by CW Hawes
“Karl! Good to see you. And this must be Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“I am,” I replied.
He and I shook hands and he said, “I’m, as you heard, Denby McAleer, Assistant Bureau Chief for Hall Media’s Moscow office. Good to have you in Moscow, Lady Hurley-Drummond, and good to see you again, Karl.”
“I can’t say I’m glad to be back,” Karl replied.
McAleer laughed. “But you didn’t say ‘no.’”
“No, I didn’t,” Karl said.
McAleer continued, “I have the car ready. It’s late and I don’t think there are any porters around. Do you have many bags?”
“Two each,” Karl replied.
“You and I can handle them,” McAleer said.
The men went off to find Karl’s and my luggage. While they were gone. I looked around at the inside of the airship terminal. The building was a dozen years old and already looked dilapidated. Paint peeling. Walls a dingy nondescript grey. The original color no longer discernible. I saw Professor Abramowicz and his wife. His face had all the glow of one waiting to cross the river into the promised land. Mrs. Abramowicz looked in a hurry to get wherever they were going.
Karl and McAleer had our suitcases and we made our way towards customs. When we arrived, the desk was empty and the twenty of us waited. And we waited. And we waited. After nearly an hour, a little man in a uniform arrived and sat at a desk. He said but one word: “Line.” Taking that as our cue, the twenty of us queued up and the little uniformed man began looking at and stamping passports.
The Abramowiczes were three places ahead of us in line. When their turn came, they each presented a card and were immediately waved through.
Karl said to me, “Communists. They’re more equal than the rest of us proletarians.”
The two ahead of us had issues and had to stand aside. We now stood before the desk. McAleer spoke Russian to the little man and presented our papers. Inside each of our document folders, McAleer had put 100 rubles in small notes. The little man pocketed the money, stamped our passports, visa papers, and waved us through.
McAleer said, “It helps to speak Russian. Especially the ruble dialect.”
Karl chuckled. I have to admit I was somewhat appalled at the obvious bias and corruption I had just witnessed. Seeing the look on my face, Karl said, “Get used to it, Dru. This is how Communism works.”
We exited the building. McAleer led us to a black DeSoto Custom. A large blocky car with rounded edges and a huge chrome grill that looked to me like teeth.
McAleer said, “Shipped this baby over from the states. Hall Media owns it. Better than anything the Soviets have to offer.”
Karl and McAleer put our bags in the boot. I got in the backseat, Karl holding the door for me. He then got in front with McAleer who drove us to the Hotel Moskra. Before we got out, McAleer said, “Remember, the rooms are bugged. Be careful what you say. We found a few earlier when we checked in for you, but they’ve probably been replaced by now.”
And so I was in my room by five after one. Karl’s room was next door and there was a door connecting our two rooms. I had a feeling we wouldn’t be making much use of it this trip.
THREE
The Communist Capital
My first day in Moscow. The capital city of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I am impatient. I want to see the sights. I want to take in everything the city has to offer. When I throw back the curtains, a grey sky greets me. There is no snow or rain falling, but traces of snow linger on the ground. I open a window and a blast of frigid air hits me. I quickly close it again. At least the radiators are working.
In the daylight my room is something of a disappointment. It is plain. There is nothing luxurious about it. The bed is tolerable. The chairs and sofa as well. Nothing plush. All is functional. The room, though, is clean. And warm.
From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Apparently tourists and foreign journalists don’t need much. Although the lobby, as I recalled from last night, had some beautiful artwork. I’ll have to take a more discerning look now that I’m not so tired. And I do have a bathroom in my room.
There was a knock on my door. The chain was on and I opened the door the couple of inches to see who was there. It was Karl.
“Good morning, Karl. You could have used the connecting door.”
“Good morning, Dru.” He slipped a note to me.
It read:
Get dressed. We’ll get breakfast out. We need to talk.
“Okay,” I said.
“Get me when you are ready,” he said and returned to his room.
I closed and locked the door and went to the bathroom to freshen up, not having time for a bath. When done, I put on a burgundy long-sleeved dress, reaching to mid-calf. The neckline was a modest V and the waist was belted. My hat was modestly wide-brimmed, the crown reminiscent of a fedora. It was burgundy to match my dress. I wore black high heels. With purse and coat in hand, I knocked on the connecting door. After a moment, he opened the door.
“That’s better,” I said. “I’ve locked my door. We’ll go out yours.”
There was a pained expression on his face which I ignored. We left his room and he locked his door. We took the lift down to street level. I took in some of the artwork on the way out. Impressive, even if propagandistic.
We left the hotel, walked for a few blocks, and then boarded an electric bus. They are like old trolleys, except there are no rails. They use regular bus wheels. We rode on the bus for maybe a dozen blocks and then got off, walked another couple of blocks, and then entered a small restaurant.
Once seated, Karl said, “This restaurant is owned by a former Russian count. He’s also an agent for the Germans, at least that’s the rumor. Although he is a card carrying Communist, as they say. The food is decent, authentic Russian fare, and I can order in French or German.” The last clause was said with a smile.
“Good to see you smile,” I said.
“Dru, I’m very sorry.”
“For what?”
“For keeping you as essentially my mistress.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. I knew you were married. If anyone is to blame for anything it is I.”
“I should have said ‘no.’”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I love you, Karl. It is my bad luck Ilene got you first. Everything was fine until I wanted to marry you. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Except I’m jealous as hell, Dru. I have eyes. An airship is a small world. I can add. But I have no right to be jealous. None at all. I can’t give you what you want. I have no right to deny you the same. I think it best if we keep our relationship professional from now on. There will be, in the long run, less pain for both of us.”
“I see. You’re serious about this?”
“I am.”
The waiter came and Karl ordered for both of us.
“I guess I’ve really bolloxed this up, haven’t I?”
“I love you, Dru. I do.”
“And I you, Karl. You are my soulmate. No one else will ever come close.”
His face was so sad. “We love each other,” he said, “but I think this best.”
I sighed. “Very well. I hope the heating system at the Hotel Moskva is up to the task of keeping me warm at night.”
He smiled at my attempt to lighten the situation. The smile faded and he said, “I wish, I wish to God, Dru, I’d met you first.”
I touched his hand. “Just remember, no matter what, I love you. I’ll always love you.” Then withdrew my fingers.
The waiter brought our pancakes.
Karl changed the topic to business. “McAleer is working on getting an interpreter for us. Then we can interview people. Until then we can do some atmosphere pieces. Get the mood of the place. Oh, if you have the feeling you’re being followed it’s because you are.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Our interpreter will probably be one of Beria’s agents too.”
> “How can people live when they are under constant surveillance?”
“They have no choice. Therefore they just do.”
“And the Abramowiczes think this is wonderful?”
“They’re academics. Intellectuals. They have their heads in the clouds. They don’t see what this system actually does to people. And if they lived here, they’d probably be on a train to Siberia within a year, if not silently executed, or tortured to death.”
“With Stalin gone maybe things will change.”
“Always possible. But with Malenkov in charge, I don’t see a lot of change. Then again it’s a day shy of a week since Stalin’s death. And he was only interred two days ago. I figure the politicking and infighting should start in earnest about now.
We finished our pancakes and ordered tea.
“Given our new relationship, do you want to work together? Or would you prefer separately?” I asked.
There was pain on his face. Why is there pain with love? Why? Why can’t people who love each other just be together? Some moments passed before he finally answered my question.
“Dru, I think it is best if we mostly worked apart. We can take the translator on alternating days.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Thank you.”
Our tea came and we drank it mostly in silence. A silence symbolic of our new relationship. One of business and only the pleasures associated with business. But the pleasure that came with our love we must now let die. I mortally wounded our love because I was not satisfied with what it was. I wanted more. Across from me sits the man I admire, the man I fell madly in love with, the man who’s given me pleasure and love I’d not known existed. And I threw it all away because I no longer wanted to share him. I wanted it all and now I had nothing. The tears welled up in my eyes. I took out my handkerchief and dabbed them, hoping the mascara and eyeliner wouldn’t run.
“I’d like to go back, now, Karl.”
He nodded and signaled the waiter for the check.
The pancakes were heavy and I decided to forego lunch. I have to admit I was quite down with Karl’s decision. I only had myself to blame however. That brief moment with Mikhail. I touched my lips. I recalled the scent of his mouth. Alcohol and tobacco and perhaps a trace of sugar and cream. I could love Mikhail. But not like Karl.
Moscow was still in winter. The air was cold. So very cold. In spite of the cold, I decided to go for a walk and pickup impressions of the city. The city the recently departed dictator had hoped to transform into a place which would rival any in the West.
Bundled up in coat and hat and gloves, I ventured forth on my own. I had a map. McAleer had seen to it one was in each of our rooms. The first place I wanted to see was St. Basil’s Church. I left the hotel and every fifty feet stopped to look around. I wanted to see if I could spot my tail. On my third stop I noticed the same man, about a hundred feet back, always stopped as well.
He must be the one who’s been assigned to me, I thought. I wonder if he speaks English?
I started walking back towards him. When I was about fifty feet away, he started to slowly walk towards me. When he was just a few feet away, I stopped in front of him holding a cigarette. “Do you have a light?” I asked. He looked surprised and simply said, “Nyet.” He didn’t look at me, just walked on down the street. He stopped about fifty feet from me. I turned and started walking towards him. He continued walking ahead of me, occasionally looking backwards. I suppose to make sure I was still there. I started waving at him when he’d glance backwards. He just kept on walking.
Eventually I and my companion reached St. Basil’s. Now a museum, the church’s official name is “Cathedral of the Intercession of the Blessed Virgin on the Moat.” I went inside and so did my partner. I looked around and left, walking on towards the market area. Apparently my shadow needed to do a bit of shopping as well.
The one thing which seemed odd to me was that the city streets were not crowded with autos or trucks. They were present but not in large numbers. No traffic jams in Moscow. Given the size of the city, I had expected to see many more vehicles but they were simply not there. I thought about the communist mantra. From each according to his ability and to each according to his need. Perhaps the Russian people didn’t need automobiles.
The other very vivid impression I have from my walk is of the lines. Everywhere people, mostly women, standing in line waiting. Waiting to get a chance to buy whatever it was they were waiting in line for. It seemed the men worked and the women waited in line. To each according to his need. Perhaps the State, in its wisdom, saw what the people didn’t and that was they didn’t need much.
Having gotten my initial impressions and starting to feel quite chilled, I turned back for the return walk to Hotel Moskva. My shadow tagging along. Then a thought occurred to me. If I got lost would he show me how to get back to the hotel? I stopped and pulled out my map. He stopped. I started walking towards him. He tried to look busy inspecting the wall of a building. As I drew closer, he began moving away. I began to hurry and called out in probably very mangled Russian, “Gdye nahoditsya otyel’ Moskva?”
He stopped and turned to face me. I repeated the question and he spoke to me in Russian. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “I don’t speak Russian,” I said. I held out the map and said, “Otyel’ Moskva.” He looked at the map and indicated I follow him, which I did. When we were close enough for the hotel to be visible, he stopped and pointed. I told him, “Thank you.” He nodded and walked away. But not too far. He wanted to make sure I went into the hotel. Such a young man to be making a career out of watching people and reporting to some superior where the person went, who they saw, and what they did. Perhaps the job paid well and was considered a good one. Although I doubt he could tell anyone he was a spy. Especially since he’d probably be spying on them.
I waved to him before I entered the hotel. I wonder if someone was watching him, with him being so young. Maybe, unbeknownst to us, my finding him out signed his death certificate. I shuddered at the thought.
Back in my room, feeling quite chilled, I drew a hot bath and submerged my body in the steaming water. Slowly the chill gave up its claim and was replaced by warmth. I think I even dozed off for awhile. I washed, rinsed, toweled myself off, and slipped on a floor length negligee, pink and white in color, with a filmy white floor length “jacket.” I ordered room service and got my typewriter, carbons, and paper.
I decided I’d type two articles. The first on my impressions of my first day in Moscow. The second, on being watched. I set up my trusty Hermes 2000, rolled in paper and carbons, and began typing. Halfway through the first article room service arrived and I took a break to eat. The food was delicious. Borscht, cabbage rolls with mushroom sauce, and onion salad. The dessert was an orange jelly. And of course there was tea and plenty of sugar cubes.
After eating, I resumed typing. In two and a half hours of pounding on the keys, my articles were completed. In the morning I’d get them to McAleer, or someone in the office, for transmission to Mr. Hall.
The hour was getting late and I expected no company, although Karl having a weak moment or Mikhail suddenly arriving would have been welcome. Instead I called room service and ordered the necessary ingredients to make martinis. When room service arrived, I tipped the man, and set about making myself a martini. With my drink made, I piled up the pillows and lay on the bed. Dressed for an evening with a man, I drank and smoked alone.
FOUR
Impressions
My First Day In Moscow
by Lady Hurley-Drummond
Moscow. The centre of the Communist world. In this city the late Joseph Stalin, leader of the Soviet Union, tried to showcase the great hope of the Soviet system. His dream was to make Moscow a star outshining all others; the jewel in the crown of the world’s great capital cities.
The electric trolley buses take one throughout the city, which makes owning an automobile superfluous. The streets of Moscow are clea
n and not clogged with traffic. Russian automobiles and lorries look new and very much like American and Western European vehicles.
Many modern skyscrapers can be found in Moscow. They jut into the sky like their western counterparts. Their only point of detraction is their uniformity. Not one is unique.
While I’m told industrial goods are plentiful, consumer goods are apparently less so. Lines are everywhere. Not a stall or shop or store is without long lines of shoppers hungry to purchase what is available.
Soviet fashion is plain and simple. Men’s suits are for the most part dark and conservative. A woman’s dress is designed to emphasize her duty to socialism. Dresses are simple and plain. They tend to de-emphasize the features of the female sex. They are functional and utilitarian as is Soviet Socialism. Soviet fashion makes a collective statement, not an individual one.
The food here is wonderful. Extremely delicious and wholesome. Just what is needed in a land where winter still holds sway. The tea is exquisite and rivals any found in Britain.
The streets are clean. Many buildings are new. There is a sameness that permeates everything. There is no encouragement to be unique or different. A city and society dressed in a uniform.
My Shadow
by Lady Hurley-Drummond
In Britain and America one goes walking and thinks nothing of it. Often one walks to be alone with one’s thoughts. Imagine my surprise when walking today I found I had a shadow. Not one given by the sun, which was hidden behind clouds, but one given to me by the Soviet state.
