Tsar Pest’s authority stayed in place until he experienced his first symbolic defeat. After losing a few games of cards, the “minions’” mighty commander was transformed before their eyes into a pitiful failure, and his power melted away like snow. The “minions” had committed a horrible crime out of fear of a power that turned out to be entirely illusory.

Alas, all too often, the world of adults follows similar laws.

6

I visited Magda in the hospital. She is already looking more like herself again.

An investigator came to see her, but she told him she has no intention of reporting the crime to the police. In her opinion, the children who tried to kill her were not guilty—they had simply been unlucky enough to fall into a corrupt world of crime.

Soon, we were joined by a mutual acquaintance, a pilot by the name of Friedrich. I had met him once at Seibert’s house: when Friedrich was sober, he had sworn allegiance to Stalin, but once he had a drink or two inside him, he began to sing Trotsky’s praises. Clearly, he was one of the many oppositionists who quickly had to change their views in order not to share the fate of their leader, who, at the time, was about to be exiled either to Siberia or Central Asia.

Friedrich had not even got through the door before he began to curse Magda, calling her every name under the sun and accusing her of going to the street kids to buy cocaine. Eventually, I had to step in, and we left the ward together. Then, blushing, nervous, and shamefaced, he began to thank me for saving Magda’s life.

“Would you like me to bring you some ketchup back from Berlin?” he asked. “Or Coca-Cola? You Americans like that, don’t you?”

I asked him if he could smuggle abroad my article exposing the amorous exploits of the Bolsheviks, and after a few awkward moments, he agreed.

So, today, I had my second lesson about the nature of power. People may fear their leaders so much that they shake in their shoes at the sight of them and forget all their morals. But despite all this, they will still happily thumb their nose at their oppressors on the quiet. It’s a very natural human impulse: you may have the right to airplanes, Berlin, ketchup, and Coca-Cola, but you can’t be truly happy unless you are free.

7

Once Magda was out of the hospital, she sent me a long letter of thanks with a snapshot of Nina taken not long before her disappearance.

Just now, I’m sitting at my desk looking at this small black-and-white photograph printed on bad paper. This picture is all I have to show for my efforts after several months.

In the daytime, I can forget about my troubles for a while and can even feel happiness over little things. Friedrich took my article out of the country, and Owen has already sent a telegram: “Letter received from Berlin. Expect bonus.” Of course, I should be happy.

But an obscure ache creeps into my heart every night. I try to distract myself with books and newspapers, but I can’t get away from it.

I can recall everything so clearly: how Nina and I used to amuse ourselves at bedtime acting out idiotic romantic novels, trying to keep a straight face, and always end up crying from laughter. Or how I would walk past Nina as she was washing her face and put my arms around her waist for a few moments. I can still remember how it felt to run my hand over the silk of her open peignoir and the warm skin beneath.

How many moments of secret intimacy we enjoyed when we spoke to one another by touch alone!

Magda has captured Nina’s beauty for me, but the photograph doesn’t show even a tenth of what I have lost.

10. THE SMUGGLING ARTICLE

1

Alov arrived at work early to find crowds of people already in the entrance hall. It was payday. The OGPU was a sizable organization: it had two and a half thousand working in its central staff alone and another ten thousand agents in Moscow, and all of them needed to collect their wages.

Showing his pass at the door, Alov pushed through the turnstile and took the elevator up to the fourth floor where the Foreign Department was based.

His tiny office was furnished with a table, three chairs, a divan upholstered in oilcloth, and a coat stand. A courier had already brought in the mail and the latest copy of Pravda. All OGPU employees were expected to read the paper from cover to cover to make sure they kept informed on the latest Party directives.

Alov took off his greatcoat, changed into his felt slippers, and was about to sort through the mail when there was a shout in the corridor.

“All those in the Foreign Department, go collect your wage checks!” It was the secretary Eteri Bagratovna.

There was a banging of doors and the clattering of boots on the stairs. Within moments, a long line had formed at the cashier’s office.

The employees of the Foreign Department fell into two groups of unequal status—the stick-at-homes and the travelers. Those who belonged to the first group never went anywhere and resembled impoverished teachers or clerks. Those in the second group enjoyed frequent trips abroad and returned decked out in the latest foreign clothes: sleeveless pullovers, shirts with pointed lapels, silk ties, and Oxford bags.

Alov did not particularly envy the travelers—his needs were simple: filterless cigarettes, strong tea, and perhaps medicine if he fell sick. But it vexed him that his beautiful wife had only two dresses, both of which had been bought second-hand.

Dunya Odesskaya was the sort of woman who should have been put on a pedestal and showered with presents. Comparing himself with her, Alov was at a loss to understand what she saw in him with his thinning hair, his pince-nez on a cord, his sunken chest, and the beginnings of a pot belly.

When his colleagues had had a drink or two, they would tease him, “You should watch out for that Dunya of yours. She’s a real hot potato!”

“And just look at you—thin and bent as an old oven fork!”

Alov was sure that in calling him an “oven fork,” they were hinting at cuckold’s horns. Miserable and jealous, he hounded his wife with accusations and then locked himself in his office with Galina. These brief betrayals would leave him feeling temporarily avenged.

One day, in the Tretyakov Art Gallery, Alov saw a group of schoolchildren looking at the painting “The Unequal Marriage.” The exhibition guide was explaining to the kids what torment it must be for the young bride to marry the rich but repulsive old man on the picture.

At least, Alov thought gloomily, that old man could afford to give his young bride valuable jewelry and a gracious style of living.

His own salary was circumscribed by the Party’s rule on the maximum wage, and he could afford to bring Dunya nothing more exciting than a couple of sacks of potatoes.

If only he could find another position! He had heard rumors that some of his colleagues from the Economic Department had put together dossiers on the directors of various enterprises and forced them to pay up under threat of exposure. The OGPU employees who worked in the Transport Department did well for themselves too—they could always extort bribes from black market traders transporting goods from one region to another.

It sounded prestigious to work in the Foreign Department, but what did it actually mean? Alov could not even hope for a promotion: there was only one person above him in the whole department: the fearsome Drachenblut.

2

Standing behind Alov in the line was Zharkov, a small man with a rosy face, short graying hair, and a slightly crooked nose.

Zharkov played a minor role in the OGPU, but a very profitable one, supplying Russians living abroad with false documents, currency, codes, and so on. Every time he came back into the country, he would bring back with him a suitcase full of women’s clothing and accessories.

“Did you bring it?” Alov mouthed the question silently.

“Mm-hm,” Zharkov muttered in assent. “Come and see me after lunch.”

The previous week, Alov had taken out a loan from the mutual aid bureau and asked Zharkov to bring him back some French perfume for Dunya. Dunya’s birthday was coming up, and he needed to get her a decent present.

“Perhaps you want some lipstick too?” Zharkov enquired. “A young woman ordered it from me—she was close to Drachenblut at the time, but now he’s got rid of her. So, I’m not allowed to give her anything.”

Alov pulled at his beard. “Oh… all right. I’ll take the lipstick too.”

After drawing their wages, all the employees began sorting out what money they owed where and to whom. Everybody had debts of some sort, some going back more than a month.

A young girl from the Far East section darted about among them. “Who hasn’t paid his subscription?” she called out. “Who’s still short? Comrade Alov, you should be ashamed of yourself! You owe money to the International Society for Revolutionary Fighters and three other organizations. Do you want me to raise the issue at the next Party meeting?”

Grudgingly, Alov counted out what he owed. A huge number of “voluntary” organizations had sprung up in the Soviet Union offering support for everything you could imagine, from German workers’ children to the chemical industry. Every good communist was obliged to be a member of these organizations and pay membership dues. Otherwise, he ran the risk of being expelled from the Party.

Alov made a quick calculation: after all these official payments had been made and he had paid his rent and given back what he owed to other people, he would have only fifty rubles left, hardly enough to buy food for the month.