November, 1941
Tashkent
The very morning of Lily’s awakening, Igor brought Rachel rolls, jam, and coffee. Had he brought her a silver plate covered with diamonds she wouldn’t have been more thrilled and grateful. Over the next few days, he arranged for meals to be brought to her and she later discovered that he had “greased the palms” of the medical staff to ensure that Lily wouldn’t languish, that she would go forward from her first victory.
She didn’t know where all this would lead until that night, a week after Lily’s return to reality, when he came to their door. Lily was asleep. She realized what had happened, and she went to him as naturally as she would have gone to her husband’s side. They went back into his mother’s room. The body had already been removed. Igor Bachterev needed to talk.
He had grown up in Leningrad where his father was a prominent surgeon and his mother a college professor. Her passion was literature, and together they read aloud from the works of the great Russian writers, especially Pushkin. He had gone to college in Leningrad and achieved youthful fame with his biography of Suvorov, the great Russian general. A Party member, he was also an officer in the National Writer’s Union. His father had died of a heart attack in 1937. He and his mother had lived together, still united by their shared love of books. Then had come the evening she had told him she had been stricken, that there was no hope. Nothing he had ever read had prepared him to cope with her suffering, her agonized wasting away. With the onset of the war, he had forced her to leave the city she loved; she wanted her place to be taken by someone who still had health; but he had refused to listen. She had lasted only two months in Tashkent, most of it spent listening to him read her favorite passages about Leningrad or daydreaming about the city in her pain-induced haze.
“I can’t believe she’s gone. When she was alive those last few weeks, and wanted more than anything to be set free, death made sense. But now . . . it’s not real.”
“I know.” She recounted the deaths of her parents and they wept together as he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
She told him she was an artist. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. All night they talked about art and what it meant to be creative. Igor drank in her words with a fervor that made her believe that she had found someone who understood her deepest longings, who cherished that part of her she held sacred and inviolable, her artistic conscience.
They were still talking when morning came.
“If you’d like, you and your sister can move in with me,” Igor said. “Mother’s old room is large enough for both of you.”
Both of you. It wasn’t so much what he said, as the way he said it that made her understand the import of his words. He doesn’t fancy women, she thought. He wants me, but not in his bed.
Rest easy, guilty girl, nothing to worry about anymore.
“That’s very kind of you, Igor. But we’re strangers.”
“Nonsense. You’re family now.” He spoke with such warmth that tears came to her eyes. He’ll help us, Lily. He’ll really help us.
“Thank you, Igor. We’d love to.”
Rachel stayed with Lily in her hospital room until she was released the first week of December. Compared to Latvia it was hot, but Rachel wasn’t uncomfortable. The city’s extensive greenery lent a freshness to the air and muted the harshness of the sunlight. Igor arranged for Lily to be transported to his apartment by ambulance; Rachel rode with her. She still didn’t have the strength to sit up, or to talk for more than a short time. The strain of leaving the hospital exhausted her, and she lay with her eyes closed, holding Rachel’s hand, as they were driven through the city. Stretcher-bearers carried her into the modern white brick and glass structure where Igor lived on the eighth floor.
There were two beds in what had been his mother’s room. Igor had stripped the room of her things, leaving it depressingly bare; but he had been thoughtful enough to put a vase of fresh flowers on the dressing table.
Once Lily was settled, Igor showed Rachel the rest of the apartment. Located near the university—he taught a course in the relationship of Russian history and literature—the windows in the living room faced west, toward the mountains through which she and Lily had passed. The view was unobstructed, encompassing the cotton and melon fields, and many of the city’s low, sprawling buildings decorated with geometric patterns. Everywhere interspersed about the buildings and along the wide streets were deciduous trees, now flaunting their finest leaves. She also noticed with pleasure that orchards and vineyards encircled the city where the fields ended.
It was a view that she could have lost herself in for hours after her self-imposed confinement in the hospital; but Igor wanted to show her his “treasures.” He had filled the living room with memorabilia from Leningrad. A dozen photographs of the city hung on the flimsy plasterboard walls. He pointed out Nevsky Prospect on a busy shopping day and all of Leningrad’s most famous architectural masterworks. “This is the Anichkov Bridge with its Horse Tamer’s sculpture.” Set out on the end tables were ticket stubs from concerts and plays, even menus from the restaurants he and his mother had gone to after the theater. Rachel was disconcerted by these curios, but she let nothing show, and he dragged her to the plain dining table to show her a capped bottle filled with dark oily water. “Guess!” The answer came to her, but she thought it was too ridiculous to say. “You never will. This” he announced proudly, “is from the Neva River.” He looked at her for her reaction. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Of course not. But to us, those for whom Leningrad is our church, the place where our spirit lives, this keeps us alive and tells us that someday we will no longer have to endure exile in this—” he whirled and pointed outside, “barren place.”
But it was beautiful, this sun drenched city of trees and ancient worlds! She thought of Alisher, and for a brief moment Igor’s shallowness, his inability to see beyond what he had come from was plain to her. She would open his eyes, she decided. That would be her gift to him.
He took her into his bedroom to show her the framed portraits of Pushkin on the walls and the stacks of books on the floor beside the bed. “I could only bring a limited number, but I couldn’t stand to leave any of Pushkin behind.”
She would have laughed at him except that he took himself so seriously.
For the first week, Rachel was Lily’s nurse. She bathed and fed her, emptied her bedpan. Igor was gone all day, teaching or attending meetings at the writer’s union. At night they talked, resuming their conversation where they had left off the night before.
Igor’s voice intoxicated her. To look at his eyes and lips and hear the flow of musical phrases gave her such pleasure that she thirsted for it all day. She couldn’t judge the wisdom of his words; she only wanted to hear him talk.
He delighted in showing her albums of photographs he had taken of Leningrad. He took her on imaginary walks, pointing out literary landmarks. One whole album contained a scene by scene depiction of the locations Dostoyevsky had used in Crime and Punishment.
Igor professed to despise the entire country, as well as its government, with the exception of his native city. “Outside Leningrad,” he declared, “this country is one gigantic pig-pen. That’s why Stalin hates Leningrad. It’s full of Jews who treat him like the shit-shoveler he deserves to be.”
He also showed her an album of photographs he had taken in Paris. Her familiarity with the city surprised him. “I’m not some provincial!” she protested.
“Having lived there,” he replied, “I didn’t expect you to know it as well as I do.” Over the years, he had abandoned Leningrad on many occasions to live there; but he had always returned.
“Why, if you hate Russia so much?”
“Inside Russia I can’t write what I want, but outside Leningrad I have nothing to write about.”
By the middle of December, Lily had gained enough strength to take care of herself. Igor offered to introduce Rachel to the community of artists and writers that had taken refuge in Tashkent.
“But I have to find Mitya and get back to work,” she declared. She had told him nothing that could compromise her anonymity, rationalizing that she ought to protect him from the truth. Eventually, she knew, she would have to tell him the truth, but she hadn’t planned on it being this soon.
“I’ll do both for you.” He spoke with such certainty that she couldn’t attempt to dissuade him. She was afraid. If only she could talk to Mitya.
“I think getting back to work will be enough for now,” she said lamely.
He saw the surge of anxiety in her eyes. “What are you frightened of? Believe me, whatever it is, I can take care of it.”
His voice was like a womb that opened for her to crawl into; and after all, he had managed to solve every problem she had faced since she had met him.
“I never registered. I have no papers.”
“So?”
She was incredulous. “I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
“The N.K.V.D.”
“Is that all? You lost your papers and you didn’t have a chance to register?”
“But I was in Moscow for weeks.”
“You and millions of others scrambling about like chickens tossed into a boiling caldron.” He put his hands on her shoulders and his words flowed through them into her body. “I’ll speak to a friend of mine. It will be taken care of.”
“Who is he?” His expression of distaste answered her. It established a zone of silence between them where each could protect their secrets from the other. “Never mind,” she added. “It makes no difference who he is.”
“You’ll meet him soon enough. He’s what one might call a cultural epicure.” The undercurrent of fear and sarcasm in his voice was new to her. This man, whoever he was, would be dangerous to her. She assumed that Igor carried on a balancing act in relation to the establishment, but this was the first evidence of it she had seen.
Now that Lily no longer required constant nursing, Rachel felt the urge to draw. She told Igor, and drawing pads and pencils appeared; he thrived on her gratitude and she didn’t ask him how he had managed to obtain the scarce materials.
Her imagination so teemed with images that she couldn’t make her hand move fast enough. The train station at Pskov, the Moscow panic, the journey through the desert; each scene burst, sending waves of pictures through her hand onto the pages. Whole days passed as she worked at home on the drafting table Igor had set up in front of the westward facing windows. Lily would come out and sit near her, watching, until the sun went down. Then Rachel was possessed by manic energy that drove her outside for long walks about the city in the gathering dusk.
She couldn’t get enough of Tashkent’s translucent evenings, when its sand-colored buildings were plunged into pink light, and the sky wrapped the valley in bands of the most exquisite color she had ever seen. The modern buildings faded into the cool darkness, but the mosques loomed like ancient sentries in the moonlight awaiting the return of once and future kings.
Once night had fallen, she hurried home, still fearful of being stopped without papers. Igor always returned from work with food for dinner. More often than not, he brought flat bread and shashlik, but sometimes he managed to get precious fresh vegetables and fruit.
After supper, she and Igor talked until she went to join Lily in their room. One night Igor said, “By the way, I’ve taken care of your registration problem.”
He spoke as if it were an afterthought, sending a chill up her neck. “Oh?” She avoided looking at him too closely.
“I’ve made an appointment for you for tomorrow morning through my friend. I hope that’s alright with you.”
“Perfect.” As if either of us has a choice, she thought. “Will I meet your friend?”
“No, nothing that extravagant. You’ll sign a few forms and they’ll issue your papers. No more trouble than a driver’s license.”
“Will you come along?”
“If you’d like.”
“I would.”
“Then of course I will.” He smiled as if to say the worst was over, and tomorrow she would breeze through the interview like a student taking an easy exam.
“Thank you, Igor. You must get tired of hearing me say that.”
“Never.” He studied her.
“You’re not worried about tomorrow?” She nodded. “What for? If they wanted to arrest you, they would have done so a long time ago.”
Was he talking in generalities or had he found out something specific?
“So I assume,” he clarified.
“I assume likewise. But I’m still nervous.”
He studied her, his lips pursed as though he were debating whether to tell her something. But he suddenly smiled. She waited for him to say something more but he waved goodnight and went to his room.
Once she was in her bed, her confidence was supplanted by worry, and her body felt heavy and cold. She pulled the covers over her and lay awake. The day she had dreaded from the moment she had left her parents’ estate and walked along into Talsi was at hand: tomorrow, at long last, she would come face to face with the N.K.V.D. Mitya would have told her to run, to escape over the border into Iran or Afghanistan; but that wasn’t, could never be her way. Lily still needed her. Stephen couldn’t be abandoned. Or Michael. She would have to trust Igor. She had no other choice.
The next morning as she dressed, Lily sat up in bed. Still emaciated, her features were sharp and exposed, flesh-less.
“Where are you going?” Lily asked.
Rachel sat on the side of her bed.
“Igor’s taking me to meet someone. He says I can register.”
“What?”
“He’s going to help me with the N.K.V.D. I’ll get my papers today, so I’ll be able to go back to work with Mitya. Igor will help you, too, even more than he already has. Once you’re strong enough.”
Lily groaned. “I hate the idea you’re . . . doing it with him for me.”
“Lily, I’m not going to bed with him.”
“No? Then why’s he doing all this for you.”
“He likes me. Not like that. He’s not attracted to women.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. In his own way, he did.”
Lily looked doubtful. “I’m afraid they might take you away from me.”
“Oh Lily!” Rachel embraced her. “No one is going to take me away. I promise you. Don’t you see? They want me. I’ve got talent they need.”
“And Igor?”
“He’s their go-between.”
“Be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
* * *
Rachel didn’t know for certain that Igor was acting at the behest of the N.K.V.D., but his sarcastic characterization of his “friend” as a cultural epicure was, to her mind, his way of revealing his association with them without having to actually own up to it. Whatever doubts she may have had were eliminated when she saw that a car and driver were waiting for them. They got in, and the driver pulled away. She considered revealing her true name to him; but it was always possible they knew only of her highly praised work with Mitya. Preoccupied with her dilemma, she realized they had left the city only when the cotton fields caught her eye.
“I thought it was in town.”
“My friend has a more private office out here.”
“But you said I wouldn’t have to speak with him.” She knew she had violated the zone of privacy, but she couldn’t help it. She was frightened; were they going to arrest her now?
“I told you that you have nothing to fear.” The edge to his voice was so sharp she could have slit her wrists on it.
The office proved to be a cement blockhouse that looked to her like a jail. The road leading to it was unpaved, and they arrived in a whirl of dust. Igor looked at her, but she couldn’t move. What name should she give them? She glanced out the car window at the door to the blockhouse. Its nondescript appearance made it all the more foreboding. Then the answer came to her and she wondered how it had eluded her for so long. They already know who you are. That’s what Igor was about to tell you.
“Just taking a moment of silent prayer,” she quipped.
Their driver led the way, opening the door for them. They entered a large rectangular room cluttered with desks, but void of people. The driver left through another door, and shortly a different man came out. He was completely bald, but nevertheless strikingly handsome, with the build of a weight-lifter. He was wearing an open-throated tunic, riding pants and knee-high boots. He had perfect posture, and his muscular torso rippled beneath his clothing. Rachel guessed that he had grown up on a farm.
“May I introduce Zip Uk,” Igor said.
“My name is Rachel Hirschfeld.” She avoided looking at Igor. There was a slight flicker of interest in Zip Uk’s cold grey eyes, but otherwise she detected no reaction to her admission.
“I am very pleased to meet the daughter of such a famous man.” He extended his hand. It was extraordinarily large, with short thick stubs for fingers. He wore no rings or jewelry and his palm was heavily calloused.
It was her turn not to act surprised. Shaking his hand, she replied, “I saw his body seconds after the execution. He was murdered solely for his patriotic works.” That I did for him, she added, to herself.
“Why don’t we go back to my office and talk. Igor won’t mind if we leave him.”
He waited for her to walk ahead of him, and as she started for the door she glanced at Igor. An expression of ineffable sadness crossed his face, followed by a look such as a father might give his daughter on her first day of school.
The door was opened by their driver and she walked down a corridor that split into two branches. She followed Zip Uk to the left, and they went into a small, nicely furnished room.
“Please sit down. This won’t take long.”
She would have felt more secure if he had ordered her about without the pretense of courtesy. But she sat where he had directed her to.
“I’m curious how you managed to get to the hospital without going through the station.”
She had already decided how she would answer this question. “You must be mistaken. I did go through the station.”
Zip Uk’s thick lips curled into a malicious grin. “There’s no point in not telling me the truth.”
“I got off the train at the station. Why should I lie?” You won’t get to Alisher through me, she thought.
“No one who got off that train was able to avoid registering.”
Rachel shrugged diffidently. “I tell you I did.”
“You didn’t arrive at the hospital until later that night. Where were you all day?”
“Looking for Mitya Vodogolin. I thought Tashkent was a much smaller city.”
“You left your so-called sister in a coma to wander about on the off-chance that you might come across Vodogolin.”
She pretended to squirm in her chair. “I lied. I was hiding in the station. I jumped off the train and followed the tracks in and hid in the yard until it was dark.” She focused her eyes on the floor. It was a simple, yet plausible explanation, and when she heard his next question, she knew he believed her.
“Why? What were you afraid of?”
Of you. Alisher was off the hook. Now she had to save Mitya. “Something happened on the river. When Lily and I”—she assumed he knew Lily’s name from Igor—“got to Gorki, we walked the docks until we found someone who was willing to give us passage downriver. Lily had received some money from her parents that we paid to the boat’s captain. But the boat was attacked and the captain was murdered.”
It was definitely not the answer Zip Uk hoped to hear. The blood drained from his face and he gaped at her. She recounted in detail the events that culminated in Maslow’s death, making sure to describe Pug as an idiot. “I was frightened. The people who killed him had to be very powerful and ruthless. They may have sent someone after us. Before I reported the incident I wanted to speak to Mitya and get his advice.”
“This is extremely serious. Black marketeers and pirates are a scourge on our war effort. I will have to write up a complete report and forward it to Astrakhan.”
She wasn’t deceived by his words. An undercurrent of frustration and anger ran beneath them. She had eluded him, for now; but it wouldn’t take long for him to contact his counterparts in Moscow and Leningrad to see if her name appeared on any lists. Unless all such records had been destroyed during the bombing of Riga.
“There’s no need for you to be delayed any further.” As if struck by an afterthought he added, “By the way. An old friend of your father’s, Vladimir Avilov, is going to be very happy that we found you. He’s been pestering us for weeks to keep an eye out for you. It seems you are well thought of by the Central Artists Committee.”
Rachel nearly fell out of her chair. So that was what this was all about. Zip Uk had no inkling, then, that she was in fear of arrest. “I’m delighted. My father and I were working on a monumental statue of Stalin when the invasion came.”
Hatred inflamed Zip Uk’s eyes. She thought she recognized its source, but it seemed incredible to her: he was jealous. But of what? If she was right, and she felt sure time would bring the answer, then Zip Uk would prove far more dangerous to her than any ordinary N.K.V.D. agent.
“You may leave now. Your papers will be delivered to Igor’s apartment. Someday, I’d very much like to see your work.”
“It would be an honor to show you what I’ve done. Unfortunately, I have nothing left. After I’ve returned to work though . . .”
“Oh yes. Vodogolin. Lucky you reminded me. Here’s the studio’s address.” She watched the pen move on the paper, caught in the vise of his thick fingers.
“Thank you.” She took it from him.
The driver came into the room and she followed him. Igor was waiting outside, his jacket and tie absurd looking against the backdrop of fields and the hot sun. Worry lines had creased his boyish face, and he looked at her expectantly.
“Everything’s fine. Just as you said it would be.” She waved the piece of paper. “Here’s Mitya’s address. I’ll start tomorrow.”
Igor’s whole body relaxed and he returned to his normal pose, exuding a practiced nonchalance. So much for the power of the pen, Rachel observed.
During the ride back into the city, she chattered easily about how happy she was to be able to get back to work. She knew her acting made no difference; Zip Uk had planted seeds of terror in her mind, and Igor sensed it. But he said nothing and she saw no reason to talk about it with him. After all, what could he do other than reassure her yet again.
* * *
In the morning, Igor walked with her to Mitya Vodogolin’s studio. The poster unit was now housed in a single-story stone building on the edge of the Uzbek quarter.
“I’ll come in some other time,” Igor said.
“Thank you. It would have been awkward.”
She watched him retrace their route back toward the university, struck once again by how oafish European clothes looked in the city’s airy setting. A Roman toga would have been ideal, she decided, glancing down at the skirt, blouse, and shoes Igor had bought her at the store open only to Party members. They were ill-fitting and had been manufactured from inferior materials, but were still far better than what was available to the general public.
She wasn’t prepared for the reception she received when she walked into the familiar surroundings of the poster workshop. She was completely ignored. Her greetings to those with whom she had worked side-by-side provoked only cursory acknowledgment, as she walked rapidly past paint-splatted easels and drafting tables from which came the welcoming smell of open tubes of paint and turpentine.
To her relief, she saw that Mitya was seated in his office. Facing him was a large man with a belly that dwarfed even Vodogolin’s. He was smoking a cigar. Avilov, she thought, recalling him from when he first visited her father’s studio about the statue. That explained the subdued reaction of her coworkers; a visit from a ranking member of the Central Artists Committee was unprecedented. A dozen other questions came to mind though: What was Avilov’s relationship to Zip Uk? Had he been present yesterday, listening in from another room, or had her interrogator purposely brought her to a more secluded location, his private jail as it were, to avoid Avilov? She shuddered inwardly, wondering what would happened if she had given Zip Uk a false name.
She greeted Mitya with excessive formality, calling him Lieutenant Vodogolin. As Avilov struggled to raise his bulk out of his chair, Mitya winked at her and toyed with his moustache.
“You have someone very special who is dying to meet you.”
Before she could speak, the former artist exclaimed, “So, we meet again. What a day this is! At last I can go to bed and sleep like a baby knowing that you, the daughter of a great hero and one of my dearest comrades, are alive and well.”
“I’m happy to see you again, Mr. Avilov.”
“The second I heard that your father had been murdered by those swine, I set about looking for you with the single-mindedness of a religious fanatic. I couldn’t believe, I wouldn’t believe that both of you had been taken from us. And all the while, you were right under my nose in Moscow! If only you had called me!”
“I thought you were in Leningrad.”
“So I was. But the Committee is in Moscow. They would have alerted me as to your whereabouts.”
“I didn’t think of that,” she said balefully. Only a moron would believe that, she thought.
“No matter. Your work became known instantly. Those posters—what masterpieces! I was just chastising Mitya here for letting you out of his sight.”
“It was—”
“I know, I know. Your loyalty to an old family friend. You couldn’t abandon her. If you had contacted me, I would have arranged for both of you to be flown to Tashkent. After all, I promised your father I’d bring the whole family here.” Avilov puffed on his cigar and mopped his sweaty brow with a silk handkerchief. He wore a suit and tie and a ridiculous vest whose buttons were about to pop off.
The whole family. Rachel’s heart sank. Had Father told him about Michael? She couldn’t recall. One word from him to Zip Uk about her fiancé and he would be able to infer the rest, even without hard evidence.
“Still, all’s well that ends well,” Avilov continued. “When I arrived back in Moscow and learned that the person doing those wonderful posters was a young Latvian woman, I knew it had to be you. Had to be!”
Rachel looked at Mitya. They must have come to him soon after he arrived in Tashkent. How had he explained her use of her mother’s name, her failure to register in Moscow, her lack of papers? She knew Zip Uk was asking himself those questions right now. She could rationalize everything else, but not her suspicious behavior in Moscow.
As though reading her mind, Avilov said, “Hummel. Lord knows I should have recognized your mother’s name. Are you going to use it professionally from now on?”
“I’m not sure.” How could she have not thought of that? It was the perfect explanation if you didn’t want to dig too deeply.
“Your father would understand. Striking out on your own. Not resting on his laurels. Most admirable of you.”
“Thank you.” That settles that, she thought. From now on I’m Rachel Hummel, artist. Avilov dearly wanted to help her, and he was doing well, she reflected. Before long, he would come up with a complete biography for her that would explain away all the inconsistencies.
“What’s past is past. We must think of the future. As I was explaining to Mitya—and he agrees—you need and deserve more than posters for your own development as an artist, particularly as a sculptor. That’s why I’m here.”
The price, Rachel thought. Now I learn how much my survival will cost.
“No more posters. You’ll work alone, or, if you prefer, with an assistant.”
He thought he was offering her freedom, but she felt like coils of steel wire were being wrapped around her. “Is there a specific project?”
“Not yet. It’s too early. We’d like you to make some sketches. Nothing more. Let your imagination go.” Avilov puffed and dropped his voice. “We’re going to win this war. Monuments will be built. The greatest war memorials ever created. I don’t need to say any more than that.”
The glory and the horror of Avilov’s proposal struck her simultaneously. She couldn’t help but be flattered by the privileges that they were granting her. Yet she knew what Mitya was saying to himself just now: I told her so. I warned her.
“I’m sure you’d like to get yourself organized; but could you delay long enough to join me for tea?”
“Of course.”
“I have a car waiting.”
So there was more. Would he now lay out plans for another statue of Stalin as he had with her father?
Mitya accompanied them to the door, but he didn’t go outside with them. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” Rachel said. Mitya shrugged; what she did was no longer his concern. Strangely, though she knew he was acting, she was hurt by his indifference. Keep yourself together, she thought. You can’t afford to lose control.
“Thank you for your cooperation, lieutenant.”
“It is a privilege to be of service.”
As they rode into the modern section of the city, Avilov asked her what she thought of Vodogolin. “He’s a good administrator,” she observed.
“Who obviously doesn’t know the first thing about art. He’s a perfect example of what I am working so hard to eliminate.” Avilov paused to relight his cigar. “Artists being led around by the nose by bureaucrats who haven’t the foggiest notion what goes on inside our heads.”
She nodded vigorously. Look in the mirror, she thought.
They went to an Uzbek restaurant on Engels Street near the Revolution Gardens. It was crowded with Russian men, some of them in uniform. Rachel was the only woman patron, and she felt their stares as she and Avilov were seated at a table.
“I’m sick of plov,” Avilov remarked, referring to the staple of the Uzbek diet, a variety of rice pilaff. “That’s all I’ve had since I got here last week.”
Last week! Rachel tried to formulate the sequence of events in her mind. It seemed important to her to know if Zip Uk had power over Avilov or vice versa. Wary of asking a direct question she decided to wait and see if Avilov volunteered any further pieces to the puzzle.
For the time being food was uppermost in his mind. His idea of tea was a full supper. She was used to eating only one full meal a day so this was a treat. Avilov ordered for both of them, and within minutes they were busy with bowls of rice soup filled with chicken and vegetables. She hadn’t eaten chicken since her stay in Moscow and couldn’t contain her delight.
“What have you been eating, horsemeat?”
“Mutton. By the yard.”
“If only you had asked for me in Moscow. So much could have been avoided.”
Including Zip Uk? Rachel wondered. She couldn’t see either man having much tolerance for the other. To the N.K.V.D. agent Avilov would appear to be a buffoon, and the former artist would view Zip Uk as a thug who had taken on the trappings of culture.
Their empty soup bowls were removed and replaced with big dumplings smothered in fried onions and peppers, soaking in a pool of sour milk. As Rachel bit into one of the salty lumps of meat-filled dough she was struck by one question that clearly superseded all others. And it was a question she could pose without fear of touching upon a too-sensitive area.
“How did you know the statue was mine?”
“Your father told me.” Avilov spooned a whole dumpling into his mouth. She waited in stunned silence for him to swallow. “During our last visit to Leningrad. Not that I didn’t suspect, mind you. He talked about the work as if he were a university professor. That special note of possessiveness was missing from his voice. But he was a brutally honest man, your father, and he let the cat out without any prompting from me. He was concerned that something might happen to him, and he wanted me to know that you were the one I should watch over.”
She did the only thing she could manage; excusing herself she escaped to the one bathroom. Inside, she broke down, unable, unwilling to master her emotions any longer. He never told me, she thought. She had assumed that he arranged for the family to move to Tashkent to further his own interests, planning all the while to maintain the charade that he was doing the work for the statue. But she had been wrong. Totally wrong. That explained his near panic upon learning of her plan to leave the country illegally with Michael. He had unwittingly made her a figure of renown in the circles that mattered. She had done the statue, the gigantic monolith that Stalin himself had surely seen—at least in its plaster cast form. By virtue of her having created such a monstrosity, she couldn’t be allowed to reach the West and reveal the existence of a monumental statue of Stalin and Hitler, hands clasped in friendship. Stalin would have done whatever was necessary to stop her, including murder.
Her father had been faced with a terrible dilemma. If, as he feared, he himself didn’t reach Tashkent, there would have been no reason for Avilov to ensure the safety of his family. So, he had revealed the truth, guaranteeing that Rachel would be thrust out of obscurity into the limelight in order to provide a form of life insurance for all of them.
Why, why didn’t you tell me? Rachel asked, seeing her father’s flesh-less apparition before her. How stupid she must have appeared to them, failing to register in Moscow, using an easily recognizable alias, when her posters identified her as surely as if she had gone straight to the N.K.V.D. Had it not been for the ensuing chaos in Moscow, they would never have allowed her to drop out of sight. It had been a fluke, and they must have been relieved when she turned up in Tashkent. A coup of sorts for Zip Uk.
What then did they know? They would have noted Stephen’s attempt to contact her in Moscow and they may even have observed his comings and goings to their room. How right Mitya had been to say she didn’t know him! Nor could they connect Mitya with Maslow; yet why hadn’t they arrested him for not reporting her to the authorities? As for herself, she could only hope that the bombing of Riga had destroyed any record the N.K.V.D. had made showing that she was involved in Michael’s subterfuge.
She washed her face, but couldn’t rid herself of the red streaks in her eyes. They can read you like a book, she observed. But what could she do, wear an iron mask? By the time she returned to their table Avilov had long since finished all the dumplings and was eating a desert of spice cake, dates, and tea.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Avilov apologized. “If you’d like we’ll order another.”
Rachel laughed inwardly; Avilov was as selfish as a four year old, but there wasn’t anything overtly malicious in his nature.
“I am hungry. We never eat like this.”
“Let’s try something else, then.” He moved his desert aside and signaled for the waiter. After ordering more food, Avilov turned to her and said, “This will take a while, but it’s delicious.” He leaned back, undoing the buttons on his vest. “Did your father ever talk about the days just after the revolution when he was Kandinsky’s aide at the Museum of Pictorial Arts?”
Yes, Rachel thought. He told me he rejected your paintings. “Not much,” she replied. “He didn’t dwell on the past.”
“Those were absolutely glorious days. People talk about Paris in the twenties, but in 1919 Moscow was the capital of the art world.”
Until 1921, Rachel observed, when Kandinsky saw the handwriting on the wall and went back to Germany.
“I was but a young art student then . . . .” Avilov proceeded to tell her story after story of his “adventures” with Kandinsky and her father; all lies, she knew, but she didn’t mind. He was a good story-teller, and it gave her a chance to mull over the ramifications of his earlier disclosures. Avilov wasn’t stupid; he had carefully told her just enough for her to see that she needed him in order to avoid arrest. Without saying so directly, he had clearly implied that he had managed to gloss over her illegal actions and would continue to do so, as long as she produced the work he asked for. Mitya would howl in protest, but for now she had to make Avilov believe she was on his side.
His storytelling was interrupted by the arrival of two more bowls of food containing boiled meat, noodles, and onions. Rachel tasted it and was amazed by how delicious it was.
“What gives it so much flavor?”
“Pomegranate juice,” Avilov said. “They sprinkle it on after it’s all cooked. Wonderful food out here. Someday they’ll open an Uzbek restaurant in Moscow and people will go berserk.”
Rachel nodded. “Mr. Avilov—”
“Uncle Vladimir,” he interjected between mouthfuls.
“Uncle Vladimir,” she continued, without missing a beat, “I’m really very excited about working with you, but I am anxious about something, or rather someone.”
“Oh. Who’s that? By the way, I meant to ask you. What happened to your brother? And your fiancé, what was his name, Michael something?”
“Stephen is on the national soccer team, but I have no idea where he is. And Michael, he’s . . .” she hesitated.
He stared at her. “Was he in Riga when the war broke out?” She nodded. “Say no more. We’ll keep that between the two of us. As far as you know, he’s dead. Understand?” She nodded again. “Now, what were you going to say?”
“A man I met yesterday. His name is Zip Uk.”
“Uk! What are you worried about him for? He’s nothing but a side of beef with human features. If he was anybody do you think he’d be stationed out here? Humor the imbecile like you would a vicious pet. Paint his portrait. He’ll be eating out of your hand in no time. Anything else bothering you?”
“No, Uncle Vladimir.”
“Good. Let’s order hot tea and some more desert.”
That night, Rachel returned to the studio; as she expected, Mitya Vodogolin was waiting. The lieutenant’s pear-shaped body had grown markedly leaner since Moscow and he was sunk in gloom.
“Oh Mitya, aren’t you at least happy to see me?”
“Of course I am,” he protested. “I only wish you had come with the rest of us.”
“What good would that have done?”
“You wouldn’t have become involved with Igor Bachterev.” He spat his name as if it were a piece of rotten fruit.
She went up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. Pulling back she asked, “Haven’t you had anything to eat lately?”
“I hate the food in this damned inferno. It’s too hot to eat, anyhow. I feel like throwing up if I have more than a bite of that Uzbek mush.”
“You should have seen me with Avilov. I ate like a pig.”
“Too bad you couldn’t have put some poison in his food. No one would have suspected foul play.”
“Avilov isn’t so bad. He’s covered my tracks pretty well.”
“For now.”
“He wants me to call him Uncle Vladimir.”
Mitya gagged. “Don’t make me sick.”
“I’m afraid I might have to.” Rachel grew serious.
“More bad news?” She nodded. “Get on with it.”
“Maslow is dead.”
The lieutenant dropped into his chair. “How?” She narrated the events on the river. “Now I am finished,” Mitya remarked when she was done.
“I told Zip Uk we stumbled across Maslow by chance.”
“If he doesn’t believe you, I’m dead. The people who killed Maslow were probably N.K.V.D. The war has made the Volga black-market more lucrative than anyone ever imagined possible.”
“The N.K.V.D.?”
“You’re surprised? They want the same things the rest of us want, and they have the means to protect themselves.”
“No one would ever think of you as a black marketeer.”
“It’s the national pastime.” He got up from the chair. “You must get out of Russia now. Tonight! I’ll drive you to the border myself.”
“I can’t leave Lily. Or Michael, if he’s alive. And Stephen will be looking for me here.”
“You must leave them. Your talent demands it. You must be selfish. You must let it dictate your life. In return, you will enjoy that rarest of gifts: true happiness.”
“I can’t do that to the people I love.”
Mitya threw up his arms. “So you think you can use them and then, when it’s convenient, simply wash your hands and walk away.” She nodded. “The gulag is crowded with people who thought the same way. Stalin is one uncle who’s no fool!”
She realized that the time had come to tell Mitya about Michael and Igor. Otherwise, her living in Igor’s apartment would drive them apart.
“You asked me once why I changed my name. It’s time I told you everything.” She started with her engagement to Michael and described his plan for getting them out of the country. “I don’t know what happened to him. But if he was arrested, I can’t just leave him behind.”
Mitya took a deep breath. Painful as it might be for her, he couldn’t hold back. “You must be out of your mind! They’ll find out and trap you with it.”
“Not as long as I give them what they want.”
Mitya’s face grew hot with frustration. “Not Stalin!”
“Stalin is a man!” she shouted. “Who likes seeing himself in bronze. He’ll give me what I want.”
“Are you telling me Avilov knows about this?”
“He knows something. I’m not sure how much. But he told me to forget about it.”
“What about Igor? You think he’ll risk a fingernail for you?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t told him anything. And he’s not my lover, Mitya.”
“Then what is he?”
“He doesn’t sleep with women.”
“Really? Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“But you’re sure—we can use that to keep him in line.”
“He wants to help me, Mitya. I consider him a friend.”
“I don’t want to see you hurt,” he said apologetically. “They’re capable of anything.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Rachel started to leave. Mitya ran to the door. The sight of him moving so quickly was hilarious and both of them laughed.
“I’ll say no more,” he promised, “if you’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Who ever said I wouldn’t be back?”