Russian Treasures

22. THE SOVIET JOURNALIST

I am now a Soviet worker and enjoy a third category allowance of ration cards, which entitles me to ten pounds of rotten potatoes a month. The authorities have promised a delivery next week on the barge Friedrich Engels, but if the Oka River freezes over, the Friedrich will take my potatoes somewhere else.

The print-run of the Nizhny Novgorod Commune varies between two and six thousand copies, depending upon the availability of paper. You could hardly call our work “journalism.” Almost all news worth reporting is a state secret. In the meantime, we occupy ourselves with publishing Soviet decrees and appeals and insulting the bourgeoisie.

I’m the one responsible for the workers’ letters. All of the tolerably educated Bolsheviks are busy with party work, and the local correspondents tend to have a rather shaky grasp of Russian prose.

I have to edit their letters, and if we don’t have enough material, I just write them myself. Recently, we had a competition for the best short story. As we didn’t get any entries, I dashed off ten stories and then chose the winner and received the prize—a subscription to the Nizhny Novgorod Commune.

There have been coups in Germany and Austria-Hungary, and the Allies have won the war. Uncle Anton was almost in tears when he learned about that. For months, he had been hoping that the Germans would come deep into Russia and overthrow the Bolsheviks.

“If only the Allies would attack us!” he said hopefully. “On the other hand, if they’d wanted to attack, they would have done so long ago. It’s beyond a joke! They’re sending tiny landing parties in at the ports and pretending to be at war with the Bolsheviks. Still, who knows what will happen? The Whites are moving in from the east under Admiral Kolchak, and General Krasnov is coming up from the south with his army.”

I widened my eyes, pretending to be skeptical. “Surely not!”

Uncle Anton showed me the map and pointed to the villages and towns now occupied by the Whites. He told me details of the news from the frontline—not the contradictory nonsense that the public gets from the newspapers but the latest reports straight from the headquarters. Only kremlin officials and chief editors can read these reports, and they have to sign for them.

From time to time, Uncle Anton shares some other choice pieces of news with me. Accurate information is vital to me, Nina, and Dr. Sablin as we have decided to escape from the land of the Soviets.

At first, I thought we should invite Uncle Anton to join our conspiracy, but the more I see of him at work, the more relieved I am that I’ve told him nothing.

He turns a blind eye to the fact that his daughter has two husbands, and he is reluctant to argue with Osip or Sablin because both of them are very useful to him.

“It’s not my business to give other people advice,” he says.

At the same time, if some girl sends in a letter to the newspaper, pleading, “Dear Comrade Schuster, please tell me how to live—I’m at the end of my tether.” Uncle Anton will write a five-page letter full of recommendations and exhortations. And what’s more, he’ll send the poor girl a copy of one of his books.

It turns out that Uncle Anton writes novels about courtly love and reverence before some mysterious, beautiful lady. Often when we are alone in his office, he walks over to the window and, tugging his beard, asks if I would object if he recites certain passages from his novel to me, which he knows by heart.

Marusya, the secretary, enters the room.

“What are you doing in here, you fool?” the knight in shining armor screams. “Can’t you see we’re busy? You’re fired! Don’t bother coming in to work tomorrow.”

Marusya begins to cry, and Anton Emilievich grudgingly relents. “All right then. Forget what I said just now. I tell you, Klim, these girls couldn’t tell a work of art if it came up and introduced itself to them. All they care about is getting home early at the end of the day.”

I don’t remember him being like this. Could the Bolsheviks have sent us back an imposter in place of the old Uncle Anton? Or does he only bother to behave like a gentleman when he’s around people who can be of use to him and make no effort with anyone else? My stock is so low just now that he doesn’t have to worry about making a scene in my presence. As for Marusya, she’s quite beneath his notice.

In our household, a secret religious conflict is smoldering below the surface. The abyss between the sects is so deep and wide that reconciliation is quite impossible. We have the great reformer, Comrade Osip, who is absent for the time being. Lubochka and her father belong to the Order of Opportunists who—while they might not believe in anything—diligently serve the powers that be as long as they get some benefit from doing so. Nina, Sablin, and I are dissenters. We stand firmly for the old faith. If we’re not allowed to serve our ideals, we’ll set sail and travel to the end of the world to get as far away from the infidels as possible. We don’t intend, God forbid, to openly challenge the official religion. We even pretend that we are ready to renounce our mistaken beliefs. But at night, when the opportunists go to bed, we call secret meetings to exercise the right to assembly and freedom of speech.

Lubochka is desperate to lure us into her sect. She tempts us with food rations in the present and salvation in the future. As a sweetener, she has offered Nina a job as a dishwasher in her canteen. It’s a prestigious job because it entails proximity to both food and the warmth of the kitchen.

At first, my proud wife just laughed. Then she cried. Finally, she agreed. We’re going to need money if we want to get out of Nizhny Novgorod.

My longing for Argentina has become an obsession. On my way to the editorial office, I lose myself so deeply in my memories that it seems I can feel the fresh breeze from the Rio de la Plata and hear people talking in Spanish with a strong Italian accent, the incomparable language of Buenos Aires.

When our office girls wonder what to do with tough horse meat, I remember the recipe of the gauchos. They soften tough meat by putting it under the saddle and then riding the horse at a gallop. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of somebody gesticulating like an Argentinean, and of course, it always turns out I’m mistaken. It’s just a mirage, but it says a lot about my state of mind. My old life has become a symbol of peace for me while the present is a symbol of war.

I’m sure Nina has already had enough of me telling her stories about the asado. This is a special Argentinean ritual, a whole day spent preparing food on a barbecue and then a feast. People eat at nine or even ten in the evening and then stay up late drinking homemade wine, talking, and dancing. I miss those Argentinean nights most of all.

I try to keep Nina’s hopes up. I promise her that I’ll get an Argentine visa for her, whatever the cost. But sometimes I feel her faith in that fading away, and that scares me more than anything. She needs big goals, not a vegetable existence. It’s insulting for her that someone else is in charge of her time and energy even if that person is Lubochka. And that’s why I love my Nina—for her inability to go with the flow and for her burning desire to become a successful person and do something significant. She has a strong will, a kind heart, and a good head on her shoulders. She’s the kind that could never live in slavery even if that slavery comes complete with prestige and every comfort.

If only she saw a future for us as I do! I know that one day, we’ll wander through the center of Buenos Aires gazing up at the elegant facades of the buildings with their stucco ornaments. We’ll look at the closed shutters and try to guess who lives behind them. When we get tired, we’ll go to Café Tortoni with its stained glass ceilings and distinguished gray-haired waiters like English aristocrats. We’ll eat delectable medialunas croissants and cakes and—

That’s enough for today. I don’t want to get too carried away.

Nina never left the house without her flu mask, but she was no longer afraid that anyone would recognize her. Her life was like that of a forest animal. She knew there were wolves around, she knew they attacked and devoured prey every day, but what could she do about it?

Every morning, she went to the Military Commissariat. The city was covered with snow. Trees and bushes that had survived the fuel collection sparkled with frost in the sunlight, and the houses looked like gnomes wearing huge white caps and necklaces of icicles. It was so cold that there was a halo around the pale winter sun.

Women standing around outside the locked door of the grocery shop were cursing the Soviet government in whispers. “Why do all the Bolsheviks jump the queue? They should clear out.”

A saleswoman wrapped in an eiderdown was slowly moving the weights on the scales.

Why can’t they have two women serving instead of one? Nina thought. And why is this woman allowed to force people to stand in line in the cold? She should be punished like a thief for stealing the most valuable thing of all—time.

Still, maybe it was a good idea to kill time in the land of the Soviets because then perhaps everything would be over as soon as possible.

Nina had no real cause to complain. She worked in the best “public catering point” in the city. The canteen boasted gilded chairs stolen from a theater and dining tables confiscated from merchants’ houses. And while the spoons might have been made of wood and the tablecloths of newspaper, the tableware bore the monograms of princely families.

While the standard fare in other catering establishments was salted herring, in Lubochka’s canteen, the cook’s handwritten menu boasted “pilaf with beef” or “lingonberry dessert with shugar.” But even this menu had been drawn up for the ordinary customers and didn’t tell the full story. Lubochka also had dried fruit, rice, and flour from Tashkent, canned fish from the Baltic states, and even caviar and sturgeon from the Lower Volga region. She had plenty of food, but not for everyone.

There were always street children crowded around the entrance to the canteen. As soon as a visitor walked up to the door, they rushed forward shouting, “Mister! Ma’am! A spoonful, please!”

Trying not to look at their dirty faces, Nina stamped the snow from her felt boots—a gift from Lubochka—and went to the kitchen. She had to bring in firewood, light the oven, and heat a whole tank of water before the first guests appeared.

The canteen opened at twelve, and the kitchen filled with the sound of clattering dishes and running feet. Sometimes Lubochka came to the kitchen to announce that they needed “first-class service.” That meant that somebody important had arrived.

“How are you?” Lubochka asked Nina.

Nina, breathless with exertion, wiped her wet hands on her apron and tucked a stray lock of her hair under her kerchief. “I’m fine.”

Lubochka cast an eye over the piles of clean dishes. “Good for you. But do me a favor, don’t stack the cups like that. They could break.”

“I won’t.”

Nina and Klim had no right to hate Lubochka, but they hated her nonetheless. As they saw it, it was only thanks to her and her kind that the Bolsheviks were able to remain in power.

Countless Lubochkas had filled the state offices and institutions, feathering their nests in the process. Now, they were ready to fight tooth and nail to keep their jobs, which meant defending the Soviet state.

Of course, there was resistance but mainly in the form of petty sabotage and widespread theft. It gave Nina great satisfaction to steal millet from the canteen pantry and feed it to her hen, Speckle. This hen was the object of pride and constant concern because it laid golden eggs—golden because every one of them fetched eighty rubles at the market.

Nina was terrified at the thought that Lubochka’s cat might catch Speckle. She would often jump up in the night to check whether the hen was all right.

Klim had named the cat Kaiser because of its bellicose whiskers and recent misfortune. Like the former German emperor, it had lost its territory and was now forced to live at the mercy of strangers.

“If that cat of yours eats Speckle, I’ll give it short shrift,” Nina threatened.

“Oh, come on!” Klim laughed. “A hen is nothing compared to a cat. Cats are princes of the animal kingdom. After all, they’re cousins to the king of beasts. Personally, I feel a sense of kinship with Kaiser. Perhaps you could call it class solidarity.”

Kaiser had grown fond of Klim too. The cat slept on his lap and let him scratch it behind the ears.

In order to escape from the land of the Soviets, Sablin, Klim, and Nina had to get to the frontline, and to do that, they needed the following documents:

1) passports

2) certificates of exemption from military service for the men

3) letters of assignment from work

4) passes from the Regional Executive Committee

5) permits to buy railroad tickets

6) railroad tickets

7) permits from the Cheka

Soviet bureaucrats who issued travel papers made a fortune in bribes. Sometimes they would be caught and executed. But then new officials would step into their shoes, and everything would go on as before. All that happened was that the bribes increased.

Money was scarce. Sablin, Klim, and Nina were all earning next to nothing. The shapeless lump of silver that was all that remained of the satyr couldn’t cover more than a tenth of their travel costs, and Sablin had nothing to his name but an amber cigarette case missing one corner. Things looked particularly bleak regarding the third item on the list—the letters from their workplaces—since neither the local newspaper nor the hospital ever sent staff to the frontline. As for Nina, her profession involved no travel whatsoever.

Sometimes Sablin’s acquaintances would bring news of a successful escape from the land of the Soviets. Excited, he would permit himself cautious questions: “Where is the frontline, and how did they get across it?” But no one could tell if these rumors were even true because no one ever came back from the other side of the frontline.

It was so hard for Sablin to tell himself that he would be leaving Lubochka forever in the spring. He kept questioning his decision, wondering if perhaps he ought to stay, clinging to what remained of his former domestic happiness.

“I’m sorry,” he told Klim, “but I really don’t think I can leave the hospital. People here are so hungry that they’re eating God knows what, poisoning themselves. And we don’t have even emetics, so—”

“Let your patients read our newspaper,” Klim said. “Listen, you have to get out of here. Otherwise, you’ll lose your mind.”

“You must start afresh,” Nina told Sablin. “You won’t find new love as long as you’re still carrying a torch for Lubochka. I know what I’m talking about.”

Sablin frowned. He didn’t like to discuss such things, particularly not with a woman.

He kept thinking of how Lubochka had nursed him back to health when she had found him dying. In the past, she had complained that Sablin didn’t love her enough. He had been at a loss when he had heard this unfair accusation. For Sablin, love meant family, and family meant respect, cooperation, friendship, and loyalty. Lubochka had had all of these things. What more did she want?

He could find only one explanation, the vilest and unbearable: she had been disappointed in him as a lover. He had asked her if this was true, terrified at what she might say, but Lubochka had only thrown her hands up, “Lord, how vulgar you are! It wasn’t about that.”

But what was it then?

Sablin tried to figure out how Klim had made Nina fall in love with him. Obviously, it wasn’t about his money—she hadn’t cared much for him when he had been rich. Perhaps his secret was his charisma. Sablin had never had this quality.

There was no point in cursing his fate. Some people have a talent for dancing, and some don’t. Some lucky souls are easygoing while others are born pedantic and boring. Sablin accepted his shortcomings in the same way that he had accepted his limp.

He spent evenings playing against Klim and staking his amber cigarette case as a bet. If they played cards, Klim usually won, but if they played chess, Sablin would beat him every time.

“What a stupid game this is!” Klim said angrily after Sablin had beaten him yet again. “In my opinion, there should be a special chess piece that both players are fighting over—a dragon, for instance. What’s the point in just knocking out all your opponents’ pieces? I need something to fight for.”

That was Sablin’s problem in real life: he had nothing to fight for.

Klim and Nina’s room was next to Sablin’s, and hearing the muffled sounds of their passion at night, he would feel sickened and angered. He wanted to bang on the thin wall with his fist and yell, “You’re not alone here, damn you!”

In the morning, Nina came out of her room still sleepy with a blissful, distracted expression, and Sablin could barely restrain himself from asking, “So, what do you plan to do if you get pregnant?”

Then Lubochka appeared in the corridor as solicitous as a gardener tending her plants. “Sablin, have you taken your medicine? Don’t forget, please. And put your gloves on when you go outside, or your hands will get cold.”

Imagine that we did manage to escape, thought Sablin. After traveling for weeks on a lice-ridden train in constant danger of being robbed or killed, imagine that they got as far as the frontline and survived the shelling and the raids. When everything was over, would he regret his decision? Would he go out of his mind with longing for Lubochka, for Nizhny Novgorod, for his job? There, on the other side of the frontline, Sablin couldn’t just walk into a hospital and say, “Take me on as a surgeon.”

What would happen to him there? How could he find a place for himself? And what use would he be to anyone there anyway as lame, shy, and unsociable as he was?