, we are not living in a time in which such qualities are valued. Coarseness, betrayal, and greed are the order of the day.’
The man quickly came to the point — a little too quickly for Andro’s liking. They had sat down in front of an old tiled stove and Andro had just taken his first sip of brandy when the man started to speak very insistently.
‘Socialist ideology has been betrayed. We have been betrayed. And now we find ourselves at war, although we wanted peace. Now we find ourselves in the state of slavery we wanted to fight; we find ourselves in a dictatorship, my boy, although we longed for freedom. Our ideals have been violated.’
The man nodded meaningfully, as if to lend his words greater significance. Andro said nothing and looked at the floor: he felt pathetic and stupid, and didn’t wish to appear inexperienced and clueless. By remaining silent, he could at least convey the impression that he was thinking very carefully about what the gentleman was telling him.
‘But there is still hope,’ the man continued, and this time he sounded like someone giving a lecture before a large crowd. He rose to his feet and came to stand at Andro’s side. ‘There is a way to overcome these forces and establish a free Georgia, from which it would be no problem for people to travel to Paris or Vienna, as they used to do. For that, though, we need good men. You want to go to Europe, don’t you?’ The warming brandy was generously topped up. ‘We need men who know what’s important, and it seems to me, my boy, that you’re one of them. If we win this war, all our hopes are buried, all ideals are dead, all borders closed. You understand what I’m saying?’
Andro, befuddled by alcohol, nodded seriously. He looked up again and returned his host’s wide smile.
The apartment was spartan, not at all in keeping with this David person’s suave charisma. Perhaps that was a sort of disguise, Andro thought to himself. He felt he was being called upon to do something important, and even if he didn’t know exactly what his assignment was, it was certainly exciting. Something inside him told him he should not disappoint this man.
The man himself held forth about freedom and values, about borders and oppression. He spoke of Europe; again and again he mentioned names and places that were sheer magic to Andro’s ears, so unattainably remote, and so romantic. Places he had always wanted to visit; places he had so often rhapsodised about to Kitty; but in this man’s mouth they sounded familiar, not at all remote, no longer unattainable. As if he had just that moment returned from a stroll around Montmartre and was asking Andro if, next time, he would care to accompany him.
With this man it was so easy to imagine the casino tables in Baden-Baden, the dance clubs in Paris, the Viennese coffee houses. This man, in his fine clothes, kept talking to Andro, feeding his imagination with marvellous images that promised him the world and guaranteed him Vienna, freedom, wonderful prospects. He could develop his talent and aspire to a career as a sculptor. He could study in Europe.
‘The Germans are striving for freedom for Georgia. They know very well that the cradle of our race and our civilisation lies in the Caucasus.’ The man was whispering now. He had sat down opposite Andro again and was looking him straight in the eye. ‘Have you heard of the Georgian Legion, my boy?’ Andro shook his head. ‘These are men who are fighting from abroad, mainly from Berlin, for a free Georgia. In the past few years there’ve been secret discussions with the Germans; they’ve assured us that as soon as the Soviet Union is defeated we will be free again. That we will form an autonomous state as part of the Greater German Reich, and that we will be given our due, if you understand me.’
Andro nodded cautiously, although actually he wasn’t sure he really had understood what the man was saying.
‘You can help us, Andro. You can help us win this war. You can help us shape the future of our country. You can be free, my boy. You’ve been called up, haven’t you?
Again Andro wondered how it was that the man knew so much about him. This time he nodded firmly.
‘You’ll soon be sent to Crimea by the Soviets. Someone will contact you there and give you the details of your assignment. You have no military experience, so you’ll probably be trained in radio communications. A very important job, my boy. In a few months’ time we’ll fetch you and take you to Europe. You’ll be able to operate with us from there. We have cells everywhere. All over western Europe, and soon all over the world. And when all of this is over you’ll be able to go anywhere — wherever you like.’
Andro, now flushed and slightly drunk, leaned further forward and downed the last of his brandy.
‘Uff, that’s strong,’ he said with a smile. ‘And what about my wife?’
‘You have a wife?’ asked the gentleman in surprise.
‘Yes, soon she’ll be my wife.’
‘Oh — I see. Nothing should ever stand in the way of love. I can assure you that as soon as you’ve arrived in Europe and assumed your duties, we will send her to you. But all that takes time. We’re right in the thick of things. There’s still a great deal to do, and helping hands are important, Andro. We’ll arrange false papers for your wife and get her out of the country — with the highest level of protection, of course, that goes without saying.’
‘Are you spies or something?’ asked Andro, and laughed uncertainly. His head ached. He tried to interpret the man’s words. He tried to weigh up the offer. The gentleman slapped Andro on the back.
‘We’re just doing our work — working for a free Georgia.’
‘But … doesn’t that mean you’re working with the fascists? Why would the fascists particularly want Georgia to be a free country?’
‘Listen to me, Andro, listen to me very carefully.’ The man sat on the arm of Andro’s chair again, and this time his voice was rather sterner. ‘Perhaps you’ll have heard the name Shalva Maglakelidze. One of the original Georgian democrats, and a first-rate commander. Before the revolution he was governor general of Tbilisi. After the occupation of Georgia he left the country and emigrated to Europe, where he founded the Tetri Giorgi resistance organisation in 1924. The purpose of this organisation was to liberate Georgia from the hands of the Soviet occupiers. When war broke out, he founded the Georgian Legion in Berlin and made an agreement with the Germans, according to which Georgia was to become a free state within the Greater German Reich. Maglakelidze has gathered together the best Georgian soldiers in exile, and has allied himself with the Wehrmacht. The Georgian Legion will soon number thirteen thousand soldiers, Andro, divided into twelve different battalions. Every day, more and more Red Army deserters and prisoners of war are joining the Legion. And Maglakelidze has already been promoted to major general.’
‘I think I should probably be going now …’
Andro stood up and started looking for his hat. The man remained seated, motionless, his eyes fixed on Andro.
‘Your mother is dead, Andro. Shot, like a cheap whore. I can put the details in writing for you, if you’re interested. Even the exact price of the bullets they used to kill her. Shot because she wanted to remain free, in a free country.’
Andro, already at the door, slowly turned and looked the man in the eye. The transformation of conjecture into certainty changed him, and his future, forever.
*
A few days before the year’s end, Andro, along with other soldiers, left Tbilisi for Crimea. Kharkov was in German hands, and rumours were spreading that it was only a question of time before the Wehrmacht reached the Caucasus as well.
The night before his departure, Andro crept into Kitty’s room, woke her, and confided his plans. Kitty became virtually hysterical; she insisted that he shouldn’t take this risk, it was too dangerous and he was too inexperienced, the Reds could find out at any time and arrest him, and then nobody would be able to save him. There was no way Kitty wanted the fascists to win the war; she didn’t want an autonomous state within the Greater German Reich. The idea that a fascist victory would mean freedom for Georgia was an illusion. He shouldn’t be so naive, he should come to his senses. He was putting himself and the whole family in grave danger.
It would all be all right, Andro insisted. After all, it was in the gentleman’s interest that his cover should not be blown. But when Kitty still refused to agree he shouted at her, grabbed her by the elbows, shook her violently, and insisted that she had to believe him, she had to trust him. He had no future in a country where they had shot his mother like a sick animal, a country with a system like this. He preferred to stake his life on a hope than perish in this cesspit.
Kitty stared at him, wide-eyed. She had never seen him so beside himself. Finally she pressed his head against her breast as if he were a little child. Her attempts to comfort him turned into passionate kisses and they ended up in her bed.
‘As soon as it’s possible they’ll make contact with you, and then you’ll follow me,’ said Andro quietly — naked, curled up in a ball, lying like an embryo at Kitty’s side. ‘You will come, won’t you? Won’t you? Promise me!’
He gazed at her expectantly.
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll follow you,’ she said, placing her forefinger on his lips. For the first time in their life, his dreams frightened her.
*
The world was dancing in circles. The skeletons beneath the earth beat time. Roses no longer bloomed in any colour but black. All paths felt like rope bridges, swaying, ready to collapse at any moment. Even the snow acquired a bluish tinge. The sky was peppered with holes; you could see bullet holes on the horizon, too, and although the sun shone wearily down it could no longer impart any warmth.
The trees came to a whispered agreement, and hanged themselves on one another’s branches. Birds fell from the sky, because at the sight of the dance they forgot how to fly; children became adults overnight and polished grenades. Tears became rare, expensive things. Only grimaces were free.
Chocolate was now just a memory of another age, and without chocolate people forgot sweetness, and without sweetness they forgot childhood, and without childhood they forgot the beginning, and without the beginning they couldn’t see the end.
And the voice of the Soviet Union, the voice of the Sovinformburo, Yuri Borisovich Levitan, echoed through the ether, inimitable, omnipresent, reporting tirelessly on horrors that, from his mouth, always sounded a little less horrible. His voice — even the Generalissimus believed it — gave the nation confidence. Levitan talked and talked:
‘… The Germans have been pushed back from Rostov. Successes at Lake Ladoga; the Road of Life is passable again. Frost has brought the front to a standstill. The Germans are attacking from the south; they are crossing the Volga. The Germans are approaching Stalingrad. Orders are: do not give an inch. 240,000 German soldiers encircled …’
And the snow fell and splintered into shards, and the ghosts roamed the hills telling rosaries for those who had frozen to death.