The Prince of the Soviets

18. SOVIET PRIESTS

Galina spent a week repairing everything that Tata had destroyed but could do nothing about the net curtains her daughter had ripped clean out of Klim’s wall. It was impossible to get ahold of curtain rods in Moscow.

Meanwhile, Klim kept his word: Kitty was no longer allowed to play with Tata.

“You have to understand,” he said to Galina, “that my daughter will be going to a European school. She’ll already face problems because of her appearance. If she starts a campaign against ‘bourgeois values,’ they’ll single her out immediately.”

These were painful words for Galina to hear. Clearly, it had never crossed Klim’s mind to adopt Tata and help her get a place in a good school.

In a fit of desperation, Galina told Tata what her actions had cost them. “Now he’ll never take us with him to Europe,” she lamented.

“Why on earth would he take us to Europe?” asked Tata in alarm.

Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Have you lost your mind?” she yelled at her mother. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with him of all people! It was all thanks to him I didn’t finish the poster. Now the Young Pioneers won’t have me in their organization.”

Tata is just a little version of her father, Galina thought. With all those phony values and her hysterical hatred of anything she did not understand, Tata had no wish to know what lay beyond her own familiar world.

What could Galina do about her daughter? She racked her brain and at last came up with an idea.

“How would you like to go to the special school for artists in Leningrad?” Galina suggested. “It’s a boarding school; children with a talent for drawing come from all over the Soviet Union to study there. And once you complete your final project, you can go straight to the Higher Art and Technical Institute.”

To her amazement, Tata liked the idea. Now, whenever Galina thought about the future, her heart began to beat faster. If she could get Tata settled in some line of work, nothing would stand in the way of her own personal happiness.

I know I’m a bad mother, she thought without any particular regret. But what else can I do for Tata?

Klim was due a short period of leave from work, and Galina was already dreaming of how they would rent a dacha outside Moscow and live there together, far away from work, politics, and wayward children.

She was hoping that by that time, Klim might recover slightly from the loss of his wife. Things were starting to look up for him. Weinstein had indicated that he was prepared to bury the hatchet, Elkin had given Klim his car without demanding payment upfront, and the finance department in London had already agreed to fund this purchase later in the summer.

Things were starting to happen in the Soviet Union that could make front-page news in the world’s newspapers, and the trial of the Shakhty saboteurs might bring Klim fame and money. The case would involve forty-two public prosecutors, fifteen defense lawyers, and fifty defendants, and the trial was to take place in the legendary Pillar Hall of the House of the Unions, formerly the Assembly of the Nobility, which was the setting for the balls in War and Peace.

Long before the proceedings were due to start, the Soviet press had begun to prepare the public for the trial. There was talk in the papers about the catastrophic situation in the coal industry and of how “bourgeois experts” had played a role in its collapse. The government had decided to keep even illiterate Soviet citizens informed about the trial by broadcasting radio reports through loudspeakers put up on the streets of Moscow.

The Bolsheviks were preparing the trial of the century, and Klim ought to have been pleased to have such an opportunity fall into his hands, but he seemed discontented.

Galina tried probing him gently. “What’s the matter?”

In answer, Klim handed her a paper dated April 14, 1928, with a transcript of a speech by Stalin.

“They’ve already made up their minds before the trial,” said Klim. “Nobody has any doubt that the defendants are guilty.”

“You mean to say you don’t think they’re guilty?” Galina stared at him, amazed.

“I’d just like to know…”

But Klim did not finish what he had begun to say. No matter what Galina did, Klim still saw her as a potential informer, and when he was with her, he was careful what he said. Galina suspected that this was why he seemed unable to love her.

But if she resigned her position at the OGPU, Klim would have had to find a new assistant. Galina was stuck in a vicious circle. She could not leave the OGPU until Klim married her, but he would never marry her because of the nature of her work.

To get Tata a place in the art school, Galina needed a recommendation from her employers. She set off to OGPU headquarters straight away, but nobody could tell her who was responsible for what.

The Lubyanka was in a state of confusion. An order had come from the Kremlin bosses stating that a purge was imminent and employees showing insufficient zeal in the fight against counter-revolution were to be flushed out.

Something similar was taking place across all the organizations in the country. Every sector of the economy was failing, and directors, rather than waiting for a Shakhty Trail of their own, were taking things into their own hands. If they too were not achieving, it must mean there was sabotage in the workplace.

The purge at the OGPU had not yet been scheduled, but Galina’s friends from the administrative department were making haste to throw out all the fashion journals they had confiscated from Nepmen and to hide anything that might reveal a hankering for a bourgeois lifestyle. No longer could they collect pictures of foreign movie stars, bring knitting to work, or discuss how to do a permanent wave at home. Now, everyone was coming into work looking brisk and business-like and talking of nothing but the enemies of the state and support for the Party line.

Eteri Bagratovna, the secretary, whispered to Galina that Drachenblut had been receiving piles of anonymous denunciations every day. Alarmed at the prospect of dismissal, OGPU workers were starting to rat on any colleagues who might potentially cause problems for them during the purge. The personal files on staff members were growing fatter by the day. Everybody had some offence to their name. One had stolen rulers from work, another had arranged an unnecessary business trip for himself, and yet another had been heard to say something in favor of the opposition.

Galina went to see Alov in his office. She found him sitting on a windowsill and painting a lightbulb with nail varnish, the room full of the suffocating smell of solvent.

Alov looked at Galina with irritation. “What are you staring at? I’m marking the lightbulbs for our corridor. Somebody keeps unscrewing them and replacing them with burned-out ones. The supply manager is threatening to report us.”

Galina squinted at the cluster of lightbulbs on the table, bearing the bloodred inscription, “Stolen from the OGPU.”

“Where did you get the nail varnish?”

“Diana Mikhailovna gave it to me. ‘Their Royal Highnesses’ called a meeting and passed a resolution: they have decided not to paint their nails from now on. So, how about you? Any news?”

Galina told Alov that the building that had once housed the Moscow Savannah was now occupied by the League of Time. Its members were underfed, overworked students dedicated to the “scientific organization of labor,” including their own. Everywhere they went, they carried little notebooks in which they wrote down exactly what they did.

“Has Rogov mentioned Kupina again?” Alov interrupted.

Galina shook her head. “No, not once.”

“That’s a shame. You need to uncover a plot, Pidge, or you’ll have nothing to show for yourself when they start the purge. Keep a closer eye on those foreigners of yours, all right?”

Galina felt alarmed. Was Alov going to force her to make up some story about Klim? That was all she needed.

Alov studied her closely. “Why the long face? Has Mr. Rogov hurt your feelings?”

“No, of course not!” Galina quickly changed the subject. “I wanted to speak to you about Tata. She wants to try to get into the art school in Leningrad, but since it’s a boarding school, she needs a document from our employment committee. Can you help?”

Galina showed Alov one of Tata’s drawings.

“Wow!” His eyes became round in surprise. “I wonder which side of the family she got that from? Of course, I’ll have a word with the employment committee. But won’t the two of you be lonely without each other?”

“Of course we will,” Galina said, “but after all, she’s my child. I’d do anything for her.”

Alov put a hand on her shoulder, and Galina flinched. Surely he wasn’t about to try anything now? Oh, please, anything but that!

“I hope you won’t take it too hard…” Alov hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly. “But you and I can no longer be on intimate terms. Don’t get me wrong. I’m fond of you, but I’m far too busy these days. And with this purge, anything could be used against us. It would be stupid to be dismissed from our job on account of low moral standards, wouldn’t it?”

Galina almost wept from relief. “Don’t worry,” she told Alov in a shaking voice. “I understand perfectly.”

Seeing tears in Galina’s eyes, he was touched. “You and I are building a new life, Pidge. We can’t carry on the way we used to.”

Galina came out of the office feeling elated. Thank goodness, he was finally going to leave her alone! And if everything worked out with the plan for Tata, it would be wonderful.

The inner courtyard was flooded with spring sunlight, and the first blooms of coltsfoot were dotted about below the fence like yellow buttons.

“Hello!” Ibrahim waved to her as she crossed the yard.

This time, not one, but three Black Marias stood next to the OGPU holding cells. The door of one of them was heavily smeared with blood.

“Beautiful weather we’re having!” Ibrahim shouted out happily. “We’ll be down at the river soon, swimming and sunbathing!”

He screwed a canvas hose to a faucet in the yard and began to wash down the car.

Galina walked hurriedly past. There was no point thinking about Black Marias or about who had been taken away in them the night before. Anyway, more likely than not it had been profiteers anyway. None of that had anything to do with her or with Klim.

I think Weinstein must have been some sort of priest in a former life, and a high priest at that. He has taken my conversion to the communist faith very seriously, and the two of us have been talking at length on “theological” subjects.

I don’t dare try to dodge these conversations. It’s very important for me to be seen as a “friendly journalist” again because they will be given access to special materials during the Shahkty Trial.

Weinstein claims that he was a romantic in his youth and regarded both censorship and lies in the press as an unmitigated evil. But his views have changed with time.

“You have to get your priorities right,” he informed me with a condescending chuckle. “I ask you, what’s more important: achieving the result you want or fighting for one’s principles for the sake of it? The Soviet Union has to drag a hundred and fifty million people out of the middle ages and into the modern era. The Russian people are uneducated, and all your “basic human rights” mean nothing to them. We need to speak to Russians in a language the people understand.”

“And what language might that be?” I asked.

“Proverbs, sayings, spells, and curses. We need to unite people behind a common cause and get them to work for nothing. Not because we’re tightfisted but because the state has no money, and it won’t have any until we’ve built up our own industry.”

As Weinstein sees it, the purges that are taking place all over the country are a ritual cleansing before the great feat of industrialization. It’s like the way warriors prepared for battle in the old days: first, they would fast, pray, and repent, and then they would charge at the enemy with their spears, confident that God was on their side. And often, they would be victorious. Spiritual strength is a great weapon.

“What if we were to get rid of all censorship and the papers were to print the truth?” Weinstein asked me with a crafty smile into his beard. “What do you think would happen then?”

I had to admit that that would result in widespread discontent.

“And how will your truth help us to solve the problem of industrialization?” Weinstein continued. “Do you really want to plunge the country into bloodshed and chaos again? No, my dear Mr. Rogov, we must choose another path.”

However, this “other path” is hardly a shining example of humanity. The Soviet papers bristle with demands to “destroy the parasites,” “crush the vermin,” “tear the stings from their tails,” and so on. The enemies (or rather those the Bolsheviks have declared enemies) are stripped of all human features. There is no need to feel sorry for these “subhumans” as they are “spawn,” “scum,” and “dross” that has no place in the Soviet Union. Actually, nobody feels sorry for them.

Owen often sends me to cover Party meetings that are effectively purges. At these meetings, a strange mass phenomenon can be observed: people repenting of crimes they could not possibly have committed.

Weinstein is probably right. Everyday magic and superstition is at work here. Many people believe that moral “purity” enables you to escape misfortune: by repenting and being cleansed of evil, you will be saved. It doesn’t matter what the truth is—it’s all about a relationship with mysterious higher powers, which can be appeased only with ritual and magic words.

I believe all of this is happening because people are utterly lost. They have no reliable information. Every decision about the future of the country is being taken in secret, way up in the corridors of power, and all you can do is pray that divine judgment will not suddenly descend like a bolt of lightning to strike you or your loved ones.

In some ways, I agree with Weinstein. The truth can be a force for destruction, but still, you can’t stop people from wanting to know what’s going on. If they have no way of reaching the truth, they begin to make up fairytales, and that won’t solve anything.

I tried to explain to Weinstein that the latter is more dangerous, but he merely shook his head reproachfully.

“Imagine,” he said, “we’re traveling in a high-speed train, trying to catch up with the advanced capitalist nations. We don’t have time to stop; our task is to get the state machine running smoothly, helping the engine to convert fuel and turn the wheels without any hitches.”

“When you say fuel, I take it you mean people?” I asked.

But Weinstein wasn’t bothered by such concerns. “You foreign journalists can either help us take this great leap into the future or try to throw a spanner in the works. Of course, your spanners won’t stop us anyway. But think about it: how does it serve your interests to have our nation simply sitting and vegetating on the margins of Europe? Do you really bear us such ill will?”

“No, we don’t,” I answered, and Weinstein beamed.

“That’s wonderful! Then there’s no need to keep drawing attention to our shortcomings. All we ask of the West is that you help your readers like us. If you sow derision and hatred, it will lead to another war. Surely you don’t want that?”

If I ever meet Comrade Stalin, I will definitely hint that Weinstein should be appointed patriarch of the new Bolshevik Church of the Sacred Spirit of the Proletariat. He would make a very good priest.

Everybody is waiting for the beginning of the Shakhty Trial. Much remains unclear. Why is such an enormous fuss being made of this affair, and why are preparations being made for it on the scale of those made for the Olympic Games in Amsterdam? What’s the meaning of it all? Is it a scare tactic or criminal justice in action?

I receive a stream of instructions and orders from London. My professional future hangs in the balance, and I spend all my time running about Moscow trying to find answers to my editors’ questions.

Everything I do, I do for Kitty’s sake, but because I am so busy, I give her hardly any attention. She is desperately bored and lonely without me, particularly since I have forbidden her to play with Tata. But there is nobody to help me. Galina is traveling to and fro all the time, and whenever she puts in an appearance at our house, she is dropping from exhaustion.

Kapitolina is no use at all. She is frantic with worry about her relatives in the village. Terrible things are going on there: armed brigades of activists are coming out from the cities to search for hidden stores of grain and force the peasants to sell it to them at state procurement prices, which are too low to allow them to afford anything with their earnings. Sometimes, peasants have even been paid with government state bonds or receipts, that is to say, they have been robbed, purely and simply.

Several times, I have arrived home to find Kitty under the bed. She hides there and puts my gloves on her shoulders. “I’m pretending you’re giving me a hug.”

This makes me feel like a criminal, so I try to get ahold of treats for her—chocolates, toys, and books, but of course, none of it helps.

Every morning, I explain to Kitty that I have important business and I need to go to work. But what business could be more important than my own child feeling abandoned right now? Every day, Kitty is learning a lesson that her own feelings are unimportant and that it is wrong to ask for love and attention. Whether I like it or not, I am training her to expect pain and loneliness in life.

Kitty needs a mother, but I have cut off all ties with Nina because its simpler for me. At the merest mention of her name, I am thrown into a protracted gloom. I have to admit I was even pleased when Elkin was thrown out of his store.

But my former wife still haunts me. Recently, Kitty discovered her photograph in my diary and announced that she wanted to see her mother.

“Haven’t you found her yet?” she asked me.

“We don’t have a mother anymore,” I replied, only to regret my words a moment later.

Kitty went into such hysterics that she made herself ill. “You’ve taken away everything I ever had!” she wailed. “You don’t love me! Where’s Mommy?”

She struggled in my arms like a captive animal. “Let me go! I hate you!”

She has been sick now for several days. She has come out in a rash, her face is swollen, and she has pains in her stomach.

The doctor from the German Embassy came out to have a look at her and shrugged. “It seems the Moscow climate is bad for your little girl. You need to take her to the seaside and get her some sunshine.”

But I can’t drop everything and go south. Who would grant me any leave from work now? As for resigning, it’s out of the question. I haven’t any savings, and if I quit my job, I lose my visa. And where could Kitty and I go then?

Nina was right when she said I would regret our quarrel. If we had parted on good terms, she could have helped me with Kitty. True, it would have meant mastering my feelings every day, but at least our daughter wouldn’t be suffering now on account of my hurt pride.

I turned Nina’s photograph over in my hands. On the back, Magda had written “Nina Kupina, November 1927.” I crossed out the name of my ex-wife and wrote above it, “Mrs. Reich.”

I still find it impossible to believe that this is the truth.