The Prince of the Soviets

5. THE GERMAN JOURNALIST

What could have happened to Nina? wondered Magda fearfully. Had she been robbed and killed?

It was more than likely. Magda’s camera and Nina’s velvet coat were valuable enough to attract thieves, and crime in Moscow was rife.

Magda could not make up her mind to go to the police. As sworn enemies of capitalism and White émigrés, they might decide to pursue the victims rather than the criminals. In a country ruled by a dictatorship of the proletariat, “class enemies” could not count on the state to protect them.

The only one who could help Magda was Friedrich; after all, he had friends in high places. But since he had been assigned to his new post, he would disappear abroad for three days at a time, come back, and catch up on his sleep before setting out again.

“I could come out to Germany,” Magda suggested, “and we could meet there if you want.”

But Friedrich did not want anything. He had only just managed to extricate himself from the trouble in China and had no wish to jeopardize his position by associating with an Englishwoman.

To add to her problems, Magda’s visa was about to expire. She pestered all her acquaintances, asking if they could help her find work in the city until at last, a German journalist, Heinrich Seibert, told her that he had some good news.

“On Thursday,” he said, “I’m meeting Edward Owen, the vice-president of the United Press news agency. His Moscow correspondent has broken a leg and gone abroad to get medical treatment, so Owen is on the lookout for a replacement.”

Magda was hugely excited to hear this. Mr. Owen was a legendary reporter. It was said that his London headquarters was hung with photographs of him in the company of royalty, heads of state, and army generals. He earned a king’s ransom and for good reason—under his leadership, the European section of the United Press was flourishing.

If Magda secured the post as the Moscow correspondent, she would not only have her visa renewed but also be able to move out of the despised Metropol into an apartment of her own. Moreover, she would no longer be a member of the bourgeoisie; she would be a member of the working class, and Friedrich would not have to hide from her.

For the first time in many years, Magda had her hair cut and said a prayer or two. She also bought a Kodak camera from another hotel guest just in case. She wanted to be able to show Owen the full scope of her talents not only as a writer but also as a photographer.

Heinrich Seibert had come to Moscow soon after the Bolshevik revolution and fallen on his feet; he had a wonderful apartment on the premises of the former Neapolitan Café, a car, and a large circle of friends. With his short, top-heavy body and his large forehead, he looked like an aging satyr. In Germany, no girl would have looked at him twice; but in Moscow, he attracted interest merely by virtue of being a foreigner who possessed countless treasures out of the reach of ordinary mortals: a wristwatch, shampoo powder, sunglasses, and the like.

That evening, Seibert sat at the window of the half-empty restaurant of the Bolshaya Moskovskaya Hotel (formerly the Grand Hotel), celebrating a small victory of his own. A friend of his, an engineer, had smuggled out an article he had written on the reasons behind the current economic crisis in the Soviet Union, and it had caused quite a stir.

The Bolsheviks took great care to prevent material “denigrating the Soviet system” getting out of the country, and articles of this sort had to be published under a false name unless you wanted your visa canceled. But Seibert was still pleased; it tickled him to hoodwink the Soviet censors and to publish an article saying exactly what he thought.

A waiter arrived, bringing Seibert a dish of cold sturgeon with horseradish and a decanter of chilled vodka.

It was already getting dark; the elegant chandeliers and white cloth-covered tables were reflected in the dark blue of the great windows of the restaurant. Seibert poured himself a shot of vodka and raised a glass to his own reflection. “To freedom of speech!”

In his article, he had written about how it was unprofitable for Soviet citizens to engage in industry of any sort whatsoever, let alone agriculture. In order to feed the Red Army, the police, and Soviet officials, the government was deliberately lowering the procurement prices for grain, and each year, the peasants were sowing less and less. What was the point in working for such a paltry sum?

When the Kremlin spread rumors of an imminent English attack on the USSR, the frightened peasants had begun to hide everything edible and to distil their grain into the time-honored Russian “hard currency” of bootleg vodka or samogon. As a result, the markets and shops in the cities were now empty.

Soviet officials had the right to use special cooperative shops attached to each government department, and people had quickly realized that the safest bet was to find work as a civil servant. Meanwhile, the Kremlin, rather than taming this bloated bureaucratic machine, was fighting political opposition and the surviving remnants of private enterprise. Naturally, the country was in the grip of an economic crisis. It was unavoidable.

Glancing out of the window, Seibert saw a taxi draw up at the hotel entrance. Out stepped an elegant foreigner in a dark gray suit and Homburg hat. A smartly dressed little girl of about four years old stepped out after him, holding a toy horse under one arm.

A minute later, the pair came into the restaurant, and Seibert almost choked on his sturgeon: the daughter of this modishly dressed foreigner was Chinese. She had rosy cheeks still flushed from the cold and shiny black eyes, and her spiky hair, which had been pressed flat by her hat, stuck out comically on the back of her head. She brought the toy horse with her and sat it down at a table just a few feet away from Seibert.

The girl’s father was about thirty-five or forty years old. He was slim, tanned, and well-groomed and had the look of a European aristocrat. How could he have married a Chinese woman? Seibert wondered. Now, the man would not be accepted into any respectable company. And his daughter, who had clearly taken after her mother, would encounter all sorts of difficulties.

“Kitty, put your horse on the floor, please,” said the man. He spoke in English but with quite a strong accent. “Horses don’t sit at the table.”

“They do!” said the little girl.

“Is that so? And who decided that?”

“I did. I’m big. I know that two plus two is four.”

“What about two plus three?”

Kitty frowned for a moment but then laughed. “All right. I’ll feed my horse in the hotel room.”

They were speaking in a mixture of three languages: Russian, English, and what sounded like some Chinese dialect.

While they were waiting for their order, Kitty’s father performed tricks for her with a sugar lump, hiding it in his fist and then producing it from out of his cuff or behind his ear.

Kitty let out peal after peal of laughter. “Again! Again!”

Seibert could not resist. “Excuse me,” he asked, leaning toward them. “I’m curious. Are you by any chance with a theater?”

The man turned around. “No,” he answered. “I’m a journalist.” He handed Seibert a card on which was written “Klim Rogov.”

“Oh, you’re Russian, are you?” asked Seibert, still more surprised.

“By birth, yes. But I have American citizenship, and Kitty and I live in Shanghai. I work at an English-language radio station there.”

“And I work at the Wolffs Telegrafische Bureau news agency,” said Seibert. “So, how do you find Moscow?”

Klim gave a shrug. “I came here to find people who took part in the civil war in China, but everywhere I’m told that the Soviet Union sent no agents out there.”

Seibert gave a knowing smile. “What do you expect? Politics is nothing but a collection of myths and legends we are told we must believe.”

“Somehow I’m not convinced,” said Klim. “A friend of mine left for the USSR together with a group of political advisers who had been working in China, and they all seem to have vanished into thin air. I’ve been trying to find them for a month but with no luck.”

“You should come to my house tomorrow,” said Seibert. “I’m having a bit of a gathering at five o’clock, and there will be an English lady there, Magda Thomson. She knows some people who used to work in China.”

“Thank you! You’ve been a great help!” Klim turned to his daughter. “You see, Kitty? Didn’t I tell you everything would be all right?”

Seibert felt like some kind of magician who could grant the wishes of ordinary mortals with one click of his fingers.

Keeping a secret diary is like putting a notice on your door saying, “Keep out!” and then deliberately leaving it slightly open.

It’s a bad habit, and I’ve tried to give it up many times, but what can I do? I’m a scribbler by nature, one of that writerly tribe whose chief pleasure in life lies in hunting out words and collecting meanings. Without this pleasure, I don’t think I could survive. Anyway, I’ve promised to give a detailed account of my adventures in Soviet Russia to Fernando, so let that be my excuse.

I caught sight of this notebook in a kiosk in Vladivostok. It was only after I’d bought it that I noticed it included a note of “memorable events” for every date: executions of revolutionaries, forcible dispersal of demonstrations, assassination attempts on the Tsars, etc. This diary could quite easily be called the “Book of the Dead,” but I hope for me it will tell a story of survival, not of disaster.

My wife has disappeared without a trace. The only clue I have to her whereabouts is an article in Pravda newspaper announcing that the “Chinese group” with which she was traveling has arrived in Moscow.

When my friends in Shanghai heard I was coming to Russia, they thought I had lost my mind. As the Bolsheviks see it, any foreigner with a Russian name is a White émigré, and a White émigré is, by definition, an enemy.

But nobody stopped me at the border. My American passport and respectable coat were enough to mark me out as a VIP. Clearly, the petty Soviet officials were afraid to stick their necks out. Who knows who I might be—a famous engineer or a foreign scientist invited to attend the tenth anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution?

It took Kitty and me sixteen days to reach Moscow, and what sights we saw on the way! The train was accompanied as far as Khabarovsk by a convoy of Red Army soldiers who stood on duty on the platforms between the railcars and on the locomotive. They were there to protect us from the gangs of armed bandits that often attack passenger trains in the Far East just like the Indians in films about the Wild West.

There were still several rusty, derailed trains lying about from the time of the civil war. A number of bridges had been blown up, and the Bolsheviks had replaced them with temporary wooden structures. It is quite terrifying crossing these makeshift bridges; the train inches across, the beams groaning and cracking from the weight, and all the passengers hold their breath, praying it will hold out till they reach the other side. Once, the bridge did actually start to break up under us, and the locomotive only just succeeded in dragging the last car across to the opposite bank. It was the strangest feeling as if we had crossed the Rubicon.

I don’t know how long my search will last and how long my money will hold out. I never had access to Nina’s bank account, so Kitty and I are living off my own modest savings.

My friends are right, of course. It is madness to stake everything you own on one card and to set off of your own accord to this bogeyman of a country, which émigré mommies use to frighten their naughty children. Even if I do find Nina, the chances are that we’ll only break up again. Even before she left, we both realized that our life together wasn’t working out, and we were only heading for some inevitable catastrophe.

So, why am I chasing after the ghost of this long-lost love?

I have always admired Nina’s energy, her dignity, and her ability to rise up out of the ashes like a phoenix, but there’s more to it than that. She has her own distinctive feminine charm, which I find quite irresistible. And I’m not the only one by any means. I’ve seen how other men look at her. Where will I find another woman like her? If I hadn’t come to Moscow, I’d be doomed to loneliness or a pointless search for someone exactly like her, and I don’t even want to think about that.

I am like a passenger on the Titanic after the shipwreck, freezing in the icy water, refusing to believe that the ship is doomed, convinced that the whole thing was just some emergency drill. Any minute now, the ship will rise up from the depths, the holes in its hull will close up, and the captain will steer it off on its original course.

Klim could not wait for the meeting with Magda.

He hailed a cab at the hotel and helped Kitty into an old-fashioned sleigh.

“Pray that everything works out for us,” he whispered in Kitty’s ear. “God will hear your prayers, I’m sure.”

“Please let everything work out for us!” shouted Kitty at the top of her voice. Then she turned to Klim. “Do you think he heard that? Or should I say it louder?”

The cab driver laughed into his frost-covered beard and took up the reins. “Giddy up now, girl, as fast as a motorcar!”

The evening sky over Moscow blazed with a crimson sunset. The sleigh rushed on, its runners squeaking in the snow. Wind blew in their faces and clumps of dirty snow flew up from under the horse’s hooves.

As they came out onto Lubyanka Square, the cab driver turned to his passengers and pointed at a high building with a clock on its facade. “Have a look at that, comrade foreigner. That building used to be the central office for the Rossia Insurance Company, but now it’s the headquarters of the OGPU, the political police.”

The clock face reflected the scarlet of the setting sun, and Klim found himself wincing. He felt as if he were being closely watched by some fiery eye, all-seeing and dispassionate.

Kitty fell asleep on the way to the party.

The driver stopped at a single-story house with high windows. On the walls of the house was a frieze showing blue sea, rose bushes, and dancing girls with tambourines. Meanwhile, a palisade of enormous Moscow icicles hung from the roof.

Klim lifted Kitty in his arms and walked up the porch steps. He knocked at the door, which bore an inscription in Gothic script: “Aufgang nur für Herrschaften”—“Only the noble may enter here.”

“Look who’s here!” cried Seibert as he threw open the door, and lowering his voice to a whisper, added quickly, “Come with me into my bedroom. You can put your daughter down there.”

Klim looked around. The hall was hung from the floor to the ceiling with gilt-framed paintings. Seibert collected them, apparently.

A coat-stand groaned under the weight of a mountain of furs and coats, and a whole flotilla of galoshes was arrayed on the floor. From the living room came the sounds of music and bursts of laughter. Somebody was playing the piano.

Klim felt awkward coming to this party where he knew no one, bringing his daughter, creating bother for strangers. But what could he do?

His host led him deep into the dimly lit apartment with high arched ceilings and narrow winding corridors. Any noble guests who reached Seibert’s bedroom would find themselves in cramped quarters hung with dark blue wallpaper. In the middle of the room was a colossal bed with a carved headstand and orange pillows. A mirror gleamed on the ceiling, and on the chest of drawers beside the bed was a china figurine of the devil with an enormous phallus.

Seibert gave an embarrassed chuckle and turned the figurine to the wall. “Just a bit of fun, you know.”

Klim laid Kitty on the bed and pulled off her felt boots, hat, and coat.

There was a crash from the kitchen behind the wall as if somebody had dropped a metal tray.

“Your little girl’s lucky to be able to sleep through that noise,” said Seibert in an indulgent tone. “As for me, I wake up at the sound of a broom on the pavement outside.

“Let me take you to meet my guests. Magda should be here any minute.”

Magda was half an hour late. The windows of her tram had been white with hoarfrost, and she had missed her stop.

“Owen is here already,” said Seibert when Magda stumbled into the hall, frozen through, her nose streaming from the cold. “Have you got everything prepared?”

Magda sniffed. “I think so, yes.”

Glancing in the mirror, she straightened her dress—dark blue with a pink collar and square buttons on the sleeves. She should have hung her camera case around her neck so that it would be clear straight away that she was a professional journalist and photographer.

“Come on then. I’ll introduce you,” said Seibert, and Magda followed him into the living room.

The room was already full of people all talking at once in a mixture of German, English, and Russian. A pair of Frenchmen, already mellow with drink, were playing a duet on a grand piano and singing “Valentina,” and a few couples were dancing. Wreaths of tobacco smoke spread out in the orange light of the lamps.

“Not long ago, we were at war with one another,” Seibert told Magda, “and now, here we are in the heart of snowy Moscow, drinking wine, and none of us bearing a grudge against the others.”

“Where’s Owen?” asked Magda in a trembling voice.

Seibert pointed out a stout gentleman in a circle of guests.

Magda went a little closer and listened to the conversation.

“When I crossed the border, the customs officials made me declare my fur coat and galoshes,” Owen said. “Can anyone explain why the Soviets do this?”

“It’s their way of fighting unemployment,” answered a dark-haired gentleman in an elegant three-piece suit. “If there aren’t enough jobs, they make some up on the spot. Just imagine how many people you can employ counting all the galoshes that come in and go out of the country.”

“Who’s that?” Magda asked Seibert.

“His name is Klim Rogov. He wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Why? I don’t know him. Or perhaps I do—”

Magda was interrupted by another loud crash from the kitchen.

“Is that you again, Lieschen?” barked Seibert. “What an infernal nuisance that girl is! Always breaking things!”

He ran from the room.

Magda glanced again at Klim Rogov. She had just remembered that was the name of Nina Kupina’s husband. Could it really be him?

“Soviet power is like a pyramid,” Klim said, turning to Owen. “You have all these leaders at the very top, and each of them picks his vassals—not the best men but the most loyal; those who will always do their bidding. As a reward for their loyalty, the vassals are given profitable official positions, and they are allowed to live off them. All these people have their own vassals, a rung lower down, and the ones lower down have others beneath them, and so on. Everybody’s welfare depends on the strength of the pyramid, so they do their best to reinforce it.”

Klim began to talk about the members of the Soviet government and who belonged to which camp.

“How do you know all this?” asked Owen in amazement.

“I make it my professional habit to be interested in all the details,” Klim said.

“Do you speak Russian?”

Kim nodded. “I have fluent Russian, English, and Spanish, and I can also speak the Shanghai dialect.”

“Could you write me a short piece now on approval?”

“Of course.”

From the next room came the sound of a child crying, and Seibert came rushing in, looking harassed.

“Your daughter has woken up in the other room,” he told Klim.

“I’ll be right back,” Klim said, growing pale.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” shouted Owen after him. “I’m leaving soon.”

Seibert took Magda by the elbow. “Mr. Owen, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Magda Thomson.”

“Excuse me,” Magda interrupted him. “I have to powder my nose.” She set off toward the door.

Magda had already realized that Owen was hoping to hire Klim Rogov as his correspondent, and there was no way she could get around it. No amount of photographs would make up for the fact that she knew no Russian.

Kitty was sitting on the bed howling, her head flung back. “Da-a-a-ddy!”

Klim switched on the night light and took her in his arms. “What is it, little one? I’m here.”

Kitty put her arm around his neck and tried to say something but just kept sobbing and hiccupping.

Klim sat her on his knees. “There, there, little one. Shh…”

He should never have left Kitty alone. How awful for a four-year-old to wake up in an unfamiliar, dark room!

Klim took a notebook from his pocket and, still hugging his daughter, began to write a short article about the currency profiteers who haunted the Moscow markets.

The state bank, Gosbank, exchanged money at the official rate of one ruble, ninety-four kopecks for one US dollar, but in Riga, a dollar was worth four rubles. The unofficial course was used by foreigners living in the USSR as well as thousands of underground traders and smugglers.

“I want to go home,” sobbed Kitty.

“Soon you’ll be at home in your own bed. I promise,” whispered Klim, kissing her on the back of the head, still warm from sleep. “I’ll think of something.”

“What about Mommy?”

“We’ll find her.”

Klim had not even dreamed of finding work in Moscow. It was more than he could have hoped for. With a press card, it would surely be easier for him to find Nina. After all, it was one thing to ask questions as an individual but quite another to ask them on behalf of a respectable news agency.

Klim finished his article, took Kitty in his arms, and went out into the hall.

Owen was already putting on his coat while Seibert rummaged through the pile of coats for the lost gloves.

“Is the article ready?” Owen asked.

Klim handed him the open notebook.

As Owen read the article, his face lit up. “Could you change the money for office expenses on the black market too?”

“Most likely,” said Klim.

Owen handed him his business card. “I think you’re going to work out twice as cheap as your predecessor. Give me a call tomorrow at the hotel, and we can go over the details.”

Owen’s gaze fell on Kitty, and like many others, he could not resist asking about her. “Excuse me. Is that your child?”

Klim nodded. He was annoyed by the way people were always so curious about his daughter’s oriental appearance.

“Well, your personal life is no business of mine,” said Owen, putting out his hand. “I’ll see you soon.”

As the door closed behind Owen, Klim turned to Seibert. “Has Miss Thomson arrived yet?”

Seibert gave a startled blink. “Oh, dear, you should have had a word with her. Magda was hoping to work at United Press, you see, and I think you’ve just stolen her job.”

“And where is she now?” Klim asked, alarmed.

“I don’t know. Go and have a look for her. She’s a big, tall young woman.”

Still holding Kitty, Klim rushed into the living room, then the kitchen, and then began to search through a number of dimly lit rooms full of furniture. Damn it all, he thought. Now Miss Thomson would refuse to speak to him!

He found her in Seibert’s bedroom, sitting on the bed and sobbing, rubbing at her wet cheeks with her hands.

“Get out of here!” she shouted when she saw Klim.

Kitty, frightened, began to whimper, and Klim retreated with her into the corridor.

“You sit here. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, handing her his gold watch that Nina had given him as a present long ago. Kitty had had her eye on it for some time and was overjoyed now to receive this unexpected prize.

Klim headed back into the bedroom, pulled the door almost shut behind him, and sat down in an armchair opposite Magda.

“Miss Thomson,” he said, “my wife has gone missing, and I hope you might be able to help me find her.”

“I have no intention of helping you,” cried Magda. “You stole my job!”

“I won’t take the job if that’s what you want.”

Magda reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.

“Go to hell, you and your noble gestures! After speaking to you, Owen will never hire me. And you won’t find your wife, anyway.”

“Why not?”

Through angry curses, Magda told him of her friendship with Nina and about her disappearance.

“She was wearing a red velvet Chinese coat with dragons embroidered on the back,” Magda said. “It was very noticeable. I suppose somebody may have spotted her.”

“Thank you,” said Klim, his head lowered.

“You’re very welcome, I’m sure,” Magda muttered as she left the room, slamming the door so hard that the china devil fell off the chest of drawers and shattered into pieces.