Chapter 227 |
< World War II - The Curtain of Winter (1) >
December 24, 1941
Mogilev, East Belarus – Allied Garrison
Winter had come. General Winter was here.
The Allied Forces had been fully supplied with winter gear, painstakingly developed in collaboration with Finland. However, just because they had warmer clothes didn't mean the cold—which frequently dropped to minus 10 degrees Celsius and sometimes as low as minus 20—was something to be trifled with.
Almost simultaneously, both the Allied and Soviet forces ceased all combat operations.
The Allied high command, including German Minister of Defense Dietrich Schacht, had agreed in advance to halt the advance and had established garrisons near the front line or in the outskirts of nearby cities.
Units finishing their duty on the front lines would travel by truck to the garrison, where they could stay in proper lodgings instead of trenches or bivouacs.
Thanks to this, the Allied forces enjoyed the luxury of rotating through guard duty on the front while living in relatively comfortable garrisons, even in the dead of winter.
Even at the northernmost front line in Mogilev, where the Allied forces were in a standoff with the Soviet Western Front Army in Vitebsk, a festive atmosphere was taking hold.
“Hey, hey, put away the combat rations, put them away!”
The combat rations, which Dietrich Schacht had improved through countless experiments and deliberations to a point where they were at least edible, were unceremoniously shoved into the warehouse.
He would have been quite sad to know, but for today, even the highly-praised combat rations were being shunned by the soldiers.
“It’s the special Christmas Eve meal!”
All the soldiers, weary from the long war, were laughing, chatting, and enjoying themselves with happy faces.
Instead of the usual sausages, potatoes, or Italian pasta that were considered a windfall when they occasionally appeared, properly cooked dishes were being served, tantalizing the soldiers' palates.
“Oh, what’s that?”
“? Bigos!”
Even with the language barrier, when a German soldier pointed and asked, a Polish soldier answered with a smile. The German soldiers traded their own meals for the Polish stew, which consisted of bread hollowed out and stuffed with sausages, pasta, and various other things.
“Ooh, is this Polish vodka? This stuff has a kick!”
“Hey, hey, me too.”
“Listen up, those of you on the next shift, drink in moderation.
Anyone who gets so drunk they can’t walk will be beaten sober.”
When Vinrich Behr, now a Captain, shouted, his subordinates answered with a rowdy cheer.
“Ja, sir!”
Of course, contrary to their reply, not a single one of them seemed to have any intention of restraining themselves.
And the man who was supposed to be in control of them, his battalion commander…
“Hehe, hehehe.
How is it?”
“It’s de- gulp, delicious.”
He was grinning foolishly, his eyes dripping with honey as he watched Karina Juhlińska voraciously chew the meat.
Vinrich Behr gazed at his superior officer’s, Clemens Fleck’s, Lieutenant Colonel insignia with a complicated expression.
Where was the heroic figure who had fearlessly charged through Minsk as if he’d lost his mind, courageously leading the way to rescue his allies faster than anyone?
A war hero, a lieutenant colonel, who had invaded the kitchen, insisting on cooking for his lover himself, sending all the cooks into a state of shock and terror…
As Vinrich Behr was shaking his head, a voice called out to him.
“Captain, won’t you have a drink?”
Vinrich Behr swallowed hard as he looked at the vodka being passed around by his men.
I shouldn't. I, at least, have to keep my head on straight…
Behr glanced to the side.
He saw Clemens helping up Karina, who had feasted on his homemade meat dish and transformed from a leopard into a well-fed housecat, and leading her away.
A sigh that could make the ground collapse escaped him.
“Give me a glass, too.
Let’s just have a taste.”
What was the point of discipline when the battalion commander himself was acting like that?
The adjutant had nothing left to be disappointed about.
---
December 25, 1941
Moscow, Capital of the Soviet Union
In the bleak metropolis of Moscow, where residents were lining up to wait for their bread rations, a young newlywed named Anya stood in line with them.
Her husband had been conscripted and sent to the front as soon as they were married.
From the loudspeakers and radios set up in Red Square, majestic music played, followed by a broadcast.
[People of the great Soviet Union!
The Union of People, your Motherland is in danger!]
Ignoring the all-too-familiar propaganda broadcast, the residents in line conversed in low voices.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“They say in Leningrad, rockets fall on the factories day in and day out, so they can’t even work.”
“Hmph…”
“What’s our Air Force doing?”
“They say our Air Force calls their own fighters ‘flying coffins.
’”
“Shh, you’ll get in big trouble for that!”
An old man standing next to the two men pointed a finger at them in displeasure and yelled.
“Hey! What are you talking about! Our hero, Comrade Kozhedub, has shot down 30 of those vile enemies!”
“Ah, no, grandfather, we’re not disparaging Comrade Kozhedub.”
[Their talk of wanting peace has been thoroughly exposed as a lie.
They have recognized the traitors and betrayers of the Union under the deceptive name of freedom.
Our glorious Motherland, the Union of People, is in danger.]
Hearing the broadcast, the old man shouted loudly.
“Cursed stooges of capitalism! Filthy traitors!”
“Shh, shh, my goodness, grandfather, the Party members will come.”
Anya shook her head as she watched the men causing a loud disturbance.
When it was finally her turn, Anya received four loaves of bread.
“Is this all, comrade? This is for a week…”
“It is.
The person behind you is waiting, so please move aside, comrade.”
Anya finally sighed, placed the bread in the basket she had brought, and stepped aside.
The bread didn't even fill half of it.
[Those foolish ones have not yet realized.
The workers will never be defeated.
The Soviet will never be defeated.
]
The road home was bleak.
As Anya walked, she looked down at a piece of paper rolling on the ground.
The moment she saw it was something along the lines of—The war started by the General Secretary is killing countless people—Anya immediately raised her head and looked away.
Just then, she saw a Communist Party member walking toward her.
[Napoleon failed, and the Kaiser failed.
The traitors who dared to betray the Union of People will also fail.
Those corrupt and decadent stooges of capitalism will also fail.]
He walked over silently and picked up the paper.
Tucked under his arm was a whole stack of the same papers.
“Comrade, just keep going on your way.”
Anya nodded frantically at the stern-faced Party member and continued on her way.
[We are prepared to pay any price to defend our Motherland.
Workers of the Union, take up arms! Let them come!
The very soil of our Motherland awaits to devour them.]
The loudspeaker, having finished the propaganda broadcast, let out a bizarre, dry burst of static for a moment before falling silent.
Anya arrived home and opened the door.
“Mother, I got the bread.”
No reply came from inside the house.
“Mother?”
As Anya entered with a puzzled look, she saw an old woman, soaked in tears, holding a single sheet of paper.
“Oh, Mother…”
Anya realized it was a familiar type of paper, one that had plunged her acquaintances into grief.
A casualty notice.
She collapsed on the spot.
The radio began to make noise again.
Over and over, and over again.
The propaganda broadcast, repeated as if to brainwash people, started to flow out again.
[People of the great Soviet Union!
The Union of People, your Motherland is in danger!]
---
December 25, 1941
Kremlin Palace, Moscow, Capital of the Soviet Union
A cautious voice was speaking in the General Secretary’s office.
“Comrade General Secretary, if I may be so bold, your health is deteriorating by the day.”
Stalin, Ioseb Dzhugashvili, was only half-listening to his physician.
Finally, the physician sighed, and after a moment’s hesitation, he spoke.
“Comrade General Secretary, forgive me, but you must stop working, even for a moment, and rest. If this continues—”
“Comrade.”
“Y-Yes, Comrade General Secretary!”
Stalin stared intently at his physician, who was trembling with tension. He then offered a faint smile.
Though this doctor had looked after him for a very long time, the worry that he had overstepped was clearly written all over his face.
“I understand.
You may leave for today.”
“Ah, I understand, Comrade General Secretary!”
The physician bowed and hastily gathered his medical tools to leave, but he paused and looked back.
As Stalin slowly turned his gaze to him, the doctor mumbled as if wanting to say something more, but in the end, he simply bowed to him again and went outside.
Stalin tossed the medicine his physician had warned him not to overuse into his mouth and swallowed it with a glass of water.
Crack, crack.
In the office, where only the sound of a crackling fire echoed, the windows rattled with the sound of a powerful gust of wind.
Stalin slowly rose from his seat and turned his gaze outside the window.
It was warm inside his office, but outside the window, a strong wind was whipping up a blizzard.
Stalin glanced towards the reports on his desk.
He had ordered the relocation of most of the industrial facilities on the East Bank of the Dnieper to the Urals, and it was reported that the process would be completed smoothly during the winter while the Allied advance was halted.
There was also a report that they couldn’t even properly supply winter gear to the front, and workers on-site were suffering from frostbite one after another.
And on top of that, reports of food shortages from various regions.
They had somehow managed to get by this year with the harvest from Ukraine, but even with careful rationing, the food supply beyond next year could not be guaranteed.
Stalin slumped back into his chair.
They could hold on if they had to.
The Soviet Union was vast, and its population was large enough that it wouldn't collapse just because some people froze or starved to death.
Despite the countless sacrifices and the abysmal casualty ratio, the total population of the Soviet Union was still greater than that of Germany, Poland, and Finland combined.
But was there any meaning in continuing the war?
They had already lost almost the entirety of Belarus.
Zhukov’s report, which stated that it was a foregone conclusion they would lose Ukraine—a land of wide-open plains with poor local sentiment—once the Allies successfully established a front on the East Bank of the Dnieper in the spring, deeply worried Stalin.
The Allies, who until now had only shown moves to occupy and hold Belarus and Ukraine, had suddenly recognized Free Russia, barely allowing him to patch up the signs of internal division, but that was nothing more than a temporary measure.
The despicable Germans, while recognizing Free Russia, had also requested an armistice on the condition that Belarus, Ukraine, the occupied Finnish territories, and an area centered around Smolensk for Free Russia be ceded to them.
It was an absurd demand, essentially telling them to give up the entire Soviet west and the Kola Peninsula.
But the very act of refusing it was a burden on Stalin.
What a sham, repeatedly building a deceptive justification that they were willing to negotiate peace with the Soviet Union, but that Stalin was refusing, all while knowing full well that the Soviet Union could never accept such terms.
Dietrich Schacht, that cursed German brat, was clearly hoping that the Soviet Union would collapse from within.
The enemy’s aim was so obvious, yet he had no way to counter it.
There was no hope of the war situation improving, but if he accepted their demands, he was finished.
Stalin turned his weary eyes to look at Trotsky, who was standing in a corner of his office, watching him silently.
His old comrade was simply staring at him with an expressionless face. It was nothing more than a meaningless illusion.
Nevertheless, Stalin finally couldn't hold back and spoke.
“What would you do?”
Trotsky's mouth did not open.
He just continued to stare at him, expressionless.
Stalin let out a cynical laugh and covered his eyes with his hand.
“Comrade General Secretary, Comrade Khrushchev and Comrade Molotov have arrived.”
Stalin slowly lowered his hand and rose from his seat to look in the mirror.
A tired old man with a horribly distorted face and crumpled clothes looked back at him.
Stalin wiped his face and straightened his collar.
Still, it was a far cry from the dignified image of the General Secretary of Steel he had hoped for.
Stalin went to the front of his desk, straightened his back, and stood firmly on his two legs.
“Let them in.”
“We greet the Comrade General Secretary!”
Khrushchev, the political officer who had acted like his dog, and Molotov, who had served as Stalin’s mouthpiece.
These were the figures anyone would think of as General Secretary Stalin’s confidants in the Soviet Union.
Because almost all the others were dead.
Stalin put on his usual solemn smile.
At least, he tried to.
“What is it, comrades?”
The two looked at each other with tense expressions, and Khrushchev spoke first.
“Comrade General Secretary, as the immediate combat has ceased and the standoff continues, the atmosphere within the party is becoming unsettled.”
Yes. Just as that damn German brat intended, the Soviet Union is doing nothing while Leningrad’s navy and munitions factories are being hit by rocket bombardments.
The German rocket bombardment had unfortunately caused the battleship Marat to suffer a sympathetic detonation, but they had managed to salvage it and turn it into a fixed battery.
They were deliberately using reconnaissance aircraft to bomb only the munitions factories with as much precision as possible.
However, while it caused disruptions in production, a factory was not a building that would easily collapse from a few rocket hits.
As long as it wasn't a blatant bombing of civilians, there was a limit to the physical damage they could inflict.
But the political pressure was constantly mounting.
Germany was spending a leisurely winter on Soviet soil, attacking the Soviet Union unilaterally, while the Soviet Union was only sacrificing its workers to move factories that would be lost to the enemy in the spring.
If only they had foolishly launched a winter offensive, he might have been able to use the power of General Winter to defend and then counterattack in the spring, but Russia’s nature had proven to be no great obstacle for them.
Walter Model's breakthrough that had isolated and nearly annihilated Konev's Western Front Army just before the Rasputitsa; halting the advance right before winter came and building garrisons, supplying winter gear to the entire army, and so on.
The Germans were pulling off countermeasures that the Soviet Union, with its lopsided focus on heavy industry and lack of light industry, could not, even though they were aware of them. It was as if they had known all along.
Even worse, when this fact was reported unfiltered by Andropov's NKVD, the wavering of the Communist Party members could not be stopped, even if it was hidden from the people.
Stalin swallowed a cynical laugh and asked.
“So, what are you proposing?”
Khrushchev glanced at Stalin before speaking again.
“If things continue like this, we are concerned the atmosphere will become too sour before spring, Comrade General Secretary.
How about we hold a Party Congress at this point to change the mood and strengthen our internal solidarity?”
“The fact that the despicable Allied nations have recognized the puppet governments of Vlasov and Kerensky must mean they intend to overthrow the Soviet Union itself. If we inform the party members that their peace negotiations are nothing but a deceptive ploy—”
Molotov also chimed in, but Stalin raised his hand to silence them both.
“Enough. I will think about it.
You may leave.”
The two seemed a little taken aback by Stalin’s words.
They exchanged glances, and Khrushchev spoke again cautiously.
“I understand, Comrade General Secretary.
But the situation is urgent…”
“Didn’t I say I understand!”
Khrushchev and Molotov froze at Stalin's shout.
“Why don’t you just tell me to step down while you’re at it?”
“N-No, Comrade General Secretary! That is not what we meant at all—”
“Not what you meant! You think simply inciting hatred for the traitors without any countermeasures will make the party unite and follow me? Do you take me for a fool!”
As the two frozen men stood speechless, Stalin let out a torrent of words.
“Do you think your world will come if you just get rid of me! Do you think you incompetent fools can wage this war without me! Do you think the likes of you could manage the production, transportation, supply, and administration of this vast Union!”
Khrushchev began to hiccup.
“Traitors, despicable traitors.
You think you can end this lost war by simply shifting the blame to me? Not a chance. Do you think the people don’t know whose power you’ve been clinging to, sucking the lifeblood of the people all this time?”
Molotov, too, was deathly pale and couldn’t say a word.
Stalin glared at the men who had been his confidants with bloodshot eyes, then spat out his words.
“Get out now, comrades.
Go think about how to actually wage this war.”
After the two fled in a panic, Stalin gasped for breath, panting heavily, then felt a wave of vertigo and staggered.
Barely managing to stay upright by grabbing his desk, Stalin shook his dizzy head and looked up—
Trotsky was smiling at him.
