Chapter 1101: The Unseen Front

This time, Stalin did not reject Zhukov’s suggestion. He leaned back in his chair, staring into Zhukov’s eyes. After a long silence, he finally spoke, with great difficulty, “If I were to seek a humiliating peace with Germany, my prestige within the Soviet Union would absolutely be affected.”

When Zhukov heard this, a look of joy crossed his face. He had thought Stalin was not unwilling to negotiate, but was merely worried about the repercussions. He quickly stepped forward and said, “Great leader, Comrade Stalin, if we achieve peace on the German-Soviet border, then the troops we have on hand can easily eliminate the voices that oppose you…”

“I’m talking about how I will face the voices of criticism after I am dead!” Stalin closed his eyes and said to Zhukov in an agitated tone. “While I am alive, people certainly dare not say anything about me. But after I am dead, how will those who remain treat me? I have let their sons, husbands, and fathers die for the Soviet Union, only for me to choose peace and a wretched life at the end?”

He looked at the stunned Zhukov and his tone grew heavier. What he said this time was even more serious, and it made Zhukov see the Comrade Stalin before him in a new light. “How can I face Comrade Lenin, who entrusted the Soviet Union to me? How can I face our revolutionary cause? Even if I, Joseph, must die in battle in Moscow, the Soviet Union will not cede a single inch of land under my hand! I am Stalin! And Stalin is not the name of a coward!”

“Then… Comrade Stalin, how… how do we face this situation now?” Zhukov swallowed hard, then asked in a respectful tone. He felt that only today had he truly come to know Stalin, to know this Soviet ruler who, in his impression, was famous for his tyranny and brutality. Now he knew that behind the tyranny was an extreme perseverance, and behind the brutality was an unbending iron will that permeated Stalin’s very bones.

Every great man remembered by history has his own characteristics, and it is because of these characteristics that they also have their own limitations. The mistakes these men make in their choices cannot be entirely attributed to their foolishness or madness, because perhaps the very reasons that led them to success were these same ones.

Emperor Fu Jian stubbornly used the Han Chinese minister Wang Meng, and thus achieved the greatness of the Former Qin. In making this choice, he was confident and persistent, and this decision had indeed achieved its desired effect. But when Wang Meng, before his death, pleaded with Fu Jian not to invade the Jin dynasty to the south, Fu Jian was equally confident and persistent. He believed he could destroy the Jin and realize his dream of unifying the central plains… and everyone knows how that ended.

And Stalin was just such a man. He was arrogant and stubborn, stubborn and persistent, persistent and violent, yet within that violence, there was a measure of wisdom. If it were not for this personality, how could he, in Lenin’s era, have overcome so many elites to become the preeminent, power-wielding leader of the Soviet Union? And it was precisely this personality that had led him to unleash the bloody storm of the Great Purge, and to choose the hard line of fighting Germany to the bitter end.

“What you have to do is actually very simple. Defend every inch of our positions, until the very last moment.” Stalin spoke slowly, with some weariness. He dropped the crumpled telegram in his hand to his feet. “Moscow must hold on to the end. Hold on until we have repelled the German invaders, or until it has completely fallen.”

“I understand, Comrade Stalin! I will hold on until the last moment and defend Moscow!” Zhukov replied, standing at attention. If his attitude towards Stalin before had been one of submission under high pressure, at this moment, he felt he should do something for this country, should do something for this leader who was worthy of respect.

“Cooperate well with Comrade Vatutin! As long as we can deal a heavy blow to the invaders here, then the flag of the Soviet Union will never be lowered!” Stalin stood up, walked around his desk to Zhukov, and patted him on the shoulder. “I will be here, waiting for my own destiny.”

“Then… the matter of negotiating with the Germans…” Zhukov seemed a little unwilling to let it go and asked this one last time.

“You can, of course, go and negotiate, Comrade Zhukov,” Stalin said with a bitter smile. He then rubbed the pipe in his palm. “But all of this must wait until after I am dead. Stalin will never compromise, and will never negotiate. Do you understand?”

“I understand! I will hold on until victory arrives! Comrade Stalin!” Zhukov saluted at attention, then turned and walked out of Stalin’s office. And as the office door closed, Stalin did not immediately sit back down. He walked to the bookshelf, looked up at the portrait of Lenin on it, his face expressionless.

It was the man in the portrait who had brought him to this position. Together, they had worked hard to create a great country with a vast territory, to create the largest country in the world. At that time, he had been full of vigor, feeling as if he had an inexhaustible supply of strength. But now, his hair was graying at the temples, and he had to face a million enemy troops outside his city, alone.

“Comrade Lenin… if you can, please show me the way forward! I truly don’t know what to do now… I remember your teachings to me. The fortunate thing is, I have accomplished them all. Now I am coming to follow you. I hope that when I see you, you will not be disappointed in me,” Stalin muttered. He tore his eyes away from the portrait of Lenin, and, with his hands behind his back, he walked to the window. The world outside was pitch-black.

The German shelling had stopped at some point. The sound of gunfire in the distance was sparse and indistinct. Stalin felt an infinite exhaustion and powerlessness, and could only, with heavy steps, walk back from the window. In fact, he rarely worked in this office anymore. Most of the time, he could only sit in the basement, unable to see a single ray of sunlight.

Four hours ago, the German 150mm cannons had shelled the urban area of Moscow. The war was no longer distant. Everything here was already under the shadow of the enemy’s attack range. Everyone had to be careful just to stay alive, including Stalin himself.

He pushed open the door and walked, step by step, into the long corridor. The guard at the door helped him to close it. His attendant and a group of personal guards followed him down the stairs, and then they pushed open a heavy door, passed through an even dimmer slope, and walked towards the deeply buried basement. It was dozens of meters underground and would not be affected by the artillery fire.

In the long, dark corridor, only the sound of Stalin’s and his guards’ footsteps could be heard. At every interval, guards stood by heavy steel doors. This place was powered entirely by diesel generators and had good lighting and supporting facilities. The entire project had been built along with the subway system and had only just recently been considered basically complete.

But no matter how dazzling the incandescent lights overhead, the end of this tunnel was still just as dark. Stalin could not see the front, could not see what the place he was heading to looked like. He could only walk slowly, one step at a time, with his slightly heavy steps.

On the outskirts of Moscow, behind a position that was full of craters and broken barbed wire, in a deep trench, two Soviet Red Army soldiers were in a timber-reinforced shelter, staring into the darkness in the distance, which seemed as if it could swallow everything.

The place where they were was relatively safer, because there were logs laid horizontally, serving as a roof to shelter them from the wind and rain. Behind them was a map of the local trench layout, a small, broken table, on which were their two mess tins, as well as some scattered, outdated documents.

This place had originally been a secret command post, close to the front. But because of the continuous German advance, it had now become a frontline observation post and a temporary machine gun bunker. On the tamped-down earth, there were still traces of a battery commander’s scope having been set up, but the expensive equipment, and the officers who had once lived here, seemed to have already been moved to a safer place.

Unlike in the city of Moscow, the blackout on the front line was very strict. Not only were the regulations strict, but on the other hand, no one was willing to gamble with their own lives. A light exposed at night could be seen from a great distance, and any little clue was a sufficient reason for the enemy to open fire.

The two of them leaned against the observation slit, squinting their eyes, using the starlight to watch the movements on the German positions opposite them. Behind them, on the ground, seven or eight Soviet soldiers were lying scattered. These men were just sleeping here out of exhaustion, so from time to time, a faint snore could be heard.

“I’m thinking, the person who lived here before, was he a division commander or a corps commander? This place is built really strong,” one of the soldiers, who was on lookout, said in a low voice to the other. “And it’s big enough. Maybe they had two beds behind us, with quilts and pillows.”

The other soldier, lowering his binoculars, rubbed his dry eyes. He basically couldn’t see anything in them; it was just darkness everywhere. Hearing his companion’s muttering, he spat out the blade of grass he had been chewing on and replied, “If I were you, and I had time to talk nonsense, I’d be carefully checking the bullets in the machine gun.”

“Clink… Clang…” From the darkness in the distance, came the sound of a metal object striking something. The Soviet army’s logistical supplies included a lot of canned goods from the United States. After the soldiers had finished eating, they had gotten into the habit of tying the cans to the barbed wire. This could provide a certain degree of early warning, similar to the function of a bell.

“I’ll be… #%!” This Soviet soldier, amidst the rumbling background noise of the cannons, heard this sharp sound. He was stunned for a second, and then he cursed loudly, “Enemy attack! Get up, quick! The Germans are attacking!”

As if in response to his shout, from the darkness in the distance, the unique sound of an MG42 machine gun began to roar.

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