Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  Tonight, he regaled his listeners with a tale of infidelity. A strong, young peasant woman married a rich old man, Skortsov, whom she soon cuckolded with a young stable boy. Promising money and property, she induced him to kill her husband. But after the transfer of deeds, he started wooing another woman. One day, the couple was on the same boat as this woman, for an afternoon cruise on the Volga. When the husband started winking at his girlfriend in front of the passengers, his wife went to her, feigned friendliness, embraced her, and threw her into the water. A second later, she followed. Before anyone could come to the rescue, both women had disappeared from sight.

  Natasha found the story repellent and asked Alexei to join her upstairs, but he preferred to play chess. In a pout, she ascended the stairs to her room. At the top, she called provocatively to Alexei, “I’ll be waiting.” Washing herself at the basin, she slipped under the quilt, convinced that Alexei would momentarily join her. But after several minutes of staring at the green walls and white molding, she fell asleep, wearied from the exertions of her journey. She dreamed that the woman who threw her rival into the river made it to shore and, several years later, returned to the estate where she found her young man now married to another buxom blond. When her faithless husband entered the stable to saddle his favorite horse, he found it poisoned. Cradling the head of the animal, he cried copiously. The horse opened its eyes and said, “You forgot all my love and the numerous times that you mounted me.” Then the horse died.

  The next morning, Natasha found Alexei’s side of the bed untouched. He and his knapsack were gone. When she knocked on Dimitri’s door, he was already dressed. She ran to him in tears. Dimitri said nothing. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor.

  “You know something about Alexei,” she prompted. “Tell me.”

  At last, Dimitri looked up and forced a smile. He gave her his chair, and he sat on the bed. “Alexei left for Voronezh. One of the truckers who stopped for dinner last night was on his way there. Alexei and I talked, but I couldn’t persuade him to stay. He said, ‘I don’t think we don’t love each other, but ours can be only a dull, stale, tired bed.’” She heaved with emotion. Dimitri hugged her as he would a child, and with a finger tenderly removed the tears from her cheek. “As much as I care for you, my dearest Natasha, I really wonder whether you could ever love him as she has.”

  The Worst Cut of All

  Stalin returned unattended. He apologized with two words for his previous day’s retreat and for Razan’s confinement: “State security.” He sat at his desk and silently pored over some papers.

  Although this man looked eerily like the Stalin whom Razan had been barbering for years, he had larger ears and skin craters, more of a paunch, and dyed hair. Where had the man who’d picked up the phone and said “Information!” disappeared? This person walked like Stalin, one moment shuffling and the next striding briskly. He exhibited the same gestures, particularly the way he stroked his mustache. His accent was unmistakably Georgian. And his left hand was likewise curled. Perhaps the other man, to whom Razan felt attached, was a double, and this man was the real Koba. If so, Razan would have to start anew. Fawning mattered most, as well as eye focus, because diverted eyes betokened guilt for a former crime, and staring signified plotting. Razan agonized. If he was mistaken, to compliment the “new” Boss might rile the old. How then could he signal this man that he could see the difference between him and the other without offending either? Or perhaps he should say nothing. But if he pretended not to see any difference, and if this man was truly Iosif V. Dzhugashvili, he might be sowing the whirlwind. Stalin’s paranoid eruptions cowed the bravest soldiers, even generals. To negotiate the emotions of the Stalin whom he regularly trimmed and shaved was one matter, but how to handle this one was another.

  The Vozhd’s attention again migrated to the documents on his desk. A moment later, he looked up. “What were you talking about?”

  “Ice fishing and Comrade Gusinski,” answered Razan, noting that Stalin had not said, “What were we talking about?” He treated the shift in the pronoun as an opportunity to ask, “What happened to Gusinski?”

  The Boss pointed to Razan’s barbering tools. “Put them back. No haircut today.” He fingered his mustache. “Gusinski found it amusing to show up the stupidity of Gentiles. I resented Abram’s making jokes at the expense of the people. It’s class hatred.”

  The only way this man could have known about Gusinki’s humor and ice fishing was to have lived with him. Or had he spent the previous evening being briefed by the secret police? Razan needed to know absolutely whether this man was the real Vozhd. An innocent life was at stake.

  “How long did you remain with him?”

  “Long enough to see all the superstitions he followed, with the prayer shawl and head cap and rags he wore under his clothing. I tried to lead him out of his darkness, but he resisted.”

  “In those days, under the Tsar,” said Razan, aware that Stalin could have been familiar with Jewish religious habits, “religion was a form of resistance.”

  “And yet so many of your people still believe in God.”

  As if seeking approval for his atheism, Stalin stared at Lenin’s portrait, just long enough for Razan to pack up his utensils. With Rubin’s carving safely in the bag, he pocketed the real razor.

  “What time of year did you stay with him?”

  “You are very curious about my youth.”

  “Because you are the Supreme Leader.”

  “I lived with him in the fall.”

  “Do you know the autumn holiday of Sukkoth?” asked Razan.

  Stalin lit his pipe, exhaled a blue cloud of sweet-smelling smoke, and answered Razan fiercely. “Know it? I sat with Gusinski in a hut outside his cabin. We ate there for that damned holiday. I haven’t thought of the name for years until you just mentioned it. The winter had come early, and the rain was unceasing. But Abram insisted on building a hut for the holiday. I told him he was mad. I said we should stay inside. The weather was filthy . . . just awful, but he insisted on our eating in that ramshackle hut.”

  Razan felt certain that this man, who knew every particular about Gusinski, was the genuine article.

  “Do you still feel the same about Gusinski, now that he’s dead?”

  “Why would I change?” Stalin replied gruffly.

  Razan, taking this statement to mean that all Jews were on the executioner’s list, stalled for time by asking about the Houdini film.

  “I’ve shelved it for the time being.”

  “Is it true that Old and New is to be reissued?”

  Stalin studied him for a moment, but sensing no ulterior motive on Razan’s part, said, “Why don’t you join me, and we’ll watch it together. Afterward, we can decide how to end our relationship.”

  Picking up one of his desk phones, he ordered the projectionist, Aleksandr Ganshin, to prepare the movie, and a guard to lay the table in the alcove. “It will take a few minutes. In the meantime, I have a few questions for you. At grave’s edge, a man should be candid.”

  “You can be sure of my sincerity.”

  “Why didn’t you bring your daughters here as I ordered?”

  Stalin’s pipe was not drawing well. He tamped down the tobacco, removed the stem, and reached for a pipe cleaner.

  “You’re mistaken, Dear Supreme Leader. I came when I thought I would find you in . . . at night. At first, Yelena had gone off with a friend, and I couldn’t find her. But then she returned.”

  “Did you have any trouble at the Kremlin gate?”

  “No. Once they saw the passes, they waved us through. But the office was guarded and locked.”

  “And yet none of the security men remember seeing you.”

  “Strange. Natasha and I even lingered, feeling your presence and accomplishments in the building.”

  Blowing through the pipe stem, he screwed it into the bowl and pointed the unlit pipe at Razan. “You expect me to believe that fawning horseshit?”

&nb
sp; To Stalin’s astonishment, the barber laughed. “Of course I didn’t think you would believe me. But I wanted you to see that I could lie as well as those other functionaries who constantly anoint you with their oil.”

  Stalin cackled and lit his pipe. “I like that, Razan. You are underneath it all a good fellow. The truth is refreshing, though too much of it can ruin a good appetite. Don’t you agree?” Drawing deeply, Stalin talked as smoke issued from his mouth. “So why have you returned, knowing the danger?”

  “I hoped to appeal to your well-known compassion and mercy.”

  The Boss laughed so hard he excited a coughing fit. Reaching for his handkerchief, he asked, “How many years have you worked in the Kremlin? I never knew you had such a wry sense of humor.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “Where is Natasha?”

  “She wanted to visit her husband, Alexei, in Voronezh.”

  “Is that where she’s gone?”

  “Went. She arrived at the clinic, met her husband, and left shortly after.”

  Stalin puffed and stared at Razan, who said nothing. “Why would she depart so quickly?”

  “She’s on her way to Tashkent.”

  “How do you know, Comrade Shtube? We have tapped your phone and read your mail—and learned nothing. So I repeat: How do you know?”

  “A friend brought me the news.”

  Stalin howled like a wounded animal. “I don’t believe you! But in the Lubyanka, they will extract the truth.” Then, as if he had not just told the barber that he would be tortured, he jovially pointed to the door and exclaimed, “I want you to meet your replacement.”

  “As a matter of pride, may I ask: Was it because of my work?”

  Stalin shook his head no. “I asked my inner circle. They said your hand is as steady as ever, no burned ears, no nicks with the razor or scissors. But what matters is not who casts the votes but who counts them. It has always been my habit to bring in new people and exile the old. Familiarity breeds betrayal. But just to show you how much I trust your judgment, I am inviting you to observe your replacement. If you find him wanting, I will interview someone else. But don’t think that you can keep saying no to stay alive.”

  Stalin liked to see people grovel and beg for mercy. Razan would not join their ranks. Since Stalin wanted the barber to witness his successor, he would do so with a cheerful demeanor.

  “You can watch from my couch. His name is Temuri. Georgian. No more Jews. You and Pauker were enough. Time for one of my own.”

  A moment later, in response to Stalin’s pressing a buzzer, Poskrebyshev admitted two guards and a large, swarthy man with stubby fingers, unlike Razan’s long, graceful ones. Without a word, Stalin mounted the barber chair and sat silently while the man pinned a sheet over his torso and wrapped white gauze around the Supreme Leader’s neck. Deftly, the new barber shaved his face and singed the ear hairs. To Razan’s expert eye, the man had done a commendable job, and Stalin seemed pleased. As the new barber reached for the wet and dry towels, Stalin addressed Temuri for the first time.

  “Your family works a small farm in Georgia. Do they ferment the grape juice and skins in a large amphora, a kvevri, or in vats?”

  “Kvevri. Like our grandparents, we bury them in the soil, with just the necks sticking out. Then we cover them with an oak lid, seal them with clay, and bury them in a mound of dirt.”

  “And when you dig up the fermented saperavi grape wine is it not densely red and cool?”

  “Yes, and stains your lips like blood.”

  Stalin raised one finger to signal Temuri to continue his barbering. The Georgian applied the hot towels to the Boss’s face and then dried the skin, filling the craters with a tan talc. Unwinding the gauze and removing the sheet, he departed with them in one hand and his barbering tools in the other.

  “Is he your equal?” asked Stalin, smiling at Razan.

  But Razan knew better than to praise his own skills at the expense of another, particularly since one could never be sure of what game Stalin was playing. He loved nothing better than to pit people against each other. Razan’s silence induced Stalin to speak.

  “According to Molotov and Malenkov, he doesn’t have your skill, Comrade Shtube. But Temuri is not unskilled. His is by no means the worst cut of all. Besides, I can excuse a little peasant crudeness in one who makes Georgian wine and plays backgammon and who knows the Alazani valley with its orchards of walnut trees and vineyards of saperavi . . . do you understand?”

  Of course he understood. The subject wasn’t philosophy. Stalin, as he often did, had invoked his memories of Georgia and a bucolic life that he’d idealized. No reasoning on the part of Razan could compete with Stalin’s Utopian memories.

  “Razan, there’s nothing like a countryman, don’t you agree? I think you call them ‘landsmen.’ In fact, you have been one to all my people here in the Kremlin.”

  Yes, Razan too had fond memories, but for now, if he wished to succeed, he had to think of his next step, not the past. He excused himself and went to the bathroom. When he returned, Stalin said, “Come, let’s watch Old and New. Nothing puts me in a better mood than a film.”

  In the outer office, Poskrebyshev took the barber’s bag, rustled through it, glanced cursorily at the carving, and closed the lid. With a nod toward Stalin, he put the bag in the closet and turned back to his desk. The Boss placed a hand on Razan’s shoulder and marched him down the red-and-blue carpeted hall to the elevator. This time, Stalin’s guards followed.

  As they entered the cinema, Koba signaled to a soldier in the alcove and ordered, “Pour the barber a cup of tea and flavor it with honey. I’ll take mine with jam and the Armenian brandy. Grab the chocolates and don’t forget the spoons.”

  From beside the steaming samovar, the guard dutifully took two podstakanniki, silver holders, for the hot tea glasses, handed each man his cup, and extended to Razan an open box of chocolates.

  Stalin stroked his mustache and said with obvious satisfaction, “Think of it as your last supper.”

  “To your health,” said Razan raising his cup. He then sipped his tea.

  Stalin laughed and signaled the projectionist to roll the film.

  For several seconds, the viewing theatre was thrown into darkness. If Razan had anticipated this blackout, he could have acted. But now it was too late. Perhaps at the end of the film he would have another chance. In darkness, he could sow light.

  Stalin took his regular armchair and Razan sat slightly behind him, as Koba poured a half teaspoon of the Armenian brandy into the tea, stirred it, and said, “Sit next to me. You know I don’t like anyone at my back.”

  “I was just trying to position myself to see the film as you do, from the same perspective.”

  During the film credits, Razan wondered, as he had so many times before, about the shifts in mood and personality attributed to Stalin. One minute, he was said to be all gentleness, the next, fierce as a tiger. For the first time, Razan fully realized the degree of acting required of Stalin’s doubles. The barber closed his eyes and briefly imagined that the impersonators had been trained by no other than the brilliant Yiddish actor and director of the Moscow State Jewish Theatre, Solomon Mikhoels. Razan’s mind drifted to the night that he had seen Mikhoels in his most famous role, King Lear. Virtually every Jewish Muscovite bragged about that performance, whether or not they had seen it. If Solomon had trained Stalin’s shadows . . . the idea was absurd . . . such improbabilities rarely occurred . . . but if it were true, perhaps the death of Stalin would free the doubles to exhibit the same humanitarian values as Mikhoels. Did not the actor believe in Lenin’s idea of encouraging nationalities to pursue their own cultures under the umbrella of the Soviet state? How better to guarantee a flourishing Russian community of artists?

  To settle his nerves, Razan requested more tea. When he tried to take another chair, one nearer the door, Stalin ordered him back to his previous one. The screen flashed montages of ignorant peasants blind to mechanization and progress, dark t
o the mud and the flies. Always the flies.

  “Did you know,” said Stalin, “I didn’t meet Eisenstein until he was making this film. It was originally called ‘The General Line.’ I suggested he call it ‘The Old and the New,’ and contrast poverty and abundance. Tell how the latter had resulted from land reforms. Then I told him to sweeten the ending. After all, you have to leave the people with more than flies and shit. They want to see love.”

  “A Jewish proverb says that truth matters more than love.”

  Stalin placed his hand on Razan’s. The barber thought that this gesture was a preamble to the Vozhd lecturing him. But Stalin ignored the proverb and talked about the film, which mattered to him dearly.

  “In the first cut, Eisenstein sentimentalized suffering. I said, ‘Sergei, given what we have done in our times—the resettlement of the bloodsucking kulaks, the class warfare, the constant unmasking of enemies of the people—show the world the face of our enemy, but through the pathos of ecstasy.’”

  On the screen, Razan watched as the opening scene unfolded: springtime. The peasants are tending their fields and engaging in their usual pursuits. The heroine enters, Marfa Lapkina.

  “She’s not a professional actress,” said Stalin. “Eisenstein auditioned a great many women for the part but finally settled on an amateur. In the movie, he used her real name.”

  “She’s quite attractive.”

  “One day, she stopped coming to the set. Some old women had told her that the film cameras were like X-ray machines: that they could see right through her clothing. She was devoutly conservative and insisted that the only person who would ever see her naked was her husband. Not until Sergei proved to her that the cameras did not show her undressed would she return.”

  “Since you mention appearance, permit me to ask why all the fuss a few years ago about Yelena’s painting and the photographs made from it?” Stalin stared at him balefully. Razan pretended levity. “Come now, Boss, all condemned men deserve to have at least one of their questions answered. Besides, it’s probably my last.”