Sashenka (29 page)

“We need some hot women here!” said Beria. “But I’ve drunk too much. I don’t think I could even…”

“Comrade Beria, observe the proprieties! There are ladies present,” said Stalin, with mock gravity and a slight smirk. “Shall we play the gramophone? Do you have records? Some dances?”

Sashenka brought out their collection. Thank God, Satinov always gave them a Georgian gramophone record for May Day and November 8, so Stalin found exactly what he wanted. He stood at the gramophone and played the records; sometimes he raised his hands and made Caucasian dance steps but mostly he directed the festivities.

The Georgians pushed back the sofa. Sashenka rolled up the carpet and when she got up she found Satinov and Egnatashvili dancing the
lezginka
to her. She preferred the tango, the foxtrot and the rumba but she knew the Caucasian moves too, so she made the dainty steps while first Satinov, then Beria and Egnatashvili set to her.

“Comrade Hercules, you can really dance,” said Stalin approvingly. “I haven’t seen anyone dance so well since I was a boy…Where’s your family from?”

“Borzhomi,” answered Hercules Satinov.

“Not far from my hometown,” said Stalin, restarting the record. This was Georgian talk but Sashenka agreed with Stalin: Satinov danced gracefully. His dark eyes shone, his steps were lithe and agile, and his hands were elegant and expressive. He held her firmly, while Beria’s hand squeezed her and he put his face too close. His lips were so fat it seemed as if there was too much blood in them. Presently, she felt tired and stood back to watch. She found herself next to the gramophone where Stalin was laying out the records.

Sashenka felt happy suddenly, and at ease, almost too relaxed. She’d been terrified when first she saw Stalin, right there in her garden. But he had relaxed them all and now she was fighting against her instinct to flirt and chatter. She was overexcited and probably drunk on that heavy Georgian red. Several times, crazy things were on the tip of her tongue. Be careful, Sashenka, she ordered herself, this is Stalin! Remember the last few years—the meat grinder! Beware!

Waves of devotion rolled over her for this tough yet modest man, so decent yet so pitiless toward his enemies. But she sensed her cloying devotion would irritate him, make him uneasy. She wanted to ask him to dance. What if he was longing to dance with her? But what if such an offer was insolent or made him uncomfortable? Yet she wanted to dance with him and he must have seen it on her lips.

“I don’t dance, Sashenka, because I can’t hold a woman with my arm.” His left arm was a little shorter than his right—it was why he held it stiffly. They stood beside the piano and she was aware of the tense silence, of the danger that surrounded this extraordinary man.

“I adore this music, Comrade Stalin.”

“Music relaxes the beast in a man,” said Stalin. He looked about him. “Are you and Comrade Palitsyn happy with this dacha?”

“Oh yes, Comrade Stalin,” she answered. “So happy.”

“I hope so. May I look around?”

Beria and the others watched but did not follow them, and Sashenka was immensely proud and stirred that Stalin was talking only to her.

“We’re so grateful for it—and today we received the refrigerator. Thank you for the Party’s trust!”

“We have to reward the Party’s responsible workers.” Stalin looked into Vanya’s study.

“Is it warm enough in winter? I like the study, very airy. Are there enough bedrooms? Do you like the kitchen?”

Oh yes, Sashenka loved everything about it. She fought her giddiness, her feelings of joy and freedom as an unspeakable but powerful thought crossed her mind. She was thinking of her father, Samuil Zeitlin. Couldn’t she ask Comrade Stalin now? She was so intimate with him at that moment: how could he refuse her anything? She could tell he admired her as a new Soviet woman.

“Comrade Stalin…,” she began.

Her father had lost his mind after Ariadna’s suicide and his fortune after the October Revolution. He had stayed behind in St. Petersburg, put his financial knowledge at the service of the Bolsheviks, and during the twenties he had served as a “nonParty specialist” in the People’s Commissariats of Finance and Foreign Trade, then the State Bank, before he was purged in 1930 as a “wrecker with Trotskyite tendencies.” Yet they let him retire to Georgia. Beria had arrested him there in 1937—and he had vanished. Of course, they were right to “check” this class enemy, thought Sashenka. On paper, Zeitlin was among the worst of the bloodsucking oppressors. But he had “disarmed” and had served Soviet power sincerely, without a mask. Surely Stalin would see he was no longer a threat?

Stalin smiled indulgently at Sashenka. He looked, she thought, like a friendly old tiger, creases forming on either side of his mouth—and she hesitated for a second. The honey in his eyes sharpened to yellow and a shadow of embarrassment crossed his face. She suddenly grasped that Stalin must recognize her expression. He, who could divine everything, could tell she was about to ask about the arrest or execution of a relative and there was nothing he hated so much as that request.

“Comrade Stalin, may I ask a…” The words were forming again on Sashenka’s lips and she could not stop them. She had excised her father from her memory in 1937 but now, at this most unsuitable, most fatal and yet opportune moment, she longed to say his name.

What was happening to her? A Bolshevik didn’t need a family, just the Party, but she loved her papa! She wanted to know—was he felling logs somewhere? Were his bones in some shallow grave out in the Siberian taiga? Had he long since faced the Highest Measure? Please, Comrade Stalin, she prayed, say he’s alive! Free him! “Comrade Stalin…”

“Cushions!” Stalin and Sashenka turned to the doorway, and Vanya’s mouth fell open.

“Mamochka, I can’t sleep!” cried Snowy. “There’s so much noise. You woke me up. I want a cuddle!”

Snowy was wearing a nightie printed with butterflies, her long golden hair curling around her rosy cheeks, her smile revealing evenly spaced milk teeth and pink gums. She fell into her mother’s arms.

7

“Snowy!” Vanya, who had been cheerfully drunk a minute earlier, stood up, his face darkening. Sashenka too sensed real peril. She had tried to teach her children to say nothing, repeat nothing, hear nothing, but Snowy was capable of anything! With Stalin in the house? One foolish word, a single stupid game could at best make a fool of her and Vanya in front of Stalin, at worst dispatch them all to the firing squad. What would Stalin say?

What would Snowy say to Stalin?

“Who’s this?” asked Stalin quietly, apparently enjoying Vanya’s expression of panic.

“Comrade Stalin,” said Sashenka, “may I introduce you to my daughter, Volya.”

Stalin beamed at her daughter. Didn’t all Georgians love children? thought Sashenka, as he bent down and tickled her nose. “Hello, Volya,” he said. “That’s a good Communist name.”

“That noise woke me up,” Snowy grumbled.

Stalin pinched her cheek.

“Stop!” she cried. “You’re pinching me!”

“Yes, so you’ll remember me,” said Stalin. “I confess my guilt before you, Comrade Volya.

It was me playing the music, not your mama, so be angry with me.”

“She’s not angry at all. I apologize, Comrade Stalin,” Sashenka said quickly. “Now, Snowy, off to bed!”

“I hate sleeping.”

“Me too…Snowy,” said Stalin playfully.

“Here’s my cushion!” Snowy pushed her cushion toward Stalin’s face but Sashenka caught it just in time.

“Well, what’s that?” asked Stalin, bemused, half smiling.

“It’s my best friend, Miss Cushion,” said Snowy. “She’s in charge of production of cushions for the Second Five Year Plan and she wants to join the Young cushiony Pioneers so she can wear the red scarf!”

“That’s enough, child,” Sashenka said. “Comrade Stalin doesn’t want to hear such nonsense! Off to bed!” She was aware that, on the other side of the room, her husband had raised a hand to his face.

“Yes, bed!” he said too loudly.

“Easy, Comrade Palitsyn,” said Stalin, ruffling Snowy’s hair. “Couldn’t she stay up a little? As a treat?”

“Well…of course, Comrade Stalin.”

Snowy performed a quick cushion dance and blew a kiss to her father.

“So you’re a Cushionist?” said Stalin solemnly.

“I’m in the Cushion Politburo,” said Snowy with that gummy smile. Sashenka saw she was thrilled to find herself the focus of all eyes. “Long Live Cushionism!”

Sashenka felt as though she were drowning, as she waited miserably for Stalin’s reaction.

There was a long silence. Beria sneered. Mendel scowled. Stalin frowned, glancing gravely round the room with his yellow eyes.

“I think, since I woke her up,” said Stalin slowly, “we should let this little beauty stay up and join our singing, but if your parents think you should go to bed…” Sashenka shook her glossy head, and Stalin raised a finger: “I resolve: one, the Party recognizes that Cushionism is not a deviation. Two, if you stay up, you should sit on my knee and tell me about Cushionism! Three: you will go to bed when your mother says so. How is that, young Comrade Snowy Cushion?”

Snowy nodded then peered at Stalin with her very blue discerning gaze. She raised her arm.

“I know you,” she said, pointing. Sashenka flinched again.

Stalin said nothing, watching.

“You’re the poster in the Red Corner,” said Snowy. “The poster’s come for dinner.” Everyone laughed, Sashenka and Vanya with relief.

Stalin sat back at the table and opened his arms. Terrified that her daughter would reject Stalin, Sashenka put Snowy onto the Leader’s knee, but she was much more interested in waving the cushion to the music. They sang another round of songs. After the first song, Stalin put Snowy down, kissed her forehead and she sped round to her mother.

“Say good night and thanks to Comrade Stalin,” said Sashenka, holding Snowy tightly.

“Night, night, Comrade Cushion,” said Snowy, waving her pink cushion.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Stalin…”

“No, no. That’s a first!” Stalin laughed. “Goodbye, Comrade Cushion.”

Sashenka carried Snowy from the room. “Comrade Stalin, you are so good with children.

She’ll remember this all her life. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and tolerance to Snowy.” Sighing with relief, she tucked Snowy into bed and the child was asleep a moment later.

When she returned to the sitting room, she was holding something. Stalin’s eyes flicked toward her hands. “Comrade Stalin, as a small thank you for the honor of having you as our guest, but really to thank you for your patience with our daughter, may I give you a gift of a sweater for your daughter Svetlana?” She held up a cashmere sweater that would fit the thirteenyearold Svetlana Stalin and handed it to him.

“Where’s it from?” Stalin asked coldly.

Sashenka swallowed. It was from Paris. What should she say?

“It’s from abroad, Comrade Stalin. I am very proud of our Soviet products, which are better than any foreign luxuries, but this is just a simple sweater.”

“I wouldn’t accept it for myself,” said Stalin, puffing on a cigarette, “but since Svetlana is really the one who runs the country, I shall accept it for her.” Everyone laughed and Stalin stood up. “Right! Who’s up for a movie? I want to see
Volga, Volga
again.”

Almost everyone except Sashenka, who had to listen for the children, and Comrade Mendel, who said he was too tired and ill, was up for a movie. They piled into the cars to drive back to the movie theater in the Great Kremlin Palace. Stalin kissed Sashenka’s hand and complimented her dress again. Outside, he inspected the buds on the bushes.

“You grow roses here. And jasmine. I love roses.” Then, surrounded by the swaggering Georgians and the young men in white suits, he lumbered away in that heavy, slightly crooked gait, toward the waiting cars. Egnatashvili opened the door for him.

As he climbed into one of the cars, Vanya waved at Sashenka, exhilarated to be in the entourage for the first time. “Back soon, darling!” he called.

Beria kissed her on the mouth with his sausagey, bloodswollen lips. “
He
likes you,” he said in his thick Mingrelian accent. “Well done. He’s got good taste, the Master. You’re my type too!”

Satinov was last to leave, peering round to make sure the bosses were in their cars. Doors slamming, wheels screeching, the clouds of exhaust and dust rising over the moonkissed orchards, the Buicks and ZiSes revved up and skidded out of the drive.

“Phew, Sashenka!” he said. “Long live Cushionism! Kiss my goddaughter for me, the little charmer!” Feeling weak, Sashenka kissed Satinov goodbye. Then he jumped into the last car, which sped away.

The young men in white suits had disappeared.

Alone on the veranda, Sashenka looked up at the sky. Dawn had begun to break. Wondering if she had been dreaming, she went inside and looked into the children’s rooms.

Carlo had slept through it all but he had thrown off his pajamas and now lay naked with his head at the wrong end of the bed. His body was still wrapped in the pink fleshy curves of a baby and he held on to a soft rabbit. Sashenka shook her head with pleasure and kissed his satiny forehead.

Snowy slept like an angel in her pink room, her hands resting open on her pillow, on either side of her head. That damn cushion lay on her bare chest. Sashenka smiled. Even Comrade Stalin loved Cushion. What a strange night it had been.

8

Stalin sat in the middle pullout seat between the front and back seats of his new ZiS limousine, Beria in the back with Egnatashvili, and his chief bodyguard, Vlasik, in the front beside the driver. The rest were in other cars.

“To the Kremlin please, Comrade Salkov,” he told the driver gently. He knew the names and circumstances of all his bodyguards and drivers, was always kind to them and they were devoted to him. “Take the Arbat.”

“Right, Comrade Stalin,” said the driver. Stalin lit his pipe.

They sped down avenues of birch and spruce, the blossoms bright in the moonbeams.

They came out on the Mozhaisk Highway, and took Dorogomilov Street.

“She’s a good Soviet woman, Sashenka,” said Stalin after a while to Beria, “don’t you think so, Lavrenti? And Vanya Palitsyn’s a good worker.”