Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  Neither of them had any idea of what the date 1054 meant, but they both intended to find out, since it seemed to bode a great ill.

  “The Vatican is never happier than when it is stirring up the Roman Catholics in Soviet territories. Your son merely feeds that fire. He will undoubtedly be quoted in L’Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, spewing slander about our beloved Mother Russia.”

  Had the interrogator not said “Mother Russia,” he would have completely cowed Anna. But the phrase gave him away. She could see that he was overacting, and that for some reason this whole scene, which lacked any of the usual violent props that Lubyanka survivors often mentioned—clubs, whips, chains, brass knuckles—was a sham.

  “If Gregori contacts us, we will tell you immediately. We are faithful citizens of the country and love our Supreme Leader. Please don’t exile us to a camp. Siberia would be the death of us.”

  She wanted to withdraw that last statement, feeling that she too was now overacting. But the man seemed not to notice and suddenly grew sympathetic, assuring them that their lives were in no danger, just so long as they continued to cooperate with the secret police.

  Days passed, and then weeks. Anna comforted Razan with her belief that they would not be questioned again. Although he had his doubts and at low moments could feel the cold of Asiatic Siberia, her words held true. Little did they know that the Soviet government had arranged the priestly ordination, the escape, the newspaper article, and the benign interrogation.

  Leaving by train from the Levashovo Station, Gregori was met at the Finnish border by smugglers, in the employ of the Soviets, who spirited him to the Baltic, put him aboard a fishing boat, and three weeks later landed him at a safe haven on the Sicilian mainland. To make his defection look real, Gregori arrived without papers, made his way slowly toward Rome on back roads and hay wagons, and stopped at prearranged houses. Apprehended at one of them and taken to the capital, Gregori told the Italian secret service his rehearsed story. The Fascists quickly unearthed the Pravda article and called in a Vatican emissary, Monsignor Schiaffone, who interviewed Father Lipnoskii, declared him perfetto for service in the Catholic Church, and, at Gregori’s suggestion, offered him a position tutoring prospective priests at the Russicum, an institute that schooled young men in the Russian language, the Eastern Orthodox rites, and the machinations of spying. The Russicum graduates were then smuggled into the Soviet Union to exploit the nationalistic and Roman Catholic sympathies of Poles, White Russians, Armenians, Georgians, and others. They would also report to Rome on the state of religion in Russia. This practice, far from being new, had been in place for many years, with the loss of numerous lives. When the Soviets discovered a Russicum priest, they shot him without a trial.

  Gregori’s Roman contact, to whom he reported Russicum activities, was an Italian Communist, aptly code named Carlo Cospirato. A short, round-faced, pudgy fellow, who could not pass a coffee bar without stopping for a cappuccino—“heavy on the milk”—he was, by day, an automobile mechanic and, by night, a Marxist, distributing leaflets, attending party meetings, and ferrying secret information to the Russians. To make their contacts seem perfectly natural, Carlo continued Gregori’s Italian lessons and put at his disposal a used Fiat, a Topolino. Once Carlo had taught Gregori to drive the little mouse-car, the latter could not only traverse the Holy City, but also see the beautiful Roman countryside, where he discovered the Benedictine abbey of Farfa and its splendid library and prestigious scriptorium dating back to the eleventh century.

  One Saturday afternoon, he motored over the Sabine Hills to visit the abbey. In the village of Farfa, adjacent to the monastery, hammers and saws could be heard. Under the direction of the Fascist government, workers were repairing the old houses and restoring the porches and slab fronts on which medieval merchants had displayed their wares. Here he lodged, sans his clerical garb. On Sunday morning, he entered the huge Romanesque gate, with its magnificent floral friezes, and walked between incensed candles down the middle nave to hear Mass. He passed through the two rows of ionic columns, and under the coffered ceiling with the Orsini emblem that bathed him in bronze. Presenting himself as a Russian scholar in the employ of the Russicum, he endeared himself to the resident monks by praising the worth of their library. The abbot of Farfa, the cardinal bishop of Sabina, a suburbicarian bishop, had delegated the responsibilities of the abbey to a priest, Father Maurizio, who immediately befriended Gregori. The two men conversed, to their delight, in Latin, which both men knew well. Invited to return the next week to take a meal and celebrate Vespers, Gregori eagerly accepted in fond anticipation of the silver light of the tapers, the perfume, the songs, the service. Like so many worshippers, he loved the ceremonies that he believed gave meaning to the mysteries of life. Before long, Farfa Abbey felt like his spiritual home—the library, the friendship of the monks, the smells, the sounds, the gardens—and he often returned.

  After several visits to Farfa, Gregori began to wonder if his mind and soul weren’t being tempted to receive nourishment from Roman Catholicism. But he knew that the canon law that prohibited Catholic priests from marrying would ultimately keep him from embracing that faith. In fact, his wish to marry and his gentle courtesies made him a good catch for Signora and Signore Credulo. They owned the Farfa Inn, where he lodged when he stayed overnight, and were the parents of Angelina, with whom he was smitten. Although her persistent frothy cough had dissuaded her last suitor, Mario Fori, from seriously considering marriage, her smile gladdened others and her sensuous lips cried out to be kissed.

  Angelina, of an age when a young girl should wed, had given Gregori numerous encouraging signs and had even strolled with him unchaperoned. In the evening, they took coffee in the piazza, walked through the village, greeting families whose ancestors dated back hundreds of years, and followed a path that led up the hillside behind the town to a beautiful vantage point. Here they would sit and remark on the picturesque scene below. Bathed in the silver moonlight, she always felt alluring and desired, and made every smiling effort to bring Gregori into her loving orbit. The rustics she had known had never exhibited the learning of this man; they had never behaved like proper suitors, but rather wanted to hurry into some adjacent hayloft. The local boys had even made sport of her gifted artwork, mugging and dropping their drawers with rude cries, such as “Why not draw my ass?” What did they know of Italy’s great artists; what did they know of Giotto, Cimabue, and Rafaello, names that came as readily to Gregori’s lips as breath?

  Had she been asked whether she loved the Russian priest, she could have said in perfect honesty that she really had no experience with love. Admittedly, Mario had often kissed her and run his hand beneath her dress, and, although she tingled at his touch and could feel her face flush, she knew better than to say that love was a hot pang. She wanted, like heroines of old, the permanence of position. Affection would grow from her happy station in life. At least, her sagacious grandmother had said as much when she counseled her to “treasure rank and reputation more than rapture.” She had no fear of different languages or customs; her only fear was that she would die for want of strength before she could marry or exhibit her paintings.

  She went so far as to suggest to Gregori that, on her next trip to Rome to buy oils and canvases from the merchants in the Via della Rotonda, they meet at Gregori’s room. When he explained that his hostel, across the river and adjacent to the Vatican, housed only priests, she proposed they meet at the Pantheon, but not before teasing him that he ought to find his own quarters, where he could entertain friends. What did she mean, he mused, by the word “entertain”? Rather than ask, he would just keep their appointment.

  On a Friday, Venerdi, Venus’s day, they spent at least an hour in the Pantheon as she explained how the tombs and the sunken panels (coffers), reduced the weight of the structure and made it possible for the walls to support the enormous dome. Angelina had just purchased a new sketchbook and insisted on capturing Gregori’s likeness with the
light from the open dome striking his face. The rather good sketch pleased Gregori, and he asked if he could own it.

  “Only if you take me to the Café Magi to see the magician, Signore Calvo. I understand he can turn catnip to Chianti,” she said between coughs, “and his admirers are innumerable. Friends of mine who have seen him can’t stop raving.”

  The café, next door to a Fascist recruiting office, attracted all classes of people, from rowdy young men to old women, from workers to intellectuals. This night, they had to wait for a table. The stage was virtually bare, except for a blackboard behind the magician, a raised thronelike chair, a wooden box, and a baton that he used to direct the café-goers. Like a prophet, Calvo told his audience that Italy, inspired by a single idea—the collective will—could reimpose its rule on the Levant, and re-create the ancient civilization that was Rome. He said that what seemed like magic was, in fact, reality, and insisted that the magic and power of ideas engendered creation.

  “First from his mind and then from his brush, Michelangelo brought forth the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. Never underestimate the power of an idea to change the world. Roman glory can once again be ours—by translating words into action.”

  As they waited, Angelina and Gregori amiably chatted with the portiere, who eventually seated them next to the stage and handed Calvo a note. The magician almost immediately began to play to the attractive Signorina Credulo, smiling, winking, and tipping his cap. Dressed in a black silk shirt and riding boots, he used the baton magically to orchestrate her response.

  “Raise your right arm.”

  Her arm shot up as if spring loaded.

  “Mario Fori, a former boyfriend, still thinks of you fondly.” Angelina coughed fiercely into her handkerchief. “But then we all have secret lives.” He strutted around the stage, stopped, and said, “I know that you believe in the inspirational power of faith and myth.” He swung his baton. “Swear your allegiance to the higher power that will restore Italy to the center of European civilization.”

  Her mouth, like a ventriloquist’s dummy, opened mechanically. “I have faith. I will obey and fight for the glory of Catholic Italy.”

  The audience cheered.

  “At this moment, you are thinking: How can I act in this manner? Surely, I can resist this man’s powers of suggestion. But you cannot. Why? Because I have your number.”

  He then took a stubby pencil and scribbled on a piece of paper, which he put in his breast pocket. He then asked Angelina and Gregori to take the stage.

  The men and women watched raptly. Stepping back, Calvo admired Angelina’s long skirt. “Such beautiful flowered Japanese cloth . . . such flair.” Circling Gregori, he remarked, “He looks like Lenin in London.” The audience shredded the silence with their laughter.

  “Signorina,” said Calvo, “write a number on the blackboard.” Taking the chalk from the ledge, she paused and then wrote 9610. Calvo chuckled and shook his head, as if to say: “Just as I expected.” Turning to Gregori, he asked the “signore” to remove the piece of paper from the magician’s pocket. “Please read what I wrote.”

  Staring at the paper, a shocked Gregori could barely reply. First, he looked at the blackboard and then at Angelina, as if she had colluded with the maestro. Finally, facing the audience, Gregori said, “The number is exactly the same, 9610. But how . . . ?”

  Ignoring the question, Calvo added, “I can also tell our audience that you are a priest, though you’re not wearing clerical garb.”

  Gregori wanted to ask the magician, “Which church?” but felt that his accent gave him away. Without irony, Gregori thought that Calvo was a man the Soviets could use. His ability to divine a citizen’s background could save the secret police money and time.

  Back at their table, Gregori kept mumbling that he had to know Calvo’s secret. Angelina, with her eyes riveted on the stage, hardly heard him. Gregori prompted, “Perhaps if you ask him, he’ll explain. He seems much taken with you.”

  “Shh,” objected Angelina. “I want to hear what he’s saying.”

  The magician was talking about the power of words. “Not just any words, but words imbued with fire.” Holding up a Bible, he observed, “This single book had the power—and still does—to convert pagans, erect churches, inspire crusades, and provide the subject matter for innumerable artistic masterworks. Today, we have before us a new religion, a new faith, which can make Italy the greatest nation on earth.” He held aloft a sheaf of wheat. “One fascio can be toppled by the wind. Thousands of sheaves can support an army.”

  The play on words elicited a loud cheer from the audience, who raised their arms, saluting Calvo’s magic. Holding up his baton for silence, Calvo waited a second and then, with a flourish, brought it down, eliciting a thunderous cheer, “Me ne frego! Me ne frego!” the familiar chant of the government faithful, “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Permit me to ask our couple to return to the stage,” said Calvo. The audience clapped in agreement. “Although the young woman briefly hesitated at the blackboard, she could not escape my will or yours, which in fact are one and the same. That is why she had to remain true to her original choice.” Addressing Angelina, the magician said, “Now, signorina, you know that you are just a part of a larger idea, one that unites ancient Rome and modern, an idea that is self-evident to the cittadini. The number 9610 itself hardly matters . . . merely a vaudeville trick.” Taking her hand, Calvo told the audience, “Chance favors the prepared mind. A magician, like a general or a leader of the people, must never fail to see the little clues found in a word, a phrase, an unusual facial expression. Even a dropped vowel or slurred consonant may tell him what he needs to know to accomplish his ends.” With the baton he pointed to the portiere. “He,” said Calvo, “is the source of my information. Having overheard our couple’s conversation as they waited for a table, he jotted down several interesting facts he thought I could use in the act. One, names: Angelina and Gregori. Two, the woman is an artist.” As an aside, he held his hand to his cheek and, with a stage whisper, told the crowd, “I must arrange for her to meet Margherita Sarfatti, the head of Italian culture, and one of our leading art patrons.” Flourishing his baton, he encouraged the audience to agree.

  They chanted, “Margherita, si; Margherita, si!”

  “A third fact I learned was that Angelina was born on the ninth of June 1910: 9610. She shared that information with her gentleman friend; she also mentioned a Mario Fori. Gregori, for his part, talked about his work at the Russicum and his living quarters at the Vatican hostel. Any fool would know he is a priest. In fact, I would hazard that, given his accent, he is an Orthodox one.” Holding up his baton, Calvo asked Gregori, “Am I right?”

  “Yes. On every point you have, as you say, our number.”

  “Not quite,” said Calvo. “Not until I endow you with second sight can I make that claim.” Calvo reached into the wooden chest and removed a miniature bundle of sticks, with an axe bound to it, the premier symbol of the current government. “The fasces indicates the people’s power over life and death,” the magician declared. “It even appears on the seal of the United States Senate and on a wall of the House of Representatives, as well as on the coat of arms of France. Take it as a gift from me,” said Calvo offering Gregori the miniature fasces.

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “I am devoted and loyal to a different host, a transcendent one.”

  “Are you referring to Angelina here?” Calvo asked ironically.

  Gregori blushed. “No, but I do admit that she is a lovely young woman, and she comes from a good family, a pious one.”

  “Our beloved pope,” said Calvo, “has blessed this symbol. He and it are as one, just as the people and the pope share one spiritual body. We are all part of the same will.” Putting his face close to Gregori’s, Calvo said, “You will accept this gift.” The magician’s eyes glowed with a jaundiced yellow tint, holding Gregori in his gaze. “Who partakes of our body will
enter into the mystical union with Rome that began with the Caesars and will last until the end of time.”

  With this grand pronouncement, Calvo held up the fasces, as a priest might raise a crucifix in a religious procession, and, facing Gregori, slowly backed toward the stage steps. Gregori followed, seemingly mesmerized. Someone screamed. Still the two men continued their twinned dance; descending the steps, they moved down the aisle toward the back of the café, where the door stood open.

  “Stop!” yelled a young man who rose to his feet, while a pretty curly headed waitress, with whom he’d been flirting, tried to force him back into his seat. “Don’t!” cried the man, persevering in his resistance. “Look what is happening to Italy!”

  This last statement earned him a rough expulsion from the café at the hands of the Me-ne-frego crowd of ruffians. But the tumult at the door prevented Calvo and Gregori from exiting the café, at which point Calvo thrust the fasces into Gregori’s hands and led him back to the stage. Gregori, who had exhibited an ethereal lack of resistance throughout the ordeal, metamorphosed when he reached the stage. While Calvo retreated to his chair, the Orthodox-Renovationist priest and double agent held up the fasces and in a mesmeric voice that seemed to issue from his soul, shouted to the audience, “Me ne frego!”

  Mayhem ensued, as the patrons stood on chairs and tables, sang the patriotic anthem “Giovinezza,” waved flags that mysteriously materialized, and formed a line that marched around the café and out the door, to the dismay of the café owner, who ran after the revelers, yelling at those who had failed to pay for their drinks. In the sudden quiet of the café, the three people remained onstage. Then the owner turned off the lights, except for a single spot. An emotionally exhausted Angelina and Gregori sat at the feet of Calvo, bathed in the light cast on his throne, forming a Trinitarian tableau.