Chapter 1: On a train to Leningrad
9PM, 1 December 1934
”When on the following morning,” Marshal of the Soviet Union, People’s Commissar for Defence and a full member of the Politburo K. Y. Boroshilov read in an old book,
”at eleven o’clock precisely, Raskolnikov entered the building of the __ District Police Station, found his way up to the Criminal Investigation Department and requested Porfiry Petrovich be informed of his arrival, he was rather surprised that it took so long for anyone to attend him; at least ten minutes went by before his name was called.” Kliment Yefremovich chuckled. “Some things never change.”
“What was that, my dear?” his wife asked.
“Nothing,” he said curtly. “Just thinking out loud.” He took a sip of his expensive vodka and reopened the book.
” Somehow he had imagined...” His driver/bodyguard entered the living room. “Telephone Comrade Marshal – from the Kremlin.”
“Thank you.” Kliment Yefremovich marked the place in the book with a piece of paper and put it down on the small table next to his chair. He followed Platov into the study where he picked up the phone. “Boroshilov.”
“Stalin here. Comrade Kirov has been shot dead.”
“
Yob!”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Pack a bag for week. We are going to Leningrad.”
Which was why Comrade Boroshilov two hours later sat on a train to Leningrad with the inner circle. Boroshilov lit up another cigarette and sipped his tea leaning back in his chair and listening to his colleagues. He rarely spoke unless asked a question or it had to do with the Red Army.
“Who shot Comrade Kirov?” Chief of the People’s Commissariat Molotov asked.
“A young communist by the name of Leonid V. Nikolaev,” People’s Commissar for the Interior Genrikh Yagoda answered looking at his file. Yagoda was never without some papers, Boroshilov knew, though they seldom contained anything significant. Yagoda had all-important facts committed to memory. Strictly speaking, Boroshilov wasn’t convinced Yagoda
could read.
“A Party member?” Molotov asked aghast.
“Da.”
“So who’s handling it?”
“Until now, the local NKVD chief Comrade Medved is handling the case. He and one Perelmut, who had started to interview witnesses, have been ordered to meet us at the station.”
“Good,” Molotov responded. “Do we know what happened?”
“Comrade Medved sent me a cable about the incident, yes.”
“What did it say?”
Yagoda turned a few papers in his file and gave Molotov a copy, who read it out aloud.
“On the 1st of December at 16.30 on the 3rd floor at 20 paces from the office of comrade Kirov the shot was fired at the head of comrade Kirov (by Nikolaev). Is this all?”
“No, Medved sent a second telegram just before I came we bordered this train. Apparently Nikolaev is no condition to talk, and is in a state of chock.”
“What a fucking surprise!” Andrei Aleksandrovich Zhdanov exclaimed. Kliment Yefremovich grimaced slightly. Zhdanov was outsider here – Kliment Yefremovich barely knew who he was, but no sooner was Kirov pronounced dead before Stalin appointed this nobody to be the new Leningrad boss. Kliment Yefremovich would dearly like to know why and with such speed.
Yagoda chuckled. “Indeed. Anyway, he is unconscious and has been admitted to the number 2 Leningrad psychiatric clinic. I can order Medved to wake him and start producing confessions…”
“No hurry,” Stalin interrupted. “Containment first. Order all people present at the Smolnyi Institute arrested as well as the family of Nikolaev. Is he married?”
“Already done,” Yagoda answered quickly. “And yes Nikolaev is married.
She is already talking to Medved personally. And we have
his diary.”
“Anything of use in it?” Molotov asked.
“It’s early yet – it will take a while to read through, but a…he he…surprise was found.”
“Oh?”
“At the end, he had written down…” Yagoda looked down in his papers and found another telegram. He gave it to Molotov, who read: “
In Nikolaev’s diary there is a note at the end: “Germ. Tel.169-82, Hertzen Street, 43.” What is this – the German Consulate’s address?”
“Correct, Comrade Commissar.”
Boroshilov angrily stubbed out his cigarette and lighted another. “The Germans did this?”
“No, Comrade Marshal,” Yagoda answered, “I don’t know that yet, but it is…he he…suspicious, no?”
“Very,” Kliment Yefremovich agreed.
“The Consulate is watched, yes?” Stalin asked.
“But of course, Comrade Stalin,” Yagoda answered nervously. “Someone is
always watching the German Consulate.”
“So where is the Consul?” Molotov asked.
“Inside I think – I haven’t heard anything else.”
“Are you…absolutely sure?” Stalin asked.
“Eh…” Yagoda wiped sweat off his face. “Err…no, not absolu… Why, have you heard…something?”
Stalin looked at Molotov, who nodded to the Commissar of Foreign Affairs Maxim Litvinov, who said: “My sources tells me the German Consul
herr R. Sommer suddenly left for Finland yesterday – apparently for a much needed holiday.”
“In Finland in December?” Kliment Yefremovich laughed harshly. “I don’t believe it.”
“And neither do I,” Stalin said. “Yagoda, find me the traitors…
all the traitors. No matter how low, how high, how influential – find them all. Unleash the terror.”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
* * * * *
NOTE:
The language in this AAR is even viler than in my Orleans AAR. The reason is that the Bolsheviks are
bad guys.
1) The opening quote (the old book) is
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, first published in 1866. The copy I own is from a translation by David MacDuff (1991) and published by The Folio Society 1997.
2) Kliment Yefremovich Boroshilov was really called Voroshilov, but since his one of my main character, I thought a slight name change was in order, since I don’t know all that much about him (and don’t wish to “hurt” anyone – living or dead.)
3) I’m told:
yob! = fuck! (if it doesn’t I’m…screwed!
)
4) Chief of the People’s Commissariat = Prime minister.
5)
“On the 1st of December at 16.30 on the 3rd floor at 20 paces from the office of comrade Kirov the shot was fired at the head of comrade Kirov (by Nikolaev)”. (Supposedly real)
6) The note and the address of the German Consulate is supposedly real, but strong evidence suggest it was planted after the fact.
