Elvira Baryakina - The Prince of the Soviets

3. Entertainment for the Masses and the Fostering of National Pride: an easy method to quell public discontent

4. Propaganda and the Art of Concealment: how to arrange things so that people don’t believe what they see with their own eyes

I’ll have ten copies printed, and then I’ll sell each one to the tyrants of the world who will have to pay me its weight in gold.

3

The New Economic Policy introduced under Lenin is now being phased out swiftly and stealthily.

You can’t see any more signs bearing the names of private firms or shop owners. The Bolsheviks have got rid of the private traders but put nothing in their place, so it looks like this winter will be a hard one.

The country is now gripped by a cult of fervent worship of the Soviet leaders and, above all, Comrade Stalin. The rulers’ portraits have clearly taken the place of icons: their faces are pinned up everywhere.

The Party is the fount of all blessings, and therefore, anyone with any talent puts it to use for the glory of the Bolsheviks. Meanwhile, those who have no talent try to move up the ladder by protecting their leaders from all sorts of spurious dangers.

In part, this sycophancy is calculating, and in part, it is driven by our instinctive desire to attach ourselves to strong leaders. For ordinary people, this is the only way to survive when the going gets tough.

I think I should add a new chapter to my book for dictators. “Keeping Control Over Food, Fuel, and Housing: a guaranteed method to win the love of the people.”

Nina still hasn’t appeared. Not long ago, Kitty and I were reading a book and came upon a riddle about a clock pendulum:

I don’t stop all day

And I don’t stop all night

I go back and forth

To the left, to the right.

Immediately, Kitty said, “That’s you, Daddy!” When I asked her why, she said that I can’t make up my mind. First, I go looking for Mommy; next, I say she’s never coming back; and now, I’m expecting her to come to see us.

4

I rang all of my friends and told them about the situation in the Church of St. Michael. We have all clubbed together and managed to lay in supplies of flour, drinking water, and anti-lice treatment. Some of the doctors from the embassies have agreed to offer their services free and have given our refugees a basic medical examination.

I don’t know why we have suddenly decided to help these people who are not connected to us with any national, social, or religious ties. Perhaps the Volga Germans were simply the first to come our way.

I spoke to some of my fellow journalists. They all feel just what I feel—an oppressive sense of helplessness in the face of a catastrophe that looms ever closer. By coming to the aid of destitute people, we are mounting a personal protest against the forces of violence and falsehood.

I took the Germans to the bathhouse, spending my very last kopeck in the process, and felt an incredible sense of elation. The Bolshevik system demands that I shut up and put up. Is everything all right in your life? Then stay where you are and don’t stick your head above the parapet. You won’t be able to change anything anyway. And while I nod and agree, I am carrying on doing what I believe is right.

My colleagues are all doing the same thing, and it amazes me to report that we have been joined by employees of the Press Department. Weinstein complained that my article about the Volga Germans was just another case of “mudslinging” and cut it, but the very next minute, he told me that he had a dacha outside Moscow with a shed that he had been meaning for some time to break up for firewood.

“I won’t be going there again this year,” he said, looking at me pointedly. “You understand what I’m saying? There’ll be nobody there.”

It’s amazing but true: even the most fervent supporters of the Bolshevik regime are prepared to carry out good deeds when they get the chance so long as there is no danger their bosses will catch them displaying a love for their fellow man.

This weekend, Weinstein’s neighbors out at his dacha observed a curious sight: a group of foreigners piling out of a couple of embassy cars, flinging off their jackets, and setting to work breaking up the old shed with sledgehammers. The logs and boards were then sawed up and dispatched in a number of consignments to the Lutheran church.

Magda, fresh from a recent trip to Central Asia, has also taken the plight of the Germans to heart. Traveling around Turkestan, she saw so many cases of ill-treated women and children that the “sin of wellbeing” has become unbearable to her.

Now, she goes out to the Church of St. Michael every day, taking Friedrich along too.

He tells us that the residents of the Comintern hostel are out of their minds with fear. If you knock on somebody’s door, a strange voice will shout out, “He’s sick!” If you ask, “When will he be better?” the answer will be “Never!” Everybody is keeping themselves to themselves, burning their personal documents and drinking vodka to help themselves sleep.

Friedrich says he has had enough of all this hole-in-corner business. He has decided to help the refugees, “consequences be damned.”

He has friends who receive vouchers for horse meat because they breed guard dogs for the Soviet border patrol. Friedrich gives them cigarettes in return for the meat, so now our displaced Germans are able to make hot broth to feed their sick children.

None of us has any idea how this adventure of ours will turn out. When Friedrich was in Berlin, he met Seibert, who told him that the German government does not intend to give any money to the refugees.

As I expected, we have not found any benefactors willing to take on a whole village. Worst still, Seibert has no time to search for a Good Samaritan for us. So far, he hasn’t managed to find a job and has had to go freelance. Of course, the national papers are happy to buy up his articles, but they pay badly. Seibert spends all his time in the quest for the money.

Well, I suppose we’ll keep dashing to and fro so long as we have the strength. No harm in trying after all.

1

Alov was furious with Galina.

“You told me Rogov was on holiday!” he scolded her. “But he’s been back in Moscow for ages! I had a call from the Central Aerodynamic Institute: there’s a church on their territory, and Rogov has set up a shelter for vagrants there. What’s more, he’s inciting foreigners to help him.”

“I didn’t know anything about it,” said Galina, flustered.

Her eyelids burned, and she had a lump in her throat. Why hadn’t Klim rung her? Why hadn’t he told her he was back?

“There’s something fishy about all this,” Alov kept saying, wagging a crooked yellow finger. “I want you to go to see Rogov, and I want you to bring me back a thorough report.”

Dazed, Galina made her way to Chistye Prudy.

“Just look who it is!” cried Kapitolina, opening the door to Galina. “You’ll never guess who’s dropped in to see us, sir!”

Galina shivered at the thought that she was now no more than a guest who “dropped in.”

Klim was sitting at his Underwood typewriter, typing out an article—without her help.

“Wait a second,” he said. “I have to finish up here.”

He thumbed through a dictionary and wrote in his notebook while she sat opposite him, pulling at the cloth strap on her bag, which eventually came loose.

I’m a complete stranger to him, she thought, gazing at Klim, who was working with an expression of intense concentration.

“The OGPU know what you’re doing in the Lutheran church,” she said.

Finally, Klim looked up from his papers. “What business is it of theirs? It’s a private charity. That’s all.”

“There are no charities in the USSR!” Galina cried. “The state helps everyone who needs it.” Forgetting herself, she sprang to her feet. “What I want to know is why are you helping Germans? They killed so many of our people during the Great War!”

“These Germans are Soviet citizens. They didn’t kill anyone.”

“I don’t care! How can you help them when there are Russians in need of help?”

Klim folded his arms across his chest. “So, you’re jealous? Is that it?”

“Yes, I’m jealous!” replied Galina hotly. “You go off somewhere without a word, and then it turns out—” She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop herself from dissolving into tears.

Klim frowned. “I didn’t want your real bosses to find out about it all.”

“Is that why you kept me out of everything?”

He nodded.

“Then I’ll resign from the OGPU!” exclaimed Galina passionately. “Just say the word! I don’t need their vouchers or their salary. I don’t need anything from them at all. I would never betray you!”

Klim looked at her reproachfully. “Well, it’s a fine sentiment… but if you resign, you’ll be in trouble.”

“I don’t care! I love you.”

Galina waited for Klim to answer, but when he spoke, he said something quite different from what she had been hoping to hear.

“Make sure Kitty doesn’t eat chocolate. That’s what’s been making her ill.”

“Should I come in to work tomorrow?” Galina asked after a pause.

“Yes,” Klim pointed to a pile of envelopes on the table. “All these have to be delivered.”

2

On the way home, Galina hatched a new plan. She would resign from the OGPU. Soon, Kapitolina would be getting married, her little cubbyhole would be free, and Galina could move in with Klim.