Burning Moscow

Chapter 1504: The Death of Vatutin The offensive by the 2nd SS Army from Kovno was halted by our troops deployed to the west; meanwhile, Hubé’s 1st Tank Army, which had retreated into the mountains, was locked in fierce combat with the pursuing 38th, 40th, and 60th Armies, as well as the 27th Army of Koniev’s 2nd Ukrainian Front. Seeing that the situation was looking very promising, Zhukov was in particularly high spirits. So early on the morning of the 15th, he took me to Krasovsky’s field airfield, where we boarded a transport plane bound for Kyiv. When Krasovsky saw that Zhukov was flying to Kyiv, he dispatched an entire squadron of fighter jets to escort him for his safety. On the flight to Kyiv, Zhukov kept his eyes closed, resting. Considering how hard he’d been working lately and that he’d finally found a moment to sleep, I didn’t disturb him but instead looked out the porthole. Seeing our fighter jets appear in the field of view, I felt a deep sense of reassurance, thinking to myself that even if enemy aircraft attacked, the escorting formation would be more than capable of dealing with them. An hour later, our plane landed at the airport north of Kyiv. No sooner had the plane come to a stop on the runway than a black GAZ car pulled up. The door opened, and a middle-aged man in civilian clothes stepped out. He approached Zhukov, extended his hand, and said politely, “Hello, Comrade Zhukov. Welcome to Kyiv.” “Hello, Comrade Kaganovich,” Zhukov replied, shaking his hand, then asked curiously, “ “I recall that as a member of the Defense Committee, you were in charge of national rail transport under Kuybyshev. When did you arrive in Kyiv?” Kaganovich grinned and explained, “The Supreme Commander himself was concerned that Comrade Khrushchev’s workload was too heavy, so he sent me to Kyiv to serve as his deputy and assist him with Ukraine’s postwar reconstruction.” “I see,” Zhukov nodded, releasing the other man’s hand, and continued, “Comrade Kaganovich, I wonder where today’s banquet is being held?” Hearing Zhukov’s question, an awkward expression crossed Kaganovich’s face. He replied somewhat hesitantly, “Comrade Marshal, I came to the airport today not only to welcome you but also to share some bad news with you.” “Bad news?” Zhukov raised his eyebrows and asked with a serious expression, “What kind of bad news?” Kaganovich lowered his head and said with a pained expression, “Comrade Marshal, an hour ago, General Vatutin passed away in the hospital from his injuries. Comrade Khrushchev has already rushed to the hospital, and today’s birthday banquet has been canceled.” “How could this have happened?” Zhukov was taken aback by the news. His expression turned pained as he asked, “Just a couple of days ago, when I spoke with Khrushchev, he said Comrade Vatutin’s condition was improving and that he’d be out of bed and walking in a matter of days. How could he have died so suddenly?” “I’m not entirely sure of the details either.” ” Kaganovich said, looking somewhat flustered: “It seems to be heart failure caused by sepsis…” “Where is Vatutin’s body?” Without waiting for Kaganovich to finish, Zhukov strode quickly toward the GAZ truck, ordering loudly, “Take me there immediately.” I quickened my pace to the car, opened the rear door, then walked around to the other side and opened the door for Kaganoff. Only after the two of them had gotten in did I open the front door and take the passenger seat. On the drive to the hospital, neither Zhukov nor Kaganovich, sitting in the back, said a word. Out of sheer boredom, I looked out the window and saw that Kyiv had changed significantly since my last visit. After several months of cleanup and reconstruction, although half-collapsed buildings could still be seen on both sides of the street, the chaotic piles of bricks and rubble had been completely cleared away, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were no longer hurrying along with gloomy expressions. Shops had reopened—besides bakeries and general stores, there were even crowds gathered at the entrances of bookstores and clothing shops. Our car arrived at the hospital entrance, and the sentry on duty immediately raised the barrier blocking the gate, allowing the GAZ to drive smoothly into the hospital grounds. As soon as he got out of the car, Zhukov turned to Kaganovich and asked, “Where is Vatutin’s body?” “It should be in the morgue,” Kaganovich replied uncertainly. “The deceased are always taken there first. After they’ve been prepared and their faces made up, they’re placed in a coffin and sent to the cemetery for burial.” As soon as Kaganovich finished speaking, Zhukov immediately said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Take me there at once!” Led by Kaganovich, Zhukov and I followed a forest path around the inpatient building and arrived at the exterior of a detached two-story building at the rear. Several soldiers were originally standing guard at the entrance. When they saw us approaching, they were about to call out to stop us, but upon recognizing Kaganovich at the front of the group, they immediately snapped to attention, straightened their backs, and saluted us with their eyes fixed on him. Once inside the building, I saw that the brightly lit corridor was packed with people—both medical staff in white coats and soldiers in uniform. They all had their backs to us, staring at a room at the end of the corridor with its doors wide open. Seeing our path blocked, Kaganovich quickly raised his voice and said, “Everyone, please make way for Marshal Zhukov.” Upon hearing that Zhukov had arrived, the crowd that had been blocking our path instantly parted to the sides, clearing a passage for us. As we made our way through the crowd, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of people on both sides casting reverent glances at Zhukov. When we reached the entrance to the morgue, Khrushchev, who had heard the commotion, came out to greet us. As he shook hands with Zhukov, his face still bore a pained expression; it seemed he was still deeply saddened by Vatutin’s passing, after all, the two had been partners for a time. “Please come in, Comrade Zhukov.” Khrushchev stepped aside, gesturing for us to enter, and added, “Comrade Voroshilov is inside as well.” “Voroshilov is here too?” Just as Zhukov was about to step inside, he heard Khrushchev’s remark and stopped in his tracks, asking in surprise, “How could he be here?” His meaning was clear: Vatutin had only recently passed away; even if Moscow had received the news promptly, it would have been impossible for him to arrive in Kyiv in such a short time. However, Khrushchev’s next words cleared up the confusion for both of us: “Voroshilov is here to present me with a medal.” “Comrade Zhukov, you’re here!” As soon as we entered the mortuary, Voroshilov walked over to shake Zhukov’s hand, saying with a tone of regret, “This is truly beyond belief. Comrade Stalin sent me to present Comrade Khrushchev with his medal and, while I was at it, to check on Vatutin and ask when he might return to his unit. I never imagined he would… ” At this point, he choked up and could say no more. I saw Vatutin, dressed in a brand-new general’s uniform, lying on the concrete platform in the middle of the room. He looked exceptionally peaceful, as if he were not dead but merely asleep. Zhukov walked over to him, took off his cap, and bowed before Vatutin’s body. I quickly followed his example, removing my own cap and bowing in salute. After Zhukov put his cap back on, he turned to Khrushchev and asked, “I wonder where he will be buried?” Khrushchev did not answer Zhukov’s question immediately. Instead, he pointed to a white-haired elderly woman standing nearby and said to us, “This is Comrade Vatutin’s mother—Vera Iverovna. This brave Russian woman received notices of the deaths of two of her sons in February and March of this year. Now, Comrade Vatutin is the third… She is a mother who has lost three children in the span of three months.” I walked over and gently placed my arm around the old woman’s shoulders as she wept quietly. I wanted to say a few words of comfort, but didn’t know how to begin. All I could hear was her murmuring to herself: “... You’re gone, my son. You died for the lives of others. They won’t forget you, my child, my dear Falcon...” ” “Comrade Khrushchev.” Zhukov asked Khrushchev with a grave expression, “Has the news of Comrade Vatutin’s death been reported to Moscow?” “Yes, Comrade Zhukov.” Seeing that Khrushchev seemed somewhat distracted and hadn’t heard Zhukov’s question, Voroshilov quickly interjected, “Comrade Stalin has already decided to bury Vatutin in Kiev. At the moment of his burial, Moscow will sound a salute of gun salutes in his honor.” Hearing Voroshilov’s words, Khrushchev raised his hand to wipe the tears from his face, walked over to Vatutin’s mother, took her hands in his, and said with a choked voice: “Aunt Yevmova, I will personally go to select the burial site shortly. “When Comrade Vatutin is laid to rest tomorrow, I will personally attend the funeral.” The old woman looked up at Khrushchev and said hesitantly, “But Vatutin’s wife wishes to have her husband—my son—buried in Moscow. Is it appropriate for you to bury him in Kyiv?” ” “It is appropriate!” Khrushchev said decisively. “Comrade Vatutin is the liberator of the liberated; he should be buried in Kyiv so that our descendants will forever remember the great achievements he made.” “When will the funeral take place?” Zhukov asked immediately after Khrushchev finished speaking. “Tomorrow morning or afternoon?” “The tentative time is nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Khrushchev replied. “Comrade Zhukov, will you personally attend the funeral?” “Yes, Comrade Khrushchev,” Zhukov nodded firmly. “Vatutin was my comrade-in-arms; attending his funeral is my duty.”