Stalin added: ‘There may be better candidates.’
He was giving them a second chance to fire him!
Another member of the group spoke up, and Volodya recognized Marshal Voroshilov. ‘There’s none more worthy,’ he said.
How did that help? This was hardly the time for naked sycophancy.
Then his father joined in, saying: ‘That’s right!’
Were they not going to let Stalin go? How could they be so stupid?
Molotov was the first to say something sensible. ‘We propose to form a war cabinet called the State Defence Committee, a kind of ultra-politburo with a very small membership and sweeping powers.’
Stalin quickly interposed: ‘Who will be its head?’
‘You, Comrade Stalin!’
Volodya wanted to shout: ‘No!’
There was another long silence.
At last Stalin spoke. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now, who else shall we have on the committee?’
Beria stepped forward and began to propose the members.
It was all over, Volodya realized, feeling dizzy with frustration and disappointment. They had lost their chance. They could have deposed a tyrant, but they had lacked the nerve. Like the children of a violent father, they feared they could not manage without him.
In fact, it was worse than that, he saw with growing despondency. Perhaps Stalin really had had a breakdown – it had certainly seemed real – but he had also made a brilliant political move. All the men who might replace him were here in this room. At the moment when his catastrophically poor judgement had been exposed for all to see, he had forced his rivals to come out and beg him to be their leader again. He had drawn a line under his appalling mistake and given himself a new start.
Stalin was not just back.
He was stronger than ever.
Who would have the courage to make a public protest about what was going on at Akelberg? Carla and Frieda had seen it with their own eyes, and they had Ilse Konig as a witness, but now they needed an advocate. There were no elected representatives any more: all Reichstag deputies were Nazis. There were no real journalists, either; just scribbling sycophants. The judges were all Nazi appointees subservient to the government. Carla had never before realized how much she had been protected by politicians, newspapermen and lawyers. Without them, she saw now, the government could do anything it liked, even kill people.
Who could they turn to? Frieda’s admirer Heinrich von Kessel had a friend who was a Catholic priest. ‘Peter was the cleverest boy in my class,’ he told them. ‘But he wasn’t the most popular. A bit upright and stiff-necked. I think he’ll listen to us, though.’
Carla thought it was worth a try. Her Protestant pastor had been sympathetic, until the Gestapo terrified him into silence. Perhaps the same would happen again. But she did not know what else to do.
Heinrich took Carla, Frieda and Ilse to Peter’s church in Schoneberg early on a Sunday morning in July. Heinrich was handsome in a black suit; the girls all wore their nurses’ uniforms, symbols of trustworthiness. They entered by a side door and went to a small, dusty room with a few old chairs and a large wardrobe. They found Father Peter alone, praying. He must have heard them come in, but he remained on his knees for a minute before getting up and turning to greet them.
Peter was tall and thin, with regular features and a neat haircut. He was twenty-seven, Carla calculated, if he was Heinrich’s contemporary. He frowned at them, not troubling to conceal his irritation at being disturbed. ‘I am preparing myself for Mass,’ he said severely. ‘I am pleased to see you in church, Heinrich, but you must leave me now. I will see you afterwards.’
‘This is a spiritual emergency, Peter,’ said Heinrich. ‘Sit down, we have something important to tell you.’
‘It could hardly be more important than Mass.’
‘Yes, it could, Peter, believe me. In five minutes’ time you will agree.’
‘Very well.’
‘This is my girlfriend, Frieda Franck.’
Carla was surprised. Was Frieda his girlfriend now?
Frieda said: ‘I had a younger brother who was born with spina bifida. Earlier this year he was transferred to a hospital at Akelberg in Bavaria for special treatment. Shortly afterwards we got a letter saying he had died of appendicitis.’
She turned to Carla, who took up the tale. ‘My maid had a son born brain-damaged. He, too, was transferred to Akelberg. The maid got an identical letter on the same day.’
Peter spread his hands in a so-what gesture. ‘I have heard this kind of thing before. It’s anti-government propaganda. The Church does not interfere in politics.’
What rubbish that was, Carla thought. The Church was up to its neck in politics. But she let it pass. ‘My maid’s son did not have an appendix,’ she went on. ‘He had had
