A TRUE RUSSIAN HERO

A TRUE RUSSIAN HERO

The weather on this June day is glorious as he arrives for the hastily convened meeting of the Presidium and he, the most powerful man in the country, is in ebullient form as his chauffeur pulls into the courtyard. Those closest to him, the officers that he has personally nurtured and promoted, have never previously seen this smiling, tolerant side of their boss who, for so long, has been feared by so many but has, himself, privately, feared for his own life.

But times have changed. Oh, how they have changed. Joesph Vissarionovich Stalin is dead and it is the horse they have backed in this race that looks guaranteed to be the new leader of the Soviets: Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria, First Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, and he will, they are confident, remember those who have supported him on his rise to the top.

They salute smartly, paying homage to their mentor, as he emerges from the car, a little unsteadily, they note. He, in turn, basking in both the sunshine and the esteem of his faithful, waves a hand all round, smiling lopsidedly, his mood enhanced, perhaps a little too much, by the nips from his flask that he has become accustomed to imbibe recently: the fear that had accompanied him, like a shroud, day and night, for twenty two years, now lifted forever with the demise of his boss.

“Colonel Vassilovich, have you heard the one about the man who parks his car in the middle of Red Square?”

Vassilovich, a young officer of the NKVD, a prime protege of Beria, is unsure if this is a serious question and shakes his head slowly.

“A police officer tells the man: ‘You can’t leave your car here. This is the place of the government’. The man replies: ‘Don’t worry, I have good locks!’”

Beria breaks into uproarious laughter, emitting powerful fumes of vodka as he does so. The Colonel, realising that he has been told a joke, haltingly, follows suit. Best to keep the boss happy.

Beria bursts into the conference room and is greeted by the long faces of his comrades, sitting in their usual places around the table. In place of honour, at the head, is the Chairman, Malenkov; chairman in name only, completely under Beria’s thumb. This weak man looks out of place in the chair so long occupied by the great Stalin. Beria scowls at their miserable, too serious faces.

“What’s wrong with you lot? Can’t you see what a beautiful day it is? Smile, for pity’s sake”.

This exhortation has little effect on the gathering though Malenkov, so used to pandering to Beria’s every demand, smiles dutifully.

“So what’s the big deal? Why the urgency to have this meeting? Wait, wait, I’ve got a good one: Nikita Sergeyevich, have you heard the one about that time you visited the pig farm in Minsk and your photograph was taken with the pigs? The editor of Pravda can’t decide which headline should accompany the photo. Comrade Krushchev among pigs? No. Comrade Krushchev and pigs? No. Pigs around Comrade Krushchev? No. Finally, he decides: third from left - Comrade Krushchev!”

Despite themselves, those around the table laugh, Malenkov most of all. But the stern look from an unsmiling Krushchev stifles their amusement. He turns to Beria who has seated himself at the table at the opposite end to Malenkov, his place of honour.

“Lavrentiy Pavlovich, this meeting of the Council was called for 10am. It is now 10.45am. You have kept us waiting for forty five minutes...”

This statement, innocuous as it seems, represents the first time that Beria has found his authority being questioned by any of these comrades. The tension caused is palpable and all eyes turn towards the Deputy Leader to see how he responds. Aware of this atmospheric change, Beria, whose fearsome temper is well known, considers how best to respond. Stifling his anger, finally, he takes his silver flask from an inside pocket and offers it to Krushchev.

“Drink, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

Krushchev is outraged.

“You dare come to a meeting of the Presidium, drunk?”

“Oh, not drunk, comrade; just a little tipsy. After all, don’t we have so much to be grateful for? The days of living in fear are over. We can get on with making this country great again instead of pretending that it is when we all know that it isn’t. It’s like the one where a woman goes to a shop and asks: Do you have any meat? The shopkeeper says: No, we don’t. Okay, she asks, what about butter? The shopkeeper says: We only sell meat. Across the street is the shop that has no butter.”

This time, only Malenkov titters.

“Lavrentiy Pavlovich, just one week ago, you would not have dared to speak as you do now. Nor come to a Council meeting in such an inebriated state because...”

Beria interrupts. He has had enough of trying to be nice. These syklos need to brought back into line.

“You forget your place, Nikita Sergeyevich. You are addressing the Deputy Chairman of this assembly. One week ago, you were all living in fear, wondering when it would be your turn to be discarded by Stalin. Every single one of you was under threat. I saw the lists. You...you ungrateful swine. You should be thanking me for ridding you of that devil incarnate. If it wasn’t for me...”

He stops talking abruptly, his vodka befuddled brain realising that he has said too much.

“I...I...”

The assembly, to a man, is aghast at what they have heard. Has Comrade Beria just confessed to having had something to do with Stalin’s death? Krushchev, seizing this opportunity, turns to Malenkov imploringly who, lowering his head, reluctantly presses a button on the table. Within seconds, a group of armed officers enter the room and surround the stricken Beria.

“Lavrentiy Pavlovich you are under arrest for treason. Take his spectacles”.

Those bastards had held him secretly inside the Kremlin, that day, until those loyal to him had been relieved of their duties. Then, they had transferred him, ignominiously, in the boot of a car, to several different locations, heavily guarded at all times. Eventually, after several weeks of constant, confusing movement, he had found himself in a dank, basement cell in the Lubyanka.

Without his glasses, he could see virtually nothing; a final, cruel parting shot by Krushchev who knew, only too well, how short sighted he was. He’d been allowed no visitors and the guard who served his one atrocious meal each day would not engage in conversation. Left with only his thoughts, he had replayed the events of that day over and over and had cursed himself for the slip of the tongue that had finally condemned him. He had underestimated Kruschchev, he realised, thinking him a blown up ex-military clown unworthy of serious consideration. How wrong he had been. The former soldier had, somehow, managed to turn Malenkov against him: Malenkov, the weak fool.

The months had passed and, slowly, he had come to the conclusion that, if they had intended to do away with him, it would surely have happened by now. He’d wondered what they had planned for him but who could possibly understand what these incompetent idiots had in mind?

What a fall from grace. For so many years he had been in charge of the NKVD, the secret police, and had done exactly as he’d wanted. Yet, always, the shadow of Stalin had hung over him, causing him to suffer sleepless nights, always striving to please the boss, always in fear of losing favour. He’d recalled the time when Stalin had chosen him, above all other members of the Presidium, to accompany him to Yalta for the great conference with Churchill and Roosevelt. What envy this had caused among his colleagues; how proud he had felt but how stinging had been the humiliation when Stalin had introduced him to the Western leaders with the words: “He’s our Himmler”, categorising him forever as nothing more than his personal murderer.

Exactly six months after the date of his arrest, the sound of footsteps in the corridor, that stop outside his cell in the middle of the night, fill him with a sudden dread. A firing squad? He rises from his bunk as the key rattles in the lock and a dark shadow enters, alone. Though he peers through the dimness, he cannot discern who this is and an awkward silence reigns as the door is closed behind the stranger. After a minute or two, the visitor, coat collar pulled up to cover his nose, appalled by the stench of this dreadful place, speaks.

“You don’t recognise me, Lavrentiy Pavlovich?”

The familiar voice touches his very soul. Kalinin? Can it be?

“Mikhail Ivanovich, is it really you?”

“Yes. It is I”.

So overcome is Beria that, tears forming in his eyes, he rushes forward to embrace his old friend.

“I knew that you, at least, would not desert me”.

Kalinin puts out a restraining hand.

“Stop. I am here in an official capacity. We are not to engage in trivial talk. I am only to deliver news of your trial”.

Beria is stunned. After all this time, there is to be a trial?

“Of what am I accused? Am I to be told that, at least?”

“Of what are you not accused would be easier to answer. The list is long”.

Beria gestures to his surroundings.

“As you can see, I am a little short of furniture. I’m afraid I cannot offer you a chair”.

“I will not tarry, Lavrentiy Pavlovich. I am here merely to advise re your defence counsel...”

“Ha. Don’t tell me. Some wet behind the ears graduate straight out of university who has no experience and is guaranteed to shit himself in a court of law, thus ensuring I lose my case, no doubt. I know how these things work”.

“There will be no defence allowed”.

Beria is shocked. So this is how Krushchev intends to play it.

“You mean I just have to sit there and listen to all the lies and can’t even stand up for myself? Russian justice for sure”.

“A form of justice that you were happy to perpetrate for many years, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, were you not?”

“Well the Russian people will not stand for it. The newspapers will report on the unfairness. I still have friends. You’ll see...”

“The trial will take place in camera and you are, further, denied the right of appeal. Your fate is inevitable. Do yourself a favour and accept it”.

Kalinin moves to the door and knocks.

“Kalinin, wait. My wife. What news?”

As the guard opens the door, Kalinin turns once more and looks at his old comrade, a man he once trusted, with a withering look of disgust, not that Beria can see his face.

“You dare to ask me of your wife? You, who imprisoned my wife for years on a charge of treason and then lied to me, saying that she had died. Shame on you”.

The following day, he is taken from the Lubyanka to an unknown destination where a courtroom has been created especially for this mockery of a trial. Presiding over the proceedings is Marshal Ivan Konev, an enemy and a staunch ally of Krushchev; they have covered all bases, he realises.

He is forced to sit, unable to raise any challenge, as a litany of his crimes is read out and debated and witness after witness is paraded, all primed to condemn him. The main charge of treason alleges that he has been in the employ of the British for years. Pure nonsense, of course. He fumes silently as liars testify to his guilt. The charge of terrorism concerns the purge of the Red Army. Of course, this slaughter, occurring in the middle of the war with Germany, he knew, had never been forgiven by those officers who had survived the cull. But, after all, he had merely been carrying out Stalin’s orders. More and more accusations are levelled at him: counter revolution among them. But it is not until the afternoon when things begin to get more personal that he finally acknowledges that his goose is well and truly cooked.

He is accused of selling arms to Israel and personally profiting from these deals. He is shocked when men he had mentored come forward and supply the court with the details of these deals. Though he cannot distinguish their faces, he recognises all by their voices. Don’t these idiots realise, he thinks, that, by their own testimony, they are condemning themselves, too?

More and more of those he thought loyal, unable to look him in the eye, advise the court of his practise of driving around Moscow and pointing out the nubile young women that stirred his loins. Their job was to bring those selected to his dacha where he would ply them with champagne and caviar before forcing himself upon them. Those that rejected his advances simply disappeared. Those that acquiesced would be handed a flower by his henchmen upon leaving. If they accepted, they lived. If they refused the flower, they did not.

One by one, they spew these confidences from their mouths and Marshal Konev does not attempt to hide his disgust at the telling of each tale. But, above all these charges, even that of treason, the testimony that has the most devastating effect is that of Tatiana Okunevskaya, the well known actress, who tells the court how Beria had promised to release her father and grandmother from captivity if she allowed him to be intimate with her. When she had refused, he had raped her anyway, telling her: “Scream or not. It doesn’t matter”. She was then sent to a gulag and, just to rub salt into her wounds, was placed in solitary confinement. She later discovered that her father and grandmother had been dead for months at the time she had been assaulted.

Marshal Konev has heard enough and declares himself appalled at the character of the prisoner. Truly, he announces to the empty courtroom, this viper that has dwelt among us for so long, entrusted with the fate of Mother Russia, is of heinous character. Guilty of all charges. He orders that Beria be taken immediately from the court and executed by firing squad.

Beria, disbelieving, is dragged from his chair by two burly officers. He resists but his diminutive stature is no match. Just before he is taken out into the courtyard, another officer presses something into his hands. “Compliments of Nikita Sergeyvich”, he is told. It his spectacles and he is allowed to put them on; a final, cruel gift.

In a room up above, overlooking the place of execution, Krushchev watches as Beria puts on the glasses that he has missed so much. Watches as Beria blinks several times, his eyes adjusting to the return of focus, the wintry sun. Watches as Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria sees vividly, for the first time, his firing squad, rifles at the ready, and falls to his knees, weeping, pleading, begging for his life.

Krushchev grins at the sight of Beria’s cowardice, the exact effect he had predicted. He turns away as the officer who had handed the glasses to the ex-NKVD chief, draws his pistol and shoots his former boss in the back of the head.

In a dacha, thirty kilometres north, in the basement, beneath the recently laid concrete of the private torture chamber of Beria’s dacha, five naked females whose corpses will not be discovered for another forty years, find their grave to be slightly warmer, slightly sweeter.

Nikita Krushchev, the new Premier of the Soviet Union who, in eight years time, will, himself, be betrayed and deposed, returns to the Kremlin and a gathering of the Presidium. Malenkov, the most anxious of those present, asks:

“Well? How did it go?”

To which Krushchev replies:

“Naturally, as you predicted, he died like a true hero of Mother Russia!”