Vanya sat at a desk on which were placed three Bakelite phones, one of them his new orange vertushka, the hotline to the Kremlin. He was arguing with Uncle Mendel, one of the few Old Bolsheviks elected to the Central Committee at the 1934 Congress of Victors and re-elected at the 18th Congress. The others had overwhelmingly vanished into the meat-grinder and Sashenka knew that most of them had been shot. But Mendel had survived. They were discussing jazz: Soviet versus American. Mendel liked Utesov and Tseferman’s Soviet version while Vanya preferred Glenn Miller.
‘Vanya,’ boomed Mendel’s trumpet of a voice out of his tiny twisted body, ‘Soviet jazz reflects the struggle of the Russian worker.’
‘And American jazz,’ replied Vanya, ‘is the music of the Negro struggle against the white capitalists of—’
‘I won’t go to bed,’ cried Snowy, throwing herself on to the ground.
Vanya leaped up, effortlessly gathered Snowy into his arms and kissed her.
‘Bed before I box your ears!’ He put her down and gave her a little push. ‘Now!’
‘Yes, Comrade Papa,’ said Snowy, chastened. ‘Night, Papochka, night, Uncle Mendel.’ She skipped out.
‘Thank you, Vanya,’ said Sashenka as she followed with Carlo in her arms.
A car door slammed outside, a light step sounded on the verandah, and the family favourite, Hercules Satinov, smart in a white summer Stalinka tunic, soft cream boots and a white peaked cap, peeped round the corner.
‘Where’s my Snowy?’ he called. ‘Don’t tell Cushion I’m here!’
‘Uncle Hercules!’ cried Snowy, scampering back into the room, opening her arms to him and kissing him.
Sashenka kissed their friend thrice, bumping into her daughter in the process. ‘Hercules, welcome. Snowy was longing to see you! But now you’ve seen him, Snowy, you’re going to bed! Say goodnight to Comrade Satinov!’
‘But Mama, me and Cushion want to play with Hercules,’ Snowy wailed.
‘Bed! Now!’ Vanya shouted and Snowy darted back down the corridor towards her room.
If anything, Sashenka reflected, Hercules Satinov had become better-looking with time. His black hair still gleamed with barely a strand of grey. She remembered how he and Vanya had come to collect her when her mother died, how kind they’d been to her. Now she watched as Satinov embraced his best friend, before noticing Mendel and shaking his hand formally.
‘Happy May Day, comrades!’ he said in his strong Georgian accent. ‘Sorry I’m late, I had papers to get through at Old Square.’ Satinov, who had helped run the Caucasus, now worked in the Party Secretariat at the grey granite headquarters on Old Square, up the hill from the Kremlin.
‘What a party, Sashenka! The jazz men singing together? Even at receptions for the leaders in St George’s Hall, I’ve never seen that before. I hope you don’t mind, Vanya, some Georgian friends have invited themselves, and they’ll be here shortly.’
4
‘Aren’t you leaving?’ Uncle Gideon loomed up over Benya Golden, smoking a cigarette on the verandah. ‘You ideeeot!’
‘Gideon, shush. Did you hear what Satinov said? Some Georgians are coming! Which ones? Someone big?’ Benya whispered.
‘How would I know, you schmendrik! They’re probably some Georgian singers or cooks or dancers!’
Gideon gripped Benya’s hand and pulled him outside into the dark orchard. Benya peered around nervously.
‘No one can hear us here,’ said Gideon, checking that Razum and the drivers were still singing dirty songs at the gates.
‘If they’re just cooks or singers, why have you dragged me down here and why are you speaking, Gideon, in that bellow of a whisper?’
The sky glowed rosily and warmly, an owl hooted, and the sweet scent of flowers seeped out of the orchard. Gideon liked Benya Golden enormously and admired him as a writer. They both loved women, though as Gideon liked to put it, ‘I’m an animal while Benya’s a romantic.’ He put his arm around his friend.
‘If these Georgians are big bosses,’ he said, ‘the less people like them know about people like us, the better.’ He remembered his brother Samuil, Sashenka’s father, who he assumed was long dead now, and suddenly his chest hurt and he wanted to cry. ‘Ugh, time to go! Cure your curiosity, Benya! But I’m whispering, you big schmendrik, because you’ve offended my niece. Well?’
‘I put my foot in it with the comrade editor. She’s no Dushenka,’ Benya said, ‘no featherbrain. I had no idea she was so extraordinary. Is she happily married?’
‘You ideeeot! Firstly she’s Vanya Palitsyn’s wife, my dear Benya, and secondly she’s never even looked at another man! First love and they’ve been together ever since. What did you do, pinch her arse, or suggest that Marshal Voroshilov is a blockhead?’
Benya was silent for a minute. ‘Both,’ he admitted.
‘You Galitzianer schlemiel, you tinker!’
‘Gideon, what’s the difference between a schlemiel and a schlimazel?’
‘The schlemiel always spills his drink on to the schlimazel.’
‘So which am I?’
‘Both!’ Gideon told him and they roared with laughter.
‘But the trouble is – I’m short of work,’ Benya said. ‘I haven’t written for ages. They’ve noticed of course. I really do need a commission from her journal.’
‘What? About how to organize a masked jazz ball for workers celebrating production targets? Have you no shame?’ asked Gideon.
‘Why did I tease her?’ groaned Golden. ‘Why can I never resist saying things? Now you’ve got me worried, Gideon. She won’t denounce me, will she?’
‘I have no idea, Benya. The Organs and the Party are all around us here. You have to behave differently in such houses. Here the softness is only skin-deep.’
‘That’s why I had to come. I want to understand what makes them tick – the men of power and violence. And that Venus with her mysterious, scornful grey eyes is at the centre of everything.’
‘Ahhh, I see. You want to understand the essence of our times and write a Comédie Humaine or a War and Peace on our Revolution, starring our princess Sashenka from the mansion on Greater Maritime Street? We writers are all the same. My niece’s life’s a spectator sport, eh?’
‘Well, it’s quite a story, you must admit. I’ve met them all – marshals, Politburo members, secret policemen. Some of the killers were as delicate as mimosa; some of those who were crushed by them were as coarse as tar. At Gorky’s house, I met the sinister Yagoda, you know, and I once played the guitar with that insane killer Yezhov, at the seaside.’ Benya was no longer smiling. He looked anxiously at Gideon. ‘But the meat-grinder is over, isn’t it?’
‘Comrade Stalin says the Terror’s over and who am I to disbelieve him?’ answered Gideon, who really was whispering now. ‘Do you think I’ve survived this long by asking stupid questions? Me? Of all people? With my family background? I do what I have to – I’m the licensed maverick – and I console myself in holy communion with drink and flesh. I’ve spent the last three years waiting for the knock on the door – but so far they’ve let me be.’
‘They? Surely Comrade Stalin didn’t know what was happening, did he? Surely it was Yezhov and the Chekists out of control? Now Yezhov’s gone; that good fellow Beria has stopped the meat-grinder; and, thank God, Comrade Stalin is back in control.’
Gideon felt a lurch of fear. Although he regarded himself as a mere journalist, he had, like all the famous writers – Benya himself, Sholokhov, Pasternak, Babel, even Mandelstam before he disappeared – praised Stalin and voted for the Highest Measure of Punishment for Enemies of the People. At meetings of the Writers’ Union, he’d raised his hand and voted for the death of Zinoviev, Bukharin, Marshal Tukhachevsky: ‘Shoot them like mad dogs!’ he had said, just like everyone else, just like Benya Golden. Even now he was aware of his rashness in discussing such sensitive questions with the overexcitable Benya. He pulled Benya close, so close his beard tickled his ear.
‘It w
as never only Yezhov!’ he murmured. ‘The orders came from higher …’
‘Higher? What are you saying …?’
‘Don’t write that book on the Organs and don’t tease my niece about Komsomol cakes and the “furnaces” of female steelworkers! And Benya, you need to write something, something that pleases. We’re off to Peredelkino – Fadeyev’s having a party and he hands out the writing jobs so you’d better be polite to him this time, and don’t hang around here any more if you ever want to work again!’
‘You’re right. Shall I say goodbye to Sashenka?’
‘Do you want a kick in the balls? I’ll get the car and you go and get my girl and tell the frisky little minx we’re leaving.’
As they left, two black Buick towncars purred into the drive.
‘Was that the Georgians?’ hissed Benya from the back of Gideon’s car. Masha sat silently in the front, lighting a cigarette.
‘Don’t look back,’ bellowed Gideon, ‘or we’ll turn into pillars of salt!’ He put his foot down, and sped away with a screech of tyres.
5
The party was over. The half-moon poured a milky light into the well of warm darkness outside. Mendel, chainsmoking and coughing up phlegm in guttural thunderclaps, and Satinov, who both worked at Old Square, were talking about rebuilding cadres at the Machine Tractor Stations. Sashenka and Vanya started to tidy up.
Apart from the uneasiness with Benya Golden, it had been a successful evening, Sashenka reflected. In the half-darkness a figurine of alabaster nakedness appeared. ‘Mamochka, I can’t sleep,’ said Snowy, waving her cushion so winningly that Satinov cheered.
Sashenka felt a surge of love. She could not help but indulge her daughter, perhaps remembering her own mother’s coldness, but the truth was that she was always happy to see her. ‘Come and have a quick cuddle! Then back to bed. Don’t overexcite her – especially you, Hercules!’
Snowy vaulted into Sashenka’s arms.
‘Doesn’t that cherub ever go to bed?’ growled Vanya.
‘Mama, I’ve got to tell you something.’
‘What, my darling?’
‘Cushion woke me up to give Hercules a message!’
‘Whisper it to me quickly and then back to bed – or Papochka will get cross.’
‘Very cross!’ said Vanya, who caught them both in a hug and kissed Sashenka’s face while Sashenka nuzzled Snowy’s silky cheek.
‘Mamochka, what are those ghosts doing in the garden?’ Snowy asked, pointing over her mother’s shoulder.
Sashenka turned and peered through the window.
The ‘ghosts’, four crop-haired young men in white suits, were stepping up on to the verandah.
‘Communist greetings, Comrade Palitsyn,’ said one, as the phone rang in Vanya’s office – the one connected to the Kremlin, its tone high-pitched and distinctive.
A few minutes later Vanya returned, his rumpled forehead a little puzzled. He called over to Satinov. ‘Hercules, that was your friend Comrade Egnatashvili.’ Sashenka knew that Egnatashvili was a senior secret policeman in charge of Politburo dachas and food. ‘He says he’s coming with some people. We might need some Georgian food …’
Satinov looked up from the sofa. ‘Well, he said he might come. Who’s he bringing?’
‘He just said Georgian friends.’
‘Some Georgian food?’ asked Sashenka, thinking fast. ‘It’s only midnight. Razum!’ The driver appeared, swaying a little, his uniform crooked. ‘Can you drive?’
Razum had entered that stage of embalmed drunkenness known only to the Russian species of alcoholic: he was so soused he was almost sober again.
‘Absolutely, Comrade Sashenka’ – and he burped loudly.
‘I’ll call the Aragvi Restaurant,’ said Satinov, heading for the phone in the study. The restaurant was in town off Gorky Street.
‘Comrade Razum, speed into Moscow to the Aragvi and bring back some Georgian food. Scram!’
Razum leaped off the verandah, lost his footing, nearly fell over, righted himself and made it to the car.
‘Wait!’ Satinov shouted. ‘Egnatashvili will bring something. He’s got all the best food in Moscow.’ There was a pause as he and Vanya looked again at the young men in white suits guarding the gates, the suits glowing as if the moon had painted them silver.
‘Who’s coming, Mamochka?’ asked Snowy in the silence.
‘Silence, Volya! Bed now!’ said Snowy’s father, his eyes flashing. He did not use her real name unless he was deadly earnest. ‘Sashenka, we’ve got to give that child some discipline …’
‘Who’s coming, do you think?’ Sashenka asked Vanya, with a twinge of concern.
‘Maybe Lavrenti Pavlovich …’
‘I think I’ll be going. It’s been a nice evening,’ said Mendel, whose wife and daughter had left hours ago. Sashenka noticed he was one of the few leaders who still sported an ill-fitting bourgeois suit and tie, never having embraced the Stalin Party tunic. Mendel pulled out his pillbox and placed a nitroglycerine tablet under his tongue. ‘Let me call my driver,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Can’t take those flashy Georgians and all those toasts! Ugh. Too late!’
A convoy of cars drew up at the gate, their powerful beams illuminating the greens and reds of the lush garden. A pall of dust darkened the starry sky, reaching for the moon. The ghosts in the white suits opened the gates to reveal several black Lincolns and a new ZiS.
The piano tinkled from inside, there was laughter from a nearby dacha, and Sashenka saw a blond athletic figure in the familiar blue and red-striped uniform jump out of the front car.
Satinov called out in Georgian: ‘Gagimajos!’ And in Russian: ‘It’s Egnatashvili and he’s brought some food!’ Sashenka could see that Egnatashvili was carrying a crate of wine. Guards in blue uniforms materialized, as if from nowhere, at the gates.
‘Come on in, comrades,’ said Sashenka. ‘Satinov said you might join us.’
Comrade Egnatashvili’s eyes gleamed up at her in the dark, eyes narrowed in warning, as she moved forward to welcome the new guests, hand outstretched – and then froze.
6
Lavrenti Beria, round-faced and olive-skinned, in baggy white trousers and an embroidered Georgian blouse, was carrying a box full of plates. He was, as Sashenka knew well, the new People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs, boss of the secret police, the NKVD.
‘Lavrenti Pavlovich! Welcome!’ Vanya stepped down from the verandah. ‘Let me help you with that …’
‘I’ll take it in, don’t you worry,’ Beria said, with a glance behind him.
Sashenka saw Vanya stiffen to attention – and then the night went quiet and next door the singing and the clink of glasses hushed.
A statue seemed to be standing right there in her garden.
Comrade Stalin, his feline, almost oriental face smiling and flushed and still singing a Georgian song, appeared at the foot of the steps in a white summer tunic, wide trousers and light brown boots embroidered in red thread. The moon seemed to throw him his own spotlight.
‘We heard Comrade Satinov was going to a party given by Comrade Palitsyn,’ said Stalin in a soft Georgian accent, chuckling like a mischievous satyr. ‘Then we heard he had invited Comrade Egnatashvili. Comrade Beria said he was invited too. This meant only Comrade Stalin was left out and Comrade Stalin wanted to chat to Comrade Satinov. So I appealed to my comrades, admitting I didn’t know Comrade Palitsyn well enough to gatecrash his party. “Let’s put it to a vote,” I said. The vote went my way, and my comrades decided they would invite me. But I come at my own risk. I won’t hold it against you, comrade hosts, if you send me home again. But we do bring some wine and Georgian delicacies. Comrades, where’s the table?’
Satinov stepped forward.
‘Comrade Stalin, you already know Comrade Palitsyn a little,’ said Satinov, ‘and this is his wife, Sashenka, whom you may remember …’
‘Please come in, Comrade Stalin, what an honour,’ said Sashenka, finally finding
her voice. She had a terrifying and un-Bolshevik urge to curtsy as she used to at the Smolny before the portrait of the Dowager Empress. She was not quite sure how she managed the steps down to the garden, yet somehow she approached Stalin – smaller, older, sallower and much wearier than she remembered, his left arm held in stiffly. He had, she noticed, a slight pot belly, and his tunic’s pockets were roughly darned. But then she supposed giants did not care about such things.
Stalin seemed amazed at the effect he had – and yet he revelled in it. He took her hand and kissed it in the old Georgian way, looking up at her with eyes of honey and gold.
‘Comrade Snowfox, you’re beautifully dressed.’
He remembers my old Party alias from St Petersburg! What a memory! How embarrassing! How flattering! she thought in confusion.
‘It is lucky that you and your journal are teaching Soviet women the art of dressing. Your dress is very pretty,’ he continued, climbing the steps.
‘Thank you, Comrade Stalin.’ She reminded herself not to mention that her dress had been made abroad.
‘For once, comrades, the Party has appointed the right person to the right job …’ Stalin laughed and the others laughed too, even Mendel. ‘Come and join us, Comrades Satinov and Palitsyn. And you, Comrade Mendel.’ Sashenka noticed that Stalin did not show much enthusiasm for the austere Mendel.
Beria affably poked Palitsyn in the stomach as he passed. ‘Good to see you, Vanya.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘All quiet? Everything ticking over?’
‘Absolutely. Welcome to my home, Lavrenti Pavlovich!’
‘What did you think of the football? Spartak need to be taught a lesson, and if our strikers don’t play better next time I’ll bust their guts!’ Beria clapped his hands cheerfully. ‘Will you come and play basketball in my team tomorrow? We’re playing Voroshilov’s guards.’
‘I’ll be there, Lavrenti Pavlovich.’
Sashenka knew that her husband admired Beria, who worked like a horse. He was young, his round face smooth and lineless.
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