The Prince of the Soviets

23. THE SOVIET CASINO

Ever since Klim had left, Galina had felt weak and listless as if all the life had drained out of her. Something very wrong was going on: Klim had sent Kitty off God knows where with God knows who, and Galina had only received a single telegram from Arkhangelsk: “Away on leave. Will call on return.”

She could forget her ideas of a dacha outside Moscow or a trip to the South. And it seemed she had sent her daughter to Leningrad for nothing. Still, Tata was not complaining: she had joined the Young Pioneers and was in seventh heaven.

While “Mr. Prince” was away on his work assignment, Kapitolina had started up an illegal trade in dairy produce, smuggling in butter, cream, and milk from the countryside. Her customers were all close to hand on the ground floor of the building. The League of Time had been evicted, and now, instead of penniless students, respectable members of the organization Proletkult had taken up residence there. Their job was to destroy the old aristocratic and bourgeois culture and create a new, proletarian one. This meant attending art exhibitions and theater performances to ensure that the work on offer reflected the class struggle, collectivism, and solidarity among the laboring masses. The Proletkult employees had plenty of money as the government regarded their work as highly important and funded it lavishly.

Kapitolina was weighing out bags of curd cheese on a spring scale.

“Galina, you’ll never guess what!” she said. “I put a love charm on this man I know, a machine operator. I said a special prayer I learned from a wise woman—it’s called a ‘sticking charm.’”

It turned out that the machine operator had already taken Kapitolina to the cinema twice and once even treated her to sunflower seeds.

“You have to look at a photograph when you say the prayer,” Kapitolina instructed Galina. “My Terentiy is on the Wall of Honor right next to the factory entrance, so I went up to it, waited till I heard the church bell chime, and said,

“And you think it worked?” asked Galina doubtfully.

“I’m certain of it. There was another photograph on the Wall of Honor, an old fellow called Arkadiy Ivanovich, a foreman. And now he’s started giving me the eye. So, it worked on him too.”

When Kapitolina went out, Galina stood for a while in the corridor in a state of indecision. To practice witchcraft was a desperate step, she told herself. But the temptation was too great, and in the end, she went to look for a photograph of Klim.

Kitty had an album in which she kept postcards and photographs. Galina remembered that among them were one or two snapshots of Klim taken for official documents. On opening the album, however, she was thrown into confusion when she discovered a picture of a woman she recognized—the woman who had come to visit Klim and who had gotten a job at Elkin’s store afterward.

Galina stared for some time at the stranger. Where had this photograph come from? Why had Kitty put it in her album?

Galina turned the picture over and was still more amazed to see the name “Nina Kupina” scored out and over it, in Klim’s handwriting, the words “Mrs. Reich.”

So, this was the woman he had tried to find out about. The same woman who had stayed a night with him and seemed to have completely shattered his peace of mind.

Who was she? There was something very familiar about that surname, Reich, but Galina could not remember where she had heard it before.

She took Nina’s photograph as well as Klim’s so that she could cast a spell on both of them. Having resolved on the sinful course of action, she felt she had nothing to lose.

Galina wrapped Nina’s picture in paper, and the next time she went in to the Lubyanka, she asked Ibrahim to put it into the pocket of one of the dead prisoners. This was the best way to get rid of a rival—the main thing was for the dead man to take the picture to the grave with him, or if that wasn’t possible, to the crematorium.

Ibrahim was only too happy to oblige. He often helped to load dead bodies onto the meat wagon, and it was easy for him to carry out Galina’s request.

She thanked him and ran off to see Alov.

“Well, is your employer back yet?” he asked and then began to complain of how he and Dunya were fed up of being cooped up in a corner in the room belonging to Valakhov, the Drachenblut’s assistant.

Back in the civil war days, Valakhov had managed to secure a large room for himself in the former lawyer’s apartment. But he had too many square meters of living space, and during one of the many campaigns against bourgeois values, he had been forced to “consolidate.”

He had registered Alov as a tenant, and then Alov had brought along his young wife. The old friends had fallen out so completely that they could no longer stand the sight of one another. Valakhov had no success with women, and it was galling for him to see Alov, old and ill as he was, enjoying a personal life while he did not.

Galina still felt awkward that she had taken the room on Bolshoi Kiselny Lane.

“Maybe you should ask Drachenblut to put you on the housing list?” she suggested, but Alov pulled a face.

“I’ve asked him a hundred times already.”

He took his amber beads out of his sleeve and began to count them off one by one.

“Drachenblut has ordered us to prepare ourselves for a purge,” Alov said. “After that, there is bound to be some free living space, so we have to redouble our efforts. Do you have any news?”

Galina shrugged. “I met Seibert the other day. He’s just back from Archangelsk, and he asked me to go to the casino with him.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him to get lost. I think he’s angry with Klim about some article he wrote.”

Alov tossed the beads up and caught them. “Pidge, I think you should agree to go out with him.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Galina said, taken aback. “It’s not me he’s after. He just has a score to settle with Klim.”

Alov looked at her sternly. “Don’t go putting on airs! Just do as you’re told. Go with him to casino and listen to what he has to say. Maybe you’ll find out something useful.”

He took a voucher for the OGPU shop from his pocket and handed it to Galina. “Here—take this. You can get Tata some felt boots for the winter. And don’t cry! We all have to serve the Revolution in whatever way we can.”

On the way back out, Galina met Ibrahim again.

“I did what you asked,” he reported. “They just took three of ‘em down to the crematorium.”

Galina thanked him and hurried off. So, now, the deed was done. All that remained was to read out the prayer for the “sticking charm.” But where should she do it? Churches were closing down one after another, and if one stayed open, the priests did their best not to draw attention to it.

Galina skirted the Kremlin and set off along the bank of the Moscow River. The golden dome of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior gleamed far away in the setting sun.

The bells would almost certainly ring there, she thought. After all, it was such a huge cathedral that nobody would ever try to close it, surely.

Galina walked slowly toward the shining dome as if toward her own death. She was ready for hell and endless torment if only Klim would love her!

The chiming of a bell rang out over the river. This was it! Galina took out the piece of paper in which she had wrapped Klim’s photograph, and a moment later, she froze in horror.

In her hand was the photograph of Nina Kupina. She had given Klim’s photograph to Ibrahim by mistake.

Galina met Seibert under the gleaming clock in the square by the Triumphal Arch. It was drizzling, and Seibert held a large umbrella over her head.

“Don’t be embarrassed—take my arm,” he said. “My dear, your perfume is delightful.”

Galina had never worn perfume in her life. The only smell that might have clung to her was that of the boiled cabbage she had made for dinner.

“Have you ever been to a casino?” asked Seibert. “You haven’t? Oh, dear me, this won’t do! You must try everything life has to offer you while you still can. Especially as gambling houses are being closed down one after the other. A relic of bourgeois society, don’t you know!”

They entered an unmarked building, and its once fine lobby was now dilapidated and smelled musty. A worn staircase led up to the floor above, and a dim chandelier with broken strings of crystals hung from the ceiling.

“Comrades, where do you think you’re going in your galoshes?” barked the gray-whiskered doorman. “Off the carpet please!”

Seibert put on a puzzled expression and began to say something in German.

“Foreigners…” the doorman muttered with disgust but made no further comment.

The big hall on the floor above was hung with mirrors and political posters. Men in rumpled double-breasted suits and fashionable pointed brogues crowded around the gaming tables.

“Who are they all?” asked Galina in a whisper. “Are they Nepmen?”

Seibert shook his head. “They’re mainly foreigners, cashiers on the fiddle, and romantics who believe that one day, they’ll get lucky.”

There were few women among the clientele, and to Galina, they looked as if they had not come to play but to hunt for customers for the night.

Goodness, how horrible! she thought. The only sight that cheered her up was a group of old women in threadbare silk dresses and old-fashioned hats. They sat at a separate table, deeply engrossed in playing poker, or rather, in playing at “the good old days.” Seibert explained that the old ladies used the place as a club and did not bring in any money, but the management tolerated them because they had become something of a local attraction.

As she walked between the tables, Galina noticed that all the gamblers were using cards produced by the League of Militant Atheists: all the kings were priests and wonder-workers, the queens were treacherous looking nuns, and the knaves were deacons with drunken leers.

Seibert took Galina to a roulette table surrounded by a crowd of young men, their faces flushed with drink and excitement.

“Hey there, you great white capitalist shark!” they called out when they saw Seibert. “You’ve brought along another lady friend, have you?”

“And you still haven’t been paid, I see?” answered Seibert.

He explained to Galina that the young men worked in a corporation called Radio Broadcast. Once, they had produced wonderful lectures on subjects like “When Will Life on Earth Come to an End?” and “Hypnosis in the World of Crime.” Unfortunately, their work had become so popular that the government had sequestered their business. Now, they no longer produced educational programs but propaganda.

Galina remembered what Klim had told her about theater companies, film studios, and artists’ unions. It was the same thing everywhere: bureaucrats were becoming involved in the work of creative professionals, believing that they knew better how things should be done. Artists and performers were forced to follow the new rules whether they liked it or not, but they did so without enthusiasm. After the initial creative explosion of early Soviet culture, art was deteriorating into nothing better than hack work.

The young men pooled their money to buy a stack of gambling chips.

“That’s how they earn their supper,” said Seibert. “If they win, they eat, but if they don’t, they have to tighten their belts.”

“Comrades, place your bets!” announced the croupier.

Seibert put a pile of gambling chips into Galina’s hand. “You ought to be in for some beginners’ luck. Come on. Put it on whatever number you like.”

Hesitantly, Galina placed a chip on square number eight.

“Merci—no more bets,” announced the croupier.

Galina had always thought of herself as unlucky, and she was proved correct now—she did not win so much as a kopeck in half an hour. All she wanted was to go home, but Seibert, however, clearly had plans for a romantic evening.

“Let’s go wild and have some drink,” he told her.

What a vile man you are! she thought. After all, Klim is your friend, and you know that there’s something between us. Why do you have to stoop to such petty acts of treachery?

Still, she followed Seibert into the bar room. There, behind an enormous carved counter, was a bored waitress in a starched apron and a lace headpiece pinned to her hair. Behind her stood an array of dusty bottles, and in front of her on the bar, cheese, salami, and cakes languished untouched. Everything, including the soda water, was on sale at extortionate prices.

“A table please, my dear,” Seibert told the waitress.

Stern male faces stared down at Galina from all the political posters on the walls.

It seemed to Galina that everybody was demanding something from her.

Seibert poured out two glasses of vodka. “Today, we’ll drink to you and to you alone!” he announced and chinked glasses with a resounding chime.

Galina was only too happy to have a drink.

“I’ve had my eye on you for some time,” said Seibert with a sigh. “And I have to say, I feel terribly sorry for you. You’re prepared to sacrifice everything for Klim’s sake. You’ll give him your youth, your time, and your hopes, and what are you hoping to get from him in return?”

“I don’t need anything,” replied Galina quietly.

“Oh, that’s not true! You want to change your boss. I can tell that. But I’ll tell you something else: you won’t do it because you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Galina looked up at him with a sullen gaze. “What do you mean?”

But before Seibert had managed to reply, the young men from Radio Broadcast, flushed with success, came piling into the bar.

“Waitress!” they shouted, excitedly. “Six ham sandwiches—and cut them thick!”

“And two bottles of port!”

“And some sardines! And cheese! Let’s have some for Seibert and his lady friend too! Let’s push the boat out!”

The young men had clearly had a lucky streak at the tables.

At that moment, a woman came running into the bar, her red headscarf knocked awry.

“We’ve just had a telegram!” she said, panting. “The Krasin icebreaker has been damaged and is going to be repaired in Norway. They’ve sent two steamers out from Murmansk to come to its aid. We need to prepare a special edition!”

The young men immediately forgot their sardines.

“Marusya, bring the food, could you?” shouted one of them as they dashed for the door.

Seibert gazed after them, eyes wide. “Please, Galina, for God’s sake, come with me to the Central Telegraph Office!” he said hoarsely. “I have to ring Murmansk and find out what’s going on with the Krasin.”

“Go yourself,” muttered Galina. “You can make a call. Why do you need me?”

“But I have a German accent! As soon as the telegraph operator realizes I’m a foreigner, she’ll ask if I have permission. You can say you’re ringing about something personal.”

Galina rose to her feet and found that she could barely stand upright. The drink had already gone to her head.

“I really ought to go home—” she began.

“I’ll pay you!” cried Seibert. “How much do you want? Five rubles? Ten?”

It was pathetic to look at him, his forehead puckered and his lower lip trembling.

Galina gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “All right, damn you. I’ll come with you.”

Despite the late hour, the Central Telegraph Office was full of people. Galina found a number for the port of Murmansk in the directory and booked a long distance call.

Seibert, frustrated by the wait, kept looking at his watch.

“Radio Broadcast has probably already produced its special edition,” he said. “Never mind. It’s too late now, and nobody will listen to it anyway. We still have time to find out the details and send a wire to my editors.”

At last, they were called to the telephone booth. “Murmansk on the line for you!”

It was so cramped inside the cabin that Galina and Seibert barely managed to squeeze in together.

“Well, go on then!” begged Seibert.

Galina put the cold receiver to her ear. “Hello. Is that Murmansk port?”

A faint voice could just be heard through the crackle and hiss on the line. “Yes! This is the duty operator. Who’s calling?”

“We’re calling from Moscow,” Galina said, “from the Central Telegraph Office. I am the secretary of Comrade Seibert. There are two ships—”

“Could you say that again, please? I can’t hear you!”

“From the Moscow Central Telegraph Office!” Galina shouted. “I’m the secretary! Have you sent two ships to Norway?”

“What?”

The duty operator was astounded when at last he grasped that the call was from Moscow. He clearly had no idea that it was possible to make a telephone call between cities.

With great difficulty, Galina managed to explain that she wanted to find out the details about the damage to the Krasin icebreaker.

“Well, what did he say?” prompted Seibert as soon as she hung up.

“He told me to call later. He’ll find the commandant and get him to speak to us.”

It was after midnight, and Galina wished she had never agreed to help Seibert. Now, he was looking into her eyes, for all the world like a wistful puppy.

“Galina, my dear, couldn’t you stay here a little longer? Please?”

They sat in the waiting room for another hour before they were called into the booth again.

“So, what’s going on?” Seibert kept asking impatiently.

Galina held the receiver to her ear with her shoulder and took a notebook and pencil from Seibert.

“Hello, Moscow!” shouted the distant voice. “Murmansk has received your message. All hands are on full alert!”

Seibert could tell from Galina’s horrified face that something quite unexpected had happened. She threw down the receiver and left the booth without a word.

“Wait!” wailed Seibert. “What did he say?”

But Galina was not listening; she was already heading for the door.

It was dead of night, and the streets were deserted with only the odd horse-driven cab rattling past once in a while.

Seibert clutched at Galina’s sleeve. “Could you please just tell me what happened?”

“It was a bad line,” she told him. “They misheard me in Murmansk. They thought I had told them that ships were on their way from Norway. They thought the call from Moscow was to warn them of an attack. The whole town is on alert.”

Seibert’s jaw dropped. “Still,” he began slowly, “I think we might be all right. After all, they probably didn’t hear my name.”

“Your name is on the check,” said Galina. “You paid for the telephone call.”

“But they heard a woman’s voice!”

Seibert took a large handkerchief from his pocket, took off his hat, and mopped his bald head.

“Galina…”

“What?”

“Let’s go back to my place. Lieschen isn’t at home. She’s gone to see her parents, and we can—”

Galina gave a stiff little laugh. “You don’t even care to find out whether I like you or whether I have other plans.”

Seibert hesitated a moment. “Nobody ever asked you about that sort of thing. Even your oh-so-wonderful Klim Rogov.”

“Unlike some, he’s not a womanizer or a liar,” retorted Galina.

“He lies to you far more than I do,” said Seibert. “If you actually listened and thought carefully about what he says, you’d realize that he’s no American and has never been to New York in his life.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Just try asking him what side of the road they drive on in the States—he’ll tell you they drive on the left. He calls the New York subway “the underground” like in London, and he can’t name two stations if you ask him.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing!”

“Is that so? Then ask him what were the most popular songs when he lived over there or who were the most famous actresses in the city or who stood for election as governor or president. Go and ask him about all the little things that a person would only know if he’d actually lived in New York. Ask him what Ellis Island is! He has no idea that it’s a gateway for immigrants coming to New York.”

“Do you think he has a fake passport?” Galina asked, trembling inside.

“Of course he does.”

“Go to hell!” Galina shouted and went running off.

Her head was spinning. The curse she had put on Klim had already started to take effect.

Could he be a spy? But who was he working for? What was he trying to find out? And why had he made such a poor job of disguising his identity?

Galina collapsed feebly onto some steps and hid her face in her hands. I don’t care why you came to the Soviet Union, she thought. I still love you.

That dirty scoundrel, Seibert! He hadn’t been trying to lure Galina away from Klim; instead, he had hoped that she would report what he said to her boss at the OGPU. Klim was beginning to be seen as the top foreign expert on Soviet Russia, and Seibert wanted to get him out of the way.

Galina clenched her fists. “He’ll be sorry he ever got me involved in his little schemes!” she said to herself.

In the morning, she came in to the Lubyanka and wrote a report in which she stated that Seibert had put together a network of agents that included the employees of the Radio Broadcast company. They had arranged an act of military sabotage at Murmansk with the aim of creating instability and wasting government resources.

Alov was over the moon and told Galina that she could expect a bonus.

Galina was doing the washing. It was high time she boiled the bed linen, which was already gray. The tenants used a primus stove for cooking, but to heat up water in the tub that was big enough to hold sheets, she had to use the range, which used up a stack of coal at a time.

The frugal Mitrofanych had asked to heat up a small panful of soup on the range and offered Galina the use of his washing line in the bathroom in return—as it was his day to dry laundry there.

He took out a loaf wrapped in a cloth and carefully cut off two pieces. Galina thought he was going to treat her to a slice, but after thinking a while, he sighed deeply and put both pieces in his pocket.

“Who’d have thought we’d live to see times like these,” he said ruefully. “There was a riot at the labor exchange today—and all because of the Jews.”

He began to sing a popular song, which Galina had heard several times before from beggars on the street:

“What have the Jews got to do with it?” snapped Galina, annoyed. “The police are rounding up seasonal workers and sending them out of Moscow by the trainload. That’s why they’re rioting.”

“A likely story!” Mitrofanych snorted. “And who put them up to it? I’d like to know. A true Russian never riots—not for anything.”

He tested the soup and took his pan from the range.

“Make sure you don’t leave any hairs in the tub. Last time, your Tata didn’t clear up after herself. It’s irresponsible—that’s what it is.”

Galina looked him up and down gloomily.

I wish I was at home with Klim, she thought for the hundredth time.

But Klim had gone somewhere far away, and without him, the apartment in Chistye Prudy felt like an abandoned nest.

The more Galina thought about what Seibert had told her, the more convinced she became that he was telling the truth. Klim definitely had some secret life of his own. It was the only explanation for his sudden disappearances, for all the things he left unsaid, and for the strange connection with Mrs. Reich.

Galina felt dizzy just thinking about it. She went over everything she knew about Klim. Most of all, she was bothered by what he had once said about his “native town of Nizhny Novgorod.” There was something odd there!

Galina rinsed out the sheets, hung up the washing, and, quite worn out, went to her room.

Mitrofanych’s door was open. He had already finished his soup and was now deeply engrossed in the paper.

“This is quite a puzzle I’ve got here,” he said when he saw Galina. “‘Using just four cuts of the scissors, divide the picture into eight pieces, which, when put together, will make up a picture of the greatest enemy of the working people.’ How should I cut it, I wonder.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” asked Galina plaintively.

Mitrofanych took out a packet of Kazbek cigarettes and, choosing the most crumpled, held it out to Galina.

“I thought you’d given up smoking,” he said.

“I wish I could.”

Galina went out onto the landing and stood for some time, drawing in the pungent smoke. All her resolutions were pointless now.

Mitrofanych came out on the landing too.

“Are you lonely?” he asked. “If you like, you can come in to my room, and we can do puzzles together. I was really stumped by one the other day. You had to put the ink blots together to make the silhouette of a Red Army soldier with a gun. But no matter what I did, I got either a toad or a teapot.”

Galina looked at his worn slippers, moth-eaten jacket, and pants, which had gone baggy at the knees.

“Do you still work in the archive office?” she asked. “Would it be possible for you to arrange a search for me? I need to find something in the Nizhny Novgorod archive.”

Mitrofanych puffed out his chest. “What exactly do you need?”

“I need information about a certain Klim Rogov. His birthday is July 4, 1889. If you can find out anything about him, I’ll give you a voucher for felt boots.”

Mitrofanych’s face brightened at the suggestion. “That’s very kind of you. My shoes are falling to pieces. Maybe I can do something else for you?”

Galina thought for a moment. “Yes, you could ask them to look for any mention of Rogov in the St. George Church archive in Nizhny Novgorod.”

Back in her room, Galina collapsed onto her bed. She did not know what was worse: to live in ignorance or to find out the truth.

“Whatever will be, will be,” she told herself.

She did not dare say a prayer. After her witchcraft, false accusations, and treachery, she felt that any prayers she said would only be heard by the devil himself.