Immediately, Alov remembered the young lady with the camera he had seen that day of the parade on the 7th of November. The Chinese guests on the tribune had recognized her; they had told him she was a White émigré from Shanghai. But at the time, all the OGPU officers had been taken up with the Trotsky supporters, and Alov had forgotten all about her.

“And what is she to you?” he asked Galina.

“Well, she’s my… friend’s neighbor, and she was asking, you see—”

“Pidge,” said Alov gently, “I can see right through you. You’re a terrible liar. Who’s been asking you about this Nina Kupina?”

Galina looked at him sheepishly. “He asked me not to tell anyone.”

“And who is he?”

As usual, it did not take long for Galina to cave in under pressure.

“Klim Rogov asked me to find out. But you mustn’t think anything of it. He’s on our side. He takes a very objective view of things… at least for the most part—”

Alov began to drum on the table with his fingers.

Very interesting, he thought. Both Klim Rogov and Nina Kupina had lived in Shanghai, and they clearly knew one another. What might this mean?

4

After lunch, Alov took Galina into his office and asked her to wait a minute. He told her he was going to check the archive, but instead, he headed to the office of a group of employees he referred to jokingly as “Their Royal Highnesses.” These women were all from aristocratic families and knew several languages. Their job was to read through all the foreign papers and magazines to keep an eye on what was being written about the Soviet Union and by whom. Alov had specially picked out widows with children for the job, and they were among some of the most responsible employees of the OGPU. They were so afraid of losing their jobs that they would go to any lengths to please their employers.

“Do you have the file on Klim Rogov?” Alov asked Diana Mikhailovna, a tall woman of fortyish, her hair piled into an old-fashioned bun on top of her head.

“We’ve just been adding a new cutting to it from an English paper,” she answered. “Have a look at this.”

Alov began to read.

In the space of the last ten years, the soldiers of the revolution have grown slowly older and more infirm, and now, they have begun to stare death in the face—not a heroic death on the battlefield but the most ordinary passing away in a hospital bed. Now that the romance of their youth has come to nothing, the Bolshevik leaders have begun to succumb feverishly to every temptation forbidden them. After all, the specter of communism may remain forever out of reach; must they forgo all life’s pleasures in the meantime?

The members of the old guard have acquired beautiful young wives, elegantly furnished apartments, German automobiles, and French wines.

It is both sad and comical to compare the grand aims of the Bolsheviks with the reality to which they are now resigned. They dreamed of building a society in which everybody would have more than enough, but it seems they are incapable of doing more than feathering their own nests.

Alov was less surprised at the tone of the article than he was at the brazen cheek shown by its author. Klim Rogov had signed the piece with his own name.

“What’s the matter with the man?” he asked. “Is he out of his mind?”

Diana Mikhailovna shrugged her stately shoulders. “I suppose he didn’t think we’d read it.”

Alov took Klim Rogov’s file. According to the completed form, Rogov had emigrated from Russia some time before the revolution and received American citizenship and had spent several years in China. A few months ago, he had come back to the country of his birth as a tourist and found work with the United Press agency. That was all the information they had on him.

Alov stamped Rogov’s file with the words “enemy journalist.” Inadvertently, this reporter had hit a raw nerve with this article. Alov could recall how, as an impassioned young man, he had felt nothing but contempt for the hard-hearted, immoral, corrupt old bureaucrats he had seen around him. For him, these men were symbolic of the bourgeoisie that had to be wiped from the face of the earth. And now, he had become just like one of them, the only difference being that while the Tsar’s officials had been well-off, Alov was condemned to a life of unrelenting poverty.

Alov never showed his feelings in front of “Their Royal Highnesses,” but with Galina, he had no such qualms.

“What is this?” he yelled from the doorway, flinging the newspaper cutting in her face. “Why didn’t you keep a closer watch on this Rogov? How could he have sent this article to London?”

Galina burst into tears on the spot. “I don’t know!” she wailed.

“Oh, you don’t know!” Alov mimicked sarcastically. “You mean you don’t know how to do your job? Do you think we’re paying you to do nothing? I want you to get to the bottom of this. I want to know everything about this Rogov—who his friends are, where he goes, and what’s between him and Kupina! Is that clear?”

Galina sniffed. “I’ll try. So, we do have a file on her, do we?”

“No, we don’t! Now get out, and don’t you dare come back without something to show for yourself.”

Ten minutes later, there was already a file on Nina Kupina: Alov opened a new one, noting down his impressions from his own encounter with her and what he had heard from the Chinese people with whom she had crossed the Soviet border.

It was all a bit flimsy, but Alov decided that from now on, he would be on the alert and keep a close watch on Klim Rogov and his young lady friend.

5 BOOK OF THE DEAD

Galina brought me two pieces of news, one good and one bad. The good news is that the OGPU doesn’t have a file on Nina. The bad news is that now I have been labeled an “enemy journalist.”

Galina was so upset on my behalf that she started to cry. “Why did you do it? Now they’re going to make life difficult for you in every way they can!”

She asked me how I had managed to get the article out of the country, but I lost my temper and sent her away.

I feel sorry for her; really I do—I know she’s only trying to protect me, but her persistent solicitude drives me crazy.

I went to the censors’ office to find out how much trouble I’m in and what they’re planning to do about it.

As soon as I opened the door, Weinstein launched into me with a string of accusations.

“I really thought we understood one another, and this is how you repay me. If this happens one more time, there’ll be hell to pay!”

I felt relieved to hear this. It seems that as it’s the first such misdemeanor, I’m being forgiven and allowed to stay in Moscow. All the same, I felt like a schoolboy called in to the headmaster’s office. What damn business is it of that devil Weinstein what I choose to publish abroad?

Still, there was no point in arguing with him.

I think I can forget about getting an interview with Stalin.

6

I have to face facts: Nina has disappeared without a trace, and I can’t go on living on memories.

Kitty needs a mother, and I need a wife. But I can’t imagine any other woman playing that part in my life.

For all her excellent qualities, Galina is too much of a cud-chewing herbivore for my liking. A cow may be a helpful animal, but I can’t get excited about it.

Nina, on the other hand, was like a graceful twilight predator with glowing eyes. She would never agree to be anyone’s servant. It wasn’t always easy living with her, but I could never look at her without admiration. Who could take her place?

I can see quite clearly what Galina’s up to. She’s counting on the fact that I’ll get used to all these home comforts. I suppose she thinks one day I’ll just give in and I won’t bother looking elsewhere for a wife. She wants to domesticate me, to put me in a nice warm stable with a straw for bedding and a bunch of hay. Sit and munch and forget about everything!

I would hate myself if I took up with a woman out of mere gratitude.

A later entry

What the hell? I was actually starting to plan my life without Nina.

7

The enemy article cost me dearly. Now the censors smile sweetly at me and cut half of everything I write. I have to work almost twice as hard as I used to.

In order to have at least something to write about, I have subscribed to the press cuttings office service. Every day now, a courier brings me a big pile of clippings. Once I’ve looked through some article which has passed the censor, I can insist that it’s an official bulletin and needs to be sent abroad.

But my catch is getting smaller every day. Ever since the routing of the opposition, it’s clear that it is not a good idea to argue about the direction the country should be taking. These days, countless congresses and meetings are held in Moscow, at which the speakers talk for hours without actually saying anything at all. To protect themselves against any accusations of freethinking, they cite the pronouncements of Lenin and Marx and stick to tried-and-true phrases such as “the fight against the recalcitrant core of the petty bourgeoisie” or “steering a course toward a union with the peasantry.” Who can tell what they actually mean? Nobody. Wonderful!

Just to keep afloat, I am forced to shuffle words, people, and events on a regular basis. As for the moral implications of what I am doing, I have stopped even thinking about them. This is the only way I can hope to get a telegram through to the Press Office.

Mass repressions have begun, the main victims being profiteers who are accused by the government of pushing up prices. I come into the censors’ office with a bulletin that reads, “Eighteen Men Shot,” hoping that they’ll at least allow something insipid, such as “Ruthless Purges,” to be sent abroad.

“What’s the point in that?” Weinstein is bound to object. “Who cares about profiteers? We can’t send that out.”

“It’s an official announcement by Izvestia,” I remind him. “Or do you think that Izvestia is giving a distorted picture of the Party line?”

Weinstein acts as if he has not heard what I just said. “We’ve opened up a factory canteen,” he says, shoving a clipping across this desk toward me. “You say you’re a friend of the Soviet Union. Why don’t you write about how we’re helping the working man?”

I also act as if I’m hard of hearing and put my briefcase on his clipping. For a while, we talk about the weather and what’s on in the Moscow theaters. Then I come back to the subject of the profiteers.

“I know you want to write about the factory canteen,” I say, “but I’m afraid my editors aren’t interested in that sort of story.”

“So, what do they want?” asks Weinstein in aggrieved tones.

I sigh heavily. “They just want blood and violence.”

The censor eventually passes the title “Decisive Purges,” puts his stamp on my report, and I run to the telegraph office.

This is how it works these days: “Flour Distribution at Standstill” is changed to “Delays in Dispatch of Bumper Grain Supplies”; “Meat Shortages” to “The Victory of Vegetarianism,” and so on.

Seibert told me that when he found out about how rebellious Cossacks had been exiled to Siberia, he managed to get the news over the border by writing, “State Guarantees Resettlement for Cossack Families.”

11. CHRISTMAS NIGHT

1

Kitty went several times to visit Tata. At first, Klim was pleased she had found herself a friend, but soon, his daughter began to use expressions like “a class-based attitude” and “rotten idealism.” One day, instead of asking for Klim to read her a fairytale at bedtime, Kitty asked for the “Young Pioneer’s Solemn Oath.”

The following day, Tata rang Klim to demand that Kitty be given a topical, revolutionary name.

“I’ve made up a list of names,” she said, “so you can choose: either Barricade, Progressina, Diamata, or Ninel. ‘Diamata’ comes from ‘dialectical materialism,’ and ‘Ninel’ is ‘Lenin’ backward.”

Klim told Tata that his daughter was quite revolutionary enough.

“Actually,” he said, “‘Kitty’ stands for ‘Kill the Imperialist Traitors of Tomorrow’s Youth.’”

“You don’t say!” Tata gasped in admiration. “Kitty never told me that! I promise you, I’ll make such a fine communist out of your daughter you won’t believe it!”