Elsewhere in Russia, the officially approved Mankindist Movement, as they called themselves, began to produce the first horrifying films that revealed in painful truths the aftermath of continued nuclear war. This would be the first time the general public heard, voiced by scientists, such theories as “environmental exposure pathway,” “radioecological concentration,” “nuclear winter,” and “secondary radiation poisoning.”
March 28, 1946
My Darling Esther,
Yes, I know I told you last time I wrote that you would hear from me soon, but so much is happening here. You are more patient than I deserve.
I wish I could tell you what we are doing, but now is not yet the time. Very soon, my darling, you will know, and so will the whole world. At last I am doing work of utmost importance. A man has only so much time in his life to make a difference, and I fear my time is shorter than most. Do not fear; even though we cannot leave until the Project is well underway, lam here of my own choice, and am being treated well. They feed me almost as well as you do.
All my love,
Weeks passed, delirious weeks for Goddard. During this time, three schools of thought battled for favor: The Germans wanted a huge single-stage liquid-fuel booster to lift the components for the orbiting laboratories and bases; while the Russians were set on building a smaller, more easily transported rocket assisted by a cluster of strapped-on solid-fuel boosters; and Goddard could not see any design to be as favorable as a three-stage booster.
These heated but good-hearted debates raged among the engineering team at each weekly gathering in the “Design Headquarters” building, a somber blockhouse decorated on the outside with Zhukov’s bronze face staring at himself on each of the double iron doors. Inside, however, it was comfortably furnished and warm. The central meeting room held a long woodslab table, around which sat von Braun and four other Germans who merely agreed with his decisions, two Austrians, a Pole, a seemingly voiceless Japanese, two Chinese, a dark Brazilian, the American, and six high-ranking Russians. One of the Russians wasn’t a scientist. His name was Colonel Vebretsky, the official kommandant of the facility, though von Braun and Goddard made all design decisions.
It seemed each final design for a component would materialize at the Cosmodrome either in two weeks by rail from Moscow, or—if it were small enough to travel by truck—a few days from Plesetsk proper. Goddard and von Braun shared apartments in a box in the town, but they rarely spent time there except to purchase from the general store a pair of socks or groceries that their housekeepers didn’t supply. The store looked both quaint and obsolete among the recently poured structures. The rubles came from Moscow, courtesy of “Your host, Grigori Zhukov, Soviet Premier and General Secretary of the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R., Soviet High Representative for the Mankindist Party.”
Goddard sometimes wondered what would have become of this project hadn’t Lavrenty Beria—head of the notorious NKVD, the Soviet Secret Police—assassinated Stalin in 1945, less than a year prior. No one in the world wept for Bloody Joe, except some old Bolsheviks who yearned for the revolutionary years. But what had Stalin done for them since but kill and consolidate power? Zhukov, being a law-abiding and fair man, had responded to the assassination by marshalling his Red Army forces to drive Beria and his secret police out of power. The Soviet public had swept Zhukov into the Kremlin with a wave of enthusiasm, remembering their WWI hero, also the man who had kept the Western Line rigid against encroaching Fascists.
But mostly Goddard was too busy to speculate. His fears of betrayal had long been laid to rest.
On an icy winter’s day, the Reichcouncil issued a demand for the return of their “kidnapped” scientists. They threatened retribution if their demands were not met. “Gone will be the kind days of our unspoken alliance,” they wrote. “You do not wish to feel the fist of our Blitzkrieg.”
Von Braun and the other Germans replied, urging the Europareich to patience and again beckoning them to join the Mandkindist Movement. During the weeks that passed, only a few Chinese and a handful of Arabs accepted the invitation. No Germans, and especially no other Europareich citizens. Nevertheless, the inhabitants of Plesetsk Station spent little energy worrying about threats. They expected a great influx of diverse nationality any day.
Though the weather was taking a toll on his health, Goddard slept well nights. The dreams that soothed his sleep were no match for the one he was actually fulfilling in reality. Rather than furtiveness and guilt as heavy as a world on his shoulders, he felt a fine productivity. His moment had come.
April 8, 1946
Robert,
My dearest, I must admit I fear your capture. We have all seen the propaganda films those Communists sent to the television stations and movie houses. You cut a fine figure on the silver screen, but are the words you speak your own? I fear you have been kidnapped. Why else would you have left with such secrecy?
On the other hand, I must tell you I refuse to believe Captain Gibson’s accusations. My dear Robert is not a traitor. I am in a quandary. If I can convince the kind Captain to accompany me, I will accept the invitation your Russian colleagues have telegraphed.
Things are happening over here which you may not know about. Dear, you have stirred up a bee’s nest among the war protestors! It seems, what with the Reichcouncil’s release of the fews, and with Hitler now a ruined parody of a man, there is nothing upon which to focus our hatred. The protestors say we are taking part in just as many war crimes as the Germans by supplying the Brits with those awful bombs. They make picket signs with direct quotations from you and that Russian Zhukov.
America is in a fine uproar! I hope you are as well as you seem in your motion picture.
Goddard folded the letter back into its envelope and sighed. This was the hard part. Never before had he relocated for work without having Esther with him. He missed her miserably, and her doubts and fears—though he understood them—tugged at his heart.
So, the following afternoon, when she stepped out of an American B-29 amid a bustle of US brass, Goddard felt complete.
He rushed to her across the runway upon which he had first set foot nearly two months prior. Smiling tiredly at him, she brushed grey hair out of her eyes and set down a shoulder bag. They embraced. Goddard remembered how such an embrace had first felt when they had been married in 1924.
Now, to his unexpected delight, he felt more fully alive than at any time since.
Life was good.
Two days later, a brief scuffle broke out between the American officers and the Soviet guards. Goddard rushed to the airfield upon hearing the news from a Russian messenger boy.
“Sirs!” he called to his fellow Americans, leaping from the smoky Russian car. The day was a balmy 10° Celsius.
“Give me an ear!” He crossed to the cluster of men, each group pointing weapons at the other. Fifteen tan-uniformed Russians blocked the ten Americans’ passage to the B-29.
“Listen,” he began. “You’ve seen that no one here is a prisoner, right?”
“It seems you’re mistaken!” an obese Major growled. Goddard shook his head and continued.
“You don’t understand. We can’t allow scientists or any information to leave this area until the Project is well established. Among you are several scientists. They will have to remain, but the rest of you can leave.”