Operation Unthinkable, part 18: meeting Communist leader Mao in China, 1945
Personal Diary of Viktor Petrov Military Advisor and Emissary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in China
June 25, 1945
By evening, our plane landed today on a makeshift runway in the heart of rural China. I was unprepared for the sight that lay before me. The misery here is indescribable, far worse than what our informants had reported.
Peasants dressed in rags work bare-handed in the fields, malnourished children wander the dirt roads of the villages.
Yet, amidst all this poverty, I noticed something extraordinary: the spirit of the communist partisans.
Their rifles are old, their uniforms patched, but in their eyes shines a determination I have never seen before. On the walls of mud and straw houses, portraits of Mao Zedong seem to gaze with pride at his people in struggle.
A young political commissar, Comrade Li, welcomed me with enthusiasm. "Welcome, Soviet comrade!" he exclaimed in broken Russian.
He made me get into a Japanese car – "A war trophy," he proudly explained – requisitioned from the enemy during an ambush. As we drove toward Mao's headquarters, I couldn't help but reflect on the man I was about to meet.
Who is this Mao Zedong, the "Great Helmsman," really? How could a simple son of peasants have withstood both the Japanese imperial army and Chiang Kai-shek's nationalist forces for years? The reports we received in Moscow speak of a brilliant theorist, a charismatic commander who has adapted Marxism-Leninism to Chinese conditions.
The road is rough, and as the car bumps along the potholes, I observe the peasants stopping to watch our passage. Some greet us with a raised fist. I wonder if they are truly aware of communist ideology or if they follow Mao simply because he promises them land and a better future.
We pass through villages where the partisans train new recruits. Their weapons are a mix of old Chinese rifles, captured Japanese arms, and a few rare Soviet rifles I recognize. But what strikes me is the discipline, the order, the determination in their movements.
The sun sets over the Chinese countryside. Soon I will meet the man leading this revolution. I wonder if he will live up to his reputation, if he will have the stuff of a true revolutionary leader like our Stalin.
Night falls over rural China, and with it, my anticipation grows. In the coming days, I will write about my meeting with Mao Zedong, the man who could change the fate of Asia.
June 26, 1945
I can’t sleep. Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my Tokarev pistol under my pillow. I keep it close, as if it’s the only thing that makes me feel safe, like I still have control over something.
The nightmares come almost every night. I see faces, hear voices, feel hands reaching for me. They come from every enemy I’ve ever fought: Nazis, Tsarist Russians, bandits... They all want me dead. I wake up in a panic, grabbing my pistol, my heart racing. It’s like the war never ends, even when I sleep.
I still think about Yelena, my wife. She died during the siege of Leningrad in 1942, starving for the Nazi blockade. I couldn’t save her. I can still see her face, pale and weak, when she whispered her last words to me. That memory haunts me, and I don’t talk about it anymore. There’s no one left to share it with.
After the war, I met Irina, a commissar. She believes in Stalin, in the revolution, in everything I should care about. But we’re distant, cold with each other. Our relationship feels like a duty, not love. We talk about politics, the future, but there’s no warmth between us. I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything again.
I got a letter from my son, Alexei. He’s studying at the military academy in Moscow to become an officer. He talks about honor and duty, about the greatness of the Soviet Union. I’m proud of him, but I worry. Will he face the same horrors I have? Will he become like me? I hope not. I hope he’ll never know the true cost of war.
The war in China is just another part of the fight against capitalism. It feels like it will never end. We will keep fighting until the enemy is defeated, or until we’re all dead. That’s the price we pay. I tell myself that every day, but sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. What will be left when it’s all over? Will there be anything left to rebuild?
I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t stop fighting. I can’t stop until the revolution is secure. But every night, when I lie awake with my pistol under my pillow, I wonder if it’s all worth it.
Dawn caught us as we crossed the mountains of Shaanxi. The peasants are already in the fields, bent over the rice paddies. Comrade Li explains that this year's harvest might be poor: "The nationalists burned many villages during their last offensive. But the people resist, as always."
We pass through a village where a female militia is undergoing drills. "Before the revolution," Li explains, "women were considered property, with their feet bound from childhood. Now they fight alongside us." The young militiamen handle rifles confidently, some still wear the braided hair of peasants, others have cut their hair short like soldiers.
Suddenly, the rumble of planes in the distance. "Nationalists!" someone shouts. The reaction is immediate: the peasants abandon the fields, the militiamen scatter in order, and the children are gathered into underground shelters. Two fighter planes fly low, but do not bomb. "Reconnaissance," murmurs Li, "they're looking for our headquarters."
Soon, we finally arrive at the Yan'an base. The caves carved into the yellow loess hills serve as shelter and headquarters. The partisans call them "the palace of the revolution." At the entrance, young guards in olive green uniforms meticulously check our documents.
And then, there he is. Mao.
He is not as I expected. Tall for a Chinese man, sturdy, with a face weathered by the sun and years of guerrilla warfare. He wears a simple uniform like everyone else, but he exudes a natural authority. He welcomes me into a small study lit by oil lamps, the walls covered with maps and revolutionary slogans.
"Soviet comrade," he greets me in Chinese, while an interpreter translates, "welcome to the China that is being reborn."
During dinner – rice, vegetables, and a bit of pork, a luxury here – Mao talks about his life. His voice is deep, with the accent of Hunan, and he often pauses to quote ancient Chinese poets or Marx.
"I was a librarian," he says with a smile, "I studied and dreamed of revolution. In 1927, we thought the moment had arrived. We worked with the Kuomintang, we thought we could collaborate with them for the good of China." His face darkens. "Then came the betrayal."
He tells me about the Shanghai massacre, when Chiang Kai-shek's forces turned on the communists. "Thousands of comrades, murdered in the streets. We had to flee to the countryside. It was then that we understood: our strength was not in the cities, but here, among the peasants."
Late at night, by the flickering light of candles, Mao describes the Long March of 1935. His eyes shine as he speaks of the 12,500 kilometers covered, the river and mountain crossings, the battles and ambushes.
"We left with a hundred thousand," he says softly, "we arrived with twenty thousand. But every step made us stronger. Every village we passed sowed the seeds of revolution."
Suddenly, an explosion in the distance. Mao doesn't flinch. "The Kuomintang wastes its bombs," he comments, "they don't understand that they can't destroy an idea. Every bomb they drop brings us new recruits."
He shows me a map of China. "Look, comrade," he says, tracing lines with his finger, "the nationalists control the cities, the railroads, the industries. We control the villages, the mountain paths, the hearts of the peasants. It's a people's war, and the people cannot be defeated."
Later, as he prepares tea, Mao talks about his vision for China. "We cannot simply copy the Soviet model," he says frankly. "China is different. Our peasants are not Marx's proletariat, but they will be the ones to make the revolution."
A young commander bursts in with reports: the partisans have ambushed a nationalist convoy, capturing weapons and ammunition. Mao nods in approval, then turns to me: "See, comrade? This is our war. Strike and vanish, let the enemy wear itself down. Time is on our side."
As I write these lines in the small room they've assigned me, I reflect on the man I met today. He is not the fanatic that some in Moscow describe, nor the simple bandit that the nationalists speak of. He is a revolutionary who has been able to merge Marxism with Chinese reality, a theorist who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, a commander who shares the hardships of his men.
Tomorrow, we will visit the party schools where cadres study Marxist theory and military tactics. Mao insists that every soldier must also be a teacher, each rifle accompanied by a book. "Revolution," he told me before I left, "is as much a matter of consciousness as it is of rifles."
June 27, 1945
The morning with Mao revealed surprising aspects of his personality. During breakfast – a bowl of congee with some vegetables – I found him immersed in reading classical Chinese poetry.
"See this, comrade?" he says, showing me a worn book. "Du Fu, the poet of the Tang dynasty. He wrote about the suffering of the people during wars. One must know their own history to change it." Then, unexpectedly, he recites some verses in Chinese, his voice taking on a musical rhythm.
The interpreter translates: "While the powerful feast in golden palaces, the hungry freeze to death in the streets." Mao smiles bitterly: "A thousand years ago, and yet it seems written today."
During a walk through the caves of Yan'an, a young commander approaches with urgent reports. Mao interrupts him: "First tell me, how is your mother? Did she receive the medicine for her arthritis?" The young man blushes, surprised that the President remembers this personal detail.
"A leader," Mao later explains to me, noticing my interest, "must know his men as a farmer knows every plant in his field. They are not numbers on a map, they are people with families, hopes, and fears. A leader must be like a good father to his subordinates." Here, Mao pauses and becomes emotional. "I lost three children during the Long March," he says in a quiet but sad voice. "The youngest was only three years old. The fever took her while we were fleeing through the swamps of Sichuan."
In the afternoon, during a meeting with local commanders, his fiery side emerges. A young officer proposes attacking a city held by the nationalists head-on.
"Foolishness!" Mao shouts, slamming his fist on the table. "This is the mentality of warlords that we must eliminate! Do you think revolution is a play where the hero charges alone against a thousand enemies?" He stands up, walks to the blackboard where enemy positions are marked.
"Patience is our best weapon. Water is weak, yet it can wear away stone. We are the water, they are the stone. We will surround them, isolate them, strike their supply lines. When we attack, it will be like a river breaking its banks, not like a bull charging a wall!"
Later, in his private room – a austere cave with a wooden bed, a desk covered with books and maps, and a brazier for tea – Mao appears more relaxed. He smokes cigarette after cigarette as he talks about his youth.
"My father was an enriched peasant, you know? He used to beat me often. He wanted me to become a merchant like him." He laughs, a deep and genuine sound. "Instead, I became his worst nightmare: a revolutionary! But I'm grateful to him. His harshness taught me that authority can be challenged, that the established order is not immutable."
He stands up, walks to the window carved into the rock. The sun is setting over the valley. "The Soviets," he says suddenly, "think we should follow their model. But China is not Russia. We do not have a large urban proletariat. Our revolution must come from the fields, not from the factories."
He looks at me intensely: "Some call me a revisionist for this. But Marx never saw China. He never saw a peasant from Hunan working all day in a rice paddy for a bowl of rice. Theory must adapt to reality, not the other way around."
The conversation is interrupted by gunfire in the distance. Mao doesn't move, he continues sipping his tea. "The sparrowhawks attack, but the ants keep working," he says, quoting another proverb. "Every day the nationalists attack us, every day we grow stronger."
Before I leave for the night, he proudly shows me his collection of books: Chinese classics, military strategy texts, works by Marx and Lenin, agricultural manuals. "A revolutionary must be like a doctor," he says. "He must know both theory and practice. He must be able to diagnose the problems and find the appropriate cure."
He pauses on a volume of poetry he is writing. "Revolution is also poetry," he says with a smile. "It is dreaming of a new world and then fighting to create it."
As I return to my room, I reflect on this complex man: poet and warrior, theorist and pragmatist, capable of great hardness but also of surprising humanity. Perhaps it is this multifaceted nature that allows him to lead such a unique revolution as the Chinese one.
June 30, 1945
Tonight, after a day of military inspections, Mao invited me to his cave for a deeper discussion about his vision for China. His face, illuminated by the oil lamp, seemed harder than usual.
"Comrade," he began, flipping through a worn volume of Marx, "here it says that the history of every society is the history of class struggle. In China, this struggle has been tainted by centuries of foreign influence, colonialism, and exploitation."
He stood up, pacing back and forth in the small room. "The foreign imperialists, the Chinese capitalists, the landowners... they are like parasites sucking the blood of China. Marx speaks of the need for the dictatorship of the proletariat. We will have the dictatorship of the people."
"But President Mao," I asked, "how do you plan to transform such an ancient and complex society?"
His smile turned cold: "With the necessary determination, comrade. There is no place in the new China for those who exploit the people. The foreign capitalists? They will have to leave. The wealthy bourgeois who collaborate with the Kuomintang? They will have to surrender their wealth to the people or face the consequences. The landowners who have enslaved the peasants for generations? The land will go to those who work it."
He picked up a map, pointing to the large coastal cities: "Here, in Shanghai, Canton, Tientsin, the bourgeois live like princes while the people starve. This will end. As Marx says, communism is not achieved with half-measures."
"And what about the counter-revolutionaries?" I asked.
His face hardened: "Those who sow division, who try to sabotage the revolution, who serve foreign interests... will have no place in the new China. Marx speaks of the need to sweep away the old order. We will do it. Not with the gentleness of a gardener pruning a flower, but with the strength of a peasant uprooting weeds."
He poured himself a cup of tea, quoting Marx from memory: "'The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.' Our peasants are the proletariat of China. And we will win this world."
"Some say I am too harsh," he continued, "that my vision is too radical. But the revolution is not a banquet. It is not a literary work, it is not an embroidery, it cannot be made with the same elegance, tranquility, and delicacy."
He walked over to the small window, gazing at the stars: "The new China will be a China for the people. A China where peasants will no longer have to bow before the landowners. Where workers will no longer be exploited by the capitalists. Where foreigners will no longer treat us like a colony."
"But this will require sacrifices," he added, his voice now low and intense. "As Marx says, violence is the midwife of every old society pregnant with a new society. Those who oppose the will of the people will have to face this truth."
He opened a small red notebook where he writes his thoughts: "I am developing Marx's ideas to adapt them to the Chinese reality. The class struggle here is not only in the factories, it is in the fields, in the villages. And it will be total. There can be no compromise with those who have exploited the people for centuries."
Before I left, he looked at me intently: "Tell the Soviet comrades that China will awaken. And when it does, the world will tremble. We will no longer be the sick man of Asia. We will be a strong, united communist nation, purified of counter-revolutionary elements. As Marx says, the proletarians have no country. But we will create a homeland for the proletarians."
As I returned to my room, I reflected on his words. There is something both terrifying and fascinating in his vision. A determination that allows for no half-measures, a steel will to completely transform the oldest society in the world. I wonder how many lives this transformation will cost.
July 2, 1945
This morning I had to wake Mao before dawn. The news from Europe could not wait. When I informed him about Operation Unthinkable and the atomic attack on Minsk, his face transformed into a mask of controlled fury.
"So," he said slowly, lighting a cigarette with slightly trembling hands, "the imperialists are showing their true face. First Hitler, now the Anglo-Americans. The capitalists are all the same – wolves disguised as lambs until they decide to attack."
When I told him about Stalin's request to intensify actions against the Japanese in Manchuria, he jumped to his feet, starting to pace back and forth in the room like a tiger in a cage.
"The Japanese are a cancer in the flesh of China," he roared, slamming his fist on the table. "For eight years, they raped our land, massacred our people. And now they ally with the Americans?" He spat on the floor in disgust. "We will sweep them out of Manchuria. Every village will become a trap, every farmer a partisan."
Then his face twisted into a grimace of pure hatred when he mentioned Chiang Kai-shek: "And that traitor, that filthy dog Chiang! I knew him well, you know? I saw him sell China piece by piece to the foreigners. First to the Japanese, now to the Americans."
He stopped in front of a map of China, his eyes burning with rage: "Chiang Kai-shek is like a scorpion – he stings everything he touches. In '27, he massacred our comrades in Shanghai, had women and children killed. He enriched himself while the people starved. His band of capitalist thugs lives in the palaces of Chongqing, fattening themselves with the blood of the peasants."
He grabbed a cup of tea, drinking it in one gulp: "And now he dares to side with the imperialists against our Soviet sister? Against those who have always supported us in the struggle?" The cup shattered in his hand.
"I tell you this, comrade," he continued, his voice vibrating with emotion, "Chiang and his band of corrupt capitalists are making a fatal mistake. They think they can occupy the vacuum left by the Japanese? Instead, they will find the Red Army of the peasants waiting for them!"
He pulled out a sheet of paper and began writing rapid orders: "We will mobilize every resource. In the north, we will intensify attacks against the Japanese. In the south, our partisans will strike Chiang's supply lines. We will use the tactic of the sea of people – the nationalists will drown in an ocean of popular resistance."
Then, with a bitter smile: "Chiang thinks he's as clever as a fox, but he's as blind as a worm. He doesn't understand that the wind of history is changing. The imperialists may have their atomic bombs, but we have something more powerful – the will of a people that has awakened."
He turned to the commanders who had gathered in the room: "Comrades! The Soviet Union is under attack! It is our sister in the struggle, the homeland of Lenin, the guide of the world proletariat. Its fate is tied to ours. If the imperialists think they can crush the world revolution, they will discover they have awakened a giant. China will rise, and this time we will not stop until the last vestige of the old order is swept away!"
As I write these lines, I feel the excitement coursing through Yan'an. Couriers are leaving in all directions, carrying orders to the partisan commanders. Mao has ordered the intensification of peasant militia training. "Every village a fortress," he proclaimed, "every farmer a soldier of the revolution."
History is accelerating, and I have the privilege and terror of being here to witness it.
July 5, 1945
This morning, I communicated to Mao the decision from Moscow: "The Party will send military advisers and armaments. Mosin-Nagant rifles, DP-27 machine guns, mortars, ammunition, and even some light artillery pieces."
Mao's eyes lit up: "The solidarity between comrades is like water for a dry field," he said. "Allow me to introduce Comrade Zhu De."
A robust man in worn-out uniform entered the room. I immediately recognized the legendary commander of the Chinese Red Army. Zhu De, the former warlord turned communist, the military genius who transformed bands of guerrillas into a disciplined army.
"Comrade Zhu," Mao said with evident affection, "is the hammer that forges our army. I may be the brain of the revolution, but he is its arm."
Zhu De shook my hand with surprising strength: "Comrade Soviet, I will show you our Fourth Field Army. Don’t expect parades like those in Red Square," he added with an ironic smile.
During the journey to the army’s headquarters, Zhu De explained their strategy: "We fight like the farmers grow rice - with patience, adapting to the terrain, moving with the seasons."
The headquarters was hidden in a remote valley. No permanent buildings—only tents, fortified caves, and camouflaged positions. The soldiers, I noticed immediately, were young, many still adolescents.
"Most of them are farmers' children," Zhu De explained. "They've never seen a city. But they know every path in these mountains, every place to hide, every water source."
The armament was an impressive mix of old and new: Japanese Type 38 rifles captured from the enemy, old Chinese Mausers, some Soviet weapons from previous supplies. Many soldiers still carried traditional peasant swords as a reserve weapon.
"Ammo is as precious as gold," commented a young company commander. "Every bullet must hit the target. Our men train for weeks before firing their first real shot."
At the training field, the soldiers practiced close combat techniques with bamboo sticks. "We don’t always have enough rifles," explained Zhu De, "but what matters is discipline and esprit de corps."
The field kitchen smelled of rice and vegetables. "Two meals a day," said Zhu De. "Millet, rice when possible, vegetables from the local farms. The farmers feed us, we protect them—this is the foundation of people’s war."
I watched the soldiers during the meal. They ate in small groups, sharing food from the same bowls. "Each squad is like a family," explained a political commissar. "They fight better this way."
In the afternoon, I witnessed a study session. The soldiers, many illiterate until a few months ago, were laboriously reading from Mao's little red books on guerrilla warfare. "Before being soldiers," said Zhu De, "they must be conscious revolutionaries."
The infirmary was Spartan but clean. "We have few medicines," admitted the doctor, "but we also use traditional Chinese medicine. And the wounded soldiers are hidden in the farmers' houses—every village is our hospital."
At sunset, I watched the night training. The soldiers moved in the dark like ghosts, communicating with silent signals. "At night we are like fish in water," whispered Zhu De. "The nationalists fear the dark—we make it our ally."
Before I lay down to sleep in a cave that served as the officers’ dormitory, I asked Zhu De what kept these men united despite the hardships.
"Look there," he said, pointing to a group of soldiers gathered around a fire. They were softly singing a revolutionary song, their young voices full of hope and determination.
"These boys have nothing to lose and a world to gain. In their homes, they were serfs, here they are liberators. The Party has given them dignity, education, a purpose. They will fight to the death not because of orders or fear, but because they believe in the revolution."
As I write these lines by candlelight, I can still hear those voices singing in the night. Perhaps this is the true strength of the Chinese Red Army—not the weapons or tactics, but the unwavering faith of its young soldiers in a better future.
July 7, 1945
The attack began at dawn. From the command shelter, located on a wooded hill overlooking the valley, we observe the small town of ... through binoculars.
The stone and wood houses, with dark tiled roofs, appear to be asleep, wrapped in the morning mist. But we know that two nationalist regiments are there, ready to defend their position.
General Zhu De, calm and focused, gives the final orders. "Surprise is our best weapon," he tells his officers. "They must not have time to organize."
At 5:30, a mortar shot breaks the silence. It’s the signal. In seconds, the valley erupts into a concert of gunfire and shouts.
The first Maoist lines advance quickly, taking advantage of the cover of trees and rocks. I see small groups of soldiers sliding down the slopes, rifles in hand, like shadows moving through the chaos. The nationalists respond with a burst of machine gun fire from a fortified position on the opposite hill. The ground is lit up by intermittent flashes.
"We need to neutralize those machine guns," says Zhu De. Immediately, a group of men armed with hand grenades breaks off from the main formation. I follow them with my binoculars as they crawl toward the enemy position.
A sudden explosion shakes the hill: one of the machine guns has been silenced. But the price is high. Some bodies lie motionless on the slope, while other soldiers continue their advance, undeterred by the danger.
From the town, columns of smoke begin to rise. The nationalists have set fire to some buildings to prevent the Maoist forces from advancing through the main streets. "Desperate strategy," comments a political commissar beside me. "They’re losing control."
By noon, the battle reaches its peak. The Maoists have breached the outer defenses and are now fighting house by house. From our position, we can see soldiers climbing onto rooftops, jumping from one building to another, while the sound of rifles and grenades fills the air.
Through my binoculars, i am seeing a young Maoist soldier, probably no more than twenty, advances with a rifle in hand and a red flag tied to his back. Despite the enemy fire, he climbs a watchtower and raises the flag over the city. For a moment, his action seems to freeze time. Then, a shot hits him, and his body falls, but the flag remains there, waving in the wind.
"That’s courage," murmurs Zhu De, with a hint of sadness in his eyes.
In the afternoon, the nationalist defenses collapse. The few survivors retreat to the hills, pursued by the Maoists. The town is taken, but at a very high cost.
We descend into the valley to closely observe the aftermath of the battle. The streets are littered with debris, abandoned weapons, and bodies. The Maoist soldiers move quickly, ensuring there are no pockets of resistance. Some help their wounded comrades, others gather the dead, both friends and enemies.
Zhu De orders that the nationalist prisoners be gathered in the central square. "Treat them with respect," he tells his men. "They are also Chinese, and one day they will be our brothers."
As I walk among the ruins, I see the faces of the Maoist soldiers. They are exhausted, dirty, but also proud. They have conquered the town, but they know the war is far from over.
In the evening, in the command shelter, Zhu De reflects on the day. "We’ve won," he says, "but the price was high. Tomorrow, the nationalists will return with reinforcements. We must be ready."
As I write these lines, I hear the songs of the Maoist soldiers rising into the night. Even after such a terrible day, they find the strength to sing.
"China will be free, China will be united, Under the guidance of President Mao, The people will triumph."
Perhaps this is the true essence of their strength: the unwavering faith in a better future, even in the face of the horrors of war.
Personal Diary of Viktor Petrov Military Advisor and Emissary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in China
June 25, 1945
By evening, our plane landed today on a makeshift runway in the heart of rural China. I was unprepared for the sight that lay before me. The misery here is indescribable, far worse than what our informants had reported.
Peasants dressed in rags work bare-handed in the fields, malnourished children wander the dirt roads of the villages.
Yet, amidst all this poverty, I noticed something extraordinary: the spirit of the communist partisans.
Their rifles are old, their uniforms patched, but in their eyes shines a determination I have never seen before. On the walls of mud and straw houses, portraits of Mao Zedong seem to gaze with pride at his people in struggle.
A young political commissar, Comrade Li, welcomed me with enthusiasm. "Welcome, Soviet comrade!" he exclaimed in broken Russian.
He made me get into a Japanese car – "A war trophy," he proudly explained – requisitioned from the enemy during an ambush. As we drove toward Mao's headquarters, I couldn't help but reflect on the man I was about to meet.
Who is this Mao Zedong, the "Great Helmsman," really? How could a simple son of peasants have withstood both the Japanese imperial army and Chiang Kai-shek's nationalist forces for years? The reports we received in Moscow speak of a brilliant theorist, a charismatic commander who has adapted Marxism-Leninism to Chinese conditions.
The road is rough, and as the car bumps along the potholes, I observe the peasants stopping to watch our passage. Some greet us with a raised fist. I wonder if they are truly aware of communist ideology or if they follow Mao simply because he promises them land and a better future.
We pass through villages where the partisans train new recruits. Their weapons are a mix of old Chinese rifles, captured Japanese arms, and a few rare Soviet rifles I recognize. But what strikes me is the discipline, the order, the determination in their movements.
The sun sets over the Chinese countryside. Soon I will meet the man leading this revolution. I wonder if he will live up to his reputation, if he will have the stuff of a true revolutionary leader like our Stalin.
Night falls over rural China, and with it, my anticipation grows. In the coming days, I will write about my meeting with Mao Zedong, the man who could change the fate of Asia.
June 26, 1945
I can’t sleep. Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my Tokarev pistol under my pillow. I keep it close, as if it’s the only thing that makes me feel safe, like I still have control over something.
The nightmares come almost every night. I see faces, hear voices, feel hands reaching for me. They come from every enemy I’ve ever fought: Nazis, Tsarist Russians, bandits... They all want me dead. I wake up in a panic, grabbing my pistol, my heart racing. It’s like the war never ends, even when I sleep.
I still think about Yelena, my wife. She died during the siege of Leningrad in 1942, starving for the Nazi blockade. I couldn’t save her. I can still see her face, pale and weak, when she whispered her last words to me. That memory haunts me, and I don’t talk about it anymore. There’s no one left to share it with.
After the war, I met Irina, a commissar. She believes in Stalin, in the revolution, in everything I should care about. But we’re distant, cold with each other. Our relationship feels like a duty, not love. We talk about politics, the future, but there’s no warmth between us. I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything again.
I got a letter from my son, Alexei. He’s studying at the military academy in Moscow to become an officer. He talks about honor and duty, about the greatness of the Soviet Union. I’m proud of him, but I worry. Will he face the same horrors I have? Will he become like me? I hope not. I hope he’ll never know the true cost of war.
The war in China is just another part of the fight against capitalism. It feels like it will never end. We will keep fighting until the enemy is defeated, or until we’re all dead. That’s the price we pay. I tell myself that every day, but sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. What will be left when it’s all over? Will there be anything left to rebuild?
I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t stop fighting. I can’t stop until the revolution is secure. But every night, when I lie awake with my pistol under my pillow, I wonder if it’s all worth it.
Dawn caught us as we crossed the mountains of Shaanxi. The peasants are already in the fields, bent over the rice paddies. Comrade Li explains that this year's harvest might be poor: "The nationalists burned many villages during their last offensive. But the people resist, as always."
We pass through a village where a female militia is undergoing drills. "Before the revolution," Li explains, "women were considered property, with their feet bound from childhood. Now they fight alongside us." The young militiamen handle rifles confidently, some still wear the braided hair of peasants, others have cut their hair short like soldiers.
Suddenly, the rumble of planes in the distance. "Nationalists!" someone shouts. The reaction is immediate: the peasants abandon the fields, the militiamen scatter in order, and the children are gathered into underground shelters. Two fighter planes fly low, but do not bomb. "Reconnaissance," murmurs Li, "they're looking for our headquarters."
Soon, we finally arrive at the Yan'an base. The caves carved into the yellow loess hills serve as shelter and headquarters. The partisans call them "the palace of the revolution." At the entrance, young guards in olive green uniforms meticulously check our documents.
And then, there he is. Mao.
He is not as I expected. Tall for a Chinese man, sturdy, with a face weathered by the sun and years of guerrilla warfare. He wears a simple uniform like everyone else, but he exudes a natural authority. He welcomes me into a small study lit by oil lamps, the walls covered with maps and revolutionary slogans.
"Soviet comrade," he greets me in Chinese, while an interpreter translates, "welcome to the China that is being reborn."
During dinner – rice, vegetables, and a bit of pork, a luxury here – Mao talks about his life. His voice is deep, with the accent of Hunan, and he often pauses to quote ancient Chinese poets or Marx.
"I was a librarian," he says with a smile, "I studied and dreamed of revolution. In 1927, we thought the moment had arrived. We worked with the Kuomintang, we thought we could collaborate with them for the good of China." His face darkens. "Then came the betrayal."
He tells me about the Shanghai massacre, when Chiang Kai-shek's forces turned on the communists. "Thousands of comrades, murdered in the streets. We had to flee to the countryside. It was then that we understood: our strength was not in the cities, but here, among the peasants."
Late at night, by the flickering light of candles, Mao describes the Long March of 1935. His eyes shine as he speaks of the 12,500 kilometers covered, the river and mountain crossings, the battles and ambushes.
"We left with a hundred thousand," he says softly, "we arrived with twenty thousand. But every step made us stronger. Every village we passed sowed the seeds of revolution."
Suddenly, an explosion in the distance. Mao doesn't flinch. "The Kuomintang wastes its bombs," he comments, "they don't understand that they can't destroy an idea. Every bomb they drop brings us new recruits."
He shows me a map of China. "Look, comrade," he says, tracing lines with his finger, "the nationalists control the cities, the railroads, the industries. We control the villages, the mountain paths, the hearts of the peasants. It's a people's war, and the people cannot be defeated."
Later, as he prepares tea, Mao talks about his vision for China. "We cannot simply copy the Soviet model," he says frankly. "China is different. Our peasants are not Marx's proletariat, but they will be the ones to make the revolution."
A young commander bursts in with reports: the partisans have ambushed a nationalist convoy, capturing weapons and ammunition. Mao nods in approval, then turns to me: "See, comrade? This is our war. Strike and vanish, let the enemy wear itself down. Time is on our side."
As I write these lines in the small room they've assigned me, I reflect on the man I met today. He is not the fanatic that some in Moscow describe, nor the simple bandit that the nationalists speak of. He is a revolutionary who has been able to merge Marxism with Chinese reality, a theorist who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, a commander who shares the hardships of his men.
Tomorrow, we will visit the party schools where cadres study Marxist theory and military tactics. Mao insists that every soldier must also be a teacher, each rifle accompanied by a book. "Revolution," he told me before I left, "is as much a matter of consciousness as it is of rifles."
June 27, 1945
The morning with Mao revealed surprising aspects of his personality. During breakfast – a bowl of congee with some vegetables – I found him immersed in reading classical Chinese poetry.
"See this, comrade?" he says, showing me a worn book. "Du Fu, the poet of the Tang dynasty. He wrote about the suffering of the people during wars. One must know their own history to change it." Then, unexpectedly, he recites some verses in Chinese, his voice taking on a musical rhythm.
The interpreter translates: "While the powerful feast in golden palaces, the hungry freeze to death in the streets." Mao smiles bitterly: "A thousand years ago, and yet it seems written today."
During a walk through the caves of Yan'an, a young commander approaches with urgent reports. Mao interrupts him: "First tell me, how is your mother? Did she receive the medicine for her arthritis?" The young man blushes, surprised that the President remembers this personal detail.
"A leader," Mao later explains to me, noticing my interest, "must know his men as a farmer knows every plant in his field. They are not numbers on a map, they are people with families, hopes, and fears. A leader must be like a good father to his subordinates." Here, Mao pauses and becomes emotional. "I lost three children during the Long March," he says in a quiet but sad voice. "The youngest was only three years old. The fever took her while we were fleeing through the swamps of Sichuan."
In the afternoon, during a meeting with local commanders, his fiery side emerges. A young officer proposes attacking a city held by the nationalists head-on.
"Foolishness!" Mao shouts, slamming his fist on the table. "This is the mentality of warlords that we must eliminate! Do you think revolution is a play where the hero charges alone against a thousand enemies?" He stands up, walks to the blackboard where enemy positions are marked.
"Patience is our best weapon. Water is weak, yet it can wear away stone. We are the water, they are the stone. We will surround them, isolate them, strike their supply lines. When we attack, it will be like a river breaking its banks, not like a bull charging a wall!"
Later, in his private room – a austere cave with a wooden bed, a desk covered with books and maps, and a brazier for tea – Mao appears more relaxed. He smokes cigarette after cigarette as he talks about his youth.
"My father was an enriched peasant, you know? He used to beat me often. He wanted me to become a merchant like him." He laughs, a deep and genuine sound. "Instead, I became his worst nightmare: a revolutionary! But I'm grateful to him. His harshness taught me that authority can be challenged, that the established order is not immutable."
He stands up, walks to the window carved into the rock. The sun is setting over the valley. "The Soviets," he says suddenly, "think we should follow their model. But China is not Russia. We do not have a large urban proletariat. Our revolution must come from the fields, not from the factories."
He looks at me intensely: "Some call me a revisionist for this. But Marx never saw China. He never saw a peasant from Hunan working all day in a rice paddy for a bowl of rice. Theory must adapt to reality, not the other way around."
The conversation is interrupted by gunfire in the distance. Mao doesn't move, he continues sipping his tea. "The sparrowhawks attack, but the ants keep working," he says, quoting another proverb. "Every day the nationalists attack us, every day we grow stronger."
Before I leave for the night, he proudly shows me his collection of books: Chinese classics, military strategy texts, works by Marx and Lenin, agricultural manuals. "A revolutionary must be like a doctor," he says. "He must know both theory and practice. He must be able to diagnose the problems and find the appropriate cure."
He pauses on a volume of poetry he is writing. "Revolution is also poetry," he says with a smile. "It is dreaming of a new world and then fighting to create it."
As I return to my room, I reflect on this complex man: poet and warrior, theorist and pragmatist, capable of great hardness but also of surprising humanity. Perhaps it is this multifaceted nature that allows him to lead such a unique revolution as the Chinese one.
June 30, 1945
Tonight, after a day of military inspections, Mao invited me to his cave for a deeper discussion about his vision for China. His face, illuminated by the oil lamp, seemed harder than usual.
"Comrade," he began, flipping through a worn volume of Marx, "here it says that the history of every society is the history of class struggle. In China, this struggle has been tainted by centuries of foreign influence, colonialism, and exploitation."
He stood up, pacing back and forth in the small room. "The foreign imperialists, the Chinese capitalists, the landowners... they are like parasites sucking the blood of China. Marx speaks of the need for the dictatorship of the proletariat. We will have the dictatorship of the people."
"But President Mao," I asked, "how do you plan to transform such an ancient and complex society?"
His smile turned cold: "With the necessary determination, comrade. There is no place in the new China for those who exploit the people. The foreign capitalists? They will have to leave. The wealthy bourgeois who collaborate with the Kuomintang? They will have to surrender their wealth to the people or face the consequences. The landowners who have enslaved the peasants for generations? The land will go to those who work it."
He picked up a map, pointing to the large coastal cities: "Here, in Shanghai, Canton, Tientsin, the bourgeois live like princes while the people starve. This will end. As Marx says, communism is not achieved with half-measures."
"And what about the counter-revolutionaries?" I asked.
His face hardened: "Those who sow division, who try to sabotage the revolution, who serve foreign interests... will have no place in the new China. Marx speaks of the need to sweep away the old order. We will do it. Not with the gentleness of a gardener pruning a flower, but with the strength of a peasant uprooting weeds."
He poured himself a cup of tea, quoting Marx from memory: "'The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.' Our peasants are the proletariat of China. And we will win this world."
"Some say I am too harsh," he continued, "that my vision is too radical. But the revolution is not a banquet. It is not a literary work, it is not an embroidery, it cannot be made with the same elegance, tranquility, and delicacy."
He walked over to the small window, gazing at the stars: "The new China will be a China for the people. A China where peasants will no longer have to bow before the landowners. Where workers will no longer be exploited by the capitalists. Where foreigners will no longer treat us like a colony."
"But this will require sacrifices," he added, his voice now low and intense. "As Marx says, violence is the midwife of every old society pregnant with a new society. Those who oppose the will of the people will have to face this truth."
He opened a small red notebook where he writes his thoughts: "I am developing Marx's ideas to adapt them to the Chinese reality. The class struggle here is not only in the factories, it is in the fields, in the villages. And it will be total. There can be no compromise with those who have exploited the people for centuries."
Before I left, he looked at me intently: "Tell the Soviet comrades that China will awaken. And when it does, the world will tremble. We will no longer be the sick man of Asia. We will be a strong, united communist nation, purified of counter-revolutionary elements. As Marx says, the proletarians have no country. But we will create a homeland for the proletarians."
As I returned to my room, I reflected on his words. There is something both terrifying and fascinating in his vision. A determination that allows for no half-measures, a steel will to completely transform the oldest society in the world. I wonder how many lives this transformation will cost.
July 2, 1945
This morning I had to wake Mao before dawn. The news from Europe could not wait. When I informed him about Operation Unthinkable and the atomic attack on Minsk, his face transformed into a mask of controlled fury.
"So," he said slowly, lighting a cigarette with slightly trembling hands, "the imperialists are showing their true face. First Hitler, now the Anglo-Americans. The capitalists are all the same – wolves disguised as lambs until they decide to attack."
When I told him about Stalin's request to intensify actions against the Japanese in Manchuria, he jumped to his feet, starting to pace back and forth in the room like a tiger in a cage.
"The Japanese are a cancer in the flesh of China," he roared, slamming his fist on the table. "For eight years, they raped our land, massacred our people. And now they ally with the Americans?" He spat on the floor in disgust. "We will sweep them out of Manchuria. Every village will become a trap, every farmer a partisan."
Then his face twisted into a grimace of pure hatred when he mentioned Chiang Kai-shek: "And that traitor, that filthy dog Chiang! I knew him well, you know? I saw him sell China piece by piece to the foreigners. First to the Japanese, now to the Americans."
He stopped in front of a map of China, his eyes burning with rage: "Chiang Kai-shek is like a scorpion – he stings everything he touches. In '27, he massacred our comrades in Shanghai, had women and children killed. He enriched himself while the people starved. His band of capitalist thugs lives in the palaces of Chongqing, fattening themselves with the blood of the peasants."
He grabbed a cup of tea, drinking it in one gulp: "And now he dares to side with the imperialists against our Soviet sister? Against those who have always supported us in the struggle?" The cup shattered in his hand.
"I tell you this, comrade," he continued, his voice vibrating with emotion, "Chiang and his band of corrupt capitalists are making a fatal mistake. They think they can occupy the vacuum left by the Japanese? Instead, they will find the Red Army of the peasants waiting for them!"
He pulled out a sheet of paper and began writing rapid orders: "We will mobilize every resource. In the north, we will intensify attacks against the Japanese. In the south, our partisans will strike Chiang's supply lines. We will use the tactic of the sea of people – the nationalists will drown in an ocean of popular resistance."
Then, with a bitter smile: "Chiang thinks he's as clever as a fox, but he's as blind as a worm. He doesn't understand that the wind of history is changing. The imperialists may have their atomic bombs, but we have something more powerful – the will of a people that has awakened."
He turned to the commanders who had gathered in the room: "Comrades! The Soviet Union is under attack! It is our sister in the struggle, the homeland of Lenin, the guide of the world proletariat. Its fate is tied to ours. If the imperialists think they can crush the world revolution, they will discover they have awakened a giant. China will rise, and this time we will not stop until the last vestige of the old order is swept away!"
As I write these lines, I feel the excitement coursing through Yan'an. Couriers are leaving in all directions, carrying orders to the partisan commanders. Mao has ordered the intensification of peasant militia training. "Every village a fortress," he proclaimed, "every farmer a soldier of the revolution."
History is accelerating, and I have the privilege and terror of being here to witness it.
July 5, 1945
This morning, I communicated to Mao the decision from Moscow: "The Party will send military advisers and armaments. Mosin-Nagant rifles, DP-27 machine guns, mortars, ammunition, and even some light artillery pieces."
Mao's eyes lit up: "The solidarity between comrades is like water for a dry field," he said. "Allow me to introduce Comrade Zhu De."
A robust man in worn-out uniform entered the room. I immediately recognized the legendary commander of the Chinese Red Army. Zhu De, the former warlord turned communist, the military genius who transformed bands of guerrillas into a disciplined army.
"Comrade Zhu," Mao said with evident affection, "is the hammer that forges our army. I may be the brain of the revolution, but he is its arm."
Zhu De shook my hand with surprising strength: "Comrade Soviet, I will show you our Fourth Field Army. Don’t expect parades like those in Red Square," he added with an ironic smile.
During the journey to the army’s headquarters, Zhu De explained their strategy: "We fight like the farmers grow rice - with patience, adapting to the terrain, moving with the seasons."
The headquarters was hidden in a remote valley. No permanent buildings—only tents, fortified caves, and camouflaged positions. The soldiers, I noticed immediately, were young, many still adolescents.
"Most of them are farmers' children," Zhu De explained. "They've never seen a city. But they know every path in these mountains, every place to hide, every water source."
The armament was an impressive mix of old and new: Japanese Type 38 rifles captured from the enemy, old Chinese Mausers, some Soviet weapons from previous supplies. Many soldiers still carried traditional peasant swords as a reserve weapon.
"Ammo is as precious as gold," commented a young company commander. "Every bullet must hit the target. Our men train for weeks before firing their first real shot."
At the training field, the soldiers practiced close combat techniques with bamboo sticks. "We don’t always have enough rifles," explained Zhu De, "but what matters is discipline and esprit de corps."
The field kitchen smelled of rice and vegetables. "Two meals a day," said Zhu De. "Millet, rice when possible, vegetables from the local farms. The farmers feed us, we protect them—this is the foundation of people’s war."
I watched the soldiers during the meal. They ate in small groups, sharing food from the same bowls. "Each squad is like a family," explained a political commissar. "They fight better this way."
In the afternoon, I witnessed a study session. The soldiers, many illiterate until a few months ago, were laboriously reading from Mao's little red books on guerrilla warfare. "Before being soldiers," said Zhu De, "they must be conscious revolutionaries."
The infirmary was Spartan but clean. "We have few medicines," admitted the doctor, "but we also use traditional Chinese medicine. And the wounded soldiers are hidden in the farmers' houses—every village is our hospital."
At sunset, I watched the night training. The soldiers moved in the dark like ghosts, communicating with silent signals. "At night we are like fish in water," whispered Zhu De. "The nationalists fear the dark—we make it our ally."
Before I lay down to sleep in a cave that served as the officers’ dormitory, I asked Zhu De what kept these men united despite the hardships.
"Look there," he said, pointing to a group of soldiers gathered around a fire. They were softly singing a revolutionary song, their young voices full of hope and determination.
"These boys have nothing to lose and a world to gain. In their homes, they were serfs, here they are liberators. The Party has given them dignity, education, a purpose. They will fight to the death not because of orders or fear, but because they believe in the revolution."
As I write these lines by candlelight, I can still hear those voices singing in the night. Perhaps this is the true strength of the Chinese Red Army—not the weapons or tactics, but the unwavering faith of its young soldiers in a better future.
July 7, 1945
The attack began at dawn. From the command shelter, located on a wooded hill overlooking the valley, we observe the small town of ... through binoculars.
The stone and wood houses, with dark tiled roofs, appear to be asleep, wrapped in the morning mist. But we know that two nationalist regiments are there, ready to defend their position.
General Zhu De, calm and focused, gives the final orders. "Surprise is our best weapon," he tells his officers. "They must not have time to organize."
At 5:30, a mortar shot breaks the silence. It’s the signal. In seconds, the valley erupts into a concert of gunfire and shouts.
The first Maoist lines advance quickly, taking advantage of the cover of trees and rocks. I see small groups of soldiers sliding down the slopes, rifles in hand, like shadows moving through the chaos. The nationalists respond with a burst of machine gun fire from a fortified position on the opposite hill. The ground is lit up by intermittent flashes.
"We need to neutralize those machine guns," says Zhu De. Immediately, a group of men armed with hand grenades breaks off from the main formation. I follow them with my binoculars as they crawl toward the enemy position.
A sudden explosion shakes the hill: one of the machine guns has been silenced. But the price is high. Some bodies lie motionless on the slope, while other soldiers continue their advance, undeterred by the danger.
From the town, columns of smoke begin to rise. The nationalists have set fire to some buildings to prevent the Maoist forces from advancing through the main streets. "Desperate strategy," comments a political commissar beside me. "They’re losing control."
By noon, the battle reaches its peak. The Maoists have breached the outer defenses and are now fighting house by house. From our position, we can see soldiers climbing onto rooftops, jumping from one building to another, while the sound of rifles and grenades fills the air.
Through my binoculars, i am seeing a young Maoist soldier, probably no more than twenty, advances with a rifle in hand and a red flag tied to his back. Despite the enemy fire, he climbs a watchtower and raises the flag over the city. For a moment, his action seems to freeze time. Then, a shot hits him, and his body falls, but the flag remains there, waving in the wind.
"That’s courage," murmurs Zhu De, with a hint of sadness in his eyes.
In the afternoon, the nationalist defenses collapse. The few survivors retreat to the hills, pursued by the Maoists. The town is taken, but at a very high cost.
We descend into the valley to closely observe the aftermath of the battle. The streets are littered with debris, abandoned weapons, and bodies. The Maoist soldiers move quickly, ensuring there are no pockets of resistance. Some help their wounded comrades, others gather the dead, both friends and enemies.
Zhu De orders that the nationalist prisoners be gathered in the central square. "Treat them with respect," he tells his men. "They are also Chinese, and one day they will be our brothers."
As I walk among the ruins, I see the faces of the Maoist soldiers. They are exhausted, dirty, but also proud. They have conquered the town, but they know the war is far from over.
In the evening, in the command shelter, Zhu De reflects on the day. "We’ve won," he says, "but the price was high. Tomorrow, the nationalists will return with reinforcements. We must be ready."
As I write these lines, I hear the songs of the Maoist soldiers rising into the night. Even after such a terrible day, they find the strength to sing.
"China will be free, China will be united, Under the guidance of President Mao, The people will triumph."
Perhaps this is the true essence of their strength: the unwavering faith in a better future, even in the face of the horrors of war.