We had taken our place [Zoya said] on the Ulitza Razina at that point just past St. Barbara’s where you have an uninterrupted view down to the Moskvoretsky Bridge and Great Ordinka Street beyond. From where I stood I could see another enormous column of marching men, at least twelve abreast, about to cross the bridge. Dozens of white-capped parade marshals stood by to coordinate their linking with the column flowing along Razina Street from the bend at the Monument of the Sign. It made me sad for a moment, I remember, to think that my quite natural pride in this vast Russian parade had to be stifled.
Yet the man who, in death, this great parade was meant to honor, was one of those who had brought us young Russians to this dilemma. Above me, past the great multi-colored spirals of the bulbous domes of St. Basil’s, the Kremlin wall rose through the light snow. Lermontov, 150 years ago, had described “the dark passages of the Kremlin.” None of us students, at least from Westernized Leningrad, had any doubt that he was really describing the dark passages of the Russian mind…
Yet still the central feature of the parade was missing. It had been announced that the ceremony in Red Square would see the placing of the embalmed body in the prophyry mausoleum next to that of Lenin himself. Yet nowhere in the parade as it approached the great square was there a hearse, a gun-carriage drawn by black horses, or a missile-launcher shrouded in black. The great crowds lining the routes of the procession had come in the most primordial sense to register their fear and hope at the passing of a leader. But the focal point of the whole great parade was missing.
Then, as the Parade Marshals in their white-topped caps expertly directed the two marching columns on either side of St. Basil’s and into Red Square, a sound like distant thunder was heard across the rooftops and a flight of helicopters, dark against the snowclouds, swept round the rising tower of the Rossiya Hotel.
From where she stood it was difficult at first for Zoya to make out the shape of the formation, then as it hovered above the marching columns in Razina Street, she could see that 12 smaller helicopters were ranged around a 13th, larger, black-painted, the aerial hearse of the embalmed leader of the Soviet people.
As the helicopters chattered slowly forward, the hearse no more than 50 feet above Razina Street, maintaining perfect position above the procession, the tears poured down Zoya’s cheeks.
What good was a puny percussion grenade against a helicopter 50 feet above her head?
Now, along the length of Razina Street, through cutout perspex sections in the helicopter’s bodywork, the crowd was able to see the ornate, brightly lit coffin. The helicopter hearse was Semyon Kuba’s own conception, worthy he thought of Stalin himself in its combination of the spectacular and the safe.
And now as the helicopter division approached Red Square the black machine dropped lower to a height of no more than 20 feet above the wide surface of Razina Street. Blasted by the rush of air from the rotor blades, spectators and KGB guards alike screwed their eyes to peer at the illuminated flying hearse.
In her pocket, Zoya’s hand grasped the percussion grenade. In blind frustration she dragged it out and pulled the pin, hurling the grenade in an underarm movement up toward the approaching helicopter. She knew it must fall far short, but she had not counted on its percussive force. With a bright yellow flash and a deafening roar, the grenade exploded ten feet below the nose of the helicopter. The pilot recoiling in alarm, momentarily lost control. At 20 feet, the helicopter seemed to rear like a horse. Its rotor blade struck the road below churning out a huge slice of asphalt and propelling the machine forward in a slow, spinning skid. As the helicopter came to rest before them the crowd could see within the brilliantly lit perspex dome, that the coffin of President Romanovsky had tumbled from its plinth.
The surging movements of the crowd, first in alarm as the helicopter crashed and skidded in the road in front of them, then in awed curiosity as the KGB surrounded the machine, had offered Zoya protection. She was no longer standing among the same people who must have seen her throw the grenade.
For a moment longer she decided she would wait and gloat as the KGB troops struggled to open the perspex doors of the helicopter. But the crash had distorted the bodywork and jammed tight the locks. There seemed no alternative but to cut open the bodywork with oxyacetylene burners to retrieve the President’s body.
In the meantime the great and famous of the Soviet Union, and of the world, were waiting in Red Square.
The great parade moved beneath the Kremlin wall to the hypnotic beat of the drums. From where she sat Carole Yates could see the figures of the Politburo and their distinguished foreign guests looking down from the platform of the Lenin Mausoleum. Kuba, in fur hat and civilian topcoat, Ustinov in uniform, and the tall figure of Natalya Roginova stood a few paces in front of the others. The scene was already set for the struggles to come.
Before her the columns were now wheeling and turning to form an enclosed square. Along the western end, two lines of T-72 tanks, their tracks squealing on the cobbles, slewed round to face inward. A hundred yards opposite them twelve-deep columns of infantry stood, their rifles at the short trail. Long lines of armored troop carriers formed the other two sides of the square. Then, as the drumbeat ceased, the helicopters came over the Byzantine domes of St. Basil’s and, the escorts hovering, a huge black machine descended gently to rest before the mausoleum as the Soviet and world leaders looked on.
All around them bands played somber music as 12 Soviet officers, hatless in the flurrying snow, marched to the center of the square.
From where she sat Carole Yates could see the coffin sliding smoothly onto the shoulders of the officers. Then the music changed abruptly to the strains of the Soviet National Anthem.
The spectators rose in their seats. A single voice cried out an order. Ten thousand rifles moved up into the present. The long rows of tanks before St. Basil’s dipped their black guns. As the music swelled the coffin was carried across the square to its resting place in the great porphyry vault of the Lenin Mausoleum.
Of the thousands of guests and officials watching the ceremony in Red Square, only the leadership, at that time, were aware that the coffin was empty.
In December darkness falls early. Some days, like this, it hardly seems that the sun rose at all behind the lowering gray skies. But to Zoya the half-light was welcome as she made her way back to the students’ apartments of Moscow University. She could see the great wedding-cake tower rising before her now. Lights gleamed at the innumerable windows. She cut quickly across the asphalt soccer fields and reached the main avenue. There were a good number of students about. She felt protection from them, anonymous among so many young people of her own age.
She had deliberately stayed on at Razina Street until the crowds began to drift away. There was no sign of Andrei.
Some instinct told her to linger on the journey back to the University. The men were already posting up the public copies of the evening paper, Izvestia. Casually she stood reading the planning details of the great parade and the lengthy speeches of Kuba and Roginova in praise of the dead leader.
At the entrance to Student Hall 4 she paused. Three men in civilian clothes stood in front of the elevators, checking the cards of students as they entered. Without a Moscow stamp on her internal passport she would be in immediate trouble. She was about to turn away when her arms were caught and twisted behind her. Two more plainclothesmen bent her forward and ran her toward a car, the back door of which was already swinging open.