“All we need to be completely happy is good food, suitable clothes, and a roof over our heads,” said Klim. “All that might be very expensive in London, but it would be very cheap in some places with very beautiful sunsets. What do you think of going to live in British Honduras?”

Nina studied the article in the atlas for a moment and then frowned. “No, that won’t do. They have hurricanes and flooding there.”

“What about Japan then? We’ll find a pretty village up in the mountains. There will be maple trees, pagodas, and waterfalls. What’s not to like? We’ll teach in the local schools, and when we get bored, we can go to the Italian Alps or to Hawaii.”

They both knew that rural idylls were one thing on picture postcards and another in life. The farther they went from the vices of civilization, the more likely they would be to encounter extreme poverty, epidemics, and religious fanaticism. But Klim and Nina loved playing this game in which they dreamed about another world where there was no politics, no passports, and no constant worry about how to make money.

“The main thing now is to meet with Babloyan,” said Klim, “get him to arrange a foreign passport for you, and send you to Germany.”

“But how will I take the dollars out of the country?” asked Nina. “They always search anyone crossing the border, and if they find such a large sum of money on me, I won’t be able to explain how I got it.”

Klim asked Friedrich to take the money to Germany for them, but he refused. It was too big a risk. Not long before, one of the pilots had been caught smuggling foreign currency, and the poor wretch had been accused of financing the counter-revolution and was shot.

5

A special performance by the Blue Blouse theater company was to take place in the Elektrozavod Club to commemorate the opening of a new factory facility.

When Klim arrived, a folk orchestra was playing in the foyer. While some people danced, others crowded around the counter where bread and ham sandwiches were being sold as a special treat in honor of the celebration.

Klim spotted Babloyan from a distance. He was having his photograph taken with the factory directors against the backdrop of the slogan “Long Live the Bolshevik Party!”

“Comrade journalist!” Babloyan cried, waving to Klim. “So, you’ve come to report on our theatrical performance? That’s grand!”

He suggested that Klim sit next to him in the front row so that he could get a good view.

“I’m very interested in theater,” said Babloyan as he lowered himself into a chair. “Have you heard of the Blue Blouse company? It’s something like a live newspaper. About half of our workers can’t read and write, and we’re short on radios. But we need to explain to people what’s going on in the world. So, the Blue Blouse company goes around factories and other workplaces putting on performances.”

The show did indeed turn out to be a curious one. The host asked the crowd to welcome the “Pillars of Soviet Economic Might,” and six young men and women ran onto the stage, armed with shields on which were emblazoned the words “Industrialization,” “Electrification,” “Rationalization,” “Fordism,” “Standardization,” and “Militarization.”

The orchestra struck up a tune, and the “pillars” began to demonstrate the work of the machines in the new facility.

Babloyan nudged Klim. “What about that Fordism, eh? Quite a looker, isn’t she? I already found out her name. She’s called Dunya Odesskaya.”

Klim made a note in his reporter’s book:

Fordism, Henry Ford’s concept of mechanized mass production, had already become an object of mockery overseas by everybody from Charlie Chaplin to street beggars, who would put on a show of repeating the same movement again and again as if unable to stop.

But in the USSR, the philosophy is welcomed. The ideal Soviet man is not an individual but a new and efficient piece of a general mechanism.

Dunya Odesskaya began to declaim a poem by a famous Soviet poet, Vladimir Mayakovsky:

“What is ‘one’?

It’s no good at all!

It’s voice is as small

as the squeak of a mouse

heard by none

but your wife! (so long

as she’s not

on the market square

but right there

in the house).

But the Party

brings all ‘ones’

together as one,

small voices compressed

into a great storm.

And our enemies’ defenses will burst

when it comes,

just as eardrums burst at

the roar of guns.”

This was the new proletariat art, an art without poetry, without intimacy. It did not concern itself with the trivial experiences of worthless individuals but with the aesthetics of organized crowds.

Nevertheless, the Blue Blouse company did touch on the subject of love. Dunya Odesskaya donned a leather jacket, mounted a podium, and began to pretend to give a political speech.

One of the male actors addressed the audience with feeling. “That comrade is one red-hot mama! She’s got me properly agitated with her agitprop.”

The audience clapped delightedly.

“Take a look at that!” exclaimed Babloyan, his eyes fixed on Dunya. “That skirt barely covers her backside, but if you tell her it’s indecent, I bet she’d say she can’t afford any more material.”

“And now,” the host announced, “we’d like to welcome Comrade Babloyan on stage to say a few words.”

There was wild applause, and Babloyan was almost too touched to speak.

“At this time,” he began, “when our country is threatened by the blockade imposed by the bourgeois countries of the West, we can hold our heads up high and boldly show everyone… this… hmm…. What I mean is, the power of art to change society will win through!”

All anyone understood from his speech that followed was that Soviet girls, such as Dunya Odesskaya, were the most beautiful girls in the world. Nobody was interested in the ideological content, anyway. The most important thing was that Babloyan came across to them as “one of us,” a regular guy, representing the Party that cared about working people.

“Pretty soon,” he said, “every working man will receive a cartload of firewood for the winter. And don’t worry about paraffin! The Soviet authorities will bring electricity into every home, even the humblest worker’s cabin.”

After lengthy and noisy applause, Babloyan bowed and set off toward the exit with his entourage.

On stage, the amateur concert resumed.

Klim barely managed to catch up with Babloyan in the corridor.

“I wanted to ask you a small favor, sir. Do you remember our conversation about the Volga Germans?”

Babloyan glanced meaningfully toward the lavatories and then announced to his henchmen, “Wait here. I won’t be a moment.”

In the men’s lavatories, a tap was dripping, and the walls echoed with the sound of water trickling into the enamel basin. A dim light filtered in through the window, which had been half painted over.

“We now have enough money to sort out the passports and the cost of freight,” Klim spoke in a low voice.

He told Babloyan about the Canada plan and about Hilda Schultz.

Babloyan considered his words, frowning.

“All right,” he said at last. “Bring me the money and a list of the names of all your Germans.”

“What about an interview with Stalin?” Klim added. “Do you think it might still be possible to organize?”

Babloyan looked at Klim uncomprehendingly. “Why do you want an interview with Stalin?”

“Our readers want to know what’s happening in the USSR.”

“Then they should read Pravda. It’s all there in black and white,” said Babloyan curtly, and then he left.

6

Alov had come to the Elektrozavod Club before the concert began. During the performance, he had been standing beside Klim Rogov, inconspicuous in his peaked cap and standard-issue jacket and trousers from the Moscow state clothing factory.

He was intrigued to see Rogov sit down next to Comrade Babloyan. What, he wondered, was the connection between the two of them?

But soon, Alov saw something that distracted him completely from thoughts of work. Dunya, his Dunya, was up on stage, behaving in the most shameless manner.

For some time now, Alov had not been going to watch his wife perform. He had always said that he trusted her implicitly, but now, he felt that this had been a mistake. In the first place, some young fellow was carrying her about on his shoulders, which meant that a certain part of her anatomy was coming into contact with the man’s neck. Besides this, Dunya had performed some “Dance of the Conveyor Belt,” which had involved high kicks and a run out on stage in some makeshift sort of toga that looked as if it might fall off at any moment. The very idea was enough to make Alov die of shame.

But the worst was yet to come. The next moment, Comrade Babloyan had got up on stage and begun to praise Dunya’s good looks in front of everyone. Alov knew very well that Babloyan was a notorious womanizer. Did he have his eye on Dunya?

When Rogov and Babloyan left the hall, Alov hurried after them and saw them turn off the corridor into the lavatories.

Babloyan’s henchmen waited patiently for him. At last, he emerged, and they set off toward the lobby. Alov stared after him furiously. There wasn’t much even an OGPU agent could do against a member of the Central Committee. Such people existed outside the law and outside any moral codes; they simply took whatever they wanted.