“This whole unsavory business, dear sister, has to do with Serjee, the Kremlin photographer, and the need for the government to remove from public display the pictures of Stalin’s mustache based on Yelena’s painting. Happily, the Vozhd would like her to paint another, from a different photograph, one that Serjee has taken.”
“What was wrong with the first painting?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Natasha asked, “Are you speaking as my brother or a policeman?” Both her withering look and her damning question indicated how well she knew his divided loyalties.
“A Very Important Person is especially sensitive about his mustache and the message it conveys.”
Dimitri assumed from his mother’s explanation that she was trading on the power of the paintings. He could imagine Koba publicly scorning the superstitious believers but privately believing in the magic of his mustache. He had known a great many Georgian men, and all of them seemed to feel that facial hair was inseparable from virility. The official criticism of Yelena’s painting was that the mustache diminished Stalin’s stature, though a rumor circulated that the painting portrayed an impostor. With Razan now in charge of barbering, Stalin would want to display his bushy Turkish cut in photos, and perhaps in a new canvas, that exhibited “the real thing.”
“Are we meeting here,” said Natasha defiantly, “and not in your office because we might be overheard talking about Stalin’s vanity?”
Natasha’s question provided Dimitri with a ready escape.
“You are exactly right.”
“Then tell me,” she said, putting her face just a few inches from Dimitri’s, “what did Sasha Visotsky have to do with this matter?”
Before Dimitri could answer, Yelena cried, “Where is Sasha? I want to see him.”
Unnerved by the child’s entreaties, Dimitri reached across the desk and patted her hand. “He and his family are in a safe place.”
Natasha, privy to the unscrupulous behavior of her superiors, and disgusted at the willingness of others to denounce family and friends, had no reluctance to say, “Where, in a work camp?”
“No, in a Crimean resort.”
At that moment, Natasha felt sorry for what her brother had become—a functionary with midget morals. She would scour the archives for any information on him. The secret police always said that no one was innocent. Well, surely then, a file labeled Dimitri Lipnoskii existed. She was quickly learning the useful lesson that information is power and that damning information is absolute power. Once she brought her brother to heel, she would turn her attention to Alexei. Yes, she too had been faithless, but after her last tryst, the one with Kazimir Ouspensky, she had sworn that no hireling would ever again be her master. It was advantageous to let a member of the Politburo bed you, but a librarian, a man who had hardly been able to survive as a book publisher? He might be the head archivist, but she had already imbibed all his lessons. She could interpret as well as he a denunciatory letter, and hadn’t she taken it upon herself to have sensitive documents microfilmed, spirited out of the archive, and hidden in the large stuffed panda that she’d bought for Yelena?
The panda had a seam running down the back so that when the stuffing began to thin, it could be refilled. Natasha had put the microfilm in muslin. After debating whether to tell Yelena, she had decided that she had already endangered the child enough by using her as a courier to steal secret documents. If questioned, the child could honestly say that she had carried papers for Natasha from the archives but had no idea of their significance or location. Natasha hoped that the filmed documents could be used as a bargaining chip to keep the child safe. She had slowly gathered compromising material on Yagoda, Ezhov, Malenkov, Molotov, as well as Stalin; she had even removed from the Archive of Literature and Art Isaac Babel’s confiscated novel and some Mandelstam poems.
If nothing else, the sale of the literary manuscripts to a western dealer would bring a handsome sum. It wouldn’t be the first time that banned Soviet writers were published in Paris and London and New York. To put money away for an emergency was always wise, especially if one knew that the secret police had their suspicions about you. Where to hide money presented an even more difficult problem than where to hide manuscripts. Western bank accounts were forbidden, and Soviet ones were subject to government scrutiny. No wonder people said that more pillows in Russia were stuffed with rubles than goose feathers. Of course, that remark pertained to those who could lay their hands on rubles; most people could barely afford a bowl of soup. Natasha and her family were among the lucky ones. They had more than enough to live on. Staying alive had become a practiced art that required a knowledge of when to remain silent, which was most of the time, and when to smile, laugh, cry, celebrate, and mourn. You never wanted to be privy to important information about others unless you had a mind to use it for your own selfish purposes, as Natasha did. Why denounce someone if there was no self-interest involved? In fact, the moment a person fell out of favor, you made sure to distance yourself from the pariah. Thus, people rarely had friends, only acquaintances, and they were usually tight lipped. How Akhmatova remained close to the stigmatized Mandelstams without being exiled to a work camp was indeed a miracle.
A few others also defied logic. How did the writer, Ilya Ehrenburg, maintain his right to travel freely in the west when he had initially been critical of the Soviets? Every intellectual and artist wanted to know the magic formula. In fact, it lay in two sources, Stalin’s permission and Poskrebyshev’s rubber stamp bearing the Boss’s signature. When matters of state kept Stalin busy, his aide-de-camp had the authority to stamp papers ordering people to camps or to allow them to travel outside of the country. Poskrebyshev kept his famous rubber stamp locked in the top right-hand drawer. The key in Nikolaevich’s pocket was attached to a chain affixed to his belt. Dimitri knew the desk drawer and enough about locks to know that it could not be easily opened. But even had he wished to sneak into the aide’s office, it was guarded day and night. If the day came that he and his family had to leave the country, he would have to resort to the photos and labs of the secret police for visas and exit permits.
Dimitri offered to drive his sister and Yelena home, but Natasha wanted to be alone with her charge. As they walked, Natasha tried to explain to the child why Dimitri had asked to see her.
“Stalin has had numerous photographs taken of him, and the one that you copied does not, in the Supreme Leader’s estimation, show his mustache to the best effect.”
“I know that!” said the precocious Yelena. “What I want to know is why the mustache looks kind of different in some photographs?”
“Let’s hope that his barber, our dear father, Razan, can remedy the situation with his tonsorial skills. Do you know the word?”
“Of course!” said Yelena proudly, pointing a finger at her throat. “He is an expert at removing tonsils.”
“Yes,” Natasha laughed, “something like that.”
The next day a Kremlin courier, bearing a package, rang the buzzer to the Shtube apartment. Anna, alone at the time, opened the door, admitting a man who showed her his official credentials and introduced himself as Boleslav Dantonovich.
“I have with me,” Boleslav said, “an official photograph of our Beloved Protector, Stalin. Autographed!”
He handed the package to Anna. She removed the white wrapping paper to reveal a smiling Stalin. Written at the bottom was the inscription: “To the Shtube family, Iosif Stalin.” An envelope, taped to the wood frame, contained a brief note. “Please have Yelena study this photograph to paint another canvas of my mustache. I will be very pleased.” Signed: “A Lover of the People.”
A commission to paint another picture! Anna wept with joy. But she did not anticipate Yelena’s response. “I would rather not paint the same subject twice. If I must, then I want to see for myself Stalin’s mustache. It keeps changing.”
When Poskrebyshev heard Razan’s request that the child have an audience with the Boss,
the taciturn secretary laughed so hard that he loosened a temporary filling in a recently drilled tooth. “Are you mad?” he thundered. “The Supreme Leader has little enough time for you, much less some adopted brat.”
Outside of Poskrebyshev’s office, Razan ran into the Kremlin film cutter, who, according to common knowledge, often doctored movies for Stalin’s sake. “Which picture are you editing now?”
“October, Eisenstein’s 1927 film about the revolution.”
“I saw it in Brovensk . . . several years ago.”
“With or without Comrade Stalin as the hero?”
“Is it hard to superimpose his face on the actor’s?”
“We do it all the time with photographs, putting in some people and taking out others. Trotsky, for example, frequently disappears.”
“Are the originals in the archives?”
“Yes, but only special persons have access.”
Razan returned that evening to shave the Boss. But now, as he relayed Yelena’s request, he wondered which Stalin his daughter would meet, the real or the false. He delicately remarked, “She’s anxious to see for herself who you are.”
The Vozhd’s enigmatic reply brought Razan no closer to solving the mystery of the man. “As the protector of the people, Stalin must reflect their many moods and faces. He can exhibit the mischievous or the meek, the avuncular leader or the man of steel.” The man in the chair lapsed into his third person lecturing mode, wagging the finger of his right hand. “Surrounded as we are by enemies of every sort, the Soviet people must learn, as Stalin has, to wear one face for friends and one for the wreckers. The more masks in the closet, the safer you are. Stalin learned that truth as a youth in Georgia. Just as you don’t want to wear your heart on your sleeve, you don’t want to show your true feelings on your face. The face is the window into a man’s secret thoughts. Therefore, to confuse your enemies, you must learn how to appear one way and act in another. Most people betray themselves with a look. The Vozhd keeps them off balance and guessing with his various visages.
“Now isn’t it true, Master barber, that you can change a man’s appearance with your razor and scissors? Well, Stalin can do the same with a raised eye or a lowered one, with a closed mouth or an open one, with teeth showing or not, with a lip pulled up or down.” He demonstrated. “And all these facial gestures are connected, like wires, to his thoughts. Every person has at least one facial gesture that sums up his myriad moods. For Stalin, it is his mustache, which he can make dance, sing, mourn, celebrate, condemn—all depending on the role he is playing at that moment in response to current events. You do realize, don’t you, that events have a face? They express sabotage, collusion, falsity, defeatism . . . you see the point. What Stalin looks for in those around him is the face of loyalty and the belief in a new world to come. So keep in mind, Razan, that if you wish to survive, you must always wear the right face, as you would a frock for the right season had you served in the Tsar’s court.”
The barber knew, on pain of death, not to mention a body double. Instead, he praised Koba for his embracing people of all trades and nationalities. Then he sycophantically added, “Since Yelena is still a child, I would hope that you bestow on her your famous gentleness. But it’s up to you which Stalin you want her to paint.”
“Yes, of course.” He reached for his calendar. “The day after tomorrow would be a good time. I’ll tell Poskrebyshev to remind me. You never want to disappoint a child.”
On his way home, Razan thought of all the children orphaned by the Soviets. Were those children not disappointed? Adoption, a poor attempt to assuage the effects of loss, may have made Koba’s cronies feel virtuous, but the children felt the pain of absence. Hardly a day passed that Yelena didn’t ask Razan to tell her what he remembered about her parents. When his scant information ran out, he concocted yarns that he feared would, like most lies, come back to haunt him.
The appointed day for Yelena’s meeting with Stalin saw her dressed elegantly in a new outfit and, thanks to the hairdresser in the building, coiffed with curls. Even her imported Italian shoes, bought at the embankment store, radiated respect for the Boss. Although Razan had advised that Koba preferred common clothes, Anna had proceeded without Razan’s knowledge. No child in her care was going to appear before the Supreme Leader in anything less than the best. When Razan objected to the cost, Yelena sat on his lap and said, “Please.” He couldn’t say no.
In keeping with the special day, Razan called for a cab to take them the short distance to the Kremlin. The cabby told Yelena how beautiful she looked and Razan how fortunate he was to have such a lovely daughter. In her glowing state, Yelena proudly and easily passed through the Troitsky Gate, managing to elicit smiles from the guards inside the wall. Yes, thought Razan, she will acquit herself very well. The real test would be to impress not Stalin but Comrade Ugly. If Yelena could impress him, she might well be asked back.
So familiar had Razan become that as he made his way to Stalin’s quarters, he rarely had to show the armed guard his official pass. For this special occasion, he requested that a guide be allowed to escort Yelena and him through the Kremlin’s glittering rooms. The request approved, the guard indifferently led the way. Yelena especially liked the Hall of the Order of Saint Andrew, Peter the Great’s Throne Hall. The gilded pillars and doors, the Tsarist monograms and crests, the regional crests, the parquet floors, and the ten bronze chandeliers persuaded Yelena that she had entered a fairyland. Her reluctance to leave came as no surprise.
“Is this where you work!” she exclaimed.
“Not in this room or the other splendid ones, but in a cramped office. You’ll see.”
On their way out of the hall, she kept looking over her shoulder as if to keep the image fresh in memory. “We’ve been studying Peter the Great in school. I can tell you all about his wish to westernize the country.”
Razan chuckled. “Later,” he said, and led her to Poskrebyshev’s office. He sat at his desk stamping papers.
“Ah,” he said, looking up. “At last we have the honor of meeting the young Rembrandt.”
Yelena cheerfully replied, “I’m a girl, not a boy.”
“Quite so,” said Poskrebyshev, who actually showed the trace of a smile. “What is it that fascinates you about Stalin’s mustache?”
“It’s so emblematic,” she said precociously.
Poskrebyshev chortled. “Where did you learn a word like that?”
“At art school. Everyone knows Stalin’s mustache.”
“Then why have you requested a meeting to see him? Aren’t the millions of photographs in the country enough for you?”
“Which photographs? They’re different.”
Poskrebyshev’s face darkened. He once again became Comrade Ugly. “I have no idea what you mean. Perhaps your father can explain.”
Before Razan could speak, Yelena blurted, “I want to paint the real Stalin’s mustache.”
The child had unwittingly verbalized a state secret: that Stalin was more than one man.
Razan could feel the ground shaking beneath their feet.
“Nonsense, Yelena!” said a terrified Razan. “Photos simply differ. Right, Nikolaevich?”
Stalin’s devoted servant coldly said, “Before the child leaves the premises, I want you to take her to the lab for fingerprinting and a head shot.”
“Of course,” replied Razan, trying to sound unconcerned. “Now can we see the Glorious Leader?”
“I’ll ring, but you’ll have to stay here.”
The attending guards led Yelena into the small room Stalin used for barbering. Koba, seated on his divan, patted the cushion next to him and gestured for Yelena to join him. The child and the Boss chatted amiably about her school and her lessons, which Stalin seemed to endorse. But then he digressed. “The seminary I attended employed force to educate the students. Beatings! Did you know that in Georgian one of the meanings of the word ‘beating’ is to educate?”
Yelena looked terrifi
ed.
“Don’t worry, child, we reserve such means of instruction for hardened criminals.” He briefly fell silent. “Can you imagine treating children in training for the priesthood like convicts? I have never forgotten or forgiven.”
Yelena, unbidden, touched Koba’s mustache. He recoiled. The guards sprang forward, but Koba raised a hand to ward them off.
“It’s all right. I was just taken by surprise.” Smiling at Yelena, he said, “Go ahead and touch the mustache. My daughter says it scratches when I kiss her. Do you think it’s soft or silky?”
“Neither,” said Yelena, fingering his mustache, “but I like it better than the one I painted. It’s different.”
Stalin’s eyes turned unfriendly, and his tobacco-stained teeth came into view as he lectured, “My dear child, they are one and the same. Remember that and you’ll always be Koba’s friend.”
The Supreme Leader lifted her onto his lap and gave her a hug. Then Yelena skipped out the door. Stalin called for Razan, who stood on the threshold. “Tell me, friend, who were her parents?”
With that question, this Stalin seemed to say that he was not the Supreme Leader. The real Vozhd would have known the fate of the Boujinski family. Or did this Stalin in fact know what had happened and was asking the question to mislead the barber? To protect the identity of Koba, any deceit or trick was allowed. If both Stalins pleaded ignorance, the real one would be all the harder to know. When Razan explained the fate of the family, this Stalin merely nodded. What would the other say?
Razan asked to be excused because the child had an art class and wouldn’t want to miss it. As he had threatened, Nikolaevich Poskrebyshev had a soldier march Razan and Yelena to the laboratory for fingerprinting and photographing. The barber had been subjected to these indignities before, but Comrade Ugly insisted that the Kremlin needed up-to-date information. He snidely suggested that people altered their prints and donned disguises to escape the attention of the authorities. “No one,” he said, repeating the line that was all too familiar, “is innocent.”
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