Chapter Forty-Four
Outside Yaroslavl, Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
May 1932
The train turned, rattling the carriage. The tableware before him shook slightly, causing him to rouse himself from an uncomfortable sleep. Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov startled awake and groaned. He knew poor sleep was better than no sleep, but in that moment he wished he had stayed awake as his neck and back ached with the awkward position he had slept in.
Reaching out, he grabbed the mug of cold vodka-laced coffee and sipped, feeling the alcohol burn itself down his throat and explode in his stomach. The breakfast of buttered and sugared kasha was rich in flavor and plentiful in offering, the perks of being so near the ones who wielded power. Utterly bored and half-famished, he picked up a piece of half-eaten buttered bread and nibbled on it.
After two months of touring gulags and NKGB installations in Siberia, ending with a massive International Workers’ Day celebration in Vladivostok, Kolganov was more than ready to get home to his apartment where a soft bed and hot shower awaited him. Though there were few ways better at traveling the width and breadth of the vast Soviet Union, the Trans-Siberian Railway made the simplicity of home almost nostalgic.
Across the small table from him sat the Boss. Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin stared out the window at the passing Russian countryside. Stalin, People’s Commissar of the feared NKGB, had made little small talk since they had crossed the Urals. The Man of Steel was reserved as always, ever smoking from his pipe and reading page after page of intelligence reports whenever he was not in meetings, giving speeches, or overseeing parade formations of the nation’s security forces.
Currently Stalin was combing through a report of Red Army officers suspected of smuggling explosives from a military munitions depot in Sverdlovgrad. Such occurrences, typically unlikely, were starting to get out of hand over the past few months as many wished to supplement their small Army salary with profits earned by selling on the black market.
“It is getting out of hand,” Stalin muttered, eying the report.
“Comrade People’s Commissar?”
“These damn Army thieves. Trotsky needs to get his house in order or we’ll have to get involved more directly. I can guarantee you, Fyodor, it won’t be pretty.” Stalin’s smile was void of comfort, a mustachioed promise of nothing but death and a cold unforgiving existence.
Kolganov winced. The Heptarchy, the ruling body of seven powerful men who ran the Soviet Union, was beginning to fray at the edges. The disdain, the competing ambitions, and unrestrained ruthlessness which had done so well to unite the USSR together after Lenin’s death was now falling into an unacceptable degree of factionalism.
Trotsky, the leader of the so-called Left Opposition, was biting at the bit to unleash ‘permanent revolution’ across the world either by honeyed words and bribery or, more than likely, via bomb and bayonet. Sverdlov was hesitant about direct Soviet involvement in the various socialist revolutions across the globe, having spent the last eight years rebuilding the Soviet economy from the years of ruin and neglect suffered during the Civil War and the Great War that preceded it. To the Soviet Premier, it was as of yet too risky for the USSR to so openly entangle itself in foreign conflicts and proxy wars across the globe against imperialist, capitalistic and fascist powers.
The time would come, yes, but that time was not yet here. So reasoned Sverdlov. Trotsky and his allies amongst the military and Soviet bureaucracy, instead urged that the Red Army, Red Air Force and Red Navy advance against the Poles, the Baltics, the Finns, Iran, Manchu and Japan so as to secure its borders and establish a buffer zone against Germany, Britain, France, Nationalist China and the United States.
“Wait,” Sverdlov had said in many high-level meetings concerning the Heptarchy, of which Stalin was one and Kolganov had been there to assist. “We wait until the time is right.”
“But when exactly, may I ask, Comrade Premier, is that?” Trotsky had demanded in a scathing tone. Kolganov remembered clearly the icy hatred between Trotsky and Sverdlov, the two bespectacled Jews detesting the other’s existence and cursing fate for needing the other. Yet that need, or at least the original reasons for it, was fading. Fast.
“Do you think something needs to be done about a certain People’s Commissar?”
Stalin looked up from his papers with an eyebrow raised. He puffed on his pipe, the train carriage smelling of burning Herzegovina Flor tobacco.
“Do you think Trotsky needs to be liquidated?” Stalin asked in a threateningly neutral voice. Kolganov felt sweat drip down his neck and along his spine, despite the freezing winter outside. He had to tread carefully. Stalin rarely tolerated ingenuity or proactiveness.
“If Trotsky’s thirst for power threatens the Soviet Union, the best salve would be a bullet to the head. At the very least he should be questioned, perhaps forced into exile to defang his supporters.”
Stalin took a deep drag on his pipe, a sign of him being pleased.
“Very good, Andrei Fyodorrovich. You are learning.” Stalin leaned forward, “Or do you prefer, Fyodor Stefannovich?”
Kolganov smothered the momentary panic, adopting a look of confusion thanks to his years of NKGB training to control his body language.
“Comrade?”
He could tell immediately his deflection failed. Stalin stared at him like a predator would stare at its prey.
“Hmm,” Stalin puffed. “Never mind, comrade. A slip of the tongue, eh.”
“Of- of course, Comrade Stalin. Slip of tongue. Right.”
Stalin chuckled lightly to himself as he turned back to his reports.
The bastard knew everything. It seemed Bull told Stalin who he was all those years ago prior to the Revolution. Why would Stalin reveal that he knew all along? Was it to test Kolganov’s loyalty? His honesty? His usefulness? Or was, as Kolganov concluded hopefully, merely to tickle the Boss’ cruel sense of humor?
Bastard.
Kolganov reached for the vodka-laced coffee, ready to down it when a loud explosion rocked the train, followed by the piercing screech of the train’s wheelsets attempting to brake yet utterly failing.
It all happened so fast. One moment Kolganov was reaching for his drink, the next he was on the ceiling of the carriage which had now become the floor and before he could fully process what was happening reality flipped again and the ‘floor’ became the ceiling once more. The train, or at least parts of it, were tumbling into the Siberian snowfields, eventually crashing into a cluster of trees. The violent snapping of the trees sounded like more explosions.
What must have lasted less than a minute felt like an eternity in that moment. By the time the carriage came to a stop, Kolganov was dazed, vision foggy. He threw up that morning’s breakfast and drink, sour spit dripping down his chin. He wiped his hand across his eyes, coming away wet with blood. Blinking rapidly, he felt more blood trickle from a deep gash on his forehead. Pressing on it to stem the bleeding he looked around the carriage, aghast how it went from pristine to a vision of horror in a mere moment. He ripped off a piece of tablecloth and wrapped it around his head to staunch the bleeding.
Glass was everywhere, every window broken. The two Internal Troop bodyguards that had sat at the back of the carriage weren’t in sight, either thrown from the carriage as it tumbled violently or buried under a table.
Kolganov stumbled to his feet, nearly falling down from the disorientation. His head felt like someone had a sledgehammer hammering his skull from the inside. Stumbling, his foot bumped into a solid mass under an upturned table, covered by a food-stained tablecloth. The mass groaned. Kolganov lifted the hem to see an unconscious Stalin, hair damp with blood. Investigating the wound, it was but a minor cut. He reached down to dislodge the Boss.
“Hello!” shouted a voice outside. Kolganov, the instinct drilled into him from fighting the Whites for years, ducked down and hesitantly glanced out one of the broken windows.
Four Red Army soldiers were coming down the hill, leaving deep tracks in the thigh-high snow. Relief flooded through Kolganov at their approach and he nearly rose up to beckon them over.
We’re saved! Thank God for the Red Army.
Wait… His thoughts, formerly jumbled by the violent tumbling, cleared
.
Why was there a Red Army detachment in the middle of nowhere?
An Internal Troop officer, having been in the rear of the carriage and been thrown off when it detached from the train, had miraculously landed in a pile of snow, cushioning his fall. The man rose shakily, laughing at it all, adrenaline likely coursing through his veins. He waved to the approaching troops.
“Comrades! I can’t believe I survived that-”
The first bullet hit him in the chest, surprising him. Another in the shoulder spun him around as he fell face first into the snow. The four soldiers moved forward, unbothered and cocky. They stood over the bleeding, dying man. One used his foot to turn the officer over.
“Comrades, help,” the wounded officer wheezed faintly, just loud enough for Kolganov to hear.
One of the Red Army men spat on him. “Fucking NKGB pig. This is for my brother.” He raised his Mosin-Nagant, placed it on the man’s head and fired once. The Internal Troop’s brains splattered across the snow, the discharged boom echoing through the air.
“Come on, let’s check the train.”
“Shit!” Kolganov hissed. He reached for his sidearm but his holster was empty. He had left it unclasped and his pistol must have slipped out in the tumble. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the nearest weapon he could: one of the fallen butter knives scattered across the floor. Crawling, he made it over to the bathroom door, opened it and entered, nearly closing the door but at the last second made sure it didn’t lock shut so he would have a chance to bust out if need be.
He heard and felt the soldiers enter the carriage, the haphazardly tossed carriage shifting with their added weight. Shattered glass crunched beneath their boots. One of them whistled at the opulence of the carriage.
“‘Sacrifice today for a better tomorrow,’’' quoted another disdainfully. “We live like dogs and they kings. They’re no better than the tsars. Damn Lebedev-Polianskii’s propagandists who fed us that bullshit and damn Sverdlov too! Fucking kike.” Judging by the commotion only two had entered the carriage, the other two were likely outside to keep watch.
They began to search the train car, looting as they went. He heard the faint ringing of silverware being stuffed in greatcoat pockets. Though he couldn’t see where they were, he heard one approach the rear of the compartment. Kolganov’s heart was pounding so loud that in his barely controlled panic he thought the soldiers must have heard it. His grip on the butter knife tightened, pathetic though the weapon was.
Through the crack he could see a shadow approach and he readied to jump out.
“Shit. Yuri, look at this,” came the other soldier from near the middle of the carriage compartment. The shadow turned yet did not move away. “It’s Stalin. We found him.”
“Fuckin’ hell, you’re right. How lucky we were the ones sent down here!” Two hands clasped together and were rubbed expectantly. “Trotsky will pin a medal on us for this.”
Knowing it was his best chance, Kolganov bursted out of the bathroom, butter knife raised and ready to kill. The soldier near the bathroom turned, pale eyes opened wide with terror as Kolganov drove the blunted knife through the man’s eye socket. The soldier screamed in pain and reached for his ruined eye, the blade not quite long enough to pierce into the brain.
“What the fuck!” yelled the other soldier, who was rising from a crouched position near the overturned table sheltering a still-unconscious Stalin. Kolganov grabbed the first soldier’s Mosin-Nagant and shoved him into the rising soldier who tumbled backwards. Kolganov ran forward and put the barrel in the man’s face.
“Help! I need help here!” he called out desperately. Kolganov pulled the trigger and blew the man’s brains out. Working the bolt he chambered a new round as one of the two outside soldiers poked his head in, more confused than anything.
“What is-” Kolganov fired again but missed. The Red Army man darted backwards. Cursing the rushed aim, Kolganov chambered another round, looking out one of the broken windows to see one of the Red Army men raise his rifle and fire. Ducking down out of sight as the bullet whistled by, Kolganov rushed to the rear of the carriage as the two took pot-shots with their Mosin-Nagants, bullets lodging themselves in the expensive and broken wood, sending splinters flying down on his head.
Reaching the end of the carriage, Kolganov opened it quietly, gun half-raised. Seeing no one, he jumped down into the snow, almost falling but quickly regained his footing.
“Where is he?!” yelled one of the soldiers from one side of the carriage.
“I don’t know! Keep looking but be careful,” responded the other from the opposite side.
Hissing at the cold wind, Kolganov peeked around the corner of the carriage, seeing one of the Red Army bastards near a felled tree, eyes locked on the broken windows, breath fogging in the freezing air. Raising the Mosin-Nagant as if it were the heyday of the Civil War, Kolganov took aim. Exhaling slowly, he fired and the man fell like a sack of potatoes across the tree trunk. Rechambering, he turned back around to see the barrel of the other soldier’s gun at his chest.
The last soldier was more boy than man, not a day over eighteen or nineteen by the looks of him.
“Drop it! Drop it now.” The soldier gestured at the rifle in Kolganov’s hand. Sighing, he dropped it and raised his arms in surrender. Knowing he was going to die, Kolganov didn’t curse the man or try to fight back. He tried to reason with him.
“My name is Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov. I am a NKGB officer. I’m of more value to you alive than dead.”
“You killed my friends, fucker.”
“They would’ve killed me. I did what I had to.”
“That’s your excuse? That’s lousy as shit and worth less!” The man’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Andrei,” croaked a voice from the open rear doorway. “What happened?”
The soldier snapped his rifle up and to the right, aiming it at a disorientated Stalin who stood there blinking in confusion. Kolganov seized his chance. Leaping forward, he tackled the soldier to the ground as the gun fired. They tumbled, throwing snow up in the air. As they rolled over several times he punched the boy in the face, stunning him just long enough for his hands to clasp around the trooper’s throat. Kolganov squeezed, fingers digging into the throat.
He watched and felt the boy struggle who, in his desperation to live, tried to kick and punch him but failing. The trooper’s punches at Kolagnov’s face became weaker and weaker until they were nothing more than pawing. Face red and purple, the boy’s arms fell limply to his side.
Better safe than sorry, Kolganov thought as he gave one last squeeze, breaking the boy’s larynx. Rolling over to face skyward, Kolganov sucked in air like a drowning man pulled out of a lake.
He saw Stalin make his way down gingerly and limp over to him. It seemed the bullet had missed him completely. Stalin held out his hand and Kolganov seized it, hauling himself up. The Boss had an inquisitive look on his face.
“Red Army traitors. One of them mentioned Trotsky would pin a medal on them for finding you, Comrade People’s Commissar. My best guess is they blew the tracks when we rode over, derailing us. Now they have soldiers going through the train, killing NKGB personnel as they search for you.”
As if to emphasize his point, gunfire over the hill popped in the distance, likely at whomever survived the derailed train.
“Trotsky has gone and done it has he?” Stalin’s infamous rage was taking hold. Kolganov reached for the Man of Steel, feeling him shake from fury. “I’ll kill him, Andrei. I swear I’ll kill him, just like what you did to that two-faced son of a whore there.” Stalin pointed at the dead boy with the crushed larynx. “I’ll kill him!”
“Shhh, comrade, shh.” Kolganov looked back at the forest behind him. “We need to run into the woods. There we can hide out until the soldiers move on. Come on.”
Stalin’s anger cooled but did not fade all together. “Very well,” he said, moving with Kolganov.
“Wait,” Kolganav turned and jogged back into the carriage. The soldier with the butter knife in his eye lay in a pool of his and his comrade’s blood. Still alive, he wheezed as Kolganov approached. Drained of energy, the soldier could do nothing but watch as Kolganov extracted the trooper’s bayonet from his waist and slit the Red Army man’s throat. Kolganov couldn't risk the wounded man telling the other traitors when they came looking for their missing fireteam.
Collecting their NKGB greatcoats, some food and what ammo he could, including, he noted wryly, his TT-30 Tokarev pistol that had skirted under a handful of half-cracked plates, Kolganov returned to Stalin and the two began to walk into the forest from its broken and crushed edge.
They walked for about a half hour before their exhaustion took hold. The two nearly collapsed from weariness against a spruce tree.
Taking one of the few pieces of bread Kolganov was able to grab, the two NKGB men split it in half and ate in silence, using snow from nearby as icy slushed water. They continued to hear the occasional gunshot, with the smoke from the train fires blooming up into the air, staining the pristine sky with the ruinous reminder of treachery.
They sat there, huddled together for body heat, with Kolganov’s ‘borrowed’ Mosin-Nagant held out across his knees. Though he wished for a fire, Kolganov knew that it would be suicide to do so. The traitors would see it and come investigate. No, in spite of his teeth chattering something fierce, Kolganov decided against a fire and Stalin didn’t bother to protest.
As the sun set and night began, Kolganov volunteered to keep watch, knowing the older man would need the rest more than him. Stalin nodded in thanks and soon enough was snoring beside him.
For a couple of hours, or perhaps three, he kept vigilant, eyes watching the poorly visible trees in the pitch black, seeing nothing but hearing the occasional rustle of an animal running by through the foliage. Eyes heavy, he strained to stay awake but he lost the battle well after what he assumed was midnight.
Kolganov awoke hours later with the terrible sound of machine gun fire and explosions filling the air. The night sky lit up infrequently in conjunction with the explosions and flares. It did not last long but the barrage of gunfire was impressive, likely a few platoons worth of shooters. Curiosity and alarm demanded he investigate what was happening but the cold winter and exhaustion kept him planted on that hard frozen ground cuddled up beside Joseph Stalin.
He slipped back to sleep within minutes.
Kolganov dreamed of a warm spring and a buxom redhead on his arm feeding him grapes as he swigged from a bottle of vodka. The dream was pleasant, which made his abrupt awakening even more rude.
A boot kicked his leg.
Kolganov was startled awake to see a dozen Red Army soldiers with guns aimed at him and Stalin. The Boss, similarly dazed, stared at the men as if they were beneath his attention, as if they were scum off the sole of his boot. A brave face, but perhaps the wrong one for the moment.
Kolganov looked around, blinking rapidly as early morning sunlight filtered through the tree cover. He saw at least two hundred Red Army soldiers in sight, some wounded and being tended to, while dozens of horses had their reins tied around low-hanging tree branches.
“If you traitors are gonna kill us, better do it now. I won’t beg,” Stalin said, his thick Georgian accent more pronounced than usual.
“And why would we do that, Comrade Stalin?” laughed an approaching man. The man was clad in the knee-high boots and dark blue breeches of a cavalryman with wide deep yellow piping. While most men that Kolganov could see wore dark brown greatcoats, this officer wore gray, signaling his status as an officer.
The man was tall and broad across the shoulders, that much was obvious despite the greatcoat’s bulk. He wore his officer’s hat at an angle that might have been dashing if the circumstances were less serious.
“At ease men. We don’t have to worry about the loyalties of these two. They’re not Yagoda’s.” Kolganov’s eyebrow rose at the mention of Genrikh Yagoda, the Deputy Director of the NKGB. Was Yagoda a traitor? Did he throw in his lot with Trotsky?
“And you are, Comrade Brigade Commander?” Stalin asked after eying the man’s rank insignia of a single red diamond resting upon his collar.
“Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov of the 2nd Cavalry Brigade, 7th Cavalry Division, at your service.”
“What’s happening across the country? Is Trotsky carrying out a coup?” Stalin demanded, rising from the ground, brushing snow off his person. Kolganov rose as well, finding his muscles stiff and aching.
“A coup? Aye, that weasel Trotsky is carrying out a coup. From what I can gather, it seems at least a third of the Red Army is with him judging from the radio reports we’ve intercepted. Could be more, could be less. No idea on the Navy or Air Force at the moment. We’ve seen some planes come out of Yaroslavl but no idea if they are friend or foe so we’ve hid in the forest.”
“What about the premier? Is Sverdlov alive?”
“I don’t know, Comrade Stalin,” Zhukov said bluntly. “Trotsky has taken most of Moscow. He claims to have captured the premier but I’ve heard conflicting reports that Trotsky has dispatched men to hunt him down.”
“I see.” Stalin rubbed the unshaved bristle alongside his face. “I need to get to Moscow. Immediately.”
Zhukov smiled. “Then you’re in luck, comrade. We’re going to take Yaroslavl in the next few days. Just waiting for the rest of the division to get into position. From there you can hitch a ride to Moscow on one of the planes grounded at the airport.”
For the first time since their train derailed, Stalin smiled. “Very well, comrade. Lead the way.”
Berlin, Germany
German Reich
May 1932
"Brüning verordnet Not! Brüning verordnet Not! Brüning verordnet Not!"
Paul Lutjens winced at the noise, a cacophony of throaty voices worn down by the incessant chanting and shouts of outrage. The streets of Berlin were choked with protestors, red banners flying proudly beside the German tricolor.
Incensed today, aren’t they, he thought. And so they were. Thousands of communists and socialists, with several Social Democrats sprinkled in, were in the streets protesting Chancellor Brüning’s government. In an ideal world Paul would have been far away, in his apartment or at his favorite cafe or bierhaus, or with his twin daughters at the park yet here he stood, crammed into a column of leftist agitators as they voiced their frustration with the government.
Soon enough the communists adopted a new chant.
“Austerity breeds discontent! Austerity breeds discontent! Austerity breeds discontent!”
At least Brüning wasn’t a fascist, Paul wanted to say but knew that wouldn’t do anything. The KPD was riled up and would not be silenced. The news coming from the Soviet Union of a burgeoning civil war spooked KPD leadership into action according to Ursula, causing the rank-and-file to be unsure of what to do with conflicting orders coming from the Central Committee.
Beside him stood his wife, the short yet utterly beautiful Ursula. She was there protesting the government, placard in hand and red bandana wrapped around her arm. Though she had long ago given up trying to convert him to Marxist-Leninism, her fervor for the Communist Party still burned hot. As part of her job working the Party’s propaganda wing she attended rallies and traveled the width and breadth of Germany to aid in local elections, carry out speaking events, hold rallies and everything in between. Her dedication to the Party was unquestioned, as was her disdain for her boss, a certain Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels.
Goebbels had never laid a hand on her, which would have led to the limping rodent being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his lecherous life when Paul was done with him. In spite of all her clamor for socialist women being modern women unrestrained by the bonds of conservative norms, Ursula was surprisingly steadfast in her refusal to even entertain the idea of extramarital affairs, even if it meant stalling her own career.
Her refusal to sleep with Goebbels wasn’t the only reason she hadn’t continued to advance in the Party. Politics was the primary reason.
His wife was a firm supporter of the Brandler faction, named after Deputy General Secretary Heinrich Brandler. Ursula and the others in said faction were proponents of communism in Germany to be driven by Germans rather than dictated to them by Moscow. General Secretary Thälmann, however, was a committed Sverdlovist who toed the Soviet line.
Brandler and Thälmann, long rivals, had agreed to set aside their differences in the name of Party unity a half-decade ago. Their cooperation led to great success politically with the KPD being the fourth largest political party in Germany, only trailing behind the Centre Party, the German National People’s Party and the Social Democratic Party.
The fascists in the FDAS used to be where the communists were now up until their violent schism last year in Frankfurt that saw them split in two. The birth of the even more militant National Democratic Union was widely welcomed by the KPD as it weakened far-right cohesion across the country. The infighting between the fascists saw KPD support grow significantly as the FDAS bled members, though it also similarly boosted the DNVP, one of the Party’s greatest rivals.
Even though the KPD presented itself as a united front to others, it was an open secret the Party was rife with factionalism and infighting. What little news was filtering out of the Soviet Union the past few days was conflicting and causing unrest across KPD.
“Paul,” his wife said, snapping him out of his daydreaming. “Let’s go.”
He looked around, seeing thousands of other red-banded protestors arrive in trucks or by foot, replacing the current host of protestors.
Ah, the new shift. Say what you will about the communists, when motivated they were extremely well organized.
Hands clasped, they walked through the crowd, eventually boarding a bus to head back to their apartment complex. Paying the two pfennig fare for the both of them, they elbowed and squeezed their way to a less crowded spot Lacking seating as other KPD members and daily passengers already occupied the seats, they stood, clutching onto handles. As the bus began to drive away, the slight lurch had Ursula lean into him, her body firm and lithe against him. He tilted her head back to look at him.
“What?” she asked, her typically harsh tone softened as he kissed her.
An older woman nearby clicked her tongue at the public display but others either whooped or ignored it altogether. It was the 1910s anymore, affection could be shone outside the bedroom though Paul doubted that crone would agree. Laughing at himself, Ursula looked at him but he shrugged as an answer.
When they got back to the complex, he held her outside the door to their apartment, the same one she had shown up to so brazenly eight years ago. He pulled her closer and gave her a long kiss, their tongues dancing around one another in their mouths.
Pulling away she cleared her throat. “Easy there, mister. Keep this up and there’ll be another kid in nine months.”
“That’s not such a bad thing,” he said, hugging her and smelling her scent, sweat and perfume. “Come on, the girls will be four by then. It’ll be easier.” A grin split his face. “Besides, you’re starting to get older and- Ow!” She poked him in the ribs, hard, but her face was one of false anger and had the twinkle of humor in her eyes.
“Careful you, or I’ll have to tie you up.”
“Again, that’s not such a bad thing.”
She laughed, a rich throaty laugh. He loved her laugh.
“Come on,” she said, turning with the key to unlock the door. “I’m sure the babysitter is eager to go home.
Entering the apartment they were greeted by two sandy haired children, their squeals of joy at seeing their parents endearing.
Paul squatted down and picked both up, taking a twirl with them. Frederica and Karla giggled, their hair flowing with the force of the spin. As he played with them for a few minutes, he heard Ursula talking to their babysitter, a teenage girl named Maria whose father was a loyal Party member. Paul saw Ursula give the teenager a 10 Reichsmark banknote. The girl’s eyes bulged. It was just a reminder to Paul that times were better now for them than it had been when they first met years ago. Even with the Great Depression devastating the country, causing nearly a quarter of the labor force to be unemployed, Paul and Ursula had remained employed throughout. Add in the fact that with supervisor salaries both had in their respective careers then it ensured a comfortable though definitely not egregious lifestyle.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lutjens! Thank you!” the girl said excitedly.
“You’ve earned it, Maria. Fair pay for fair work. And dealing with these hellions is labor enough,” she chuckled, looking at him and the girls. The teenager nodded politely and left soon after.
The next couple of hours blurred by. The four of them played a board game together, then ate a simple but fulfilling meal. Afterwards the girls worked away on a coloring book with their crayons while Ursula read Die Rote Fahne while he worked his way through the new book Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Though interested in the novel’s dystopian concepts himself, half the reason Paul read it in front of Ursula was to annoy her, especially by its positive mentions of Henry Ford.
Once the girls started yawning and struggling to stay awake, they were put to bed in Ursula’s old room and the two of them retired to their own bedroom. After several rounds of passionate sex, they sat there, smoking cigarettes and enjoying one another’s company.
Putting out the stub of his cigarette, Paul leaned over to give her a kiss. “Goodnight, my love.”
“Goodnight, Paul. Thank you for going with me today.”
“Of course! Nothing I’d rather do than stand in a Red protest for hours.”
Her once scathing gaze was mirthful, still visible due to the moonlight peeking through the half-drawn curtains. She sighed playfully as he rolled onto his back. Sleep soon took him.
He woke in the morning to the smell of bacon and potatoes. Getting up, he quickly threw on clothes and walked into the kitchen, seeing that he was the last awake. Kissing the heads of the twins, he gave a loving smooch on Ursula’s cheek as she began to pile the delicious looking food onto two large plates. Taking them from her once full, he set them on the table. Everyone began to get their plates filled with buttered toast, seasoned potatoes, and fatty bacon.
Just before his wife sat down, Ursula walked over to the radio, switching it on. By the time she sat down, the news report began to play.
“A new day for Germany has arrived, ladies and gentlemen. Last night President von Hindenburg asked for and received the resignation of Heinrich Brüning due to the chancellor’s proposed policy of land distribution. This morning von Hindenburg has selected Centre politician Franz von Papen to become the Reich’s new chancellor and to create a new governing cabinet. In von Papen’s speech, performed just moments ago, the new chancellor promised that his government will have the people’s mandate to govern and therefore has called for new Reichstag elections at the end of July of this year…”
Paul’s eyes, which had been locked on his plate as the report played out, slowly looked up slowly, knowing what he would find there. Though she kept up her normal self in front of the children, Paul could tell revolutionary fire burned in her eyes. New elections, the first in nearly two years, would potentially be promising for the KPD in the same vein the 1930 parliamentary election had been.
Paul swallowed a sigh. His wife would be working longer hours and weekends for the foreseeable future to get the communist message out to the German people. But outwardly he smiled, knowing it made her happy. Such was life being a political operative’s spouse. Such was marriage.
Rust, Austria
Republic of Austria
May 1932
“It’s strange to be here. Like this, I mean.”
Tomás Horváth turned to his compatriot, Captain Gregor Barabás, who sat in the backseat of the car. Horváth noted wryly that it was an Austrian-built Austro-Daimler ADM IV rather than a Hungarian automobile. While the Austro-Daimler ADR was for the upper class, indeed Prime Minister Károlyi had arrived in Rust to meet the Austrian chancellor in an ADR, the ADM IV was a simplified and cheaper successor to the ADM III. In Hungary the automobile industry had been flailing since the Depression began with even the country’s most successful car manufacturer, MAG, on the verge of bankruptcy unless its fortunes were soon reversed.
“Well,” Horváth began, “It is what it is. Gömbös argued with the Regent to arrange this meeting.”
At that Hungary’s new Deputy Chief of the General Staff Jenő Rátz looked up from a folder filled with looseleaf papers. Rátz frowned at the two of them for a moment, silencing them with an irritated look, before returning to reviewing the paperwork. The lieutenant general was not one for small talk or humor, a no-nonsense, almost machine-like, human being. Rátz was not someone who enraptured people to him with infectious charisma or stunning personality. What he lacked in, well, humanity, he more than made up for in his skill in administration and push for military modernization, things the Royal Hungarian Army largely struggled with due to the restrictions placed upon them by the Treaty of Trianon.
Barabás offered Horváth a sideways glance full of quiet mischief. Horváth bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a chuckle and looked out the window of the Austrian countryside.
While the prime minister and foreign minister were to be meeting Dollfuss and Schönburg-Hartenstein in the next hour over in the Austrian city of Rust, Horváth had another fate. Barabás and he were a part of a military contingent led by Defence Minister Gömbös and Lieutenant General Rátz to meet with their Austrian equivalents south of Rust at a lake house overlooking Lake Neusiedl.
The two Hungarian cars pulled up to the gravel driveway. Horváth and Barabás got out, leaving the door open for Rátz. In the next car exited Gömbös and two Defence Ministry bureaucrats clad in civilian suits and silk top hats.
The lake house was two-storied, made of fine wood with large glass windows with curtains drawn. As per previous agreement, only a sole Austrian soldier stood guard, his Mannlicher M1895 shouldered. Seeing the Austrian soldier, it gave him a flashback to when Horváth himself had served in the Imperial Common Army. The only notable difference from 1918 to now was that the Austrian wore German feldgrau that had begun to partially replace the pike gray worn by most of Horváth’s regiment during the Great War.
He found himself oddly missing the hechtgrau. Nostalgia, it had to be. Strange what one remembers fondly.
The lake house door opened and a man dressed not in a civilian suit so common with politicians but one of a paramilitary cut. Blue-gray, several shades darker than hechtgrau, and an armband of black with a red Krückenkreuz in a white field facing outward.
“I’m glad you could make it, gentlemen,” the man said in gruff but understandable Hungarian. “Let me properly welcome you to Austria.”
Defence Minister Gömbös moved forward, hand outstretched and the two shook firmly.
“A pleasure, Minister Hitler,” Gömbös returned in German. “Let’s hope our correspondence these last couple of months bears fruit today.”
Adolf Hitler, Austria’s Minister of the Army and Gömbös equivalent in the fascist-controlled ‘republic’ nodded politely before turning to move inside, beckoning the Hungarian delegation to follow suit. Gömbös and Rátz led the Hungarians with Barabás and Horváth taking up the rear with the Ministry bureaucrats.
Walking into the lake house, they found a large oaken table in the center of the living room, bare save for several empty glasses beside an iced pitcher of water. Condensation dripped down the side of the pitcher, reminding Horváth just how thirsty he was.
The minister and general exchanged pleasantries with the Austrian staff officer standing beside the table, a certain General Richard Schilhawsky, before taking their two seats opposite the Austrians.
Gömbös began, preferring to speak in German as it was their country the Hungarians found themselves in. “I must applaud your government, Herr Hitler, specifically Chancellor Dollfuss for this opportunity to establish a dialogue between our nations. Once united by a crown, now separated by shared trauma, Hungary and Austria need not be enemies as the 20th Century progresses onwards.”
Horváth noted the slight wince Hitler had at the mention of Dollfuss’ name but otherwise there was no reaction. Was it his imagination? Was it a muscle tic? Or was it something deeper than that? Did the Fatherland Front and Social Nationalist coalition not always see eye-to-eye? Was there an underlying tension between the Chancellor and Vice-Chancellor? Hmm. Horváth made a mental note to himself to include such observations in his report when they returned back to Budapest.
Hitler offered a friendly face and his tone gave no insight into his true feelings as he replied. “And I thank Regent Horthy and Prime Minister Károlyi for helping arrange this, and especially give thanks to you, Defense Minister. I know how hard you pushed for this and I have mirrored the effort in my own country. Hungary and Austria used to be brothers. Though we are not bound as such anymore, there is no reason for us to be rivals rife with antagonism towards one another.”
“My sentiments exactly, Minister Hitler.”
“Now,” Hitler cleared his throat. “We can expect the soon to be signed trade agreement between our two nations to bolster our economies. This will create more jobs, raise wages, and give new life to our ailing financial situations. With more revenue flowing in, this will allow both of our nations to ease the suffering the Great Depression has inflicted on our respective fatherlands. It also has the side effect of allowing us to modernize then expand our militaries in the name of national security. As we have seen in Russia over the past week, communism is inherently destructive and self-damaging and the Russian Bear is not so far away that we can ignore it.”
The Hungarian delegation nodded in fervent agreement at that. The USSR was but a mere couple hundred kilometers away from Hungary’s eastern border, so the anxiety of Soviet attack had risen considerably since the Trotsky Coup began several days ago, tearing the Soviet Union apart. Nearly half of the diminutive Royal Hungarian Army had been sent to the eastern border to ensure that if the Soviets invaded Eastern Europe then the Hungarians would do their best to stem the Red tide.
“Yet this violence is not contained only within Soviet boundaries. Border skirmishes between rogue Soviet forces against Poland and Romania have heightened tension and made the Allied Powers wary. This, however, gives us an opportunity.”
Hitler gave a confident smile.
“The Entente are entirely focused on Eastern Europe while America wallows in isolation. This provides a brief moment for us to quietly rescind elements of the Treaties of Trianon and Saint-Germain, namely the military limitations. Austria has already taken steps to modernize and expand the Bundesheer in the coming year. Hungary, I assume, has made similar strides.” The words may have appeared as a question but judging by Hitler’s tone and assured glance with Schilhawsky, Horváth came to the conclusion that Hitler already knew of Horthy’s quiet expansion of the military. Though not much as of yet, it had begun late last year with an additional ten thousand soldiers to be added to the Royal Hungarian Army throughout 1932, along with the necessary training, equipment and support.
“Indeed we have, Minister Hitler. Hungary balks at the Trianon transgressions laid upon us. We have even stopped our reparations.”
‘We have even stopped our reparations’ sounded more bold than the truth of the matter. The measly coal quotas demanded by the Entente were token reparations at best, the only ones Hungary even had to pay due to the impoverished state it had found itself in after the Great War. Horváth knew the Austrians had paid some miniscule amount in war reparations in early 1919 but those were quickly and quietly halted after hyperinflation ruined the Austrian economy.
“Very good, sir, very good,” Hitler replied enthusiastically. “Not only should Austria and Hungary rebuild its military forces for national defense but it is my belief, as well as that of President Miklas and Chancellor Dollfuss, that our two nations should set aside our differences and look to the future of a better tomorrow. Therefore it is determined we should sign a treaty of nonaggression with one another. Furthermore I have put forward a recommendation to the chancellor that our militaries should partake in joint military exercises to strengthen the bonds between our two nations. These joint exercises will provide much needed training for our growing military forces as well as the testing of new equipment. What say you, Minister Gömbös?”
Gömbös was silent for a moment, as if contemplating, but Horváth knew the answer would be yes. In the missives between his government and the Austrians, Hitler had hinted at such. Regent Horthy had been hesitant of any entanglement of alliance but with the chaos in the USSR threatening to spread across borders, he felt he had no choice. Especially when parliamentarian Zoltán Böszörmény, one of the far-right backbenchers representing Tiszántúl, began urging for closer ties with Austria. Though still small, Böszörmény’s Scythe Cross Party was making a case in the court of public opinion that Prime Minister Károlyi’s government was one of hesitant inaction which could be interpreted as an indirect critique of Horthy’s ability to lead the country.
The intentional hesitance soon ended as Gömbös gave a firm nod and spoke with pleased authority.
“The nonaggression pact and joint exercises are accepted by my government, Minister Hitler. The Regent believes it is the best path forward to regional stability. The efforts we make now will ensure our children grow up in the shade of peace and prosperity.”
Horváth saw Hitler’s face set itself in a politician's stony mask, a mask that nearly hid the hunger in the Sozinat’s eyes. Horváth’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, but it was a gut feeling rather than certainty. Hitler responded, words calm and collected as if they were discussing the weather.
“Peace and prosperity. Yes, of course.”
* * *
The Axis Powers were formally created in the Spring of 1939 at the Wolfsberg Conference, taking place at Wolfsberg Castle, Austria. Five nations would be the original signatories, later expanding as the Second World War swept across the globe. Out of the founding members, the two with the closest ties were that of Austria and Hungary. The two nations, once united in the form of Austro-Hungary, reconciled their differences in the early 1930s during Engelbert Dollfuss’ time as chancellor. This relationship would be vastly strengthened after Hitler’s rise to power in 1934 and would see Hungary become a pivotal piece in the Austrian Führer’s plans for Eastern Europe.
The origins of this renewed brotherhood between the two nations can be traced back to the signing of the Rust Agreement in 1932, in a town of the same name near the Austro-Hungarian border. Signed on May 6th, this agreement was publicly a trade agreement that sought to lower various tariffs whilst eliminating others to incentivize commerce between the two countries. Austria would buy bauxite ore and marked down Hungarian foodstuffs to aid the stumbling Hungarian mining and agricultural sectors, and would even resell excess crops to Japan as part of the renewed Austro-Japanese Trade Agreement of 1933 for a profit, while Hungary would purchase Austrian automobiles, steel, iron ore, magnesite, and lignite.
It is widely agreed by historians that the nucleus of Austrian and Hungarian rearmament began with the Rust Agreement, as the eased trade restrictions stimulated jobs and led to a somewhat steady economic boom throughout the 1930s before the outbreak of war. Increased revenues led to both nations expanding and modernizing their militaries whilst simultaneously building an industrial base to maintain it.
But the concord struck at Rust had secret provisions as well, provisions not made public until years later. A nonaggression pact, made public in 1936, was but one aspect of it. Another, greater threat to peace in Europe turned out to be the joint military exercises between the two. Though small at first, these later ballooned to entire divisions and armies, which helps explain the effectiveness of joint operations between the Volkswehr and Royal Hungarian Army during World War Two’s early campaigns.
The Allies, their hands full with events in the Soviet Union, East Asia, and South America at the time could do little with their underfunded and internal-focused intelligence agencies. Though these oversights would later be rectified in 1940 and 1941, this ignorance or inability or, perhaps, unwillingness to halt the rearmament of Austria and Hungary has been seen as a major factor in the outbreak of war in Europe and a direct cause of the millions who died.
Blood and Steel: The Rise and Fall of Austrofascism
by Dr. Richard Newell
