“In voice, yes.”
“Then I take it you disapproved of the homage to his mother?”
A large red handkerchief materialized out of Brodsky’s pocket. He blew his nose loudly and stuffed the dirty linen back into his pants. Lighting a cigarette, he went to the bookcase. How he could see anything in the poor light was a mystery. But his hand knowingly reached above his head to a shelf with volumes of English works. He removed an enormous tome in Moroccan leather, Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy.
“The man was a genius. What he calls melancholy we call depression. You do read English, don’t you?” Sasha nodded. “Good. Every educated Russian should know French, German, and English.”
“Are you giving me this book because you think I’m depressed?”
“No, because if you want to understand the inner workings of Avram Brodsky, read Burton. We both use melancholy as the lens through which to view emotion and thought.”
Sasha took the book and admired its leather binding. “I’ve never thought of you as melancholy or depressed, in fact, the opposite: irrepressible, committed, passionate, intellectually energetic.”
“Since you arrived at the school, Sasha, we have become close, I would dare say good friends, and yet you don’t know me. You don’t know, for example, that I still retain a master key to the school, which I have kept among my belongings through thick and thin . . . kept it safe even in Kolyma. Just as we hold some memories dear, so too we treat some material things as talismans. The key to the school symbolizes to me the key to the world. It represents all that human beings are capable of achieving. But to achieve we must change. If our students leave the school the way they come—bigoted, provincial, superstitious—they will have accomplished nothing. The underlying assumption of education, the unstated premise, is that change is possible and desirable. To see a young man grow from sapling to tree is a miracle. In that sense, I regarded myself as a tiller of soil and a sower of seeds.
“I liked being a school director. I liked teaching classes. It’s exhilarating to have an audience, particularly when you wish to share an idea. Actors play a role; teachers analyze ideas and argue points of view. I prefer the latter, even though I used to write radio plays.” He paused for a moment, as if remembering something. “Some of the classrooms in the Michael School have a distinctive smell that comes from the desks and chalkboards and books. No two rooms are exactly alike. Blindfolded, I could tell you which one I was in. Occasionally, I make a nocturnal visit to the school, unlock the door, and just walk the halls and inhale the classrooms. The school floorboards are like maps. Without looking, I know which have soft spots and which are splintered. I know every creak. I even know the idiosyncrasies of the office typewriters, Devora Berberova’s and Galina’s. By the way, Galina dropped by here the other day and borrowed my French edition of Zola’s Nana. We chatted briefly. She seemed interested in which of my opinions had earned me a trip to Siberia. I told her nothing. In this country, trust is impossible. But without trust we are alone. I have observed you closely and liked what I have seen.” Then Brodsky made the most amazing request. “Let me put my life in your care.”
Sasha held up his hands defensively and said, “I want no privileged glimpses into your heart.”
In a deliberate and sober voice, Brodsky replied, “It is the only way I can make you my guardian, my judge and jury. If I die, so too does a part of you.”
Unsure whether Brodsky was engaging in some kind of deceit, Sasha laughed self-consciously and said, “Fortunately, we don’t share a life.”
“Unless I make you privy to mine.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” pleaded Sasha, cupping his ears. “I don’t want to be an accessory.”
Lightly moving Sasha’s hands, Brodsky gently coaxed, “To what, truth? I wish to promote honesty and not betray it. Just listen, and you decide who Avram Brodsky really is.”
With this introduction, he told a convoluted story of treachery, double-dealing, and denunciation. Born in Lithuania to a herring dealer and a seamstress, he came to Russia at the age of five. His parents settled in a small fishing village north of St. Petersburg. The only Jews in the community, they worshiped in the dark, a condition to which Brodsky accustomed himself, with only a candle or two to light their way. Apprenticed to a tanner, he came to hate the sight of animal skins and the smell of tannic acid. His mother taught him to read and write, and his formal schooling did not begin until the tanner, Markus Schmidt, a kindly Bavarian whose family dated back to the German craftsmen who had helped build St. Petersburg in the eighteenth century, paid for him to attend the local school. By the time of the 1903 revolution, Brodsky was twenty-three, and he never forgot the sight of reformers and Constitutionalists strung up on lampposts, left to dangle in the wind until some brave souls in the middle of the night cut them down. The butchery and the Tsar’s intransigence led him to become a revolutionary, first a Social Democrat, then a Menshevik, and finally a Bolshevik. Given his democratic leanings, he joined the liberal wing of the Party and opposed Stalin’s ruthless rise to power, all the while subscribing to the socialist dream of a world in which wealth was shared, class and religion were abolished, and people worked for the greater good of the country and not greedily for themselves. His political group came to be known as the Left Opposition, and their leader, in spirit if not in flesh, was Leon Trotsky, born Lev Davidovich Bronstein (1879) and exiled by Stalin in 1929. Although Trotsky’s hands were not free of blood, and though he had suppressed the democratic naval uprising at Kronstadt, he opposed Stalin’s tyrannical rule and suppression of human rights.
The Left Opposition had a good friend in Avram Brodsky. In his mid-forties, when he became director of the Michael School (1925), he was fearless in sharing his ideas with his colleagues, the community, and anyone else who would listen. After Trotsky’s exile, conditions for dissenters, on the left and the right, became dangerously precarious but not perilous. Then, in 1933, Stalin introduced terror as a political weapon. Kirov’s murder in December 1934, like Hitler’s “night of the long knives,” ushered in mass arrests and shootings. Taking his cue from Hitler, Stalin purged his Party. The lucky ones were merely exiled, like Brodsky (denouncer unknown!). Uprooted from Balyk and in the company of Bogdan Dolin, he was transported in a Stolypin wagon—railroad cars divided into wire cages with shelves for sleeping quarters—to Siberia. The trip took two weeks. By the time they arrived, the slop buckets used for toilets were overflowing and the stench was unbearable. Those who had boarded the train in weak health worsened or died. Those who had boarded in good health often left the train diseased or defeated. Brodsky swore to himself that he would live, and that he would see the day that Russia subscribed to a humane socialism. In the camps and the gold mines, it was apparent that the only way to survive was to ingratiate yourself with some official and be assigned an easy duty, not cutting down trees or mining but working in the dispensary or cafeteria or camp post office. He immediately wrote his superior, the commandant, and disavowed the ideas that had cost him his freedom. He forswore the Left Opposition and wrote a scathing critique of Trotsky and his position on world revolution. Brodsky’s paper urged his readers to support Stalin’s theory of revolution in one country. That short treatise earned him a position in the dispensary administering morphine to dying patients.
Bogdan Dolin never forgave Brodsky his recantation and easy duty, having himself been brutalized by the camp criminals and having to serve a longer sentence than Brodsky. Dolin accused Avram of loving his torturers just to mitigate the conditions of his own sentence. So whenever Brodsky told stories in the town square about Kolyma, Dolin stood as a visual reminder to the apostate that he had led others to a near-death confinement and then saved his own hide by siding with the enemy. But Brodsky said that he and Stalinism were incompatible, and that his renunciation of his former beliefs had starved his conscience. When he returned to Balyk and took up his lonely
residence, an old comrade contacted him to ask if he would become active in the underground of the Left Opposition. After much soul searching, he agreed. So although outwardly he was living as an internal exile and espousing the glories of Stalinism, he was secretly working for the democratic socialist opposition, writing letters, raising money from émigrés in Europe, anonymously denouncing orthodox Bolsheviks as wreckers and enemies of the people. Who was his courier? Here Brodsky paused, suspecting that Sasha would find it hard to credit the name he was about to confess. Natalia Korsakova. In 1920, during the civil war, they had fought together against the Whites and had sanctified their comradeship with an affair. Benjie was his son. But lest anyone suspect Natalia of working for Brodsky as his postal courier, he gave her no money. She was paid by agents of the Left Opposition. Her domestic work was a cover. And except for those occasions when they could meet at a deserted hunter’s cabin in the forest to pass information or letters, and perhaps even make love (Sasha’s extrapolation), he and Natalia had no contact.
What money came to Brodsky, which he shared with Benjie and Ivan Korsakov, came from . . . and again Brodsky paused knowing the effect his disclosure would have . . . came from the OGPU and Boris Filatov, to whom he was currently working as a double agent, spying on the Left Opposition, reporting to the secret police, and sharing what he learned from the secret police with the Left Opposition. Hence the periodic visits of Filatov or one of his associates to Balyk and to Brodsky’s cottage.
“As a committed Bolshevik, I want a democratic socialism, not a totalitarian one. To continue working for the Left Opposition and to remain in Balyk, I have to keep on good terms with the Party, which means I have to be perceived as helping them. And helping them means reporting on others. So I pass along harmless information. In return, Filatov pays me. For what? For trivia. He thinks, like the poet William Blake, he can see the world in a grain of sand.”
A wan Sasha, feeling as if he’d been skewed on the head of a pin, replied, “You realize, of course, that what you’ve just told me could cost you your life, as well as my own?”
“Why do you think I’ve opened my heart to you?” Sasha thought the diction rang false. “I’m not a madman hoping you’ll expose me. I want you for our own. A Left Oppositionist.”
“Of all the people to select: me! I detest politics.”
Brodsky’s coarse laughter was anything but mirthful, and in the light of the fire, the smoke issuing from his mouth and nose made him look demonic, an image that Sasha found as upsetting as the one of two decapitated men. At that moment, Sasha debated whether or not to tell Brodsky that Filatov had asked him to keep an eye on the former director. He decided against it, feeling certain Brodsky would reply that he too had been asked to spy—on Sasha. Such was life in the Soviet Union. But the one choice he could not escape was reporting to Filatov. He could repeat what Brodsky had said and thereby protect his own skin. Weren’t all patriotic citizens expected to convey to the secret police information that might prove detrimental to the state? Not to convey it made you equally guilty. For the nonce, he decided that silence was better than being a knave.
Although he had decided after the murders that he would make every effort to ingratiate himself with the law, using every linguistic and lexical trick in his toolbox—neologisms, indirection, double meanings, obfuscation, euphemism—he refused to employ the national disease of the Soviet Union, denunciation. Some means vitiated the ends.
No, denunciation was too repulsive. Although Sasha couldn’t swear to Brodsky’s trustworthiness, he knew his own. If a good conscience is a soft pillow, as the Russian proverb says, then Sasha intended to sleep peacefully. Besides, he knew that the type of information people traded in and how they represented it could reveal as much about the trader—or did he mean traitor?—as the person being denounced. There were other difficulties. Even if Brodsky had told the truth, had he told all of it? Based on what he had heard, Sasha wanted to ask him innumerable questions. Without answers to those questions, he felt that Brodsky’s narrative was incomplete. Why, for example, would Filatov continue to pay him for worthless gossip? Then, too, other people were involved, in particular, Natalia Korsakova. Sasha therefore decided that for now he would simply recount for Filatov the interesting literary discussions in which he and Brodsky frequently engaged. “Interesting” was normally a safe word when you wished to avoid a direct question: “How did you like the play?” Reply: “I found it interesting.” In short, information was a slippery business. Either you knew too much or too little. Both conditions rendered one vulnerable.
But the one truth he knew for sure was that he had unwittingly become Brodsky’s creature.
11
The Michael School, under Galina’s energetic supervision, began to plan for the Russian Winter Festival that would take place for two days in the school auditorium on the weekend prior to the winter solstice. Everyone was encouraged to participate or lend a hand: students, faculty, and staff. Even some villagers pitched in, contributing to the carpentry and stitchery. The auditorium became a beehive of activity, as the seats were carefully removed and stored to create a large, open area. Saws and planes, hammers and nails, chisels and screwdrivers converted the drab space into a colorful bazaar with student booths featuring different foods, a dart game, a palm reader, a crystal gazer, a shell game, a book sale, artwork, and photographic exhibits. The center area was reserved for music, dances, and songs; and the stage would hold a vaudeville routine, poetry readings, short dramatic scenes, and a play. Until Petr departed to meet Viktor in Ryazan, he worked alone in the farmhouse on sketches for the stage set, and Natalia Korsakova and Ekaterina Rzhevska actively contributed to the costume design.
The festival was scheduled to open at two on Saturday afternoon and the play, advertised as a surprise, was to begin at eight. Sunday would be dedicated to winter sports. All of the indoor activities were taking shape within sight of the organizers. Rehearsals, however, were held in another part of the school. No one but the actors and the director, Galina Selivanova, knew which play would be staged Saturday night. Whether it was a Russian masterpiece, written by Chekhov or Ostrovsky or Tolstoy or Turgenev, or an original play composed by one of the students or staff, remained a well-guarded secret. Galina would say only that “it will be quite amusing.” Not even Sasha had read the play, but knowing the author, he had expressed some reservations.
In the period leading up to the production, Galina was a whirling dervish, appearing everywhere. Her ambient electricity fired up others as they swung into action preparing scenery, sets, lighting, and props. Leading her charges, Galina, with her sleeves rolled up, seemed especially attractive and sexually alluring to Sasha. At the end of each day, he had a fierce desire to bathe with her, fondle her breasts, and then make love. But not until Petr left for Ryazan would that be possible. He rarely left the farmhouse, lying low, afraid that at any moment a policeman would come knocking at the door. Except for an occasional nocturnal walk in the woods with Sasha, he stayed close to home, so close that a few people began to ask questions about his reclusiveness. Goran, for one, wondered about this guest and often invited him into his photo lab to see some of his work.
Following a particularly satisfying rehearsal, Sasha asked Galina to remain after the others had left. Backstage, he took her in his arms and begged to make love. She agreed. As they lay on a pile of costumes, she traced her finger along his mouth and told him about Petr: his girlfriend in Kiev and Petr’s wish for her to divorce him. Alya would remain with her, of course, but Petr swore to stay in touch with his daughter. Galina then remarked on Alya’s affection for Sasha, and how well the two got along. “It’s the child in you,” she said, “and when I see that playfulness, I am reminded of my grandfather’s zest for games and fun. He and my father never saw eye to eye, but he was special to me. It was he who taught me to ride and handle horses. When he died, I was devastated.” She pressed her lips to Sasha’s and s
aid, “Never abandon me. I would find it too painful.” Then they slipped out of their clothes and, more than ever before, made passionate love.
On opening day, booths lined the auditorium except for the stage. By early evening, strolling minstrels appeared in the middle of the room making music on puff accordions and violins and castanets. At the same time, students dressed in Tartar robes and turbans sang and danced in a manner reminiscent of Scheherazade. A few of the more athletically gifted boys juggled and tumbled and somersaulted and stood on their hands. After this introductory number, which concluded with young men dashing around the room with lighted torches, four students took the stage for a vaudeville skit. Dressed as American hoboes, with black cork smeared on their faces, they engaged in a rapid give-and-take.
FIRST: This may be a circus, but git away from that thar elephant.
SECOND: Aw, I ain’t hurtin’ him.
The next two students step forward with a chair, a scissor, and a cardboard cutout of a dog. One student sits while the other pretends to snip his hair.
CUSTOMER: Your dog seems very fond of watching you cut hair.
BARBER: It ain’t that; sometimes I snip off a bit of the customer’s ear.
The four boys engage in a rapid patter.
FIRST: This dog cost us virtually nothing. He was a real bargain.
SECOND: Oh, that’s nice. Because a bargain dog never bites.
THIRD: He’s a kleptomaniac.
FOURTH: What’s he doing for it?
THIRD: Oh, he’s taken everything.
FIRST: My wife is so irritable, the least thing starts her off.
SECOND: You’re lucky. Mine’s a self-starter.
THIRD: When did your husband lose his inclination for work?
FOURTH: Don’t ask me, we’ve been married for only six years.
Denouncer Page 17
