Elvira Baryakina - The Prince of the Soviets

I had to admit that that would result in widespread discontent.

“And how will your truth help us to solve the problem of industrialization?” Weinstein continued. “Do you really want to plunge the country into bloodshed and chaos again? No, my dear Mr. Rogov, we must choose another path.”

However, this “other path” is hardly a shining example of humanity. The Soviet papers bristle with demands to “destroy the parasites,” “crush the vermin,” “tear the stings from their tails,” and so on. The enemies (or rather those the Bolsheviks have declared enemies) are stripped of all human features. There is no need to feel sorry for these “subhumans” as they are “spawn,” “scum,” and “dross” that has no place in the Soviet Union. Actually, nobody feels sorry for them.

Owen often sends me to cover Party meetings that are effectively purges. At these meetings, a strange mass phenomenon can be observed: people repenting of crimes they could not possibly have committed.

Weinstein is probably right. Everyday magic and superstition is at work here. Many people believe that moral “purity” enables you to escape misfortune: by repenting and being cleansed of evil, you will be saved. It doesn’t matter what the truth is—it’s all about a relationship with mysterious higher powers, which can be appeased only with ritual and magic words.

I believe all of this is happening because people are utterly lost. They have no reliable information. Every decision about the future of the country is being taken in secret, way up in the corridors of power, and all you can do is pray that divine judgment will not suddenly descend like a bolt of lightning to strike you or your loved ones.

In some ways, I agree with Weinstein. The truth can be a force for destruction, but still, you can’t stop people from wanting to know what’s going on. If they have no way of reaching the truth, they begin to make up fairytales, and that won’t solve anything.

I tried to explain to Weinstein that the latter is more dangerous, but he merely shook his head reproachfully.

“Imagine,” he said, “we’re traveling in a high-speed train, trying to catch up with the advanced capitalist nations. We don’t have time to stop; our task is to get the state machine running smoothly, helping the engine to convert fuel and turn the wheels without any hitches.”

“When you say fuel, I take it you mean people?” I asked.

But Weinstein wasn’t bothered by such concerns. “You foreign journalists can either help us take this great leap into the future or try to throw a spanner in the works. Of course, your spanners won’t stop us anyway. But think about it: how does it serve your interests to have our nation simply sitting and vegetating on the margins of Europe? Do you really bear us such ill will?”

“No, we don’t,” I answered, and Weinstein beamed.

“That’s wonderful! Then there’s no need to keep drawing attention to our shortcomings. All we ask of the West is that you help your readers like us. If you sow derision and hatred, it will lead to another war. Surely you don’t want that?”

If I ever meet Comrade Stalin, I will definitely hint that Weinstein should be appointed patriarch of the new Bolshevik Church of the Sacred Spirit of the Proletariat. He would make a very good priest.

Everybody is waiting for the beginning of the Shakhty Trial. Much remains unclear. Why is such an enormous fuss being made of this affair, and why are preparations being made for it on the scale of those made for the Olympic Games in Amsterdam? What’s the meaning of it all? Is it a scare tactic or criminal justice in action?

I receive a stream of instructions and orders from London. My professional future hangs in the balance, and I spend all my time running about Moscow trying to find answers to my editors’ questions.

Everything I do, I do for Kitty’s sake, but because I am so busy, I give her hardly any attention. She is desperately bored and lonely without me, particularly since I have forbidden her to play with Tata. But there is nobody to help me. Galina is traveling to and fro all the time, and whenever she puts in an appearance at our house, she is dropping from exhaustion.

Kapitolina is no use at all. She is frantic with worry about her relatives in the village. Terrible things are going on there: armed brigades of activists are coming out from the cities to search for hidden stores of grain and force the peasants to sell it to them at state procurement prices, which are too low to allow them to afford anything with their earnings. Sometimes, peasants have even been paid with government state bonds or receipts, that is to say, they have been robbed, purely and simply.

Several times, I have arrived home to find Kitty under the bed. She hides there and puts my gloves on her shoulders. “I’m pretending you’re giving me a hug.”

This makes me feel like a criminal, so I try to get ahold of treats for her—chocolates, toys, and books, but of course, none of it helps.

Every morning, I explain to Kitty that I have important business and I need to go to work. But what business could be more important than my own child feeling abandoned right now? Every day, Kitty is learning a lesson that her own feelings are unimportant and that it is wrong to ask for love and attention. Whether I like it or not, I am training her to expect pain and loneliness in life.

Kitty needs a mother, but I have cut off all ties with Nina because its simpler for me. At the merest mention of her name, I am thrown into a protracted gloom. I have to admit I was even pleased when Elkin was thrown out of his store.

But my former wife still haunts me. Recently, Kitty discovered her photograph in my diary and announced that she wanted to see her mother.

“Haven’t you found her yet?” she asked me.

“We don’t have a mother anymore,” I replied, only to regret my words a moment later.

Kitty went into such hysterics that she made herself ill. “You’ve taken away everything I ever had!” she wailed. “You don’t love me! Where’s Mommy?”

She struggled in my arms like a captive animal. “Let me go! I hate you!”

She has been sick now for several days. She has come out in a rash, her face is swollen, and she has pains in her stomach.

The doctor from the German Embassy came out to have a look at her and shrugged. “It seems the Moscow climate is bad for your little girl. You need to take her to the seaside and get her some sunshine.”

But I can’t drop everything and go south. Who would grant me any leave from work now? As for resigning, it’s out of the question. I haven’t any savings, and if I quit my job, I lose my visa. And where could Kitty and I go then?

Nina was right when she said I would regret our quarrel. If we had parted on good terms, she could have helped me with Kitty. True, it would have meant mastering my feelings every day, but at least our daughter wouldn’t be suffering now on account of my hurt pride.

I turned Nina’s photograph over in my hands. On the back, Magda had written “Nina Kupina, November 1927.” I crossed out the name of my ex-wife and wrote above it, “Mrs. Reich.”

I still find it impossible to believe that this is the truth.

On the morning of the 18th of May, 1928, the House of Unions was surrounded by a double police cordon, struggling to restrain the public from breaking through to the recently refurbished building with its pillared facade.

There were crowds milling about—journalists, children, and foreign tourists holding cameras. People kept arriving, and soon the pavement outside the building was overflowing, stopping the cars and cabs from passing and unleashing a chorus of motor horns.

Klim showed his press card and was allowed into the House of Unions. Last minute preparations were taking place there. Smartly dressed young men in OGPU uniform were dashing up and down the staircases, and catering assistants with lace headdresses pinned to their hair were wheeling trolleys furnished with decanters of water.

Klim walked into the Pillar Hall and felt as if he was in a theater on the night of a grand premier. Crystal chandeliers lit up rows of red seats for the spectators of the trial, and red cloth banners hung on all the balconies. Several powerful floodlights stood in the aisles, directed toward the stage. The carpet beneath them bulged with cables.

“Gangway!” called a workman wheeling in a huge, cumbersome movie camera.

Although people were fussing around nervously, the mood was generally one of excited anticipation. There were high hopes of the forthcoming show.

The foreign journalists exchanged greetings and handshakes.

“Don’t expect to see any justice done here today. That’s all I can say,” the correspondent from the Christian Science Monitor told Klim. “The Soviet judges are quite openly guided by questions of class origin—with full official approval. If it turns out that the defendant is a former aristocrat or, God forbid, was born into a priest’s family, then no proof of guilt is required whatsoever.”

“But it would be stupid,” a French correspondent intervened, “to pass an obviously wrongful verdict when the whole world is watching. Bolsheviks would never resort to such a thing.”

“There will be executions, you mark my words,” said Luigi, a little Italian with a beaky nose. “The authorities want to force poorly performing employees to work harder. Soviet industry is rife with substandard production. They want to tackle it.”

Seibert would listen to no one and was loudly indignant about the fact that the OGPU had named among the saboteurs a number of German citizens who were working in the mines on contracts.