Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [101]
Captain Ivan Orlov was near frantic by the delay. He sped the car toward Eberswalde, zigzagging between the endless lines of tanks, guns, gondola wagons, horsemen, blowing the horn incessantly, sending foot troops scurrying into the ditches. He jabbered without respite. Igor tried to ignore him. What a magnificent sight, this great great mass of men and guns. Soon the five horrible years would be over. They were at the gates of Berlin ... Russians ... Ukrainians ... squat Asians from Mongol and Tartar lands ... dark-eyed Armenians and Georgians.
Igor was disturbed by gossip in the high command that Stalin preferred a street fight for Berlin rather than allow Nazi surrender. It would be a pretext to take Berlin apart street by street, house by house. What a shame to lose many thousands of young men in this last hour of war.
Igor rolled up his overcoat, made a pillow of it, and pretended to doze in order to shut off Ivan Orlov’s chatter. An intersection clogged with wagons brought them to a halt. A large-busted woman in military-police uniform answered Orlov’s long, undinted horn blast.
“Out of the way, damn you, clear that road!”
“What is your great hurry, comrade?” the woman soldier demanded.
“We have a meeting with a commissar.”
“Excuse me, comrade. Clear the way! Let them through!”
The People’s Military and Civil Governing Group was temporarily established in the boys’ gymnasium in the town of Eberswalde, some fifty kilometers north of Berlin, where they awaited the fall of the capital. White flags of surrender hanging from the town’s windows clashed with the red flags atop the schoolhouse.
Captain Ivan Orlov, now an hour late, leaped from the Mercedes. He quickly identified himself to two blue-capped guards from political security and trotted down the main corridor, which still held a portrait of Adolf Hitler.
Igor was met at the door by his two junior officers, Captain Boris Chernov and young Lieutenant Feodor Guchkov. They had not seen the colonel for several days. There were embraces and backslaps.
“Have you heard, Igor? Popov’s White Russian Front has approached the eastern and southern suburbs of Berlin!”
“And the Ukrainian Front is pouring in from the north!” Feodor added. “We have them in a pincers.”
“It’s official. We have joined hands with the Americans at the Elbe River!”
“Magnificent!” Igor Karlovy roared, “but for now I’d better get in to see Comrade Azov.”
“We’ll wait here,” Feodor said. “Tonight the bombardment of Berlin begins in earnest. I know a place up near the front lines where we can watch it.”
“Bring the vodka,” Igor said, and asked for directions to V. V. Azov’s office. He stopped for a moment to look into the auditorium. The Agitation and Propaganda Corps were hard at it: stacks of broadsheets holding portraits of Stalin, Lenin, Marx, Engels; stacks of leaflets; long strips of red lettering on white cloth carrying slogans would come in on the heels of the last shot.
V. V. Azov sat deadpanned behind his desk. Ivan Orlov was nervously repeating an apology of why they were late. “Marshal Popov personally asked Colonel Karlovy to look after the bridge.”
Azov silenced the captain by holding up his hand without indication of belief or disbelief. He seemed remote from the elation of the great turn of events. One almost never saw a smile, a frown, or any of those indications attributed to human reactions. He greeted Igor Karlovy matter-of-factly. His thick black hair was in place and his huge moustache was combed and carefully turned. The simple tunic was opened at the throat. Behind his dull gray eyes was a brain trained to receive and disseminate information without emotion.
“I heard the news of our joining with the Americans!” Igor said. “It’s marvelous!