Just like that horrible janitor. Everyone is so awful.
Her wet shoes make slopping sounds as she arrives at her old alley. Dirty water spills out from the rusted drainpipes, and the smell is wet and dank. She has to step on planks that have been laid crosswise, to avoid the muck everywhere. Above, industrious early risers are already up and about, airing out their rooms, washing windows. She passes a woman scrubbing out the muddy entryway, filling the alley with the smell of carbolic. The cleaning, the rushing drainpipes, the pale white morning glories crawling up the balconies in spindly strings…It was spring too when Vera’s parents were taken away. The memory returns, suddenly and with great clarity. Yes, of course. These mass arrests, always in spring or autumn, are seasonal, as vegetables and holidays are in other countries.
Now she is inside, making her way up the dark stairwell to her old apartment. She wonders if Vera was able to sleep at all last night, and if Mother is already up. Taking a deep breath, Nina prepares to tell them the news.
ALL DAY DREW had simply to think of him and she could feel it again. She wanted to tell someone, call Kate, or Jen, tell them how his touch felt, how, almost lovingly, he had touched the side of her face—
Of course it was ridiculous. They had a business relationship, and he was an older man, probably twenty years older! There was a heaviness in his touch, not just of weight but of magnitude. It was not simply the way he had touched her; it was something about his eyes, laughing but in a slightly sad way. His eyes, she decided, said something about having lived, something about humor and sadness being inexorably intertwined, no matter the depth of sadness, the depth of experience.
“Eyes full of life.” It was a phrase Grandma Riitta had always used when recalling Drew’s grandfather, Trofim. This phrase Drew now appropriated for Grigori Solodin. But he had looked so shaken when she pulled away. Well, how could he not be?
If only there were someone she could talk with. But Jen would just ask all kinds of dangerous questions, like How can you even be absolutely, one hundred percent sure he’s not married?…And Kate would be horrified at how much older he was. Not to mention that he was a client, Drew had a professional relationship with him, would continue to have one until three weeks from today. She must reel herself in, take a deep breath. And yet let him understand: that it was all right, what he had done. She trusted him, as much as she was afraid.
For a while she simply thought to herself, wondering, not doing a scrap of work. To think that she had felt something, finally, and with the most improbable man. Just like Grandma Riitta and Trofim…. She nearly laughed to herself, and looked down at her garnet ring. Grandma Ritta would have understood. Thinking this—of Grandma Ritta’s love story—Drew had an idea.
It took her a few moments more to decide. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed Grigori Solodin’s number.
As soon as she spoke, he said, “I’m so sorry, I hope that—”
“There’s no need to be sorry.” She hoped her voice made that clear. “I just want to be…professional.”
“Of course, yes, please don’t—”
“I’m calling about something else. Unrelated, actually.” Personal business, she heard herself saying, aware that even in this telephone call, on the Beller line, she was crossing a boundary. “There’s a diary I’ve always wanted to read. Just a small one, not many pages at all, but it’s in Russian. It belonged to my grandfather. My mother’s father. My mother has it now, since my grandmother passed away. But she doesn’t speak Russian, either. I’ve always wondered what it says.” That her mother never seemed to have had much curiosity about the diary was one of the many things that continued to baffle Drew, though she had long sensed a faint fear surrounding it, at what it might contain: the man himself, her mother’s father in his own words, undiluted by Riitta’s loving recollections.
“I’d be more than happy to take a look at it.” Quickly he added, “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’d be very grateful.”
Grigori sounded relieved, even surprised, as he said, “Of course if the handwriting is difficult, I might not be much help. But I’d be glad to give it a go.”
Drew said she would have her mother send it to her. “I’ve always imagined I’d eventually show it to my children.” Saying this, she realized she must not quite have given up hope that she might indeed start a family. “Or at least pass it down to them. The way my grandmother told me stories about him.”
“Were you very close with her? Your grandmother.”
“Yes. She’s my kindred spirit, in a way. I still think of her every day.” After a moment she heard herself say, “I wish I could talk to her about…things.”
Grigori’s voice was very quiet. “Drew. I—” He took a deep breath, seemed to be thinking, and Drew felt a sudden terror, of what he might say. “What I showed you today. The letters. They were family documents, too. Like your grandfather’s diary. I ought to tell you that.”
“From your family?” Drew’s thoughts sped, wondering what the connection might be.
After a moment Grigori said, “You see, my interest in Viktor Elsin, my research on his work, comes through a family connection. I first became interested in him for that reason. I have other documents. Some photographs. I would love to show them…”
Though his voice faded, Drew understood that he was asking her something, that what he had told her was difficult, and that it was her turn to help him. She heard herself saying, “I’d like to see them. That is, if you want to…”
He quietly told her yes.
DAYS LATER, ON a chilly spring afternoon, Nina joins Zoya in the long line at the information office on Petrovka Street. They are trying to find out if Gersh is still being held there; he never did make it back from headquarters. So far, Zoya has been able to find out only that he has been arrested for “anti-Soviet activities.” At least, that is what Viktor has passed along to Nina. She hopes to find out something more today. Though the information office won’t open until ten thirty, Zoya has been here since five in the morning, so as to be closer to the head of the line. Sure enough, by the time Nina joins her there at one o’clock, there are hundreds of people along the sidewalk. Nina counts, since there is plenty of time.
Thick knots of gray fill the sky. Without sunlight, the day feels even colder. Nina has brought Zoya some berry soda and biscuits, which Zoya ingests eagerly. “It’s really so nice of you to wait with me,” she keeps saying. “Although I’m not much company, of course. Before you got here, I kept falling asleep standing up! I hate to get up so early, you know, but yesterday I didn’t get here until seven and had to wait eight hours, and then just as my turn was about to come up, the woman in the window announced it was closing time!” All Nina can think is that what she suspected must be true, after all: Zoya must really love Gersh. “All I wanted to know was had they sent him away somewhere.”
The smell of the air is oddly familiar. Nina tries to think what it reminds her of. Every once in a while the people behind them push up against them, eager for the line to move ahead. The first time it happens, Nina’s immediate thought is that she has been recognized, that some fan in the line is about to cause a scene—but she has tied a big kerchief over her head and in fact is barely recognizable.
“Anyway, I’ve been able to use my time all right,” Zoya says. “I’ve been writing a letter, to see if that won’t take care of things.” She takes a sheet of paper and a pen out of her purse. “Maybe you can help me.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a—”
“Dear Comrade Stalin—or is that too impersonal, do you think?” Zoya makes a mark on the page with the pen, begins again in a plain, proud voice: “Dear Iosif Vissarionovich—sounds better, don’t you think? More direct. Dear Iosif Vissarionovich—oh, and copy to the arts commissioner, too, don’t you think?” She makes another note to herself. “Dear Iosif Vissarionovich, I am writing you regarding an urgent matter pertaining to my husband, the respected musician and
composer Aron Simonovich Gershtein. First let me tell you that I am an active and responsible citizen who has been a member of the VKP since 1947. I was born and raised in Moscow and did my studies in the Party History department at the Institute of Red Professors. Following graduation, I went into government work, first with the Scholars’ Aid Commission, then with the Higher Education Committee of the Moscow City Education Department. I now work for the department’s lecture bureau….”
Nina listens as Zoya reads on, lists in detail Gersh’s educational and professional background, each fact noted as an example of his patriotic spirit. Every once in a while she stops to fiddle with phrasing. Her voice is earnest and hopeful, so that Nina recalls the letters she and her schoolmates used to write to Chairman Kalinin when they were children. Hello Uncle Misha! and lots of encouraging information about what they were up to in school, before making some simple request. Give my regards to Uncle Stalin and the others…Such earnest faith. Now, though, it seems childish.
“Despite his many years of dedicated service to this country, through his work as a professor and as a composer, my husband has been arrested under Article 58. And yet I assure you, as you would surely see yourself, that nothing my husband has ever done or said, nothing he has taken part in or even read, has even the merest link to any sort of counter-revolutionary agitation.”
Nina has to wonder. “Do you think there’s something we don’t know?” She says it softly, since she knows what it means to even think it. “Something he was up to?”
“I’m his wife, I would know.”
Nina bristles. Do you know that he was still seeing Vera? she wants to ask. To calm herself she breathes in deeply, and notes again the familiar-smelling air.
Zoya says, “The only thing I might not know is if his family might have somehow…I don’t know them, you see. He says his parents and other relatives are gone now. But maybe they were, you know…part of the class system. Who knows, really? Even if they were, we’re supposed to be free of our fathers’ sins. This is a new world, after all—oh, that’s a good line!” She takes a minute to scribble something onto the paper.
The training studios at the Bolshoi—on exam days, or during auditions. That’s what the smell reminds Nina of. The smell of cold human sweat.
“I assure you,” Zoya reads on, “my husband, like myself, has always lived his life as part of the fight for a great new society. Since we were born we have been taught to be always truthful, always honest and forthright—”
“Excuse me, Citizen, but do you know which line this is?” A woman with only a few teeth is tugging on Nina’s sleeve.
Again Nina’s first thought is that she has been recognized. Even with the kerchief obscuring her face, she and Zoya stand out among the many people in this line, their coats not quite as thin, their shoes not quite as worn.
“Is this the information line, or the parcel delivery line?” The words sound awkward due to the woman’s missing teeth.
“This is for information,” Zoya says briskly, pointing. “You need to go over there.”
“Thank you, Citizen.” The old woman shuffles away—and Nina sees where the backs of her felt boots are worn out.
“Where was I—oh, here. Truthful, always honest and forthright, always prepared to fight the enemies of socialism. My husband has lived these credos fully and faithfully….” Soon Zoya is listing every major performance of Gersh’s work, every award he has ever won. Probably Nina and Viktor ought to be writing on his behalf, too, though there is always that other worry, that they might themselves be punished “for loss of political vigilance.” And meanwhile, people like that old woman with the worn boots…Who is there to write a letter for her?
Zoya’s letter is long. Not till the end of the third page does she say, “I thank you, Comrade Stalin, for your attention to this most urgent matter, and I look forward to continued service as a most devoted and enthusiastic member of our great Party. Always prepared in the struggle for the workers’ cause, et cetera….” Zoya nods to show that she has finished.
“It’s a good letter,” Nina says, wishing she could feel as hopeful as Zoya.
“Well, we’ll see.” Zoya gives a small, tired sigh. “Thank you for waiting here with me. It’s really very kind of you.”
Nina feels a pang of guilt. Because it isn’t kindness, really. She simply wants to be able to tell Vera whatever she can find out. Where Gersh is, or where he is going to be. It astounds her to think that everyone in this line is wondering the same thing, is here because someone they know has been arrested, and that like Zoya they don’t even know where he has been taken. Watching as each person has his or her turn at the information window, Nina can see, easily, which ones have been told their loved one isn’t there anymore. They are the ones who hang their heads, or cry loudly, then go to wait in line at a second window to find out which camp their loved ones have been sent to.
At last it is Zoya’s turn. Yes, he is still here, the woman in the window tells her in an almost cheery voice; she could be a ticket taker at the cinema. “He hasn’t been transferred yet, but he has been sentenced.”
Ten years “with correspondence privileges.” When Nina relays this news to Vera, later that afternoon, Vera says, “Well, I suppose that’s a relief.” Her face is swollen from crying, faint bluish circles around her puffy eyes. “‘Without,’ and you might as well kill yourself.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because then they can just kill you. They can do whatever they want, without anyone really knowing what’s gone on, since you can’t write letters or anything. But if you have correspondence privileges, then other people might have at least some sense of what’s happening to you.”
It still surprises Nina, how Vera hands out this information, as if she has some special source, as if her parents’ experience automatically allowed her this knowledge. Well, probably if Nina’s parents had been sent away, she too would have paid attention to this kind of information. Vera has no problem comprehending things that Nina is only now acknowledging.
“How long, did you say, until they send him away?”
“I’m not sure, but he’ll still be there tomorrow, at least.”
“Then I can bring him a package.” Vera goes to the little table beside her bed and opens a large Palekh box, takes out some money, and finds a clean handkerchief to wrap it in. “I should try to find him some socks and underwear, too. And some onions—for scurvy.” As businesslike as Zoya.
It takes two days for Vera to leave her package for Gersh. “You should see the employees at the drop-off,” she tells Nina, when she has finally succeeded. “They open up your parcel and take everything out and hold each thing up to the lights like scientific specimens. They tested the onions as if they were buying them at the market.” She laughs, a sad, weak sound. “I’d tucked a letter inside one of the socks, and the woman found it. She started yelling at me, ‘What in the world do you think you’re doing?’ So loudly the people behind me were staring. I said I just wanted to make sure the letter didn’t fall out. She said, ‘Now we’ll have to read it, make sure there’s nothing in it….’ Oh, Nina, I worry what they’re doing to him in there.”
“What did the letter say?”
“Oh, just that I loved him and that we were working on securing his release, that surely someone can pull some strings.” She looks away, and Nina wonders if Vera really believes that.
HE TOLD HER to come to his office after work tomorrow. That way, he considered, they could speak without Drew having to worry about her supervisor, and yet they would not be alone, would have to behave professionally, no risk of Grigori embarrassing himself again. The Asian Languages division was holding a meeting at five, and the place would be teeming with professors.
All the same, Grigori kept worrying that he had somehow dreamed Drew’s phone call. A personal request, nothing to do with the auction. He supposed it was an olive branch, simply to show that she did not intend to have him arrested. Unless
this was all some terrible trap, to catch him out, make him look like a fool for having felt, in that awful moment, that there was some connection between himself—dour Grigori—and this bright-faced young woman.
She showed up in a coat of pale yellow that seemed to herald spring. Before he could thank her for coming over, she said, breathlessly, “I think I see what you mean. About the letter and the poem. The descriptions of the amber and of the forest.”
“You see it, too, then?”
“They match up. Well, in a way. The image is so similar.”
“I think you’ll, well, here”—he took up the photographs—“hopefully it will all make sense.” He might have shown her the hospital certificate, too, but it was in the safe. And yet, to tell her that part, about his parents, about his mother bringing him the vinyl purse…Surely it was too much. Grigori felt, already, his courage waning.
“May I see the photos?”
A mute panic spread through him: that showing them to her—exposing Nina Revskaya, in a way—was an act of meanness, done behind Nina Revskaya’s back. No, he quickly decided; as long as Nina Revskaya continued to insist that none of it was hers, then all that these documents could ever be, really, were relics.
Drew held the photographs with slim, neat fingers. Both pictures were slightly worn, lines near the corners where they must have been folded by accident. But the images themselves were very clear. The first showed two couples seated on a settee, looking relaxed and happy. “This is her, isn’t it?” Drew said. “She’s so elegant. In a way, her face hasn’t changed much. It’s just…harder. Older.” After a moment, Drew asked, “Is this her husband?”
Russian Winter Page 31
