Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  The two men, for professional and voyeuristic reasons, regularly eavesdropped on Alexei and Rissa. Although they heard sonorous flute music, they also heard, to their surprise, talk about plays and poems, operas and ballets. Alexei and Rissa discussed the artistic masters, mostly agreeing, sometimes not. They exchanged political opinions and were consonant in their belief that the individual mattered more than the state. The lovers were often mute, ostensibly finding in silence a fonder language than words. Clearly, garrulity suited neither of them, but the fullness of ideas did and, the listeners concluded, the satisfaction of touch.

  Once while making love—yes, this too was overheard—Alexei said, “In the years ahead, will we remember all our yesterdays? Time forgets, but memory is forged in remembrance.”

  Rissa’s sad reply, though murmured, was also recorded, “If we live . . . and even then one is never truly free.”

  The last time that Dr. Leshin spoke to Alexei, he said, “Would you like us to tell your wife that you have taken a mistress and have initiated a new life—all for love?”

  “What would you, an opportunist, know about love?” said Alexei.

  “Insults, insults, they mean nothing. And as for love, it is merely a rush of blood, an ephemeral fever that inflames a certain appendage, and, in fact, a madness that temporarily blinds one. So you are in the right place, after all, Alexei von Fresser, a mental institution for the criminally insane.”

  For his own sadistic reasons, Leshin did indeed tell Natasha about Alexei’s infidelity. She cried bitterly and prayed to the Virgin Mother to touch her husband’s heart. Her own “larks,” as she called them, she dismissed, knowing that they lacked the force of feeling. After all, to survive in the USSR, everyone whored. She consoled herself by invoking the New Socialist Order, where men and women could cohabit without benefit of marriage, and where divorce did not make one a pariah. Women were free to make choices and not suffer social stigmas. If Alexei wanted to enter into a dalliance with some crazy woman in a mental institution, he was free to do so. Similarly, she was free to take men to her bed.

  And yet, she was provincial enough to believe that marriage was made in heaven. Suddenly, she wanted to embrace Alexei and beg him to love her. They would start anew, he tenderly stroking her hair, and she leading his hand to her bosom. They would have children, and they would move to the countryside and live happily into old age.

  All of these thoughts Natasha wrote her husband in letters resonant with passion, her newly acquired voice. But Leshin intercepted and cruelly used them to upbraid Alexei.

  “Love is not coitus,” said Alexei, “but a meeting of true minds.”

  Leshin laughed, “Spare me your sentimentality. A hard penis has no conscience.”

  Only the Pitiless

  Although Dimitri’s desire for another man frightened him, he couldn’t suppress his love for Yuri Suzdal. At first they had retreated to Yuri’s apartment and merely kissed, but not before Dimitri had carefully studied the flat for hidden microphones. The inherent tenderness of both men led to gentle touches and finally sex, which they found immensely gratifying, but also terrifying. They knew that if Dimitri’s superiors discovered their relationship, executions would follow. The charge would be that Dimitri’s special status made him privy to secret information that he undoubtedly passed on to Yuri. No proof of passed messages or coded cables was necessary. Homosexuality earned one the firing squad.

  To make matters worse, in 1936, Genrikh Yagoda had been replaced as the head of the secret police, renamed Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennikh Del (NKVD), by a man with a savage temperament and a maniacal outlook, Nikolai Ivanovich Ezhov, the bloody dwarf. Owing to his influence, Soviet party members were now, a year later, required to replace their membership cards with passports, which were far more difficult to obtain and dangerous to forge. The chistka, employed periodically to cleanse the party of malingerers, malcontents, and impostors, now became both a party-revival campaign and a hunt for enemies. The previous desultory purges, often harmless, evolved into full-scale terror directed against anyone deemed an enemy of the people. Ezhov’s “war” employed the slogan: “Under current conditions, the inalienable quality of every Bolshevik must be the ability to detect the enemy of the party, however well he may be masked.” In particular, the Ezhovshchina, “the Ezhov business,” sought to purge “Formers,” that is, social aliens: people from the wrong class who were trying to hide their former identities, like priests and kulaks and royalty and White Guards and Tsarist officials. Stalin had ordered Yagoda shot, a signal that a new ruthless order was replacing the old corrupt one. Besides, Yagoda had a Jewish background; Ezhov did not. When Natasha had asked her brother which dignitary would be moving into Yagoda’s dacha, Dimitri couldn’t be sure, though he assumed the new chief of the People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs would receive the prize. Would he also, Natasha wondered, inherit Yagoda’s pornographic films and handsome library?

  The Ezhovshchina made Dimitri’s work all the more precarious—and morally hateful. Whereas before he merely reported people for misbehavior that earned them a slap on the wrist, his reports now could lead to a person being tortured or exiled or shot, or all three. But if he failed to find traitors, his superiors were likely to accuse him of collaboration, a charge that could lead to his immediate discharge or arrest. An NKVD agent was judged by the number of denunciations in his dossier. In desperation, Dimitri sought to transfer to guard duty in the Kremlin or surveillance at the railroad station. He applied to work in the passport office. He even offered to take a demotion and work as a chauffeur to one of the Kremlin courtiers. But in every instance, his request was denied, and, in fact, the more he tried to disengage himself from spying, the more he hurt his own case. Although he couldn’t explain why all his requests were refused, he guessed that the cause was Razan’s position as Stalin’s barber. Had he not recommended him? And as long as his father-in-law regularly held a razor to the Boss’s neck, the NKVD would want to hold one to Dimitri’s, obliging him to prove his loyalty by engaging in the unsavory work of the secret police.

  At first, Yuri had no precise idea what services Dimitri rendered the NKVD. Rounding up party laggards sounded harmless enough. But with Ezhov now in office, Dimitri felt compelled to tell his lover what his work exactly entailed. He even graciously volunteered to disappear from Yuri’s life, but the hairdresser said that their fortunes were intertwined. As frightened as he was by Dimitri’s revelations, Yuri merely counseled caution. Dimitri suggested they no longer travel in the same taxi or sit together at the theatre. Meeting for a vacation in Odessa was impossible. They would have to confine their trysts to Yuri’s apartment, and they would have to enter and leave at different times and through different doors. Even though Dimitri had not found any listening devices, they agreed to speak sparingly when they met. The two felt certain that the Ezhovshchina, with its diligent eavesdropping and letter opening, couldn’t last. But for now, they decided that if Yuri’s neighbors inquired about Dimitri’s visits, the hairdresser would say that Dimitri and he met to play chess; and if anyone should knock at his door, their clothes lay at the ready, as well as a chessboard with the pieces placed to suggest a game in progress. The men had even agreed on which side of the board to play, black or white. Visitors appeared infrequently, but when the superintendent or postman or occasional neighbor materialized, Dimitri would spring to the table as Yuri answered the door. On the wall hung a large-framed portrait of Stalin.

  Secrecy came naturally to Dimitri—it was his business—but the sneaking about began to wear on Yuri, who broached the idea of their leaving the country. So alarmed was Dimitri that he could hardly sleep the whole night. Flight would bring down on his family the harshest of punishments; and if the two men were apprehended . . . he couldn’t even entertain the awful consequences.

  Once Natasha had told Dimitri of Alexei’s behavior in Voronezh, her brother felt certain that his career had come to an end, a feeling reinforced by a summons
from Ezhov, actually a handwritten note on official stationery from the dwarf, who requested a “private meeting.” He had seen the midget at a distance, had heard of his reputation for callousness, and had seen hardened men tremble at the mere mention of his name. Anticipating the worst, Dimitri penned a farewell letter to his mother and left it on his cot in the Kremlin. He debated whether to take along his pistol. If he was condemned, he could shoot himself before the guards could manacle him. But then he realized that he would never be allowed in the presence of Ezhov while armed.

  As Dimitri walked across the square to the house used by the secret police, birds sang and the azure air exuded the perfume of spring. The sunlight warmed the cobblestones and made the domes of Saint Basil dance with color. Only the surrounding redbrick buildings, which looked like oozing blood, hinted at the menacing ministry that stood just a few steps away from the Kremlin’s architectural wonders. Dimitri regarded the scene as a telling juxtaposition: Beauty and the Beast. Almost immediately, he was ushered into Ezhov’s office, where Dimitri had once conversed with Yagoda. The diminutive NKVD chief sat under a new portrait of Stalin and behind a large desk, several inches lower than normal, in a raised chair, lest those seated in front of him see only his head peering above the desk. Ezhov greeted him warmly, shaking his hand and pouring him a schnapps. Half a dozen files, each holding several folders, commanded Ezhov’s attention. Making a great show of rustling through them, he exuded confidence, as if to suggest that whatever charges he wished to bring, the evidence lay before him.

  “Ah, yes, here it is. Your father-in-law . . .”

  Why did I ever recommend that damn Jew, thought Dimitri? I knew he was at the root of my summons. “Razan Shtube,” he replied.

  “A favorite of Comrade Stalin’s.”

  “Really?” he said, lightly clapping his hands in relief.

  “Quite so.” Ezhov thumbed through some additional papers. “Your brother-in-law . . . now he’s an interesting case.”

  Dimitri shook his head censoriously. “A fool.”

  “In Voronezh, he had a chance to redeem himself, but he chose to throw it away. Such a peculiar fellow. We haven’t exterminated him because he presents such a unique psychological specimen. The attending doctor treats him like a microbe under a microscope.”

  “I thank Comrade Stalin and you for keeping him alive.” Dimitri slightly bowed. “Perhaps one day he will come to his senses.”

  “Just for the record, the Supreme Leader prefers pariahs and distrusts those who have a pure party record.” He tapped his pen on a blotter. “I wish for you to tell your sister’s husband that he owes Comrade Stalin his undying loyalty, and that those who bite the hand that feeds them. . . . Well, you understand.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” Ezhov held two fingers to his mouth, as if sealing his lips with the papal signature. “Perhaps it has not escaped your notice that we have kept you on in the secret police even though your family’s record is blighted.”

  “I can never thank the Soviet state enough for its generosity.”

  Ezhov looked at his nails. “Why have you requested transfers?”

  Prepared for this question, Dimitri answered, “Because I don’t feel I have the qualifications for such important work.”

  “It takes only one quality: pitilessness.”

  Dimitri carefully considered his reply, one that would allow him to escape unscathed. “For our enemies there can be no mercy.”

  Ezhov nodded in agreement. “Good, very good.” He opened one of the files. “Given our generosity in ignoring your family’s record, we expect a favor.” Dimitri agreed and waited for Ezhov’s orders. “You are a friend of one Yuri Suzdal.” Before Dimitri could respond, Ezhov held up a hand signaling that he had more to say, and that Dimitri could comment later. “We have reason to believe that Yuri Suzdal is a traitor.” At that moment, Dimitri wished he had brought his pistol to kill himself. “Several people have denounced him.” Ezhov studied the files on his desk. “He is a social alien with ties to the Trotskyites.” Dimitri knew for a fact that Yuri cared nothing about politics and had no such connections. “We have intercepted letters between him and the Trotsky traitors.” Suddenly Ezhov shoved across the desk a letter that Dimitri could tell in a glance had been forged, and not artfully. His lover was left-handed and his writing had a distinct slant, which this missive lacked. “How would you describe your friendship with Suzdal, and what can you tell us about him?”

  Although the question sounded innocent enough, Dimitri sensed snares in the words. Ezhov had asked him to describe his “friendship” with Yuri, but was he using the word ironically, knowing the actual relationship between the two men? Was he implying that friends share the same political opinions? Perhaps he was being deliberately led to lie in defense of his friend. He pondered his secret life with Yuri. If he failed to mention that they were lovers, and if the secret police had proof of their homosexuality, he would immediately be placed in a cell.

  Dimitri tried to buy time by staring at the large framed photograph of Stalin hanging on the wall behind Ezhov.

  Ezhov removed the cap of his pen and scribbled a note, remarking, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Feeling sweat trickling down his neck, Dimitri pulled at his collar. “I know very little about him, except that he’s considered one of Paul’s best hairdressers.”

  “Is that all? What about the many hours you spend with him over the chessboard?” He opened a folder. “We have a letter here from the building superintendent. He says that on the two occasions when he entered Yuri Suzdal’s flat, you and the suspect were playing chess.”

  At the superintendent’s first appearance, he claimed to be testing the heating system. The second time, he checked the float in the toilet, leading Dimitri to warn Yuri that the super was up to no good. In fact, the moment the super had left, Dimitri studied the toilet to make sure he had not installed a listening device.

  “The man will denounce you,” predicted Dimitri.

  “You’ve been in the spy service too long,” Yuri had laughed.

  “Do your conversations always revolve around chess or do you sometimes talk about politics, like the Five-Year Plan?” asked Ezhov.

  “Yuri has no interest in politics or economics. What would lead you to think so?”

  Ezhov raised one eyebrow to indicate his displeasure. “I ask the questions, not you.” He opened another folder and in a flat voice said, “This letter comes from one of his customers. I will spare you the beginning and come right to the point. ‘I said to Yuri Suzdal that the Five-Year Plan seemed to be revolutionizing Russia, and he said, “At what price?” ‘I thought this comment sounded like Trotsky.’” Ezhov grinned. “The good citizens of this country, as you can see, never sleep. They know that our enemies are everywhere.”

  How could people protect themselves against denunciations, unless they remained silent, and even then what was to stop the malicious-minded from dipping a pen into their odious ink to write poisonous lies, perhaps for no other purpose than to settle a score or earn some tenant more space in his apartment building? He had seen denunciatory letters in which the writers, usually in ungrammatical Russian, complained that their neighbors had given them the evil eye, or cast a spell over them, or conjured up fatal fumes, or spoke with a Yiddish accent, or spent so much money that it must have been stolen, or punned on Stalin’s name to make it sound like a swear word, or didn’t stand when Koba’s car passed through the neighborhood. Protection against such denunciations was impossible. In fact, whatever a person said was eventually used against him.

  “Comrade Ezhov, I cannot dispute the letters in your files. They are there in black and white. But I can tell you that I have never heard Yuri Suzdal speak of our country in anything but patriotic terms. He avidly follows the progress of our chess champions.”

  “Chess champions be damned! The man doesn’t even have on his wall a copy of your sister Yelena’s mustache painting. I woul
d have thought that in light of the talk it has generated, you might have given him one, though all the copies have now been recalled.”

  Dimitri knew only what Anna had told him: that Yelena had painted Stalin’s mustache, that a great many people had requested copies, and that the original had been sold and then confiscated. When he had asked why, his mother had pleaded ignorance and described the Tatar who had come to her apartment, a man whom Dimitri vaguely knew. Perhaps from him he could learn the truth.

  The look of surprise on Dimitri’s face led Ezhov to soften his tone and explain. “The painting was not perfect, and though no painting ever is, we wanted her to paint another from a better photograph of Stalin than the one that she used. If you are thinking that our Supreme Leader is vain, let me assure you that he knows nothing of this matter. It originated with the secret police.”

  Dimitri guessed Ezhov was lying and that one of the tenants had reported Yelena, and that the “super” had said the Stalin portrait in Yuri’s apartment was unflattering. At that moment, facing Ezhov, he decided that the NKVD knew virtually everything about everyone, and yet he told himself that he would never make public his love affair with Yuri. Call it old-fashioned honor, call it fear, call it the hope that here was one detail that had escaped the NKVD’s attention, but he would not be the person to reveal their affections.

  “We would like you to report back in a few weeks. Learn everything you can about this Yuri Suzdal, especially his political opinions. A Trotskyite in our midst is like a viper in our bosom.”

  In the square, Dimitri stopped to watch couples strolling hand in hand, people feeding pigeons, children with kites, and a few hardy men leaning against a wall and bearing their chests to the sun. He looked at the cobblestones underfoot and wondered what tales they could tell. For most people, life was a series of nested stories, told about family and friends. No wonder a juicy tidbit was valued; it briefly dispelled their drab existence. Sometimes the tidbit could even prove the difference between life and death, especially in a closed society. When people received a tip that the police would be arresting them, they often fled. Every country, every army, needed informers to succeed. A ragged cloud threw the square into a complex of shadows.