Authors: Paul Dowswell
Barikada shot Misha an angry look. ‘I recognise the democratic will of the school comrades, and the reasoning of Comrade Petrov, and withdraw my demand,’ he said.
The incident had taken the wind from Barikada’s sails. He made one or two more comments about the need for vigilance against class traitors and saboteurs, and then sat down to lukewarm applause.
Misha felt uneasy. He had won this particular battle but what would happen next? Barikada was blushing red with humiliation.
As they drifted out of the canteen, Yelena leaned closer as she walked beside him. ‘He’s frightened of you,’ she whispered. ‘He thinks you’re after his position as editor of
The Pioneer
.’
‘He’s welcome to it,’ said Misha, trying to laugh off this very public attack. If this was all because his friends had suggested he be the editor of
The Pioneer
, he was definitely not interested. He felt slightly sick and held on tightly to his books and papers in case his shaky hands dropped them.
She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry about him, Misha. He can’t hurt you – no one likes him.’
Misha nodded, although he wasn’t reassured by what she had said. One of the lessons he had learned was that, in the Soviet Union, being liked was not important. Wielding power was important. Being feared was important. And so was knowing the right people. Barikada certainly knew that too, which was why Misha often saw him huddled together in whispered conversation with the Komsorg. Whenever Misha tried to talk to Leonid Gribkov, he had blanked him or answered with single-word responses.
Misha needed some fresh air. They walked out into the school courtyard and Yelena said, ‘I’m going with friends to see
A Girl With Character
on Rest Day. Would you like to join us?’
Misha wasn’t in the mood for a musical about a zealous young activist exposing the corrupt director of a state grain farm. Besides, he had a good excuse. He had already arranged to see Dynamo Moscow play Spartak Moscow with his friends Nikolay and Sergey.
When classes finished, there was still some warmth in the pleasant spring evening. He was pleased to see Valya waiting for him at the school gate. ‘Isn’t it nice to walk home in daylight?’ she said.
Then, sensing he wasn’t his usual self, she said, ‘What’s up, Misha?’
He told her about what Barikada had done and his concerns about the Komsorg. ‘Gribkov’s always had his beady eye on me. He’s never liked me.’
Valya had a theory about the Komsorg. ‘Leonid Gribkov is an engineer, Misha. Actually, from what I hear, a failed engineer. He thinks everyone should be designing crankshafts for tractors and ailerons for aeroplanes. I’m sure he thinks your literature specialism is more than a little bourgeois! That’s what this is about.’
When Misha first started school, good manners, correct grammar, going to the theatre were all seen as being bourgeois – the habits and affectations of the former ruling classes. They left you open to attack as an enemy of the people. But things had changed over the last ten years. He was sure that Comrade Stalin and the other Politburo heads valued people who brought culture to the workers. Ballet, theatre, literature – they were a central part of being a ‘cultured’ communist. You read about that every day in the youth magazines they had in the school library.
‘I’m not bothered about his stupid prejudices,’ said Misha.
Valya put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be careful. A word from Gribkov could get you into a lot of trouble.’
Misha was keen to change the subject. ‘How was the exam?’
‘It was OK,’ she replied. ‘I think I did most of it right. Pretty simple really, as long as you know the difference between velocity and speed.’
Misha nodded sagely. He didn’t, but he wasn’t going to let her know.
‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ she said. ‘Papa says it was chaos just after the Revolution, when they abolished exams and homework. I’m so glad we go to school now, not ten or fifteen years ago.’
‘I’m glad we do everything now,’ said Misha. ‘It’s amazing what we’ve achieved in twenty years.’
‘Listen to us,’ laughed Valya. ‘We sound like
Pravda
.’
Misha laughed too. ‘We’ll be singing “Life Is Getting Better” next,’ he said and began to hum the tune. When he was younger, they sang it in the Pioneers as they sat round the campfire. Life was simpler then. Life was always simpler when you didn’t think about things or question them. At that moment, he wished he was eleven or twelve again, chanting ‘Thank you, Comrade Stalin, for our happy childhoods’ with his classmates at the end of the school day. Back then, he didn’t have to worry about snakes like Barikada and Gribkov denouncing him, and he believed Comrade Stalin was the Greatest Man on Earth. And Mama was still there to greet him when he came home from school.
Just before they reached the great bridge over to the Kremlin, Valya said she had to drop in on a friend who lived close by and would see him tomorrow. As they said goodbye, Misha remembered something he had been meaning to ask her.
‘Hey, Valya, there’s a banquet tomorrow night – one for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in the Grand Kremlin Palace. It’s going to be huge. All the Politburo will be there, Foreign Minister Molotov, of course, and Beria. The head waiter said he needs all the waiting staff he can get and did I know anyone . . . so I thought I’d ask you.’
Valya’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but she wasn’t as excited as Misha expected she would be.
‘They pay twenty roubles a night,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘They say Beria’s a lecherous creep,’ she said. ‘I’ve done this kind of thing before. You have to wear a tight little waitress’s uniform and the men get drunk and leer at you.’
Misha thought of the stout middle-aged Politburo chiefs and shuddered. He felt grateful he didn’t have to put up with that sort of thing.
‘I’m sure you can steer clear of Beria. There’ll be hundreds of people there.’
‘I’ve always wanted to see the inside of the Grand Kremlin Palace,’ Valya said, ‘and twenty roubles sounds all right for a few hours’ work, so I’ll do it.’
Misha remembered the excitement he had felt at his first banquet in the summer of 1939, just before the war broke out in Europe. That one was a very grand affair for the German Foreign Minister, Herr von Ribbentrop, in honour of the treaty of friendship the two countries had just signed.
He remained puzzled about the treaty to this day. Until the week before it was signed, the Soviet people had been told that the Nazis were the greatest enemy of the Revolution in Europe and that communists in Germany were cruelly persecuted. Yet now the two countries were friends. But, as Mama and Papa had both told him, sometimes it was best just to go along with things and not ask any awkward questions.
Getting that first waiting job was pure luck. One of the waiters had been taken ill. Misha was asked to take his place. It wasn’t a difficult job. There would be no carrying of plates of soup or heavy dishes. He just had to stand at the back of the banqueting hall and offer any assistance needed. They found him a waiter’s outfit that fitted, and being a tall boy, even then at fourteen, Misha managed to look the part.
Herr von Ribbentrop appeared ill at ease, he remembered, yet smiled throughout the whole event. Misha had read that enemies of Nazi Germany referred to him as a ‘champagne salesman’ and he certainly had the look of a man whose life’s work consisted of pampering the rich and greedy.
There were scores of toasts drunk to the mutual health of Hitler and Stalin, and the continued success and prosperity of both countries. Some were drunk with sweet Crimean champagne but most with vodka. Misha had occasionally drunk his father’s vodka, sometimes at family occasions, and a few times when his father was out. Just a couple of shots made him feel a bit dizzy and giggly, so he was amazed when the diplomats and politicians knocked back gallons of the stuff. Towards the end of the evening, he was called on to deliver a fresh supply to the
Vozhd
himself. Misha went to the kitchen and was handed an open bottle of Beluga vodka, one of the finest brands produced in the Soviet Union. Curious to try this delicacy, he nipped into a side corridor, where he was certain that no one could see him, and took a minute sip. It tasted of nothing whatsoever and was such a shock to his palate he almost spat it out. What he was delivering to Stalin was plain water.
Dusk was falling as Misha crossed the great bridge over the Moskva. He stopped and stood a while looking at the Kremlin. A couple of years ago he had felt a real sense of pride when he looked at this view. That feeling vanished the day Mama disappeared. Now these elaborate buildings looked sinister to him.
Maybe that was why he was drawn to Valya, he thought. She had lost her mother too, although hers had died in childbirth, along with a baby boy, when she was fourteen; and her father, Anatoly, worked on Stalin’s secretarial staff, like his own father. These things gave them a special bond. What a shame she was two years older than him.
He walked through grand palaces and apartments to the Cathedral Square, dwarfed by four great churches, each topped with their own golden spheres. As a child, he always thought the spheres looked like gigantic onions and he still thought that now. The whole Kremlin complex was like a fairytale palace.
As the last glimpses of light disappeared over the horizon, spots of rain fell on his face. Misha hurried past the ‘Little Corner’ of the Senate building, where Comrade Stalin had his offices and apartment. He was nearly home.
First, though, he had one final chore to do. He had to ask Galina’s father if he needed him to take her to school the following afternoon.
Kapitan Zhiglov answered the door. He was still wearing his green NKVD cap and the familiar uniform of breeches and black boots. Misha noticed bruises on his knuckles and shuddered a little, wondering what he had been doing that day at work. Despite his sinister uniform, Zhiglov looked a bit like a film star. He had sleek, black hair, which he combed back across the top of his head, and a little toothbrush moustache. Valya had told Misha she thought he was very attractive and Misha never lost an opportunity to remind her that he probably combed his hair back to hide a bald spot, and that his moustache was exactly the same as Hitler’s. Misha wondered if she’d told him that she fancied Zhiglov to put him off her. She could probably tell he had a hopeless crush on her.
‘Ah, young Petrov,’ said the Kapitan. ‘And where is your friend Valentina?’
‘She has gone to see a friend, Kapitan,’ said Misha. He felt as though he was talking to his
Komsomol
commander.
Zhiglov held his gaze for a few moments longer than necessary, which made Misha begin to sweat a little, then he smiled. It was an unsettling gesture which, despite the Kapitan’s white even teeth, made Misha think of a crocodile.
‘I have come to ask if you would like me to collect Galina tomorrow,’ said Misha. Sometimes the child had other activities on Day Three.
‘I would,’ said Zhiglov. ‘I will instruct Lydia to ensure she is ready for you.’ He gave a brief nod, then closed the door with a gentle click.
A short walk down a grey stone and marble corridor on the second floor took Misha to the Petrovs’ imposing wooden door. He turned the key in the lock and entered the empty apartment. Papa would probably not be home until midnight. Comrade Stalin worked into the early hours and quite often kept the secretarial staff at their desks until two or three in the morning. Misha thought no one else worked as hard as his father. Work completely dominated Yegor Petrov’s life. He was like those people in Chekhov’s
Three Sisters
‘who don’t even notice whether it’s summer or winter’.
Once, all five members of his family had lived in this sumptuous apartment. Mama and Papa and his elder brother and sister, Viktor and Elena. They were twenty-six and twenty-one now, and had both gone to the western republics – Viktor to Kiev and Elena to Odessa. His mother’s absence left an ache like a poorly tooth, but Misha didn’t usually mind being on his own. He and Papa got along all right most of the time.
He thought again how much he would like to live somewhere else. Yet when they had first arrived at the apartment, Misha couldn’t believe his good fortune. One week they were living in a squalid
kommunalka
workers’ apartment, sharing a cooker with four other families, and having to wash once a week at the local public baths, the next he was inside the Kremlin. They had even been given a little holiday home – a
dacha
– out to the south-west of Moscow. Papa had been lucky. He knew the right people. He had served with Comrade Stalin in the Civil War. They had fought together.
Misha dimly remembered a story from early childhood about his papa saving Comrade Stalin during the siege of Tsaritsyn. An assassin, one of the Tsar’s former officers, had tried to shoot him as the Bolshevik high command planned their defence of the town. Yegor Petrov had knocked the weapon from the man’s hand. The battle that followed had made Stalin’s reputation and Tsaritsyn had been renamed Stalingrad.
In early 1937
Pravda
had run an article on the teachers striving to eradicate illiteracy among the thousands of peasant families who were arriving in Moscow every month. A photo of Yegor was there on the front page with two of his students. That must have been what caught Stalin’s eye. As soon as he discovered his old comrade was living in Moscow, he sent a message asking if he would come to live and work at the Kremlin.