The Prince of the Soviets

36. THE GREAT PURGE

The purge was to be carried out in the so-called “Red Corner,” the OGPU employees’ reading room. A table had been brought in for the chairman, and chairs were gathered from all over the building.

There were so many people packed into the room that the atmosphere was stifling. Alov found himself a place in the far corner just behind Diana Mikhailovna. His nerves had brought on fits of coughing again. He tried to restrain himself as long as possible, his face turning crimson, before finally giving in and hacking into his fist.

Ivanov, an elderly, disheveled man with a goatee, addressed the assembled employees. It was time, he announced, that the OGPU rid itself of ideological backsliders who were sabotaging the efforts of the government to build a new world.

Alov stared blankly ahead of him at the ornamental comb in Diana Mikhailovna’s hair, dreaming about the precious tablet, now out of reach, that would have stopped his coughing.

“Now, comrades, to business,” said Babloyan, consulting his list of employees. “First, we have Valakhov.”

Valakhov stood up, flushed with embarrassment, and began to give an account of his career. His greatest achievement so far had been the time he had discovered a wounded officer of the White Army hiding out in his neighbors’ shed and reported it to the Reds. The filthy White had been shot, together with those who had sheltered him, and Valakhov had been recommended for the district division of the secret police. Soon, he had been transferred to Moscow and had come to Drachenblut’s notice. And that was it.

“Any questions?” Babloyan asked the assembled officers. Everybody had fallen silent.

Ivanov studied Valakhov’s files for some time.

“It says here that you are a member of a three-man stewardship team for the Communist University for Chinese Workers. What stewardship duties do you undertake in connection with this position?”

Valakhov looked around at his colleagues nervously. “Well, I do different things. Ideological work, that is.”

There were sniggers from the audience. Valakhov had recently bragged about his visits to female students dormitory and how he had forced his way into the women’s changing rooms when he was drunk.

As it turned out, Valakhov did not have the faintest idea of basic political science or political economy and was completely ignorant about international events.

“It’s a disgrace!” Ivanov addressed the audience. “Just look at the level of political awareness among your fellow employees!”

Valakhov put his hand to his heart. “But I’m on duty for days on end. I don’t have time to mess about with books!”

“I think Comrade Valakhov is the kind of man we need,” said Babloyan in a conciliatory tone. “Not so long ago, he couldn’t read or write, and now, he is being entrusted to carry out serious work. He has definitely made progress. We shall have to hope that in the future, he’ll become better acquainted with the theoretical side of his work.”

It was decided by two votes to one (Babloyan and Drachenblut against Ivanov) to allow Valakhov to keep his Party membership card.

There were sighs of relief all around.

However, things did not go so smoothly for everyone. One female officer, who was about to go to Paris for a clandestine mission, was expelled from the Party because her father had been a member of the clergy. Diana Mikhailovna, on the other hand, was allowed to keep her membership, even though her father had been a senior civil servant in the Tsarist administration.

At first, nobody wanted to put any questions to their colleagues; they were afraid it would put them in the firing line when it was their turn to be interrogated. But as time went on, employees who had escaped the purge began to point the finger at each other, reminding of illegally acquired trips abroad or the use of office telephones for private conversations and flirtations.

Eteri Bagratovna informed on an employee from the finance office who had posted a notice advertising foreign shoes for sale. “She’s a profiteer!”

It turned out that none of the assembled employees were able to explain the difference between a Trotskyite and a loyal Party member. All these people who had been so zealously engaged in fighting counter-revolutionary activity had no idea what it actually involved.

Ivanov clutched the remnants of his gray hair. “And this is the Foreign Department, the pride of the OGPU!”

With each new case, it became clearer exactly what sort of people worked for the secret police: opportunists looking for easy money and ordinary bureaucrats—petty, ignorant, and vindictive.

They had taken up residence in the citadel of the Lubyanka like hyenas in caves. They went out to hunt because they needed to eat, and they hung on to their positions because everyone was afraid of the OGPU and because they themselves feared nothing and no one except the hyenas in the lair next door.

Alov had not raised his hand nor asked any questions. It was quite obvious the views of the employees had no effect on the decisions of the commission. Drachenblut and Babloyan had already decided in advance who would be “drowned” and who would be “saved” and settled all questions with a vote of two to one.

The meeting had been going on for three hours.

“Oh, why don’t they hurry up!” whispered Diana Mikhailovna barely audibly. “Now all the stores are about to shut, and I’ve got no food in the house.”

Alov tried to get away to go to the bathroom, wanting to check up on Rogov at the same time, but he was not allowed to leave.

“You should have thought about going to the bathroom earlier,” muttered Ivanov.

Only Eteri Bagratovna, was allowed to leave the room once in a while to bring in a fresh carafe of water or replace a broken pencil.

Once, on her return, she walked up to the chairman’s table and said something to the members of the commission. Drachenblut and Babloyan glanced at one another.

“Well, then,” said Ivanov in an ominous tone, looking around at the silent officers. “Let’s have a look at Alov’s work record.”

Babloyan picked up Alov’s files and began to shower him with questions that had nothing to do with Marxism and was all about Dunya and the theater group.

Alov, stifled by his cough, was unable to defend himself.

“I fear our friend Alov has absolutely lost his consciousness of class war,” pronounced Babloyan. “Where does he get this haughty attitude toward the efforts of the proletarian youth?”

Ivanov nodded in agreement. “His actions fail absolutely to answer the demands of our ideology.”

Drachenblut listened patiently as they talked gibberish about imperial chauvinism and poor moral character.

“Which of you supports the opinion that Alov has cut himself off from the masses?” Drachenblut asked.

Those officers who had not yet been questioned immediately realized that Alov was a clear candidate for dismissal. His name could take up one of the spaces on the quota for expulsion, and they all began to attack Alov.

Even Zharkov joined in. “For some time, Alov has been a man without a societal face.”

Not a single specific accusation was made against Alov. Everybody merely called him names that signaled something bad. What could he say in return? “It’s not true! I do have a societal face!”?

Alov stared dully at Drachenblut. Help me! he implored silently. But Drachenblut was looking the other way.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “Alov has not been able to win foreign journalists over to our side. As a result, he has been making enemies of potential friends of the USSR. I am of the opinion that Alov does not deserve to be a member of the Communist Party. Let’s put it to a vote.”

The decision was passed unanimously.

The meeting was over, and the officers took chairs and went back to their offices—some content, and others in a state of near desperation.

Alov caught up with his boss as Drachenblut was leaving the room. “Babloyan attacked me because of my wife. He’s a womanizer—everybody knows it. He spreads it around that he’s impotent, but you’ve seen for himself what he does and—”

“That has nothing to do with me,” Drachenblut cut him short and tried to push past.

Alov stood in his way. “Let me finish the job I have in hand! I have Rogov in a cell right now. Galina Dorina is working on him now, and by evening, we’ll have a witness statement.”

“Forget about your Galina,” Drachenblut said. “She’s been shot. It happened just now. She went berserk and killed that woman—what’s she called?—the Mincing Machine.”

Alov felt the room swim before his eyes. “What?”

“Go home and take care of that cough,” Drachenblut told him. “And hand in your pass at reception. As from today, you’re dismissed.”

Klim was shaken awake just before dawn. “Rogov? Get your things and come out.”

“Get your things” either meant a transfer to another prison or execution, but Klim felt nothing but dull apathy and emptiness. There was a heavy feeling in his heart too—was he about to have a heart attack? How absurd that would be….

The other prisoners watched in silence as Klim pulled on his dinner jacket onto his bare body.

“God rest your soul,” muttered Billiard, turning over onto his other side.

“So long,” mouthed Ahmed silently.

Klim went out into the corridor.

“Straight ahead. Right. Down the stairs,” the guard gave out curt commands in between yawns.

Klim was led into a room on the ground floor where a duty officer sat behind a counter. The officer passed him a form certifying his release from prison. “Sign this please!”

Klim couldn’t understand what was going on. Was it some sort of trick? Some plot thought up by the OGPU?

With rigid fingers, he took the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote his signature.

The duty officer piled up all the confiscated things on the counter: braces, keys, and so on.

“Our apologies,” he said. “You were arrested by mistake.”

Klim glanced at his wallet. Not even the money had been touched.

He was taken outside the gates and left.

While Klim had been under arrest, snow had fallen, and Moscow had been transformed. He too now bore little resemblance to the old Klim Rogov. He was still not fully aware of all the changes that had taken place in him, but there was definitely something wrong. The pain in his chest was still there, and he kept hearing a ringing in his ears like the chiming of distant bells.

Klim had always been cautious about any signs of illness, but now, he felt no anxiety neither did he have any wish to run to a doctor and find out what had happened to him. He just set off home.

On Krivokolenny Lane, Klim saw a small crowd reading a notice that had been posted on the gates. On it was a list of those who had been deprived of their electoral rights and were to be evicted immediately.

A young man in a coat too short for him was stabbing at the blacklist with his mitten, protesting indignantly that he was a useful member of society. “I’m not a lishenets! I’m studying to be a draftsman. I can show you my student card!”

The crowd said nothing. Only the steam of their breath rose up into the air above their heads.

There were other lists on other doorways. Clearly, the Kremlin had taken the decision to expel all potentially dangerous citizens from Moscow. They were carrying out a general purge of society.

Klim had to make a plan of action quickly. If the Party had already begun a wide-scale assault on counter-revolutionaries, the fact that Klim had been set free had been merely a happy accident—a bureaucratic error which had not been noticed in time.

Klim rubbed his cheeks, trying to concentrate. They’ll probably try to arrest me in another few hours, he thought. First, I have to find out what’s happened to Kitty, and then we can work out what to do next.

“Sir!” cried Afrikan when he saw Klim coming in at the gate. “You’ve come back!”

“Where’s Kitty?” asked Klim urgently.

Afrikan looked at his feet. “Magda took her away. She sent Kapitolina back to the village immediately and gave me a ruble to drink to the October Revolution.”

Klim felt his heart thaw a little at this news. What angels some women were!

“They sealed your apartment straight away,” Afrikan informed Klim as he followed him up to the upper floor. “But today, some others came—in uniform—went in and stayed in there a long time. Then they cut the seal off the door as if nothing had happened.”

Klim opened the door to his apartment. It was obvious a search had taken place. The skirting boards had been torn away and sections of the parquet floor wrenched up, and then everything had been fastened back any which way. The floor was covered with the prints of muddy boots, and a pall of plaster dust lay over everything.

The packed suitcases were still where they had been. On one lay a large envelope with an official seal. Klim tore it open and pulled out the letter.

Klim was at a loss to understand what was going on. So, the guardian angel that had released him from prison was the general secretary of the All-Union Communist Party himself. But why had he not been informed that Mr. Rogov was a spy? And that he no longer worked for United Press?

Klim turned to Afrikan. “Would you bring up some coal for the boiler, please? I need to wash and change.”

When Afrikan had left, Klim picked up the telephone and called Magda.

“I’m at home,” he told her.

Kitty flew into the room and threw her arms around Klim’s neck.

“Daddy… Daddy…” she kept repeating.

Magda gazed lovingly at the two of them with tears in her eyes. “I thought I would never see you again,” she sniffed, overcome by emotion. “I’ve brought you some food. I expect you’re hungry.”

There was no kitchen table—Kapitolina had taken it with her, so Magda began laying food out on a newspaper spread out on the lid of the grand piano.

“I had a telegram from Seibert,” she said. “Nina arrived safely in Berlin, but Elkin never appeared with the money.”

“He was caught on the border,” explained Klim and gave Magda a short account of what had happened to him at the Lubyanka.

“I really don’t know why Stalin decided to save me,” he added.

“It wasn’t Stalin; it was me—and Babloyan.” Magda laughed, handing Klim a piece of bread and butter. “When I left you after the political rally, I remembered about the face cream I use for my freckles. I really need it, and Friedrich is always forgetting to bring me any. I wanted you to meet him in Berlin and remind him to get some. I ran after you and saw you being arrested.”

Magda had gone to Chistye Prudy and taken Kitty away with her, and then she had set off to see Babloyan at a celebratory dinner.

“You can’t imagine how happy I was to find out he spoke English!” she exclaimed, beaming. “I hinted that if he didn’t get you out of prison, you would tell everyone about the bribe he had taken. So, he persuaded Stalin to give you an interview and explained to the OGPU that you were a very important person who had the confidence of the General Secretary himself. Only he asked if you could keep quiet about the arrest. The last thing he needs is a row with the OGPU.”

“I don’t know how to thank you—” began Klim, but Magda waved aside his gratitude.

“It was nothing. So, when are you going to do the interview?”

Klim was silent for a moment.

“I’m not going to meet Stalin.”

“Why on earth not? A chance like this only comes across once in a lifetime. You can build your whole career on it. After all, Stalin has never once given an interview to a foreign correspondent.”

“I just hate the whole idea of talking to the man,” Klim said. “Stalin and his henchmen behave like common criminals and then act as if nothing has happened.”

Klim patted the polished case of the grand piano. “It looks fine, doesn’t it? Like an instrument in good working condition?”

He lifted the lid to show Magda a heap of loose hammers and a tangle of broken strings. “This is what I found after the apartment was searched. And that’s just the way I feel inside.”

“You’re a terrible romantic,” Magda sighed sympathetically. “As a journalist, you’re doing something unforgivably stupid.”

“But as a person, I’m averse to the idea. If I were to go to Stalin and not ask certain questions, I’d be taking part in a conspiracy of silence. And if I do ask them, I’ll be arrested again immediately.”

“Then you need to get out of Moscow as quick as you can,” Magda said. “Friedrich is flying to Berlin today. You’ll have to hope and pray he has room in his plane. Do you have a valid passport and exit visa?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then there’s no time to be lost. I’ll get you a taxi now.”

Magda threw down a half-eaten piece of bread and ran out of the apartment.

Klim called out to Kitty. “We’re going, little one.”

He buttoned her coat and helped her put on her boots.

“What’s that, Daddy?” asked Kitty, pointing at the red mark on Klim’s neck.

He hurriedly adjusted his collar. “It’s nothing. It will heal soon.”

The mark from the telephone cable that the OGPU woman had used to throttle him was in the same place as Galina’s scar.

“We’re going to see Tata now,” said Klim. “We have to talk to her.”

“They rang yesterday from the morgue,” Galina’s neighbor, Natasha, told Klim. “They asked if anybody was going to pick up Comrade Dorina’s body or not. But what could we do with her body? We couldn’t afford to bury her, anyway. Tata and I went to say our goodbyes, and they took poor Galina off to the crematorium. It was all paid for by the state. We were told she died in the line of duty.”

“Is Tata in her room? “ asked Klim.

Natasha nodded. “She’s locked herself in, and she isn’t answering. We’re fed up with pounding on the door. I told her, ‘You need to go to an orphanage. Who’s going to feed you?’ But it’s all the same to her.”

Tata only opened the door when Kitty knocked and called her name. But as soon as Klim came in the room, she darted into the closet and began to whimper like a sick wolf cub.

Kitty ran to her. “Oh, please don’t cry!”

“Tata, we have very little time,” Klim said. “So, you need to make a decision quickly. Either you go to an orphanage, or you come abroad with Kitty and me. This minute.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” yelled Tata in an angry voice.

Klim sighed. “All right then. Kitty, let’s go.”

Reluctantly, Kitty tore herself away from Tata. “I love you very much!” she told her friend.

Klim and Kitty left the apartment and set off down the stairs.

“Wait!” Tata’s voice echoed around the stairwell. “I can’t go to an orphanage! I remember what it was like in the boarding school.”

“Come with us!” Kitty cried, her words echoing off the high ceiling.

Tata ran up to them, her worn slippers falling off her feet, and then stopped as if she had hit an invisible wall.

“How can you take me with you? You need documents, don’t you?”

“I can write your name in my passport,” said Klim. “That will be enough.”

Tata gawped at him, unable to believe her ears. “What? Are you going to adopt me?”

“Your mother saved my life.”

“When? How?”

“I’ll tell you later. Get your things together now. The taxi’s waiting.”