A nurse came running up to her. “Comrade Figner, it’s time for your treatment!” She took the old lady gently by the elbow and led her away.

“Her age is beginning to tell, I’m afraid,” Babloyan sighed. “Sometimes, Comrade Figner even forgets that the revolution has happened already.”

Next, Babloyan handed the young people over to the director of the sanatorium who took them to see the old hothouses and the poultry yard.

Klim approached Babloyan. “Seibert sent me,” he said. “He asked me to give you this letter.”

Babloyan’s expression changed. “Come with me,” he said quietly and gestured for Klim to follow him.

They sat down on a bench surrounded by flowering rose bushes. Babloyan read the letter from Seibert and then took a box of matches out of his pocket and burned the paper immediately.

“It’s a shame they’ve sent Seibert out of the country,” Babloyan said. “He was a useful man to know.”

“So, what about these Volga Germans?” asked Klim. “They’re being told that in order to get passports, they need to bring in permission documents that they can’t get ahold of. They would have to go back to Saratov, and they have no money.”

Babloyan shrugged. “It’s not in our interests to let them out. If the whole village goes over to Germany, the story is bound to leak out to the press, and then we’ll see the usual malicious reports about the Soviet Union.”

“But you can do something about it,” urged Klim.

Babloyan looked Klim up and down quizzically. “Fifty rubles a head,” he mouthed, barely audible. “If you care so much about the Germans, you can raise the money needed to pay the ‘state duty.’ But only in foreign currency, please.”

Klim smiled sardonically. Babloyan had full board and lodging, and all his needs were supplied. Why did he want foreign currency? There could be only one answer: he, like many of the Kremlin elite, considered emigration and looked for a way of amassing foreign currency just in case things began to fall apart.

Now and then, the papers would carry an article on the traitors who went abroad on work assignments and refused to return to the USSR. Among them were Stalin’s personal secretary and prominent OGPU agents. People were running away like rats from a sinking ship.

All the Party members knew that, at any moment, they could be brought to account not only for their own crimes but also for friendships with people who had fallen out of favor. And there was no knowing who would be on the blacklist from one day to the next.

“Could you please help me to arrange an interview with Stalin?” asked Klim. “I’m sure that in return for copy like that, United Press would help us solve the problem of the Volga Germans.”

“The Germans aren’t my problem; they’re yours,” said Babloyan. “I wish you all the best.”

In the hierarchy of Bolshevik values, access to Comrade Stalin was worth a lot more than a bunch of Germans. In any case, Babloyan was not willing to enter into any bargain on the subject.

26. THE VOLGA GERMANS

1 BOOK OF THE DEAD

I went on a visit to the church of St. Michael, the oldest Lutheran Church in Russia, founded in the sixteenth century. There have been no services in the church for several months as the Central Aerodynamic Institute is right next door, and the Moscow Soviet has ordered the closure of the church on the grounds that parishioners were “preventing the organization of appropriate security.”

In fact, churches, like all other autonomous organizations, are being destroyed as the government wants to get rid of all independent sources of income or social support. The Party alone can now provide material wealth, recognition, and censure; in this way, it controls everyone and everything.

The Moscow Lutherans are trying to save their church, though they have only a slim chance of success. The Bolsheviks have hit on a formula that allows them to close down churches “at the request of the workers.” Members of the Young Communist League go from door to door, asking everyone in the district whether they are in favor of combating religious obscurantism. Those who agree are asked to sign a petition. Nobody dares refuse; if anyone breathes a word in support of religious freedom, their bosses will be informed immediately, and the black sheep will be the first in line for the chop during the next workplace purge.

I cannot imagine what will happen to the Volga Germans if they are driven out of the St. Michael church. They are already living in atrocious conditions! Today, I saw crowds of haggard women and little kids as thin as rakes. The children haven’t had a proper wash in the bathhouse for months, and their mothers shave their heads to keep away the lice. There were no men or youths to be seen. They are all out working—trying to make money by hauling or loading.

I was immediately reminded of the internment camps for White Russians in China—but those were the result of the civil war. Now, in peacetime, the country has an artificially created refugee problem.

Babloyan asked me for a quite impossible sum. Of course, I wrote to Seibert, telling him how much money he needs to raise, but it’s unlikely he’ll manage to do anything. The German economy is in bad shape just now.

The whole situation drives me mad. On all sides, Soviet officials are perpetrating a dreadful, senseless orgy of cannibalism. But rather than devouring the flesh of their fellow citizens, they eat up their time and energy—in other words, life itself.

Kitty asks me every day where her mother is. I am teaching her to play the piano, and she is impatient to show Nina what she can do.

She piles music books onto the piano stool, perches on top of the pile, and bangs away enthusiastically at the keys. Her favorite keys are the ones at the top: these produce a delicate tinkling sound, so she has christened them “Mommy’s notes.” “Daddy’s notes,” on the other hand, are the deep bass ones at the bottom. I’m sorry to say, they’re a lot less popular.

I told Kitty that her mother would be coming soon and that she was bound to write to us, in any case. But the days go by, and our mailbox remains empty except for newspapers and official letters. I’m back in the old routine—work, trivial chores and worries, and never enough time. I have not been in touch with Galina and now have to do everything myself.

2

Whenever my foreign colleagues write about the Soviet people, they dehumanize them whether they mean to or not. I can understand why this happens—if you only scratch the surface, the people here seem like a bunch of madmen who make decision after decision that can only harm themselves.

There are no roads in Arkhangelsk and nothing to eat, and meanwhile, the government is sending money and arms to communists all over the world. Why?

Rather than helping private businesses feed the urban population, it does its best to ensure the Soviet people eat as poor a diet as possible and stand in queues as long as possible so that they grow cold, tired, and sick, and die prematurely as a result.

The state budget is spent on polar expeditions, on sending foreign journalists to the north, and on huge sporting demonstrations. The Bolsheviks have been excluded from the world Olympic movement, so in order to spite the organizers of the Olympics in Holland, the USSR decided to stage an enormous sporting event, the Spartakiad, a thousand times better than anything the bourgeois West had to offer. While the country was in the throes of an economic crisis, the government was building a 25,000-seater stadium for the Dynamo soccer team.

Foreigners find it difficult to understand why, far from being indignant at folly on such a grand scale, the Soviet people actually seem to be enthusiastically in favor of it.

What they don’t realize is that man cannot live by bread alone. Everyone in this country wants to be somebody, to have some value in the world, and to enjoy general respect. When people are disenfranchised and demeaned by poverty, their need for greatness only increases. The achievements of sporting heroes and polar explorers are looked on as common property, and people truly enjoy reading in the papers about how the USSR has rescued the explorers of Nobile’s expedition. In this way, Soviet citizens get to prove that they, as a nation, are strong, intelligent, and brave, and against that backdrop, their day-to-day problems seem less important.

I think I should write a book called A Dictators’ Manual.

I’ve already made a chapter outline:

1. Keep a Tight Grip on Power: how to get the money for the army and police in a wretchedly poor country

2. Invent Enemies Both at Home and Abroad: how to give people a plausible explanation for their misfortune

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.