Only the Pitiless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A favorite of Comrade Stalin’s.”

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

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

Dimitri shook his head censoriously. “A fool.”

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

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

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

“Perfectly.”

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

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

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

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

“It takes only one quality: pitilessness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The man will denounce you,” predicted Dimitri.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Dimitri and Yuri rendezvoused next, they entered the apartment building, as always, at different times and different doors. But on this occasion, Dimitri stopped at the superintendent’s office to beard him. Without so much as a word of greeting, Dimitri shoved his special leather wallet with its official NKVD badge and documents under the man’s nose. The super immediately realized that his snitching had backfired.

“I didn’t know,” he sputtered. “You may be sure in the future . . .” But he had no chance to complete his apology because Dimitri scooped up his wallet and, with the sternest look at his command, stared at the super, who cringingly sunk in his chair. Once Dimitri felt that the man’s humiliation was complete, he sneered and left.

As Dimitri recounted this experience, Yuri feared that it would make the super all the more determined to find some anti-Soviet behavior that could be used to denounce them.

“The humiliated are the most dangerous,” said Yuri. “Chekhov frequently warned us not to strip a man of his self-respect.”

“Chekhov was too full of pity. Ruthlessness is called for in some cases. The man won’t be back!”

Before lovemaking, they ate a modest meal and sat down to play chess. With Ezhov’s assignment oppressing his mind, Dimitri casually asked, “How did you spend your day?”

“As I always do, snip-snip.”

“Lunch?”

“At the Metropol. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

For several minutes, the men played in silence, Dimitri’s eyes fixed on the board and Yuri’s stealing an occasional look at Dimitri.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“No, it’s just that in these times we have to be extra careful about our meetings and companions.” He waited a few seconds before asking, “Was it a man or a woman?” Yuri looked uncomprehending. “At lunch . . . whom did you meet?”

“Madame Ranevskaia. You know the woman. She once owned a famous orchard. It was appropriated for workers’ bungalows.”

“Oh, yes, a charming woman, but as I recall an indecisive one.”

Dimitri was particularly gifted in his use of the bishop, while Yuri let his queen wreak most of the damage. What the men lacked in strategy they made up for in daring. Yuri had slipped in behind Dimitri’s pawns and threatened to put his king in check.

“Not so fast, my sweet,” said Dimitri, bringing a bishop to the rescue and compromising Yuri’s queen.

“She frequently travels to France, and occasionally Sweden and Norway. Art business.”

“Has she ever been to America?”

“If you mean the United States, no, but Mexico, yes.”

Dimitri studied the board and then casually inquired, “What business interests would take her there?”

“She represents Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Rich buyers in Stockholm and Oslo collect their paintings.”

“Hm, I had no idea.” Dimitri pondered how to introduce his next question. He had no wish to infuriate Yuri, so he snorted skeptically and said, “Have you heard the absurd rumor that the super-Judas Trotsky moved to Mexico to be near Diego Rivera’s wife?”

Yuri looked at Dimitri with a pained expression. “No, I hadn’t heard. Did that rubbish come from the NKVD?”

Dimitri feared that he had not been subtle enough, because Yuri emotionally began to withdraw, as if he sensed danger, answering Dimitri’s questions in monosyllables. Suddenly Yuri dropped one of the chess pieces and forthrightly declared, “If you are working up to asking me whether Madame Ranevskaia has ever met Trotsky, the answer is yes. Now, does that make her—or me—an enemy of the people?”

How was Dimitri to answer? He could warn Yuri of the secret police’s interest in him, but he felt certain that such a disclosure would bring an end to their affair. He could say that he wanted to know in order to better advise his friend. But that approach sounded suspiciously like one crafted by the secret police. The last idea offered the most protection to Dimitri, because if Yuri had secret contacts with the opposition—a possibility that Dimitri no longer regarded as utterly fanciful—Dimitri would have time to save himself, and perhaps even Yuri. Dimitri chose to answer indirectly.

“I wish I had the money to buy a Rivera or Kahlo. They are truly painters of the proletariat. Have you any idea what their canvases cost?” Yuri relaxed. Yes, Dimitri had sounded the right note . . . nothing threatening. “Our own museums ought to be collecting them.”

“Diego has promised to make a gift of some of his paintings to the Soviet people. A brilliant painter and a magnanimous man. All our artists should be so generous.”

At the end of the evening, Dimitri did not return directly to his room. He walked through the crepuscular square to secret-police headquarters, where he looked through the files for any reports on Madame Ranevskaia. He found several, all to the effect that her activities necessitated watching.

Taking it upon himself to follow Lubov Andreyevna Ranevskaia, Dimitri discovered that she had two daughters, both unmarried. Anya, the younger one, was an art history student at a Moscow institute, keeping company with a feckless young man, Peter Trofimov. Although a devoted revolutionary who often gave speeches about the need for unselfish labor, he could never complete his university courses. The report in his official files read that his passion for the people led the party to ignore his fecklessness, but that he should never be trusted with any serious work. The older daughter, Varya, seemed easily the most mature of the three women. Adopted as a baby, she was skittish, pale, and inordinately serious. Had Madame R. adopted the girl to prove her patriotism? Perhaps her deceased husband, or her billiard-loving brother, had sired a child out of wedlock. In any case, Dimitri decided to interview Varya.

They met in Neskuchniy Garden, next to a pond. Dimitri had represented himself as a historian interested in the story surrounding the sale of the orchard. And, in fact, aren’t most investigators like historians, re-creating the past? He had often used this ruse to deceive the people he questioned.

After introducing themselves, they slowly strolled through the gardens, Dimitri casting a wary eye in case someone was watching him. As they spoke, Varya frequently stopped to admire or balance a bloom in her hand. She stood in front of the lilacs and enthused about their incomparable fragrance. At last, they settled on a bench and Dimitri, having asked numerous questions about the family’s former estate, leaned back and, ostensibly to show himself a gentleman, said, “I trust that you have comfortable quarters in Moscow, at least large enough for your mother to hang her paintings.”

“You know about the Diego Riveras?” Varya asked. “A great many dealers come to our flat.”

“For my small collection, I use only one, Yuri Suzdal.”

“Then he’s actually a dealer?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“He and his friends never seem to talk about art. Then again, I can’t be sure because they always retreat to the kitchen.”

Dimitri tried to make a joke of this information. “Perhaps they are merely hungry,” he teased, scooping a handful of pebbles.

“I get the impression that they have more on their minds than canvases and prices.”

“Really?” he asked, grinding the pebbles underfoot.

“They often have with them printed material they exchange.”

“Probably just auction figures. I know Yuri. He’s always on the lookout for a good buy.”

Varya picked up a small stick and drew lines in the gravel. “What do you collect?” Had she not added, “Still lifes, portraits, country or city scenes?” he might have stumbled.

“I particularly like river scenes.”

“So do I!” said Varya enthusiastically. “You must see the two we have in our flat. Their bucolic settings calm me when I’m tense.”

“Are they for sale?”

“In the art world, everything is for sale—at the right price.”

By the time he walked Varya to the trolley stop, he had decided to watch Madame Ranevskaia’s apartment. Dimitri befriended the doorman of the building directly across the street. Here he planted himself and spied through the front glass doors. His patience was rewarded when he saw Yuri enter Madame’s apartment complex. At short intervals afterward, three other men followed, each carrying a briefcase filled, Dimitri assumed, with printed matter.

Trained to take surveillance photographs, Dimitri positioned his camera and captured the men as they exited, separately. Although he had a picture of Yuri, he also snapped him. Turning the film over to the secret police, he asked them to check each of the men. When the report came back, Dimitri was stunned. None of them, as far as the police knew, had been engaged in political activities. But they did have records for homosexuality and for having attended readings of Anna Akhmatova’s poetry, she whom the writers’ union had rejected and who had never received Stalin’s official imprimatur.

Although Akhmatova moved freely throughout the city and country, escaping internment for some inscrutable reason, she had written poems that could have earned other poets twenty years in a camp. Dimitri had been shown some of her verses and could recite a few lines that he thought should have made her an enemy of the people:

Without hangman and scaffold

Poets have no life on earth

She had also penned, “All poets are Yids.” So to Comrade Lipnoskii’s mind, any organized reading devoted to her work had about it a political purpose.

Dimitri painfully decided that the next meeting between him and Yuri must be their last. He would accuse his lover of infidelity, a charge that, if true, would hurt Dimitri more sharply than any political transgression Yuri could make. The personal betrayal, however, could not be shared with the secret police, lest Yuri turn around and implicate him. He therefore decided that the only way to settle the score and assuage his hurt was to drive Yuri from Moscow.

“My dear Yuri,” said Dimitri, returning from the bathroom and climbing back into bed after coitus, and after Dimitri had applied a special liquid to his eyes that elicited tears. “I can hardly bring myself to tell you,” he cried, “but the secret police know about your meetings with friends at Madame Ranevskaia’s apartment . . . and the poetry readings . . . and the printed matter.”

“We merely exchange poems!”

“Please, Yuri, do not lie to me.”

With shaking hands, Yuri angrily dressed.

“And now,” said Dimitri calmly, “you need to leave Moscow before you’re arrested. I can arrange it so that you have a few days before the police knock on your door at two in the morning.”

Reaching for the doorknob, Dimitri intended to emphasize his displeasure by departing in dramatic silence, but his feelings overwhelmed him, and he turned to look at Yuri, who flew into his arms and whispered his thanks for saving him from arrest.

Several days later, when the dreaded elevator stopped at his floor in the early morning hours, Yuri had already left the city.

* * *

Ezhov’s frustration with Dimitri sounded suspiciously like an accusation. Once again, Dimitri had been summoned to the chief’s office. But this time, Nikolai Ivanovich, wearing American-made Adler elevated shoes, was standing just a few inches from Dimitri’s face. “He must have been warned that we were watching him.”

“If you are implying . . .” Dimitri paused, hoping that Ezhov would gainsay him, but the chief merely stared coldly. “Why would I have gone to the trouble to watch the apartment and take photographs of these men if I intended to let them slip through the net?”

“Is that what I said?”

The sneaky dog, thought Dimitri. “No, Comrade Ezhov, but you seem to be implying . . .”

“The difference between seeming and being is a chasm. Don’t assume when you don’t know.” He briskly walked around his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a folder. “Here is your next assignment. I want you to report on the friendship between Yelena Boujinskia and Sasha Visotsky. The story about their crawling through heating ducts and eavesdropping doesn’t ring true. I smell a plot. Root it out!”

“Root it out?” Dimitri repeated incredulously. “How?”

“Children respond well to the Morozov story. Perhaps you can even locate the photograph Yelena used to paint Stalin’s mustache.” Ezhov must have read in Dimitri’s expression incomprehension, because Ezhov added, “Let me remind you, comrade, what the hero of all our Soviet schoolbooks, fourteen-year old Pavel Morozov, said when he denounced his father as a kulak: ‘Stalin is my father and I do not need another one.’”

What Dimitri and virtually everyone else in the country had been told was that the Soviets had killed the boy’s father, and that a group of peasants led by Pavel’s uncle had shot and killed the zealous son. Stalin frequently mentioned Pavel as a model for Soviet youth, a child who denounced his father in the interests of the state, and the Morozov story could be found in hundreds, if not thousands, of books and poems. The numerous statues dedicated to him in public places stood as a constant reminder of the virtue of denunciations.

Sasha Visotsky’s parents held managerial positions in the transportation department that entitled them to live in the house on the embankment. Their files indicated that they had been party members since their teens. No black mark had ever marred their records. Uncertain how to proceed, Dimitri asked the children’s school director, who suggested that Dimitri introduce himself as a journalist interested in writing about Sasha’s parents’ heroic work. Dimitri and Sasha met during recess in a classroom usually devoted to the teaching of English. At their first meeting, Dimitri asked Sasha about bridges and roads, trolleys and trains, airplanes and cars. After several days, Dimitri, taking notes, slowly gravitated toward the prank in which Sasha and Yelena had taken part.

“I hope your parents weren’t too severe with you.” The boy shook his head no. “Good. Glad to hear it.” Dimitri paused and handed Sasha a chocolate wrapped in silver foil. “I suppose they knew about your little game before it got you into trouble?”

He unwrapped the sweet. “No, it was Yelena’s secret and mine.”

“I admire children who can keep secrets. But didn’t you ever tell them what you saw—without revealing how you knew?”

The boy screwed up his mouth and, after a few seconds, remarked, “Maybe once.”

“Oh? That must have been fun. What did you see?”

“A man undressing. On his arm near his shoulder, here, I saw a tattoo that looked like a cruciform with two bars across it.”

“What did your parents say when you told them?”

“To forget about it.”

“They were absolutely right,” he said making some notes.

The boy’s expression changed. He cocked his head and asked, “Why do you want to write about my parents?” Then he unfolded his reading glasses and asked to read what Dimitri had written.

“I’ve only taken notes, but as soon as I have a first draft . . .” Sasha looked confused. “I understand you’re studying French?” Sasha agreed. “It’s what your teacher calls le brouillon.” The boy’s face brightened with recognition. “Then you know what I mean. When I have the first draft, I’ll let you read it.”

Sasha put away his reading glasses and skipped out of the room. Dimitri remained, sitting alone among the empty chairs and staring at some English writing on the blackboard that he could not translate, having studied French and not English. It came from John Dos Passos’s novel The Big Money.

“America our nation has been beaten by strangers who have bought the laws and fenced off the meadows and cut down the woods for pulp and turned our pleasant cities into slums and sweated the wealth out of our people and when they want to they hire the executioner to throw the switch.”

Tormented by guilt, Dimitri hunched over the desk and buried his head in his hands, which smelled of a cheap, perfumed soap. If he reported the boy’s words, he would be imperiling Sasha’s parents for not reporting what their son had told them. If his request for a transfer had only been granted. He left the school and, instead of taking the tram, walked to the Kremlin, troubled by Ezhov’s words. By the time he reached his room, he was telling himself how good it felt to be safe.

A week later, two families disappeared from the house on the embankment, one of them was the Visotskys.

In talking to Sasha, Dimitri had used the pseudonym “Ivan Nizhinsky” and had warned the boy to keep their meetings a secret. Sasha, however, always shared privileged information with Yelena. Although the boy never passed on the name of his interrogator, he had described the man, and Yelena shared these disclosures with Natasha, who immediately recognized her brother. On the day that Dimitri spoke to Yelena, he found himself confronting not only her but also his sister. A shocked Dimitri swore that the charade was in the service of quietly advancing Yelena for admission to the Academy of Arts. Who, after all, knew her person and passion for art better than Sasha?

Natasha had been around dishonest bureaucrats long enough to know their foul smelling words. “Rubbish!” she cried, to Yelena’s amazement. “I am not Sasha Visotsky. What are you up to, Dimitri?”

The school director had arranged for them to meet in a lower-form classroom with undersized desks for the young children. How ironic, Dimitri thought, to be in a place dedicated to learning when the point of the current exercise was to enable betrayal to pass for patriotism. Dimitri had known bad moments before but nothing equal to being unmasked by his sister. As she sat facing him, he realized to his chagrin, that she was playing Antigone to his Creon, and that they were dueling over who takes precedence, the individual or the state. Like a great many apparatchiks, Dimitri partially justified his nefarious assignments by telling himself that his family was safe. But once his actions exposed his loved ones to danger, he was prepared to abandon the mission. Had Yelena been his natural sister and not his adopted one, he would have refused from the start. But Natasha’s claim on his fidelity—the hell with the story of the Morozov boy!—mattered most. After the initial lie about the Arts Academy, he settled on an explanation that was partially true.

“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 terrified.

“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.”

* * *

Yelena’s art teacher let her use the official photograph as a model for her class project, a painting of Stalin’s mustache. The canvas took longer than expected because Yelena had recently been studying Dutch portraits and wished to capture the essence of the mustache in the detail of the hairs, creating a chiaroscuro effect. Benjamin Levitin, her teacher, suggested that she superimpose the mustache on the Great Hall of Saint Andrew, thus juxtaposing the power of Peter the Great and Stalin. When she frowned at the suggestion, he recommended that she paint two canvases, one taking for its background the hall and the other employing a neutral landscape.

“Let the schmuck decide for himself which he prefers.”

“Schmuck?”

“A term of endearment,” he said ironically, “but applied only to people who aspire to be wiser than the world.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it means?”

“No.”

A moment later, Benjamin thought better of his reply, knowing that children go out of their way to learn the meaning of words, especially ones that are clouded in mystery.

“Forget that I ever said it.” He clasped her hands. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

When Yelena had finally completed both canvases, she neatly wrapped and tied them in shopping paper. Natasha collected her at school and brought her back to the embankment, where she proudly exhibited them for the family. The two women liked the one with the background of the ten gilded pillars of Saint Andrew’s Hall. Razan preferred the simplicity of a neutral background with only the black mustache filling the canvas. On the appointed day, Razan met Dimitri at the curb and, at Anna’s insistence, let him take Yelena and the paintings to the Kremlin. As before, the child was greeted with smiles. In Poskrebyshev’s office, they had to endure his stares, as well as those of the guards. At last, a light blinked on the chef de cabinet’s phone, and he told them that they had permission to enter. But unlike her previous audience with Stalin, who had behaved kindly, this Stalin brusquely asked Dimitri to leave.

“I want to speak to the child alone, without you hovering about.”

Dimitri handed the paintings to Yelena, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Good luck.”

Yelena handed Stalin her paintings. He roughly snapped the string and tore off the wrappings. His right hand held up one picture. She hoped that he would refrain from touching the canvas. To her eyes, his paw looked unwashed. Positioning the pictures on the floor against his desk, he stood at a distance, ostensibly evaluating their quality.

“I’m glad you painted two canvases. I then have a choice. But why two?”

The words came spontaneously. “Mr. Levitin said, ‘Let the schmuck decide for himself which he likes.’”

“And who is this Mr. Levitin?”

“My art teacher.”

Stalin continued to study the paintings at a distance. Finally, he stroked his mustache and said, “May I keep them both? I’d like to sample the reaction of others.”

“Of course.”

“Good, you may go now.”

He shook Yelena’s hand and closed the door behind her. Staring out the window into the garden below, he waited a few minutes before picking up the phone and ringing Poskrebyshev.

“Nikolaevich,” he said, “your wife is Jewish. I just heard a word that sounds to me like Yiddish. If not, it’s German. Call your wife and check. The word is ‘schmuck.’” Pause. “How the hell would I know? Spell it any way you like, and call me right back.”

The next day Benjamin Levitin disappeared.