Elvira Baryakina - The Prince of the Soviets

“Good god, take a look at that!” gasped the artists, pressing in close to the windows.

Vast building sites, factory chimneys, and the small, neat houses of workers’ districts slid by outside. Even in the smaller towns, the station buildings were as large and fine as cathedrals, and beyond them, elegant, red-tiled turrets clustered beside the green spires of town halls.

“Holy shit!” the artists swore in amazement. “Look at that signalman with the peaked cap! He looks like an army general.”

“Look at that cart! It has tires like a motor car!”

The bearded artist was already making hasty sketches in a book with an oil-cloth cover, a third of which was already filled with landscapes, portraits, and notes in the margin.

Nina watched the scene outside the window with mixed emotions. She knew from the papers that the last ten years had not been easy for the Germans, yet there had been no talk of an economic slump. It looked as if Germany had managed to recover after the war. Russia, on the other hand, had suffered from “complications” in the shape of the Soviet regime. Good god, how unfair it all was!

The sun came out for a moment, lighting up sidings, railcars, depots, and signs written in an incomprehensible Gothic script.

“Next stop, Berlin!” sung out the attendant.

The train was slowing down now as it passed through the city. For a moment, the sunlight vanished in the shadow of a viaduct, and then they entered the station building.

Nina was the last to get out on the platform. Berlin swallowed her up immediately, a little foreigner in a quaint peasant’s sheepskin coat and a headscarf.

Here, all the colors seemed brighter and the sounds louder. She was stunned by the sight of the crowd; there were so many well-dressed men and women in elegant coats! And they had umbrellas!

A group of workers went by carrying a large pipe, and every one of them looked smart and well-fed. Even a crippled beggar in the station was wearing a freshly ironed uniform with a medal.

Nina looked around at all the splendor in confusion, overwhelmed with an acute sense of loneliness and alienation. Nobody was waiting for her in Berlin.

“Hilda Schultz?” she heard a voice behind her.

Nina turned and saw a small, broad-shouldered gentleman in a bowler hat. It was Heinrich Seibert.

4

Seibert was doing his best to give the impression that fortune had favored him no worse in his own country than in Moscow. But in fact, he was deeply unhappy.

On the surface of it, he had little reason to be dissatisfied. Germany was a much better developed country than the USSR. Since the Emperor had abdicated and new, far more liberal laws had been passed, Berlin had become the creative capital of Europe. However, the stylish cabarets and shops full of incredible products did nothing to lift Seibert’s mood. In Moscow, he had been at the top of the heap thanks to his German citizenship and his position in society; in Berlin, he was just another struggling journalist.

Seibert could not afford to live in the center of town, so he was renting an apartment near the end of the metro line at Thielplatz and had bought a stylish little Mercedes car on credit for extra kudos.

His debts were mounting up, and it looked as if he would soon be forced to sell some of the icons and paintings he had brought back from Russia. The idea was unthinkable to Seibert, and this was why he had decided to do a secret deal with the OGPU—he felt it was the only way out of his situation. But Oscar Reich had not come to Berlin as expected, and Seibert had never received the money he had been promised.

As a last resort, Seibert was banking on getting a sensational interview with a young woman called Hilda Schultz who had escaped from the clutches of Soviet satraps. Here, too, however, he was destined to be disappointed. Instead of the German heroine Seibert had been expecting, Klim had sent a Russian woman, Nina Kupina, who did not know a word of German.

“Have you brought the money to charter the ship?” Seibert asked. He was thinking that he could borrow some to cover his debts.

“Elkin has the money,” said Nina with a charming smile. “You know him, don’t you? He’s coming to Berlin in the next few days. We have to meet up with him.”

Seibert gazed at her as if she had lost her mind. “I think that your Elkin is probably drinking cocktails on the Cote d’Azur as we speak,” said Seibert gloomily.

Lieschen had had a good expression for people like Klim and this girlfriend of his, thought Seibert. She used to say, “Get a fool to do a job, and he’ll make double the work.”

“Elkin is an honest man—” Nina began.

But Seibert interrupted her. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“No. It’s my first time in Berlin, and I—”

“All right then,” said Seibert with a sigh. “Let’s go back to my place.”

I’ll wring Klim’s neck when he arrives, he thought. How could he have made such a mess of everything?

1

On the 7^th of November, Alov was meant to go on the demonstration to commemorate the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, but all morning, he had been feeling unwell.

“So, there’s something going on between your wife and Babloyan?” Valakhov said to Alov while Dunya was out getting water for the tea. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. These actresses are all tramps. Still, it’s a bit late now to be crying into your porridge.”

Alov froze in the center of the room, his eyes staring out of his head and his body trembling all over.

“Don’t get yourself so worked up,” Valakhov said good-naturedly. “Babloyan has no interest in stealing women. He’ll have his fun, and then he’ll drop her. And you never know. The whole thing might be to your advantage.”

Alov threw his greatcoat over his shoulders and headed for the door. “See you at the demonstration.”

A moment later, Dunya came back.

“What’s going on between you and Babloyan?” demanded Alov, his teeth chattering like an old dog’s.

Dunya took him by the shoulders. “Oh, Lord… you’re having one of your turns again! Sit down! Sit!”

Alov tried to hit her, but he had no strength left. His fist merely glanced off her cheekbone.

“Have you lost your mind?” squealed Dunya, clapping a hand to her face. “I have a performance today!”

“I’ll show you a performance!” wheezed Alov, but he was immediately overcome by a frenzied bout of coughing.

Swearing, Dunya pulled him over to the bed. “Lie down, you jerk! Lie down, I tell you!”

Alov was racked by coughing until he was almost sick. At long last, as the agonizing spasms subsided, he burst into sobs, crushed by humiliation, weakness, and the fear that Dunya would take it into her head to leave him.

She sat down beside him, her hands clasped between her knees.

“There’s nothing between me and Babloyan,” she said. “And don’t worry—there won’t be. The girls told me he had a dose of venereal disease when he was young, and he’s impotent as a result. He doesn’t even sleep with his wife. Why do you think he’s always surrounded by women? He’s hoping somebody will ‘cure’ him.”

“What bitches you actresses are,” Alov whispered, “gossiping about things like that among yourselves!”

“Anyway, he liked my dancing, and he promised to get me work at one of the big state movie studios,” said Dunya.

“I forbid it!” howled Alov. “I will not allow you to disgrace me!”

Dunya looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Have you ever thought about the fact that you disgrace me? I’m ashamed to admit I’m married to a man who works for the OGPU. I don’t want everybody avoiding me like the plague.”

She went up to the mirror and made a great show of inspecting her cheekbone to see if there was a bruise.

“You rat!” she shook her fist at Alov. “You raise a hand to me again, and I’ll hit you over the head with the iron. I hope they fire you from your lousy job—maybe then you’ll have some chance of becoming a decent man.”

She went out, slamming the door behind her. Alov lay for some time on the bed, too weak to pull himself up.

2

On the way to Red Square, Alov felt so bad he decided not to go to the demonstration, and instead, he set off to Lubyanka.

As soon as he reached his office, Alov put three chairs together and lay down to try to get some rest, but he slept fitfully and felt no better. From time to time, he was racked with fits of coughing and eventually developed a terrible migraine into the bargain. It was as if a metal ball was rolling around inside his skull.

In his pocket, wrapped in a piece of paper, Alov had a pill from Denmark, which, he knew, could relieve his symptoms for a while. Zharkov had once brought a whole packet back for him, and Alov had done his best to make them last.

Should I take the pill now, he wondered, or keep it for when the purge begins?

Alov smoked two cigarettes one after the other and then set to work clearing his desk. There were all sorts of stupid letters, reports, and nonsense of all sorts. Last in the pile was an unsealed envelope from Minsk. “Urgent. For immediate attention,” was written on it in Drachenblut’s handwriting.

It was a report of the interrogation of a man by the name of Elkin. He had tried to cross the Soviet border and had been attacked and robbed by his guide. A border patrol had discovered Elkin the next morning and dispatched the offender to the Minsk OGPU where certain facts had come to light during his interrogation.

Elkin had said that he had been sent across the border by Klim Rogov who claimed to be a correspondent for the United Press but was actually working for Chinese intelligence. Having heard it, the Belorussians had contacted Moscow at once.

As he read the document, Alov felt a shiver run down his spine. Good grief. He had found out about this business in the nick of time: Klim Rogov was planning to leave Moscow tomorrow. Luckily, Drachenblut had gone off to the celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution, so today, he would not summon Alov to come to him with the report on the situation. A failure in such an important case as this could have warranted immediate dismissal from the OGPU.

Grabbing the receiver, Alov contacted the duty officer.

3

Mr. Owen himself arrived for the celebrations of the eleventh anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, and Klim handed over the documents and keys for Mashka to him. The new correspondent for the United Press was due to arrive in Moscow in two weeks’ time.

Klim arranged a farewell party for his journalist friends, went to see Weinstein and the censors, and looked in on the Volga Germans to tell Father Thomas that he could expect some good news in the near future.

Although he still had a whole day left in the city, Klim had already packed up all his possessions. His apartment was almost empty with most of the furniture taken away. A few upholstery tacks lay scattered on the floor, and there were empty medicine vials and wire coat hangers on the window sill in the living room. Kapitolina was going to sell them to a rag merchant for a few kopecks.

Klim had given Kapitolina all his linen and tableware.

“My precious angel!” she cried, dashing about from room to room. “I’ll be a rich woman now! Rockefella will have nothing on me!”

Suddenly, she stood stock still. “Oh! I’ve just thought. I’ll have to give something to Galina. Should I give her a boot brush?”

“I’ll think of something,” said Klim.

Several times, he had begun composing a farewell letter to Galina—a ridiculous missive full of pointless wishes for good luck, good health, and all good things in the future. He wondered what, in fact, the future held in store for her. It seemed unlikely she would marry again—too many men of her age had been killed in the war. What “good things” could she hope for then? A jar of jam or a tin of meat bought on some special occasion? A free ride on a tram?

Damn it all, it would be far easier not to think about it!

But Klim could not stop thinking about it. In the end, he picked up the phone and gave the operator the number for Galina’s apartment.

A minute later, he heard her say, “Hello. Who is it?”

Klim flinched at the sound of her voice, which was hoarse and dull as if she were very sick.

“Galina,” he said, “I want to say goodbye. I’m going abroad tomorrow.”