The Prince of the Soviets

10. THE SMUGGLING ARTICLE

Alov arrived at work early to find crowds of people already in the entrance hall. It was payday. The OGPU was a sizable organization: it had two and a half thousand working in its central staff alone and another ten thousand agents in Moscow, and all of them needed to collect their wages.

Showing his pass at the door, Alov pushed through the turnstile and took the elevator up to the fourth floor where the Foreign Department was based.

His tiny office was furnished with a table, three chairs, a divan upholstered in oilcloth, and a coat stand. A courier had already brought in the mail and the latest copy of Pravda. All OGPU employees were expected to read the paper from cover to cover to make sure they kept informed on the latest Party directives.

Alov took off his greatcoat, changed into his felt slippers, and was about to sort through the mail when there was a shout in the corridor.

“All those in the Foreign Department, go collect your wage checks!” It was the secretary Eteri Bagratovna.

There was a banging of doors and the clattering of boots on the stairs. Within moments, a long line had formed at the cashier’s office.

The employees of the Foreign Department fell into two groups of unequal status—the stick-at-homes and the travelers. Those who belonged to the first group never went anywhere and resembled impoverished teachers or clerks. Those in the second group enjoyed frequent trips abroad and returned decked out in the latest foreign clothes: sleeveless pullovers, shirts with pointed lapels, silk ties, and Oxford bags.

Alov did not particularly envy the travelers—his needs were simple: filterless cigarettes, strong tea, and perhaps medicine if he fell sick. But it vexed him that his beautiful wife had only two dresses, both of which had been bought second-hand.

Dunya Odesskaya was the sort of woman who should have been put on a pedestal and showered with presents. Comparing himself with her, Alov was at a loss to understand what she saw in him with his thinning hair, his pince-nez on a cord, his sunken chest, and the beginnings of a pot belly.

When his colleagues had had a drink or two, they would tease him, “You should watch out for that Dunya of yours. She’s a real hot potato!”

“And just look at you—thin and bent as an old oven fork!”

Alov was sure that in calling him an “oven fork,” they were hinting at cuckold’s horns. Miserable and jealous, he hounded his wife with accusations and then locked himself in his office with Galina. These brief betrayals would leave him feeling temporarily avenged.

One day, in the Tretyakov Art Gallery, Alov saw a group of schoolchildren looking at the painting “The Unequal Marriage.” The exhibition guide was explaining to the kids what torment it must be for the young bride to marry the rich but repulsive old man on the picture.

At least, Alov thought gloomily, that old man could afford to give his young bride valuable jewelry and a gracious style of living.

His own salary was circumscribed by the Party’s rule on the maximum wage, and he could afford to bring Dunya nothing more exciting than a couple of sacks of potatoes.

If only he could find another position! He had heard rumors that some of his colleagues from the Economic Department had put together dossiers on the directors of various enterprises and forced them to pay up under threat of exposure. The OGPU employees who worked in the Transport Department did well for themselves too—they could always extort bribes from black market traders transporting goods from one region to another.

It sounded prestigious to work in the Foreign Department, but what did it actually mean? Alov could not even hope for a promotion: there was only one person above him in the whole department: the fearsome Drachenblut.

Standing behind Alov in the line was Zharkov, a small man with a rosy face, short graying hair, and a slightly crooked nose.

Zharkov played a minor role in the OGPU, but a very profitable one, supplying Russians living abroad with false documents, currency, codes, and so on. Every time he came back into the country, he would bring back with him a suitcase full of women’s clothing and accessories.

“Did you bring it?” Alov mouthed the question silently.

“Mm-hm,” Zharkov muttered in assent. “Come and see me after lunch.”

The previous week, Alov had taken out a loan from the mutual aid bureau and asked Zharkov to bring him back some French perfume for Dunya. Dunya’s birthday was coming up, and he needed to get her a decent present.

“Perhaps you want some lipstick too?” Zharkov enquired. “A young woman ordered it from me—she was close to Drachenblut at the time, but now he’s got rid of her. So, I’m not allowed to give her anything.”

Alov pulled at his beard. “Oh… all right. I’ll take the lipstick too.”

After drawing their wages, all the employees began sorting out what money they owed where and to whom. Everybody had debts of some sort, some going back more than a month.

A young girl from the Far East section darted about among them. “Who hasn’t paid his subscription?” she called out. “Who’s still short? Comrade Alov, you should be ashamed of yourself! You owe money to the International Society for Revolutionary Fighters and three other organizations. Do you want me to raise the issue at the next Party meeting?”

Grudgingly, Alov counted out what he owed. A huge number of “voluntary” organizations had sprung up in the Soviet Union offering support for everything you could imagine, from German workers’ children to the chemical industry. Every good communist was obliged to be a member of these organizations and pay membership dues. Otherwise, he ran the risk of being expelled from the Party.

Alov made a quick calculation: after all these official payments had been made and he had paid his rent and given back what he owed to other people, he would have only fifty rubles left, hardly enough to buy food for the month.

On the stairs, he ran into Galina, who had also come to collect her paycheck.

“Hello, Pidge,” he said gloomily. “Did you get your check? How about lunch in the canteen to celebrate? My treat.”

There was no point trying to economize; he would still end up in debt before the month was out.

The canteen was in one of the basement rooms, and they had to cross the yard to get to it. On the other side of the yard, beyond a wooden fence, was the OGPU’s holding prison, its windows partially screened with plywood panels. A guard was posted at the gate and beside him stood a battered Black Maria van, its doors wide open. The driver—a young, dark-browed man by the name of Ibrahim—jumped out as they passed.

Alov shook his hand. “How’s it going?”

“I was working the night shift,” said Ibrahim. “Wish I could sleep, but I can’t. Got to clean up the car.”

Alov peered inside the van—the floor, which had clearly been hurriedly wiped, was covered with brownish smears.

“Is that blood?” Galina gasped.

“Oh, no, Miss,” said Ibrahim with a smirk. “That’s fruit juice.”

“Have you been beating someone again?”

Alov was annoyed at Galina acting the innocent when she had no qualms about accepting her OGPU paycheck or the vouchers for the organization’s cooperative store.

Alov pulled at her arm. “Come on. Let’s go. Otherwise, all the pies will have gone from the canteen.”

Galina trailed obediently after him. Alov was sure she was already lost in some idiotic daydream: she was probably wondering about who had been arrested the night before and what he had done.

As they climbed the worn entrance steps, Galina could control herself no longer.

“I don’t see why people have to be beaten when they’re arrested,” she burst out. “We’re not savages after all!”

“We’re surgeons. Spilling blood is part of what we do,” growled Alov. “If nobody took it upon themselves to operate, our society would die from hidden diseases.” He stopped and fixed Galina with a stern gaze. “You do see that, don’t you?”

She nodded hurriedly. “Of course I do.”

They entered a large echoing hall with tiled walls. All the tables were already occupied, but Alov was given a reserved place on the condition that they eat quickly before any of the management arrived.

A minute later, the waitress, Ulyana, came up to their table.

“What can I get for you today? We have rice and sausages. But the vodka and pies are gone. The Special Department finished the last of them this morning.”

Ulyana’s full lips were painted a bloodred, and her low-cut dress showed off her plump breasts and spectacular cleavage to full advantage.

Alov squinted across at Galina; beside Ulyana, she looked like some pale yellow moth beside a peacock butterfly. And not so long ago, Galina had been a good-looking girl herself, he thought. Where had it all gone?

She needs feeding up, thought Alov, and with a heavy sigh, he ordered a double portion of sausages.

When Ulyana had flitted away, Galina moved closer to Alov. “Listen, I was wondering, could you find out if we have a file on a certain woman? Her name’s Nina Kupina.”

Immediately, Alov remembered the young lady with the camera he had seen that day of the parade on the 7th of November. The Chinese guests on the tribune had recognized her; they had told him she was a White émigré from Shanghai. But at the time, all the OGPU officers had been taken up with the Trotsky supporters, and Alov had forgotten all about her.

“And what is she to you?” he asked Galina.

“Well, she’s my… friend’s neighbor, and she was asking, you see—”

“Pidge,” said Alov gently, “I can see right through you. You’re a terrible liar. Who’s been asking you about this Nina Kupina?”

Galina looked at him sheepishly. “He asked me not to tell anyone.”

“And who is he?”

As usual, it did not take long for Galina to cave in under pressure.

“Klim Rogov asked me to find out. But you mustn’t think anything of it. He’s on our side. He takes a very objective view of things… at least for the most part—”

Alov began to drum on the table with his fingers.

Very interesting, he thought. Both Klim Rogov and Nina Kupina had lived in Shanghai, and they clearly knew one another. What might this mean?

After lunch, Alov took Galina into his office and asked her to wait a minute. He told her he was going to check the archive, but instead, he headed to the office of a group of employees he referred to jokingly as “Their Royal Highnesses.” These women were all from aristocratic families and knew several languages. Their job was to read through all the foreign papers and magazines to keep an eye on what was being written about the Soviet Union and by whom. Alov had specially picked out widows with children for the job, and they were among some of the most responsible employees of the OGPU. They were so afraid of losing their jobs that they would go to any lengths to please their employers.

“Do you have the file on Klim Rogov?” Alov asked Diana Mikhailovna, a tall woman of fortyish, her hair piled into an old-fashioned bun on top of her head.

“We’ve just been adding a new cutting to it from an English paper,” she answered. “Have a look at this.”

Alov began to read.

Alov was less surprised at the tone of the article than he was at the brazen cheek shown by its author. Klim Rogov had signed the piece with his own name.

“What’s the matter with the man?” he asked. “Is he out of his mind?”

Diana Mikhailovna shrugged her stately shoulders. “I suppose he didn’t think we’d read it.”

Alov took Klim Rogov’s file. According to the completed form, Rogov had emigrated from Russia some time before the revolution and received American citizenship and had spent several years in China. A few months ago, he had come back to the country of his birth as a tourist and found work with the United Press agency. That was all the information they had on him.

Alov stamped Rogov’s file with the words “enemy journalist.” Inadvertently, this reporter had hit a raw nerve with this article. Alov could recall how, as an impassioned young man, he had felt nothing but contempt for the hard-hearted, immoral, corrupt old bureaucrats he had seen around him. For him, these men were symbolic of the bourgeoisie that had to be wiped from the face of the earth. And now, he had become just like one of them, the only difference being that while the Tsar’s officials had been well-off, Alov was condemned to a life of unrelenting poverty.

Alov never showed his feelings in front of “Their Royal Highnesses,” but with Galina, he had no such qualms.

“What is this?” he yelled from the doorway, flinging the newspaper cutting in her face. “Why didn’t you keep a closer watch on this Rogov? How could he have sent this article to London?”

Galina burst into tears on the spot. “I don’t know!” she wailed.

“Oh, you don’t know!” Alov mimicked sarcastically. “You mean you don’t know how to do your job? Do you think we’re paying you to do nothing? I want you to get to the bottom of this. I want to know everything about this Rogov—who his friends are, where he goes, and what’s between him and Kupina! Is that clear?”

Galina sniffed. “I’ll try. So, we do have a file on her, do we?”

“No, we don’t! Now get out, and don’t you dare come back without something to show for yourself.”

Ten minutes later, there was already a file on Nina Kupina: Alov opened a new one, noting down his impressions from his own encounter with her and what he had heard from the Chinese people with whom she had crossed the Soviet border.

It was all a bit flimsy, but Alov decided that from now on, he would be on the alert and keep a close watch on Klim Rogov and his young lady friend.

Galina brought me two pieces of news, one good and one bad. The good news is that the OGPU doesn’t have a file on Nina. The bad news is that now I have been labeled an “enemy journalist.”

Galina was so upset on my behalf that she started to cry. “Why did you do it? Now they’re going to make life difficult for you in every way they can!”

She asked me how I had managed to get the article out of the country, but I lost my temper and sent her away.

I feel sorry for her; really I do—I know she’s only trying to protect me, but her persistent solicitude drives me crazy.

I went to the censors’ office to find out how much trouble I’m in and what they’re planning to do about it.

As soon as I opened the door, Weinstein launched into me with a string of accusations.

“I really thought we understood one another, and this is how you repay me. If this happens one more time, there’ll be hell to pay!”

I felt relieved to hear this. It seems that as it’s the first such misdemeanor, I’m being forgiven and allowed to stay in Moscow. All the same, I felt like a schoolboy called in to the headmaster’s office. What damn business is it of that devil Weinstein what I choose to publish abroad?

Still, there was no point in arguing with him.

I think I can forget about getting an interview with Stalin.

I have to face facts: Nina has disappeared without a trace, and I can’t go on living on memories.

Kitty needs a mother, and I need a wife. But I can’t imagine any other woman playing that part in my life.

For all her excellent qualities, Galina is too much of a cud-chewing herbivore for my liking. A cow may be a helpful animal, but I can’t get excited about it.

Nina, on the other hand, was like a graceful twilight predator with glowing eyes. She would never agree to be anyone’s servant. It wasn’t always easy living with her, but I could never look at her without admiration. Who could take her place?

I can see quite clearly what Galina’s up to. She’s counting on the fact that I’ll get used to all these home comforts. I suppose she thinks one day I’ll just give in and I won’t bother looking elsewhere for a wife. She wants to domesticate me, to put me in a nice warm stable with a straw for bedding and a bunch of hay. Sit and munch and forget about everything!

I would hate myself if I took up with a woman out of mere gratitude.

What the hell? I was actually starting to plan my life without Nina.

The enemy article cost me dearly. Now the censors smile sweetly at me and cut half of everything I write. I have to work almost twice as hard as I used to.

In order to have at least something to write about, I have subscribed to the press cuttings office service. Every day now, a courier brings me a big pile of clippings. Once I’ve looked through some article which has passed the censor, I can insist that it’s an official bulletin and needs to be sent abroad.

But my catch is getting smaller every day. Ever since the routing of the opposition, it’s clear that it is not a good idea to argue about the direction the country should be taking. These days, countless congresses and meetings are held in Moscow, at which the speakers talk for hours without actually saying anything at all. To protect themselves against any accusations of freethinking, they cite the pronouncements of Lenin and Marx and stick to tried-and-true phrases such as “the fight against the recalcitrant core of the petty bourgeoisie” or “steering a course toward a union with the peasantry.” Who can tell what they actually mean? Nobody. Wonderful!

Just to keep afloat, I am forced to shuffle words, people, and events on a regular basis. As for the moral implications of what I am doing, I have stopped even thinking about them. This is the only way I can hope to get a telegram through to the Press Office.

Mass repressions have begun, the main victims being profiteers who are accused by the government of pushing up prices. I come into the censors’ office with a bulletin that reads, “Eighteen Men Shot,” hoping that they’ll at least allow something insipid, such as “Ruthless Purges,” to be sent abroad.

“What’s the point in that?” Weinstein is bound to object. “Who cares about profiteers? We can’t send that out.”

“It’s an official announcement by Izvestia,” I remind him. “Or do you think that Izvestia is giving a distorted picture of the Party line?”

Weinstein acts as if he has not heard what I just said. “We’ve opened up a factory canteen,” he says, shoving a clipping across this desk toward me. “You say you’re a friend of the Soviet Union. Why don’t you write about how we’re helping the working man?”

I also act as if I’m hard of hearing and put my briefcase on his clipping. For a while, we talk about the weather and what’s on in the Moscow theaters. Then I come back to the subject of the profiteers.

“I know you want to write about the factory canteen,” I say, “but I’m afraid my editors aren’t interested in that sort of story.”

“So, what do they want?” asks Weinstein in aggrieved tones.

I sigh heavily. “They just want blood and violence.”

The censor eventually passes the title “Decisive Purges,” puts his stamp on my report, and I run to the telegraph office.

This is how it works these days: “Flour Distribution at Standstill” is changed to “Delays in Dispatch of Bumper Grain Supplies”; “Meat Shortages” to “The Victory of Vegetarianism,” and so on.

Seibert told me that when he found out about how rebellious Cossacks had been exiled to Siberia, he managed to get the news over the border by writing, “State Guarantees Resettlement for Cossack Families.”