At long last, Pletnev was ready to start. ‘Comrade Gershberg, thank you for your time. Be so good, if you would, to tell us something about yourself. Where you were born, what your parents did, and so forth. I’m sure you know the drill by now.’
Boris found his voice and started his tale, telling the Commission that he was a son of a tailor who had scraped a living for many years in a small village near Kirov. Then, when he was about eight, his family received permission to move to Moscow and start anew. Boris followed his father’s example, and, as a sixteen-year-old, trained to become a tailor, but after a couple years, decided he would better serve his country by getting an education. And what, asked Pletnev, did he hope to do on graduation. Boris replied, truthfully, that he wanted to work in a theatre, with the ultimate aim of becoming a director. So far, thought Boris, so good.
‘Tell us about your friends, Comrade Gershberg.’
Boris listed a few male acquaintances, especially a boy he considered his best friend, a chap by the name of Shulman. For some reason, he decided against mentioning Rosa’s name.
‘Anyone else?’ asked Pletnev.
This was his cue, thought Boris, this was the moment of confession; to try and ignore it would only spell trouble. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers over his eye, beneath his glasses. He knew his friend was in the audience and would be wetting himself by now. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I was friends for a while – a short while – with a fellow student called Milyukov, but ...’ He imagined Milyukov heart leaping on hearing his name. ‘...but we are no longer friends.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Well, it’s not Milyukov’s fault, he was only a child, but many years ago, his father was duped into signing a Trotskyite declaration. Apparently, he immediately retracted it and confessed, and the Party forgave him. But all that was years ago.’ It seemed so far removed to be ridiculous.
‘But presumably, you must feel as if Milyukov Junior is still tainted?’
‘Oh no, Comrade Chairman, not at all.’
‘So why did you break off your friendship?’
Boris was almost enjoying this; he had subtly manoeuvred the focus onto Milyukov. Milyukov wouldn’t thank him for it but, as he’d said, the business with his father had been dealt with years ago and Milyukov had no reason to fear it. Boris was doing them both a favour. ‘No reason, Comrade Chairman, he changed classes and we lost contact, that’s all.’
‘Very well.’ Pletnev scribbled a few notes and Boris puffed his cheeks. He was almost there, he’d passed the difficult bit, the crowd was becoming fidgety with boredom – the gladiator was emerging unscathed. He looked at his passport longingly.
The Chairman looked up at him; was there a hint of a smile? ‘Just one thing I’m a bit puzzled about, and maybe you can help me, Comrade Gershberg.’ Boris nodded. ‘Your father – you say he was a tailor?’
It was as if a thunderbolt had zapped across the sky and hit Boris directly in the stomach. Why was Pletnev questioning him about his father? ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman.’
‘Has he always been a tailor?’
‘Y-yes, Comrade Chairman, sir.’
‘Comrade Chairman is enough, no need for the sir, thank you.’ He made a note in Boris’s file and mouthed the words audibly as he wrote them, ‘Always-been-a-tailor,’ and then looked back up at Boris. ‘Are you sure?’ A rustle of expectation spread through the audience.
He knows, but perhaps he doesn’t; perhaps it was just a bluff, to make him confess to something he needn’t. But what if he does know, this was his last chance. And what if he did confess: yes, all right then, my father was a rabbi. What was the reason, Pletnev would ask, for not having said earlier. Boris knew his survival, his whole future depended on how he answered. He felt as if the whole audience had, as one, moved to the edge of their seats, anticipating his reply, the scent of blood in their noses.
‘Well, Comrade Gershberg?’ asked Pletnev, twisting his pen between his fingers.
He’s bluffing, thought Boris, he could see it in his eyes; Pletnev was testing him. ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman, my father has always been a tailor. He started in Vyatka –’
‘Don’t call it that – it’s Kirov, and don’t you forget it.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Comrade Chairman.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yes, erm, my father was as an apprentice under the stewardship of his own father. It takes a good two years to learn all the skills necessary to make every type of suit, and then...’ Boris continued, without drawing breath, to describe his step-father’s trade in unnecessary detail, anything to make it look more convincing, anything to keep talking, to delay whatever was coming next, to bore the Chairman into submission. Pletnev, watching him intently, listened patiently as Boris prattled on about the life of a tailor – the type of clothes he made, the sort of customers he served, the conditions he worked in, the skills he had picked up from his father.
A familiar voice echoed out from the audience: ‘He’s lying!’ A ripple of laughter spread across the hall. Boris stopped in mid-sentence, unnerved by the sudden outburst.
Pletnev turned to the audience. ‘Who said that?’
‘Me, Comrade Chairman.’ A young man stood up quickly, his back straight as a ramrod, his shoulders seemingly too big for his suede jacket. Boris groaned inwardly.
‘Name?’
‘Milyukov, Comrade Chairman.’
‘Ah, the same Milyukov whose father signed the Trotskyite petition, I presume? Do you know for fact Comrade Gershberg is lying?’
‘No, Comrade Chairman, but it’s obvious, look at him.’
‘You were his friend, did you know about his father?’
‘Yes, he said his old man was a tailor but I never believed him.’ Boris regretted bringing Milyukov into the equation; had he not named Milyukov, he might have been spared this battering. ‘He was lying then as he’s lying to us now, Comrade Chairman.’
Pletnev turned his attention back on Boris. ‘It does seem strange that as an apprentice tailor and a son of a tailor, your jacket is missing a button.’ Boris glanced down – he’d quite forgotten about it. Pletnev continued, ‘But the point is, it says here, your father was a rabbi.’ The audience exploded into laughter and wild whoops. Boris stared at Pletnev incredulously. It couldn’t be possible, how could he know? ‘Well, Comrade Gershberg...’ Pletnev lowered his voice to a menacing sneer, ‘What do you have to say about it?’
The audience quietened down, revelling in Boris’s torment, waiting to see how he could squirm his way out. But Boris had no idea. His mind seemed incapable of forming a reply. It was already too late, he knew that, the truth was now the only option. ‘But he died when I was only five, surely I can’t be held responsible for his beliefs.’
Pletnev snorted. ‘“An apple never falls far from the tree”.’ The proverb drew a roar of approval from the audience.
‘No, I’m a Jew in name only but I don’t believe in that rubbish; I’m a communist to my last drop of blood, I swear, Comrade Chairman.’
Someone shouted, ‘Kick him out!’
‘Jew boy!’ People sniggered and a chant began, accompanied by slow hand-clap: ‘Jew boy, Jew boy!’ Pletnev rapped the table but failed to control the gleeful chant and the accompanying howls of derision. Boris was wounded and they were in for the kill. ‘Jew boy, Jew boy!’ The rhythmic noise pounded inside Boris’s head as he felt all semblance of self-control ebb away. He felt dizzy and, clenching his eyes shut, felt the sweat seeping from every pore. He found himself shouting to make himself heard above the din. ‘I beg you to believe me, comrades, I may be a Jew by descent, but not by faith, I have no religion, only my devoted allegiance to Comrade Stalin.’
‘Enough!’ Pletnev knocked again on the table. ‘Enough, I say, this is becoming farcical,’ he shouted. Slowly, the chant died down until, eventually, the hall was quiet again, save for the occasional muffled chortle. ‘Comrade Gershberg...’ Pletnev’s voice, Boris noticed, had taken on a dee
per, more ominous tone. ‘It is one thing to have had a father as a rabbi, but another to lie about his occupation –’
‘May I speak, Comrade Chairman?’
‘If you must.’
‘I have no recollection of my father, he is as dead in my mind as he is dead in the ground. My stepfather, my real father, the one who brought me up, he was, and still is, a tailor. Everything I said was true, it’s just that I don’t recognise my dead father as having any bearing on my life. My stepfather is the only father I’ve know –’
‘You’re rambling and I’m fast losing my patience. What you say has little relevance. The fact is, you are perfectly aware of having had a father who believed in superstition, the sort of claptrap that keeps our weaker comrades in a state of perpetual backwardness. You lied to us. And we have to ask ourselves, if you can conceal a part of yourself so effectively for so many years, what other skeletons lurk in your conscience? You have a rabbi’s blood coursing through your veins, and that you try to deny it implies you have failed to confront your past. Comrade Stalin himself –’ Pletnev was obliged to pause and wait for the enthusiastic applause to have its say. The two men stared at each other. For a moment, Boris thought he saw a flicker of empathy within the Chairman’s eye, as if, he too, knew they were both pawns in this ridiculous theatre, that they were equally victims of the system that demanded its pound of flesh. But as the applause for Stalin dwindled away, Pletnev’s outward dehumanising expression reasserted itself. Boris knew the emperor was ready to jerk his thumb downwards – his fate was sealed. But how did Pletnev know, who’d informed on him? Eventually, Pletnev was able to continue. ‘In short, Gershberg, you are unreliable, and the country can do without your sort defiling its good name.’ Yelps of agreement came from the audience. ‘Comrade Gershberg, you are to be expelled from the college.’ Boris felt himself melt into the chair. ‘Dismissed.’
The audience erupted into a huge cheer, the gladiator was dead. He sat there for a few moments, his mind blank, his heart thundering, his glasses steaming up. Pletnev scribbled down more notes for Boris’s file. Eventually, Boris felt a hand nudge him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw the uniformed guard standing above him, motioning him to follow. Boris rose unsteadily to his feet, conscious of his sweat-laden trousers pulling away from the wooden seat. As he followed the guard, he felt as if he was not himself, as if it was all happening to somebody else. He felt as if he could almost look down on himself, like a dying man, whose spirit has already fled from the departing body. He looked up towards where he had been sitting in the audience. The audience had already quietened down, no doubt, he thought, each worrying that they might be next. He saw no evidence of the people who, moments earlier, had bayed for his blood. Instead, he realised, he was being watched by a sea of pitiful eyes but not one of them would risk talking to him again. Except, perhaps, for Rosa. He noticed her, she was standing on her feet, trying to make herself visible to him. She smiled sympathetically and he was about to smile back when, suddenly, he remembered. His knees buckled and he almost fell. The guard, realising, stepped back and hauled him up from under his armpits. It had been the only time he’d ever mentioned it, the only time in his whole life, and only because he assumed that of all people, she was the only one he could trust – really trust. But he’d been wrong. The bitch. It was she who had betrayed him.
Chapter 11: Two Interviews
Rykov sat in his red leather chair, writing a few notes at his desk. A red lampshade threw a mysterious light on the desk, outshining the feeble ceiling bulb above. Lurking behind him, on his feet, was Vladimir. I sat with a small handbag on my lap and fidgeted with its clasp. I tried to catch Vladimir’s eye, to seek his reassurance, but he studiously ignored me. Why was I here, I wondered; did Rykov want to tighten the screw; I hoped to God not.
‘Well,’ said Rykov finally, placing his pen down on the table. ‘How pleasant to see you again so soon, Maria, sooner than normal. First of all, let me apologise for calling you in at such short notice, and thank you for being able to attend.’ I tried to smile, but managed only a nervous twitch at the corner of my mouth. Rykov continued, his palms opened wide. ‘So, before we begin, tell me, how’s your brother?’
‘No better.’
‘Oh, now that is a shame.’ He pushed his small, rounded glasses further up his nose. ‘Now, I shall try not to detain you longer than necessary. You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you to come in when our next appointment is scheduled for next week – it’s a fair question and I can’t pretend this is going to be easy.’ My heartbeat quickened. ‘You see, a rather unfortunate incident has come to our attention and, I’m sorry to say, it concerns a friend of yours. Please, don’t overly concern yourself. It’s just a triviality, you know how these things are, usually something of nothing. But we’re obliged to investigate. I’m sure you understand.’
‘What... what is he meant to have done, this friend?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know who we’re referring to first? His name is Dmitry Kalinin. I believe he is an associate of yours, if my sources inform me correctly. Is that right?’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘Can I ask how close a friend you are to Comrade Kalinin?’
‘Erm, well, I wouldn’t say we were that close.’
‘Passing acquaintances?’ I nodded. ‘So how do you know each other?’
‘His sister, I’m a friend of his sister.’
‘Your performance at the unveiling of that painting certainly helped us join the dots. But like I say, it’s a nothing. But the chap at the factory, some upstart bureaucrat called Trifonov, a man with too much time on his hands, has put in a complaint. Trifonov was, as I think you know, upset by your depiction in the painting. Now, I’ve not seen the painting, but I’ve been told there’s nothing unduly wrong with it but still, it isn’t the point. It has brought to the fore an interesting side issue that was already sitting in my in-tray. You’ve heard of the Russian Association of Proletariat Artists?’
‘In passing.’
‘And this Dmitry chap, I believe, is a member?’
‘I – I wouldn’t know.’ I was sure he could see through me.
‘You see, rumour has it that RAPA is fast falling from grace. They’ve become too big for their boots and the Politburo are losing patience. We also have our suspicions that there are unsuitable elements within RAPA – ’
‘No, not Dmitry –’
‘Now, now, Maria Radekovna, not so hasty; I’m sure you’re right. We don’t know as yet how he stands but nonetheless, what about this association of which he is a member? Are they reliable servants of the State? Or do they harbour within their ranks a few rotten eggs? And...’ Rykov leant forward and fixed his gaze into my eyes. ‘This is where you come in. I need you to find out information about his colleagues and their beliefs. Are they firm believers in the art of social realism or are they merely paying lip service? Use your contact with this Dmitry fellow and get yourself invited to a meeting. See who’s saying what.’
‘But what if I can’t?’
Rykov narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, but you can. All you have to do is sieve through the crap and see what scum floats to the top.’ He paused to allow his instruction to filter through. ‘I know what you’re thinking – what if my new friend is implicated? Well, I would like to think that you wouldn’t hesitate to denounce him. Remember, your ties to the Party are stronger than any ties of friendship. Stalin is your brother, your father, your benefactor, your guide. Your duty is to Stalin and your country, don’t forget it. Don’t ever forget it.’ He scribbled a note on a piece of paper on his desk, before looking back at me. ‘OK, you can go now. We’ll call you when we need the information.’
Gripping my handbag, I rose unsteadily to my feet. As I turned to leave, Vladimir spoke, ‘How’s Rosa?’ he asked.
‘She – she’s well, thank you.’
‘Give her my... my regards.’
I tried to smile as I made quickly for the door.
Vladimir lounged in Rykov’s chair, enjoying the sensation of sitting in the boss’s place, wearing the blue, silken scarf that his mother had given him. This, he thought, was power, and this is where, eventually, he wanted to be. He cast his eye across the desk – the two Bakelite telephones, the bust of Marx, the Lenin paperweight. He pulled open the drawer to his left. Inside was a small pile of forms, which they were obliged to fill in after each interview. Beneath the papers, a couple of pamphlets – NKVD manuals and a book on Marxist-Leninist theory. And beneath that – a revolver, a Mauser 2.1, a beautiful piece of equipment. He closed the drawer.
He was tired. Hours spent lurking at the back of the school auditorium watching Pletnev at work had taken it out of him. He thought about Rosa and the expression on her face at seeing the rich offerings of produce in the closed store. The look on her face was a delight but he regretted his haste. If he was to have a future with this woman, then truth was of greater importance than dazzling her with access and privilege. But what could he tell her? As a young employee of the NKVD, his occupation had to remain a secret. If they became engaged, then that was okay, as long as future spouses could be relied upon. But would he be allowed to marry her? Her father had been arrested as a wrecker, a saboteur, and imprisoned. She was therefore, by default, a tainted being - and worse, her survival depended solely on her aunt’s continued co-operation. So far, it was working out nicely.
But now, with Rykov tightening the screw, would Maria be able to cope? For her brother’s sake, and Rosa’s, she had little choice, but, nonetheless, Vladimir was worried. What if Rykov pushed her too far? The effect would be like a stack of dominoes – Viktor would fall first, followed by Maria, and then, very probably, Rosa, and, possibly, even himself. Common sense told him to rid himself of all contact with Rosa; his relationship with her could only spell trouble. But love, he realised, can sometimes override common sense.
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