Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  “Are you mad, Comrade von Fresser?” Irina put aside the pad and opened the folder on her lap. “I have the evidence here.” She tapped the papers in the folder. “You will be convicted as an enemy of the people and given twenty years at hard labor.”

  Basil cleared his throat, admired the long ash on his cigar, removed his feet from the desk, and sat upright. “Comrade Vostoyeva,” he said, “do you know the name Ivan Bunin, the man who wrote that most wonderful story, ‘The Gentleman from San Francisco,’ the story in which a man oblivious to nature and the suffering of others dies on holiday. Surely you know this Bunin I speak of.”

  Irina’s face flushed, and she closed her folder. “Only by name.”

  “Is he not on the forbidden list?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Believe so,” he chuckled, and then said sternly, “You know very well he is.”

  “What of it?”

  He placed his cigar in an ashtray and removed a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. “Do you know the name Katerina Tershina?”

  Her folded arms dropped limply to her lap, and her hands shook. “I never heard of this person.”

  “And yet her name appears at the top of this page.”

  “What does that piece of paper have to do with me?”

  “Come, come, comrade, you said we should not fence. You are writing an essay under an assumed name about Ivan Bunin. Worse, you are writing it for a western audience. Doubly worse, you are writing it for a German audience—in German. If your treachery is not to leave this room, I trust that we can come to some understanding.”

  Irina’s silence seemed to Basil like a thousand years. At last, she put her hands to her head and, with all the self-chastisement that she could summon, asked rhetorically, “What have I done?”

  “Indeed, comrade, you have asked a critical question. I will answer you. With this document, which no doubt bears your fingerprints, you have put yourself in grave danger. But I am a merciful man, a forgiving citizen, as all party members should be. So tomorrow you will board the train for Moscow—alone. You will, as I said, give Brovensk a clean bill of health, perhaps even adding that the party secretary is a particularly effective leader. In return, no one in Brovensk shall ever repeat the name Katerina Tershina. If you wish, I can have this page copied so your work may proceed without interruption, and I can accommodate you to the train.”

  “The bitch! No doubt she stole the paper from my briefcase.”

  “Now, now, comrade, I thought we had agreed on a peace. Let us part with smiles on our faces and sealed lips.”

  “I agreed to nothing. I merely upbraided myself for stupidity.”

  Basil mulled over her mulishness and decided that like so many other Communist officials, she parroted a party line without the ability or strength to defend it.

  “Then you wish, Comrade Vostoyeva, to proceed with your charges?” Irina studied one of her fingers and viciously bit off a nail, but said nothing. “The one consolation, Comrade Vostoyeva, is that we may be able to share a work camp and toil side by side cutting down trees for the motherland.”

  Basil could see her eyes moisten, and, though she remained mute, she rose from her chair as stiff as a ferule and nodded agreement. Coming from behind the desk, he extended his hand; she responded by clicking the heels of her ugly shoes. A moment later, a door could be heard opening and closing, but no one could actually say that he saw Irina disappear into the dark.

  Her hosts, in fact, never heard her enter the house, or pack, or leave for the station. According to rumor, that night she had slept on a platform bench at the railroad, perhaps dreaming of a dead gentleman in a tarred box stored at the bottom of a steamship. She was last seen angrily shoving her bags on the train and pulling down the shades next to her soft upholstered armchair.

  At dinner that evening, Comrade von Fresser sat at the head of the Shtube table for the celebration. He and his wife enjoyed mineral water, wine, and more than one box of chocolates. Before leaving, Basil requested that Natasha assist him in the office the next afternoon. “No need to get up with the sun now that the Moscow witch has taken her leave.” When the von Fressers exited the Shtube house and arrived at their own, the hour was late. Closing the front door behind him, Basil lit a cigar and said to his wife, “Now that’s what I call a pleasant evening.”

  By the time Natasha arrived at Basil’s office, a line of people stretched from his desk, out the door, and round the corner. Their faces were familiar. And why not? The very people who had been asked to relinquish their party membership cards were now buying new ones, also those people to whom Natasha had once given cards that she had purloined. The party secretary asked her to record the names as he signed the cards and collected the fees. For five days, the crowds never abated, perhaps because those who held legitimate cards decided, for caution’s sake, to renew their membership. A delighted Comrade von Fresser charged everyone the same, as a good Communist should.

  At the end of the week, Mary, the priest’s daughter, came to the Lipnoskii house to see Natasha. She modestly requested a new card for herself and her son. The next day, Natasha, as she had in the past, removed a card from the stack in Comrade Basil’s office, forged his signature, and gave it to Mary.

  “Like a blessed saint,” said Mary, “you are deserving of glorification by Christ our Savior. Once again, you have provided me with a passport for life, even if it’s only a life of warm straw that smells like cold sorrow.”

  The Letter

  Dimitri Lipnoskii’s letter, dated “The Kremlin, Sunday, August 27, 1933,” completely upended Razan’s and Anna’s world.

  Dearest Mother and Honorable Stepfather, Razan Shtube,

  Our Beloved Leader, Comrade Stalin, has need of a barber. As you know from the history of our Great Motherland, barbering holds an exalted position among our people, dating from Peter the Great cutting the beards of his officers and passing a law requiring all noblemen to live beardless. A mustache, such as the wonderful one that our Koba is known for round the world, is not only allowed but also encouraged. I now have such a mustache myself, though mine does not compare with Koba’s incomparable thickness nor does it have curled ends.

  As Kremlin barber, you will be entitled to live in a government house, with other Soviet dignitaries, as well as musicians, artists, and poets, on an embankment of the Moscow River. You will enjoy all the benefits of the elite, for example, a private car, a cook, fine food and wines, travel inside the country, vacations, and of course a handsome stipend. Yefim Boujinski, the previous barber, often remarked that his was the most exacting appointment in the country. Now that he is gone, I am happy to tell you that through close Kremlin contacts, I have made known that Razan Shtube is the country’s finest barber, and that his mastery of the Turkish style cannot be found outside of Constantinople, not even in Tirana. I suspect that by alluding to King Zog, whose immaculate appearance Koba often praises, I sealed the deal, as they say.

  In short, Koba wants my dear stepfather, Razan, to come to Moscow, at the Supreme Leader’s expense, to give him a trial haircut. On the basis of that trial will hang Razan’s fate, and perhaps that of the rest of the Lipnoskii family. Our Supreme Leader said that he particularly looked forward to comparing my stepfather’s Turkish technique with that of the Caucasian-Uzbeki style. It goes without saying that a burned ear could cost us all dearly. But I do not dwell on that possibility since I know that my stepfather is without peers.

  As soon as you make your travel arrangements, let me know. I long to hug my mother again and will arrange to meet you at the train station in a black Packard diplomat’s car. Only the best for Koba’s barber!

  Your devoted son,

  Dimitri

  * * *

  No sooner had Razan shown Anna the letter than she ran through the back garden and across the square to the party secretary’s house to show it to him and his wife.

  “Stalin’s barber?” said an incredulous Basil, and immediately telegraphed his
son to return home from school. When Alexei arrived, he could not contain his joy at seeing his parents’ changed attitude toward Natasha, in no small part because of her extraordinary cooking and clerical skills. But it was his father who amazed him most. What could have caused him to change his mind about Mrs. Lipnoskaya and the barber? Surely, Natasha had not become his mistress. She was far too canny to be snared by the old goat. Alexei’s confusion was dispelled when his father directed him and Natasha to be seated in the living room, summoned Anna and Razan, and opened a bottle of ten-year-old wine, which he distributed liberally to his guests.

  “Did you hear, Alexei?” thundered his father, with undisguised self-interest. “Stalin himself has asked our own beloved Razan Shtube to be tested for the role of Kremlin barber. Have I not told you a hundred times, more, a thousand times, that you and Natasha should think seriously of tying the knot? What greater joy for your mother and me than to see our two families united. Have I not always praised the virtues of Anna Lipnoskaya and the great Albanian traditions of her stepfather? What are you waiting for?”

  As the full meaning of the letter, with its awful nuances, dawned on Razan, he said, “Don’t you think we should wait until after the test? Who knows, anything could happen.”

  “Precisely!” cried the party secretary. “We could all be living in the government apartment house, rubbing shoulders with the Molotovs and Mikoyans.”

  The civil wedding took place in the local school shortly after Alexei’s institute granted him a leave of absence. Gregori Lipnoskii served as ring bearer, and Pavel stood holy witness to Natasha’s chastity. Anna and Razan shared the cost of the celebration, an elaborate party held at the von Fressers’ house and open to the entire village. Dovgan vodka, made from grain grown in the black-soil region, triple distilled, and charcoal filtered was shipped directly from the distillery in Buturlinovsky. Nobody kept track of the refills or pirogies the hundreds of guests consumed. The couple honeymooned for two weeks in Sochi—during their stay the Krasnodar region had enjoyed fine weather—and, upon their return, Alexei was beaming from ear to ear knowing that he, and not his father, had been the first to taste Natasha’s nectar. A few days later, the newlyweds left for Leningrad.

  The next letter from Dimitri was brief; he wanted to know the reasons for the family’s delay. He included a photograph of Stalin, neatly barbered. Anna’s bags stood in a corner, packed. She was ready to leave at any time, but Razan had found Dimitri’s letter disquieting. Even Anna’s assurance that the words did not mean what Razan ascribed to them could not lessen his fears. Again and again he read over the letter, considering the possible interpretations.

  “Dearest Mother and Honorable Stepfather.” He had never heard Dimitri call his mother “dearest.” Dimitri was, in fact, quite parsimonious with his endearments. And what had Razan done to be called “honorable”? Was Dimitri keen to have Razan lose his life or to improve the family’s social rank? “Our Beloved Leader, Stalin, has need of a barber.” The Hungarian Karl Pauker, head of state security, barbered Stalin before his responsibilities became too numerous and his travels too extensive, leading to the appointment of Yefim Boujinski, who came from Tashkent. Yefim had been trained in the Muslim manner. Was he dismissed because of his technique or for some treachery? It would be useful to know. “Barbering holds an exalted position among our people, dating from Peter the Great cutting the beards of his officers and passing a law requiring all noblemen to live beardless.” Razan could read between the lines. Peter had wanted to westernize the country; the Boyars had resisted. The cutting of beards symbolized not only modernization but also the suppression of a class. That Peter was willing to execute the task himself . . . Razan paused in his reflections and trembled at the thought of his having entertained the word “execute.”

  “A mustache, such as the wonderful one that our Koba is known for round the world . . .” If the man’s mustache had become so famous, then he must adore it. One wrong snip—and what? Perhaps Razan would be snipped. “Thickness.” Would Koba tell him to thin or lengthen the mustache or what lotion to use; or would he have to guess? Some of the party members had mustaches that blended in with their beards and extended to their ears. “Curled ends.” One could curl either the end or the entire mustache. From the numerous pictures of Stalin in the town, he could tell that the Vozhd preferred a bottom twist, which required a certain tonsorial dexterity.

  “As Kremlin barber, you will be entitled to live in a government house with other Soviet dignitaries, as well as musicians, artists, and poets, on an embankment of the Moscow River. You will enjoy all the benefits of the elite, for example, a private car, a cook, fine food and wines, travel inside the country, vacations, and of course a handsome stipend.” Razan knew the rumor: the closer one came to Stalin, the greater the danger. To work in the Kremlin, that snake pit of intrigue, he would have to note constantly who was in favor and who was out; he would always be watched by secret policemen; and he would never know whether his apartment was bugged. The benefits of obscurity—namely, freedom and the absence of fear—suddenly seemed immensely appealing.

  “Yefim Boujinski, the previous barber, often remarked that his was the most exacting appointment in the country. Now that he is gone . . .” Razan pondered the word “exacting.” Who drew up these stipulations or requirements that were not easily satisfied, Yefim or Stalin? Razan could undermine his skill by putting too much pressure on himself. Equally, one could falter if the recipient of his art demanded perfection. Razan wished that Dimitri had been more specific about Yefim’s fate. “Gone” could mean that he had left by choice, or by expulsion, or by a bullet. Razan wanted more details.

  “I suspect that by alluding to King Zog, whose immaculate appearance Koba often praises, I sealed the deal. . . .” For all his public pronouncements that he was a simple man of the people, Stalin, as Razan surmised from the many fawning newspaper articles, was the equivalent of a Red Tsar. To balance the proletarian and the princely would be no easy task. Besides the barbering, Razan would have to weigh his every word.

  “A trial haircut. On the basis of that trial will hang Razan’s fate, and perhaps that of the rest of the Lipnoskii family. In a personal note to me, our Supreme Leader said that he particularly looked forward to comparing my stepfather’s Turkish technique with that of the Caucasian-Uzbeki style. It goes without saying that a burned ear could cost us all dearly. But I do not dwell on that possibility since I know that my stepfather is without peers.” This paragraph was easily the most frightening. Stalin loved to put people on trial and see them squirm. If Razan failed, he would, like others, be exiled to the east or shot. What would happen to Anna and her children; and where had the Boujinski family disappeared to? Razan set the letter aside. Before accepting the offer, he would try to contact either Yefim or members of his family to determine whether he and Anna should move to Moscow or stay in Brovensk.

  Anna was stunned. “A disgraced barber! Such a person you don’t ask for advice. He was fired by Stalin. Worse, he’s an Uzbek. Have you ever met one you could trust?” she asked fiercely. “Uzbekistan! It houses thieves and zealots. You must be ill and running a fever.”

  She had dealt with numerous Uzbek traders who traveled the old trails of the silk route. They could strike sharp bargains. One of them had even sold her a teapot that he claimed came from the Ming dynasty. It was antique, all right, just as the man claimed. Within a week, the vessel leaked and the porcelain glaze rubbed off, revealing a cheap pot underneath. No, in Anna’s estimation, an Uzbek trader was no more trustworthy than a Gypsy.

  But Razan had met a man in Tirana who had studied at the synagogue in Bukhara, the one with stuffed pillows made of silk and raised platforms on which the congregation rested. Did the Uzbeks resent the orient incense that infused the air or the golden lamps and shafts of sunlight that lit the shul? Not at all. After services, Jews and Muslims met at the bottom of the road and sat on a low wall dipping their fingers in the pond. Here they exchanged de
licacies and stories, each familiar with the other’s language.

  Surely, Yefim was no different from the Bukharans, Razan reasoned. Besides, Stalin would never have hired a religious fanatic nor brought from Tashkent anyone but a brilliant barber. People weren’t plucked out of obscurity for their prejudices. Perhaps then what the Bolsheviks said was true: that Stalin rewarded achievements and gave humble workers positions of prestige.

  Dimitri’s response to Razan’s inquiries left him no less satisfied than before. Yefim Boujinski had moved from a government-issued apartment to a narrow street not far from the Arbat. He and his wife lived over a barbershop, though she never appeared. Razan pondered the meaning of her absence. Anna said, “Religion.”

  “That must be it! Anna, you have a genius for finding meaning where most would see nothing.”

  “You are satisfied, then, and we can take the train to Moscow?”

  “No, I will first get Boujinski’s address and write to him myself about the position. If I am not satisfied with his answer, we will stay in Brovensk. So that no harm comes to Dimitri, I will plead illness and write a letter to Pravda praising Stalin’s generosity for his willingness to give a simple barber the opportunity to work for the Supreme Leader. Agreed?” He tried to hug her, but she resisted.

  “You’re wasting your time. The man will never respond. If he’s out of favor, his mail is undoubtedly read.”

  “Then I will go alone to speak privately with Comrade Boujinski. If he tells me it’s safe, I’ll summon you.”

  “Alone!” she scoffed. “The Muscovites will immediately stamp you as a foreigner. Your accent will attract the secret police.” She took his hand. “I insist on accompanying you—for your own good.”

  How could Razan argue with his faithful Anna when she had only his well-being in mind? So he hired a cart to take their valises and a few prized pieces of furniture to the station. The train remained in Brovensk fifteen minutes instead of five, to allow Anna time to supervise the storage of her belongings in the baggage car.