For bread and freedom for all.
Down with German fascism—the leading warmonger of Europe.
Out of Ethiopia with the Italian invaders. Long live the Italian people from the yoke of fascism.
Down with fascism. Down with capitalism.
Long live Soviet power in all the world, under the flag of Marx-Engels-Lenin, forward to the victory of the Socialist World Revolution.
Expose reactionaries and fascist sympathizers who are sowing enmity among the working classes.
Let us be vigilant in protecting the peace that has been won.
Prevent reactionaries from provoking war with the Soviet Union.
Workers of the world unite.
To honor the patriotic spirit of the Michael School, the Soviet flag with the hammer and sickle hung from every window. Goran and Viktor’s excitement was palpable. As the self-appointed group in charge of banners and bunting, slogans and signs, and placards and posters, they had festooned the school grounds and would march at the head of the parade. The Soviet oblast for Balyk had sent pictures of the Great Leader, looking avuncular, yet strong. Of course, Stalin’s image showed none of his imperfections, like pockmarked skin and bad teeth. Viktor’s portraits of the teachers of the Michael School would be displayed by appreciative students. And Goran had mounted his photographs of the school buildings and environs. Sasha wondered what Bogdan, as a member of the Three Musketeers, would contribute.
Viktor’s exertions noticeably advanced the school’s preparations, which were beginning to take on a professional look. He seemed to be everywhere, and his clicking noise echoed through the halls. By this time, his alias (Goncharov) had been superseded by Comrade Click. Whether to gain a reputation for faithful Party work or for some other reason, Viktor became maniacal about every detail of the celebration. Even Goran sighed at his friend’s fanaticism. Sasha believed that Viktor and his two companions had an ulterior motive, as yet unknown. It was Brodsky’s idea to have Filatov ask the Ryazan NKVD if they had a file on Viktor Harkov. But, although Sasha had read Vera’s file, he had always found the relationship of family history to current behavior questionable. The country was rife with spies, and he had no intention of adding his name to the number of people writing letters that famously began: “Dear Comrade, I have reason to believe that X has something to hide and suggest you look into this person’s past.”
“You asked my opinion,” Brodsky shrugged.
“In the end, your advice might produce some useful information, but I don’t trust the means.”
“One man’s means are another man’s ends.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Beginnings and endings are impossible to discern. Consider. I assassinate a political leader for the purpose of bringing my own man to power. The killing provides the means to change the prevailing order, my ends. The new leader then turns around and orders me killed for murder. Execution provides him the means to remove all witnesses or opponents, his ends. And so it goes, here and elsewhere. Where does the circle begin and end?”
Sasha had the distinct impression that more was being implied than said. Brodsky continued.
“You say you have seen Viktor at the farmhouse and have heard about his presence from others, like Alya. From this information you have decided he is up to no good, and though you are vague about the nature of your fears, I gather you think he and Galina are making the beast with two backs. Right?”
Sasha lowered his head and stared at his feet. The two men were, as always, seated in front of the fireplace in Brodsky’s cottage. But on this occasion, Brodsky was not enveloped by smoke or alcoholic fumes. He was wrapped in a blanket and treating a bad cold with cups of hot tea. An occasional sneeze and cough punctuated Brodsky’s musings. From the kitchen stove came a terrible odor, a home remedy that some herbalist had recommended.
“You’re not really going to drink that awful stuff?”
“Marina Cheslava swears by it.”
“It smells like excrement.”
“That’s because you have dung on the mind. You think someone has fouled your nest.”
“And what if the report from Ryazan were to come back negative?”
“It won’t. No one, as the secret police say, is innocent.”
“But what if the evidence is false?”
“The secret police and the church think the same way. If a person isn’t guilty of one thing, then he’s guilty of another. Does it matter for which murder a killer is hanged or for which sin we’re condemned?”
“Justice would demand . . .”
Brodsky interrupted. “The only thing justice can determine is length and quality of life. In the end it’s all the same.”
On those depressing words, Sasha left the odorous cottage and tramped back to his office. He wanted to think. In the clean, clear air, an idea came to him; it danced like a dervish, arresting his attention and becoming the focus of his imagination because of its seductive simplicity. Best of all, it dispelled his moral ambiguity. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” he decided. In the meantime, he would keep practicing his alveolar clicks.
Lest anything go awry during the celebration, all the principals had to appear before a three-man board of Filatov’s men. The background check took place in the confines of the abandoned town church, which had been hastily swept but still exhibited cobwebs and clusters of dirt. The filthy windows, particularly those with colored glass, attenuated the light. Hence the examiners were reduced to using candles, which gave the proceedings the look and feel of a medieval inquisition. The soldiers were there to check each person’s passport and identification papers. A few local men, all devoted Bolsheviks, stood apart prepared to unmask any impostors. Since false passports and papers were a booming business, thanks to forgers like Bogdan Dolin, the government found it necessary to keep in attendance fact-checkers. Although Sasha had distanced himself from the parade organizers, as the school director he was compelled to appear before the examiners to take part in the chistka. Well aware that Soviet bookkeeping was more often than not erroneous, he approached his questioners with some trepidation.
Two long tables had been placed end to end. An implacable military typist, with a flat Asian face, her black hair pulled back tightly and tied in a bun, sat mutely, her hands curled over the keyboard preparing to spell out a man’s fate.
“Parsky, Sasha,” said the chief examiner. Clickety-clack went the American Royal typewriter. “Director of the Michael School.” Clickety-clack. “Parents, enemies of the people. Missing. Presumed dead or in hiding.” The examiner, sporting a bright-red glass eye, paused over the record for a minute or two, a favorite trick of the secret police to instill fear in the person being questioned. He then popped his glass eye out of its socket, wrapped it in a dirty rag that might have once, but no longer, passed for a handkerchief, looked at Sasha with his one eye, and said, “We have no record of a formal denunciation of your parents. Did you not sign such a document?”
“Comrade Filatov said it was unnecessary.”
This remark caused some confusion among the three examiners, who immediately huddled and whispered excitedly. When they emerged from their scrum, the second man, bespectacled and bemedaled, opined that although Major Filatov had cleared Sasha for his current position, the record showed various complaints and denunciations since Sasha had assumed the directorship. What did Comrade Parsky have to say for himself?
Knowing that Filatov’s endorsement made him immune to arrest, Sasha let the charade continue. A person exhibiting a chest full of medals, Sasha reasoned, needed an opportunity to preen, especially since the man had a medal for bravery during the civil war in the Crimea.
Comrade glass eye prodded, “Speak up!”
“Those of us in positions of authority are always fair game, comrade. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Captain Himalayski,” said gla
ss eye.
Suppressing amusement at the presumptuous name, Sasha remarked that he had answered the charges against him to the satisfaction of Major Filatov. He watched Himalayski tap his pencil on a pad and knew what to expect next, the murders.
“According to the file, a tragedy occurred at your parents’ farm. Two murders.”
“I was questioned and found innocent of any wrongdoing. But I, like you, carry that record with me and hope someday to expunge it by finding the felons.”
Himalayski, surprised by the absence of a puling response, sputtered something to the effect that he indeed hoped that the mal-efactors would be found, mumbled to his adjutants, directed the typist to take down what Sasha had just said, and called the next person for questioning. As Sasha left the dilapidated church, he could hear the clickety-clack of the Royal immortalizing his words for storage in some ominous archive.
With a number of gawkers, Sasha stood on the church porch and watched through the open door as others suffered the chistka. In particular, his attention was drawn first to Vera Chernikova and, a few minutes later, to Viktor Harkov. After a few preliminary questions, the chief examiner asked Vera what role she would play in the coming celebrations.
“I have been asked to sing the ‘Marseillaise.’” She coughed self-consciously and added, “I’ve been told I have a good voice.”
“Your passport lists your age as thirty-two.” Himalayski tilted his head birdlike and with one eye studied her skeptically. Sasha knew that Vera was at least ten years older, but if Viktor was courting her, she had every reason to alter her passport. Bogdan had probably done her a good turn. What he had done for Viktor remained to be seen.
“Given all the deaths in my family, I have not had an easy life.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Himalayski, clearly embarrassed. “I just wish I could be present to hear you sing.”
She thanked the chief examiner, took a few steps backward, seemed to bow, and left.
When Viktor Harkov was called, Sasha pressed forward to hear every word. While Sasha wished to see Viktor exposed, his supporters murmured prayers for Ivan Goncharov’s deliverance.
“Passport, please.”
Pause.
“Ivan Goncharov! Are you related to . . .”
“I am. He’s a distant cousin.”
“Really?”
“A poor one. Another side of the family made off with the inheritance. But then you know how kulaks behave.”
“All of them . . . enemies of the people. Wreckers.”
“I trust my papers are in order. And also my passport.”
“Yes, quite. Absolutely. No further questions, unless you’d like (a nervous cough) to exchange a few words about Oblomov. It’s a favorite novel of mine.”
“My friends used to call me Stolz, Oblomov’s German friend.”
“For good reason, for good reason. A relative of the great Goncharov. What do they call you now?”
“Comrade Click.”
“And why is that?”
Viktor made several loud clicks, one after the other, sounding like a machine gun. “That’s why.”
Himalayski tried to imitate the clicks, but sounded like a plodding horse. “Not so easy,” he said. “I’ll have to practice.”
“I learned how to do it in Africa.”
“Yes, yes, I see from your passport that you studied . . . where was that . . . he turned a few pages, ah, yes, in the Kalahari among the Bushmen. Very impressive.”
So the trip that Viktor had wanted to make for graduate studies had become a reality with Bogdan’s help. As he made his way back to the school, Sasha wondered how many others had resorted to forgeries to alter their lives? In a country where history determined one’s fate, the Soviets had become expert at changing the past. A new name gave a person a new reality that could include a different history. In effect, a new passport enabled one to be born again.
✷
Two days before the start of the parade, with patches of snow still lurking in shaded areas and the lilacs not yet in bloom, a military cargo truck rolled into Balyk. From under the tarp in the rear emerged several soldiers who immediately swept the square, drilled pole holes in the ground, installed red flags that languidly moved in the breeze, whitewashed the buildings facing the square, and covered the entire front of the church with a two-story-high canvas portrait of Stalin. They then set to work improvising a grandstand with a raised speaker’s platform, the spot from which Major Filatov would address the crowd. The locals gathered to watch, commenting on the fact that although they were often told that wood and nails were in short supply, when the government wanted a structure built, materials miraculously appeared.
The soldiers had brought tents and spent the first night billeted outdoors. But by the second day, the hospitable people of Balyk insisted the soldiers lodge with them. In short order, the uniformed men had made common cause with Goran and Viktor to organize the most splendid May Day celebration conditions allowed. Sasha could hear the hammering and smell the paint. Excitement infected the school, which became a whirligig of movement, as students repeatedly practiced marching from the school to the square and back. The citizens of Balyk had never before paid particular attention to May Day, though appreciative of a holiday that gave them a day off from work. But with the feverish activities around them, they began to fall in with the rhythm and communal spirit of the endeavor. From attics and old trunks surfaced old Tsarist military uniforms and fancy dress clothes, which the locals would proudly display during the festivities: the march, the speech, and the fireworks planned for later that night.
Alya and her good friend Benjie were beside themselves with joy. It was rumored that none other than Major Filatov might ask Benjie to sing, but as we all know, rumor is nothing more than many mouths playing on a pipe. Nonetheless, he prepared a song just in case, “Dark Eyes.” Alya would have liked to accompany him on her recorder, a Christmas gift from Sasha, but she was still struggling with the fingering and stops. Galina tried to downplay the importance of the day, lest her daughter be disappointed, but Alya, like most children, was intoxicated by the colors, the movement, the high spirits, and the anticipation of the students and locals. Here was a special event. There would be music, peasant dancing, finery, a parade, celebratory shouts, salute by gunfire, a speech, and thirty minutes of fireworks. Best of all, Alya had been selected as one of the drummer girls, and Benjie as a flag waver. After the festivities, the two of them would be left to their own wiles, because Galina and Sasha would be attending Filatov’s dinner, and Benjie’s mom, for some unknown reason, was also a guest.
An overnight rain had left the leaves sparkling and the earth redolent of spring. The Michael School students lined up early with their red armbands and scarves, and their white shirts newly washed and starched. Although a chill hung in the air, the students would march without jackets or coats, impervious to the weather in the service of socialism. Viktor and Goran would randomly distribute the placards and banners and signs just minutes before the start of the march, when the school orchestra struck the first notes of “The Internationale,” which Galina had been asked to conduct.
From the sidelines, Sasha watched Viktor and Goran hurry to the shed that held the poles and banners and such. When the first notes of the anthem sounded, they scooped up the results of their weeks of labor and carried them to the assembled body of students, who snapped to attention when handed a pole with an attached sign or poster. Few of the students even knew the people featured on the pictorial placards. The anthem was followed by the thump-thump and rat-a-tat-tat of several drums; then the students began to make their way from the school grounds to the road and then to the village square, where the early arriving Filatov and his two faithful agents, Larissa and Basil, stood on the reviewing stand, with Boris positioned slightly in front of his aides. Sasha and the teachers walked behind; hence they could
not understand the reason for the disturbance and agitated finger-pointing on the reviewing stand as the two marching groups—the students and townspeople—merged in the square. It did not bode well for Sasha that the reviewers were pointing not at the Balyk citizens but at the students. As Sasha scurried toward the reviewing stand, he glanced fleetingly at a few of the placards. One said, “Fascism Means War,” another “Peace and Brotherly Unity Among the Workers of All Nations,” another “Victory Over Capitalism,” another “Rescue People from Hunger and Want”; one photograph, titled “Enemies of the People,” exhibited three adoring men flanking Leon Trotsky: Genrikh Yagoda, Karl Radek, and Avram Brodsky. Below each man was his signature. Given Stalin’s hostility toward Trotsky and Yagoda, and Radek’s recent arrest, Brodsky could not have been pictured in worse company. The question that flashed through Sasha’s mind was whether the photograph had been doctored and the signatures forged. If so, he knew whom to accuse.
The dismay of the reviewers was not shared by the hundreds of people, few of whom had any idea about the internal struggles of the Politburo and the jockeying for power. On seeing Sasha, Filatov ordered him to his side.
“Is this some kind of ill-mannered joke?” he barked. “That Trotsky, Yagoda, and Radek should appear in our sacred May Day parade is an offense to all good Bolsheviks. And Brodsky: Why is he being celebrated? For writing a scurrilous play? I certainly hope not.”
“I think your first supposition is correct. It’s a bad joke.”
“Perpetrated by whom?”
“My guess is Bogdan Dolin and two of his friends.”
Filatov fell silent. After scanning the crowd, he replied, “Make sure all three of them are at dinner tonight. Do you understand? It will be their last supper.”
15
The table was set for thirteen places. Sasha offered to seat Filatov at the head, but the major refused, choosing to sit between his two aides across from Brodsky, Galina, and Viktor. Also present were the school secretary (Devora Berberova), Vera Chernikova, Bogdan Dolin, Natalia Korsakova, Ekaterina Rzhevska, Goran Youzhny, and an NKVD agent from Moscow (Polkovnikov). What in the world, thought Sasha, can such an incongruous group have in common? Undoubtedly, Filatov had interrogated groups of people before, but in such a narrow room, a furnished teacher’s lounge on the upper floor? If your aim is subterfuge, he’d heard it said, then act calmly. Filatov certainly fit the bill.
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