The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Read Online Free
![The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02]](/res/rof/book.jpg?1)
Author: David L. Robbins
their glasses and partner up. In moments the room is swirling, stamping with gaiety. Budenny, the former cavalry officer, is quite the catalyst. Stalin sidles out of the way.
The accordion renders waltzes, folk songs, ballads. Stalin fetches his English Dunhill pipe from his place at the head table. From a pouch he pours another bowlful of shredded Herzegovina Flor cigarettes and lights up. He paces the room through clouds of blue smoke, enjoying the dancers, savoring his pipe and his separateness. He has reduced his need for human relationships to almost nothing. He has seen two wives die. First, beloved Kato in their youth, from disease. Then the traitorous Nadezhda, who committed suicide in 1932 after arguing with him over politics. Yakov, son of his first marriage, an artillery commander who surrendered to the Germans— a coward, only cowards surrender. Vasili, a sniveler. Daughter Svetlana, acid-tongued like her mother, estranged. Stalin, the vozhd, the supremo, cannot afford the normal human luxuries of emotion or values. He must have steel cords where others have nerves. How can he dote on one, or two, or twenty, when he must envision and guard the future for hundreds of millions? He cannot want for himself when an entire nation is told every day, “Stalin is thinking of us.”
He wonders, What could be lonelier?
Stalin watches his guests grow drunker with the dancing. Marshal Budenny has made himself quite popular tonight.
“Semyon,” he calls to the musical marshal. “Rest your hands for a moment. I want to see your feet in action.”
Budenny halts his playing. Sweat breaks on his brow from an hour of the accordion’s buttons and keys. The dancers freeze like figurines.
Stalin walks to the gramophone. No one else in the room moves. He picks out a disk and slides it beneath the needle. The dancers lower their arms, no longer porcelain dolls but uneasy humans. Out of the gramophone bell emerges a scratchy ditty, a balalaika plucks a fast-paced folk melody along with a clarinet, drums, and a wailing violin.
Stalin approaches Budenny. He puts his arms out to relieve the old man of the accordion.
“Dance for me, Semyon. The Gopak. I have seen you do it, you’re magnificent.”
“Comrade”—the marshal raises his palms in defense—”not in many years.”
Stalin sets the accordion on the ground.
“And many years from now, you will say that you did it tonight. Dance, Semyon. To victory.”
Stalin steps back. He claps his hands to the music. The crowd joins him now and they form a rousing circle around Semyon Budenny, a seventy-three-year-old marshal of the Red Army. The gray warrior squats on his haunches, crosses his arms, and kicks out his heels in the classic Cossack dance.
Budenny dances with fervor. He begins rickety but soon limbers and is impressive for his age. The others shout “Urrah!” and clap in time to the music. Stalin studies Budenny’s face. The dancing marshal keeps a pleasant smile. Stalin knows that Budenny is in great pain.
~ * ~
----
January 1, 1945, 0115 hours
Magnuszew bridgehead
West bank of the Vistula River
Poland
the soldier behind ilya tumbles into a hole.
Ilya, on his stomach and elbows in the freezing dirt, hangs his chin to his chest while the little private he brought with him tries to clamber out without making more noise than he made going in.
When they are again side by side on their bellies in the dark, Ilya sighs.
He whispers, “Misha. You move like a blind cow.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
Ilya sighs again. He resumes his crawl forward. Misha follows, mumbling.
“You pushed me in.”
“I did not. The ground gave way under you.”
“You did too shove me. You’re twice my size. You don’t realize sometimes. You didn’t leave me enough room to get by the lip of that crater.”
“Well, then, move me out of the way. It’ll make
The accordion renders waltzes, folk songs, ballads. Stalin fetches his English Dunhill pipe from his place at the head table. From a pouch he pours another bowlful of shredded Herzegovina Flor cigarettes and lights up. He paces the room through clouds of blue smoke, enjoying the dancers, savoring his pipe and his separateness. He has reduced his need for human relationships to almost nothing. He has seen two wives die. First, beloved Kato in their youth, from disease. Then the traitorous Nadezhda, who committed suicide in 1932 after arguing with him over politics. Yakov, son of his first marriage, an artillery commander who surrendered to the Germans— a coward, only cowards surrender. Vasili, a sniveler. Daughter Svetlana, acid-tongued like her mother, estranged. Stalin, the vozhd, the supremo, cannot afford the normal human luxuries of emotion or values. He must have steel cords where others have nerves. How can he dote on one, or two, or twenty, when he must envision and guard the future for hundreds of millions? He cannot want for himself when an entire nation is told every day, “Stalin is thinking of us.”
He wonders, What could be lonelier?
Stalin watches his guests grow drunker with the dancing. Marshal Budenny has made himself quite popular tonight.
“Semyon,” he calls to the musical marshal. “Rest your hands for a moment. I want to see your feet in action.”
Budenny halts his playing. Sweat breaks on his brow from an hour of the accordion’s buttons and keys. The dancers freeze like figurines.
Stalin walks to the gramophone. No one else in the room moves. He picks out a disk and slides it beneath the needle. The dancers lower their arms, no longer porcelain dolls but uneasy humans. Out of the gramophone bell emerges a scratchy ditty, a balalaika plucks a fast-paced folk melody along with a clarinet, drums, and a wailing violin.
Stalin approaches Budenny. He puts his arms out to relieve the old man of the accordion.
“Dance for me, Semyon. The Gopak. I have seen you do it, you’re magnificent.”
“Comrade”—the marshal raises his palms in defense—”not in many years.”
Stalin sets the accordion on the ground.
“And many years from now, you will say that you did it tonight. Dance, Semyon. To victory.”
Stalin steps back. He claps his hands to the music. The crowd joins him now and they form a rousing circle around Semyon Budenny, a seventy-three-year-old marshal of the Red Army. The gray warrior squats on his haunches, crosses his arms, and kicks out his heels in the classic Cossack dance.
Budenny dances with fervor. He begins rickety but soon limbers and is impressive for his age. The others shout “Urrah!” and clap in time to the music. Stalin studies Budenny’s face. The dancing marshal keeps a pleasant smile. Stalin knows that Budenny is in great pain.
~ * ~
----
January 1, 1945, 0115 hours
Magnuszew bridgehead
West bank of the Vistula River
Poland
the soldier behind ilya tumbles into a hole.
Ilya, on his stomach and elbows in the freezing dirt, hangs his chin to his chest while the little private he brought with him tries to clamber out without making more noise than he made going in.
When they are again side by side on their bellies in the dark, Ilya sighs.
He whispers, “Misha. You move like a blind cow.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
Ilya sighs again. He resumes his crawl forward. Misha follows, mumbling.
“You pushed me in.”
“I did not. The ground gave way under you.”
“You did too shove me. You’re twice my size. You don’t realize sometimes. You didn’t leave me enough room to get by the lip of that crater.”
“Well, then, move me out of the way. It’ll make
Readers choose
Krista Lakes
Scot Gardner
Noah Mann
McKenna Chase
Joan Johnston
Rodney Stark
C. J. Cherryh
Michael Coorlim
Constance O'Banyon