Authors: Paul M. Levitt
“So you think it’s a possibility?
“How would I know? In this country nothing is what it seems. There are always other levels and layers of meaning. It would take a Nostradamus to negotiate the labyrinth. But that’s just the point. None of us have the powers of prophecy, except of course the Boss. So any law, any edict, any ukase, any line in the Soviet Constitution can mean a different thing depending on the need for a certain interpretation.”
“Then words and facts are meaningless.”
“
Precisely
meaningless: the great oxymoron.”
14
A
week before Easter, three soldiers drove into town and billeted themselves at the Balyk Inn. They had been se
nt to make sure that no religious observances took place on Easter. Presumably, Balyk had been singled out because of the presence of Father Zossima. Wherever an ex-priest was resident, particularly a popular one, the police or army could be found on religious holidays. The government had dedicated itself to stamping out all vestiges of religion. None other than Father Zossima had told Sasha that he understood why and that the reason wasn’t merely theoretical. Sasha and the priest had recently strolled through the woods near Father Zossima’s quarters. For his tutoring, Father Zossima received a monthly payment. Sasha always made it a point to settle their accounts in cash and away from prying eyes. On this day, with Easter approaching, the priest grew reflective, observing that the state of the church before the 1917 revolution was ignorant and cruel. He candidly admitted that the priesthood had exploited the peasants gullibility by feeding their superstitions, advertising absurd miracles, and trading in relics—the toe of a saint, a hair from the head of St. Peter, a splinter from the true cross.
“They shamefully,” said Father Zossima, “extorted money and food from the poor and kept them uneducated, uncritically served the Tsar, and fomented awful pogroms. I won’t even speak of their sexual depravities, which are too numerous to count. Their churches dripped gold, and their priestly vestments shone with jewels. In truth, they were self-serving devils who would have gone down in history as the most unsavory scoundrels in Russia had the Communist apparatchiks not eclipsed them with their cold-blooded betrayals and mindless genuflecting before Stalin.”
But even these sentiments could not have saved Father Zossima if he had been caught celebrating Mass. Although former believers were only too willing to volunteer their cellars for services, Father Zossima held his Masses in a cave, a choice that had led believers to include him among the many catacomb priests illegally conducting church services in forest retreats.
✷
Normally, Sasha took his lunch at school with the students, but when the secretary, Devora Berberova, told him that Galina had come down with a migraine and left school in the company of Viktor Harkov, he returned home to check on her health. He deliberately entered the farmhouse through the back door, the pantry door, the less conspicuous entrance. He heard voices coming from Galina’s bedroom, hers and Viktor’s. His chest tightened, gripped with jealousy. Was Galina’s headache a ruse, and had the two of them resumed their affair? If so, the recent closeness between Sasha and Galina was a sham. But why would she feign affection; to achieve what? Once again he found himself in the uncomfortable position of suspecting Galina and searching for clues. He hated such conduct. Inching toward the bedroom door, he stood close enough to listen and far enough to leave unobserved. Galina was talking.
“Don’t deny it!”
“Why should I?”
“If not for me, you wouldn’t be teaching at the school.”
“I admit it: You positioned me brilliantly.”
“For betrayal.”
“You’re being melodramatic. Just look at the facts.”
“I have, and what I see is ingratitude and deception.”
“She . . .”
“Is unworthy.”
“Compared to you . . .”
“Stop! I won’t hear of it.”
“Will you tell Sasha?”
“Not if you promise to end it.”
A minute of quiet ensued, rent only by Galina’s deep breathing.
“I promise.” Pause. “Have you heard from Petr since he left?”
“No.”
“Strange.”
Sasha heard Viktor’s click, his signature sound upon leaving, and took the clue. He eased out the back door and waited for several minutes behind the house to make sure that Viktor was well on his way back to school; he then came through the front door, making no attempt to hide his presence. Galina was leaning back in bed, her head resting on several pillows. On the nightstand rested a bottle of medicine. Her eyes were closed. She knew by the footsteps it was Sasha. He gently knocked. She smiled and invited him to come sit beside her. He asked how she felt. She ignored his question and inquired if he had passed Viktor on the path.
“I came from another direction,” Sasha replied. “What did he want?”
“He took me home when I developed a migraine. We chatted briefly and he left.”
Before Sasha could gently ease into the question haunting him—had she any romantic interest in Viktor?—he heard knocking at the door. Two soldiers, clean shaven and moderately literate, politely asked if he knew of any religious services planned for Easter, either at the Michael School or in town.
“Certainly not on the part of the school,” replied Sasha.
“And your friend, Father Zossima?” prodded one of the soldiers, obviously schooled by Filatov.
Sasha’s first impulse was to say that he and the priest hadn’t talked in months, but if someone had seen them entering the woods, he would be a suspect himself. “I speak to him occasionally, but I know of no planned religious activities. Besides, it’s against the law.”
The soldiers laughed sarcastically and departed.
Easter came and went. No church bells rang, and none of the faithful indicated that they had secretly celebrated Easter Mass in a cave. Within days, the school and village began making plans for May Day. Balyk had no official mayor, but the townspeople had decided among themselves to hold a parade, honoring not only the working class and its labors, but also Lenin and Stalin and those who took part in the Great War, the October Revolution, and the civil war. Although most of the students at the Michael School took a keen interest in the marching events, to be overseen by Viktor, Sasha had limited his role to arranging a dinner for the evening festivities. Filatov was footing the bill and composing the guest list. He had been less than candid about his motives, telling Sasha that he preferred enjoying the day in the beautiful countryside of Balyk and dining with friends to standing in a Moscow crowd cheering the Vozhd and others on the reviewing stand over Lenin’s tomb. He was, in fact, deeply troubled.
According to reports from his mole, the school seethed with intrigue. His agent had described a situation in which the teachers were compiling a dossier on Sasha in the hope of replacing him. One of the new teachers was leading the band of brigands, Ivan Goncharov, who had materialized in Balyk, it seemed, out of nowhere. A college graduate, he taught linguistics and was especially keen about click languages. Reclusive, bearded, long-haired, he claimed to have blood ties with the famous novelist, although Filatov’s agent doubted it. His loyalties were unclear. At first, he bestowed his attentions on Galina Selivanova, then befriended one Goran Youzhny, and then fell in with the internal exile Bogdan Dolin, who gave all indications of having resumed forging passports for those who wished to flee the country, though Filatov need not worry that Father Zossima was among them. He was not.
Although he had taken a university degree in engineering, Filatov did not regard himself as an intellectual. He was suspicious of people who lived in what he called the world of airy thinness. A life of the mind was not subject to scrutiny. How could you ever know for sure what one was thinking? Teachers and professors and priests were all of a kind. They argued over nothing; the stakes, inconsequential, unless they were plotting counterrevolution. Then their thoughts became dangerous. The good thing about intellectuals, Filatov had decided a long time ago, was that they treated action as beneath them. They would generate the ideas, but implementation was the province of others. Intellectuals didn’t dirty their hands. If this fellow Ivan Goncharov, undoubtedly a pseudonym, was indeed behind the plot to replace Sasha, then he must also be responsible for all the letters of denunciation Filatov had been receiving.
✷
“What exactly,” Sasha asked Brodsky, “do you think is the point of the dinner? I know the NKVD values surprise. If you’re unprepared, you can’t escape or resist. I know how it works.”
Brodsky, as was his wont, gilded the lily. “A knock in the middle of the night. A car pulls up alongside as you are returning from work. A public denunciation at the very moment you are surrounded by your so-called comrades. That’s their modus operandi.”
Not surprisingly, the Michael School preparations were subject to Major Filatov’s wishes. With fascism in Italy and Germany becoming increasingly militant, the Politburo had directed that all May Day celebrations take for their theme the anti-proletarian nature of these regimes. Accordingly, Filatov had ordered that the school emblazon their banners with the following international slogans.
To honor the patriotic spirit of the Michael School, the Soviet flag with the hammer and sickle hung from every window. Goran and Viktor’s excitement was palpable. As the self-appointed group in charge of banners and bunting, slogans and signs, and placards and posters, they had festooned the school grounds and would march at the head of the parade. The Soviet oblast for Balyk had sent pictures of the Great Leader, looking avuncular, yet strong. Of course, Stalin’s image showed none of his imperfections, like pockmarked skin and bad teeth. Viktor’s portraits of the teachers of the Michael School would be displayed by appreciative students. And Goran had mounted his photographs of the school buildings and environs. Sasha wondered what Bogdan, as a member of the Three Musketeers, would contribute.
Viktor’s exertions noticeably advanced the school’s preparations, which were beginning to take on a professional look. He seemed to be everywhere, and his clicking noise echoed through the halls. By this time, his alias (Goncharov) had been superseded by Comrade Click. Whether to gain a reputation for faithful Party work or for some other reason, Viktor became maniacal about every detail of the celebration. Even Goran sighed at his friend’s fanaticism. Sasha believed that Viktor and his two companions had an ulterior motive, as yet unknown. It was Brodsky’s idea to have Filatov ask the Ryazan NKVD if they had a file on Viktor Harkov. But, although Sasha had read Vera’s file, he had always found the relationship of family history to current behavior questionable. The country was rife with spies, and he had no intention of adding his name to the number of people writing letters that famously began: “Dear Comrade, I have reason to believe that X has something to hide and suggest you look into this person’s past.”
“You asked my opinion,” Brodsky shrugged.
“In the end, your advice might produce some useful information, but I don’t trust the means.”
“One man’s means are another man’s ends.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Beginnings and endings are impossible to discern. Consider. I assassinate a political leader for the purpose of bringing my own man to power. The killing provides the means to change the prevailing order, my ends. The new leader then turns around and orders me killed for murder. Execution provides him the means to remove all witnesses or opponents, his ends. And so it goes, here and elsewhere. Where does the circle begin and end?”
Sasha had the distinct impression that more was being implied than said. Brodsky continued.
“You say you have seen Viktor at the farmhouse and have heard about his presence from others, like Alya. From this information you have decided he is up to no good, and though you are vague about the nature of your fears, I gather you think he and Galina are making the beast with two backs. Right?”
Sasha lowered his head and stared at his feet. The two men were, as always, seated in front of the fireplace in Brodsky’s cottage. But on this occasion, Brodsky was not enveloped by smoke or alcoholic fumes. He was wrapped in a blanket and treating a bad cold with cups of hot tea. An occasional sneeze and cough punctuated Brodsky’s musings. From the kitchen stove came a terrible odor, a home remedy that some herbalist had recommended.
“You’re not really going to drink that awful stuff?”
“Marina Cheslava swears by it.”
“It smells like excrement.”
“That’s because you have dung on the mind. You think someone has fouled your nest.”
“And what if the report from Ryazan were to come back negative?”
“It won’t. No one, as the secret police say, is innocent.”
“But what if the evidence is false?”
“The secret police and the church think the same way. If a person isn’t guilty of one thing, then he’s guilty of another. Does it matter for which murder a killer is hanged or for which sin we’re condemned?”
“Justice would demand . . .”
Brodsky interrupted. “The only thing justice can determine is length and quality of life. In the end it’s all the same.”
On those depressing words, Sasha left the odorous cottage and tramped back to his office. He wanted to think. In the clean, clear air, an idea came to him; it danced like a dervish, arresting his attention and becoming the focus of his imagination because of its seductive simplicity. Best of all, it dispelled his moral ambiguity. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” he decided. In the meantime, he would keep practicing his alveolar clicks.
Lest anything go awry during the celebration, all the principals had to appear before a three-man board of Filatov’s men. The background check took place in the confines of the abandoned town church, which had been hastily swept but still exhibited cobwebs and clusters of dirt. The filthy windows, particularly those with colored glass, attenuated the light. Hence the examiners were reduced to using candles, which gave the proceedings the look and feel of a medieval inquisition. The soldiers were there to check each person’s passport and identification papers. A few local men, all devoted Bolsheviks, stood apart prepared to unmask any impostors. Since false passports and papers were a booming business, thanks to forgers like Bogdan Dolin, the government found it necessary to keep in attendance fact-checkers. Although Sasha had distanced himself from the parade organizers, as the school director he was compelled to appear before the examiners to take part in the chistka. Well aware that Soviet bookkeeping was more often than not erroneous, he approached his questioners with some trepidation.