Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  He kissed her passionately and carried her into the bedroom where they made love tenderly.

  “You’re my first,” she said, “and I want no other. Let us marry as soon as we reach Budapest.”

  In the morning, Bianka woke them before their car was to leave for the station. The clock read a few minutes to five. “You must get out immediately. The train to Budapest is a ‘special’ train. You must not board it.”

  Pavel thought that perhaps Pelagia had mistranslated. He said, “The governor-general promised.”

  “Hans Frank can’t be trusted.”

  “The Russians and Germans are allies,” replied Pavel.

  “Until they’re not,” said Bianka cryptically.

  Pavel and Pelagia dressed. But owing to their lovemaking the night before, they had left their packing for morning. Although they hastily filled their valises, the delay was just long enough to allow two men to silently approach the guesthouse. The SS man who knocked on the door was not Bruno Kirk, the lieutenant who had kindly housed them. Abrupt and unflinching, this man, who also spoke Russian, ordered them into a car at the curb. The driver put their bags in the trunk and then resumed his seat behind the wheel, with the SS man at his side. Pavel and Pelagia sat in the back. Shades covered the windows. The car drove to a railroad siding. Through the front windshield, Pavel caught sight of a long line of people, with possessions of every sort, waiting to board—could it be?—cattle cars! Armed guards prodded the line of people with whips and police dogs. At last, the lieutenant spoke.

  “You will be riding in a special car with padded seats and a lavatory. Our governor-general is a gracious man. But the car must be sealed to cross the border in safety. Partisan guerilla groups, passport control . . . you understand. If I’m not mistaken, Lenin returned to Russia in a sealed car. So we are extending to you, a sports champion, the same treatment that your Beloved Leader received. We have even decorated the car for your benefit—with pictures.”

  The driver pulled up next to the private train car, its windows eerily painted black. Removing a key, the SS man ascended the three high steps of the car, unlocked the door, and held it open. Pelagia boarded. Pavel, looking back at the station, saw standing under the porch roof, Bruno Kirk. He looked downcast. Their eyes met and for a moment remained fixed. Then Lieutenant Kirk turned and entered the station. Pavel climbed into the special car. He could hear the door being locked. To his surprise, he and Pelagia were not the only passengers. Several others were already seated: a scientist, an artist, a politician, a philosopher, and a female lawyer. He introduced himself and his “fiancée,” Pelagia, who beamed with happiness and translated. Then they shook hands with the eminent company. On one side of the car hung a portrait of Lenin; on the other, Stalin. As it happened, the only empty seats were positioned beneath the latter’s portrait. So Pelagia and Pavel sat under the Vozhd’s haunting presence. At Pavel’s urging, she asked in Polish, “Are you all bound for Budapest?”

  The others looked at each other.

  “Are you not,” asked the politician, “being deported, like us, for working on behalf of the Bolsheviks?”

  Pelagia briefly explained the circumstances that had brought the couple to this private car.

  “I fear you have misunderstood,” said the politician. “This train is not going to Budapest, but to Mauthausen concentration camp.”

  Escape from Paradise

  “The Fascist Finns,” said Stalin, baring his neck to Razan, as the barber prepared to shave off the lather and stubble. As usual, Stalin’s bodyguards stepped forward prepared to stay a murderous hand, should the barber be so inclined. But Razan scraped the soapy remains onto the sheet, folded up the blade, and readied himself to singe the tufts growing from Stalin’s ears. But before applying the Turkish Delight, he waited for Stalin to vent his annoyance with the Finns. “Molotov explained to them that all we wanted was a mutual security pact to protect us against attack from either Germany or the Entente. We offered concessions. But no, they feared that we had the same territorial aspirations as the Tsar. Fools! Now we will have to go to war with them for our own safety.”

  “But the German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact signed two months ago,” said Razan, “made Germany our ally.”

  “They’re not to be trusted. Look at Poland. The Germans have dismembered it. Estonia and Latvia and Lithuania signed treaties with us to guarantee our northern flank against Germany. Why not Finland? We even gave Lithuania the Polish city of Vilnius, as a reward. The Finns are being misled by Prime Minister Erkko, a capitalist rat.”

  “No doubt we’ll win,” said Razan ingratiatingly.

  “And quickly. But we have to speed up our shipbuilding, add additional troops, cut forest roads to Finland, improve our supply lines and communications, and move our prison camp from Solovki.”

  Razan and Anna were now living on the edge of a precipice. The disclosure of Gregori’s imprisonment at the Solovetski Concentration Camp, and the knowledge that the family had attracted the attention of the NKVD, meant survival would require immediate action. The fact that Solovki would soon be evacuated provided the catalyst.

  After dinner, Razan made his familiar gesture—a hand on his mouth—to indicate that he wanted to speak to Anna outside. When he told her that Solovki would be evacuated sooner than they had expected, Anna observed, “Dimitri says that most of the guards in these camps are former criminals, so they’re open to bribes. The danger comes from their treachery. They might take our money and then betray us in return for a government reduction in their sentences.”

  A policeman stood on the corner, his face occasionally turned toward them. She suggested they cross the bridge toward the Kremlin. The man followed. Razan stopped to blow his nose. Anna could see the sadness in his eyes.

  “They certainly have a genius for turning family members against each other,” he said.

  “Dimitri says the order must have come from Stalin.”

  On learning about Dimitri’s orders to spy on them, Razan had felt both furious and relieved. Anyone in the employ of the government knew that only a few survived—by mere chance. But at least those people slated for suppression had one consolation. They could stop dreaming and resign themselves to their fate. Except for those who took their own lives, few tried to escape. After all, where would they go and how? Travel by rail was virtually impossible, because guards patrolled the train stations and constantly checked papers. Every small town had its informers; big cities were safer. With any luck, one could get lost in a crowd, at least for a short time. But those who took refuge in Moscow or Leningrad haunts were eventually betrayed by opportunists or by friends who succumbed to NKVD pressure.

  His mind mired in fear, Razan said, “Stalin says war with Finland is inevitable. Is that good or bad for us? My guess is the Finnish border is too dangerous. All those Red Army men massed there.”

  Anna glanced at the man trailing behind them and whispered, “I know a way to cross the border.”

  She fell silent and started back to the flat. The man passed, stopped, turned, and followed them toward the house on the embankment. As they approached the front door, Anna said enigmatically, “In the haste of war, confusion reigns.” She took Razan by the arm. “We want to exploit that confusion.”

  Only later did Anna make herself clear. They would escape from the country not by seeking succor among the nationalities in the south, as she had originally planned, but by following the rifle brigades and tanks and planes and ships into Finland. “The troops will need nourishment and drink. We will provide both from a horse and a wagon. My mother made a profit this way during the Civil War.”

  Although she had a few ideas about how to free Gregori, she said nothing about Alexei in Voronezh. Razan suspected that she still resented his having left Natasha. At a small bistro on the outskirts of Moscow, Razan and Anna met Dimitri to discuss which of her plans had the best chance of succeeding. Over a goulash, he agreed to the idea of their escaping through Finland and told his
astonished parents that he planned to take Natasha with him to Voronezh to free Alexei. He said that they should all meet in Petrozavodsk, where a friend of his lived in two rooms. Dimitri gave them the address.

  But their carefully laid plans were interrupted by the secret police, who searched their apartment without any advanced warning, to the chagrin of Anna, Razan, Natasha, and Yelena, who were just sitting down to a dinner of herring and lamb-stuffed kishkas. The knock at the door sounded harmless enough, and Anna could see nothing amiss through the peephole, just two men dressed in dark overcoats, scarves, and black fedoras. Their credentials identified them as NKVD agents. Comrades Yermakov and Zlobin said that their orders to search for contraband had come directly from Beria.

  “We are looking for shortwave radios,” said Zlobin.

  Anna smiled at the patent mendacity but offered them a plate of green soup, which they declined. Resuming her seat, she noticed Natasha and Yelena exchanging glances.

  The men rifled through drawers and closets, opened stored luggage, removed the lids to saucepans and stewing pots, patted down the furniture cushions, went through Yelena’s art supplies and toy box. Nothing! While putting on their coats to leave, Comrade Zlobin decided to take one last sweep of the apartment.

  “My daughter has one of those,” said Zlobin, pointing to the panda in the corner. “The store at the Moscow zoo, right?”

  At once, Natasha knew to disown the panda. “My sister, Yelena, found it in a park a few blocks from her school.”

  “Yours looks slightly different,” he said. He tossed the stuffed animal in the air, observing that it felt lumpy.

  Natasha came from her chair, took the panda, and said, “Please, comrade, it belongs to Yelena. I see no need to treat it roughly.”

  “Unless you have something to hide,” he said. Snatching it back, he undid the zipper, reached inside, and removed several muslin-wrapped spools of microfilm. “Ah, what’s this?”

  Natasha played the role of a betrayed wife who has just learned of compromising letters. “I am stunned! Microfilm in the panda!”

  Yermakov, the less educated of the two agents, copied his comrade and held the film up to the light. “Mostly rubbish,” he said, tossing on the floor Babel’s unfinished novel and the Mandelstam poems. “Just some scribblers who must have thought they were writers.”

  Natasha quickly gathered up the spools, turned her back, and stuffed them down the front of her dress. Zlobin noticed nothing, so absorbed was he in a compromising film bearing on Yagoda, Ezhov, Malenkov, Molotov, and Stalin. He whistled through his teeth and, adjusting his glasses, said, “You won’t believe what I’ve found! Sex, drugs, booze. Whew.”

  Awed by the documents that Zlobin had found, Yermakov stood reading over his shoulder. “Look at this one,” said Zlobin, “an old Tsarist report about the Boss. Wow, in his youth the Boss was some lady’s man. He even got a woman pregnant and left her behind in one of the camps. This stuff is dynamite!”

  On the word “dynamite,” Natasha signaled Yelena to help her clear the table. In the kitchen, Natasha wrote an address, put it under a plate, turned on the sink tap, and took Yelena’s hand. Slipping into the foyer for their coats, they eased out the front door, leaving it slightly ajar to avoid the click of the latch.

  Like youngsters reading their first salacious novel, the two agents salivated for several minutes over the films. Razan and Anna had by now also retreated into the kitchen, where they found the address and where the agents found them washing dishes.

  “Where did they go?” demanded Yermakov.

  “Who?” said Anna innocently.

  “Your daughters,” said Zlobin.

  “Oh, they just stepped outside for some fresh air. You’ll probably find them on the street, in front of the building.”

  The two agents scooped up the spools and left the apartment.

  Razan pointed to the bathroom. He and Anna sat on the edge of the tub, as he ran both faucets to cover the sound of their voices.

  “Where did they go?” asked Razan.

  “Natasha has a girlfriend who lives near Gorky Street. She left her address.”

  “I feel sorry for the two men. They’ll probably be shot.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And us?” asked Razan.

  “My guess is we have only a few hours. You must get word to Dimitri. I will leave for Leningrad as soon as I can pack a bag. The rubles hidden in the lining of my blue dress come to a large sum, more than enough for me to attempt the impossible and for you and Yelena to get to Petrozavodsk.” She dipped her hand in the water, touched his forehead, and made the sign of the cross. They embraced. Razan’s eyes filled with tears; Anna remained outwardly unmoved. But as they unclasped, she held Razan at arm’s length and said, “Let me look at you to remember. It may be the last time.”

  Razan buried his head in her breast and cried unabashedly. Her skin exuded the appealing earthly scent that always excited him when they coupled. After a minute, he wiped his eyes and asked, “What should I do about Yelena?”

  “Register her in school.”

  “In her own name?”

  “You have no choice. That’s how her papers are stamped.”

  “A forgery . . .”

  “Not worth it. No one will recognize the name Boujinskia. I’ve already warned her to say nothing of the family. If she’s asked, she will say that Dimitri’s friend is her uncle.”

  “And her real family?”

  “As far as she knows, they returned to Tashkent. Then she was adopted. But her new parents died.”

  “There may be more truth in that lie than in most.”

  “You mustn’t grow dispirited. We’ll survive.” She touched his cheek. “Our savings are large enough to bribe our way to Finland.”

  Razan had to admit that the sum, though not staggering, was considerable, owing to Anna’s having capitalized on Yelena’s painting. “Where can we meet in Petrozavodsk?” he asked. “Some landmark? Dimitri said his friend frequently moves between apartments. Who would ever have thought that in the Soviet Union one had such freedom of movement or that so many apartments were vacant.”

  “I gather that he trades with other people like himself, even though it’s against the law. As for our meeting, I have no way of knowing whether Gregori and I can escape—or when. The first chance you get make your way to Helsinki and register with the police. I’ll do the same, as will Dimitri and Natasha. Pavel . . . who knows?”

  “What if you’re caught . . .” The words stuck in his throat.

  She removed a knife from her bag. “If necessary I will use it. For my children—anything. I have killed before.”

  So great was the shock of Anna’s admission that Razan nearly fell into the tub, now slowly filling as a result of poor drainage. He reached for the wall to steady himself. She could see in his face competing emotions: fear, disbelief, awe, contempt, sympathy.

  “Pyotr was lying on his back in the creek bed when I found him. He was resting on a slab of ice, dead to the world.”

  “Really dead or unconscious?”

  “I flipped him over, and he drowned.” She could see Razan’s throat muscles constricting. “I had good reason. He beat me and the children unmercifully. Whoring, drinking, lying—at these he was expert—but work? Supporting his family meant nothing to him.”

  A dazed Razan and a clearheaded Anna talked briefly about their life together, remembering tender moments and risible ones, and would have continued except that the tub had filled with water. The two looked at each other, remembering fondly bathing together, when three NKVD men burst into the apartment, looking ominously like black crows. They began immediately to disassemble the apartment, looking, they said, for hidden documents or microfilms.

  “Anna and Razan Shtube, you are under arrest, accused of spying and of possessing state secrets. Take your overcoats and passports.”

  Razan insisted that they were both innocent. Ordered to enter the back of a green truck, with
the word “Bread” printed in four languages on the side, they were conveyed in this “inconspicuous” NKVD vehicle to Comrade Beria’s office. People in the streets stopped to look, knowing all too well that the bread truck delivered not a life-giving substance but death. As a result, the color green and the word “bread” had become odious omens.

  A squinting Beria dispensed with all introductions and formalities. “Forget microfilms, I want to talk about your Palestine Plan. The details are unclear to me, but I know that the words are really an acronym for a secret organization. Dimitri has exposed you. Now tell me about the group, its intentions, and its membership.” Later, Beria would reflect on the brilliance of Anna’s explanation.

  “Comrade Beria, you are right. Ours is an organization to resettle people and prevent prejudice. The uneducated believe in miracles, like those said to take place in the Holy Land. Who are the most likely people to engage in a pogrom? The ignorant. If we lack the means to educate all the people properly, then we must reach them through what they hold dear: their superstitions. The belief that God’s first love, the Jews, have been called home by Him, will go farther to stem prejudice than Soviet laws. Just think of Loktev.”

  Beria, who liked to appear knowledgeable but could not at the moment place the name, said, “Of course, Loktev. It was some time ago. Remind me of the circumstances.”

  Anna pursed her lips to suppress a laugh. “Just last year he and the priest Father Vasily were apprehended for their stirring up the peasants in the Far East.”

  “Oh, yes, as I recall, they were . . . promoting religion.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Anna, in full control of the exchange between her and the NKVD head. “If you remember, Loktev eerily resembled Nicholas II.”

  “I regard it as a great Soviet achievement that we killed the last Tsar of Russia and ended the Romanov line. Privilege,” he said, waving his hand, “has been abolished and everyone’s equal.”

  Anna ignored the propaganda and continued. “The uncanny resemblance of Loktev to Nicholas II gave the wily priest an idea. He would parade the look-alike through small villages and collect alms for the church by confiding to the peasants that the Tsar had survived and was waiting in the next room. Father Vasily would then parade Loktev before the group to the astonishment of the assembly. But one problem presented itself. Loktev was a retarded simpleton. So Father Vasily taught him to bow and retreat after repeating one sentence: ‘Be brave, Russian people, God is merciful.’ Then Father Vasily would lecture the people on the sanctity of the Orthodox Church and its need for financial support. At the end of his speech, he would graciously accept donations and lead Loktev to the next village.”