Barely able to reply from the exhilaration of having survived, Razan nodded yes, took his briefcase, and left in the company of the two guards, one of whom helped him on with his coat. In the street, the guard hailed a cab and paid for the barber to be returned to the house on the embankment.
* * *
When Razan next returned to the Troitsky Gate, his guide was a young functionary who led him not on a tour of the Kremlin but into a guardhouse to be searched and then to Poskrebyshev’s office, where the aide greeted him bluntly:
“Same overcoat but a different scarf and gloves.”
Razan marveled at the man’s memory, reputed to be like a card file—and unfailing. Razan sat hunched over in his overcoat, hoping that he’d have the chance to appear in it before the Vozhd. No one had yet ordered him to hang it on the coatrack. The buzzer rang and the same two guards, his official bookends, started to parade him into Stalin’s office.
“The overcoat!” said Poskrebyshev.
Razan stalled. As he had hoped, the buzzer rang again. Stalin had a reputation for expecting the people he summoned to materialize immediately. His chef de cabinet barked: “The hell with that vile coat, take him in as he is!”
Like the first time, the guards held him fast at the threshold. Stalin came forward and shook his hand. The Boss appeared taller. Razan guessed that he was wearing higher elevated shoes. For some reason, this pleased him, perhaps because a show of vanity on Stalin’s part justified Razan’s wanting the Vozhd to see his new coat.
“That’s quite an overcoat you have,” said Stalin, earning Razan’s immediate gratitude. But for some reason, Razan was not asked to remove it. “Although humility adorns a Bolshevik, I do not begrudge a man a fine piece of cloth—and a warm one.”
So appreciative of Stalin’s admiration was Razan that he found himself slightly bending a knee and bowing before the Supreme Leader. Years later, at the thought of this moment, he would swear to himself that it had all happened involuntarily and in the presence of a ghost.
Razan reached into his briefcase for the teakwood box that held the implements of his trade. “It’s been two days. Permit me to shave you again in the Turkish manner.”
Stalin replied, “Not now. But you’ll be glad to hear that I spoke to my people. They heartily approve. You shall become the official barber to our Kremlin vanguard. Poskrebyshev will make all the formal and financial arrangements.” Stalin then patted Razan on the back and disappeared into the adjoining room.
That Razan Shtube was not Poskrebyshev’s favorite became amply clear when the aide grumbled, “Here are your working papers. Sign here, assuming that you can read and write.”
With a flourish, Razan signed his name, reading the key clause loudly, “Will serve at Comrade Stalin’s pleasure.” Razan brushed an imaginary speck off his coat and said, “I trust that the Vozhd and I can conduct our future business without the interference of others.”
“There is hardly a single matter,” Poskrebyshev crowed, “that Comrade Stalin does not consult me about. In fact, some people say disparagingly that I am his shield bearer, but I regard that statement as a badge of honor.”
A young functionary summoned to escort Razan from the Kremlin asked in a whisper, “Is it true that you are the new barber to the Red Leader’s Court? That’s the rumor racing through the building.”
“Court?” repeated Razan. “I thought Bolsheviks promote humility. That’s what Stalin said.”
The functionary corrected himself. “A slip of the tongue.”
At the Troitsky Gate, Razan asked, “Doesn’t a court mean dachas and Packards and lodging in a government house and fine foods and . . .”
“My mistake. It is always best to keep one’s thoughts unspoken.”
* * *
Each day, Razan observed the same schedule. He shaved the staff during working hours and Stalin by night. That first evening, Koba had greeted him warmly:
“You have a gentle touch, citizen, or should I say comrade? No, we have not yet arrived at that point. So tell me, how do you keep your hand from shaking when you shave the Vozhd?”
The barber could have taken the opportunity to sing his own tonsorial praises, but from the constant deference paid the Supreme Leader, the genuflecting of the courtiers—“courters” would have been more accurate—he suspected that the air around Stalin could oxygenate only paeans for the Red Pope. Razan’s mind wandered. Red. Antonio Vivaldi’s hair color led to his nickname, the “red priest.” One could be caught “red-handed,” a phrase that suited a felon. As a child, Stalin’s hair was reportedly red.
“Fear,” he finally said, “fear of offending you and what might then ensue.”
“That, Razan, describes precisely the state of mind I want to instill in my people.” He coughed. “So you see, we think alike.”
“I find,” said the barber, recalling his parents, “that a gentle hand that lightly leads may be equally effective.”
“I have a son,” Stalin scoffed, “a wayward boy who resents any lessons and revels in rebellion. Would you advise I whip the whelp?” Before Razan could reply, Stalin added, “Alliterations amuse me.”
“My mother raised me. My father worked early to late in the barbershop.” He pointed to a bookcase. “She read to me and always repeated the words that resonated most with her.”
Stalin kindly placed the palm of his right hand on Razan’s cheek. “You’re a lucky man, citizen, my mother . . . never mind. Such stories are off-limits. Just be glad of your good fortune. Pain and death are every man’s moiety. Tenderness is the exception.”
* * *
On Dimitri’s return, he took Anna and Razan to dinner at the Stray Dog restaurant. They sat next to the front window. Among the clatter of dishes, the forced gaiety, and insincere laughter, their quiet conversation was unlikely to be overheard. The windows, frosted outside and fogged inside, made it impossible for them to be observed from the street. Dimitri, who had been absent from Moscow for over two weeks, looked ill.
“It’s nothing physical,” he said, in response to his mother’s questioning, “nothing that medicine can cure.”
His response led her to rush into questions that she might normally have waited to ask. “How is Gregori? You saw him at the theological institute. And how are Natasha and Alexei? Natasha wrote and said you spent a few hours with them in Leningrad. We want to hear all about it. Gregori hardly ever writes. Is Alexei passing all his medical courses?”
The combination of heated bodies and steaming dishes humidified the restaurant. Dimitri looked around and then used his napkin to wipe away the sweat that ran from his forehead to his chin. Razan had the impression that if Anna had not been so anxious about her children, Dimitri would have bolted. He had always been close to his mother, much more so than were the other two boys. Although as a child he had kept to himself, Anna had made it a point before bedtime to take him aside and ask what troubled him most? Her gentleness never failed to elicit a response and to dispel his fears.
“I’m worried about both Gregori and Alexei.”
“Gregori? A theology student who belongs to the Soviet-approved Renovationist Church! What trouble could he have made for himself?”
“It’s complicated,” said Dimitri. “I spoke to Comrade Chicherin, the previous foreign minister in charge of relations with Rome. Gregori’s distrusted. To clear his name, I advised him—and he agreed—to meet with those Roman Catholic agents who are working to recruit the Russian Orthodox and undermine our government.”
The waitress brought each of them borscht, with a large, steaming beet. While the men spooned the soup, Anna left hers untouched. Leaning across the table, she whispered:
“If he’s working for the Soviets, what’s the problem?”
“If, if, if. With Gregori, you never know. He’s so changeable.”
Theological discussions, in Razan’s estimation, took place in a gossamer realm and were of no interest, except for their consequences. But with Gregori being
the principal lawbreaker, he found himself listening.
“Rome wants to undermine the Soviets by restoring the Patriarchal Church,” said Dimitri, rearranging the salt and pepper shakers.
“But Gregori is anti-Rome and prefers the Renovationists.”
“The government says that Gregori is playing a double game.”
“Did you warn him to be on his guard?”
“The promise that the Renovationists will be allowed to worship freely may have blinded him to the danger of Roman proselytizing.”
“But you said you asked him to spy for the Soviets against Rome.”
He shrugged. “Actually it was Chicherin’s idea.”
Anna silently brooded. Her soup and beet had quit steaming. She pushed the bowl toward Dimitri, knowing his hearty appetite.
“All his mail is being read. And I can’t see him again.”
Anna asked anxiously, “What do you suggest?”
Covering his mouth with his hand, he said, “If the Soviet secret police send him to Rome as an agent . . . he should stay in the west.”
“We could all be arrested.”
“Not if he disappears without a trace.”
They said nothing further until the boiled beef and cabbage arrived. A few bites of the main course restored their speech.
“When it rains it floods,” said Anna. “Tell me about Alexei. Natasha’s letters sound anxious.”
“First, dear mother, let me assure you that Natasha is in perfect health and is planning to have her eyes operated on.”
“An operation!”
Razan patted Anna’s hand. “The surgeons in Leningrad are reputed to be the best.” What he didn’t say, and certainly not in front of Dimitri, was that a great number of them were Jewish, some of whom had trained in Vienna.
“Then what?” asked Anna.
“She’s been promised a position in a publishing house.”
“I can guess the reason, and it’s not because of her editorial experience. Beauty,” she mumbled, “can be a curse. And Alexei?”
Dimitri pointed to his mouth. He had a mouthful.
Anna continued. “Basil von Fresser wrote us shortly after we arrived to ask if Razan had been appointed Stalin’s barber and, if so, could Razan get him and his wife party work and a flat in Moscow.”
Dimitri put down his knife and fork. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Just that one letter.”
Dimitri scraped some frost from the window and peered out.
“I can tell,” said Anna, “you know something.”
“They’ve both been exiled, along with other Germans, to some camp in the taiga.”
“Will the Albanians be next?” Razan asked into the vacant air.
For his stepfather’s sake, Dimitri said, “At least for now the Jews are protected, so you needn’t worry.”
“I wonder how long that will last,” replied Razan.
“Let’s not suppose,” Anna said. “We have to respond to what’s in front of us. Why is Alexei under suspicion? You haven’t said.”
“At the medical school, he and Natasha have a room. Students often meet there to read poetry and talk about literature. Someone recited an anti-Stalin poem, and an informer told the secret police. Although Alexei and the wrongdoer will be allowed to complete their courses, they will be sent to Voronezh. No wives allowed.”
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Razan said risibly, “Some of our best poets have been exiled to Voronezh. At least the city isn’t lacking in culture.”
Anna gave her husband a cutting look and said plaintively, “He’s married to my daughter, not yours!”
“The source of my humor,” Razan replied, “is not joy but sorrow.”
Anna was already thinking ahead. If Dimitri could not quash the order for Alexei’s banishment, perhaps Razan could appeal to the Supreme Leader. And if neither her son nor her husband could effect a remedy, perhaps some official could be prevailed upon to assign Alexei to a military camp, where the rations would be plentiful. The only thing that could be said for Voronezh was that one could reach it easily by rail from Moscow and that it wasn’t Siberia.
“Military camps always need doctors,” she said.
“And Natasha?” Dimitri asked.
“She can live with us in Moscow, in our apartment. We have enough room.”
Razan said nothing.
At the end of the meal, Dimitri pushed back his chair from the table and sighed, “Sadness everywhere.”
Anna, painfully disturbed about Alexei, reproved her son. “And who ever said we were entitled to happiness?”
“Alexei!” Dimitri said carelessly. “He got off easy.”
In no mood to be consoled, Anna shot back, “Don’t be an idiot!”
Dimitri parried, “You have no idea what some people suffer.”
“Death! Is there anything worse?” Anna paused. “I take that back. Torture and illness are worse.”
“On my last assignment, I saw things that no one should see.”
He broke off sharply. A rouged young woman, hidden beneath layered lipstick and thick mascara, sat down in the company of a uniformed officer, much her senior. All the signs pointed to a tryst, which meant that they would be sensitive to other voices around them.
Tapping her chest, Anna knowingly said, “I need fresh air. It’s too close in here. Let’s take a walk down the street.”
Razan smiled at her perspicacity. Had she been overheard, no one could accuse her of retreating outdoors to hear or say the forbidden. “Yes,” said Razan, “the heat and steam in here are suffocating.”
Dimitri smiled knowingly. He had no wish to speak in a public place, a restaurant, about something that could cost him his life. “Yes, let’s take a walk.”
They paid the bill and left. For several blocks, they leaned into the frigid blasts, particularly at the wind-funneled cross streets. Fortunately, Razan was wearing his wonderful Petrovich creation, and Dimitri a military greatcoat that covered him from nose to ankle. Anna wore a stylish wrap, but not even the several sweaters underneath could keep out the cold. Razan told himself that with his first paycheck he would take her to the Arbat to select a fur coat.
The three of them eased into a doorway, with the two men sheltering Anna, their backs to the street. Dimitri began to speak and then paused. He waited until one couple and then another passed on the sidewalk.
“I was in uniform escorting four Uzbeks to the train station, a man, a child, and two women wearing burqas. The man’s right hand was broken.” Dimitri flexed the fingers on his right hand. “I was instructed to tell them that they were being sent back to Uzbekistan for security reasons. We boarded a special train. All the coaches had wooden seats. No one spoke. I noticed other nationals in the car—Asians, Mongolians, Turkamen—but they never looked at us. Fear! At Voronezh, I took one woman off the train. She must have been in her twenties. Two soldiers were waiting to take her away. An hour out of Voronezh, we stopped at some work camp, actually a lumber town, where I steered the man off the train by the arm, and three soldiers handcuffed him and drove off in a staff car. We arrived at the next station in a snowstorm. Drifts had blocked the tracks; the train had to wait to continue. I took the child and rushed her into the small station to keep warm next to the charcoal brazier. When the officials from the orphanage finally arrived—they had been delayed by the storm—the little girl looked at me with such big black eyes that my heart nearly stopped. The train made a loop, as scheduled, and we returned to Moscow. Mind you, this particular rail journey has been in service for only a year. It’s designed for transporting prisoners. At the Moscow Station, I handed the second woman—young, in her twenties—a one-way rail pass for Tashkent, and told her that she was lucky to be free, even if she did have to report to the local police once a month.”
Dimitri stopped, his voice arrested by emotion. Although Razan fought to hold back his tears, he finally conceded and unashamedly cried. Anna guessed the reason,
but kept her own counsel.
Through his sobs, Razan asked, “Who was he?”
In a croaking voice, Dimitri replied, “I forget his last name.” He shook his head. “Can’t remember.” But clearly, Razan did.
“And the women?”
“The one exiled to Voronezh . . . Maja. The other, I believe, introduced herself as Meena.”
Razan blew his nose into his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and face with the arm of his overcoat. “Let me tell you, Dimitri, the name of the child. Yelena.”
“Yes, that was it. But how do you know?”
As briefly as he could, he told Dimitri about his two hours with the Boujinski family. The wind had increased and with it the cold, Arctic cold that turned spit to ice in the air.
“I could have done nothing,” said Dimitri, “even if I had tried.”
“No, but I can. Give me the name of the orphanage and the town.”
That night, as Razan and Anna lay in bed, they slipped under the goose-down comforter to talk.
“I want to adopt Yelena,” said the barber. “She’s a beautiful child. Gentle, clever, and affectionate. It’s a feather in the cap of all Bolsheviks who adopt, and I certainly wouldn’t be hurting myself with Stalin and his favorites. Most of them have adopted children. My only concern is room. What if Natasha comes to live with us?”
“We’ll somehow manage.”
At moments like this one, when Anna’s generous nature eclipsed her practicality, Razan felt rewarded for marrying her. He knew that together they could survive; alone they would perish.
The next day, he left a note at the Troitsky Gate for Alexander Nikolaevich Poskrebyshev stating that he would have to absent himself to travel out of town to adopt a child, like a good Communist, and would return in a week.
Without Dimitri’s help, the barber would have had to wait a month to secure a train ticket to M____. People often slept on the train platform in the hope of finding an empty seat. Although he had to sit in hard coach, he rejoiced at the thought of having a child and the gleeful play that would consume their lives in the coming years.
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